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CHAPTER III -- INTO LOST VALLEY

It was one-twenty when Fraser slipped the iron bar from the

masonry into which it had been fixed and began to lower himself

from the window. The back of the jail faced on the bank of a

creek; and into the aspens, which ran along it at this point in a

little grove, the fugitive pushed his way. He descended to the

creek edge and crossed the mountain stream on bowlders which

filled its bed. From here he followed the trail for a hundred

yards that led up the little river. On the way he passed a boy

fishing and nodded a greeting to him.

"What time is it, mister?" the youngster asked.

A glance at his watch showed the Texan that it was

one-twenty-five.

"The fish have quit biting. Blame it all, I'm going home. Say,

mister, Jimmie Spence says they're going to lynch that fellow who

killed Billy Faulkner--going to hang him to-night, Jimmie says.

Do you reckon they will?"

"No, I reckon not."