“Wal, Sna-ake, I shore reckon we'll all be thet there soon,” drawled Wilson, in his familiar cool and irritating tone that said so much more than the content of the words. Anson did not address the Texas member of his party again. Burt rode bareback into camp, driving half the number of the horses; Riggs followed shortly with several more. But three were missed, one of them being Anson's favorite. He would not have budged without that horse. During breakfast he growled about his lazy men, and after the meal tried to urge them off. Riggs went unwillingly. Burt refused to go at all. “Nix. I footed them hills all I'm a-goin' to,” he said. “An' from now on I rustle my own hoss.” The leader glared his reception of this opposition. Perhaps his sense of fairness actuated him once more, for he ordered Shady and Moze out to do their share. “Jim, you're the best tracker in this outfit. Suppose you go,” suggested Anson. “You allus used to be the first one off.” “Times has changed, Snake,” was the imperturbable reply. “Wal, won't you go?” demanded the leader, impatiently. “I shore won't.” Wilson did not look or intimate in any way that he would not leave the girl in camp with one or any or all of Anson's gang, but the truth was as significant as if he had shouted it. The slow-thinking Moze gave Wilson a sinister look. “Boss, ain't it funny how a pretty wench--?” began Shady Jones, sarcastically. “Shut up, you fool!” broke in Anson. “Come on, I'll help rustle them hosses.” After they had gone Burt took his rifle and strolled off into the forest. Then the girl appeared. Her hair was down, her face pale, with dark shadows. She asked for water to wash her face. Wilson pointed to the brook, and as she walked slowly toward it he took a comb and a clean scarf from his pack and carried them to her. Upon her return to the camp-fire she looked very different with her hair arranged and the red stains in her cheeks. “Miss, air you hungry?” asked Wilson. “Yes, I am,” she replied. He helped her to portions of bread, venison and gravy, and a cup of coffee. Evidently she relished the meat, but she had to force down the rest. “Where are they all?” she asked. “Rustlin' the hosses.” Probably she divined that he did not want to talk, for the fleeting glance she gave him attested to a thought that his voice or demeanor had changed. Presently she sought a seat under the aspen-tree, out of the sun, and the smoke continually blowing in her face; and there she stayed, a forlorn little figure, for all the resolute lips and defiant eyes. The Texan paced to and fro beside the camp-fire with bent head, and hands locked behind him. But for the swinging gun he would have resembled a lanky farmer, coatless and hatless, with his brown vest open, his trousers stuck in the top of the high boots.