“Well, you’ll go, all the same. What sort of a man do you suppose I am, anyhow—a heathen?” Before Oscar could reply, the ranchman, having tightened his grasp on his arm, dragged rather than led him down the stairs, ushered him into the dug-out, and seated him on an inverted dry-goods box that stood in the corner near the stove. “There!” said he. “Sit down and talk to me, while I go on getting supper. I didn’t expect company to-night; and, as I have sent most of my grub and all my sheep off to the hills, I can’t give you as good a meal as I could if you had come a week ago. I should have been on the way to the hills myself by this time, if it hadn’t been for that note I found fastened to my door. How is everything in the States? Got any late papers with you?” The friendly tone in which these words were spoken surprised Oscar. Could this be the same man who had pointed a loaded gun at his head a few minutes before? While his host was speaking, Oscar had leisure to look about him. He had never before seen the inside of a dug-out, and he was not a little astonished at the appearance of it. It was really a comfortable dwelling, and not the dirty hole he had expected to find it. There was plenty of room in it; and the furniture it contained, although of the rudest description, showed that it had been fitted up as a permanent abode. There were two bunks beside the door; and in one of them a comfortable bed was made up. The other was empty. The walls were covered by blankets and buffalo robes; two small dry-goods boxes did duty as chairs, and a larger one served as the table. There was a small cupboard on each side of the stove, one of which contained a few tin dishes, while the other, Oscar noticed with some surprise, was filled with books. A solitary candle burned in a bracket candlestick that was fastened against the wall; but, as there was a reflector behind it, the interior of the dug-out was well lighted. The ranchman talked incessantly while he was busy with his preparations for supper; but Oscar was too deeply engrossed with his own affairs to pay much attention to him. The loss of the mule weighed heavily on his mind; but, after all, it did not trouble him so much as did the note which the ranchman said he had found fastened to his “door.” Oscar knew then, as well as he knew it afterward, that the note had been written by his brother, at the dictation of Lish, the Wolfer, and that it could have been written for no other purpose than to get him into trouble with the ranchman; but why the Wolfer and Tom should want to get him into trouble was something he could not divine. It was something that baffled him completely. Worse than all, he was obliged to keep his own counsel; there was no one to whom he could go for advice. He would have been glad to continue the journey that night; for he wanted to get away by himself and think the matter over.