“I ain’t so dead sure, Buck,” spoke up Pesky.  “We didn’t see the man so as to know him.”

“Riding a roan, wasn’t he?” snapped the owner of the Twin Star outfit.

“Looked that way,” admitted the cowpuncher.

“Well, then?”

“Keller!  Why, that’s the name given by the rustler who broke away from us two weeks ago,” Curly spoke out.

“No use jawing.  I’m going to hang his skin up to dry,” Weaver ground out between set teeth.

“By his own way of it, he’s only one of them dashed nesters,” Irwin added.

Keller was putting two and two together, in amazement.  The would-be assassin had, during the past few minutes, been driven into this gulch, riding a roan horse.  He could swear that only one person had come in before these pursuers—­and that one was a woman on a roan.  Her frightened eyes, the fear that showed in every motion, her hurried flight, all contributed to the same inevitable conclusion.  It was difficult to believe it, but impossible to deny.  This wild, sylvan creature, with the shy, wonderful eyes, had lain in ambush to kill her father’s enemy, and was flying from the vengeance on her heels.

His lips were sealed.  Even if he were not under heavy obligations to her he could no more save himself at the expense of this brown sylph than he could have testified against his own mother.

“All right.  If you feel lucky, come on.  You’ll get me, of course, but it may prove right expensive,” he said quietly.

“That’s all right.  We’re footing our end of the bill,” Pesky retorted.

By this time, he and Weaver had dismounted, and were sheltered behind rocks.  Already bullets were beginning to spit back and forth, though the flankers had not yet got into action.

“Durn his hide, I hate like sin to puncture it,” Pesky told his boss.  “I tell you we’re making a mistake, Buck.  This fellow’s a pure—­he ain’t any hired killer.  You can tie to that.”

“He’s the man that pumped a bullet into my arm from ambush.  That’s enough for me,” the cattleman swore.

“No use being revengeful, especially if it happens he ain’t the man.  By his say-so, that’s a shotgun he’s carrying.  Loaded with buckshot, he claims.  What hit you was a bullet from a Winchester, or some such gun.  Mighty easy to prove whether he’s lying.”

“We’ll be able to prove it afterward, all right.”

“What’s the matter with proving it now?  I don’t stand for any murder business myself.  I’m going to find out what’s what.”

The cow-puncher tied the red bandanna from his neck round the end of his revolver, and shoved it above the rock in front of him.

“Flag of truce!” he shouted.

“All right.  Come right along.  Better leave your gun behind,” Keller called back.

Pesky waddled forward—­a short, thick-set, bow-legged man in chaps, spurs, flannel shirt, and white sombrero.  When he took off this last, as he did now, it revealed a head bald as a billiard ball.