To Bertram it seemed as if the girl floated toward him on a billowing sea of ether, instead of running swiftly, as she did, across the sparse verdure of the clearing. Also, in the young Texan’s eyes, she seemed more lovely and more unattainable than before. He had caught only fleeting glimpses of her during their previous meetings, and one of those meetings had been under a very poor brand of artificial light. But now, in the bright Wyoming day, he caught the full beauty of her youthful color, the regularity of her features and her grace of movement. Her lithe figure was outlined in all its charm against the green of the thicket from which she had sprung. She had dropped her hat and tossed aside her riding gauntlets, and her spurs jingled at the heels of her small riding boots, as she ran. “By all the gods!” thought the wounded and dazed Bertram, “this country up here was made as a background for her.” Horror and questioning were written on the girl’s features, as she reached Caldwell’s side and flung herself on her knees beside the body. One glance told her what had happened, and she buried her face in her hands. Meantime Bertram’s wavering attention had been attracted by another figure, following closely behind the girl. It was the figure of a youth, hardly taller than Alma Caldwell and nearly as slender. Yet, for all the newcomer’s youthfulness and slenderness, there was something so threatening in his attitude, as he approached more slowly than had the girl, that Bertram half raised his revolver. The boy, who was carrying a rifle, hesitated a moment, as if to bring the weapon to his shoulder. “Stop!” said the girl, looking up. “Jimmy Coyle, put down that gun. You had no business to fire in the first place, without my telling you.” “So that’s the person who shot at me, is it?” asked Bertram, lowering his weapon and turning toward the girl. “I’m glad you’ve stopped him from doing it any more, as it seems to me there’s been quite enough shooting around here to-day.” The spreading crimson stain on the young Texan’s shirt front caught the girl’s eye. With an exclamation of concern she rose to her feet. “It’s nothing worth bothering about,” the Texan said. “You’ve got sorrow enough on your hands, for I take it this man must have been your father. I just want to tell you that I don’t--I don’t----” Bertram intended to say that he did not take her advice about quitting the expedition in Denver, and he had therefore been compelled to do so when it was a matter of more personal difficulty, but the words refused to shape themselves. The young Texan wiped the cold beads of agony from his forehead. His words came haltingly, and he swayed and fell in a faint beside the body of the man whom Swingley had dubbed the “king of the rustlers.”