“Sure, sweetheart I had forgotten about your mother’s claim. We can wait, I reckon,” he added with a smile. “You must always set me straight when I lose the trail of what’s right, Curly Haid. You are to be a guiding-star to me.” “And you to me. Oh, Bucky, isn’t it good?” He kissed her again hurriedly, for the train was jarring to a halt. Before he could answer in words, O’Halloran burst into the coach, at the head of his little company. “All serene, Bucky. This is the last scene, and the show went without a hitch in the performance anywhere.” Bucky smiled at Frances as he answered his enthusiastic friend: “That’s right. Not a hitch anywhere.” “And say, Bucky, who do you think is in the other coach dressed as one of the guards?” “Colonel Roosevelt,” the ranger guessed promptly. “Our friend Chaves. He’s escaping because he thinks we’ll have him assassinated in revenge,” the big Irishman returned gleefully. “You should have seen his color, me bye, when he caught sight of me. I asked him if he’d been reduced to the ranks, and he begged me not to tell you he was here. Go in and devil him.” Bucky glanced at his lover. “No, I’m so plumb contented I haven’t the heart.” At the Rocking Chair Ranch there was bustle and excitement. Mexicans scrubbed and scoured under the direction of Alice and Mrs. Mackenzie, and vaqueros rode hither and thither on bootless errands devised by their nervous master. For late that morning a telephone call from Aravaipa had brought Webb to the receiver to listen to a telegram. The message was from Bucky, then on the train on his way home. “The best of news. Reach the Rocking Chair tonight.” That was the message which had disturbed the serenity of big Webb Mackenzie and had given to the motherly heart of his wife an unusual flutter. The best of news it could not be, for the ranger had already written them of the confession of Anderson, which included the statement of the death of their little daughter. But at least he might bring the next best news, information that David Henderson was free at last and his long martyrdom ended. So all day hurried preparations were being made to receive the honored guests with a fitting welcome. The Rocking Chair was a big ranch, and its hospitality was famous all over the Southwest. It was quite unnecessary to make special efforts to entertain, but Webb and his wife took that means of relieving the strain on them till night. Higher crept the hot sun of baked Arizona. It passed the zenith and began to descend toward the purple hills in the west, went behind them with a great rainbow splash of brilliancy peculiar to that country. Dusk came, and died away in the midst of a love-concert of quails. Velvet night, with its myriad stars, entranced the land and made magic of its hills and valleys. For the fiftieth time Webb dragged out his watch and consulted it.