Brand Blotters

With every sentence that the other spoke, O'Connor was judging Flatray,

appraising him for a fine specimen of a hard-bitten breed--a vigilant

frontiersman, competent to the finger tips. Yet he was conscious that, in

spite of the man's graceful ease and friendly smile, he did not like

Flatray. He would not ask for a better man beside him in a tight pinch;

but he could not deny that something sinister which breathed from his

sardonic, devil-may-care face.

"So that's how the land lies," the sheriff concluded. "My deputies have

got the pass to the south blocked; Lee is closing in through Elkhorn; and

Fox, with a strong posse, is combing the hills beyond Dead Man's Cache.

There's only one way out for him, and that is over Powderhorn Pass. Word

has just reached us that MacQueen is moving in that direction. He is

evidently figuring to slip out over the hills during the night. I've

arranged for us to be met at Barker's Tank by a couple of the boys, with

horses. We'll drop off the train quietly when it slows up to water, so

that none of his spies can get word of our movements to him. By hard

riding we'd ought to reach Powderhorn in time to head him off."

The ranger asked incisive questions, had the topography of the country

explained to him with much detail, and decided at last that Flatray was

right. If MacQueen were trying to slip out, they might trap him at the

pass; if not, by closing it they would put the cork in the bottle that

held him.

"We'll try it, seh. Y'u know this country better than I do, and I'll give

y'u a free hand. Unless there's a slip up in your calculations, you'd

ought to be right."

"Good enough, lieutenant. I'm betting on those plans myself," the other

answered promptly, and added, as he looked out into the night: "By that

notch in the hills, we'd ought to be close to the tank now. She's slowing

up. I reckon we can slip out to the vestibule, and get off at the far side

of the track without being noticed much."

This they found easy enough. Five minutes later number seven was steaming

away into the distant desert. Flatray gave a sharp, shrill whistle; and

from behind some sand dunes emerged two men and four horses.

"Anything new?" asked the sheriff as they came nearer.

"Not a thing, cap," answered one of them.

"Boys, shake hands with the famous Lieutenant O'Connor," said Flatray,

with a sneer hid by the darkness. "Lieutenant, let me make you acquainted

with Jeff Jackson and Buck Lane."