With face upraised to the breath of air which stirred across the bare black lava hills, Rathburn leaned forward in the saddle eagerly, while his dun-colored horse stood patiently, seemingly in accord with his master’s mood. A merciless sun beat down from a hot, cloudless sky.

Below, stretching in endless miles was the desert––a sinister, forbidding land of desolate distances, marked only by slender yucca palms, mesquite, dusty greasewood, an occasional clump of green palo verde, the slim fingers of the ocatilla, the high “forks” of the giant sahuara, and clumps of la cholla cactus, looking like apple orchards in full bloom.

Yet the man’s gaze fell for a moment lovingly on each species of cactus and desert vegetation; his look was that which dwells in the homesick eyes of a traveler when he sees his native land from the deck of an inbound ship.

“Hoss, we’re home!” he said aloud, while the animal pricked up its ears.

Then he looked off to the left, where the blue outlines of a low range of mountains wavered in the heat like a mirage.

“Imagination Range,” he said moodily.

He tickled the dun with his spurs and trotted along the crest of the lava ridge. At its eastern terminus he swung down into the desert and struck straight east in the direction of Imagination Range. The desert’s surface between the lava ridge and the higher hills of the range to eastward was cut by dry 180 washes and arroyos and miniature ridges studded with giant cactus.

On the top of one of these high rises the horseman suddenly reined in his mount and stared into the south. “There’s trouble––an’ spelled with a capital T!” he ejaculated.

The gaze in his keen gray eyes centered upon a number of riders speeding their horses over the tumbled section of desert below him to his right. He made out two divisions of horsemen. One group was some distance ahead of the other. Even as he stared down at them, its group separated, and some rode for Imagination Range, while others hastened toward the lava hills, or due north in his direction. The second group halted for a brief spell, evidently for a conference, and then its members also divided and started in swift pursuit of the men ahead.

The watcher on the top of the rise frowned.

“Out of here, hoss,” he said sharply. “This ain’t our day for visitors.”

He pushed on eastward, increasing its pace, but losing time in skirting the frequent bits of high ground. As he rode down into a deep arroyo, a horseman came galloping into its lower end and raced almost upon him before seeing him. His hand darted like lightning to his gun, and the weapon snapped into aim at his hip. The horseman came to a rearing halt, reins dangling, his hands held high, his eyes bulging from their sockets.

“Rathburn!” he exclaimed.

“The same,” said the man with the gun. “What’s all the disturbance down there?”

“Bob Long is chasing us,” the other answered with a nervous grin.

“As I remember it,” drawled Rathburn, “Bob Long is the sheriff of Mesquite County. You boys sure ain’t been misbehaving?”

“It’s worse than that,” said the fugitive, staring doubtfully at his questioner. “The stage driver’s dead. Had a notion the boss was foolin’ when he told him to reach up for the bugs in the air.”

“Who does the boss happen to be in this case?”

The man hesitated.

“Take your time,” said Rathburn sarcastically; “there’s nobody after you but the sheriff, an’ he probably won’t be along for a minute or two.”

“It won’t do you no good for him to find us here,” said the other boldly.

Rathburn’s eyes blazed. “I reckon you’re forgettin’ that Bob Long knows I travel alone,” he said hotly. “He savvys I don’t travel with a crowd. I ain’t found it necessary so far, an’ I ain’t aiming to start. I counted eight in your gang––to hold up one stage, eh?” He concluded with a sneer, while the other shifted nervously in his saddle and cast a quick look back over his shoulder. There seemed no one there.

“You needn’t be lookin’ around,” Rathburn said coldly. “You’re goin’ to stay here till you answer my question, if all the sheriffs in Arizona come ridin’ up meanwhile. Who’s headin’ your gang?”

“That ain’t professional,” the fugitive grumbled. “You’re just the same as one of us.”

Then, seeing the look that came into Rathburn’s eyes, he said hastily: “Mike Eagen planned the lay.”

“I guessed it,” said Rathburn in a tone of contempt. “Well, you better slope while you’ve still got a chance.”

