Slim, his hands reaching toward the heavens, turned slowly around in the moonlight. He was careful to make no false move for the bitterness in the voice of his unknown captor almost cut the night air.

The rays of the thin moon shone full on Slim’s face. The other man was hidden in the shadows, but Slim knew that a gun was trained on the middle of his body. He waited patiently. There was a snort of disgust from the unseen gunman.

“You can let your hands drop. I’ve got the wrong one. Just my luck.”

Afraid of a trick, Slim was slow in lowering his hands but once they were at waist level he felt safe. His revolver was still in the holster at his side and in a move almost too fast for the eye to follow he could draw the gun and fire with amazing rapidity and accuracy.

Shoes scraped over rocks and a form loomed out of the shadows. Then the moonlight revealed a youth about Slim’s own age. A rifle was cradled in one arm.

“Looks like we’re a fine pair,” chuckled the newcomer. “After you saved my hide from the skunks who tried to ambush me I turn around and show my gratitude by bushwhacking you. Darned wonder someone didn’t get killed in here tonight.”

“Who are you and what do you want?” snapped Slim, his anger still near the boiling point.

“I don’t blame you for being a mite peevish,” said the stocky cowboy. “Matter of fact, I don’t know altogether what has happened.”

“Who shot your horse down?”

“That’s another mystery. I was taking it easy down the trail when a rifle cracked and my horse just folded up and pitched me off. The old cayuse never knew what hit him. Then the lead started pouring my way and I scuttled into that blind canyon.”

“About that time I came along and voted myself a hand,” put in Slim.

“That’s about right. You cut in just in time to save my hide. I’m mighty grateful for what you did and doggone sorry that I held you up a few minutes ago. After what had happened I wasn’t going to take any chances.”

“Oh, I don’t blame you for that a whole lot.”

“My name’s ‘Chuck’ Meade,” the newcomer volunteered. “I’m off the Circle Four. It’s a little better than a hundred miles south of here on the Sweetwater.”

“I’m Slim Evans. Home brand is the Flying Arrow over near Sunfield.”

They coolly looked each other over and an almost instant liking was struck up between them.

Slim was tall, as his name implied. A little better than five feet eleven inches, he packed 163 pounds on a frame that was built of sinewy muscle. His hands were long and slender and there was the grace of a mountain lion in his walk. His blue eyes were frank and inquiring, but at times a deadly light flickered in them, a light that warned an opponent that here indeed was a cow hand who could take care of himself in almost any emergency.

Chuck tipped the beams at 195 pounds and stood only five feet seven with his boots on. His shoulders were massive and his short arms had the power of a grizzly bear. He was champion of all wrestlers in the Sweetwater valley and at catch-as-catch-can scrapping was without a peer. A mop of curly hair was inclined to scatter in almost every direction and his eyebrows were heavy. But under the bushy brows gleamed brown eyes that were warm and friendly and he had a likeable smile.

Chuck looked down at the tattered socks on Slim’s feet.

“This is a bad place to go wandering around in your stocking feet,” he suggested.

“I left my boots down the valley,” Slim explained. “Figured that in my stocking feet I could creep up on the two fellows who were trying to bushwhack you. They got away from me and stole my horse.”

“What!” exploded Chuck, quick anger darkening his face.

“While I was playing good Samaritan, those fellows doubled around behind me and made away with my horse.”

“That’s tough. Means we’re both on foot, for my old cayuse will never buck again.”

“Standing here won’t get us any place. Let’s get my boots.”

Slim picked up his rifle and led the way over the rocky ground. Every step pained him and there was little left of his socks when he finally reached the huge boulder where he had cached his boots.

He sat down and stripped off his socks, rubbing his aching feet with his hands.

“I’ve got a change of socks in my blanket roll,” said Chuck. “I’ll slide over and get my stuff.”

Slim massaged the soles of his feet until Chuck returned with his bedroll. The cowboy from the Circle Four unrolled it and brought out a pair of heavy, serviceable socks.

Slim drew them on gratefully, wiggled his toes in comfort, and then slid his feet into his boots.

“Now I’m ready for action,” he said, standing up.

“Where you heading?” asked Chuck.

“Down the Sky High trail,” replied Slim, who in spite of his liking for his new-found companion was cautious not to give away any essential information.

“That’s fine. I’m heading the same way. Since we’re both going to hoof it from now on, we might as well throw in together.”

“Suits me,” agreed Slim. “If those boys who took a little target practice at you should show up again they may be surprised to find they’ve got two instead of one to fight.”

Chuck surveyed the heavy gun and the well worn holster at Slim’s side. He whistled softly.

“I’ve got a hunch that in a pinch you’d be right handy with that six gun.”

“I can make it speak a piece,” admitted Slim. “What about your saddle?”

“It’s just on the other side of the trail. I’ll pick it up when we start down.”

“Then we’ll go up to my camp. I was just sitting down to supper when the firing started.”

Chuck slung his blanket roll over his shoulder and followed Slim up the trail.

They reached the patch of timber and found that the small fire had burned itself out. The bacon was cold and greasy and the coffee bitter.

“I’ll rustle more wood,” said Chuck and Slim set about the simple preparations for the joint meal.

In a short time the fire was glowing again and the savory odor of frying bacon and boiling coffee filled the night air.

“That sure smells good to me,” said Chuck, squatting on his heels on the other side of the fire. “I’ve been traveling a little too light. Grub ran low and I cut out my noon meal figuring that I’d be far enough down the trail tonight to reach some ranch house and get a real supper.”

“Guess you don’t know much about this country,” said Slim as he deftly flipped the bacon.

“Why?”

“There isn’t a ranch within miles. We’ve got a good thirty miles of hoofing it down the trail before we’ll be anywhere near a place we can get horses.”

“You been through this country before?” Slim thought that Chuck’s eyes were peering at him intently from beneath the bushy eyebrows.

“Never been over the crest of the Cajons until this afternoon,” replied the cowboy from the Flying Arrow, “but my Dad’s ridden through here once or twice and he told me something about the lay of the land before I started out.”

“Kind of a lonesome country, then.”

“Lonesome and darned inhospitable, especially the Creeping Shadows country over to the northwest.”

“Yeh, I’ve heard that was a good place to stay away from.”

Slim, who was serving as cook, used a forked stick to pull the coffee pot out of the coals. Doubling up a glove, he grasped the handle and poured the steaming beverage into the battered tin cups each cowboy carried in his duffel roll.

The night air near the summit of the Cajons is crisp and cool even on a July night and the warmth from the fire was cheering. They ate in silence, draining the last drop from the coffee pot and gleaning the final bit of crisp bacon from the greasy pan.

“I’ll turn dish washer,” said Chuck, gathering up the simple utensils they had needed for the meal. He went down to the creek where Slim could hear him splashing water on the cups and the frying pan.

Slim piled more fuel on the fire and as the flames leaped higher and the light brightened, his eyes fell on an envelope which Chuck had dropped.

Slim leaned over and picked up the letter. It was face up and the address, “Chuck Meade, Circle Four Ranch,” stared at him. But the thing that really caught his attention was the name of the sender of the letter in the upper left hand corner. It was from Bill Needham, secretary of the Mountain States Cattlemen’s Association.

There was almost an irresistible temptation to read the letter, but Slim conquered that impulse and tossed the envelope over on Chuck’s blanket roll.

It was strange that both should have letters from the secretary of the cattle association and that both should be riding down the Sky High trail at almost the same hour.