“Good old Walt! Dear old Ralph! Won’t they be glad to see me!” he mused as he rode along across the plains; “won’t I be glad to see them, too! Gracious, what a lot we shall have to talk about! I won’t blame them if they don’t believe half of it. I can hardly believe it myself sometimes, and that’s a fact.” Between San Mercedes and Go ’long the rough road led through one of those peculiarly desolate ranges of hills common in that part of our country. As Jack’s pony began to mount into the recesses of these gloomy, barren hills, the lad knew that he had come a dozen miles or so from the Go ’long hotel. The road wound along the bottom of the steep, sandy gullies, which were in some places streaked gorgeously with strata of various colors, red, blue and bright orange. Above burned a sky of brilliant blue. It would have made a splendid subject for the canvas of an impressionistic painter. Jack knew that somewhere within these hills he ought to meet the daily stage that ran between San Mercedes and Go ’long. At least, such had been the information given him before he set out from the latter place. He was quite anxious to see it, as on his lonely ride he had not encountered a human face. The solitary nature of the barren hills through which he was now riding depressed him, too, with a sense of remoteness and lonesomeness. As Jack rode he commented to himself on the rugged character of the scenery. The road, which would have hardly been dignified with the name of a trail in the east, crawled along the side of the bare hills, in some places overhanging gloomy canyons. “This must be a dangerous place to drive a stage,” thought Jack as he passed by a big rock and found himself traversing a bit of road which bordered the edge of a mountain spur, with a precipice on one side and a deep canyon on the other. In fact, had the lad known it, that particular bit of road was reputed to be about the worst even in that wild land. Should the horses make a misstep on the trail, instant death to every occupant of the coach must result. There were few drivers, even the most reckless, that cared to go at more than a snail’s pace over that stretch of road even with the quietest team. True, the passage had been made on one occasion at night, but that was for a wild and foolish bet and the authorities had put a stop to any more such practices. So that Jack was not far out when he mentally appraised that bit of road as being as dangerous and nasty a track to negotiate as he had ever seen; and Jack had seen a good deal of the wild southwest. The boy had passed the dangerous bit of road and was jogging along in a deep divide between two ranges, when he was startled by a sudden sound right ahead of him. It was unmistakably a shot. A rifle shot, too, the boy judged. He spurred forward rapidly, not knowing well just what to expect when he should round a curve in the road just ahead.