"You have no objection to our digging out a den of coyotes back here, have you?" she asked. "Umph! There ain't no den 'round here that I know about," he replied, still retaining his position in the door. "But see here," pointing toward the side hill, "the boys have found one and are at work up there right now." "More fools they, then," declared old Peter, limping cautiously outside the door. "I cleaned out that den three year ago, an' I never knowed a coyote to come an' live in a place that'd been monkeyed with. Too much sense fer that. I always said a coyote had more sense 'n them boys! Better go tell 'em they'd as well dig fer water on the top o' that peak, Miss!" He shook his tousled head dubiously, watched the boys on the hill for a moment, then limped back again, taking up his first position, half in, half out the door. His attitude invited her to be gone, but she held in her uneasy horse and proceeded in a friendly manner to encourage some more deep-seated, guttural tones from the old man. "Do you live here all alone?" "Humph! I reckon I do." "Have you lived here long?" "Reckon I have." "Are those your cattle up on the divide?" "I reckon they be." "It must be awful lonesome for you here all by yourself. Do coyotes or wolves trouble you much? Whoa, Rowdy!" "They're a plumb nuisance, Miss. Better kill off a few of 'em while you're here. I reckon you kin use yer gun." "I _reckon_ I can, a little," she replied. "When I was in the war," he continued, "they had some sharpshooters along, but they wan't no wimmen among 'em. I reckon you're right handy with a gun." "Who told you?" she asked suddenly. "I reckon I know from the way you hold that 'ere gun." Just then the soft-voiced twin rode up to the cabin. Hope accosted him. "Did you get the coyotes _already_?" "Nope, Dave's still diggin'. I'm goin' home er the old man'll be huntin' me with the end of his rope." "Oh, you'd better stay," she coaxed. "Think of the fun you'll miss when Dave gets into the den. It's your find; you ought to stay for the finish." "I'll stake you to my share," said the boy. "He'll soon find all there is. But I guess I'd better be a-goin'." "Perhaps you had," Hope replied, thoughtfully; then she rode over to the industrious Dave, while the soft-voiced twin wisely took a straight bee-line across the hills to his father's ranch. This time Hope herself climbed the hill to the spot where the boy was digging. "Dave, I'm afraid there are no coyotes in there, aren't you?" He stopped work, wiped his brow with something that had once been a red bandanna handkerchief, then gravely eyed the girl, who leaned against the rocks beside him. "But he said," pondering in perplexity. "But he said----" He looked into the ragged entrance of the hole, then at his shovel, then up again at the girl. "What makes you think there ain't no coyotes there?"