“Bess Fletcher, I am not unarmed,” he said threateningly. “I—could—kill you!” Not even her eyelash quivered as her steady gaze held his own. A faint, scornful smile played for an instant upon her lips. Nor yet did she move when she heard from out the storm Mauchacho’s loud neigh in response to another horse’s call. Davis suddenly turned to the window and his face grew dark. “West!” he cried hoarsely, and wrenched the door open, attempting to escape under cover of the small firs. He was too late. In the dim light of the swiftly abating storm Bess saw a wide, swaying rope suddenly descend and curl its quivering folds securely about the fugitive’s body, pinioning him within its tightening hold. West leaped from his horse. Without a word he secured the lariat about his captive. Bess came hurrying to him, her pistol still in her hand. He caught sight of the weapon. “I came too soon,” he said. “You would have used my gift.” “Oh—Henry—you came just in time,” sobbed the girl. “What are you going to do,” she demanded as West told her to get on her horse, at the same time lifting the helpless man with superhuman strength and thrusting him into his own saddle. The new-comer grasped his horse by the bridle and started with long, rapid strides down the gulch, followed by Mauchacho and his helpless rider. The strain of the past hour had completely unnerved the girl, who with difficulty held her seat in the saddle. On walked the determined man leading the way. On rode the captive in dogged silence, while Bess followed scarcely knowing whither nor why. The storm with all its fury and havoc had passed. Faint flashes beyond the distant mountains showed where its wrath was weakening. Twilight, soft and mystical was settling on the hills and weirdly filling the expanse of the Big Draw. Like the gleam of a great evil eye shone in the distance the fire of the branders, which the wind had fanned into glowing coals. As they neared this spot Davis spoke for the first time. “What are you going to do with me?” Bess waited with bated breath for West’s reply. For a full moment he walked on as if he had not heard. Then he said undecisively, “The boys in camp shall decide.” “Look here, West, this a damned mean way to treat any man. I demand that you release me—you cowardly Indian!” The Indian walked taciturnly on, swiftly, steadily. As he neared the glowing fire, its ruddy light painted his face as red as a warrior’s. Several of the irons were still sticking in the fire where the boys had forgotten them as they hastened from the storm. Mauchacho shied when he passed the fire with its irons, as if the sting of their torture was still fresh in his mind. “Say West—this has gone far enough. Besides—I—Miss Fletcher accompanied me into that cabin—because she wished to—freely—”