The tied rope was a mystery to Nyland, but it suggested hanging to his thoughts, already lurid, and he leaped for the pantry.  There he grimly viewed the wreck and turned away, muttering.

“He’s been here an’ gone,” he said, meaning Dale; “them’s his marks—­ruin.”

Blowing out the light he went to the front door, paused in it and then went out upon the porch, from where he could look northeastward at the edge of the mesa surmounting the big slope that merged into the floor of the basin.

Faintly outlined against the luminous dark blue of the sky, he caught the leaping silhouette of a horse and rider.  He grinned coldly, and stepped back into the shadow of the doorway.

“That’s him, damn him!” he said.  “He’s comin’ back!”

He had not long to wait.  He saw the leaping silhouette disappear, seeming to sink into the earth, but he knew that horse and rider were descending the slope; that it would not be long before they would thunder up to the ranchhouse—­and he gripped the butt of his gun until his fingers ached.

He saw a blot appear from the dark shadows of the slope and come rushing toward him.  He could hear the heave and sob of the horse’s breath as it ran, and in another instant the animal came to a sliding halt near the edge of the porch, the rider threw himself out of the saddle and ran forward.

At the first step taken by the man after he reached the porch edge, he was halted by Nyland’s sharp: 

“Hands up!”

And at the sound of the other’s voice the newcomer cried out in astonishment: 

“Ben Nyland!  What in hell are you doin’ here?”

“Lookin’ for Dale,” said the other, hoarsely.  “Thought you was him, an’ come pretty near borin’ you.  What saved you was a notion I had of wantin’ Dale to know what I was killin’ him for!  Pretty close, Deal!”

“Why do you want to kill him?”

“For what he done to Peggy—­damn him!  He sneaked into the house an’ hurt her head, draggin’ her to Okar—­to Maison’s.  I’ve killed Maison, an’ I’ll kill him!”

“He ain’t here, then—­Dale ain’t?” demanded Sanderson.

“They ain’t nobody here,” gruffly announced Nyland.  “They’ve been here, an’ gone.  Dale, most likely.  The house looks like a twister had struck it!”

Sanderson was inside before Nyland ceased speaking.  He found the lamp, lit it, and looked around the interior, noting the partially destroyed lounge and the other wrecked furniture, strewn around the rooms.  He went out again and met Nyland on the porch.

One look at Sanderson told Nyland what was in the latter’s mind, and he said: 

“He’s at the Bar D, most likely.  We’ll get him!”

“I ain’t takin’ no chance of missin’ him,” Sanderson shot back at Nyland as they mounted their horses; “you fan it to Okar an’ I’ll head for his shack!”

Nyland’s agreement to this plan was manifested by his actions.  He said nothing, but rode beside Sanderson for a mile or so, then he veered off and rode at an angle which would take him to the neck of the basin, while Sanderson, turning slightly northward, headed Streak for Dale’s ranch.