Jim followed the road until it branched off to join the Bear Creek trail.  Here he deflected toward the mountains, taking the zigzag path that ran like a winding thread among the rocks as it mounted.  Now for the first time there came to him the faint rhythmic sound of a galloping horse’s hoofs.  He did not stop, and as he picked his way among the rocks he heard for some time no more of it.

“Mr. Hurry-up-like-hell kept the road, I reckon,” Jim ruminated aloud, and even as he spoke he caught again the echo of an iron shoe striking a rock.

He stopped and listened.  Some one was climbing the trail behind him.

“Mebbe he’s a friend, and then mebbe he isn’t.  We’ll let him have the whole road to himself, eh, Keno?”

Yeager guided his pony to the left, and took up a position behind some huge bowlders from whence he could see without being seen.  The pursuer toiled into sight, a slim, wiry youth on a buckskin.  He came forward out of the shadows into the fretted moonlight.

Yeager gave a glad whoop of recognition.  “Hi-yi, Phil!”

“You’re there, are you?  Did I scare you off the trail, Jim?”

“That’s whatever, boy.  What are you doing here?”

“Sis sent me.  She got worried again, and we figured I’d better join you.”

“I reckon there’s nothing serious the matter.  Still, it ain’t like Larry to say he would come and then not show up.”

“Brill is back there bragging about it.”  Phil nodded his head toward the lights of the Frying Pan glimmering far below.  “Says he knew the waddy wouldn’t show his head.  You don’t reckon, Jim, he’s turned a trick on Keller, do you?”

“That’s what we have got to find out, Phil.”

“Looks funny he’d be so durned sure when we all know how game Keller is,” the boy reflected aloud.

“I don’t expect you’re armed, Phil?” Jim put the statement as a question.

“Nope.  Are you?”

“No, I ain’t.  Didn’t think of it when I started.  Oh, well, we’ll make out.  Like enough there will be no need of guns.”

A gray light was sifting into the sky, and still they rode, winding up toward the peaks of the divide.  Jim, leading the way, drew rein and pointed to a cactus bush beside the trail.  Among its spines lay a gray felt hat.  From it his eye wandered to the very evident signs of a struggle that had taken place.  Moss and cactus had been trampled down by boot heels.  To the cholla hung here and there scraps of cloth.  A blood splash stared at them from an outcropping slope of rock.

Jim swung from the saddle and rescued the hat from the spines.  Inside the sweat band were the initials L.K.  Silently he handed the hat to Phil.

“It’s his hat,” the boy cried.

“It’s his hat,” Jim agreed.  “They must have laid for him here.  He put up a good scrap.  Notice how that cholla is cut to ribbons.  Point is, what did they do to him?”