discovered.  Once over the ridge, he would head for the Concho.  To follow him would mean that his pursuers would be riding directly away from Pete’s trail.  Many long desert miles lay between Andy and the Concho, but he argued that his horse was as fresh as the horses of his pursuers.  He would give them a good run.  If they overtook him before they reached the ranch, the most they could do would be to curse him for misleading them.  He reasoned that the posse was from the T-Bar-T—­that at best the sheriff could not have been advised of the shooting in time to join them.  They would have no official right to detain him or interfere with his progress—­once they knew who he was.

A trot, a lope, then back to a swinging trot again—­and as yet no riders had appeared on the hills.  Andy was making good time.  The crest of the ridge shimmered in the noon sun.  At this pace he would be over and down the western side before they saw him.

When the posse finally caught sight of the man they were after far out across the level and riding toward the west, they knew at once that he was making for the Concho and what protection his fellows might afford him under the circumstances.  This did not fit into their scheme.  The man-hunt had tuned their pulses to a high pitch.  They wanted to lay hands on Gary’s slayer—­to disarm him and bring him into the town of Concho themselves—­or, if he showed fight, to “get” him.  They forgot that he was little more than a boy.  He was an enemy—­and potently dangerous.

“It’s Young Pete,” said a cowboy.  “I know him by that black hat.”

Plying quirt and spur the posse flung down the ridge and out across the plain below.  They would ride their quarry down before he reached the boundary of the Concho—­before he got among his friends.

Andy turned and glanced back.  They were gaining on him.  He knew that his own horse was doing his best.  Again he glanced back.  The riders were forcing their horses to a terrific pace that could not last long.  In a mile or so they would be close enough to use their rifles.  But the harder they rode the better Andy liked it.  They would be in sorry shape to make the long ride south after Pete, when they realized that they were chasing the wrong man.  If he could get out of it without getting shot, he would consider himself lucky.  Ahead of him lay a flat of brushless land offering no shelter.  He hoped that his horse would not be killed by a chance shot.  In that event his pride would force him to retaliate, until he was either killed or captured.  He had about made up his mind to rein up and surrender when he heard the singing whizz-zip of a bullet that sprayed sand ahead of him.  Then came the faint pop of a rifle far behind.  He pulled up, swiftly unbuckled his belt, and hung his gun on the saddle-horn.  Then he stepped away from his horse—­an unconsciously fine thing to do—­and turned toward the distant posse.  Again came that shrill,