For a few minutes the wildest confusion prevailed in the saloon. The noise of the shooting had emptied the other bar-rooms, as well as the houses of the little settlement, and from all quarters people came flocking to the scene of the tragedy. The dead man was removed to a room in the rear, and the wounds of the others were bound up with rude surgery, pending the arrival of a doctor, for whom one of the cowboys had ridden off post haste.

Bert's quick mind was busy piecing together the events of the past crowded hour. That the stranger was left-handed, although unusual in that region, proved nothing by itself. But the dead steer had borne the mark of a left-handed man—and Pedro was in charge of a part of Melton's stock—and he had sneaked away from his work to talk with this ruffian, apparently by appointment—and the latter had given the half-breed money. Had Bert known the additional fact that Pedro had been riding herd in the section where a large drove had recently disappeared, the conclusion would have been irresistible that he and the stranger had been in league to "rustle" Melton's cattle. But even without this last fact, the evidence was strong enough. All of these happenings, taken together, pointed unerringly toward the identity of one at least of the rustlers and gave the clue to the mystery.

His first impulse was to follow the fleeing murderer and either try to capture him or find out the rendezvous of the gang to which he belonged. But when he ran out to his horse, the fugitive had vanished, and there was nothing in the dusty road that gave any inkling of the direction he had taken.

Pursuit being impossible, there was but one thing left for him to do. He must get back to the ranch at once and reveal all he knew or guessed of the conspiracy. Pedro, at any rate, would be within reach, and a judicious application of the "third degree" could probably wring from him enough to put them on the track of the rustlers and bring the gang to justice. And his blood tingled at the thought of the fight that was probably coming, for the rustlers, brought to bay, would not surrender tamely. It was better to die from a bullet than dangle at the end of a rope, and they would battle with the fierceness of cornered rats.

He untied his horse, sprang into the saddle and set out for the ranch. His horse had had a good rest and was full of running, especially as his face was turned homeward. But, despite his own impatience, Bert subdued his mount to a trot that he could keep up indefinitely, and gave himself up to reviewing the stirring scenes from which he had just emerged.

He was passing through a patch of woodland, from which a deep gully diverged to the right, when he heard the whinny of a horse. Instantly he clapped his hand over the nostrils of his own mount to keep him from answering. Then he slid to the ground, tied a rope around his horse's jaws to keep him quiet and secured him to a tree. On hands and knees he crept forward through the underbrush in the direction of the sound. He reached the bank of the gully and peered over.

A little brook ran over the stones at the bottom of the gulch. Stooping over it was a man with his back toward him. A horse was picketed near by, contentedly munching the grass that grew thick and lush on the border of the stream. The man's right arm was bared to the elbow, and he was dashing water on a wound just above the wrist. Then he tore a strip from his shirt and proceeded to bandage the arm as best he could, accompanying the action with groans and curses that told of the pain he was enduring.

Bert's first thought was to steal down upon the man and at the point of his revolver demand his surrender. He had the drop on him, and, quick as the ruffian had proved himself on the draw, he would be at too great a disadvantage to resist. But, after all, what right had he to arrest the man? As far as the shooting in the saloon was concerned, the dead man had started the fight, and the other had acted in self-defense. The question of cheating was an open one that could probably never be determined. It had not been a murder, but a duel, and the quicker hand and better shot had won. There was no call for Bert to interfere.

As to the charge of cattle rustling, he had absolutely no proof to go upon. He had the moral conviction that the man was mixed up in the affair, but not a scintilla of evidence that would stand for a moment in a court of law. It would be high-handed and indefensible to make this man a prisoner, and take him on to the ranch for questioning by Melton. He would simply stand on his rights and defy them to prove anything against him. They would be forced to let him go, and, being henceforth on his guard, it would be doubly difficult to trap him and his gang.

No, the waiting game was the only one to play under the circumstances, and Bert replaced the revolver that he had half drawn from his belt. But he had no intention of resuming his journey to the ranch. Fate had brought him in contact with this man, when he had given up all expectation of finding him, and he was too good a sportsman to overlook any point in the game. He would keep him in sight, hang on his flank, follow his trail wherever it led, in the hope of finding the rendezvous of the gang. Then he would ride with whip and spur to the ranch, Melton would gather his men together, and they would swoop down on the outlaws' camp and catch them red-handed with their booty.

While he was settling on this course of action as promising the best results, the man had completed the task of bandaging. Bert looked for him to unhobble his horse and resume his journey. But, to his surprise, the fellow stretched himself out on the grass as though in no particular hurry. Yet there was an air of expectancy about him, and it flashed across Bert that he was waiting for some one. And this impression was heightened by the glances he cast toward the upper end of the gully, and the way he lifted his head from time to time as though listening for a signal.

It came at last, a whistle three times repeated. Instantly he sent back an answering call, and a moment later two men emerged from the farther end of the ravine and rode their horses slowly toward their waiting companion.

