He broke off short at the slam of a door on the farther side of the storehouse. A feminine voice called, “Oh, papa!” Montell sprang to his feet, muttering an expletive to himself, but he did not at once reply. In the stillness the sound of light footfalls threading the maze of piled goods echoed softly among the heavy beams above. It was dusk outside by then, and within that scantily windowed place it was quite dark, beyond a red circle cast from the open fireplace. And as the girl stepped into the edge of its glow Montell struck a match and touched it to a three-pronged candlestick on the box by his seat. She stifled an exclamation at sight of us. Then, with a scornful twist to her dainty mouth, she bowed in mock courtesy. “Gentlemen,” she murmured, an ironic emphasis on the term, “your presence is unexpected. I cannot say I esteem it an honor.” Then she turned to her father. “Papa,” she observed interrogatively, “I have always known you were a hospitable soul, but I never dreamed a house of yours would ever prove shelter for an outlawed cutthroat. Upon my word, if I were a man I should be tempted to collect the bounty on this human wolf. There is a bounty. See?” She fumbled in a pocket of the short, fur-edged jacket she wore, and presently drew forth a folded paper. “Yes, surely there is a bounty,” she went on maliciously, holding the paper broadside to the sputtering candles. “Not a great one, to be sure, but more than he is worth. Five hundred dollars for the body, dead or alive, of George Brown, alias Slowfoot George. Height, weight, color of eyes, certain marks and scars—to a dot. Also an appalling list of crimes. Have you no shred or atom of a decent impulse left”—she addressed Barreau directly, her tone level, stingingly contemptuous—“that you persist in thrusting yourself upon people after they have seen the sheep’s clothing stripped from your degenerate shoulders?” Barreau met her gaze squarely and answered her in her own tone. “I am here,” he said, “because I choose to be here. Montell _pere_ can tell you why.” “Now, now Jessie,” Montell cut in pacifically. “This ain’t St. Louis. If George is in trouble, I don’t know as any one has a better right to help him than me. You don’t want to be always ridin’ that high hoss of yours. This country ain’t peopled with little tin gods, as I’ve told you many a time. You’d better go back to the house. I’ll be there pretty quick.” “Indeed, I imagine I could hardly be in worse company,” she declared. “So I will quit it, forthwith. It was not of my seeking. Better keep an eye on your goods, papa.” With that she was gone, leaving the three of us staring at each other, Montell a bit apprehensive, it seemed to me. Barreau was first to find his voice. “I would advise you to get your trail outfit in readiness to-night,” he told Montell bluntly, “and start south in the morning. Otherwise I will give no guarantee of peace and good will in this camp. I can’t stand much of that sort of thing.”