Men flung themselves on horses and streamed away in pursuit, but all save Spur's gunmen soon gave up the chase. The grim-faced killers, however, heavily armed, followed that trail until far into the night. Days passed, and Bill McAllister's eyes were glued on the Hog Butte, but there came no signal from Allen. The bank representative completed his tally and returned to town. Dot knew that his report would be unfavorable. At last, the grim-faced killers gave up the chase, and came back to the ranch. They reported that they had followed the outlaw's trail as far as the Nations. Then, just as both Dot and McAllister had decided that Allen had given up in despair, they saw smoke rings slowly travel upward in the heavy, overcast sky high above Hog Butte. It had rained all day, and the old horse wrangler was wet and tired, but when he saw those signs he raised his voice in a joyful whoop and then broke into song. Just at dusk that night, Snoots Stevens and Flat-foot led two grays toward the trail to Boston Jack's that skirted the Hard Pan. When they reached the place where the trail skirted the Hard Pan country, Bill McAllister and three other Double R punchers joined them. "Yuh boys use your ears an' button your tongues, 'cause yuh're apt to run into a bunch of gents what not only outnumber yuh but can fight a hell of a lot better," Bill McAllister warned them. Just as night fell, it started to rain, a soft, steady drizzle. The men swore philsophically, turned up their coat collars, and rode steadily through the night. A little later, they were joined by three other men who were strangers to them all, except Bill McAllister. The old wrangler had a short whispered conversation with one of the three, a heavily bearded man, and the little troop plodded on again through the night. They rode silently, with no sound save the creaking of the leather and the occasional clank of a shod hoof against the flint rock. They traveled in single file, and the blackness of the night was so deep that each one could see only the blurred figure of the rider who preceded him. Somewhere a cougar called, and a little later a heavy crashing in the brush and the nervousness of the horses told them of the passing of a bear. "We're gettin' close. My ol' place is about a mile an' a half to the left," a whisper came from one of the men riding in the lead. "Gosh, that's Slivers Hart!" Flat-foot cried. "I'm sure gettin' curious about this party," Snoots whispered back. A short distance farther on, Jim Allen loomed out of the darkness and called to his brother, Jack. The two whispered together, and then all rode on again. When they were within three hundred yards of Boston Jack's place, they pulled up. "Yuh gents stay put, an' if yuh hear shootin' come a-runnin'," Jim Allen ordered them briefly. Then he and Jack, Toothpick, and Slivers dismounted and vanished in the darkness toward the ranch houses.