Rawley had just finished packing the burro and had looped up the tie rope to send Pickles down the home trail, when some warning (a sound, perhaps, or a flicker of movement) caused him to look quickly behind him. He glimpsed a dark, heavy face behind a leveled gun barrel, broken teeth showing in an evil grin. Rawley threw himself to one side just as the gun belched full at him. Something jerked his left arm viciously, and a numb warmth stole into that side. He dropped forward, his right hand flinging back to his holstered automatic and drawing up convulsively with the gun in his hand. “Thanks for packing the stuff!” chortled Queo, and the two fired simultaneously. Both scored hits. The leering, black face sobered and slid slowly out of sight behind the rock. Rawley’s head dropped so that his face lay in the blistering dust of the trail. Through his hat crown a small, singed hole showed in front, a ragged tear opposite at the back. Pickles, scored on the leg with the second shot from Queo’s gun, kicked savagely with both feet and went careening down the trail toward home, his pack wabbling violently as he galloped. It was the sight of him trotting down the trail alone that halted Nevada midway between her rock dugout and the shack where Gladys was setting steaming dishes on the table for the three men who were “washing up” at the bench under the crude porch. Nevada gave a little cry and ran to meet Pickles, and the first thing she noticed was the fresh, red furrow on his leg, from which the blood was still dripping. Turning to call, she saw Peter coming close behind her, wiping his face and neck as he walked. “Oh, Uncle Peter--he’s been shot!” she cried tremulously. “It must be Queo again.” Peter’s eyes turned to the trail, visible for some distance up the side hill. There was no one in sight, and without a word he turned back to his own house, dug into the hill near Nevada’s, and presently returned, passing the girl with long strides. He carried his rifle and struck into the hill trail bareheaded. Nevada looked after him, her eyes wide and dark. An hour later, Peter returned, walking steadily down the trail with Rawley on his back. Without a word he passed the staring group at the shack and carried his burden into the room where Johnny Buffalo lay in uneasy slumber. A step sounded behind him, and he spoke without turning. “Have Jess and Gladys bring that spring cot out of my cabin, Nevada. They’ll be more contented in the same room. He got Queo--I found him behind a rock not fifty feet from this chap. Now Queo’s cousin will take up the feud and get this fellow--if he pulls out of this scrape.” “Is he badly hurt?” Nevada was holding her voice steady from sheer will power.