Harlan and Morgan had made a thorough search of Haydon’s desk in the latter’s office in the ranchhouse, and they had found letters addressed to Haydon—received at various towns in the vicinity and proving Morgan’s charges against him. And upon several of the letters were names that provided damaging evidence of the connection of influential men with the scheme to gain unlawful possession of much land in the basin.

“This cinches it!” declared Morgan as he carefully placed the letters into a pocket when he and Harlan emerged from the ranchhouse. “I reckon we’ve got proof now. An’ the governor’ll be plumb tickled.”

They stepped down from the doorway and turned the corner of the house. Instantly they noted the disappearance of Haydon’s body. But they did not search among the other buildings for Haydon—as he had expected them to do. For they saw that his horse was also missing.

Morgan ran for the corral, saying no word, his lips set in grim, vengeful lines. He had been a fool for not making sure that he had killed Haydon, but he would not make that mistake again. The gleam in his eyes revealed that.

Harlan, too, divined what had happened. Purgatory was in the stable—which was farther from the ranchhouse than the corral. And though Harlan moved swiftly Morgan was already on his horse and racing toward the timber when Purgatory emerged from the stable, saddled and bridled.

Harlan noted that Morgan had not stopped to saddle his horse, and that omission revealed the man’s intense desire for haste. Harlan, however, headed Purgatory into the timber, but he was more than half a mile behind Morgan when he reached the main trail.

He saw Morgan riding the trail that led up the valley, and he set out after him, giving the big black horse the rein. He divined that Morgan suspected Haydon had ridden in that direction; and while Harlan had never seen the Cache, he had heard the Star men speak of it, and he had noticed that when setting out for it they had always traveled the trail Morgan was traveling. Therefore, it was evident that Morgan thought Haydon had gone to the Cache. In that case he depended upon Deveny to assist him—if Morgan followed; and Harlan was determined to see the incident through.

He sent Purgatory ahead at a good pace, but he noted soon that Morgan was increasing the distance between them. He began to urge Purgatory forward, and gradually the distance between the two riders grew shorter.

Both were traveling rapidly, however, and it seemed to Harlan that they had not gone more than three or four miles when—watching Morgan closely, he saw him ride pell-mell into some timber that—apparently—fringed the front of a cave.

It was some time before Harlan reached the timber, and when he did he could not immediately discover the spot into which Morgan had ridden. When he did discover it he rode Purgatory through, and found himself in a narrow gorge.

He raced Purgatory through the gorge, and out of it to the sloping side of a little basin.

He saw a house near the center of the basin—and Morgan riding close to it.

The distance to the house was not great—not more than a quarter of a mile, it seemed; and Harlan felt some wonder that Morgan—who had been quite a little in advance of him—had not reached the house sooner. That mystery was explained to him almost instantly, though, when he saw that Morgan’s horse was walking, going forward with a pronounced limp. Evidently Morgan had met with an accident.

Harlan was riding across the floor of the little basin, watching Morgan and wondering at the seeming absence of Deveny’s men, when he saw a smoke streak issue from one of the windows of the house, saw Morgan reel in the saddle, and slide to the ground.

But before Harlan could reach the spot where Morgan had fallen, the man staggered to his feet and was running toward the house, swaying as he went.

Harlan heard a muffled report as he sent Purgatory scampering after Morgan. He saw Morgan reel again, and he knew someone in the house was using a rifle.

There was another report as Morgan lurched through an open doorway of the house. Then Harlan knew Morgan was using his gun, for its roaring crash mingled with the whiplike crack of a rifle.

The firing had ceased when Harlan slipped off Purgatory at the open door; and both his guns were out as he leaped over the threshold.

He halted, though, standing rigid, his guns slowly swagging in his hands, their muzzles drooping.

For on the floor of the room—flat on his back near a corner—was Haydon. He was dead—there was no doubt of that.

Nor was there any doubt that the bullets Haydon had sent had finished Morgan. He was lying on his right side, his right arm under him, extended; the palm of the hand upward, the fingers limply holding the pistol he had used, some smoke curling lazily from the muzzle.

Harlan knelt beside Morgan, examining him for signs of life. He got up a little later and stood for some time looking down at the man, thinking of Barbara. Twice had tragedy cast its sinister shadow over her.