Hollister walked back with them to the car. He talked with her father about the outrage that had resulted in the death of poor Coyle. Betty walked beside the men, saying nothing. She was acutely conscious of the presence of the sunburnt young fellow beside her. His rags had given place to a serviceable khaki that modeled itself to the clean lines of his figure. He walked firmly and lightly, with character. It was observable that he had shaved not many hours since. There was a faint line of golden hair along the cheekbone at the place where the stroke of the razor had terminated. He was not wearing a hat. The girl liked the way his copper-red hair crisped in short curls over his forehead. “Jake Prowers, that’s who,” her father was saying. “He’ll maybe hide behind Black. That’s the way the old wolf does business.” “He doesn’t look like a wolf.” This from Hollister. “No. More like a sheep. But don’t let that fool you. He’s the most dangerous man in this county. Jake pulled this off to serve notice that it wasn’t safe to work here in the cañon. Might have been a dozen men killed. A lot he cares for that. You’ll find his tracks are covered, too. He won’t show at all, an’ there won’t be evidence enough to convict Black or anybody else.” Betty heard with her surface mind what they were saying, but the undercurrent of it was considering something else. Was Hollister offended at her? Had he meant to rebuff her for presumption? There had been a certain rigor in his inscrutable face when he had turned the conversation. Already she was castigating herself for officiousness. Did he think her bold, unmaidenly? Well, he had a right to think it. Whatever had possessed her to say what she had? She had meant well, of course, but that can be said of half the fools of the world in their folly. Baby Fifi came prancing up the road to meet them with ineffective puppy barks of welcome. Betty picked up the small dog and questioned it. “Did Ruth send you to meet us? And did you both have a good time while we were away?” The child was not in the car. Betty smiled at her father. Both of them knew the ways of Mistress Ruth. Presently she would pounce on them from behind that rock just above the road with piping shrieks of glee. “Where can she be, Dad?” Betty asked, in a voice intended to carry. “I wonder. You don’t suppose--” Clint did not finish his sentence. His gaze had fastened on a cigarette stub lying on the running-board of the car. It had not been there when they left. He was sure of that. “Some one’s been here,” he said quickly. Betty caught the note of tenseness in his voice. Her eyes followed his to the bit of cigarette. She was not frightened. There was nothing to be afraid of. Nobody in these hills would hurt Ruth. None the less, her heart action quickened. “Ruth!” she called. There came no answer. Clint called, sharply, imperatively. “Come out, Ruth! No nonsense!”