CHAPTER V

So they followed the fence, searching in the dim light for the almost invisible gate—the girl who had that day appointed herself commanding officer and her three brave scouts.

Alongside the wire fence they followed a narrow cow-trail for nearly a quarter of a mile, then the path disappeared inside the field, and the side-hills along which they were obliged to travel were rough and dangerous. It was late, and darkness settled down around them, cutting from their vision everything but a small line of fence and the nearby hills.

They made slow headway over the rocky banks. Hope, tired with the day's exploring and hungry after her long ride and the somewhat slender diet of the past week, was sorry they had not gone the road, which, though longer, would not have taken such a length of time to travel. The boys were good scouts, yet it became evident that they had never followed the new line of fence before. Their horses slipped upon the sides of steep inclines which became more rocky and dangerous as they proceeded. Darkness increased rapidly. One horse in the rear fell down, but the rider was upon his feet in an instant; then they dismounted and led their horses, traveling along very slowly in Indian file. Some time later they found the wire gate, much to the girl's relief. It was then quite dark. The moon had risen, but showed itself fitfully behind black, stormy looking clouds. Without difficulty they discovered a trail leading somewhere, and followed it until they rounded a point from which they could see the light in the sheep-man's house.

"Why, we're almost up to his house!" exclaimed Hope. "This isn't the way. We don't want to go there!"

"I reckon we'll have to get pretty close up to it to find the road that goes to the other gate," said the soft-voiced twin.

"How foolish we've been," sighed the girl.

"Yep, a pack o' idiots," agreed Dave.

"But it's too dark for anyone to see us—or notice us," she said with relief. "I think we might go right up to the house and look through the windows without anyone seeing us."

"Let's do it," suggested Dave.

"Well I should say not!" exclaimed the girl. "It's the last thing on earth I would do—peek into anyone's window! I am not so curious to see the interior of his house—or anyone's else."

"I'll bet they're just eatin' supper," said Ned hungrily.

"All the better," replied Hope; "there will be no one around to see us then. I wonder how much closer we'll have to go?"

"Not much further," answered the soft-voiced twin wisely. "See, there's the barns, an' the road ain't a great ways off." He led the way, while Hope and the boy, Dave, followed close, and the youngest boy trailed along somewhere in the rear. They passed between the stables and the house, then, aided by the fitful moon, found the road, along which they made better time.

Hope felt a great relief as they began to leave the house in the distance, though why, she could scarcely have explained. She said to herself that she was in a hurry to reach home, but as they neared the huge, flat-roofed sheep-sheds she slowed up her horse, which had gone on ahead of the others, and glanced back at her approaching scouts. The twins came up with her, then she stopped and looked behind.

"Where's Ned?" she asked sharply, a sudden suspicion entering her head. "What's keeping him?"

"He went up to the house to see what's goin' on," replied Dave. "I saw him start for that way."

"How dared he do it! He will be seen and then what will they think! We will wait for him here." Then angrily to the boy: "If you knew he was going to do that Indian trick why didn't you stop him?"

"I didn't know nothin' till I missed him," replied the boy.

"No, we didn't know he was goin', but when we saw he was gone for sure it wouldn't 'a' done no good to 'a' gone after him. Anyway, we wouldn't 'a' left you alone!" The soft-voiced twin was a genius at finding explanations. He was never at a loss.

The girl recovered her temper instantly. "You did quite right, my brave scout," she cried. "I see you have learned the first and greatest principle of your vocation. Never desert a lady, no matter what danger she may be in. But what a temptation it must have been to you to follow him and bring him back to me!" There is no doubt but that the sarcasm was wasted upon the breed boys, who waited stolidly with her near some sheltering brush for the truant Ned, whose mischievousness had led him off the trail.

At last he rode up with them, surprised out of breath to find them there waiting for him. The girl took him by the sleeve. "You're a bad boy. Next time ask me when you have an inclination to do anything like that. Now give an account of yourself. What did you see?"

"I just wanted to see what they had to eat, so I peeked in," apologized the youngster. "There was two men eatin' their supper. The boss wasn't there. I heard old Morris tell another fellow that he was out helpin' put in the sheep."

"But here are the sheds, and surely there are no sheep here," she exclaimed anxiously.

"They're keepin' 'em in the open corrals down the road a piece," explained the soft-voiced twin. "They don't keep no sheep here in the sheds now."

The commanding officer breathed easier. "That's good; come on then," she said, riding ahead. They had not proceeded fifty yards when the low tones of men's voices reached them. Simultaneously they stopped their horses and listened, but nothing save an indistinct murmur could be heard. One of the twins slipped from his horse and handed the bridle reins to the girl, then crept forward. In the darkness she could not tell which one it was, nor did she care. She was filled with excitement and the longing for adventure which the time and place aggravated. Had they not that day formed a band of secrecy—she and her three brave scouts? It occurred to her that it might be the sheep-man returning with a herder, but if so he had no right to stand at such a distance and talk in guarded tones. The very atmosphere of the place felt suspicious. They drew their horses to one side of the roadway, waiting in absolute silence for the return of the scout. The voices reached them occasionally from the opposite side of a clump of brush not a stone's throw away.

They waited several minutes, which seemed interminable, then a dark form appeared and a voice whispered softly: "Somethin's up! Let's get the horses over by the fence so's they can't hear us." The twin led the way, taking a wide circuit about the spot from where the sound of voices came. They reached the fence quickly without noise, securing their horses behind a screen of scrubby willows.

"Now, go on," said the girl. "What did you hear?"

"When I crawled up close I saw two men. One of 'em said, 'Shut up. You're makin' too much noise! Do you want 'em to hear you up to the house?' The other said he didn't give a damn, that they might just as well make a good job of it an' kill off Livingston while they were getting rid of his sheep. These two fellers have just come over to guard the road from the house to keep the men there from interferin', but the mob's down there at the corral waitin' to do the work. I found that much out an' then I sneaked back. I reckon they're goin' to drive the sheep over the cut-bank."

"The devils!" cried Hope, under her breath. "They're going to pile up the sheep and kill him if he interferes, are they? We'll show them!"

"We can't do anything," said the boy. "There's more'n a dozen men out there at the corrals, an' it's darker'n pitch."

"So we'll just have to stand here and see that crime committed!" she burst out. "No, not on your life! You boys have got to stand by me. Surely you're just as brave as a girl? We're going over there where we can see what's going on, and the first man that tries to drive a sheep out of that corral gets one of these!" She patted the barrel of her rifle as she pulled it from its saddle case. "Get your guns and come along." But they were not far behind her in getting their weapons. The older boys had revolvers, and little Ned was armed with a Winchester repeating shotgun.

