“You see we’re safe till we reach Bell’s Camp,” interpreted Vicky. “The sheriff and the gunmen he appoints as deputies will follow behind us and we’ll be driven into the arms of those who come to meet us. That’s the plan.” “Yes—if Irish Tom wrote this and it’s not a trap.” “Oh, well, beggars can’t be choosers,” she cried impatiently. “I don’t suppose you have a better way to suggest.” “Only in one particular, Vicky. No need of you going. There might be shooting. I don’t say there will, but there might be.” “Fiddlesticks! There won’t be, not if I’m there. Think I don’t know Ralph Dodson?” Budd came unexpectedly to her aid. “Miss Lowell’s sure right, Hugh. You _know_ if she’s with us there won’t be no gun-play.” Hugh hesitated. What his friends said was true enough. The West, even at its worst, was very careful of its good women. No weapons would be used in the presence of Victoria Lowell. But there was in him an extreme reluctance to use her skirts as a protection behind which to hide. He wanted to play his own hand and take Dutch out openly in the face of opposition. Yet he knew this was not possible. Vicky had worked out a feasible plan of operations. It was only fair to give it a tryout. “All right,” he conceded rather ungraciously. “Have it yore own way, good people. Vicky, you’re road boss of this outfit. Go to it. When do we start, did you say?” Vicky dimpled with delight. “Right after supper.” CHAPTER XXX AT BELL’S CAMP A boy rode up the street leading two saddled horses. He stopped in front of the Budd house, from which three persons emerged in answer to his shrill whistle. The lookout in the shadow of Schmidt’s blacksmith shop leaned forward to peer into the failing light. First came a huge, shambling man, hairy and bearded, his hands tied together in front of him. At his heels walked a straight lithe figure recognized instantly by the watcher as McClintock. The deputy carried a revolver. A young woman in riding dress brought up the rear. McClintock handed his revolver to the lady after he had helped her mount. He adjusted the stirrups of all the saddles. To the watcher up the street it seemed that all his movements were hurried and furtive. Plainly the travellers wanted to be gone. No sooner had they started into the cañon than the lookout was off to make his report. Inside of five minutes a party of four horsemen swung round the bend of the road into the gorge. Half a mile up the cañon Hugh stopped to free Budd’s hands. This done, he waited a moment to listen. On the night breeze came faintly the ring of a horse’s hoof on granite. “Our anxious friends aren’t losin’ any time,” he said, grinning. “You’re damn whistlin’,” agreed Bud. “Beg pardon, ma’am. I done forgot you was here. I meant to say he was doggoned right.”