It was then that Nash drew his gun and shot down the piebald mustang.
The next instant he was racing straight up the river toward the ford.
The roan was not spared this day, for there were many chances that Bard might secure a fresh mount to speed him on the way to the Drew ranch, and now it was all important that the big grey man be warned; for there was a danger in that meeting, as Nash was beginning to feel.
By noon he reached the house and went straight to the owner, a desperate figure, spattered with mud to the eyes, a three days' growth of whiskers blackening his face, and that face gaunt with the long, hard riding.

He found the imperturbable Drew deep in a book in his office.

While he was drawing breath, the rancher examined him with a faint smile.
"I thought this would be the end of it," he announced.
"The devil and all hell plays on the side of Bard," answered the foreman.

"I had him safe--almost tied hand and foot.

He got away." "Got away ?" "Shot the rope in two." The other placed a book-mark, closed the volume, and looked up with the utmost serenity.
"Try again," he said quietly.