It spoke so surely of the facts that neither Card nor the rustler actually knew their danger.

Yet if they kept to the trail--and the last thing such men would do would be to leave it--they were both doomed.
This comrade of Card's whirled far around in his saddle, and he even shaded his eyes from the sun.

He, too, looked long.

Then, all at once, he faced ahead again and, bending lower in the saddle, began to fling his right arm up and down.

That flinging Venters knew to be the lashing of Bells.