make his arrest. If the outlaws were many, at least he could lie low near the camp and perhaps learn the plans of the gang. He worked his way forward more and more carefully. At one place he thought a shadowy figure slipped through the brush a short distance away. He poised his gun, but lowered it again after a moment's thought. It must have been a stir of shadows. No human being could move so swiftly or so noiselessly.
Nevertheless the sight gave him such a start that he proceeded with even greater caution. He was crouched close to the ground. Every inch of it he scanned carefully before he set down a foot, fearful of the cracking of a fallen twig. Like most men when they hunt, he began to feel that something followed him. He tried to argue the thought out of his brain, but it persisted, and grew stronger. Half a dozen times he whirled suddenly with his revolver poised. At last he heard a stamp which could come from nothing but the hoof of a horse. The sound dispelled his fears. In another moment he would be in sight of the camp.
"Do you figger you'll find it?" asked a quiet voice behind him.
He turned and looked into the steady muzzle of a Colt. Behind that revolver was a thin, handsome face with a lock of jet black hair falling over the forehead. Calder knew men, and now he felt a strange absence of any desire to attempt a gun-play.
"I was just taking a stroll through the willows," he said, with a mighty attempt at carelessness.
"Oh," said the other. "It appeared to me you was sort of huntin' for something. You was headed straight for my hoss."
Calder strove to find some way out. He could not. There was no waver in the hand that held that black gun. The brown eyes were decidedly discouraging to any attempt at a surprise. He felt helpless for the first time in his career.
"Go over to him, Bart," said the gentle voice of the stranger. "Stand fast!"
The last two words, directed to Calder, came with a metallic hardness, for the marshal started as a great black dog slipped from behind a tree and slunk towards him. This was the shadow which moved more swiftly and noiselessly than a human being.
"Keep back that damned wolf," he said desperately.
"He ain't goin' to hurt you," said the calm voice. "Jest toss your gun to the ground."
There was nothing else for it. Calder dropped his weapon with the butt towards Whistling Dan.
"Bring it here, Bart," said the latter.
The big animal lowered his head, still keeping his green eyes upon Calder, took up the revolver in his white fangs, and glided back to his master.
"Jest turn your back to me, an' keep your hands clear of your body," said Dan.
Calder obeyed, sweating with shame. He felt a hand pat his pockets lightly in search for a hidden weapon, and then, with his head slightly turned, he sensed the fact that Dan was dropping his revolver into its holster. He whirled and drove his clenched fist straight at Dan's face.
What happened then he would never forget to the end of his life. Calder's weapon still hung in Dan's right hand, but the latter made no effort to use it. He dropped the gun, and as Calder's right arm shot out, it was caught at the wrist, and jerked down with a force that jarred his whole body.
"Down, Bart!" shouted Dan. The great wolf checked in the midst of his leap and dropped, whining with eagerness, at Calder's feet. At the same time the marshal's left hand was seized and whipped across his body. He wrenched away with all his force. He might as well have struggled with steel manacles. He was helpless, staring into eyes which now glinted with a yellow light that sent a cold wave tingling through his blood.
The yellow gleam died; his hands were loosed; but he made no move to spring at Dan's throat. Chill horror had taken the place of his shame, and the wolf-dog still whined at his feet with lips grinned back from the long white teeth.
"Who in the name of God are you?" he gasped, and even as he spoke the truth came to him—the whistling—the panther-like speed of hand —"Whistling Dan Barry."
The other frowned.
"If you didn't know my name why were you trailin' me?"
"I wasn't after you," said Calder.
"You was crawlin' along like that jest for fun? Friend, I figger to know you. You been sent out by the tall man to lay for me."
"What tall man?" asked Calder, his wits groping.
"The one that swung the chair in Morgan's place," said Dan. "Now you're goin' to take me to your camp. I got something to say to him."
"By the Lord!" cried the marshal, "you're trailing Silent."
Dan watched him narrowly. It was hard to accuse those keen black eyes of deceit.
"I'm trailin' the man who sent you out after me," he asserted with a little less assurance.
Calder tore open the front of his shirt and pushed back one side of it. Pinned there next to his skin was his marshal's badge.
He said: "My name's Tex Calder."
It was a word to conjure with up and down the vast expanse of the mountain-desert. Dan smiled, and the change of expression made him seem ten years younger.
"Git down, Bart. Stand behind me!" The dog obeyed sullenly. "I've heard a pile of men talk about you, Tex Calder." Their hands and their eyes met. There was a mutual respect in the glances. "An' I'm a pile sorry for this."
He picked up the gun from the ground and extended it butt first to the marshal, who restored it slowly to the holster. It was the first time it had ever been forced from his grasp.
"Who was it you talked about a while ago?" asked Dan.
"Jim Silent."
Dan instinctively dropped his hand back to his revolver.
"The tall man?"
"The one you fought with in Morgan's place."
The unpleasant gleam returned to Dan's eyes.
"I thought there was only one reason why he should die, but now I see there's a heap of 'em."
Calder was all business.
"How long have you been here?" he asked.
"About a day."
"Have you seen anything of Silent here among the willows?"
"No."
"Do you think he's still here?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I dunno. I'll stay here till I find him among the trees or he breaks away into the open."
"How'll you know when he leaves the willows?"
Whistling Dan was puzzled.
"I dunno," he answered. "Somethin' will tell me when he gets far away from me—he an' his men."
"It's an inner sense, eh? Like the smell of the bloodhound?"
