“That’s work for the officers,” insisted Constance.

“There ain’t no police out here,” Curly replied, “and not sherfs enough to go around; so a feller sorter has to go when he’s asked.  They won’t let me, because I got twins—­though they ain’t mine.  But, now, I’ve got to take this here horse over to Dan Anderson.”  He mounted and rode away.

It was Dan Anderson himself who presently came at a gallop across the arroyo.  A heavy revolver swung at his hip, a rifle rested in the scabbard under his leg, and a coat was rolled behind his saddle, plainsman fashion.  Constance noted these details, but passed them in her eagerness and pleasure that he should come at least to say good-by.  Something of the joy faded from her eyes as he approached.  She had seen his face wear this same expression before,—­fierce, eager, forgetful of all but a purpose.

He did not smile.  He stooped from his saddle and grasped her hand.  He looked squarely into her eyes, but said no word of salutation or farewell.  He did not look back, as upon the instant, he whirled and galloped away!  For her there were to be yet more days of waiting; for him the relief of action and of danger.

That afternoon Tom Osby drove into town from the northern trail.  Mr. Ellsworth welcomed him and his rude vehicle as the first feasible means of getting back to Sky Top.  By noon of the following day they were well upon their way, leaving behind them problems enough unsolved, and breaking touch with pending events which might cut short all problems for at least one loyal heart.  It was a sad and silent Constance who looked back and said good-by to the rambling street of Heart’s Desire, lying in the sun empty, empty!

As for the sheriff of Blanco and his men, they trotted on steadily toward the northeast, hour after hour.  They crossed the Patos divide, and a few miles beyond took up the trail of their quarry, at the point where Stillson had earlier left it.  This they followed rapidly, crossing wide plains of sage brush and cactus throughout the day.  They slept in their saddle-blankets that night, and were up and off again by dawn for the second day of steady travel.  There were seven men in the posse, three besides Stillson from the Seven Rivers country, employees of the cow men on the Pecos,—­slim, brown, thin-featured fellows, who talked little either in the saddle or at the bivouac fire by night.

The second night out they spent by a water hole in the desert; and on the morning of the third day they ran into their game, earlier than they had expected.  The sheriff, riding in advance, suddenly pulled up at the crest of a low ridge which they were ascending, and came back motioning to his men to remain under cover.

“That’s the Pinos Altos ranch house just ahead,” he explained, “and there’s smoke coming out of it.  Old Frazee’s friendly enough with the Kid, and more’n likely the bunch has stopped in there to get something to eat.  Hold on a little till I have a look.”  He took a pair of field-glasses from his saddle, and crawling to the top of the ridge lay examining the situation.