The abduction had not the usual sordid motive. Colonel Hayden was a rich man, but there was no question of ransom in the carrying away of Sybil Hayden. Nor was there anything between the colonel and Edward Frams, better known as Black-face Ned, out of which hate and revenge might have grown. The two men were strangers. Colonel Hayden did not know that such a person as Black-face Ned existed until the terrible news of the abduction reached him. Sybil was away from the post visiting a schoolmate at her mountain home many miles from the military station when she met the villain who now had her in his power. He was a cowboy, and had arrived at the ranch a few days after Sybil made her appearance there. Tall, muscularly built, with flashing black eyes, a pale, classic face, and a heavy, drooping mustache, he was a man who always attracted attention and compelled admiration. He was vain of his good looks, and believed himself to be a lady-killer of the first water. Sybil Hayden thought him interesting, but she did not admire him. There was something about him that induced distrust. His eyes had frequently a sinister gleam in them, and when he looked at her she saw more than he desired she should see. None of the other cowboys on the ranch knew him, and none of them grew to like him. They were rough, honest fellows, and did not take kindly to his style, which was dandified and superior. But they grudgingly admitted that he knew his business. He was a fine rider and a dead shot, and his bravery was unquestioned. His story was that he had just come from northern Mexico, where for ten years he had been the foreman of a large cattle ranch. One day while Sybil was riding a few miles from the house she met Frams, who was returning from a visit to the nearest town. She gave him a cool bow, and was about to ride on, when he reined up by her side and spoke quickly: “I must say what I have been wanting to say for weeks, Miss Hayden. You must hear me. I love you, and I want you for my wife.” The girl’s indignation was greater than her surprise. “I have nothing to say to you,” she replied coldly. She gave her pony a light tap, but Frams caught the bridle, and the pony remained at a standstill. His voice was hoarse as he said: “You look upon me with contempt because I am poor. I know your kind, and——” “Like them.” The interruption was coolly made. Frams turned red, and his eyes glittered savagely. “Yes, I like your kind,” he hissed, “though I despise them, also.” Irritated by her cool, sneering expression, he continued fiercely: “I love you, and I want to tame you, to bring you down from your high horse and make you sing small for your attitude toward those you consider your inferiors.”