Waring drew his hand across his eyes, and, entering the saloon, asked for whiskey.  As in a dream, he saw men sitting in the back of the place.  They leaned on their elbows and talked.  He drank and called for more.  The loafers in the saloon glanced at each other.  Three men had just ridden through town and down into the desert, going over-light for such a journey.  And here was the fourth.  They glanced at Waring’s boots, his belt, his strong shoulders, and his dusty sombrero.  Whoever he was, he fitted his clothes.  But a man “going in” was a fool to take more than one drink.  The three men ahead had not stopped at the saloon.  One of them had filled a canteen at the tank near the edge of the town.  They had seemed in a great hurry for men of their kind.

Waring wiped his lips and turned.  His eyes had grown bright.  For an instant he glanced at the men, the brown walls spotted with “Police Gazette” pictures, the barred window at the rear of the room.  He drew out his gun, spun the cylinder, and dropped it back into the holster.

The stranger, whoever he was, seemed to be handy with that kind of tool.  Well, it was no affair of theirs.  The desert had taken care of such affairs in the past, and there was plenty of room for more.

From the saloon doorway they saw Waring ride to the edge of town, dismount, and walk out in the desert in a wide circle.  He returned to his horse, and, mounting, rode at right angles to the course the three riders had taken.

One of the men in the doorway spoke.  “Thought so,” he said with finality.

The others nodded.  It was not their affair.  The desert would take care of that.

About the middle of the afternoon, Waring rode down a sandy draw that deepened to an arroyo.  Near the mouth of the arroyo, where it broke off abruptly to the desert level, he reined up.  His horse stood with head lowered, his gaunt sides heaving.  Waring patted him.

“Not much longer, old boy,” he said affectionately.

With his last burst of strength, the big buckskin had circled the course taken by the three men, urged by Waring’s spur and voice.  They were heading in a direct line across the level just beyond the end of the arroyo where Waring was concealed.  He could not see them, but as usual he watched Dex’s ears.  The horse would be aware of their nearness without seeing them.  And Waring dared not risk the chance of discovery.  They must have learned that he was following them, for they had ridden hard these past few days.  Evidently they had been unwilling to chance a fight in any of the towns.  And, in fact, Waring had once been ahead of them, knowing that they would make for the desert.  But that night he had overslept, and they had passed him in the early hours of morning.

Slowly Dex raised his head and sniffed.  Waring patted him, afraid that he would nicker.  He had dismounted to tighten the cinches when he thought he heard voices in argument.  He mounted again.  The men must have ridden hard to have made such good time.  Again he heard voices.  The men were near the mouth of the arroyo.  Waring tossed his hat to the ground and dropped his gauntlets beside his hat.  Carefully he wiped his sweating hands on his bandanna.  Dex threw up his head.  His nostrils worked.  Waring spoke to him.