He would
investigate.
The fact that he saw no glimmer of fire as he now approached the
water-hole made him doubly cautious. Nearer, he crouched behind a bush.
He threw a pebble at the pony. She circled the picket, awakening Collie,
who spoke to her sleepily. Saunders crept back toward his horse. He
knew _that_ voice. He would track the young rider to the range and
beyond--to the gold. He rode back to town through the night, entered the
saloon, and beckoned to a belated lounger.
Shivering in the morning starlight, Collie arose and saddled the pony.
He rode in the general direction of the range. The blurred shadow of the
foothills seemed stationary. His horse was not moving forward--simply
walking a gigantic treadmill of black space that revolved beneath him.
The hills drew no nearer than did the constellations above them.
Suddenly the shadows of the hills pushed back. Almost instantly he faced
the quick rise of the range. Out of the silence came the slithering step
of some one walking in the sand. The darkness seemed to expand.
Overland Red stood before him, silent, alert, anxious. "You, Chico?" he
asked.
"Sure. Hello, Red."
"Anybody see you come across yesterday?"
"Not that I know of.
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