When they reached the open country above the defile, Sanderson rode close to Williams.

“There’s enough of you to take care of this gang,” he said, indicating the prisoners; “I’m goin’ to hit the breeze to the Double A an’ see what’s happened there!”

“Sure!” agreed Williams.  “Beat it!”

When Streak got the word he leaped forward at a pace that gave Williams an idea of how he had gained his name.  He flashed by the head of the moving columns and vanished into the growing darkness, running with long, swift, sure leaps that took him over the ground like a feather before a hurricane.

But fast as he went, he did not travel too rapidly for Sanderson.  For in Sanderson’s heart also lurked a premonition of evil.  But he did not fear it; it grimmed his lips, it made his eyes blaze with a wanton, savage fire; it filled his heart with a bitter passion to slay the man who had stayed behind at the Double A ranchhouse.

And he urged Streak to additional effort, heading him recklessly through sections of country where a stumble meant disaster, lifting him on the levels, and riding all the time with only one thought in mind—­speed, speed, speed.

CHAPTER XXXIII

A MAN LEAVES OKAR

Riding the hard trail through the basin, from its neck at Okar to the broad, upward slope that led to the Double A ranchhouse, came another man, who also was sacrificing everything to speed.  His horse was fresh, and he spared it not at all as he swept in long, smooth, swift undulations over the floor of the basin.

Ben Nyland’s lips were as straight and hard as were those of the other man who was racing toward the Double A from another direction; his face was as grim, and his thoughts were as bitter and savage.

When he reached the bottom of the long, gentle slope that stretched to the Double A ranchhouse he did not spare his horse.  The terrible spurs sank in again and again, stirring the animal to a frenzy of effort, and he rushed up the slope as though it were a level, snorting with pain and fury, but holding the pace his rider demanded of him.

And when he reached the corral fence near the Double A ranchhouse, and his rider dismounted and ran forward, the horse heaved a sigh of relief and stood, bracing his legs to keep from falling, his breath coming in terrific heaves.

An instant after his arrival Ben Nyland was in side the Double A ranchhouse, pistol in hand.  He tore through the rooms in the darkness, stumbling over the furniture, knocking it hither and there as it interfered with his progress.

He found no one.  Accidentally colliding with the table in the kitchen, he searched its top and discovered thereon a kerosene lamp.  Lighting it with fingers that trembled, he looked around him.

There were signs of the confusion that had reigned during the day.  He saw on the floor the rope that had encircled Dale’s neck—­one end of it was tied to the fastenings of the kitchen door.