The twins were never seen without their guns, and had the reputation of sleeping with them at night. For wildness those two boys were the terror of the country. Their hearts sang a heathenish song of joy at this new adventure. Surely they were as brave as a girl! Her taunt rankled some. They would show her that they were not cowards! She had begun to worry already!

"Oh, what if it should be too late! What if we should be too late! Oh, it can't be! Let's go faster!" she cried.

The breed boys crept along close to the ground, making altogether much less noise than the girl, who seemed to think that speed and action were all that was necessary.

"Sh! Keep quieter. You musn't let them know anyone's 'round. Those fellers by the road 're just over there, an' they'll hear us," whispered Dan.

Then slower, more stealthily, they crept around the two men who guarded the road, and with less caution approached the corrals, the girl meanwhile recovering her composure to a great degree, though her heart still beat wildly. The night seemed a trifle lighter now to her straining eyes. What if the moon should come out, revealing them to the men waiting beyond the corrals? She grasped her rifle firmly, and her heart beat quicker at the thought. The soft-voiced twin must have felt the same fear, for he came close and whispered in her ear: "The corrals ain't more'n a rod, right over there. We'd better make a run for that bush there on this side of it, for the moon's comin' out—see!" He pointed upward. A rift had come in the black cloud from which the moon shone dimly, growing momentarily brighter. Before them the corral loomed up like a great flat patch of darkness, and to one side of this dark patch something taller stood in dim relief—a small clump of brush, toward which the odd little scouting party ran in all haste. Safe within its shelter, a fierce joy, savage in its intensity, filled the girl.

"Come on, Moon, come on in all your glory!" she whispered; then, as if in answer to her command, it came in full splendor from behind its veil of black. It might have been a signal. Back in the hills a coyote called weirdly to its mate, but before the last wailing note had died away a sharp report sounded on the still air, followed by the groans of a man in mortal agony. Hope, upon her knees in the brush, clasped her hands to her throat to stifle a cry.

"Now drive his damn'd sheep into the gulch!" commanded a gruff voice.

Following the pain, a fierce light came into the girl's eyes. Over tightly closed teeth her lips parted dryly. Instinctively the breed boys crept behind her, leaving her upon one knee before the heap of brush. A man leaped into the corral among the stupid sheep, and as he leaped a bullet passed through his hand.

"God, I'm killed!" he cried, as he sank limply out of sight among the sheep. For a few moments not a sound came except the occasional bleating of a lamb, then the gate of the corral, which was ajar, opened as by some invisible hand, and the great body of animals crowded slowly toward the entrance.

"They think there's only one man here, and they're not going to be bluffed by one," whispered Hope. "See, they must be coaxing the leaders with hay, and there's something going on back there that will make them stampede in a moment, and then the cut-bank! But we'll bluff them; make them think there's a whole regiment here. There's four of us. Now get your guns ready. Good; now when I start, all of you shoot at once as fast as you can load. Aim high in that direction. Shoot in the air, not anywhere else. Now do as I tell you. Now, all together!" For two or three minutes those four guns made music. The hills gathered up the noise and flung it back, making the air ring with a deafening sound. "Shoot up! Shoot higher, or you'll be hitting someone," she admonished, as dark forms began to rise from the ground beyond the corral and run away.

"They're crawling away like whipped dogs," exclaimed a twin in glee. "I'd like to shoot one for luck!"

"Shame on you," cried the girl softly. "That would be downright murder while they're running."

"I reckon there's been murder already to-night," said the soft-voiced twin. Hope turned upon him fiercely: "That wasn't murder! I shot him through the hand. Murder? Do you call it murder to kill one of those beasts? You mean—you mean that they killed him! I forgot for a minute! Oh, it couldn't be that they killed him—Mr. Livingston! Are you sure he wasn't up at the house, Ned? I must find out." She started toward the corral. Dave pulled her back roughly.

"See there! Those fellers that was on guard down there 're comin' back. They must have left their horses down by that rock. They'll ketch us sure!" She drew back into the brush again, waiting until the two men, whose voices first brought suspicion to their minds, had passed by, skirting the corral in diplomatic manner.

Hope, who had been so eager to search the scene of bloodshed, crept from the brush and took the opposite direction, followed closely by the breed boys. When they reached their horses she spoke:

"Now you boys go home. Go in from the back coulee and sneak into bed. Don't let anyone see you, whatever you do, for if this was ever found out——" She waited for their imaginations to finish the sentence.

"We can sneak in all right," exclaimed Dave. "We know how to do that! They'll never find it out in ten years!"

"Then go at once. Ride fast by the Spring coulee and get there ahead of the men—if there should be any that belong there. I will come later. If they ask, say that I'm in bed, or taking a walk, or anything that comes into your head. But you won't be questioned. You mustn't be! Now hurry up!"

"But why won't you come along with us?" asked Dave.

"Because if we should be caught together they would know who did the shooting. If they see you alone they will not suspect you, and if they see me alone they will never think of such a thing. It is the wisest way, besides I have other reasons. Now don't stand there all night talking to me, but go, unless you want to make trouble." She watched them until they were lost to sight, then mounted her horse and rode back over the road that she had come, straight up to the sheep-man's house.

CHAPTER VI

It was fully half a mile to Livingston's house. The trail showed plainly in the moonlight, winding in ghostly fashion through thick underbrush, and crossed in several places by a small mountain stream through which the horse plunged, splashing the girl plentifully. She had an impression that she ought to go back to the corral and discover just what mischief had been done, but shivered at the thought of hunting for dead men in the darkness. A feeling of weird uneasiness crept over her. She wished that she had brought the breed boys with her, though realizing that the proper thing had been done in sending them home in order that their secret might be safe, and so prevent more evil. She knew that she would find men at the house who could take lanterns and go to the scene of the trouble. The past half hour seemed remote and unreal, yet the picture of it passed through her brain again and again before she reached the house. She could hear the first shot, so startling and unexpected, and the man's terrible groans rang in her ears until she cried out as if to drive them from her. Was he dead? she wondered. Perhaps he lay there wounded and helpless! Was it Livingston? If it should be! She thought that she should be there, groping over the bloody ground for him. She shook as with a chill. How helpless she was, after all—a veritable coward, for she must go on to the house for assistance!

