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reward out for him dead or alive. Money has been known to turn friends."

"What's more," persisted Peppin, "he's got a sweetheart in Fort Sumner."

"What does the Kid care about sweethearts?" Garrett replied with scorn. "He's thinkin' of no sweethearts. He's figurin' right now on savin' his neck from the noose. I tell you he's ridin' hard for the Rio Grande. His only hope is Mexico."

"Well, you're bossin' the job," said Peppin, "and that settles the argument."

"One last word before we hit the trail, boys," added the sheriff. "The Kid's desperate. He ain't goin' to be taken alive. You can gamble on that. If we jump him, we've got to kill him. Don't take any chances. As soon as you sight him, start shootin'."

So westward out of Lincoln rode Sheriff Garrett and his posse, gaunt, hawk-eyed men, bronzed with weather, six-shooters jostling in scabbards, sun flashing on rifles, their hunting field New Mexico, their quarry a slender youth, five feet eight in his boots, hidden somewhere out in the vastness of deserts and mountains.

They followed the Kid's trail without knowing it to the point where he had turned off into Baca road toward Fort Sumner. As Garrett had thrown Fort Sumner out of his calculations they kept on west. Spreading out, they ransacked the mountain coverts around Fort Stanton where the Kid once had had a rendezvous. They passed out of the hills and scoured the Carrizozo plains and the desolate Mal Pais beyond. They beat across the ghastly, gleaming chaos of the White Sands. Far and wide over the sombre lava desert which an ancient crater spread