CHAPTER I.
The stage line swung aside in a huge half-circle, rounding the northern end of the Comobabi Range and swinging far out to skirt the foothills.
Mr.Peter Johnson had never been to Silverbell: his own country lay far to the north, beyond the Gila.

But he knew that Silverbell was somewhere east of the Comobabi, not north; and confidently struck out to find a short cut through the hills.

From Silverbell a spur of railroad ran down to Redrock.

Mr.Johnson's thought was to entrain himself for Tucson.
The Midnight horse reached along in a brisk, swinging walk, an optimistic walk, good for four miles an hour.

He had held that gait since three o'clock in the morning, with an hour off for water and breakfast at Smith's Wells, the first stage station out from Cobre; it was now hot noon by a conscientious sun--thirty-six miles.