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and he knew the cows were mounting the slope.
    The foremost bulged into view, blowing and snorting, and were followed by more and more. It was a good-sized herd, more than a hundred head, a heavy loss for some owner and a very lucrative haul for the rustlers. Slade moved a little farther to the front, peering through a final straggle of twigs and branches. He raised the rifle.
    The sensible thing would have been to open fire as soon as the wideloopers came into view, but he was a Texas Ranger and must give the murderous devils the chance they didn’t deserve, even at the risk of his own life.
    The last cow scrambled over the lip. Behind it streamed six horsemen. They bunched together for a moment to give the cattle a chance to catch their breath before lining them up in marching order. Slade’s voice rang out—
    “Elevate! You’re covered!”
    There was a chorus of startled exclamations, the whitish blur of faces turned toward the sound, then a clutching of weapons. Shots rang out, but Slade had instantly shifted position after speaking and none of the slugs came very close. His eyes, the cold gray of a stormy sky, glanced along the sights.
    The Winchester bucked against his shoulder,spouted flame. A man whirled from the saddle to lie motionless. Answering bullets stormed past, close, for he didn’t have time to complete his shift. One ripped his shirt sleeve and just grazed the skin of his arm. Another shredded his hatbrim. He shot again, and another saddle was emptied. A slug that barely touched his temple hurled him sideways with the shock, which may have been the best thing that could have happened, for the rustlers fired at the flash.
    A third time the heavy rifle boomed. A third man reeled and lurched sideways, clutching the saddle horn for support.
    A voice yelled an order. The rustlers, shouting curses, whirled their mounts and went charging down the slope to the valley floor, Slade speeding them on their way with lead until the magazine was empty. Swiftly he refilled it with fresh cartridges, listening intently the while against the chance that one might halt and come creeping back up the slope, hoping to catch him unawares. But his keen ears told him the four sets of hoofs kept pounding on after they thudded onto the gorge floor. Evidently the hellions had all of him they wanted.
    With caution he approached the two forms on the ground but quickly saw there was nothing to fear from them. By the aid of a match he examined the dead faces. One he had never seen before, but the other, big and bulky, with a still somewhat swollen jaw, was the leader of the trio that tried to gun him down in the lake-front saloon. Well, retribution had been swift for him.
    Turning out the wideloopers’ pockets revealed nothing of significance save a surprising large sum of money, which he replaced. He regretted that theirhorses had followed the others down the slope; the brands might possibly have told him something. It was unlikely, however.
    Next he turned his attention to the tired cows that had scattered and were grazing. What the devil to do with them? He did not care to sit up till daybreak with them and he did not consider it advisable to leave them where they were. Just a chance that the rustlers, after they had recovered somewhat from their fright, might sneak back for them. Not apt to happen, but such gentry sometimes did the unexpected. Abruptly he arrived at a solution.
    It was but a few miles farther west to Keith Norman’s ranchhouse. Why not drive the herd there, where they would be safe? The brands showed they were John Fletcher’s Diamond F stock. Norman would send a man to notify Fletcher and the Diamond F owner could retrieve them. Give him a chance, also, to pay Norman the visit he had promised, a bit ahead of time. With a chuckle he flipped the bit back into Shadow’s mouth and tightened the cinches. Then he rolled and lighted a cigarette, giving the purloined cattle a chance to rest a bit longer and fill