Sandy Kane, grim-lipped and white of face, dismounted behind the store. Beside him was Sue Landon.

“Miss Sue,” he said, “you get that buyin’ done fast. Don’t let none of that Vorys crowd see you. They’ve sure taken this town over since they shot the boss.”

“All right, Sandy.” She looked at him bravely, then squeezed the older man’s hand. “We’ll make it all right.” Her blue eyes darkened. “I wish I’d been a man, Sandy. Then the boys would come in and clean up this outfit!”

“Miss Sue,” he said gently, “don’t fret none. Our boys are just honest cowhands. We don’t have a gunfighter in the lot, nobody who could stand up to Kerr or Vorys. No man minds a scrap, but it would be plain suicide!”

The girl started to enter the store, then caught the cowboy’s hand.

“Sandy,” she said faintly, “look!”

A tall man with broad shoulders had swung down before the store. He tied his horse with a slip knot, and hitched his guns into place. Rock Cassady, his hard young face bleak and desperate, stared carefully along the street.

It was only three blocks long, this street. It was dusty and warm with the noon-day sun. The gray-fronted buildings looked upon the dusty canal that separated them, and a few saddled horses stamped lazily, flicking their tails at casual flies. It was like that other street, so long ago.

Casady pulled the flat brim of his black hat a little lower over his eyes. Inside he felt sick and faint. His mouth was dry. His tongue trembled when it touched his lips. Up the street a man saw him and got slowly to his feet, staring as if hypnotized. The man backed away, then dove into the Hackamore Saloon.

Rock Casady took a deep breath, drew his shoulders back, and started slowly down the walk. He seemed in a trance where only the sun was warm and the air was still. Voices murmured. He heard a gasp of astonishment, for these people remembered that he had whipped Pete Vorys, and they knew what he had come for.

He wore two guns now, having dug the other gun and belt from his saddlebags to join the one he had only worn in the mountains. A door slammed somewhere.

Ben Kerr stared at the face of the man in the door of the saloon.

“Ben, here comes that yellow-backed Casady! And he’s wearin’ a gun!”

“He is, is he?” Kerr tossed off his drink. “Fill that up, Jim! I’ll be right back. This will only take a minute!”

He stepped out into the street. “Come to get it this time?” he shouted tauntingly, “or are you runnin’ again?”

Rock Casady made no reply. His footsteps echoed hollowly on the board walk, and he strode slowly, finishing his walk at the intersecting alley, stepping into the dust, then up on the walk again.

Ben Kerr’s eyes narrowed slightly. Some sixth sense warned him that the man who faced him had subtly changed. He lifted his head a little, and stared, then he shrugged off the feeling and stepped out from the building.

“All right, Yella-Belly! If you want it!” His hand swept down in a flashing arc and his gun came up.

Rock Casady stared down the street at the face of Ben Kerr, and it was only the face of Kerr. In his ear was Jack’s voice: “Go ahead, kid! Have at it!”

Kerr’s gun roared and he felt the hot breath of it bite at his face. And then suddenly, Rock Casady laughed! Within him all was light and easy, and it was almost carelessly that he stepped forward. Suddenly the .44 began to roar and buck in his hand, leaping like a live thing within his grasp. Kerr’s gun flew high in the air, his knees buckled, and he fell forward on his face in the dust.

Rock Casady turned quickly toward the Hackamore. Pete Vorys stood in the door, shocked to stillness.

“All right, Pete! Do you want it or are you leavin’ town?”

Vorys stared from Kerr’s riddled body to the man holding the gun.

“Why, I’m leavin’ town!” Vorys said. “That’s my roan, right there. I’ll just . . .” As though stunned, he started to mount, and Rock’s voice arrested him.

“No, Pete. You walk. You hoof it. And start now!”

The bully of Three Lakes wet his lips and stared, then his eyes shifted to the body in the street.

“Sure, Rock,” he said, taking a step back. “I’ll hoof it.” Turning, stumbling a little, he started to walk. As he moved, his walk grew swifter and swifter as though something followed in his tracks.

Rock turned and looked up, and Sue Landon was standing on the boardwalk.

“Oh, Rock! You came back!”

“Don’t reckon I ever really left, Sue,” he said slowly.

“My heart’s been right here, all the time!”

She caught his arm, and the smile in her eyes and on her lips was bright. He looked down at her.

Then he said aloud, “Thanks, Jack!”

She looked up quickly. “What did you say?”

He grinned at her. “Sue,” he said, “did I ever tell you about my brother? He was one grand hombre! Someday, I’ll tell you.” They walked back toward the horses, her hand on his arm.

DUTCHMAN’S FLAT

The dust of Dutchman’s Flat had settled in a gray film upon their faces, and Neill could see the streaks made by the sweat on their cheeks and brows and knew his own must be the same. No man of them was smiling and they rode with their rifles in their hands, six grim and purposeful men upon the trail of a single rider.

They were men shaped and tempered to the harsh ways of a harsh land, strong in their sense of justice, ruthless in their demand for punishment, relentless in pursuit. From the desert they had carved their homes, and from the desert they drew their courage and their code, and the desert knows no mercy.

“Where’s he headin’, you reckon?”

“Home, mostly likely. He’ll need grub an’ a rifle. He’s been livin’ on the old Sorenson place.”

Kimmel spat. “He’s welcome to it. That place starved out four men I know of.” He stared at the hoof tracks ahead. “He’s got a good horse.”

“Big buckskin. Reckon we’ll catch him, Hardin?”

“Sure. Not this side of his place, though. There ain’t no short cuts we can take to head him off and he’s pointin’ for home straight as a horse can travel.”

“Ain’t tryin’ to cover his trail none.”

“No use tryin’.” Hardin squinted his eyes against the glare of the sun. “He knows we figure he’ll head for his ranch.”

“He’s no tenderfoot.” Kesney expressed the thought that had been dawning upon them all in the last two hours. “He knows how to save a horse, an’ he knows a trail.”

They rode on in near silence. Hardin scratched his unshaven jaw. The dust lifted from the hoofs of the horses as they weaved their way through the cat-claw and mesquite. It was a parched and sunbaked land, with only dancing heat waves and the blue distance of the mountains to draw them on. The trail they followed led straight as a man could ride across the country. Only at draws or nests of rocks did it swerve, where they noticed the rider always gave his horse the best of it.

No rider of the desert must see a man to know him, for it is enough to follow his trail. In these things are the ways of a man made plain, his kindness or cruelty, his ignorance or cunning, his strength and his weakness. There are indications that cannot escape a man who has followed trails, and in the two hours since they had ridden out of Freedom the six had already learned much of the man they followed. And they would learn more.

“What started it?”

The words sounded empty and alone in the vast stillness of the basin.

Hardin turned his head slightly so the words could drift back. It was the manner of a man who rides much in the wind or rain. He shifted the rifle to his left hand and wiped his sweaty right palm on his coarse pants leg.

“Some loose talk. He was in the Bon Ton buyin’ grub an’ such. Johnny said somethin’ at which he took offense and they had some words. Johnny was wearin’ a gun, but this Lock wasn’t, so he gets him a gun an’ goes over to the Longhorn.