She slipped from her horse at some distance, and walked toward the ray of light that came from a side window. Her knees were weak, she felt faint and wearied. At the house her courage failed, she sank limply beside the window, and looked into the lighted room beyond. He was not there! One man was reading a newspaper while another sat on an end of the table playing a mouth harp.

In her mind she could see the body of Livingston in the corral, trampled upon and mangled by a multitude of frightened sheep. She stifled a cry of horror. Why had she not gone there at once? For no reason except the hope in her heart that it might not have been him who had been shot—that she might find him at the house. But he was not there! Then it must have been he; his groans she had heard—that still sounded in her ears. He had brown hair that waved softly from a brow broad and white. His face was boyish and sad in repose. She could see it now as she had seen it by the spring, and his eyes were gray and tender. She had noticed them this day. What was she doing there by the window? Perhaps after all he was not dead, but suffering terribly while she lingered!

She rose quickly with new courage. As she turned a hand touched her on the shoulder, and she fell back weak against the house.

"I beg your pardon! I did not know—could scarcely believe that it was you—Miss—Hathaway! Won't you come into the house?"

"You!" she cried as in a dream. "Where have you been?"

His tone, quiet, polite, hid the surprise that her question caused.

"I've been back there in the hills hunting chickens. You see I have been fortunate enough to get some. I followed them a great distance, and night overtook me up there so suddenly that I've had some difficulty in finding my way back. Now may I ask to what I owe the honor of this—visit?"

All fear and weakness had gone. She stood erect before him, her head thrown back from her shoulders, her position, as it must appear to him, driving all else from her mind.

"In other words, you want to know why I was peeking into your window at this time of the day!"

"Just so, if you put it that way. At least I should be pleased to know the nature of your visit." He threw the prairie chickens down beside the house, watching meanwhile the girl's erect figure. The soft, quiet grace he had seen at the spring had given place to something different—greater.

"Not a very dignified position in which to be caught—and I do not like you any better for having caught me so!" she finally flashed back at him. "I have no apologies to offer you, and wouldn't offer one, anyway—under the circumstances. I'll tell you what brought me here, though. While passing by your corral, down the road, I heard a great commotion, and some shooting, so I came over here to tell you. Perhaps I was afraid to pass the corral after that." She smiled wickedly, but he, innocently believing, exclaimed:

"Why were you alone? Where were the boys that I saw with you this morning? It isn't right that you should be out alone after night like this."

"They went on—ahead of me. I rode slowly," she replied hesitatingly. He did not notice her nervous manner of speech.

"They ought to have stayed with you," he declared. "You should never ride alone, particularly after dark. Don't do it again."

"But the shooting," she interrupted. "I came to tell you about it. Someone may have been hurt."

"It was kind of you to come. There may be trouble of some sort. I heard shooting, too, but thought it must be down at Harris'. There is very often a commotion down there, and sometimes the air carries sound very clearly. You are sure it was at the corrals?"

She became impatient. "Positively! I not only heard the shots plainly, but saw men ride away. Please lose no more time, but get your men and a lantern, and come on. There's evidently been trouble down there, Mr. Livingston, and your herder may have been hurt. They are not all good people in these mountains, by any means."

"Is that so? I had not discovered it. Probably some of them thought they would like mutton for their Sunday dinner. It seemed to me there was considerable firing, though. You are perfectly sure it was at the corrals?"

"That was my impression, Mr. Livingston," she replied briefly.

His face suddenly became anxious. "They may have hurt Fritz. If anything has happened to that boy there will be something to pay! But unless something occurred to delay the sheep they should have been put in before dark. I will go at once. Will you come in the house and stay until my return? It might not be safe for a lady down there."

"No!" Then, less fiercely: "Have your men bring their guns and hurry up! I'm going along with you;" adding: "It's on my way back."

She waited outside while Livingston informed his men, who secured rifles, and started at once for the corrals; then leading her horse she walked on ahead with him, followed closely by the two men, who carried lanterns, which they decided not to light until they reached the sheep.

Hope never could define her feelings when she found Livingston safe and unhurt, though she made a careless attempt at doing so that night, and afterwards. She walked beside him in absolute silence. They were going to see if the herder had been injured in any way. She knew that he was not only hurt, but in all likelihood fatally so. His groans rang continually in her ears, yet it brought her not the least pain, only a horror, such as she had experienced when it happened. It was a relief to her that it had not been Livingston. She felt sorry, naturally, that a man had been shot, but what did it matter to her—one man more or less? She had never known him.

When they reached the sheep-corrals the moon still shone brightly, and Hope was filled with a new fear lest some of the ruffians had remained behind, and would pick off Livingston. After the lanterns were lighted she felt still more nervous for his safety, and could not restrain her foolish concern until she had mounted her horse, and made a complete circuit of the corrals, riding into every patch of brush about; then only did this fear, which was such a stranger to her, depart. She rode in haste back to the corrals, satisfied that the men had all left, probably badly frightened.

To one side of the paneled enclosure the men held their lanterns over an inert figure stretched upon the ground. Livingston was kneeling beside it. The girl got down from her horse, and came near them.

"Is he dead?" she asked.

"Dead—yes! The poor boy! May God have mercy on the brute who committed this crime! It is terrible—terrible! Poor faithful Fritz! Scarcely more than a boy, yet possessing a man's courage and a man's heart!" He looked up at the girl's face, and was amazed at her indifference. Then he spoke to the men: "Go back and get a wagon and my saddle horse. I will stay here until you return. Leave one of the lanterns."

They hurried away, while the man continued to kneel by the side of the dead herder. Hope watched him, wondering at his depth of feeling. Finally she asked: "Was he some relative of yours?"

"No, only one of my herders—Fritz, a bright, good German boy. Why did you ask, Miss Hathaway?"

"I thought because you cared so much,—seemed to feel so badly,—that he must be very near to you."

"He is near to me," he replied, "only as all children of earth should be near to one another. Are you not also pained at this sight—this boy, in the very beginning of his manhood, lying here dead?"

"Not pained—I can't truthfully say that I am pained—or care much in that way. He is dead, so what is the use of caring or worrying about it. That cannot bring him back to life again. Of course I would rather he had lived—that this had never happened, yet I do not feel pain, only an abhorrence. I couldn't touch him as you are doing, not for anything!"