They were dressed in ordinary cowboy fashion and rode as though they had been born to the saddle. In addition to the revolvers in their holsters, each carried a rifle slung in the hollow of the arm. One was of enormous bulk and a shock of flaming red hair showed beneath his sombrero. The other was of medium build, but wiry and quick as a cat in his movements. Both were of the same evil stamp as the first, although they lacked the look of authority that marked him as a natural leader.

They gave an exclamation of surprise as they saw the bandaged arm, and were off their horses in an instant.

"What's the matter, cap?" inquired the smaller man. "Did they get you bad?"

"Bad enough," snarled the other with a string of blasphemies. "I guess they've broken a bone in my wrist. But the feller that did it will never do no more shooting." And in fervid words, interrupted by curses as his sore arm gave a worse twinge than usual, he related the events leading up to the affray.

The others listened with perfunctory grunts of sympathy, although they seemed less concerned about him personally than over the changes the wounding might make in their plans.

"It's lucky it's the right arm, anyway," consoled one of them. "Yer'll still be able to shoot as well as ever until yer get all right again."

"Yes," assented the captain grudgingly, "it's the first time I've ever felt glad that I'm left-handed. And I'm shore glad that I fixed that deal up with the half-breed before the scrap came off. Handed him over his share of the last swag, and got it all settled to pull off another trick a week from to-morrow."

They gathered eagerly about him to learn the details, and Bert strained his ears to catch the fragments of conversation that floated up to him. He could detect the name of "Melton" and "Pedro" as often recurring, but to his intense disappointment could get no coherent idea of the felony the rustlers had in view. Had he done so, his quest would have ended then and there. It would then be simply a matter of laying an ambush at the given time and place, into which the rascals would walk blindly, and from which there would be no escape. But when at last the conference was over, he was no wiser than before, except that his suspicions as to the half-breed had become a certainty.

The afternoon was well along now, and the captain, casting a glance at the sun, rose hastily to his feet.

"Come along," he growled. "We can do our chinning later on. We'll have all we can do now to get to camp before dark."

"Before dark." Bert looked at his watch. It was nearly six o'clock. It would not be fully dark until eight. That meant that the rendezvous of the gang was within two hours' ride. Allowing ten miles an hour, it meant a distance of perhaps twenty miles.

But that was assuming that they went on well-traveled roads, where the horses could be given their head. Bert felt sure that they would not do this. The conditions of their lawless life made it necessary for them to seek refuge in the wilds, where riding would be hard and slow. Their lair was doubtless in some secluded valley or coulee, where they could hide the stolen stock, secure from discovery until a favorable opportunity offered to drive it out at night far from the plundered ranches. The place, therefore, might not be more than fifteen miles distant. Otherwise the outlaws would hardly be able to make it in the time mentioned, over the rough trails they would probably follow. That this conjecture was correct was proved by the fact that, instead of returning to the broad road up which Bert had ridden, the men mounted their horses and turned their heads in the opposite direction up the ravine.

But how could he follow without detection? If he let them get too far ahead, he might lose track of them altogether. On the other hand, if he followed too closely they might hear the sound of his horse's feet, or, turning in the saddle, might see his figure outlined against the sky. In that case the game was up. It would be a matter of flight, or an encounter in which, against such odds, he could look for nothing but capture or death. And in either event, his plans for the breaking up of the band would come to nothing.

There was but one alternative. He must follow on foot.

He was in superb condition and could do it easily. Running was his game. He had taken the measure of the fleetest runners in the country, and had, by so doing, won the right to represent America in the Olympic Games. And when he had carried off the honors in the Marathon race over the crack flyers of all the world, he had made the distance of twenty-six miles, up hill and down, in a trifle over two hours and thirty minutes, or a sustained rate of more than ten miles an hour. To be sure, he was then trained to the hour and at the top of his form. But even now, although not strictly in training, his outdoor life and clean living had kept him in fine fettle, and he was fit to "run for a man's life." A horse could beat him in a sprint, but there were few mustangs on the ranch that he could not have worn down and beaten in a stretch of twenty miles.

It was with no lack of confidence, therefore, that he reached his decision.

He hurried back to his horse, tore a scrap of paper from his note-book and hastily scribbled a note to Dick. It was in cipher, so that if it fell into hostile hands no one else could understand its purport. He told him of his discovery and urged him to have Melton put Pedro under guard until his return. He adjured him not to worry, as he would probably be back before twenty-four hours.

A word of greeting to Tom and the Meltons, and he placed the paper securely under the saddle, with just an end protruding to attract notice. Then he released the horse, untied his jaws, gave him a smart slap on the back and sent him off toward home. The delighted broncho threw up his heels and set off at a pace that promised soon to get him to his well-filled manger. Then, with a last glance at his weapon, to see that it was in perfect trim, Bert vanished into the woods and set out upon the trail as silently and swiftly as an Indian.