From below came the faint clatter of hoofs. The rural seemed puzzled
that his call should have been answered so promptly. He knew that his
companions had gone for their horses, picketed some distance from the
pocket. He had volunteered to surprise the gunman single-handed.

Waring, gazing beyond the rural, saw the head of a horse top the rise.
In the saddle sat Ramon, hatless, his black hair flung back from his
forehead, a gun in his hand. Waring drew a deep breath. Would Ramon
bungle it by calling out, or would he have nerve enough to make an end
of it on the instant?

Although Waring was unarmed, the rural dared not turn. The gringo had
been known to slip out of as tight a place despite the threat of a gun
almost against his chest. With a despondent shrug, Waring lowered his
arms.

"You win the throw," he said hopelessly.

Still the Mexican dared not take his eyes from Waring. He would wait
until his companions appeared.

A few yards behind the rural, Ramon reined up. Slowly he lowered the
muzzle of his gun. The rural called the name of one of his fellows. The
answer came in a blunt crash, which rippled its harsh echoes across the
sounding hills. The rural flung up his arms and pitched forward, rolling
to Waring's feet. The gunman leaped up, and, snatching his carbine from
the rock, swung round and took his six-gun from the rural's limp
fingers. Plunging to the brush beyond the pocket, he swung to the saddle
and shot down the slope. Behind him he could hear Ramon's horse
scattering the loose rock of the hillside. A bullet struck ahead of him