Colorow's eyes glittered as it dawned on him that the white man Jack of Rock Creek and this man were one and the same. Jack did not know any of the trio except Bennett, neither of the others having openly visited the camp below. As Bennett rose up from the floor with a greeting he turned and waved his hand: "This Antelope, this Colorow." Jack involuntarily stepped back a pace, halfway starting his hand as if to grasp his six-shooter. Colorow saw the motion as well as the swift, penetrating flash that shot from Jack's gray eyes into the very soul of the old red devil. But the warrior never made a hostile movement. The least perceptible smile crept into his face as he interpreted the telegraphic glance. He realized that Jack guessed for a certainty what Bennett and Antelope might guess, for Colorow had never told any of the Utes that he actually followed Jack, nor that he waited in vain at the mouth of the long gulch for that worthy young man to walk to his death. It was with mock cordiality that the two men acknowledged each other's presence, but not so with Antelope, who rose and grasped Jack's outstretched hand. Antelope and Bennett _did_ guess right. The ranchmen had seen the little exchange of "symptoms" and were at loss to understand the purport thereof. Nevertheless, they had in an instant, yet seemingly in a careless manner, lessened the distance between the right hand and the butt end of their respective six-shooters, for the frontiersman is keen to scent danger. Colorow remained in his chair and thus addressed Jack: "Sabe white man Rock Creek trail?" Jack nodded in reply. "Sabe camp where Utes sleep?" Jack nodded again, holding up two fingers, signifying he had seen both camping places, as the Utes had not made as rapid progress as he. "Colorow lose twelve ponies," counting them by holding up both hands, then two additional fingers. "Mebbe so white man see 'em ponies?" Jack shook his head. The ponies had become hungry, broken away and probably were hunting buffalo grass in the lower hills when he was crossing the higher slopes of the Gore range. A few questions as to the camp on Rock Creek, what disposition he had made of the camp property and furs, and then the Indians drew their blankets about themselves and silently filed away to the corral, where they mounted their ponies and set out for their own camp in the willows, some half mile distant. After they had departed Tracy said with a quizzical look: "That old devil is up to mischief," meaning Colorow. He turned to Jack, continuing, "Tho't mebbe so yer were goin' to plunk him fer a minnit thar." Bill chimed in: "I seen the f--f--f--fire in yer eyes and says to myself, it's all over with Cu--cu--col--col--Colorow at last, b--b--b--but why in h--h--h--hellen d--d--d--didn't yer shoot?"