"Yo ’re right—plumb right—an’ it’s so simple I ought to be fed hay, for a cow. I got a map som’ers—or I ’ll make one. We ’ll lay out them sections right now." "That’s th’ talk! There ain’t no time like right now for doin’ most things, Buck." They were not long in laying out and perfecting their plans and had said good-night when Buck suddenly remembered the picketed pony. He turned it into the corral and went to bed. Smiler Schatz, sleeping the sleep of the very wicked and the very innocent, did not dream how near he had come to an incident more exciting than any he had ever passed through. CHAPTER XVII HOPALONG’S NIGHT RIDE Hopalong, passing the bunk-house on his way to the stable, paused to listen. Through the open window Pickles’ voice had reached him quite clearly: "I don’t guess I ’ll ever get him, Whit, but if I do, it ’ll be for keeps, you betcher." Hopalong was interested. The death of Gottleib Gerken was an old story and so many things of pressing moment having occurred about the time of Hopalong’s arrival, he had not been told of this. The finality of decision in Pickles’ murderous intention was so evident that Hopalong wondered how the boy came to conceive so deadly a hatred. He stepped to the window and stood looking at the two figures within. They neither saw nor heard him. Both were deep in thought. Whitby’s inherent regard for due process of law had received numerous shocks since he left Chicago. Like many another square man finding his niche in a raw country, he was beginning to see that right must be enforced by might, until such time as wrong became subdued by the steady march of the older civilization. And this face-about in opinion is not accomplished in a day, even when on the spot and a personal sufferer. It was this new feeling that led him to listen with respect to Pickles’ confidences, boy though he was. Boys imbibed men’s ideas early in this country; too early, thought Whitby, recalling his own play-time at this lad’s age. He stole a look at the glum face beside him and began to draw circles with the point of the switch he held in his hand—he was never without one. "It’s a pity," he said, "a pity." "What’s a pity?" asked Pickles, a note of indignation in his voice at the implied suggestion. Whitby ignored the tone. "It’s a pity you never heard of the Witch’s Spell," he explained, reminiscently. "What’s that?" "But then, of course," reasoned Whitby, "if you can’t find a Witch’s Ring, you can’t work the Spell; and I rather fancy there is n’t a Witch’s Ring in all the world outside of Yorkshire." "What’s it like?" demanded Pickles, with the practical insistence of Young America. "Why, the Old Witch makes it, you know. She runs around in a ring and blows on the grass and it never grows any more. Inside the Ring and outside, the grass is just the same, but the Ring is always bare."