“I know, an' I'm afraid of Leslie. An' that other fire-ranger, Jim Williams, he's a Texan, an' a bad man. The two of them could about trim up this camp. They'll both fight for the boy; take that from me.” “We are sure up against it. Think now, and think quick.” “First, I'll try to fix the boy. If that won't work... we'll kidnap him. Then we'll take no chances with Leslie. There's a cool two hundred an' fifty thousand in this deal for us, an' we're goin' to get it.” With that Buell went into his office and closed the door; the other man, Stockton, walked briskly down the platform. I could not resist peeping from my hiding-place as he passed. He was tall and had a red beard, which would enable me to recognize him if we met. I waited there for some little time. Then I saw that by squeezing between two piles of lumber could reach the other side of the platform. When I reached the railing I climbed over, and, with the help of braces and posts, soon got to where I could drop down. Once on the ground I ran along under the platform until I saw a lane that led to the street. My one thought was to reach the cabin where the Negro cook stayed and ask him if Dick Leslie had come to camp. If he had not arrived, then I intended to make a bee-line for my mustang. VI. DICK LESLIE, RANGER Which end of the street I entered I had no idea. The cabins were all alike, and in my hurry I would have passed the cook's shack had it not been for the sight of a man standing in the door. That stalwart figure I would have known anywhere. “Dick!” I cried, rushing at him. What Dick's welcome was I did not hear, but judging from the grip he put on my shoulders and then on my hands, he was glad to see me. “Ken, blessed if I'd have known you,” he said, shoving me back at arm's-length. “Let's have a look at you.... Grown I say, but you're a husky lad!” While he was looking at me I returned the scrutiny with interest. Dick had always been big, but now he seemed wider and heavier. Among these bronzed Westerners he appeared pale, but that was only on account of his fair skin. “Ken, didn't you get my letter--the one telling you not to come West yet a while?” “No,” I replied, blankly. “The last one I got was in May--about the middle. I have it with me. You certainly asked me to come then. Dick, don't you want me--now?” Plain it was that my friend felt uncomfortable; he shifted from one foot to another, and a cloud darkened his brow. But his blue eyes burned with a warm light as he put his hand on my shoulder. “Ken, I'm glad to see you,” he said, earnestly. “It's like getting a glimpse of home. But I wrote you not to come. Conditions have changed--there's something doing here--I'll--” “You needn't explain, Dick,” I replied, gravely. “I know. Buell and--” I waved my hand from the sawmill to the encircling slash. Dick's face turned a fiery red. I believed that was the only time Dick Leslie ever failed to look a fellow in the eye.