"Say, fellers," he cried, as he swung out of the saddle at the bunkhouse door, "ther's a tow-headed sucker on the trail lookin' fer the James outfit. Guess he wants to shoot 'em up. He's a sawed-off mutt, an' don't look a heap like scarin' a jack-rabbit. I told him he best git back to hum, an' git busy fixin' his funeral right, so he wouldn't have no trouble later." "Wher's he from?" someone asked. "Sufferin' Creek," replied the cowpuncher, "an' seems to me he's got more grit than savvee." And this opinion was more or less the general one. The little man rode like one possessed, and it was as well that of all his six treasured horses Wild Bill had lent him his black beauty, Gipsy. She was quite untiring, and, with her light weight burden, she traveled in a spirit of sheer delight. At every homestead or ranch Scipio only paused to make inquiries and then hurried on. The information he received was of the vaguest. James or some of his gang were often seen in the remoter parts of the lower foothills, but this was all. At one farm he had a little better luck, however. Here he was told that the farmer had received an intimation that if he wished to escape being burnt out he must be prepared to hand over four hundred dollars when called upon by the writer to do so; and the message was signed "James." "So ye see," said the farmer--a man named Nicholls--despondently, "he's som'eres skulkin' around hyar." "Seems like it," acquiesced Scipio. Then, of a sudden, a suspicion flashed through the other's mind, and the man-hunter spent an uncomfortable few seconds. "Say, you're lookin' fer him?" the farmer questioned harshly. Then he leant forward, his eyes lighting with sudden anger. "If I tho't you was--" But Scipio's mild blue eyes, and his simple reply had a pacific effect at once. "I'm looking for him because he's stole my wife. And I'm goin' on chasin' till I find him." There was such mild sincerity in his visitor's manner that it was impossible for the farmer to retain his suspicion. "What you goin' to do about that four hundred?" inquired Scipio later. "He'll get no dollars out o' me. I ain't got 'em," replied Nicholls hopelessly. Then his temper rose. "But I'm just goin' to sleep with a gun to my hand, an' he'll get it good an' plenty, if he shoots the life out of me, an' burns every stick I got, after." Scipio nodded sympathetically. "I'd feel that ways," he said. "Well, I guess I'll be gettin' on. My mare'll be fed an' rested by this. Thanks for the feed. Guess I'll hunt around this district a piece. Maybe I'll find--" But suddenly the farmer awoke from the contemplation of his own troubles and eyed the diminutive figure of his guest wonderingly, as he stood up to go. "Say," he observed critically, "guess you must be bustin' with grit chasin' this feller." Scipio shook his head. "No," he said, with a wan smile. "But he's got--my wife." "Ah." And there was a world of understanding in the man's monosyllable.