Hilda and her brother were set to hold the “cut.” Burch wasn’t skillful, but Hilda made up for it. She could keep her eye on the cattle and still have plenty of attention to give to the young man she thought was Fayte Marchbanks, riding close to his father, acting as though he really directed every move the colonel made. If it was Fayte, he paid no attention whatever to her; didn’t seem to remember her at all. When he did lift a glance her way, she had a queer little thrill, not entirely pleasant, at the flashing out of his odd, slate-gray eyes under the black brows; eyes whose reckless light matched the bravo slant of his sombrero and went well with the general air of the heavily armed Marchbanks party. She had half a mind to leave Burch holding the cut a moment while she rode over and said “Hello” to him and asked about Maybelle. There was even a daring thought that she’d inquire of him, instead of his father, if he’d met Pearse Masters over in New Mexico. She did start to do it, but Uncle Hank waved her back. Then she noticed how funny Uncle Hank was acting—so heavy and slow-witted. “Careful about cutting out them calves,” he cautioned his men, again and again. “I don’t want to rob the owner, nor have the owner rob the Sorrows. We’re all young. Ain’t such an awful haste.” “The hell they ain’t!” broke out Marchbanks, in whose hearing this was said. “Who told you?” There was an instant of dubious silence. Old Snake bristled for all the world like a faithful dog who suspects that his master is affronted. Shorty sat up suddenly in the saddle, his blue eyes fairly blazing in his brick-red face. Then Pearsall spoke, with mild civility: “Didn’t camp at _Tres Piños_—did you?” Marchbanks, hustling an unruly calf toward the cut, ejaculated: “At _Tres Piños_—no! Who said I was camping there?” Pearsall pulled up his buckskin pony and let a cow get past him unnoticed. The Flying M man’s active young lieutenant yelled a protest in vain. Hilda edged in toward Uncle Hank. She had read that letter, too; yet it was characteristic of the western cattle country—of which she was growing to be a well-seasoned citizen—that not a word, not a glance, passed between them. They both knew that this _might_ be Marchbanks, and his behavior merely a matter of temperament or eccentricity; but he might be a rustler. Such high-handed robbery was not unknown. She knew that there was more than fifty thousand dollars’ worth of stock concerned. The outsiders were seven, all suspiciously well armed. Presently Uncle Hank drifted himself to her side, dismounted and, under pretext of tightening her cinch, spoke to her: