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 north from the crossing of the Salt Fork. Progress was vexatiously slow here; these twistings and wormings among the hills were eating up his chance.

Simpson had been on the way about two hours when he struck an impassable wash, wider and deeper than any he had encountered. It came down from a generally northwestern direction, and appeared to be miles in length, from what he could trace of its windings. The run-off of last night's rain rushed through in a flood; crossing would have been impossible, even if a break in the banks could have been found.

It was tough luck, for this creek, a dry hollow in rainless periods as the lack of water-nourished shrubs along its banks disclosed, turned him from his direct route. Probably an hour or two would be lost getting around it, or finding a fordable place, and in an hour somebody riding after him could cover the distance he had made since leaving camp. But there was nothing to be done except skirt the wash and push ahead as fast as possible. He had elbow room, anyhow; the sun was shining, luck was with him still.

So he reflected as he started up the gulch. It was pretty good going along there; he could put them through for a while. He had not gone half a mile when he got the first sight of his pursuers. It was only a glimpse, he could not tell how many were in the party, but he saw there were plenty to keep one man busy, let him have every advantage on his side, which Simpson feared would not be his case.

They were just dipping down a slope when he saw them; a flitting glimpse of them and they were hidden