Waring turned in the saddle. Ahead lay the shadowy foothills of the mother range, vague masses in the starlight. Some thirty miles behind was the railroad and the trail north. There was no chance of picking up a fresh horse. The country was uninhabited. Alone, the gunman would have ridden swiftly to the hill country, where his trail would have been lost in the rocky ground of the ranges and where he would have had the advantage of an unobstructed outlook from the high trails. Ramon had said the rurales had entrained; were ahead of him to intercept him. But Waring, wise in his craft, knew that the man-hunters would search for tracks at every water-hole on the long northern trail. And if they found his tracks they would follow him to the hills. They were as keen on the trail as Yaquis and as relentless as wolves. Their horses, raw-hide tough, could stand a forced ride that would kill an ordinary horse. And Ramon's wiry little cayuse, though willing to go on until he dropped, could not last much longer. But to leave Ramon to the rurales was not in Waring's mind. "We'll keep on, amigo," he said, "and in a few hours we'll know whether it's to be a ride or a fight." "I shall pray," whispered Ramon. "For a fresh horse, then." "No, señor. That would be of no use. I shall pray that you may escape. As for me--" "We'll hit the glory trail together, muchacho. If you get bumped off, it's your own funeral. You should have stayed in Sonora." Ramon sighed. The señor was a strange man. Even now he hummed a song in the starlight. Was he, then, so unafraid of death that he could sing in the very shadow of its wings? "You've got a hunch that the rurales are on our trail," said Waring, as they rode on. "It is so, señor." "How do you know?" "I cannot say. But it is so. They have left the railroad and are following us." Waring smiled in the dark. "Dex, here, has been trying to tell me that for an hour." "And still the señor does not hasten!" "I am giving your cayuse a chance to make the grade. We'll ride an hour longer." Ramon bowed his head. The horses plodded on, working up the first gentle slope of the foothills. The brush loomed heavier. A hill star faded on the edge of the higher range. Ramon's lips moved and he crossed himself. Waring hummed a song. He was not unhappy. The tang of life was his again. Again he followed a trail down which the light feet of Romance ran swiftly. The past, with its red flare of life, its keen memories and dulled regrets, was swept away by the promise of dawn and the unknown. "A clean break and a hard fight," he murmured, as he reined up to rest his horse. Turning, he could distinguish Ramon, who fingered the crucifix at his throat. Waring's face grew grim. He felt suddenly accountable for the boy's life.