It seemed strange that he should strike off in the opposite direction, so Billy closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and summoned up a picture of the country.
Five miles to the east the Morgan Hills rolled, sharply broken ups and downs of country--bad lands rather than real hills, and a difficult region to keep game in view.

That very idea gave Billy his clue.

Barry knew that he would be followed hard and fast, and he headed straight for the Morgan's to throw the posse off the final direction he intended to take in his flight.

In spite of the matchless speed of that black stallion of which the sheriff had learned so much, he would probably let the posse keep within easy view of him until he was deep within the bad-lands.

Then he would double, sharply around and strike out in the true direction of his flight.
Having reached this point in his deductions, Billy smote his hands together.