Nabours, his hand on Blancocito’s cheek strap, rode with face held down, his mouth grim. He sighed so deep it was well-nigh a groan, knowing that under his leadership two human lives had been lost, a third almost lost. Had that last consequence of his own folly ensued, what then? It had come so close he now had no perspective other than that it would have been the end of the world. And the draggled figure at his side, passive center of all the action, as woman is in all the great crises of the world, had no better perspective. The edge of the world lay at the south bank of the Red. Well, he had reached that horizon, passed once more beyond the edge of her world—that strange man. The other two men dropped to the rear as Nabours led Taisie’s horse out at the landing place. Del Williams had ridden silent. Dalhart began to abuse him. “That’ll do! The whole thing was your fault,” said Williams after a time. “You let your rope foul in that log. It’s a wonder you didn’t drownd her. If you say it was any part my fault, you’re a damned liar, and you know it! Even thataway she’d have drownded, and me, too, if it wasn’t for him.” He jerked his head toward the opposite shore. Neither man was armed, both were nearly naked. They wheeled their horses head to head and sat looking each into the other’s face. “The world ain’t big enough for both us two,” said Dalhart slowly. “It shore ain’t,” answered the other man in even tones. “What you say suits me. We’ve all promised Jim there wouldn’t none of us make no break until we had delivered the cows. Does that suit you?” “Yes, till Abilene!” “Till Abilene!” [Illustration: _A Paramount Picture._ _North of 36._ PREPARING TO DRIVE THE LONGHORNS ACROSS THE RIVER.] CHAPTER XXIII UNDER WHICH FLAG? THIRTY miles down the Red River, where it originally was crossed by the old Arbuckle Trail, early known as the Whisky Trail, Rudabaugh and his men lay encamped. They were and for some days had been impatiently a-waiting news from the south. Mr. Jameson, cattle inspector for the northern district of Texas, brought them news; but Mr. Jameson, for reasons of his own, preferred to preserve his dignity; so his news was highly censored, expurgated. He declared that his horse had thrown him into a cactus patch. Moreover, he declared that the Del Sol herd was already across the river and bound north; whereas the truth was that he only had guessed that the herd soon would cross, provided that the waters fell. He had not tarried. Rudabaugh was irritated. “You ought to have got two bits a head straight through for those cows,” said he. “They’re out of our jurisdiction now,” defended the thornful fugitive. “They ain’t never out of my jurisdiction!” rejoined the leader savagely. “I’ll follow that outfit till hell freezes. Where there ain’t no law is where Sim Rudabaugh’s jurisdiction runs.