"Then I'll walk." He pulled in his horse, but at the instant stiffened in his saddle and wheeled about on the road. A rattle of galloping hoofs struck the ground behind them; two riders wheeled and stopped. One drew close and held out his hand. "Say, stranger, shake," he said. "We've been kickin' up the dust to beg your pardon. We got the real rustler this mornin' shortly after you left. I'm plumb disgusted and disheartened with young Tommins for losin' his head an' shootin' off his gun. He's a dern fool, that kid, a regular tenderfoot. Nothin' won't ever cure him short of growin' up. Come from Chicago, anyway. One of them Eastern towns. I see he got you, too." "Winged me," smiled Hilliard. "Well, I'm right pleased I won't have to spend another night in your pen." "You're entered for drinks. The sheriff stands 'em." Here he bowed to Sheila, removing his hat. "This lady"--Hilliard performed the introduction--"lost her horse on The Hill. She's aiming to stop at Rusty for to-night." The man who had spoken turned to his silent companion. "Ride ahead, Shorty, why don't you?" he said indignantly, "and tell Mrs. Lander there's a lady that'll want to sleep in Number Five." The other horseman, after a swift, searching look at Sheila, said "Sure," in a very mild, almost cooing, voice and was off. It looked to Sheila like a runaway. But the men showed no concern. They jogged companionably on their way. Fifteen minutes later they crossed a bridge and pulled up before a picket fence and a gate. They were in Rusty. CHAPTER III JOURNEY'S END