Her captive must have opened the shutter; she thought she could make out the faint white blur of his face inside there. She dragged her gaze away and looked dumbly at the men about her. Had she betrayed him, after all? Would they take him out and kill him, through her fault? “Well?” demanded the sheriff, impatiently. “Speak up, little girl—and be quick about it, too.” But at that Uncle Hank bristled. “See here, Daniels, the child may say she’s not a lady, yet, but you’ve got to treat her like one. She’s Miss Hildegarde Van Brunt; she and her little brother are owners of the Three Sorrows ranch, and I’m her paid manager.” It gave Hilda a strange thrill to hear herself thus set forth by Uncle Hank. It was as though she had all at once grown years older. The sheriff stepped back a bit, and a fumbling hand found and removed his hat. “Well, Miss Van Brunt,” he said, “I’ve come on your ranch kind of sudden; but I had no intention of being rough. I was obliged to search—you ain’t no objection to that, have you? I didn’t aim to make no trouble for you. You’re willing for us to search, ain’t you?” Hilda looked mutely to Uncle Hank. “Sure, she’s willing,” assented the old man. “Hilda’s not very tall, but she’s a law-abiding citizen. If they’s any help she can give you to ketch up with a criminal, she’ll do it gladly.” Every trusting word was to Hilda a blow. She was keeping the presence of the fugitive a secret from Uncle Hank; she was going to do that and more. It was strange that it could be right—and yet it was. She was sorry for the old man, with a great rush of compassion which she herself could not understand. She caught his arm and clung to it, rubbing her cheek against his sleeve—but she never wavered in her determination to tell him nothing. “I had to foller my duty, wherever it led,” Daniels continued, defensively. “Whoo—ee! Whoo—ee!” came a hail from the man posted down by the gate. They turned to hearken. “Come on, boys. Nothing doing there. Billy’s got the track of that pony up yonder in the road.” Without a word, the sheriff and his men ran to their horses, and in a moment’s time there was no reminder of their presence or their errand left but a little dust. Uncle Hank and Hilda stood alone. The old man brought his gaze back from following the last departing rider, and it encountered the queer little figure beside him. He took her by the shoulder, looked a bit anxiously in her face, and said: “I was hunting for you, Pettie, to tell you that I may not be home to-night before ten o’clock. Shorty’s getting cattle ready for shipment, out in the Spring Creek pasture, and like’s not I’ll have to stay at the camp there till late. But this pesky business of Sheriff Daniels coming up this-a-way—you going to be afraid here alone in the house with just old Sam Kee?” “Oh, no, Uncle Hank—not a bit afraid!” she cried.