"Quick, Pratt!" begged Frances. "Get away from him! He will do you some dreadful harm!" She believed Pete would, too. As Pratt leaped aside, the man bounded up from the bed of hot coals, his shirt afire, and he unable to reach it with his beating hands! Pratt ran to Frances' side. She pulled Molly's head around and the pony trotted across the clearing, with Pratt staggering along at the stirrup and striving to get his breath. As they passed the spot where the battle had begun, Pratt stooped and secured the rifle. Pete, in rage awful to see, was tearing the smouldering shirt from his back. Then Pete dashed after the escaping pair. The rifle encumbered the young man; but if he dropped it he knew the man would hold them at his mercy. So, swinging the weapon up by its barrel, he smashed the stock against a tree trunk. Again and again he repeated the blow, until the tough wood splintered and the mechanism of the hammer and trigger was bent and twisted. Pete almost caught him. Pratt dashed the remains of the rifle in his face and ran on after Frances. "I'll catch you yet!" yelled Pete. "And when I do----" The threat was left incomplete; but the man ran for his own horse. If Frances had only thought to drive Molly that way and slip the hobbles of Pete's nag, much of what afterward occurred in this hollow by the river bank would never have taken place. She and Pratt would have been immediately free. It was hours afterward--indeed, almost sunset--that old Captain Rugley, sitting on the broad veranda of the Bar-T ranch-house and expecting Frances to appear at any moment, raised his eyes to see, instead, Victorino Reposa slouching up the steps. "Hello, Vic!" said the Captain. "What do you want?" "Letter, _Capitan_," said the Mexican, impassively, removing his big hat and drawing a soiled envelope from within. "Seen anything of Miss Frances?" asked the ranchman, reaching lazily for the missive. "No, _Capitan_," responded the boy, and turned away. The superscription on the envelope puzzled Captain Dan Rugley. "Here, Vic!" he cried after the departing youth. "Where'd you get this? 'Tisn't a mailed letter." "It was give to me on the trail, _Capitan_," said Victorino, softly. "As I came back from the horse pasture." "Who gave it to you?" demanded the ranchman, beginning to slit the flap of the envelope. "I am not informed," said Victorino, still with lowered gaze. "The Señor who presented it declare' it was give to heem by a strange hand at Jackleg. He say he was ride this way----" The Captain was not listening. Victorino saw that this was a fact and he allowed his words to trail off into nothing, while he, himself, began again to slip away. The old ranchman was staring at the unfolded sheet with fixed attention. His brows came together in a portentous frown; and perhaps for the first time in many years his bronzed countenance was washed over by the sickly pallor of fear.