"Come back!" shouted Charles Merchant. "Don't follow him. Come back! No guns. He's done no harm." Two men came around the corner of the house, dragging a limp figure between them. "Is this no harm?" they asked. "Look at Pete, and then talk." They lowered the tall, limp figure of the man in pajamas to the ground; his face was a crimson smear. "Is he dead?" asked Charles Merchant. "No move out of him," they answered. Other people, most of them on horseback, were pouring back to learn the meaning of the strange call from Charles Merchant. "I can't tell you what I mean," he was saying in explanation. "But you, dad, I'll be able to tell you. All I can say is that he mustn't be followed--unless Pete here--" The eyes of Pete opportunely opened. He looked hazily about him. "Is he gone?" asked Pete. "Yes." "Thank the Lord!" "Did you see him? What's he like?" "About seven feet tall. I saw him jump off the roof of the house. I was right under him. Tried to get my gun on him, but he came up like a wild cat and went straight at me. Had his fist in my face before I could get my finger on the trigger. And then the earth came up and slapped me in the face." "There he goes!" cried some one. The sky was now of a brightness not far from day, and, turning east, in the direction pointed out, Charles Merchant saw a horseman ride over a hilltop, a black form against the coloring horizon. He was moving leisurely, keeping his horse at the cattle pony's lope. Presently he dipped away out of sight. John Merchant dropped his hand on the shoulder of his son. "What is it?" he asked. "Heaven knows! Not I!" "Here are more people! What's this? A night of surprise parties?" Six riders came through the trees, rushing their horses, and John Merchant saw Bill Dozier's well-known, lanky form in the lead. He brought his horse from a dead run to a halt in the space of a single jump and a slide. The next moment he was demanding fresh mounts. "Can you give 'em to me, Merchant? But what's all this?" "You make your little talk," said Merchant, "and then I'll make mine." "I'm after Andy Lanning. He's left a gent more dead than alive back in Martindale, and I want him. Can you give me fresh horses for me and my boys, Merchant?" "But the man wasn't dead? He wasn't dead?" cried the voice of a girl. The group opened; Bill Dozier found himself facing a bright-haired girl wrapped to the throat in a long coat, with slippers on her feet. "Not dead and not alive," he answered. "Just betwixt and between." "Thank God!" whispered the girl. "Thank God!" There was only one man in the group who should not have heard that whispered phrase, and that man was Charles Merchant. He was standing at her side. CHAPTER 8 It took less than five minutes for the deputy sheriff to mount his men; he himself had the pick of the corral, a dusty roan, and, as he drew the cinch taut, he turned to find Charles Merchant at his side.