“Come on, Dick.”

Ladd led the way down the slope until he reached a position that commanded the rising of the trail from a level.  It was the only place a man or horse could leave the valley for the pass.

“Dick, here’s your stand.  If any raider rides in range take a crack at him....Now I want the lend of your hoss.”

“Blanco Sol!” exclaimed Gale, more in amazement that Ladd should ask for the horse than in reluctance to lend him.

“Will you let me have him?” Ladd repeated, almost curtly.

“Certainly, Laddy.”

A smile momentarily chased the dark cold gloom that had set upon the ranger’s lean face.

“Shore I appreciate it, Dick.  I know how you care for that hoss.  I guess mebbe Charlie Ladd has loved a hoss!  An’ one not so good as Sol.  I was only tryin’ your nerve, Dick, askin’ you without tellin’ my plan.  Sol won’t get a scratch, you can gamble on that!  I’ll ride him down into the valley an’ pull the greasers out in the open.  They’ve got short-ranged carbines.  They can’t keep out of range of the .405, an’ I’ll be takin’ the dust of their lead.  Sabe, senor?”

“Laddy!  You’ll run Sol away from the raiders when they chase you?  Run him after them when they try to get away?”

“Shore.  I’ll run all the time.  They can’t gain on Sol, an’ he’ll run them down when I want.  Can you beat it?”

“No.  It’s great!...But suppose a raider comes out on Blanco Diablo?”

“I reckon that’s the one weak place in my plan.  I’m figgerin’ they’ll never think of that till it’s too late.  But if they do, well, Sol can outrun Diablo.  An’ I can always kill the white devil!”

Ladd’s strange hate of the horse showed in the passion of his last words, in his hardening jaw and grim set lips.

Gale’s hand went swiftly to the ranger’s shoulder.

“Laddy.  Don’t kill Diablo unless it’s to save your life.”

“All right.  But, by God, if I get a chance I’ll make Blanco Sol run him off his legs!”

He spoke no more and set about changing the length of Sol’s stirrups.  When he had them adjusted to suit he mounted and rode down the trail and out upon the level.  He rode leisurely as if merely going to water his horse.  The long black rifle lying across his saddle, however, was ominous.

Gale securely tied the other horse to a mesquite at hand, and took a position behind a low rock over which he could easily see and shoot when necessary.  He imagined Jim Lash in a similar position at the far end of the valley blocking the outlet.  Gale had grown accustomed to danger and the hard and fierce feelings peculiar to it.  But the coming drama was so peculiarly different in promise from all he had experienced, that he waited the moment of action with thrilling intensity.  In him stirred long, brooding wrath at these border raiders—­affection for Belding, and keen desire to avenge the outrages he had suffered—­warm admiration for the cold, implacable Ladd and his absolute fearlessness, and a curious throbbing interest in the old, much-discussed and never-decided argument as to whether Blanco Sol was fleeter, stronger horse than Blanco Diablo.  Gale felt that he was to see a race between these great rivals—­the kind of race that made men and horses terrible.