There was no use advising the Captain not to accompany the party. Nobody dared thwart him after a glance into his grim face. The hard-bitted Cherry which he always rode was held down to the pace of the other horses with an iron hand. The Captain rode as securely in his saddle as he had before rheumatism seized upon his limbs. How long this false strength, inspired by his fear and indignation, would remain with him the others did not know. Sam and his mates watched "the Old Cap" with wonder. Victorino's gaze was fixed upon the doughty ranchman's back with many different emotions in his trouble-torn mind. He was wondering what would happen to him if Captain Rugley ever learned that he had told a falsehood about that note. He was so scared that he dared not lead the party to a false trail. He told them just where he had met Ratty M'Gill; but he stuck to his imaginary description of the person who had entrusted the letter to him. "Going, west, you say?" said Captain Rugley. "It might be to lead us off the trail. And then again, he might be going right back to whatever place they have Frances hidden. "I fear we'll have a hard time following a trail to-night, anyway. But Sam says he left the folks after the jack hunt over there by Cottonwood Bottom. I think we'd better search the length of that stream first." Sam spoke up suddenly: "Frances asked me if there were any close thickets where a man might hide out, along those banks." "She did?" "Yes. It just come to me," said the foreman. "When we were beating up those jacks." "Enough said!" ejaculated the ranchman. "Come on, boys!" Through the dusk they rode straight away toward the ford. And although the old Captain could hardly hope it, every moment the horse was bearing him nearer and nearer to his lost daughter. Dusk had long since fallen; but there was a faint moon and a multitude of stars. On the open plain the shadows of the horses and riders moved in grotesque procession. In the hollow far down the stream, where Pete had made his camp, the shadows were deep and oppressive. The fellow kept alive but a spark of fire. Now and then he threw on a stick for replenishing. Outside the feeble light cast by the flickering flames, one could scarcely see at all. But there were two faintly outlined forms near the fire beside that of the burly Pete. Occasionally a groan issued from the lips of Pratt Sanderson, for he lay senseless, a great bruise upon his head, his wrists and ankles tied with painful security. The other form was that of Frances herself. She did not speak nor moan, although she was quite wide awake. She, too, was tied up in such a way that she could not possibly free herself. And she was frightened--desperately frightened! She had reason to be. The ex-orderly from the Bylittle Soldiers' Home had proved himself to be a perfect madman when he found that the girl and Pratt were really escaping.