Bud stepped back from the window and rubbed his eyes. Then he went to the window again and looked with all his vision. And then a grin covered his face. For the two women seemed to be asleep. Bud would have sworn they were asleep! For the negress was hunched up in her chair—a big, almost shapeless black mass—with her chin hidden in the swell of her ample bosom; while the girl was leaning back, her figure slack with the utter relaxation that accompanies deep sleep, her eyes closed and her hat a little awry. Bud was certain _she_ was asleep, for no girl in her waking moments would permit her hat to rest upon her head in that negligent manner. Bad scratched his head many times while hurriedly getting into his clothing. “I’m bettin’ _they_ didn’t wait for flapjacks _this_ morning!” he confided to himself, mentally. “Must like it here a heap,” he reflected. “Well, there’s nothin’ like gittin’ an early start when you’re goin’ anywhere!” he grinned. Stealthily he opened the door of the bunkhouse, watching furtively as he stepped out, lest he be seen; and then when he noted that the women did not move, he darted across the yard, vaulted the corral fence, ran around the corner of the ranchhouse, carefully opened a rear door, and presently stood beside a bed gently shaking its tousled-haired occupant. “Git up, you sufferin’ fool!” he whispered hoarsely; “they’re here!” Taylor’s eyes snapped open and were fixed on Bud with a resentful glare, which instantly changed to reserved amusement when he saw Bud’s bulging eyes and general evidence of suppressed excitement. He yawned sleepily, stretching his arms wide. “The outfit, eh? Well, tell Bothwell I’ll see him——” “Bothwell, hell!” sneered Bud. “It ain’t the outfit! It ain’t no damned range boss! It’s _her_, I tell you! An’ if you’re figgerin’ on gittin’ that ankle bandaged before— That starts you to runnin’, eh?” he jeered. For Taylor was out of bed with one leap. In another he had Bud by the shoulders and had crowded him back against the wall. “Bud,” he said, “I’ve a notion to manhandle you! Didn’t I tell you to have me up early?” “Git your fingers out of my windpipe,” objected Bud. “Early! Sufferin’ shorthorns! Did you want me to git you up last night? It’s only four, now—an’ they’ve been here for hours, I reckon—mebbe all night. How’s a man to know anything about a woman?” Taylor was getting into his clothes. Bud watched him, marveling at his deft movements. “You’re sure a wolf at hustlin’ when _she’s_ around!” he offered. But he got no reply. Taylor was dressed in a miraculously short time, and then he sat down on the edge of the bed and stuck a foot out toward Bud. “Shut up, and get the bandage on!” he directed.