“I think I got him that time,” said she, nonchalantly, setting her hat straight--though Chip, with one of his quick glances, observed that she was rather white around the mouth. He brought the horses dexterously into the road and quieted them. “Aren't you going to get my coyote?” she ventured to ask. “Certainly. The road swings back, down that same coulee, and we'll pass right by it. Then I'll get out and pick him up, while you hold the horses.” “You'll hold those horses yourself,” returned Miss Whitmore, with considerable spirit. “I'd much rather pick up the coyote, thank you.” Chip said nothing to this, whatever he may have thought. He drove up to the coyote with much coaxing of Pet and Polly, who eyed the gray object askance. Miss Whitmore sprang out and seized the animal by its coarse, bushy tail. “Gracious, he's heavy!” she exclaimed, after one tug. “He's been fattening up on Flying U calves,” remarked Chip, his foot upon the brake. Miss Whitmore knelt and examined the cattle thief curiously. “Look,” she said, “here's where I hit him the first time; the bullet took a diagonal course from the shoulder back to the other side. It must have gone within an inch of his heart, and would have finished him in a short time, without that other shot--that penetrated his brain, you see; death was instantaneous.” Chip had taken advantage of the halt to roll a cigarette, holding the reins tightly between his knees while he did so. He passed the loose edge of the paper across the tip of his tongue, eying the young woman curiously the while. “You seem to be pretty well onto your job,” he remarked, dryly. “I ought to be,” she said, laughing a little. “I've been learning the trade ever since I was sixteen.” “Yes? You began early.” “My Uncle John is a doctor. I helped him in the office till he got me into the medical school. I was brought up in an atmosphere of antiseptics and learned all the bones in Uncle John's 'Boneparte'--the skeleton, you know--before I knew all my letters.” She dragged the coyote close to the wheel. “Let me get hold of the tail.” Chip carefully pinched out the blaze of his match and threw it away before he leaned over to help. With a quick lift he landed the animal, limp and bloody, squarely upon the top of Miss Whitmore's largest trunk. The pointed nose hung down the side, the white fangs exposed in a sinister grin. The girl gazed upon him proudly at first, then in dismay. “Oh, he's dripping blood all over my mandolin case--and I just know it won't come out!” She tugged frantically at the instrument. “'Out, damned spot!'” quoted Chip in a sepulchral tone before he turned to assist her. Miss Whitmore let go the mandolin and stared blankly up at him, and Chip, offended at her frank surprise that he should quote Shakespeare, shut his lips tightly and relapsed into silence. CHAPTER II. -- Over the “Hog's Back.”