"And you are not pained! You, a woman with a white soul and a clean heart—one of God's choicest creations—you stand there without a pang of sorrow—dry-eyed. Haven't you a heart, girl?" He rose to his feet, holding up the lantern until it shone squarely in her face. "Look at him lying there! See the blood upon his clothes—the look on his face! What he suffered! See what he holds so tightly in his hand,—his last thought,—a letter from his sweetheart over in Germany, the girl he was to have married, who is even now on her way to him. He had been reading her letter all day. It came this morning, and he held it in his hand planning their future with a happy heart, when some brute sent a bullet here. If it could have been me, how gladly I would make the exchange, for I have nothing that this poor boy possessed—mother, sweetheart—no one. Yet you, a girl, can see him so, unmoved! Good God, what are you, stone? See his face, he did not die at once, and suffering, dying, still held that letter. If not his story, then does not his suffering appeal to you? His dying groans, can you not hear them?"

"Stop!" she cried, backing away from him until she leaned against her horse for support. "Stop! How dare you talk like that to me! His groans——" She sobbed wildly, her face buried in her saddle, which she clutched.

He came close beside her, touching her lightly, wondering. "I am so sorry, forgive me! I did not realize what I was doing. I did not wish to frighten you, believe me!"

The sobs were hushed instantly. She raised her head, and looked at him, still dry-eyed.

"You were right," she said. "I do not even now feel for him—perhaps some for the little girl now on her way to him; but it is all unreal. I have seen men dead like this before, and I could not feel anything but horror—no sorrow. I am as I am. It makes no difference what you say,—what anyone says,—I cannot change. I am not tender—only please do not terrify me again!"

"I was a brute!" he exclaimed, then left her and returned to the dead man's side.

The girl stood for some time quietly beside her horse, then began to loosen the cinch. Livingston watched her wonderingly as she drew out the blanket, and secured the saddle once more into place. He did not realize her motive until she stood beside him, holding in her hand the gayly colored saddle blanket. Kneeling opposite him, beside the body of the boy, she tenderly lifted the long hair from his forehead, spread over his face a white handkerchief, then stood up and unfolded the blanket, covering the rigid form with it.

"You have a heart!" exclaimed Livingston softly. "You are thinking of him tenderly, as a sister might, and of his sweetheart coming over the water to him!"

"No, not of that at all," said the girl simply, "nor of him, as you think; but of one who might be lying here in his place—one who has no sweetheart, near or far away, to cover him with the mantle of her love."

CHAPTER VII

She stood up, listening. From the distance came the low rumble of a wagon. The men were returning. For some time she kept her face from him, in attitude intent upon the distant rumble. She was thinking hard. She could not be rude to Livingston, she could not very well explain, yet she dared not allow him to accompany her back to Harris' ranch. What should she do? Naturally he would insist, yet how could she tell him that she feared for his safety? That would sound idiotic without a complete explanation, for she was almost a total stranger to him. She was concerned, that was the worst of it; but not without reason. To-night the men were in a fever of revenge. If he were seen that would settle it. To-morrow not one of them but would hesitate a long time before committing such a crime; so, she argued, she had a right to be concerned. But, after all, how foolish of her! Surely he was not a baby that he could not protect himself! Did she expect to worry about him during the whole summer? As she stood there gazing into the darkness, he watched her, speechless, something that was not sorrow piercing his heart with a greater pain. In her moment of tenderness she had become to him a woman divine. He not only loved her, and knew it, but felt the hopelessness of ever winning her. It was not exactly new, only revealed to him, for it had come upon him gradually since the evening that she had given him the water at the spring. He had cursed himself that night for thinking of an Indian girl, he, a man with a name to sustain—a name which counted little in this new country of the West. He tried to imagine her as married to Carter. The thought sickened him. Carter might be all right,—he had met him when he first came into the country; he undoubtedly was all right,—but married to this girl! As he thought, bitterly, forgetting even the dead young German at his feet, Hope was alternately calling herself a fool and wondering what she could do to prevent him from taking her home. But her fertile brain could not solve it. She turned toward him with manner constrained and frigid. It was shyness, nothing less, yet it affected him unpleasantly.

"The wagon is coming." Relief sounded in her tone, giving the lie to her moment of tenderness. "You can hear it quite plainly. These corrals should not be so far from the house. It must be nearly a mile. I suppose you've not been in the business very long or you wouldn't have put it here, on the edge of this cut-bank."

"You are right, Miss Hathaway, I have not been long in the business nor in your country. This is quite new to me. Any place seemed good enough for a corral, to my ignorant mind. Are you interested in the sheep industry?" He spoke pleasantly. She threw back her head as she always did when angered or excited.

"Interested in the sheep industry? Well, I should say not! It never occurred to me before as an industry, only as a nuisance. I hate sheep. They ruin our range. One band can eat off miles and miles in a season, and spoil all the water in the country. I would go miles out of my way to avoid a band of them."

He began slowly to comprehend. "Your people have cattle, I understand. Everyone up here seems to have cattle, too. I have heard that a strong feeling of antagonism existed between sheep and cattle owners, but thought nothing about it. I see that the feeling is not confined to the men only. Does that explain this—outrage here to-night?"

She shrugged her shoulders slightly and turned away.

"You can draw your own conclusions. Why do you ask me? I am neither a cattle-man nor a sheep-man, yet I could advise that you look about the place and see, if you can, what is meant by it all—what damage has been done. The wagon is still some distance away." Her shyness was fast disappearing. The ground she trod now was her own. He smiled down at her, finding her more natural, more prepossessing in that mood.

"I should have thought of that myself before this. After what you have told me of your dislike for the animals, I can hardly ask you to go with me, but I do not like to leave you here alone in the dark, for I must take the lantern; however, I can wait until the men get here."

"You don't need to wait at all," she said quickly. "I'll go with you, for I am curious to see what has been done—the cause of all this."

"Then come on," said the man briefly, turning toward the corral. She kept near him, her eyes following the bright rays of the lantern that swung in his hand. She feared that the boys had aimed too low, and was nervously anxious to see just what mischief had been done. Almost anything, she thought, would have been better than permitting those thousands of sheep to be piled up at the bottom of the cut-bank and the brutes of men to ride away satisfied with their dirty work.

Livingston examined the sheep while Hope, with a glance here and there about the enclosure, went to one side and looked at the panels carefully, discovering many bullet holes which told that her brave scouts, more bloodthirsty than she suspected, had aimed too low.

"I think this one is dead," said Livingston, dragging out a sheep from the midst of a number huddled in one corner. "Judging from the blood, I should say it is shot. A few are piled up over there from fright, but so many are sleeping that it will be impossible to determine the loss until morning. The loss is small; probably a hundred piled up and hurt, not more, from the looks of the band. I heard considerable firing, which lasted about a minute. I wonder if my friends about here thought they could kill off a band of sheep so easily."

