“But suppose I reckon I'd rather stay here,” persisted Lance, with a perfect consciousness, however, of affectation in his caution. “Stay away then,” said the girl coolly; “only as Dad perempted this yer woods”-- “PRE-empted,” suggested Lance. “Per-empted or pre-emp-ted, as you like,” continued the girl scornfully,--“ez he's got a holt on this yer woods, ye might ez well see him down thar ez here. For here he's like to come any minit. You can bet your life on that.” She must have read Lance's amusement in his eyes, for she again dropped her own with a frown of brusque embarrassment. “Come along, then; I'm your man,” said Lance, gayly, extending his hand. She would not accept it, eying it, however, furtively, like a horse about to shy. “Hand me your pistol first,” she said. He handed it to her with an assumption of gayety. She received it on her part with unfeigned seriousness, and threw it over her shoulder like a gun. This combined action of the child and heroine, it is quite unnecessary to say, afforded Lance undiluted joy. “You go first,” she said. Lance stepped promptly out, with a broad grin. “Looks kinder as if I was a prisoner, don't it?” he suggested. “Go on, and don't fool,” she replied. The two fared onward through the wood. For one moment he entertained the facetious idea of appearing to rush frantically away, “just to see what the girl would do,” but abandoned it. “It's an even thing if she wouldn't spot me the first pop,” he reflected admiringly. When they had reached the open hillside, Lance stopped inquiringly. “This way,” she said, pointing toward the summit, and in quite an opposite direction to the valley where he had heard the voices, one of which he now recognized as hers. They skirted the thicket for a few moments, and then turned sharply into a trail which began to dip toward a ravine leading to the valley. “Why do you have to go all the way round?” he asked. “WE don't,” the girl replied with emphasis; “there's a shorter cut.” “Where?” “That's telling,” she answered shortly. “What's your name?” asked Lance, after a steep scramble and a drop into the ravine. “Flip.” “What?” “Flip.” “I mean your first name,--your front name.” “Flip.” “Flip! Oh, short for Felipa!” “It ain't Flipper,--it's Flip.” And she relapsed into silence. “You don't ask me mine?” suggested Lance. She did not vouchsafe a reply. “Then you don't want to know?” “Maybe Dad will. You can lie to HIM.” This direct answer apparently sustained the agreeable homicide for some moments. He moved onward, silently exuding admiration. “Only,” added Flip, with a sudden caution, “you'd better agree with me.” The trail here turned again abruptly and re-entered the canyon. Lance looked up, and noticed they were almost directly beneath the bay thicket and the plateau that towered far above them. The trail here showed signs of clearing, and the way was marked by felled trees and stumps of pines.