“Nothing. Well, yes, she said 'Are they going to H-A-N-G that man?'” Chip's voice quavered the words in a shrill falsetto. “The deuce she did!” Jack indulged in a gratified laugh. “What did she say when you put the creams under the whip, up there? I don't suppose the old girl is wise to the fact that you saved her neck right then--but you sure did. You done yourself proud, Splinter.” Cal patted Chip's knee approvingly. Chip blushed under the praise and hastily answered the question. “She hollered out: 'Stop! There goes my COYOTE!'” “Her COYOTE?” “HER coyote?” “What the devil was she doing with a COYOTE?” The Happy Family stood transfixed, and Chip's eyes were seen to laugh. “HER COYOTE. Did any of you fellows happen to see a dead coyote up on the grade? Because if you did, it's the doctor's.” Weary Willie walked deliberately over and seized Chip by the shoulders, bringing him to his feet with one powerful yank. “Don't you try throwing any loads into THIS crowd, young man. Answer me truly-s'help yuh. How did that old maid come by a coyote--a dead one?” Chip squirmed loose and reached for his cigarette book. “She shot it,” he said, calmly, but with twitching lips. “Shot it!” Five voices made up the incredulous echo. “What with?” demanded Weary when he got his breath. “With my rifle. I brought it out from town today. Bert Rogers had left it at the barber shop for me.” “Gee whiz! And them creams hating a gun like poison! She didn't shoot from the rig, did she?” “Yes,” said Chip, “she did. The first time she didn't know any better--and the second time she was hot at me for hinting she was scared. She's a spunky little devil, all right. She's busy hating me right now for running the grade--thinks I did it to scare her, I guess. That's all some fool women know.” “She's a howling sport, then!” groaned Cal, who much preferred the Sweet Young Things. “No--I sized her up as a maverick.” “What does she look like?” “How old is she?” “I never asked her age,” replied Chip, his face lighting briefly in a smile. “As to her looks, she isn't cross-eyed, and she isn't four-eyed. That's as much as I noticed.” After this bald lie he became busy with his cigarette. “Give me that magazine, Cal. I didn't finish cutting the leaves.” CHAPTER III. -- Silver. Miss Della Whitmore gazed meditatively down the hill at the bunk house. The boys were all at work, she knew. She had heard J. G. tell two of them to “ride the sheep coulee fence,” and had been consumed with amazed curiosity at the order. Wherefore should two sturdy young men be commanded to ride a fence, when there were horses that assuredly needed exercise--judging by their antics--and needed it badly? She resolved to ask J. G. at the first opportunity.