Hope had not been searching for sheep, but for dead or wounded men, and finding none breathed easier. She thought of the man whose hand she had marked and who fell in such a panic among the sheep. It struck her as being a very funny incident, and laughed a little. Livingston heard the laugh and looked around in wonderment. He could see nothing amusing. This Western girl was totally different from any girl that he had known, English or American. She must possess a sense of humor out of all proportion with anything of his conception. He thought a few minutes before that he loved her, but she seemed far removed now—an absolute stranger. The boyish laugh annoyed him. His manner as he turned to her was quite as formally polite as ever her own had been. She resented it, naturally.

"Step outside, please, until I drive in the ones near the gate, so that I may close it."

Instinctively she obeyed, with a defiant look which was lost in the dimness of the night, and hurrying past him never stopped until she drew back with a shudder at the blanket-covered form of the dead herder. A deep roar of thunder startled her into a half-suppressed scream. In the lantern's light she had not noticed the steadily increasing darkness, or the flashes of lightning. She felt herself shaking with a nervous excitement which was half fear.

Thunderstorms often made her nervous, yet she would not have acknowledged that she feared them, or any other thing. But her nervousness was only the culmination of the night, every moment of which had been a strain upon her. Another peal of thunder followed the first, fairly weakening her. She ran to her horse and, mounting, rode up near the corral. At the same instant the wagon came up, and Livingston, having placed the panel in position, turned toward it. He was close beside the girl before he saw her, and she, for an instant at a loss, sat there speechless; but as he held up the lantern, looking at her by its light, she blurted out, in a tone that she had little intention of using: "I'm going. Hope you will get along all right. Good-night."

"Wait!" he exclaimed. "I will accompany you. My horse is here now. Just a moment——"

"You don't need to go with me. Someone is waiting for me down there. I think I hear a whistle."

"Then I will go along with you until you meet the person whose whistle you hear. You do not imagine that I will allow you to go alone?"

She leaned toward him impulsively, placing her hand down upon his shoulder.

"Listen," she said softly, "I heard no whistle. There is no one waiting for me. A moment ago it seemed easy to lie to you, to make you believe things that were not absolutely true, but I can't do it now, nor again—ever. You think I am heartless, a creature of stone—indifferent. It isn't so. My heart has held a little place for aching all these years. Think of me as half-witted,—idiotic,—but not that. Listen to me. You have such a heart—such tenderness—you are good and kind. You will understand me—or try to, and not be offended. I want to go home by myself. I must go back alone. There is a reason which I will tell you—sometime. I ask as a favor—as a friend to a friend, that you will stay behind."

"But are you not afraid?"

She interrupted him. "Afraid? Not I! Why, I was born here, and am a part of it, and it of me! Ask your men there, they know. I want to ride like the wind—alone—ahead of the storm, to get there soon. I am tired." Her low, quick speech bewildered him. Her words were too inconsistent, too hurried, to convey any real meaning.

"Will you ride with one of my men?" he asked.

"Oh, why can't you let me do as I wish!" she cried impatiently. "I want to go alone."

"It seems quite evident that you do not want my company, but one of the men must go and take a lantern. It's too dark to see the road." His tone was decisive.

She leaned toward him again. This time her words fell harshly.

"You are a man of your word?"

"I hope so; but that is not the issue just now."

"Then promise you will not go with me to-night."

"No need of that. I have decided to send one of my men—and I think," he added briefly, "that there is no necessity of prolonging this conversation. Good-evening."

"Then you will not come!" she exclaimed, relieved. "And never mind telling your man, for I shall ride like the wind, and will be halfway home before he can get on his horse." She turned like a flash. The quick beats of her horse's hoofs echoed back until the sound was lost in the distance.

Livingston stood silent, listening, until he could no longer hear the dull notes on the dry earth—his thoughts perturbed as the night.

CHAPTER VIII

"Don't know," answered the second, returning from the stove, where he had loaded his plate with a wonderful assortment of eatables and seated himself on a roll of bedding beside the first speaker. "Too bad he couldn't knock the roof off'n our heads. He's sure enough mad, just look at him!" he whispered, as Captain Bill Henry stooped his tall, lank frame to come into the tent.

The men, sitting about inside, glanced up when he entered. Some of them grinned, others went on with their supper, but the "Cap" from under his bushy red eyebrows hardly noticed them as he took the necessary dishes from the mess-box and strode over to the stove, around which old Evans, the cook, moved in great concern.

"Now just try some o' them beans. Regular Boston baked, Cap, they'll melt in your mouth. An' here's a kidney stew I've been savin' fer you," taking from the oven a well concealed stew-pan. "If any o' them boys 'ud a found it they'd made short work of it, I reckon."

He removed the cover and held the dish under Bill Henry's nose. The "Cap" gave one sniff. "Phew! Take it away! Don't like the damn'd stuff, nohow!"

A dazed look passed over old Evans' face, giving way to one of mortal injury. Not a man smiled, though several seemed about to collapse with a sudden spasm which they tried in vain to control. Away went the contents of the pan, leaving a streak of kidney-stew almost down to the horse ropes. "If it ain't good enough fer you, it ain't fer me," said the cook, his bald head thrown well back upon thin shoulders.

The "Cap" glared at him as he poured out a generous measure of strong coffee into a large tin cup, then ran his eye about the tent for a possible seat.

A quiet-looking fellow, a youth fresh from the East, got up, politely offering him the case of tomatoes upon which he had been sitting. Bill Henry refused it with a scowl, taking a seat upon the ground near the front of the tent, where he crossed his lank legs in front of him. The cow-puncher sank back upon his case of tomatoes while the "Cap" ate in great, hungry mouthfuls, soaking his bread in the sloppy beans and washing it down with frequent noisy sips of hot coffee. Finally he began to speak, with a full Missouri twang:

"This beats hell! Not a dang man around this part of the country wants to throw in with this here outfit. Never saw no such luck! Here we are with two months' steady work before we make town, an' only ten men to do the work o' fifteen! I'll hire no more devilish breeds. You can't trust 'em no more'n you can a rattler, no, sir! All of 'em quit last night, an' Long Bill along with 'em! I'd never thought it o' Bill. Been ridin' all the evenin' an' couldn't find hair or hide of him. It's enough to make a man swear a blue streak, yes, sir! Well, I rounded up one breed limpin' 'round Harris' shack, an' he said his gun went off by accident an' give him a scratch on the calf o' the leg. Bet ten dollars he's been in a fight over there! Damn'd nest o' drunken louts! I'll be glad when we're away from these here parts!"

