The breed boy shook his head. "I ain't got nothin' to tell," he said. "Hain't been nowhere except over to Carter's camp awhile. Dave and me pretty near got nabbed by a special officer that's over there." Shorty Smith raised himself up on his elbow. "A special _what_!" he demanded, while a sort of stillness swept the circle. "A special officer of the _law_," replied the boy, with cool importance. "Dave an' me had supper with him. He's a pretty good sort of a feller." "Nice company you've been in," observed Shorty. "Your grandmother always said you'd come to some bad end," drawled Long Bill. An uneasy laugh went around, then absolute silence prevailed for several minutes. The old squaw seemed to be muttering under her breath. Finally she shifted her savage gaze from the outer blackness to the faces about her camp-fire. "Turn cowards for one man!" she exclaimed scornfully. "Well, Harris is in there dead drunk, and what're we goin' to do without him, anyhow?" exclaimed Long Bill. "He might not approve," supplemented Shorty Smith. "That's right; I ain't wantin' no such responsibility on my shoulders, _just now_," declared the large fellow. "We'll postpone matters," decided Shorty. "I ain't after such responsibility myself, you can bet your life!" The others agreed by words and grunts. Suddenly the old woman rose to her feet, grasping her dingy blanket together in front with one scrawny hand, while she outstretched the other, pointing into the night. "Git out!" she snarled scornfully. "Git to your beds, dogs!" The men laughed again uneasily. "Come on, boys," said Shorty Smith. "We'll go an' see if the old man's left a drop in his jug." He moved towards the house, followed by the others. The soft-voiced twin still retained his position by the camp-fire. "You git too!" snarled his grandmother. "I ain't no dog," replied the boy. The squaw grunted. "You told the dogs to go, not me! They won't find any demijohn, neither. I cached it for _you_!" "Good boy," said his grandmother, patting him upon the head. "Go git it!" When Hope and her companions returned that evening a couple of aged Indians hovered over the dying embers of old White Blanket's camp-fire, sociably drinking from a rusty tin cup what the riders naturally supposed to be tea. The soft-voiced twin, already curled up asleep beside his brothers, could have told them different, for had he not won the old woman's passing favor by his generous act? So he slept well.