Langford, riding slightly in advance, was having a bad time with himself. The keenest self-reproach was stabbing him like a physical pain. His honor—his good honor, that he held so high and stainless—was his word not given by it that the Willistons might count on his sure protection? What had he done to merit this proud boast? Knowing that Jesse Black was once more at liberty, fully realizing of what vast import to the State would be Williston’s testimony when the rustlers should be brought to trial, he had sat stupidly back and done nothing. And he had promised. Would Williston have had the courage without that promise? Why were not some of his cowboys even now sleeping with an eye upon that little claim shack where lived that scholar-man who was not fit for the rough life of the plains, maybe, but who had been brave enough and high-minded enough to lay his all on the white altar of telling what he knew for right’s sake. And the girl— “God! The girl!” he cried aloud. “What did you say, Boss?” asked Jim, pounding alongside. “Nothing!” said Langford, curtly. He spurred his mare savagely. In the shock of the surprise, and the sting that his neglected word brought him, he had forgotten the girl—Williston’s “little girl” with the grave eyes—the girl who was not ten but twenty and more—the girl who had waited for him, whom he had sent on her long way alone, joyously, as one free of a duty that promised to be irksome—the girl who had brought the blood to his face when, ashamed, he had galloped off to the spring—the girl who had closed her door when a man’s curious eyes had roved that way. How could he forget? The little cavalcade swept on with increased speed, following the lead of the master. Soon the sound of shooting was borne to them distinctly through the quiet night. “Thank God, boys!” cried Langford, digging in his spurs, once more. “They are not surprised! Listen! God! What a plucky fight! If they can only hold out!” At that moment a tiny tongue of flame leaped up away to the front of them, gleaming in the darkness like a beacon light. Now there were two—they grew, spread, leaped heavenward in mad revel. Langford’s heart sank like lead. He groaned in an exceeding bitterness of spirit. The worst had happened. Would they be in time? These claim shanties burn like paper. And the girl! He doubted not that she had sustained her share of the good fight. She had fought like a man, she must die like a man,—would be the outlaw’s reasoning. He believed she would die like a man—if that meant bravely,—but something clutched at his heart-strings with the thought. Her big, solemn eyes came back to him now as they had looked when she had lifted them to him gravely as he sat his horse and she had said she had waited for him. Was she waiting now?