“Jackson,” yelled the man, stepping quickly down from the saddle.

There was gladness in the man’s tone. Did this man know him? Was it a man from his past? Or was it another enemy like the one he had just felled. Instinctively, his hand went to his holster and he drew the Colt revolver it contained. The man advanced, a troubled look suddenly on his face.

Jackson Gilbert moved forward.

Suddenly, the visions that had troubled him only in his sleep slipped into his mind. He was in the desert. A man with a bandaged head faced him with a drawn gun. The man had fired on him once, was going to kill him with the next shot. But this man was a friend, a man he had ridden with for years.

Jackson Gilbert could not take a chance.