“No, no! He isn’t a ghost! Whatever made you think of such a thing? He doesn’t mean to harm you--no, he is _not_ a spirit. He merely fell down hill, and he wants to help you up. Are you hurt--Grandmother?” Her clear, gray-brown eyes went quickly, defiantly to Rawley’s face. That young man could not repress a startled look, which traveled from the slim girl, indubitably white, to the squaw whimpering in the trail. She must be trying her own hand at a joke, he thought, just to break even with his fancied presumption in halting their leisurely progress down the trail. From up on the ridge a rifle cracked. The three turned heads toward the thin, sinister report. They waited motionless for a moment. Then the girl spoke. “That wasn’t fired in our direction,” she said, and immediately there came the sound of another shot. “And that’s not the same gun,” she added. “That sounds like an old-fashioned gun shooting black powder. Didn’t you hear the _pow-w_ of it?” “That would be Johnny Buffalo--my Indian partner,” said Rawley. “You folks stay here. I’m going back up there and see what’s doing.” “Is that necessary?” The girl looked at him quickly. “I think you ought to help turn Deacon right side up before you go.” She leaned sidewise and peered down over the bank. “He’s in an awful mess. His pack is wedged between two bowlders, and his legs are sticking straight up in the air.” Rawley sent a hasty glance down the bank. “He’s all right--he’s flopping his ears,” he observed reassuringly. “I’ll be back just as soon as I see how Johnny Buffalo is making out. That fellow may have got him. You stay back here out of sight. Promise me.” He looked at her earnestly, as if by the force of his will he would compel obedience. Her eyes evaded the meeting. “Pickles will have to be rounded up,” she said. “He’s probably halfway to Nelson by this time. And there’s Grandmother to think of.” “Well, you think of those things until I get back,” he said, with a swift smile. “I can’t leave my partner to shoot it out alone.” CHAPTER SEVEN NEVADA He ran to the point of rocks, gathered himself together and cleared the trail and the open space beyond in one leap. How he got up the steep bank he never remembered afterward. He only knew that he heard the sharp crack of the first rifle again as he was sprinting up the little gully that had concealed his descent. He gained the top, stopped to get his bearings more accurately and made his way toward the spot where he had seen the man with the rifle. It occurred to him that he had best approach the spot from the shelter of the ledge where he had separated from Johnny Buffalo. At that point he could pick up the Indian’s tracks and follow them, so saving time in the long run.