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"Hold on, sonny! I'm a stranger. Don't make any more mistakes

like that."

"Who are you?"

"Steve Fraser they call me. I just arrived from Texas. Wait a

jiff, and I'll come down and explain."

He stayed for no permission, but swung from the saddle, trailed

the reins, and started down the slope. He could hear a low-voiced

colloquy between the two dark figures, and one of them called

roughly:

"Hands up, friend! We'll take no chances on yo'."

The Texan's hands went up promptly, just as a bullet flattened

itself against a rock behind him. It had been fired from the bank

of the dry wash, some hundred and fifty yards away.

"That's no fair! Both sides oughtn't to plug at me," he

protested, grinning.

The darkness which blurred detail melted as Fraser approached,

and the moonlight showed him a tall, lank, unshaven old

mountaineer, standing behind a horse, his shotgun thrown across

the saddle.