Above, a pale, hot sky with only a wisp of cloud; below, a semi-arid "pasture," scant in grass, seamed by tortuous gullies and studded with small, compact thickets and bulky bowlders. A wall of chaparral, appearing solid when viewed from a distance, fenced the pasture, and rising boldly from the southwest end of the clearing a towering mass of rock flung its rugged ramparts skyward. Nature had been in a sullen mood when this scene had been perpetrated and there was no need of men trying to heighten the gloomy aspect by killing each other. Yet they were trying and had been for a week, and they could have found no surroundings more in keeping with their occupation. Minute clouds of smoke spurted from the top of the wall and from the many points of vantage on the pasture to hang wavering for an instant before lazily dissipating in the hot, close air. In such a sombre setting men had elected to joke and curse and kill, perhaps to die; men hot with passion and blood-lust plied rifles with deliberate intent to kill. On one side there was fierce deep joy, an exultation in forcing the issue, much as if they had tugged vainly at a leash and suddenly found themselves free. They had been baited, tricked, robbed, and fired upon and now, their tormentors penned before them, there would be no cessation in their efforts to wipe out the indignities under which they had chafed for so long a time. On the other side, high up on a natural fortress which was considered impregnable, lay those who had brought this angry pack about them. There was no joy there, no glad eagerness to force the battle, no jokes nor laughter, but only a grim desperation, a tenacious holding to that which the others would try to take. On one side aggression; on the other, defence. Fighters all, they now were inspired by the merciless end always in their minds; they were trapped like rats and would fight while mind could lay a plan or move a muscle. Of the type which had out-roughed, out-fought for so long even the sturdy, rough men who had laid the foundation for an inland empire amid dangers superlative, they knew nothing of yielding; and to yield was to die. It was survivor against survivor in an even game. "Ah, God!" moaned a man on the mesa's lofty rim, staggering back aimlessly before he fell, never to rise again. His companions regarded him curiously, stolidly, without sympathy, as is often the case where death is constantly expected. Dal Gilbert turned back to his rifle and the problems before him. "So you've gone, too. An' I reckon we'll follow"--such was Chet Bates' obituary. In a thicket two hundred yards south of the mesa Red Connors worked the lever of his rifle, a frown on his face. "I got him, all right. Do you know who he is?" "No; but I've seen him in Eagle," replied Hopalong, lowering the glasses. "What's worrying me is water--my throat's drying awful." "You shouldn't 'a forgot it," chided Red. "Now we've got to go without it all day."