“Goes with the horse,” said Bart. “You’re not up to yourself or you’d recognize that it ain’t my outfit.” “All right. Let’s switch. Quick!” Carver ordered. “Duck up that coulee to the left and keep on the grass where it won’t leave any tracks,” he advised, when the change had been effected. “Push him hard and hold to the bottoms.” Carver veered off to the right. He had covered something over half a mile when the posse sighted him as he crossed a low ridge. For another three miles he maintained a lead, then rode out on to a high point of ground and halted his weary mount. The posse had fanned out over a half-mile front to guard against their quarry’s doubling back through the choppy breaks. One after another of the man-hunters sighted the solitary figure on the ridge and headed for the spot. Carver turned and regarded the first two that approached. They pulled their horses to a walk, allowing time for another pair of riders to draw in from the right. “Sit tight there,” one man called. “No queer stuff now!” “Where did all this delegation spring from?” Carver demanded. The sheriff reached the spot and assumed command. “You, Ben, get his gun,” he ordered and one of the four crowded his horse closer to Carver’s and reached to remove his gun from its holster. The sheriff reigned over a Kansas county and his jurisdiction did not extend to the Strip, a fact which had not deterred him from crossing the line with his posse when hot after his man. The men were regarding their catch with some doubt. “Was that buzzard wearing chaps?” one man asked of the others. Carver grinned and answered the query as if it had been directed at him. “I couldn’t say as to the style of his pants,” he returned. “But his headgear was black.” “It was for a fact,” one of the posse testified, eyeing Carver’s battered gray hat. “What’s all this?” the sheriff demanded. “What about a black hat?” He too was studying Carver’s apparel. “This fellow’s not dressed the same,” he admitted. “But the horse looks like the one he was up on.” “It’s the selfsame horse he was straddling,” said Carver. “He’s got a better one under him now.” “Did you trade?” the sheriff demanded. “No, he did,” said Carver. “Speak up! Get it out quick,” the officer ordered. “I was off prospecting around on foot,” Carver explained. “As I sauntered back I observed this crow-bait standing where my horse had been. I caught one brief glimpse of a black hat through the grass on a ridge and knew that the party under it was making off with my horse. I crawled this old wreck and took in behind him. Never did see him again--which isn’t surprising in view of the fact that he’s up in the middle of the best horse in three States. That was one good horse of mine. I’ll back him against any mount in these parts. That miscreant made a good trade. One time during round-up last summer that pony packed me seventy miles in one day and wasn’t even breathing hard.”