ing upon the mole on the chin of your rich aunt. I found, later on, that there is another unwritten rule, but I think that belongs solely to the West.
It yet lacked two hours to supper-time; but in twenty minutes Sam and I were plunging deep into the reheated beans, hot coffee, and cold beef.
“Nothing like a good meal before a long ride,” said Sam. “Eat hearty.”
I had a sudden suspicion.
“Why did you have two horses saddled?” I asked.
“One, two—one, two,” said Sam. “You can count, can’t you?”
His mathematics carried with it a momentary qualm and a lesson. The thought had not occurred to him that the thought could possibly occur to me not to ride at his side on that red road to revenge and justice. It was the higher calculus. I was booked for the trail. I began to eat more beans.
In an hour we set forth at a steady gallop eastward. Our horses were Kentucky-bred, strengthened by the mesquite grass of the west. Ben Tatum’s steeds may have been swifter, and he had a good lead; but if he had heard the punctual thuds of the hoofs of those trailers of ours, born in the heart of feudland, he might have felt that retribution was creeping up on the hoof-prints of his dapper nags.
I knew that Ben Tatum’s card to play was flight—flight until he came within the safer territory of his own henchmen and supporters. He knew that the man pur-
