Bess was still standing at her horse’s head, engrossed in watching the distant chase. They were so far away that at times she could not distinguish the men. At first she was excited, but as she saw the persistent pursuit and the vain attempt the animal made to reach a place of safety, she felt a wave of indignation surge over her and fill her with hot anger. Stamping her foot upon the ground, she cried out in vain: “Oh, you two horrid men! Leave that poor creature alone! What will you do when you do capture him? Murder him, of course! James, have you lost all your sense, to follow that—that—Indian! Yes, that is all you are now—an Indian thirsting for the blood of your victim!” She burst into uncontrollable tears and hid her face against her horse’s neck, to shut out the vision of the tragedy. Mauchacho bent his head and touched his mistress with his nose, as if trying to console her. Could he have spoken he would have explained that these things were a part of Western life; how it was impossible to tolerate low-bred stock; how this affair would seem all right when she became accustomed to the ways and laws of the range. So the girl stood, for ages it seemed to her, until she heard the approach of the horses. She did not lift her head when they came up, and West saw that she had been sorely affected by witnessing the capture. In a soft, low voice he said: “I’m very sorry, Miss Bess, that this circumstance occurred just as it did. It was unavoidable.” The girl wheeled, with a storm of reproof upon her lips; but as she saw his seriousness, her parted lips closed slowly, and she left unsaid what she thought to say. She shuddered at the remnant of blood stains which she saw upon his hands and bespattered white silk shirt, and springing into the saddle turned her horse away with an unreasoning jerk. James saw her displeasure and only aggravated it by saying that she would grow accustomed to such things if she stayed in the cattle country. West followed Mauchacho in silence and only spoke when they reached the Nedreau ranch. He hurried forward to help the girl dismount, but she scorned his assistance and sprang lightly to the ground. “Did you—did you kill him?” she demanded, pushing up her hair with an angry gesture. “Yes—I had to,” he replied, looking into her eyes with decisive determination. Just then an old Indian with his squaw came into view. West accosted them, and by numerous gestures and gutteral sounds explained that down under the willows, near the creek, they would find “heap muck-a-muck.” Bess became deeply interested in the ambiguous and incoherent conversation; saw their stoic faces assuming a happy and expectant expression as their benefactor impressed upon them the fact that a supply of fresh beef was at their command. Before West had fairly finished explaining to them, they had started their old, wobbly cayuses into their swiftest paces, to reach the treasure before some other hungry “Injun” had discovered the prize.