He motioned to the man to go, and the latter rode at a gallop up the arroyo and out of sight. Rathburn’s face wore a worried scowl, as he slid his gun into its holster, whirled his horse, and speedily climbed the east side of the arroyo.

From a vantage point he caught sight again of 182 the horsemen racing up from the south. They were much nearer, and he could readily make out the members of the sheriff’s posse. He had had experience with posses before.

Striking around the crest of the high ground which formed the east side of the arroyo, he again raced toward the range of mountains in the east, taking advantage of every bit of cover which offered concealment from the riders approaching at top speed from the south.

Occasional glances made it plain that the sheriff was sending, or personally bringing, most of his posse east in the direction of the mountains, presumably in the hope of cutting off the outlaws from seeking refuge in the hills. But the mountains were Rathburn’s goal as well as the goal of a majority of Mike Eagen’s band, though for totally different reasons. He refused to change his direction, although by going north, the stout, speedy dun could doubtless outdistance the posse before the afternoon was spent.

Rathburn’s teeth snapped shut, his jaw squared, and his eyes narrowed, as he saw indubitable signs that he had been detected. Two of the posse were waving their arms and dashing in his direction. At that distance they could not identify him, but under the circumstances such identification was unnecessary. His presence there, riding like mad, was certain to convince the pursuers that he was one of the gang responsible for the stage job. This was obvious.

For good reasons, Rathburn did not want it generally known that he was back in a country where he had spent most of his life, and where he was branded as a desperate outlaw with a big price on his head. Consequently, seeing that the sheriff’s men were out to get him, he abandoned all attempt at concealment, drove in his spurs, gave the dun horse its head, and raced for the mountains.

Other members of the posse who were farther to the east caught the signals of the two who were in hot pursuit of Rathburn, and they dashed north to cut him off. The outlaws had disappeared, and Rathburn shook his head savagely, as he realized they had sought cover when they saw the chase was directed at one man. Without having had a hand in the holdup of the stage, he had arrived on the spot just in time to draw the fire of the authorities. And fire it was now; for the men behind him had begun shooting in the hope of a chance hit at the distance.

A scant mile separated him from his goal. He came to a level stretch which was almost a mass of green because of the clumps of palo verde. Here he urged the dun to its utmost, outdistanced the pair in his rear, and gained on the men riding from the south, almost ahead of him. He swerved a bit to the north and cut straight for a notch in the mountains. He smiled, as he approached it, and saw a narrow defile leading into the hills. He gained it in a final, heartbreaking burst of speed on the part of his mount. As he dashed into the caÑon, bullets sang past him and over his head. Then a cry of amazement came to his ears.

“It’s The Coyote!” a man was yelling. “Rathburn’s back!”

He dashed into the shelter of the defile, a grim smile playing on his lips. He had been recognized. His face hardened. He rounded a huge boulder, checked his horse, and dismounted. He could hear the pound of hoofs in the entrance of the narrow caÑon. A rider came into view below.

Rathburn leaned out from the protection of the boulder. His lips were pressed into a fine, white line, and there was a look of haunted worry in his eyes. His gun flashed in his hand. The rider saw him and yelled, spurring his horse. Then Rathburn’s 184 gun swung quickly upward. A sharp report sounded, like a crash of thunder in the narrow confines of the caÑon, and its echoes reverberated through the hills.

The rider toppled in his saddle and fell to the floor of the caÑon. His horse came to a snorting stop, reins dangling, all four legs braced. The hoof-beats instantly were stilled. A silence, complete and sinister, reigned in the defile.

Rathburn slipped his smoking gun into his holster and mounted noiselessly. Then he walked his horse slowly up the caÑon, sitting sidewise in the saddle to keep a vigil on the trail behind. A minute later he heard a volley of shots below, the signal to all the scattered members of the posse to race to the entrance of the caÑon. He increased his pace, broke his gun, extracted the empty shell, and inserted a fresh cartridge in its place.