He was passing through a patch of woodland, from which a deep gully diverged to the right, when he heard the whinny of a horse.  Instantly he clapped his hand over the nostrils of his own mount to keep him from answering.  Then he slid to the ground, tied a rope around his horse’s jaws to keep him quiet and secured him to a tree.  On hands and knees he crept forward through the underbrush in the direction of the sound.  He reached the bank of the gully and peered over.

A little brook ran over the stones at the bottom of the gulch.  Stooping over it was a man with his back toward him.  A horse was picketed near by, contentedly munching the grass that grew thick and lush on the border of the stream.  The man’s right arm was bared to the elbow, and he was dashing water on a wound just above the wrist.  Then he tore a strip from his shirt and proceeded to bandage the arm as best he could, accompanying the action with groans and curses that told of the pain he was enduring.

Bert’s first thought was to steal down upon the man and at the point of his revolver demand his surrender.  He had the drop on him, and, quick as the ruffian had proved himself on the draw, he would be at too great a disadvantage to resist.  But, after all, what right had he to arrest the man?  As far as the shooting in the saloon was concerned, the dead man had started the fight, and the other had acted in self-defense.  The question of cheating was an open one that could probably never be determined.  It had not been a murder, but a duel, and the quicker hand and better shot had won.  There was no call for Bert to interfere.

As to the charge of cattle rustling, he had absolutely no proof to go upon.  He had the moral conviction that the man was mixed up in the affair, but not a scintilla of evidence that would stand for a moment in a court of law.  It would be high-handed and indefensible to make this man a prisoner, and take him on to the ranch for questioning by Melton.  He would simply stand on his rights and defy them to prove anything against him.  They would be forced to let him go, and, being henceforth on his guard, it would be doubly difficult to trap him and his gang.

No, the waiting game was the only one to play under the circumstances, and Bert replaced the revolver that he had half drawn from his belt.  But he had no intention of resuming his journey to the ranch.  Fate had brought him in contact with this man, when he had given up all expectation of finding him, and he was too good a sportsman to overlook any point in the game.  He would keep him in sight, hang on his flank, follow his trail wherever it led, in the hope of finding the rendezvous of the gang.  Then he would ride with whip and spur to the ranch, Melton would gather his men together, and they would swoop down on the outlaws’ camp and catch them red-handed with their booty.