At this point one of the cowboys got up, threw his dishes into the pan, and strode outside.

"You on night-herd to-night?" asked the Captain.

"Yep," answered the cow-puncher. "Going to relieve Jack."

"Tell them other fellers to come along in an' git their chuck; it's mighty nigh time to turn in now. Got to make Miller's crossing in the morning."

"All right," answered the man from outside. Then putting his head back into the tent, exclaimed in a loud whisper: "Here comes Long Bill!"

"The devil he is! It's about time," growled Bill Henry. He had no more than got the words out of his mouth before a man, head and shoulders above any cow-puncher there, stalked in.

"Well, Cap, I've come round to git paid off, fer I reckon I'm knocked out of the ring fer a little spell." He stooped and held down for inspection a hand bandaged in a much-stained bandanna handkerchief. "One o' them damn'd dogs o' Harris' run his teeth all the way through it," he explained.

The captain grunted, threw his well cleaned plate over into the dish pan, and rose stiffly to his feet. "What'd you do to the dog?" he asked.

"That was his last bite," roared out Long Bill. "I sent him flyin' into Kingdom Come!"

"Let's see your hand," demanded his chief; thereupon the tall cowboy hesitated an instant, then removed the bandage, and, with an air of bravado, held out his hand for inspection. Some of the men crowded about curiously, throwing careless jokes of condolement at the sufferer, while others passed by regardless.

Captain Bill Henry examined the wounded member carefully, then grunted again, while his eyelids contracted until only a sparkle of liquid blue showed beneath his bushy red brows.

"A mighty bad bite! You'll have a hell of a time with that hand! What were yo' tryin' to do, anyhow—makin' a mark out o' it? Was you holdin' your hand up, or down, or what? That dog must 'a' had a pretty good eye. Do you know what that looks like to me? Well, sir, it looks mighty like you'd held up your hand to the muzzle of your gun an' pulled the trigger! Yes, sir, only there ain't no powder marks; so I calculate the dog must 'a' been some distance away when he took aim! The hole's clean through, just as slick as any bullet could 'a' made it. That dog must 'a' had a powerful sharp tooth! Well, you ain't goin' to be able to handle a rope very soon, dog or no dog, that's plain as the nose on your face. You'd make a mighty good ornament to have around camp, but I reckon I'll pay you off." Later: "Know of any men I can git around here?"

"Nary one but them breeds over to Harris'," replied Long Bill. "They're drunker'n lords now, but they'll be wantin' a job in a day or so when they sober up, an' I'll send 'em 'round here. I'll be huntin' a job myself in about a month, when this here paw o' mine gits well. It's mighty painful."

"You'd better go to town an' see a doctor," drawled the "Cap." "An' while you're on your way stop at Hathaway's an' give him or Jim McCullen a letter fer me. I'll have it ready in a minute an' it'll save me sendin' a man over."

Without waiting for a reply from the tall cow-puncher, Captain Bill Henry stalked over to his bed, took from the roll a pad of paper, and was soon lost in the mysteries of letter-writing.

He was an awkwardly built man, but his whole appearance gave one the impression that he meant business—and he was crammed full of it. Seated astride his tarp-covered bed, with his back to the few straggling cow-punchers about the tents, he proceeded in a determined, business-like way to write the letter. Before he had finished the difficult operation some men rode up to the camp—the men who had been on herd, hungry for their supper, and two outsiders.

Around the mess-wagon, which had been backed into the cook-tent in the usual order, lounged a group of cowboys whose appetites had been satisfied and whose duties for the time being were over. Two of the men who had just come up on horseback joined these, while Captain Bill Henry, without looking around, continued his somewhat difficult task of composing a letter, which, when accomplished, he folded carefully.

"Hello! Where did you'ns drop from?" he drawled as he approached the newcomers. "I was just goin' to send word over to have your wagon join me at west fork o' Stony Creek. I'm too short o' men to work Stony Creek country, anyhow. Hathaway's reps all left me awhile back, an' Long Bill, he's leavin' to-day—got bit by a mad dog over here. Jackson's wagon an' the U Bar ain't goin' to join me till we git down in the Lonesome Prairie country, so I was just goin' to send a letter over to your place, for if he wants a good round-up on this range he'd better send over that extra wagon o' his'n. You'ns goin' right back?"

"I'm not," replied Carter. "But McCullen can take word over to the ranch. He's going the first thing in the morning."

"Cert. Got to go, anyway, an' I reckon my horse can pack your message to the boss if it ain't too heavy," said McCullen.

Old Jim McCullen had been Hathaway's right hand man as long as anyone could remember. He had put in many years as wagon-boss, and finally retired from active life to the quieter one at the home-ranch, where he drew the biggest pay of any man in Hathaway's employ, and practically managed all the details of the great cattle concern. He saw that the wagons were properly provisioned, manned, and started out in the spring, that the men who brought up the trail-herds were paid off; he attended to the haying, the small irrigating plant that had been started, and to all the innumerable details that go toward the smooth running of a large ranch. Now the "boss" had sent him on a mission whose import he understood perfectly—something altogether out of the line of his usual duties, but of greater importance than anything he had ever undertaken. He was going back to the ranch in the morning to tell Hathaway that his daughter was apparently all right. He and Carter had pitched their tent not far from where the round-up was camped, and had ridden over for some beef. One of the men cut them a liberal piece from a yearling that they had just butchered. Carter tied it upon the back of his saddle and rode off toward camp, while old Jim McCullen sat down, lighted a cigarette, and listened to the gossip of the round-up.

"Right smart lot o' dogs round them breeds down there," remarked Bill Henry, nodding his head toward Harris' ranch. "Long Bill, here, he's been unfortunate. Went up there a-courtin' one o' them pretty Harris girls last eyenin', an' blamed if she didn't go an' sick the dogs on him!"

McCullen sized up his bandaged hand. "Mighty bad-lookin' fist there," he chuckled. "Must 'a' bled some by the looks of that rag. When'd it happen?"

"This mornin', just as I was startin' to come over to camp."

"You don't tell!" condoled the visitor. "That's mighty bad after sitting up all-night with your best girl!"

"Long Bill's pretty intent after them breed girls," remarked Captain Bill Henry; thereupon the cowboy flushed angrily.

