figure blending in with the bare, dull branches of the bush growth. The man was kneeling and his long rifle was bearing on the slope. As Papa Clair raised his rifle Lander came into view. The assassin steadied his gun, but Clair's was the only shot fired. Lander turned and stared down into the lowlands.
Clair raced to the silent figure, gave it one glance, and then tore up the rise to Lander.
"Hat of the devil!" panted the old man, seizing the mules and fairly dragging the surprised young man into the bushes.
"Are they coming?" gasped Lander.
"If not it is not because m'sieu has not invited them," groaned Papa. "You ride in the sunlight, in open places, where all the world can see you. At night you should carry a flaming torch in each hand and sing. Then you would throw the assassins off the trail. Messieurs, the murderers, must be puzzled to know where you are."
"I must be very green," Lander sheepishly confessed. "I didn't think I could be seen. Who fired the shot?"
"I, Etienne Clair. Dillings was stalking you as he would a blind bull."
"Of course you—" faltered Lander.
