Although Luna was silvering that she'd be gone and night-dark soon would be there, Childress was not hurrying into the Fire Weed Country. To be sure, there were ranch-houses where he might have spent a comfortable night, but, no matter how soft the bed, he must have suffered because of his uniform. Give him just a week or two, a visit to a cache already made, and he'd be as plain a looking citizen as ever forked a horse. He was going into mufti, the penalty for secret service in the "Royal." To-night he meant to skirt the region, seeing no one of the local ranchmen. But he was coming back a plain cow-punch in an effort to solve the problem of stock that must have been exceedingly sick to drift so regularly across "Medicine Line."
Childress was a mile beyond the border when the hit-hit-hit of a horse coming at race-track speed caused him to draw rein and wheel the silver bulk of his mount across the trail. Came at once a whine from Poison.
"What's the matter, pup?" he asked, as the hound lofted himself against the stirrup. "Do you think they've missed you over in the States and are needing sausage-meat?"
Poison, perhaps realizing his limitations, did not say.
"Don't worry, brute," he said laughing. "You're an alien now and The Force'll look after you."
As Poison licked the man's rein-tired hand, there came streaking through the moonlight what looked to be a slender lad astride a rangy bay. The horse had gone lame in its right forefoot, but was making speed despite any handicap of pain.
"Pull up a bit, kid!" Childress shouted in time to prevent being run down by any blind rush. "What's the moonlit hurry."
The bay slid to a stop, almost within touch of the silver and scarlet apparition which blocked the narrow trail.
"Let me pass—let me pass!" The cry was in a treble that pronounced the rider either exceeding young, or something else again.
"Sure, you can pass," said Childress. "I don't own this trail. But you might tell me just what's the all-fired hurry?"