“I reckon I’ve had enough of this Perry business,” said Phelps. “You got me into it, Benner, confound you! And what have you gained? Why, you’ve even lost the girl.” “I’m not done yet,” scowled Benner. “You take my advice and throw up your hands.” “Not till I’m even with Perry and Buffalo Bill,” was the snarling response. “Count me out of your schemes, then, from now on. I tell you I’ve had enough.” “Be hanged to you for a coward!” cried Benner. “Come on, you boys that go with me.” The Benner forces separated from the Phelps outfit, each detachment of cowboys going their different ways. “That fool’s going to get himself into more trouble, Mac,” remarked Phelps to McDermott, one of his foremen. “That’s nothing to you, Hank,” replied the foreman. “Nothing to me, no. I’ve come out of this business a heap better than I deserve. And I reckon I know how to let well enough alone.” CHAPTER XI. THE MAN WITH A WARNING. Nothing could have been more peaceful, that bright, sunny morning, than the surroundings of the Star-A ranch. Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill sat out under the trees, a dozen yards from the ranch-house door. They were smoking their pipes and contemplating, with much satisfaction, the happy and peaceful scene before them. “By gorry, pard,” said the Laramie man, “just hear the girl in that old log shack tune up that pretty bazoo of hers. Every once in a while she breaks into song. Joyful? Well, I reckon!” “Contrast this scene with another of two days ago,” returned Buffalo Bill. “The cattle barons, headed by Lige Benner and Hank Phelps, were doing their best to run Perry out of the Brazos country. Dunbar had been treacherously waylaid and was being held a captive; Perry had been made a prisoner and was in ropes at the H-P ranch; and the girl had been spirited away by Lige Benner, who hoped to break her will and make her agree to become his wife. Then we came, Hickok--you, and I, and the rest of our pards--and shook up the whole bag of tricks. Dunbar and Perry were released, and the marriage knot was tied by the sky pilot, while the lot of us were racing away from Benner, Phelps and forty of their cowboys. What we did was certainly worth while.” “I’ve never helped to do anything, pard,” returned Wild Bill, “that I look back on with so much satisfaction.” “Nor I. We have cause to congratulate ourselves.” At that moment Nate Dunbar rode up to the cabin door on his favorite riding horse. He was prepared for a journey of some length, it seemed. Dropping down from the saddle, he turned to throw his arms about his wife, who had hurried through the door to bid him good-by. The pards turned their heads. When they looked up again, Nate Dunbar’s horse was in front of them, and the fine-looking young cowboy, his face wreathed in smiles, was on the ground and reaching out his hand.