“I wouldn’t say any more,” whispered Louise. “Let’s get on.” The hint was sufficient, and with the words, “Right you are, Miss Reporter, we’ll be gittin’ on,” Jim paid his toll and spoke to his team. “Just wait a bit, will you?” spoke up the sandy man. “What for?” “We’re not just ready.” “Well, we are,” shortly. “We aren’t, and we don’t care to be passed, you know.” He spoke indifferently. In deference to Louise, Jim waited. The men smoked on carelessly. The toll-man fidgeted. “You go to hell! The Three Bars ain’t waitin’ on no damned hoss thieves,” said Jim, suddenly. His nervous team sprang forward. Quick as a flash the sandy man was in the buckboard. He struck the bays a stinging blow with his rawhide, and as they swerved aside he swung into the straight course to the narrow bridge of boats. In another moment the way would be blocked. With a burning oath Jim, keeping to the side of the steep incline till the river mire cut him off, deliberately turned his stanch little team squarely, and crowded them forward against the shaggy buckskins. It was team against team. Louise, clinging tightly to the seat, lips pressed together to keep back any sound, felt a wild, inexplicable thrill of confidence in the strength of the man beside her. The bays were pitifully, cruelly lashed by the enraged owner of the buckskins, but true as steel to the familiar voice that had guided them so often and so kindly, they gave not nor faltered. There was a snapping of broken wood, a wrench, a giving way, and the runabout sprang over debris of broken wheel and wagon-box to the narrow confines of the pontoon bridge. “The Three Bars is gettin’ busy!” gibed Jim over his shoulder. “It’s a sorry day for you and yours,” cried the other, in black and ugly wrath. “We ain’t afeared. You’re nothin’ but a hoss thief, anyway!” responded Jim, gleefully, as a parting shot. “Now what do you suppose was their game?” he asked of the girl at his side. “I don’t know,” answered Louise, thoughtfully. “But I thought it not wise to say too much to them. You are a witness, I believe you said.” “Then you think they are part o’ the gang?” “I consider them at least sympathizers, don’t you? They seemed down on the Three Bars.” In the Indian country at last. Mile after mile of level, barren stretches after the hill region had been left behind. Was there no end to the thirst-inspiring, monotonous, lonely reach of cacti? Prairie dogs, perched in front of their holes, chattered and scolded at them. The sun went down and a refreshing coolness crept over the hard, baked earth. Still, there was nothing but distance anywhere in all the land, and a feeling of desolation swept over the girl.