“Hello!” cried Young Van. “What’s this? What are you doing with that gun?” “I took it away from this man. He was hiding out there behind a pile of bones. I reckon he was trying to get away when his horse went lame and the daylight caught him.” [Illustration: “‘You go back to your quarters.’”] “What has he to say for himself?” “It’s a ---- lie!” growled the stranger. “I was riding in to ask for a job, an’ I hadn’t more’n set down to rest--” “You ride by night, eh?” “Well--” the stranger hesitated--“not gen’ally. But I was so near--” “Here, here!” cried Old Van. “What’s all this talk about? I guess you know what to do with him. Get about it.” “What do you mean by that?” cried Young Van, flushing. “What do I mean by it? What is generally done with horse thieves?” The stranger blanched. “You call me a--” But Young Van checked him. “We don’t know that he is a horse thief.” “I do, and that’s enough. Charlie, take him off, and make a clean job of it.” “Charlie,” cried Young Van, “stay where you are!” He turned hotly on his brother. “The worst we have any reason to believe about this man is that he put up that placard.” “Well, doesn’t that prove him one of the gang?” “We have no proof of anything.” “You keep out of this, Gus! Charlie, do as I tell you.” Charlie hesitated, and looked inquiringly at the younger engineer. This drove Old Van beyond reason. He suddenly snatched the revolver from the cook, shouting angrily: “If you won’t obey orders, I’ll see to it myself!” But Young Van, with a quick movement, gripped the weapon, bent it back out of his brother’s grasp, snapped it open, ejected the cartridges, and silently returned it. Old Van held it in his hand and looked at it, then at the five cartridges, where they had fallen on the ground. Then, with an expression his brother had never before seen on his face, he let the weapon fall on the ground among the cartridges, and walked away to the headquarters tent. “Charlie,” said Young Van, “keep this man safe until the sheriff comes back.” “All right, sir,” Charlie replied. The cook turned away with his prisoner, and Young Van’s eyes sought the ground. He had almost come to blows with his brother, and that before the men, about the worst thing that could have taken place. The incident seemed the natural culmination of these days of depression and pulling at odds. “It looks like the sheriff coming in now, sir.” Young Van started and looked up. Charlie, still grasping the stranger, was pointing down the track, where a troop of horsemen could be seen approaching. They drew rapidly nearer, and soon the two leaders could be distinguished. One was unmistakably Bowlegged Bill Lane. The other was a slender man, hatless, with rumpled hair, and a white handkerchief bound around his forehead. Young Van walked out to meet them, and saw, with astonishment, that the hatless rider was Paul Carhart; and never had face of man or woman been more welcome to his eyes.