Early in the morning he proceeded on his way, and about the middle of the forenoon reached the constricted gap that marked the southerly end of the Pass, and through which led the trail up to the sage-level.  He spied out Lassiter’s tracks in the dust, but no others, and dismounting, he straightened out Wrangle’s bridle and began to lead him up the trail.  The short climb, more severe on beast than on man, necessitated a rest on the level above, and during this he scanned the wide purple reaches of slope.

Wrangle whistled his pleasure at the smell of the sage.  Remounting, Venters headed up the white trail with the fragrant wind in his face.  He had proceeded for perhaps a couple of miles when Wrangle stopped with a suddenness that threw Venters heavily against the pommel.

“What’s wrong, old boy?” called Venters, looking down for a loose shoe or a snake or a foot lamed by a picked-up stone.  Unrewarded, he raised himself from his scrutiny.  Wrangle stood stiff head high, with his long ears erect.  Thus guided, Venters swiftly gazed ahead to make out a dust-clouded, dark group of horsemen riding down the slope.  If they had seen him, it apparently made no difference in their speed or direction.

“Wonder who they are!” exclaimed Venters.  He was not disposed to run.  His cool mood tightened under grip of excitement as he reflected that, whoever the approaching riders were, they could not be friends.  He slipped out of the saddle and led Wrangle behind the tallest sage-brush.  It might serve to conceal them until the riders were close enough for him to see who they were; after that he would be indifferent to how soon they discovered him.

After looking to his rifle and ascertaining that it was in working order, he watched, and as he watched, slowly the force of a bitter fierceness, long dormant, gathered ready to flame into life.  If those riders were not rustlers he had forgotten how rustlers looked and rode.  On they came, a small group, so compact and dark that he could not tell their number.  How unusual that their horses did not see Wrangle!  But such failure, Venters decided, was owing to the speed with which they were traveling.  They moved at a swift canter affected more by rustlers than by riders.  Venters grew concerned over the possibility that these horsemen would actually ride down on him before he had a chance to tell what to expect.  When they were within three hundred yards he deliberately led Wrangle out into the trail.

Then he heard shouts, and the hard scrape of sliding hoofs, and saw horses rear and plunge back with up-flung heads and flying manes.  Several little white puffs of smoke appeared sharply against the black background of riders and horses, and shots rang out.  Bullets struck far in front of Venters, and whipped up the dust and then hummed low into the sage.  The range was great for revolvers, but whether the shots were meant to kill or merely to check advance, they were enough to fire that waiting ferocity in Venters.  Slipping his arm through the bridle, so that Wrangle could not get away, Venters lifted his rifle and pulled the trigger twice.