Shortly after Delong had delivered his message to the sheriff, Delong imbibed a few drinks before starting back to the JB ranch with the coroner and several others, who were going out there to bring the body to town. He happened to be riding a half-broke bronco, and in the flurry at the hitchrack, as they were starting out, Delong’s horse bucked wickedly, throwing Delong against one of the hitchrack posts. In the parlance of the range, it knocked Delong flatter than a snake’s belly, and he was unable to get on his horse; so they half carried, half led him back to the saloon, where they left him propped up in a chair. * * * * * The sheriff did not hurry his horse. He swung in west of the JB ranch and headed for the lava bed country, making no attempt to pick up the tracks of Red’s horse. He knew that Red would cut straight through the lava beds and head for the Mesquite River country, sixty miles away; sixty miles of waterless waste, a broken mass of twisted lava, which seemed never to have cooled since those prehistoric days, when it had been poured indiscriminately over the landscape. The sheriff felt reasonably certain that Red Cowan had started without any preparations for food or water, and would probably expect, at least, to find water. But there was no water in that part of the country. And a man must ride slowly, because the sharp lava would soon ruin the feet of his horse, unless the animal was allowed to make its own pace. Mile after mile he plodded along, squinting his eyes against the glare of the sun, until he developed a queer sort of a headache; a dull throb in the back of his head, which caused him to wince at times. It bothered his eyes. He drank from his canteen, but the water did not seem to quench his thirst. His mouth felt dry a moment later; so he took another drink, which caused him a slight nausea. Must be the sun, he decided. Still, the idea did not seem so good, because he was used to the sun. It made him angry. After a while he filled and lighted his pipe, but after the first few puffs of the pungent weed, he put the pipe in his pocket. * * * * * Ahead of him stretched the interminable wastes of the lava beds, where the heat devils danced before his eyes, and he cursed them aloud, as though they could heed his voice. Then it seemed as though he realized the utter absurdity of such things, and cursed himself. The setting sun found the sheriff riding aimlessly. His eyes ached continuously now, and he had lost all desire to scan the country. But he was not going to turn back. He was following a murderer, a cold-blooded killer, and the law must be avenged.