To this surprising statement Chip had nothing to say. He went to one of the iron beds, stooped and drew out a bundle which, had Miss Whitmore asked him what it was, he would probably have called his “war sack.” She did not ask; she stood and watched him, though her conscience assured her it was a dreadfully rude thing to do, and that her place was up at the house. Miss Whitmore was frequently at odds with her conscience; at this time she stood her ground, backed by her pride, which was her chiefest ally in such emergencies. When he drew a huge, murderous-looking revolver from its scabbard and proceeded calmly to insert cartridge after cartridge, Miss Whitmore was constrained to speech. “Are you--going to--SHOOT something?” The question struck them both as particularly inane, in view of his actions. “I am,” replied he, without looking up. He whirled the cylinder into place, pushed the bundle back under the bed and rose, polishing the barrel of the gun with a silk handkerchief. Miss Whitmore hoped he wasn't going to murder anyone; he looked keyed up to almost any desperate deed. “Who--what are you going to shoot?” Really, the question asked itself. Chip raised his eyes for a fleeting glance which took in the pencil sketch in her hand. Miss Whitmore observed that his eyes were much darker than hazel; they were almost black. And there was, strangely enough, not a particle of curve to his lips; they were thin, and straight, and stern. “Silver. He broke his leg.” “Oh!” There was real horror in her tone. Miss Whitmore knew all about Silver from garrulous Patsy. Chip had rescued a pretty, brown colt from starving on the range, had bought him of the owner, petted and cared for him until he was now one of the best saddle horses on the ranch. He was a dark chestnut, with beautiful white, crinkly mane and tail and white feet. Miss Whitmore had seen Chip riding him down the coulee trail only yesterday, and now--Her heart ached with the pity of it. “How did it happen?” “I don't know. He was in the little pasture. Got kicked, maybe.” Chip jerked open the door with a force greatly in excess of the need of it. Miss Whitmore started impulsively toward him. Her eyes were not quite clear. “Don't--not yet! Let me go. If it's a straight break I can set the bone and save him.” Chip, savage in his misery, regarded her over one square shoulder. “Are you a veterinary surgeon, may I ask?” Miss Whitmore felt her cheeks grow hot, but she stood her ground. “I am not. But a broken bone is a broken bone, whether it belongs to a man--or some OTHER beast!” “Y--e-s?” Chip's way of saying yes was one of his chief weapons of annihilation. He had a peculiar, taunting inflection which he could give to it, upon occasion, which caused prickles of flesh upon the victim. To say that Miss Whitmore was not utterly quenched argues well for her courage. She only gasped, as though treated to an unexpected dash of cold water, and went on.