In a few moments when they started off, Burt, Jones, and Moze were in the lead driving the pack-horses, Anson rode next, the girl came between him and Riggs, and significantly, it seemed, Jim Wilson brought up the rear. This start was made a little after the noon hour. They zigzagged up the slope, took to a deep ravine, and followed it up to where it headed in the level forest. From there travel was rapid, the pack-horses being driven at a jogtrot. Once when a troop of deer burst out of a thicket into a glade, to stand with ears high, young Burt halted the cavalcade. His well-aimed shot brought down a deer. Then the men rode on, leaving him behind to dress and pack the meat. The only other halt made was at the crossing of the first water, a clear, swift brook, where both horses and men drank thirstily. Here Burt caught up with his comrades. They traversed glade and park, and wended a crooked trail through the deepening forest, and climbed, bench after bench, to higher ground, while the sun sloped to the westward, lower and redder. Sunset had gone, and twilight was momentarily brightening to the afterglow when Anson, breaking his silence of the afternoon, ordered a halt. The place was wild, dismal, a shallow vale between dark slopes of spruce. Grass, fire-wood, and water were there in abundance. All the men were off, throwing saddles and packs, before the tired girl made an effort to get down. Riggs, observing her, made a not ungentle move to pull her off. She gave him a sounding slap with her gloved hand. “Keep your paws to yourself,” she said. No evidence of exhaustion was there in her spirit. Wilson had observed this by-play, but Anson had not. “What come off?” he asked. “Wal, the Honorable Gunman Riggs jest got caressed by the lady--as he was doin' the elegant,” replied Moze, who stood nearest. “Jim, was you watchin'?” queried Anson. His curiosity had held through the afternoon. “He tried to yank her off an' she biffed him,” replied Wilson. “That Riggs is jest daffy or plain locoed,” said Snake, in an aside to Moze. “Boss, you mean plain cussed. Mark my words, he'll hoodoo this outfit. Jim was figgerin' correct.” “Hoodoo--” cursed Anson, under his breath. Many hands made quick work. In a few moments a fire was burning brightly, water was boiling, pots were steaming, the odor of venison permeated the cool air. The girl had at last slipped off her saddle to the ground, where she sat while Riggs led the horse away. She sat there apparently forgotten, a pathetic droop to her head.