picked out—­distinct—­deliberate—­coming over the stones from the lake side—­leisurely, lazily, careful, soft footsteps with rests between—­The Ranger would not have been surprised to see the missing outlaw limp from the mist—­Then, the head of his own errant mule bobbed forward, and another roll of mist came up from the lake.  Wayland caught the trailing halter, headed the amazed little animal back down the goat track with an urgent kick and sprang after it to a clatter of rolling stones.  When the clamor sank, he heard the pound of hoofs as the outlaws galloped in the other direction.  Five paces farther, he found both the bronchos nosing consolingly round the mule.  Wayland emitted a deep breath of relief.  If he had waited five minutes longer at the raft, they would have had his horses.  It was all in the difference between being on the wrong and the right side of five minutes.

“Y’ don’t need t’ tell me we’re goin’ South an’ down—­We might be goin’ to the bottomless pit.  The wind’s like a furnace.”

“Off the Desert,” explained the Ranger.

The sun had risen high above the peaks.  The mists had receded to belts and wisps of cloud against the forests.  Waters tumbling wind-blown from the ledges were swelling to a chorus.  Little cross bills and jays that had come round the breakfast camp still followed the pack train.

“As this is off y’r National Forests, A suppose y’ couldn’t have jumped into the bunch an’ arrested every man-jack of ’em?”

“Not without being a target for five shots while they would have been targets for only one.”

“We’d have strung ’em up in the good old days, an’ sent for the sheriff to clean up the remnants.”

They had left the goat track and dipped down a shaggy green hollow between mountains that seemed to slope to lakes of pure light above a blue open plain.

“Any citizen can arrest a law breaker whereever found.  Our badge is supposed to increase that privilege; but the crime was committed just a stone’s throw off the grazing ground in the National Forests.  We’d have to turn our prisoners over to Sheriff Flood.  How long do you think he’d keep ’em in custody?  They’d escape while he was having an attack of ‘look-the-other-way—­’”

“Your idea to run ’em aground in their own State?”

“Not necessary to go so far.  Run them across this State line—­then catch them off guard in some of these canyons or arroyos.  Turn them over to a sheriff who doesn’t owe his bread and butter to Moyese.  He’ll have to hold them till Williams and MacDonald come down to testify.  By that time, I fancy we’ll hear from people who have been losing stock all the way up from Arizona.  Moyese will be keeping mighty quiet.”

“Meanwhile, Mr. White-vest, who planned all this deviltry—­he goes free!  These are only the poor rowdy tools for—­”

“For the Man Higher Up,” finished Wayland.