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He crouched behind the dead horse, his gaze sweeping the wash,

the sagebrush, and the distant group of cottonwoods from which he

had seen a shot fired. Though he lay absolutely still, without

the least visible excitement, he was alert and tense to the

finger tips. Not the slightest sound, not the smallest motion of

the moonlit underbrush, escaped his unwavering scrutiny.

The problem before him was to hold the attackers long enough for

Arlie and her father to make their escape, without killing any of

them or getting killed himself. He knew that, once out of the

immediate vicinity, the fugitives would leave the road and take

to some of the canyons that ran from the foothills into the

mountains. If he could secure them a start of fifteen minutes

that ought to be enough.

A voice from the wash presently hailed him: