“I'll just anchor these cayuses to a rock, to make dead-sure of them,” Keith remarked. “It wouldn't be fun to be set afoot out here; now, would it? How would you like the job of walking home, eh?” “I don't think I'd enjoy it much,” Beatrice said, showing her one dimple conspicuously. “I'd rather ride.” “Throw up your hands!” growled a voice from somewhere. Keith wheeled toward the sound, and a bullet spatted into the yellow clay, two inches from the toe of his boot. Also, a rifle cracked sharply. He took the hint, and put his hands immediately on a level with his hat crown. “No use,” he called out ruefully. “I haven't anything to return the compliment with.” “Well, I've got t' have the papers fur that, mister,” retorted the voice, and a man appeared from the shelter of a rock and came slowly down to them--a man, long-legged and lank, with haggard, unshaven face and eyes that had hunger and dogged endurance looking out. He picked his way carefully with his feet, his eyes and the rifle fixed unswervingly at the two. Beatrice was too astonished to make a sound. “What sort of a hold-up do you call this?” demanded Keith hotly, his hands itching to be down and busy. “We don't carry rolls of money around in the hills, you fool!” “Oh, damn your money!” the man said roughly. “I've got money t' burn. I want t' trade horses with yuh. That roan, there, looks like a stayer. I'll take him.” “Well, seeing you seem to be head push here, I guess it's a trade,” Keith answered. “But I'll thank you for my own saddle.” Beatrice, whose hands were up beside her ears, and not an inch higher, changed from amazed curiosity to concern. “Oh, you mustn't take Redcloud away from Mr. Cameron!” she protested. “You don't know--he's so fond of that horse! You may take mine; he's a good horse--he's a perfectly splendid horse, but I--I'm not so attached to him.” The fellow stopped and looked at her--not, however, forgetting Keith, who was growing restive. Beatrice's cheeks were very pink, and her eyes were bright and big and earnest. He could not look into them without letting some of the sternness drop out of his own. “I wish you'd please take Rex--I'd rather trade than not,” she coaxed. When Beatrice coaxed, mere man must yield or run. The fellow was but human, and he was not in a position to run, so he grinned and wavered. “It's fair to say you'll get done,” he remarked, his eyes upon the odd little dimple at the corner of her mouth, as if he had never seen anything quite so fetching. “Your horse won't cr--buck, will he?” she ventured doubtfully. This was her first horse trade, and it behooved her to be cautious, even at the point of a rifle. “Well, no,” said the man laconically; “he won't. He's dead.” “Oh!” Beatrice gasped and blushed. She might have known, she thought, that the fellow would not take all this trouble if his horse was in a condition to buck. Then: “My elbows hurt. I--I think I should like to sit down.”