"No breed girls in mine! The new school-marm's more to my likin'," he boasted. "An' from the sweet looks she give me, I reckon I ain't goin' to have no trouble there!"

The next instant Long Bill lay sprawling in the dust, while old Jim McCullen rained blow after blow upon him. When he finished, Long Bill remained motionless, the blood streaming from his nose and mouth. Old Jim straightened up and looked down at the fallen giant with utmost contempt, then he pulled his disarranged cartridge belt into shape and glanced at his hands. They were covered with the cowboy's blood.

"Reckon I'd better wash up a bit," he remarked easily, and went into the cook-tent.

The men lounged about, apparently indifferent to the scene which was being enacted. It might have been an every day occurrence, so little interest they showed, yet several stalwart fellows gave old Jim McCullen an admiring glance as he passed them.

On the crest of a near divide stood a group of squaws. After a short conference they proceeded slowly, shyly toward the round-up camp. Some distance from it they grouped together again and waited while a very old woman wrapped in a dingy white blanket came boldly up to the group of men, and in a jargon of French and Indian asked for the refuse of the newly killed yearling. The foreman pointed to where it lay, and gruffly told her to go and get it, but she spied the unconscious figure of Long Bill stretched out upon the grassy flat, and with a low cry of woe flung herself down beside him.

"Who done this?" she cried in very plain English, facing the cowboys with a look of blackest anger. No answer came.

"Better tell her," suggested a cow-puncher who was unrolling his bed. "She's a witch, you know."

"If she's a witch she don't need no telling," replied another, at which they all laughed.

"A witch?" said one. "I sure thought witches were all burned up!"

The old squaw was examining the fallen man, who began to show signs of consciousness. She bristled like a dog at the cowboy's remark.

"I see beyond! I know the future, the past, everything!" she cried impressively. "I read your thoughts! Say what you like, you dogs, but not one o' you would like me to tell what I read in your lives. I know! I know! I know everything!" Her voice reached a high, weird cry. Her blanket had slipped down, leaving her hair in wisps about her mummified face. To all appearances she might have been a genuine witch as she groveled over Long Bill.

"Ask her how she tells fortunes—cards or tea-leaves," said one.

"Or by the palm of your hand or the stars above," suggested another.

"Wonder where she keeps her broomstick," mused a third.

Just then McCullen came out of the cook-tent and faced the spectacle.

"I see he's found a nurse," he remarked, and walked over to his horse.

The old woman stood and gesticulated wildly, throwing mad, incoherent words at him. Finally her jargon changed into fair English.

"You dog, you did this! And why? Ah, ha, ha! I know! I know all things! Because of the white girl! So! Ha, ha! Must you alone love the white girl so that no man can speak her name? Oh, you can't deny you love her! You, who ride and hunt with her for fifteen years. Cannot another man open his mouth but that you must fly at him? Ha, ha! I know!"

"I'll wring your neck, you old——!" said McCullen at his horse's head.

"You will stop my tongue, will you! I'll show you! You are up here to watch that girl—but where's your eyes? What are you doing? This is my son-in-law, and you'd like to wipe him from the face of the earth! You beat him in the face—him with one hand! See! How did he get it? Why are some of my other son-in-laws limping about with bullets in their legs? Why is a man lying dead up in the mountains? Why all this at once? Ask that white girl who teaches little children to be good! Ask that devil's child who can put a bullet straight as her eye! Ask her! She would destroy my people. Curse her soul, I say!"

Suddenly the witch-like spirit in her seemed to shrivel into the blanket which she wrapped about her, then with placid, expressionless face she made her way to where the yearling had been butchered and hurriedly stuffed the refuse into a gunny sack which she dragged to where the other squaws were waiting, then they all made off.

Long Bill sat up and looked about him. "Curse who?" he asked. "Curse me, I reckon fer not knowin' enough to keep my mouth shut!"

McCullen, with face and lips pallid, had mounted his horse. Long Bill pulled himself together and walked over toward him.

"I'll take that back," he said. "I didn't mean it, nohow."

"I reckon I was over-hasty," McCullen replied. "But that was our little girl you were talkin' about—little Hope; an' no man on earth, let alone a common squaw-man, ain't goin' to even breathe her name disrespectfully. She's like my own child. I've almost brought her up. Learned her little baby fingers to shoot, an' had her on a horse before she could talk plain. Don't let her find this out, for I'm plumb sorry I had to hurt you; but the man who says more than you did dies!" He rode away and soon was lost in the deep falling shadows. The men in the cow-camp unrolled their bedding, and all was soon one with the stillness of the night.

CHAPTER IX

All the small ranchers and disreputable stragglers about that immediate vicinity were of one opinion in regard to the new sheep-man. This particular section of the country promised to be soon over-crowded with cattle and horses. There was no room in their mountains for sheep. Livingston, the interloper, must vacate. That was the unanimous decision of the whole Harris faction. This gang was a mixture of badness, a scum of the roughest element from the face of the globe, which in new countries invariably drifts close upon the heels of the first settlers. It is the herald of civilization, but fortunately goes on before its advance to other fields or is deeply buried in its midst. The breeds, pliable to the strong will of Joe Harris, were not an unimportant factor, and among these, old Mother White Blanket was the ruling spirit.

She lived in a tepee not a rod to the left of Harris' squalid log buildings. Her daughter was the cattle-man's wife, therefore the old woman had particular rights about the premises, a mother-in-law's rights, more honored and considered among Indians than among civilized whites.

Her tepee was the usual Indian affair, its conical, pointed top, dingy with the smoke of many camp-fires. Back of the old woman's tepee, at various distances, stood a few ordinary wall tents. These were occupied by the families of some breeds who were working for Harris. The whole, heightened by numerous dogs and the old squaw stooping over her fire, presented the appearance of a small Indian camp, such as may be seen about any reservation. The old woman's rattle-trap cart stood beside her lodge, for she had her periods of wandering, after the manner of her race. The running gears of a couple of dilapidated wagons were drawn up between the other tents, and not far away two closely hobbled horses, unmistakably Indian, for horses resemble their human associates, fed eagerly upon the short, new grass.

At an early hour, when the rising sun cast rosy lights upon every grass-covered mountain top, when bird notes from the distant brush sounded the most melodious, when the chanticleer in the barnyard became loudest in his crowing, when the dew of night began to steam upward in its vitality-giving stream, when the pigs with a grunt rose lazily upon their fore-legs, and old Mother White Blanket bent over the smoke of her newly built camp-fire, the girl school-teacher came out of her room and leaned against the smooth rain-washed logs of the building. She drew in with every deep breath new vitality to add to her plentiful fund of it, she saw the rosy glow upon the mountains, listened in awe and rapture to the bird notes from the brush, and finally brought herself back to more material things; to old Mother White Blanket and the Indian scene spread out before her.

