Saddled horses in front of a store gave Duane an idea, not by any means new, and one he had carried out successfully before. As he pulled in his heaving mount and leaped off, a couple of ranchers came out of the place, and one of them stepped to a clean-limbed, fiery bay. He was about to get into his saddle when he saw Duane, and then he halted, a foot in the stirrup. Duane strode forward, grasped the bridle of this man's horse. “Mine's done--but not killed,” he panted. “Trade with me.” “Wal, stranger, I'm shore always ready to trade,” drawled the man. “But ain't you a little swift?” Duane glanced back up the road. His pursuers were entering the village. “I'm Duane--Buck Duane,” he cried, menacingly. “Will you trade? Hurry!” The rancher, turning white, dropped his foot from the stirrup and fell back. “I reckon I'll trade,” he said. Bounding up, Duane dug spurs into the bay's flanks. The horse snorted in fright, plunged into a run. He was fresh, swift, half wild. Duane flashed by the remaining houses on the street out into the open. But the road ended at that village or else led out from some other quarter, for he had ridden straight into the fields and from them into rough desert. When he reached the cover of mesquite once more he looked back to find six horsemen within rifle-shot of him, and more coming behind them. His new horse had not had time to get warm before Duane reached a high sandy bluff below which lay the willow brakes. As far as he could see extended an immense flat strip of red-tinged willow. How welcome it was to his eye! He felt like a hunted wolf that, weary and lame, had reached his hole in the rocks. Zigzagging down the soft slope, he put the bay to the dense wall of leaf and branch. But the horse balked. There was little time to lose. Dismounting, he dragged the stubborn beast into the thicket. This was harder and slower work than Duane cared to risk. If he had not been rushed he might have had better success. So he had to abandon the horse--a circumstance that only such sore straits could have driven him to. Then he went slipping swiftly through the narrow aisles. He had not gotten under cover any too soon. For he heard his pursuers piling over the bluff, loud-voiced, confident, brutal. They crashed into the willows. “Hi, Sid! Heah's your hoss!” called one, evidently to the man Duane had forced into a trade. “Say, if you locoed gents'll hold up a little I'll tell you somethin',” replied a voice from the bluff. “Come on, Sid! We got him corralled,” said the first speaker. “Wal, mebbe, an' if you hev it's liable to be damn hot. THET FELLER WAS BUCK DUANE!” Absolute silence followed that statement. Presently it was broken by a rattling of loose gravel and then low voices. “He can't git across the river, I tell you,” came to Duane's ears. “He's corralled in the brake. I know thet hole.”