While he lounged sullenly on the chopping-block, shoulders and head sunken, a sound brought him to alert attention. A horseman was galloping down the slope on the other side of the valley.
Doble eased his guns to make sure of them. Intently he watched the approaching figure. He recognized the horse, Chiquito, and then, with an oath, the rider. His eyes gleamed with evil joy. At last! At last he and Dave Sanders would settle accounts. One of them would be carried out of the valley feet first.
Sanders leaped to the ground at the same instant that he pulled Chiquito up. The horse was between him and his enemy.
The eyes of the men crossed in a long, level look.
"Where's Joyce Crawford?" asked Dave.
"That yore business?" Doble added to his retort the insult unmentionable.
"I'm makin' it mine. What have you done with her?" The speech of the younger man took on again the intonation of earlier days. "I'm here to find out."
A swish of skirts, a soft patter of feet, and Joyce was beside her friend, clinging to him, weeping in his arms.
Doble moved round in a wide circumference. When shooting began he did not want his foe to have the protection of the horse's body. Not even for the beat of a lid did the eyes of either man lift from the other.
"Go back to the house, Joyce," said Dave evenly. "I want to talk with this man alone."