Neither was Brit the man to forget the brake on his load.

If Brit lived, he might talk as much as he pleased, but he could never prove that his accident had been deliberately staged with murderous intent.
Lone lifted his head and looked away across the empty miles of sageland to the quiet blue of the mountains beyond.

Peace--the peace of untroubled wilderness--brooded over the land.

Far in the distance, against the rim of rugged hills, was an irregular splotch of brown which was the headquarters of the Sawtooth.

Lone turned his wrist to the right, and John Doe, obeying the rein signal, left the trail and began picking his way stiff-legged down the steep slope of the ridge, heading directly toward the home ranch.
John Doe was streaked with sweat and his flanks were palpitating with fatigue when Lone rode up to the corral and dismounted.