"Strange it is hot so early," thought Wayland. Fir trees stood out from the shifting gray haze. Among them, did he see shadows moving? They might be deer coming down to water. Involuntarily, he stepped behind some alder brush off the trail. Another flutter of wind thinning the turbid mist. There was a whiff of camp smoke. Through the mist, he could make out figures not a hundred yards away--five horses ready for travel, four men clumsily lifting a fellow in cow-boy slicker into his saddle. The man fell forward over the pummel. The group seemed undecided what to do. Then, picked out--distinct--deliberate--coming over the stones from the lake side--leisurely, lazily, careful, soft footsteps with rests between--The Ranger would not have been surprised to see the missing outlaw limp from the mist--Then, the head of his own errant mule bobbed forward, and another roll of mist came up from the lake. Wayland caught the trailing halter, headed the amazed little animal back down the goat track with an urgent kick and sprang after it to a clatter of rolling stones. When the clamor sank, he heard the pound of hoofs as the outlaws galloped in the other direction. Five paces farther, he found both the bronchos nosing consolingly round the mule. Wayland emitted a deep breath of relief. If he had waited five minutes longer at the raft, they would have had his horses. It was all in the difference between being on the wrong and the right side of five minutes. "Y' don't need t' tell me we're goin' South an' down--We might be goin' to the bottomless pit. The wind's like a furnace." "Off the Desert," explained the Ranger. The sun had risen high above the peaks. The mists had receded to belts and wisps of cloud against the forests. Waters tumbling wind-blown from the ledges were swelling to a chorus. Little cross bills and jays that had come round the breakfast camp still followed the pack train. "As this is off y'r National Forests, A suppose y' couldn't have jumped into the bunch an' arrested every man-jack of 'em?" "Not without being a target for five shots while they would have been targets for only one." "We'd have strung 'em up in the good old days, an' sent for the sheriff to clean up the remnants." They had left the goat track and dipped down a shaggy green hollow between mountains that seemed to slope to lakes of pure light above a blue open plain. "Any citizen can arrest a law breaker whereever found. Our badge is supposed to increase that privilege; but the crime was committed just a stone's throw _off_ the grazing ground in the National Forests. We'd have to turn our prisoners over to Sheriff Flood. How long do you think he'd keep 'em in custody? They'd escape while he was having an attack of 'look-the-other-way--'" "Your idea to run 'em aground in their own State?"