I don't like the prospects." That night the villagers whispered in the street--and night-riding rustlers muffled horses--and Tull was at work in secret--and out there in the sage hid a man who meant something terrible--Lassiter! Venters passed the black cottonwoods, and, entering the sage, climbed the gradual slope.

He kept his direction in line with a western star.
From time to time he stopped to listen and heard only the usual familiar bark of coyote and sweep of wind and rustle of sage.

Presently a low jumble of rocks loomed up darkly somewhat to his right, and, turning that way, he whistled softly.

Out of the rocks glided a dog that leaped and whined about him.

He climbed over rough, broken rock, picking his way carefully, and then went down.