Jim Allen and his companion kept their horses at a gallop for a mile or so, then realizing there was no pursuit, they pulled them down to a fast walk.

“That’s the seventh town, since we hit New Mex, that we had to leave suddenlike,” Slivers growled.

Jim-twin Allen started singing:

Slivers interrupted Allen’s song with an oath, and putting spurs to his horse, galloped on ahead. Allen watched him and then shook his head.

“Reckon the kid’s plumb cured of hankerin’ to be the bad boy from Bitter Creek,” he commented to himself. “Guess he’s thinkin’ more of how to clear himself of the charge agin’ him now than to make it definite by bustin’ into Little Deadman’s Branch an’ shootin’ up the gents what double crossed him. Reckon I showed him just in time what it means to ride the long trail.”

Allen had deliberately taken Slivers through the small towns to give him a taste of what it meant to be hunted.

That night the two camped in a thicket close to the Pecos. After they had finished their frugal meal, Slivers smoked several cigarettes and stared silently into the fire.

“Jim, yuh win,” he said at last.

“Meanin’?”

“Meanin’ yuh can boss things when we get to Little Deadman’s. I ain’t sayin’ that ‘Spur’ Treadwell, the gent what planted the killin’ of ‘Iky’ Small on me, ain’t due to die. But I figger on runnin’ with the law instead of agin’ it from now on, so we’ll get Spur legal.”

“Yuh ain’t hankerin’ to be my partner no more an’ ride the long trail with me?” Allen bantered.

Slivers flushed and moved uncomfortably.

“Shucks, I ain’t desertin’ yuh, ’cause yuh’d never took me along no way. But I’m plumb sick of bein’ chased ragged. Hell, I dream of sheriffs sneakin’ upon me,” Slivers said slowly and a little shame-facedly.

Suddenly Allens’ face was old, lined with countless wrinkles. His eyes grew somber, as he stared at Slivers’ face. When he spoke again, it was like a father speaking to a son.

“Kid, remember them words. No matter how rotten yore cards, play them straight. It sounds excitin’, this outlaw stuff, but the end of the long trail is sartin sure. Yuh get so yuh can’t trust no one. Friends try to pot yuh in the back, an’ excuse themselves by sayin’ it’s their civic duty, while they’re thinkin’ of the blood money on your carcass. No, kid, there ain’t nothin’ in ridin’ the long trail.” Allen’s voice had been serious when he began, but it was flat, expressionless, as he finished.

Slivers glanced at Allen’s face and then looked hastily away.

When Slivers next glanced at Allen, the outlaw’s face was once more young. There was a broad grin on his face, as he stuffed some brown sugar in his pockets.

“How long yuh been hidin’ out, Jim?” Slivers asked.

“Since I was eighteen. I’m twenty-eight now,” Allen replied cheerfully, as he stepped into the brush to feed sugar to his two grays.

Ten years. Ten long, lonely years. Betrayed by friends, pursued by the law, constantly on the move. Yet there was no bitterness against his fate, only a great fatigue. Slivers cursed himself for a weakling and a baby.

He stood up and shook his shoulders, and his growing hatred of the world fell from him like a cloak. From now on he would fight like a man, fight to clear his name and confine his hatred to the man who had framed him.

Before dawn the following day, they crossed the Pecos a little above Pilgrim’s Crossing and started on their long ride across the Staked Plains. On the third day, they turned northeast and headed toward Wichita Falls and then, little by little, they swung about until they were traveling almost due north.

They traveled slowly, for it was necessary to keep their horses fresh in case it became necessary to run for it. It was ten days after they crossed the Pecos that they struck the rolling hills and dense thickets that marked the country to the south of the Nations, hangout of hunted men.

One morning they looked down from the top of a heavily wooded hill into the smooth cuplike valley through which flowed the Little Deadman’s Creek. At the farther end, doll-like buildings marked the site of the Double R Ranch.

“There she is,” Slivers cried.

“I’m bettin’ yuh can pick out that gal of yourn settin’ on the porch,” Allen grinned.

Slivers did not reply, but continued to stare out across the valley to the ranch buildings. Allen’s words were true, for he saw, even if it were in his imagination, Dot Reed sitting on the front porch, just as he had last seen her on that day he had had to flee from the mob which was intent on lynching him.