“I’m not going alone, you know,” he explained. “Dutch travels with me.” “Then there’ll be three of us.” She stepped to the kitchen door, but before she opened it mirth bubbled in her face and broke to laughter. “Come in, Mr. Dutch. We start on a long journey about dusk.” Dutch shuffled into the room—at least the man was Dutch in walk, in manner, dress, and beard. Hugh looked at him again, and still a third time, before he discovered that this was Jim Budd made up for the part of the desperado. The young man’s puzzled eyes asked a question of Vicky. “We three are going after supper,” she explained. “Their lookout is over at Schmidt’s blacksmith shop. Mr. Budd will seem to have his hands tied. Of course he’ll think it’s your prisoner.” “If Jim doesn’t begin to tell him all about old Grimes,” McClintock said drily. “Yes, you mustn’t sing, Mr. Budd. You know there aren’t many voices like yours,” the girl replied, laughing. “He’ll notify his friends, and they’ll follow us. Probably they’ll telegraph ahead that we’re coming. Very likely a welcome party will come to meet us. By that time Mr. Budd will be Mr. Budd, and somebody will be sold.” “Good enough,” agreed Hugh. “But haven’t you forgot one small detail? The real Dutch has got to go to Carson. That’s what I came here for—to get him.” “He’ll go. As soon as the sheriff’s posse has clattered past after us, Mr. Byers and your prisoner will take a very quiet walk up the gulch and round Bald Knob. Horses are waiting there somewhere; I don’t know just where. Your friend the lumberjack with the axe handle took them. He and Mr. Byers will ride across the hills with the prisoner to Carson.” Hugh looked at the eager, vital girl with frank admiration. “You’re a wonder, Vicky, one sure enough whirlwind when you get going. Sounds reasonable—if Dodson’s crowd let us get goin’ as you figure they will. But you can’t tell. They may stop us right when we start up the cañon. Then they’ll know Jim here isn’t Dutch, and the fat will certainly be in the fire.” “No, Hugh, we’ve had a message from a friend in the enemy’s camp.” “Yes?” “From Irish Tom.” “Carberry?” “Yes. At least, we think it’s from him. One of my little boys brought me a note. Here it is.” Hugh read the words scribbled on a sheet of torn note paper. Tell McClintock to look out for trouble near Bell’s Camp. He’ll be caught between two fires if he tries to take Dutch with him. A Friend. “What makes you think Carberry wrote this?” asked Hugh. “Ned described the man who gave it to him,” Budd explained. “He’s sure a ringer for Carberry—even to that red shirt he wears.” “Might be Tom,” agreed Hugh. “My vote saved his life from the vigilantes at Aurora. Tom’s not such a bad sort.”