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trot for some time when the faint report of a gun came down the wind to them. One of the cowmen swore and jerked in the saddle. “Comin’ from Cobb’s Ferry.”
    Jack listened closely, heard nothing, and nodded to the cowmen. “Let’s ride, boys. Wes an’ Bud are up ahead somewhere an’ I reckon that was either a signal or an ambush. In either case we’re needed.” He flicked his spurred heels lightly and his horse jumped out with an eager lunge. Like four avenging angels they swung down across the land, slit-eyed and braced against the slipstream of warm air that slid over and past them. Two more shots came back to them and almost by instinct their horses gave an extra spurt of speed that sent them careening faster over the tundra.

Chapter Four
    A single shot, thunderous and violent, ripped the quiet atmosphere to shreds. The riders reined to a sliding halt. Two of the older men ducked involuntarily; one of them swore heartily. “That there’s a rifle, boys. We better hit the dirt. Feller makes one helluva fine target up on top o’ a horse.”
    The others were dismounting as he spoke. Masters edged forward, leading his horse. He came out on the high side of the slope leading down to the ferry just as the rifles blasted again from a corner of the building and an answering shot came from the brushy lip about 100 yards from Jack. He turned and motioned to the others to leave their horses and come in. One of the cowmen yanked his carbine from the boot; the others followed suit as Jack palmed his .30-30 and gave his horse a gentle slap, heading it back away from danger.
    Death scored the first kill for the opposition. One of the cowmen was a little careless coming through the brush. The hidden rifleman rolled his rifle to bear on the dusty Stetson and squeezed off a shot that echoed and re-echoed over the deadly range, and one of the sheriff’s company threw up his hands and went over in a heap, to hang lifelessly across a thick, thorny bush.
    For a long time there was no firing. Jack and his two companions laid the dead man on the ground in a small clearing. If there had been a shred of mercy inthem before, it was gone in an instant. They crawled cautiously forward as Bud Prouty and Wes fired twice, almost in unison, and a large chunk of old adobe flew out of the edge of the old building. A furious fusillade drove the posse to earth. The Tollivers were cornered because they had returned for their kinsman, but, desperate or not, they were all joining in the fight with deadly intent. When Jack risked a shot, he was immediately answered by the well-protected renegades. Apparently each of the remaining three Tollivers was armed with a rifle.
    The posse men took advantage of a lull to creep down through the brush a little closer. Suddenly a concentrated fire erupted from the adobe. Jack sensed intuitively that the cornered men were fighting for time, hoping to hold off the attackers until nightfall would give them a chance to escape. Someone called out suddenly, and Jack turned his head. It was Wes Flourney and there was urgent desperation in his voice. Jack swore irritably and began the arduous crawl to his deputy. Emerging from the brush, torn and scratched, he and his companions saw Bud Prouty, bloody and unconscious, lying in a grotesque heap.
    “Jack! Bud’s got it bad. We gotta get him to Mendocino or he’ll die.”
    Jack crawled over in silence and looked at the puffy little bluish puncture in Bud’s upper body. He nodded gravely and turned to the two remaining posse men. “You boys take him in. It’ll take both of you to hold him steady in the waddle.”
    Wes frowned in protest. “That’ll only leave you an’ me, Jack.”
    The sheriff shrugged. “Can’t be helped, Wes. One man can’t hold him on a horse an’ it’s a damnedsight more important that he don’t die than that the Tollivers get caught. It’s a rough choice, but its gotta be that way.” He swung his head to the posse men. “Get goin’