With every sentence that the other spoke, O'Connor was judging Flatray,
appraising him for a fine specimen of a hard-bitten breed--a vigilant
frontiersman, competent to the finger tips. Yet he was conscious that, in
spite of the man's graceful ease and friendly smile, he did not like
Flatray. He would not ask for a better man beside him in a tight pinch;
but he could not deny that something sinister which breathed from his
sardonic, devil-may-care face.
"So that's how the land lies," the sheriff concluded. "My deputies have
got the pass to the south blocked; Lee is closing in through Elkhorn; and
Fox, with a strong posse, is combing the hills beyond Dead Man's Cache.
There's only one way out for him, and that is over Powderhorn Pass. Word
has just reached us that MacQueen is moving in that direction. He is
evidently figuring to slip out over the hills during the night. I've
arranged for us to be met at Barker's Tank by a couple of the boys, with
horses. We'll drop off the train quietly when it slows up to water, so
that none of his spies can get word of our movements to him. By hard
riding we'd ought to reach Powderhorn in time to head him off."
The ranger asked incisive questions, had the topography of the country
explained to him with much detail, and decided at last that Flatray was
right. If MacQueen were trying to slip out, they might trap him at the
pass; if not, by closing it they would put the cork in the bottle that
held him.
"We'll try it, seh. Y'u know this country better than I do, and I'll give
y'u a free hand. Unless there's a slip up in your calculations, you'd
ought to be right."
"Good enough, lieutenant. I'm betting on those plans myself," the other
answered promptly, and added, as he looked out into the night: "By that
notch in the hills, we'd ought to be close to the tank now. She's slowing
up. I reckon we can slip out to the vestibule, and get off at the far side
of the track without being noticed much."
This they found easy enough. Five minutes later number seven was steaming
away into the distant desert. Flatray gave a sharp, shrill whistle; and
from behind some sand dunes emerged two men and four horses.
"Anything new?" asked the sheriff as they came nearer.
"Not a thing, cap," answered one of them.
"Boys, shake hands with the famous Lieutenant O'Connor," said Flatray,
with a sneer hid by the darkness. "Lieutenant, let me make you acquainted
with Jeff Jackson and Buck Lane."