"Well, Red, I reckon we better stop," Hopalong remarked at last, his glasses glued to his eyes. "No use letting them see us."

"Is that smoke up there?" asked Red.

"Yes; an' there's somebody moving around near th' edge."

"I see him now."

"I reckon we know all that's necessary," Hopalong remarked. "That trail is enough, anyhow. Now we've got to get back to th' ranch without letting them fellers see us."

"We can lead th' cayuses till we can get in that barranca back there," Red replied. "We won't stick up so prominent if we do that. After we make it we'll find it easy to keep from being seen if we've any caution."

Hopalong threw himself out of the saddle. "Dismount!" he cried. "That feller up there is coming towards this end. He's their lookout, I bet."

They remained hidden and quiet for an hour while the lookout gazed around the plain, both impatient and angry at the time he gave to his examination. When he turned and disappeared they waited for a few minutes to see if he was coming back, and satisfied that the way was clear, led their horses to the barranca and rode through it until far enough away to be safe from observation.

Darkness caught them before they had covered half of the distance between the mesa and the ranch, and there being no moon to light the way, they picketed their mounts, had supper, and rolling up in their blankets, spent the night on the open plain.

Chapter XXIV - Red's Discomfiture

*

On their return they separated and Red, coming to an arroyo, rode along its edge for a mile and then turned north. Ten minutes after he had changed his course he espied an indistinct black speck moving among a clump of cottonwoods over half a mile ahead of him, and as he swung his glasses on it a cloud of smoke spurted out. His horse reared, plunged, and then sank to earth where it kicked spasmodically and lay quiet. As the horse died Red, who had dismounted at the first tremor, threw himself down behind it and shoved his rifle across the body, swearing at the range, for at that distance his Winchester was useless. A small handful of sand flew into the air close beside him with a vicious spat, and the bullet hummed away into the brush as a small pebble struck him sharply on the cheek. A few seconds later he heard the faint, flat report.

"It's a clean thousand, an' more," he growled. "Wish I had Hopalong's gun. I'd make that feller jump!"

He looked around to see how close he was to cover and when he glanced again at the cottonwoods they seemed to be free of an enemy. Then a shot came from a point to the north of the trees and thudded into the carcass of the horse. Red suddenly gave way to his accumulated anger which now seethed at a white heat and, scrambling to his feet, ran to the brush behind him. When he gained it he plunged forward to top speed, leaping from cover to cover as he zig-zagged towards the man who had killed Ginger, and who had tried his best to kill him.