The lower rim of the sun was out of sight when they came to the Mexican’s horse, finished, lying at the edge of a pool of stagnant, coated water, choked in the hollows of a dry stream bed. The man-tracks stretched on toward a shadowy mass that proved to be the old hard-rock diggings of Red Ante, long since abandoned by any miners, Mexican or white. Letchie yanked up his horse’s head from the pool. ‘Our game’s ahead, men. Come on, we’ll get him and then come back to this pea-soup!’ Now, entering that deserted town, it was as if Bob Leadley had to see every detail. Not that he wanted to--but there seemed to be a pair of extra clear eyes, working back of his regular eyes, though he was partly out of his head from exhaustion. The abandoned street, between the huts of Red Ante, impressed him as something perpetual--moment and place. At the same time, a kind of insane anger was in his brain, because he had to hold up the weight of his horse’s head on the bridle-rein. The beast with dying strength, was fighting to get back to that scummy pool; and Bob, a heap in the saddle, was needing all his strength to keep from falling. At the same time, those deadly clear eyes of his took in the bone-white curve of Letchie Welton’s jaw, the big rent in Mort Cotton’s shirt under the left arm toward the back, the skin showing wet and blistered there--and all the rest in that falling dark: Huts partly sunken in blowing sand--wide-open door of a deserted blacksmith shop--familiar as a lithograph that had hung in his room for years--wide-open door, rusty anvil, sledge standing by--big rusty bear-trap in the center of the dirt floor, with its half-inch chain running to the base of the anvil--everything sagging and dust-covered. Now Bob was letting himself down out of the saddle--when Letchie’s pistol cracked, and his voice yelled: ‘There he goes. I winged him. I got the son of--’ A second pistol shot, as Letchie dug his spurs into his horse and pressed on the dark street. Bob Leadley and Mort Cotton staggered after him on foot, Bart keeping with them on his pony--to the last hut. ‘It’s Palto,’ they heard the boy say. The young Mexican was on the ground. The point dawning in Bob Leadley’s brain was that it would have been so much better, simpler, if one or both of Letchie’s shots had finished the job. Palto was down to pray--kneeling on the sand-blown, half-obliterated road. Welton jerked his horse so close, it looked as if he meant to trample the boy, before he stepped down. With his boot he shoved the figure over on its side. ‘So it was you who did the hammering on old man Batten’s skull--’ ‘Yo, no, señor!’ Not a man looking up, but the ashes of a boy--fag and fright all that was left. ‘Weren’t even there, were you? Home in bed all night. Just started out for a morning ride with Marguerin and Rueda--’ ‘Si, señor--was there, but no kill--’