The old woman was bending over the fire apparently unconscious of the girl's presence. From the school children Hope had learned something of the wonderful perceptive powers of Mother White Blanket. They had innumerable stories of witchcraft to tell, as various as they were astonishing, and, while crediting nothing, she felt a quickened interest in the old squaw. But she had so far no opportunity to cultivate her acquaintance. Generally the spaces between the tents were filled with groups of breeds, and these she had no inclination to approach. Now, quiet pervaded the place. No one except the old woman and herself were about. She knew full well that the squaw had seen her, but on an impulse walked over beside the tepee, spreading out her hands to the warmth of the fire.

"Good-morning!" she exclaimed. Mother White Blanket made no reply, and turning her back proceeded to fill a large black kettle with water.

"Good-morning!" repeated Hope in French, to which greeting the old woman grunted, while she placed the kettle over the fire.

"I beg your pardon," continued Hope. "I forgot for the moment you were French."

At this old White Blanket stood up, anger bristling all over her.

"What you come here for? You stand there and make fun. You think I don't know you make fun at me? Go away, girl, or you be sorry! You call me French and laugh to yourself. Go away, I say!"

"No," said the girl, "I shall not go away until it pleases me. I have heard that you are a great woman, a witch, and I want to find out if it is true." She had not one particle of belief in the old woman's generally credited supernatural powers, but she thought she must possess sharp wit to so deceive the people and was curious to know more about her. This she was destined to do.

"I have heard," she continued, "that you can bring the wild deer to your side by calling to them, that a horse or cow will lie down and die when you command, and that little children who annoy you are taken with severe pains in their stomachs. I have heard that you can say 'go' to any of your men or women and they go; that if anyone is sick you can lay your hand on them and they are well, and that you can tell the future and the past of anyone. If all these things are true you must be a very great, remarkable woman. Is it true that you can do all these things?" She waited a moment and, as the old woman offered no reply, went on: "Whether you can do these things or not, you still remain, in my eyes, a remarkable woman in possessing the ability to make people believe that you can."

"You shall believe them too, you!" said the woman, suddenly rising and confronting the girl.

As she spoke two yellow fangs of teeth protruded from her thin lips, and on her face was the snarl of a dog. She drew up her mummified face within two inches of the girl's own. Hope shuddered and involuntarily moved backward toward the house. With every step she took the squaw followed, her weazened face and cruel, baneful eyes held close to hers.

"You murderer of men, you teacher of little children, you butcher, I will show you my power!"

The girl recoiled from the frenzied woman, shutting out the sight with her hands and moving backward step by step until she leaned against the smooth logs of the building. There the foolishness of her sudden fright presented itself. Should the grimaces of a weazened old squaw frighten her into a fit, or should she pick up the bony thing and throw her over the top of the tepee? An impulse to do the latter came over her—then to her fancy she could hear the crashing of brittle bones. What she did do, however, was to take her hands away from her eyes and look at the old witch fearlessly. At this old White Blanket broke into a terrible jargon, not a word of which was intelligible. Her voice rose to its utmost pitch. The crisp morning air resounded with its sharp intonations.

Hope leaned against the logs of the house, lashing the squaw into greater fury by her cool, impertinent gaze. She began to be interested in the performance, speculating to just what degree of rage the old woman would reach before she foamed at the mouth, and as to how much strength she would have to exert to pitch the frail thing bodily into the top of the tepee.

At that instant a man, apparently hurriedly dressed, rushed from the lodge and grasped the old woman by the arm.

"What're you doin'? Go over there and git my breakfast, and don't be all day about it!"

The old woman's face changed marvelously. She calmed like a dove, under the hand of her son-in-law, but before turning away began muttering what might have been intended for an apology.

"I no hurt her. She think I know nothing. I show her."

The man laughed good-naturedly.

"Well, you show me some grub an' that'll be enough fer one day, I reckon. Wimmen folks should be seen an' not heard, an' you make as much noise as an old guinea hen." Meekly the old woman continued her interrupted task, showing that in spite of his gruff speech she entertained great respect for her tall son-in-law, Long Bill.

"Hope the old woman didn't frighten you, Miss. She don't mean nothin' by it, only she gits them spells once in a while," apologized Long Bill politely. Hope gave a short laugh, while the man continued: "Seems like all Hades is turned loose when she does git on the rampage, though."

"Probably I aggravated her. If so, I am sorry. But I wouldn't have missed it—not for anything. Her rage was perfect—such gestures, and such expressions!"

At her words the man smiled, holding up to his face as he did so a bandaged hand. In an instant her eyes were riveted upon it. She had searched for that hand since Saturday evening among all the men she had chanced to see. That this great, strong fellow possessed it eased her conscience, if, indeed, it had greatly troubled her. She wanted to get him to talk about the hand, but shifted her eyes from it to the old woman moving slowly before the tepee.

"She seems a very interesting woman," she remarked casually to Long Bill, who through sheer awkwardness made no attempt to move away.

"Oh, she's a little locoed, but barrin' that she's smarter'n a steel trap. They ain't nothin' goin' on but she's got her eye peeled. If she takes a likin' to anyone she'll just about break her neck to please, but," he added in a lower voice, "if she ain't a-likin' anyone she's just about the orneriest, cussedest——" Words failed, in view of the critical eyes before him.

"Do you belong to the family?" asked Hope, observing: "I noticed you came from the tepee."

"Well, you see," replied the man awkwardly, "I sort of do—that is, I did. I married her youngest girl awhile back, but I ain't sure now we're goin' to make it a go. You see I 'lowed to meet her here when the round-up come 'round to these parts, but here's she's done run off to Canada with some o' her folks, and I ain't set eyes on her fer nigh on to four months. But we've been spliced all right 'nough, an' the old woman's mighty fond o' me."

"I should think you would be glad of that!" exclaimed Hope. "It would be too bad if she didn't like you. I am sorry she is not in a more amiable mood, for I'd really like to talk with her; but perhaps I will be permitted to approach her later in the day."

"Oh, she'll be all right, now she's had her spell out," assured Long Bill.

"You speak of the round-up; why are you not with it?" queried the girl, with cool intent.

Long Bill brought his huge bandaged fist up before him, resting it upon the well one.