Again that thin, long-drawn sound, and this time, glancing over his right shoulder, he saw a horseman plunging down the slope of the mountain.  He knew instantly that it was Ronicky Doone.  The man had come to recapture his horse and had taken the short cut across the mountain to come up with her.  Just by a fraction of a minute Doone would be too late, for, by the time he came down onto the trail, the bay would be well ahead, and certainly no horse lived in those mountains capable of overtaking her when she felt like running.  Gregg touched her again with the spurs, but this time she reared straight up and, whirling to the side, faced steadily toward her onrushing master.

Chapter Two

Friendly Enemies

Again and again Gregg spurred the bay cruelly.

She winced from the pain and snorted, but, apparently having not the slightest knowledge of bucking, she could only shake her head and send a ringing whinny of appeal up the slope of the mountain, toward the approaching rider.

In spite of the approaching danger, in spite of this delay which was ruining his chances of getting to Stillwater before the train, Bill Gregg watched in marvel and delight the horsemanship of the stranger.  Ronicky Doone, if this were he, was certainly the prince of all wild riders.

Even as the mare stopped in answer to the signal of her owner, Ronicky Doone sent his mount over the edge of a veritable cliff, flung him back on his haunches and slid down the gravelly slope, careening from side to side.  With a rush of pebbles about him and a dust cloud whirling after, Ronicky Doone broke out into the road ahead of the mare, and she whinnied softly again to greet him.

Bill Gregg found himself looking not into the savage face of such a gunfighter as he had been led to expect, but a handsome fellow, several years younger than he, a high-headed, straight-eyed, buoyant type.  In his seat in the saddle, in the poise of his head and the play of his hand on the reins Bill Gregg recognized a boundless nervous force.  There was nothing ponderous about Ronicky Doone.  Indeed he was not more than middle size, but, as he reined his horse in the middle of the road and looked with flashing eyes at Bill Gregg, he appeared very large indeed.

Gregg was used to fighting or paying his way, or doing both at the same time, as occasion offered.  He decided that this was certainly an occasion for much money and few words.

“You’re Doone, I guess,” he said, “and you know that I’ve played a pretty bad trick on you, taking your hoss this way.  But I wanted to pay for it, Doone, and I’ll pay now.  I’ve got to get to Stillwater before that train.  Look at her!  I haven’t hurt her any.  Her wind isn’t touched.  She’s pretty wet, but sweat never hurt nothing on four feet, eh?”

“I dunno,” returned Ronicky Doone.  “I’d as soon run off with a man’s wife as his hoss.”