For two reasons he had deliberately chosen this route: it was shortest, and it offered the best going. He must save the dun’s strength. Rathburn knew the limits of his splendid mount; knew they had almost been reached; knew there was just enough left in the horse to make the ranch without killing him. The Coyote would surrender before he would kill his horse to effect his escape or gain an objective!
Thus they slipped down the narrow cañon, with the desert stars gleaming white above the lava hills of Imagination Range, while the fire glowed on the peak above Joe Price’s cabin. Rathburn’s face was pale under his tan; his thoughts were in a turmoil, but his lips were pressed into a fine line that denoted an unwavering determination. Had Sheriff Bob Long seen his face at this time he might have glimpsed another angle of Rathburn’s many-sided character––an angle which would have given him pause.
Rathburn looked behind, and his eyes narrowed. Two fires were burning on the peak.
Already the watchers were cognizant of his latest move and were signaling to those who might be below. He wondered vaguely why they had not surrounded Joe Price’s cabin while he had been there. Then he realized he had been there hardly long 237 enough for his pursuers to get there in any number. Suddenly his thoughts were broken into by a streak of red in the cañon depths below him. He swerved close against the rock wall, drew his gun, and, speaking to the dun, drove in his spurs.
A short distance below he could see the faint glow of the starlight night and knew he was near the cañon’s mouth. There were more streaks of red, and bullets whistled past him. Then Rathburn raised his gun and sent half its deadly contents crashing down into the trail ahead.
There followed a few moments of quiet, broken only by the harsh, ringing pound of his mount’s hoofs. Rathburn could see open country just ahead. Then a flash of fire came from almost under him, and the big dun lunged into the air, half twisting, and came down upon some object under its hoofs. The dun bounded on in great leaps, literally flying through the air, as Rathburn thrilled with the knowledge that the horse had knocked down the man who had sought to kill him.
From above came sharp reports, and the blackness of the high cañon walls was streaked with spurts of flame. Leaden death hurled itself into the rock trail behind him. Then he was out of the cañon, riding like mad through the white desert night toward his goal––the Mallory ranch!
Laura Mallory stood on the porch of the little ranch house, staring out across the dimly lit spaces of desert. A worried look appeared in her eyes. The front door was open, and in the small sitting room her father was reading under a shaded lamp at the table. At times the worried look in the girl’s eyes would change to one of wistfulness, and twice the tears welled.
Presently she straightened and listened intently, 238 looking into the south instead of northwest. Her ears, keen as are those of the desert born, had caught a sound––a succession of faint sounds––in the still night air. Gradually the sound became more and more distinct, and the worried expression of her face increased. She hurried into the sitting room.