The fact that Sue seemed so sure Frances was derelict in her duty made Pratt more confident that something untoward had occurred to the girl of the ranges to keep her from returning promptly to the party. Of course, the young man suspected nothing of the actual situation in which Frances at that very moment found herself. Pratt dreamed of a broken cinch, or a misstep that might have lamed Molly. Instead, Frances Rugley was sitting with her back against a stump at the edge of the clearing where she had come so suddenly upon the campfire, with her ungloved hands lying in her lap so that Ratty's bright eyes could watch them continually. Pete had taken away her gun. Molly was hobbled with the men's horses on the other side of the hollow. The two plotters had rekindled the fire and were whispering together about her. Had Pete had his way he would have tied Frances' hands and feet. But the ex-cowpuncher of the Bar-T ranch would not listen to that. Although Pete was the leading spirit, Ratty M'Gill turned ugly when his mate attempted to touch the girl; so they had left her unbound. But not unwatched--no, indeed! Ratty's beadlike eyes never left her. Not much of their conversation reached the ears of Frances, although she kept very still and tried to hear. She could read Ratty's lips a little, for he had no mustache; but the bearded Pete's lips were hidden. "I've got to have a good piece of it myself, if I'm going to take a chance like that!" was one declaration of the ex-cowpuncher's that she heard clearly. Again Ratty said: "They'll not only suspect me, they'll _know_. Won't the girl tell them? I tell you I want to see my getaway before I make a stir in the matter--you can bet on that!" Finally, Frances saw the ex-orderly of the Bylittle Soldiers' Home produce a pad of paper, an envelope, and pencil. He was plainly a ready writer, for he went to work with the pencil at once, while Ratty rolled a fresh cigarette and still watched their captive. Pete finished his letter, sealed it in the envelope, and addressed it in a bold hand. "That'll just about fix the business, I reckon," said Pete, scowling across at Frances. "That gal's mighty smart--with her trunk full of junk and all----" Ratty burst into irrepressible laughter. 'You sure got Pete's goat when you played him that trick, Frances. He fair killed himself puntin' that trunk up the river and hiding it, and then taking the punt back and letting it drift so as to put Peckham's crew off the scent. "And when he busted it open----" Ratty burst into laughter again, and held his sides. Pete looked surly. "We'll make the old man pay for her cuttin' up them didoes," growled the bewhiskered rascal. "And my horse and wagon, too. I b'lieve she and that man with her set the fire that burned up my outfit." Frances herewith took part in the conversation. "Who set the grass-fire, in the first place?" she demanded. "I believe you did that, Ratty M'Gill. You were just reckless enough that day."