"But this town is dangerous," protested McIvor. "We three ought to get together. I believe there's a reward--and a big one too--on the head of every one of us." "Come over here in the corner," beckoned Meshackatee, and they took seats at a table in the rear. "Now listen," he said, "we stay here all night. You're dead right--the damned burg is dangerous. These officers in town, the city marshal and such, have crept plumb under the house. It's Texas Day--or was. But here's the hell of it--I've got it straight enough they're jest waiting for one of us to leave. We're safe, here in town, but the minute we leave--well, I'm thinking about writing my will." "I can't understand it," said McIvor at last, "and yet, in a way, I can. Miz Zoolah came ahead and hired all these gunmen and then Isham broke cover and joined her. He's got a ranch out here somewhere----" "That's where Winchester is," whispered Meshackatee. "They don't know he's come down. He's out looking over the ground." "Just where is this ranch?" asked Hall after a pause, and when Meshackatee told him he fell silent. The night dragged on slowly and the games of chance closed, they watched and slept by turns; but as the morning drew near Hall rose up quietly and slipped out by the back way to the corral. In the box stall he found his horse and led him quickly to the street, then mounted and rode off through the darkness. Something told him to go back, to turn and ride for the hills, to seek out Allifair and never come back; but something else urged him on, something warned him to strike now, before his enemies could kill him by treachery. In the river-bottom silt his horse's feet were muffled, he threaded the ghostly roadways in silence; and at the fourth cross-road south he turned to the west, taking shelter beneath the blackness of tall cottonwoods. It was the darkness before the dawn when he sighted the place and knew it by the baying of hounds and, finding some waste land nearby covered with mesquite trees and high weeds, he took cover and waited for the light. But now that he was still his heart grew sick and he almost repented of his purpose. A little more patience, a few more days of grace, and Meshackatee or Winchester might kill Isham. But no, that was wrong, for even in one day Isham's gunmen might shoot down all three of them. The time to strike was now, before they had recovered from their surprise and had a chance to lay other plans; and the man to strike was Isham, the head and front of the gang, the man whose cunning and hate urged them on. Three times already Hall had set out to kill him and each time had been diverted from his purpose. This time he would die if he failed.