"Well, if you know whose cap it is, it ought to be easy for you to find the owner," she said, unable to smother the sneer in her words. "He isn't one of us," said a homesteader, with grim shortness. "Oh!" said she, tossing her lofty head. There was a pallor in Macdonald's weathered face, as if somebody near and dear to himself was in extreme peril. "She may never see home again," he said. Then quickly: "Which way did he go, do you know?" She told him what she knew, not omitting the lost horseshoe. Tom Lassiter bent in his saddle with eagerness as she mentioned that particular, and ran his eyes over the road like one reading the pages of a book. "There!" he said, pointing, "I've been seein' it all the way down, Alan. He was headin' for the hills." Frances could not see the print of the shoeless hoof, nor any peculiarity among the scores of tracks that would tell her of Nola's abductor having ridden that far along the road. She flushed as the thought came to her that this was a trick to throw her attention from themselves and the blame upon some fictitious person, when they knew whose hands were guilty all the time. The men were leaning in their saddles, riding slowly back on their trail, talking in low voices and sharp exclamations among themselves. She spurred hotly after them. "Mr. Chadron hasn't come home yet," she said, addressing Macdonald, who sat straight in his saddle to hear, "but they expect him any hour. If you'll say how much you're going to demand, and where you want it paid, I'll carry the word to him. It might hurry matters, and save her mother's life." "I'm sorry you repeated that," said Macdonald, touching his hat in what he plainly meant a farewell salute. He turned from her and drew Tom Lassiter aside. In a moment he was riding back again the way that he had come. Frances looked at the unaccountable proceeding with the eyes of doubt and suspicion. She did not believe any of them, and had no faith in their mysterious trackings and whisperings aside, and mad gallopings off to hidden ends. As for Tom Lassiter and his companions, they ranged themselves preparatory to continuing their journey. "If you're goin' our way, colonel's daughter," said Tom, gathering up his bridle-reins, "we'll be proud to ride along with you." Frances was looking at the dust-cloud that rose behind Macdonald. He was no longer in sight. "Where has he gone?" she inquired, her suspicion growing every moment. "He's gone to find that cowman's child, young lady, and take her home to her mother," Tom replied, with dignity. He rode on. She followed, presently gaining his side. "Is there such a man as Mark Thorn?" she asked after a little, looking across at Lassiter with sly innuendo. "No, there ain't no man by that name, but there's a devil in the shape of a human man called that," he answered. "Is he--what does he do?" She reined a little nearer to Lassiter, feeling that there was little harm in him apart from the directing hand.