Vicky, in her bedroom at Mrs. Budd’s, flogged herself with a whip of scorn. She had acted on imperative impulse, just as she used to do when she was a little girl. Her cheeks flamed again when she recalled what the Irishwoman had said. Of course! Everybody would think she had done it because she was in love with Hugh McClintock. Savagely she mocked her own heroics. She had behaved ridiculously. There was no excuse for her at all. Probably Hugh, too, was laughing at her or else flattering himself that he had made a conquest. Her pride rebelled. And yet—when she saw again in imagination the group of gunmen under Sloan moving forward to attack, she knew that she would probably do the same thing a second time, given the same circumstances. Mrs. Budd knocked on the door. “Breakfast ready, deary.” Miss Lowell became aware suddenly that she was very hungry. But she did not want to meet Jim Budd. He would probably start teasing her, and if he did she would certainly lose her temper. She fibbed. “I’m not hungry yet. If you don’t mind I’ll come down and get a bite out of the pantry later.” “Mr. McClintock is here. He wants to thank you,” the landlady said gently. Hugh McClintock was the last man in the world that Vicky wanted to see just now, but she would not for a month’s salary have let him know it. “He needn’t trouble, I’m sure,” she said carelessly. “But I’ll be down presently.” She came to breakfast stormy-eyed. Hugh rose to meet her from his seat next the door. He offered his hand. For a fraction of a second she looked at it, apparently surprised. It was as though she said, a little disdainfully, “What’s the use of all this fuss about nothing?” Then her hand met his. He said, in a low voice, “Old dog Tray’s mighty grateful, Vicky.” But he spoke with a smile, words unstressed. She drew a breath of relief. Hugh understood, anyhow. He was not imagining any foolishness. “Oh, I didn’t want them to take that villain from you,” she explained. “I’ll not be satisfied till he’s hanged. What have you heard about Scot?” “A telegram last night and one this mo’ning. He’s still holdin’ his own, the doctors say. But they’re not hopeful. One of the bullets went into his intestines.” Tears brimmed her eyes. “Isn’t it dreadful—when people are happy, like Scot and Mollie, that——” He nodded, his throat tightening. “Don’t let these buckwheats get cold,” Mrs. Budd said cheerfully, bustling in with a hot plateful. Jim Budd was sitting in the kitchen guarding the prisoner, but Byers, Hugh, and Vicky, with an occasional word from Mrs. Budd, discussed plans for getting Dutch to Carson.