From the cañon they emerged into a rough country of basaltic rocks twisted and misshapen. Once a rabbit scurried from almost under the feet of Vicky’s horse. The scent of the sage was strong in her nostrils, and the taste of alkali in her throat. But the girl was happy. This night ride, with her face against the wind and the eternal stars above, made the blood in her body sing. She vibrated with excitement. The rapid motion, the knowledge of the armed pursuit, the touch of peril in the situation, appealed to all the adventure zest in her heart. As they rode knee to knee through the darkness the movements of the horses occasionally pushed her and Hugh into contact. A new delightful thrill flamed through her. Shyly she looked at him and was glad of the night. Her eyes were too bright and her cheeks too hot to be seen even by old dog Tray. Old dog Tray! She knew the metaphor was inept. Jim Budd, now, was a good old dog Tray, but not this light-stepping young Apollo who somehow contrived to be the partner of all the dramatic moments in her life. She would never forget him as he had faced Sloan and his gang at the mouth of the pit from which he had come with all the anguish of the night written on his face. There had been something indomitable in his gesture, a spark in the sunken eye struck from the soul of a man quite sure of himself. Vicky knew—and knew it with a strange reluctant dread—that her feelings would insist on a retrial of the case of Hugh McClintock at the bar of her judgment. Vaguely she divined that the true romance is not of outward trappings but straight from the heart of life. The miles of their journey stole the hours. It was far past midnight when Hugh turned to Vicky with a smile not free from anxiety. “Bell’s Camp just ahead,” he said. “Don’t make any mistake. When we’re ordered to halt, all our hands go straight up in the air.” He wished now that he had not let the girl come with them. It had been easy to reason in the light of day that she would be quite safe. But Dodson did not know she was in the party. Suppose someone got excited and fired in the darkness. Hugh’s imagination began to conjure disaster. But the affair worked out quite simply. From behind rocks on both sides of the road men rose suddenly and covered the party with rifles. “Stick ’em up. Reach for the sky,” a voice ordered curtly. Six hands went up instantly, almost as though they had been waiting for the cue. “You may pull yours down, Dutch,” the voice went on. Hugh spoke suavely: “Must be some mistake, gentlemen. Mr. Dutch isn’t with us.” “Not with you! What’s the use of lying? Speak up, Dutch.” “If you’re meanin’ me, my name’s Budd—Jim Budd from Piodie,” spoke up the fat man. The challenger stepped close and stared up at his face. “Where’s Dutch? What have you done with him?” he demanded.