It was the custom for riders who came to town to have the supplies they needed charged to their employers against wages due them.  Doble took it for granted that Sanders had done this, which was contrary to the orders he had given his outfit.  He did not know the young man had lost his boots while rescuing Crawford and had been authorized by him to get another pair in place of them.

Nor did Dave intend to tell him.  Here was a chance to even the score against the foreman.  Already he had a plan simmering in his mind that would take him out of this part of the country for a time.  He could no longer work for Doble without friction, and he had business of his own to attend to.  The way to solve the immediate difficulty flashed through his brain instantly, every detail clear.

It was scarcely a moment before he drawled an answer.  “I’ll ’tend to it soon as I’m out of the chair.”

“I gave orders for none of you fellows to charge goods to the old man,” said Doble harshly.

“Did you?” Dave’s voice was light and careless.

“You can go hunt a job somewheres else.  You’re through with me.”

“I’ll hate to part with you.”

“Don’t get heavy, young fellow.”

“No,” answered Dave with mock meekness.

Doble sat down in a chair to wait.  He had no intention of leaving until Dave had settled.

After the barber had finished with him the puncher stepped across to a looking-glass and adjusted carefully the silk handkerchief worn knotted loosely round the throat.

“Get a move on you!” urged the foreman.  His patience, of which he never had a large supply to draw from, was nearly exhausted.  “I’m not goin’ to spend all day on this.”

“I’m ready.”

Dave followed Doble out of the shop.  Apparently he did not hear the gentle reminder of the barber, who was forced to come to the door and repeat his question.

“Want that shave charged?”

“Oh!  Clean forgot.”  Sanders turned back, feeling in his pocket for change.

He pushed past the barber into the shop, slapped a quarter down on the cigar-case, and ran out through the back door.  A moment later he pulled the slip-knot of his bridle from the hitching-bar, swung to the saddle and spurred his horse to a gallop.  In a cloud of dust he swept round the building to the road and waved a hand derisively toward Doble.

“See you later!” he shouted.

The foreman wasted no breath in futile rage.  He strode to the nearest hitching-post and flung himself astride leather.  The horse’s hoofs pounded down the road in pursuit.

Sanders was riding the same bronco he had used to follow the horsethieves.  It had been under a saddle most of the time for a week and was far from fresh.  Before he had gone a mile he knew that the foreman would catch up with him.

He was riding for Gunsight Pass.  It was necessary to get there before Doble reached him.  Otherwise he would have to surrender or fight, and neither of these fitted in with his plans.