“Little Bill didn’t mean to strike you in the mouth, I know,” said Isabelle, disregarding the change of subject. “What he meant to do—what he still means to do, in fact, is to beat your blinkety-blink, do-re-mi-sol-dough brains out and spread them thinly over the entire Stillwater district. Or, at least, that is what I heard him saying as I rode past the bunk house last evening. I suppose he was dreaming while he slept!” “I think he must have been, Queen Isabelle, and others along with him.” “I suppose he also dreamed that you swaggered up to him and others at the post office, and boasted that you would show them who was running this country, thereupon attacking them with your loaded quirt.” Patrick O’Neill stared fixedly into her face, his own a bit pale under his tan. He swung his horse short around in the trail then and started back the way they had come. “Where away, Mr. Bad Man?” Isabelle’s voice held a note of panic under the raillery. Ranger O’Neill held his horse to a walk while he looked back at her. “I was going to bring Little Bill to you and hear him admit how the tongue of him lied,” he said grimly. “Or you may come with me, if it pleases you better than to wait.” He looked at her, eyes demanding an answer. Isabelle laughed as she rode up to him. “I was only teasing you, Mr. Ranger Man,” she said pacifically, perhaps because she understood the look she saw in his eyes. “The postmaster’s wife told me all about it. She saw the whole thing through the window, and heard what was said. I can’t blame you for fighting them, and since you did fight, I’m glad you whipped the bunch. Do please get down off your high horse, you man of peace, and let’s talk seriously. I don’t blame you for fighting—they must learn to respect you, I suppose, before they will ever come to like you, and if you had backed down from Peterson, every cowboy in the country would despise you for it. Not one of them would ever have taken you seriously after that, or given you anything but contempt. “Little Bill happens to be a great crony of Peterson’s outfit, though why he doesn’t work for the Box S instead of for father I never could tell you. He isn’t so awfully popular with our boys. Most of our riders are pretty good fellows, as you would discover for yourself if there wasn’t this grudge against the forest reserve which keeps you seeing their most disagreeable traits. “One thing I wanted to tell you, ranger man, is that Peterson and his bunch are going to ‘get’ you, on account of that fight. I heard Little Bill telling the boys so. He wanted them to go in on the scheme, but they wouldn’t do it: or, at least, that’s what I understood from what I overheard.” “I take it your father would not object to the plan, at any rate.” Patrick O’Neill was not smiling now. “Father? He never would have anything to do with it! I—I happen to know, ranger, that he has a scheme of his own for getting rid of you.” “Yes? And if I might ask——”