the farther wall at a steep angle. At the bottom of this U-drop of the trail a tuft of cottonwoods ripped from its moorings somewhere upstream by a spring flood had lodged beside the trail; the trees were eking out a starved life in half leaf. Behind the cottonwood clump Uncle Alf drove his horse and waited, one hand pinching hard on the beast's nostrils to shut off a possible neigh.
The range preacher had no weapon.
Perhaps ten minutes of waiting, then a black bulk showed against the lesser dark at the edge of the coulee. A rattle of stones as the night rider's mount bunched his hoofs for the slide down to the bottom of the coulee. Just as the horse struck bottom Uncle Alf dug his heels into his pony's flanks and sent him crashing straight for horse and rider.
"Murderer!" screamed Uncle Alf. The other fumbled with a saddle holster, but before he could draw his rifle a snakelike arm whipped about his throat just as his horse staggered under the impact of collision. He was dragged from his saddle and held dangling, feet above the ground, by the garroting arm.
The one attacked had blindly held to his
