``Over this way! He ain't gone far!'' a harsh cry floated to him across the brush.

A carbine cracked more loudly, and a slug clipped fragments from the brush off at one side. The would-be assassin had his position figured pretty close. Dismounting, Russ looked about hastily. Toward the west this depression led toward a draw. Leading his pony, he hurried that way, not remounting till he was well below the level of the surrounding range.

Swinging up then, and bending forward over the horn, he urged his mount down the meandering draw. He had not covered a hundred yards before a gun crashed from somewhere behind. He had been sighted, and his attacker pumping shot after shot. A shot or two went wild before Cobb felt something tug at his foot. A slug had torn half of his stirrup guard away. A second twitched his shirtsleeve, and he felt a brief burn on his upper arm. Another snarled close overhead.

``Jumping Jerusalem! Let's get out of here!''

At the first shot Russ had hurled his mount to the left toward the side of the winding draw. The long minute before he reached effective cover seemed endless. Sweeping a look around, he saw that he was safe for the moment. He heard cries from behind him, but he could make out no words.

He dashed madly for the next elbow turn in the draw, and made it. Recklessly hurling the bronc sidewise into an intersecting draw, he plunged forward with undiminished speed. Gradually the wash climbed upward, forcing him toward open range. Yet he must chance it. He clambered out of the dwindling wash, the loose dirt flying behind him, and flashed a look about.