As the sun came up he crept to the edge of the wild land and searched the Scarborough ranch with his glasses; and already they were astir, loading some wheat sacks on a hay-wagon, rearranging them, making a trench down the middle. He lay watching them curiously, trying to divine their zealous interest in the loading of that grist for the mill; but when the horses were hitched up he was suddenly enlightened, for Isham climbed up on the load. It was a traveling fort, a barricade on wheels; and as he settled down and took the reins they handed him up his guns and opened the gate to the road. Men that Hall had not seen now appeared from their ambush, hurrying to catch up their mounts and follow; and while they were saddling Isham drove out the gate and turned his team towards town. Hall drew back from his lookout and ran to his horse, then hurried to a place by the road; but as the wagon came toward him he could see nothing but Isham's feet--he was concealed behind a wall of solid wheat. He hesitated, for there were loop-holes between the piled-up sacks and Isham would have him at his mercy; and yet, if he allowed this chance to slip by----. He crouched back, confused and distrait. But while he weighed the chances against him there was a stir across the road, a rush and a breaking of brush; and from the cover of the mesquite thicket a horseman burst out and went charging down on the wagon. Isham rose up to scramble back, but the horseman was upon him, he fired twice, never slackening his pace; and then, without a pause he reined back into the brush and went plunging away through the trees. Hall drew back trembling--it was Winchester Bassett, and who ever knew Winchester to miss? At the shooting the heavy farm-team shied and cramped the wheels, but now with reins dangling they went galloping up the road, spilling off grain-sacks in their terrified flight. There was a yell from the ranch-house, the patter of pursuing hoof-beats; and as the Texans dashed past, Hall ran for his horse and was lost in the thicket of mesquites. Isham Scarborough was dead and Winchester had killed him, but there was still the law to be reckoned with. There would be a search for the murderer, a hue-and-cry through the wastelands, perhaps later a marking down of tracks; and while Winchester had fired the shots it would go hard with Hall if he were caught near the scene of the crime. Winchester had counted his life as nothing, charging out like a whirlwind and winning by his very audacity; but now he would flee as swiftly as he had come, leaving nothing but his horse-tracks by the road. Hall spurred through the thickets and came out on a section-line, but as he was about to take flight he paused.