Collins nodded. "We ain't got one chance in a hundred, Jim, but I
reckon we'll take that chance."

For three days they blundered around in the hills before they
gave it up. The first night, about dusk, the pursuers were
without knowing it so warm that one of the bandits lay with his
rifle on a rock rim not a stone's throw above them as they wound
through a little ravine. But Collins got no glimpse of the
robbers. At last he reluctantly gave the word to turn back.
Probably the men he wanted had already slipped down to the plains
and across to Mexico. If not, they might play hide and seek with
him a month in the recesses of these unknown mountains.

Next morning the sheriff struck a telephone wire, tapped it, got
Sabin on the line, told him of his failure and that he was
returning to Tucson. About the middle of the afternoon the
dispirited posse reached its sidetracked special.

A young man lay stretched full length on the loading board, with
a broad-brimmed felt hat over his eyes. He wore a gray flannel
shirt and corduroy trousers thrust into half-leg laced boots. At
the sound of voices he turned lazily on his side and watched the
members of the posse swing wearily from their saddles. An amiable
smile, not wholly free of friendly derision, lit his good-looking
face.

"Oh, you sheriff," he drawled.

Collins swung round, as if he had been pricked with a knife
point. He stared an instant before he let out a shout of welcome