He sent Purgatory ahead at a good pace, but he noted soon that Morgan was increasing the distance between them. He began to urge Purgatory forward, and gradually the distance between the two riders grew shorter. Both were traveling rapidly, however, and it seemed to Harlan that they had not gone more than three or four miles when--watching Morgan closely, he saw him ride pell-mell into some timber that--apparently--fringed the front of a cave. It was some time before Harlan reached the timber, and when he did he could not immediately discover the spot into which Morgan had ridden. When he did discover it he rode Purgatory through, and found himself in a narrow gorge. He raced Purgatory through the gorge, and out of it to the sloping side of a little basin. He saw a house near the center of the basin--and Morgan riding close to it. The distance to the house was not great--not more than a quarter of a mile, it seemed; and Harlan felt some wonder that Morgan--who had been quite a little in advance of him--had not reached the house sooner. That mystery was explained to him almost instantly, though, when he saw that Morgan's horse was walking, going forward with a pronounced limp. Evidently Morgan had met with an accident. Harlan was riding across the floor of the little basin, watching Morgan and wondering at the seeming absence of Deveny's men, when he saw a smoke streak issue from one of the windows of the house, saw Morgan reel in the saddle, and slide to the ground. But before Harlan could reach the spot where Morgan had fallen, the man staggered to his feet and was running toward the house, swaying as he went. Harlan heard a muffled report as he sent Purgatory scampering after Morgan. He saw Morgan reel again, and he knew someone in the house was using a rifle. There was another report as Morgan lurched through an open doorway of the house. Then Harlan knew Morgan was using his gun, for its roaring crash mingled with the whiplike crack of a rifle. The firing had ceased when Harlan slipped off Purgatory at the open door; and both his guns were out as he leaped over the threshold. He halted, though, standing rigid, his guns slowly swagging in his hands, their muzzles drooping. For on the floor of the room--flat on his back near a corner--was Haydon. He was dead--there was no doubt of that. Nor was there any doubt that the bullets Haydon had sent had finished Morgan. He was lying on his right side, his right arm under him, extended; the palm of the hand upward, the fingers limply holding the pistol he had used, some smoke curling lazily from the muzzle. Harlan knelt beside Morgan, examining him for signs of life. He got up a little later and stood for some time looking down at the man, thinking of Barbara. Twice had tragedy cast its sinister shadow over her. CHAPTER XXVIII CONVERGING TRAILS