With her back against the veranda pillar, Mary Thorne watched the group of mounted men canter down the slope, splash across the creek, and file briskly through the gate leading to middle pasture. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that, for the most part, her glance followed one of them, and when the erect, jaunty, broad-shouldered figure on the big roan had disappeared, she gave a little sigh.

“He looks better—much better,” she murmured.

Her eyes grew dreamy, and in her mind she saw again that little hidden caÑon with its overhanging ledge beneath which the man lay stretched out on his blankets. Somehow, the anxiety and suspense, the heart-breaking worry and weariness of that strange experience had faded utterly. There remained only a very vivid recollection of the touch of her hand against his damp forehead, the feeling of his crisp, dark hair as she pushed it gently back, the look of those long, thick lashes lying so still against his pallid face.

Not seldom she had wished those fleeting moments might have been prolonged. Once or twice she was 285 even a little jealous of Bud Jessup’s ministrations; just as, thinking of him now, she was jealous of his constant nearness to Buck and the manner in which he seemed so intently to share all the other’s plans and projects, and even thoughts.

“Well, anyway,” she said suddenly aloud, “I’m glad Stella’s not here.”

Then, realizing that she had spoken aloud, she blushed and looked hastily around. No one was in sight, but a moment or two later Mrs. Archer appeared on the veranda.

“I thought I heard voices a little while ago,” she said, glancing around. “Have the men come back?”

Mary turned to meet her. “No, dear. That was the—the sheriff and some of his men.”

“The sheriff!” An expression of anxiety came into Mrs. Archer’s pretty, faded face. “But what has happened? What—?”

“I’m not quite sure; they had no time to explain.” The girl put an arm reassuringly around the older woman’s shoulder. “But they’re after Tex and the other hands. They’ve done something—”

“Ha!” In any other person the sound would have seemed suspiciously like a crow of undisguised satisfaction. “Well, I’m thankful that at last somebody’s shown some common sense.”

“Why, auntie!” Astonished, the girl held her off 286 at arm’s length and stared into her face. “You don’t mean to say you’ve suspected—?”

Mrs. Archer sniffed. “Suspected! Why, for weeks and weeks I’ve been perfectly certain the creature was up to no good. You know I never trusted him.”

“Yes; but—”

“The last straw was his bringing that ridiculous charge against Buck Green,” Mrs. Archer interrupted with unexpected spirit. “That stamped him for what he was; because a nicer, cleaner, better-mannered young man I’ve seldom seen. He could no more have stolen cattle than—than I could.”

A mental picture of her tiny, delicate, fragile-looking aunt engaged in that strenuous and illicit operation brought a momentary smile to Mary Thorne’s lips. Then her face grew serious.

“But you know I didn’t believe it—really,” she protested. “I offered to keep him on if he’d only assure me he wasn’t here for any—any secret reason. But he wouldn’t, and at the time there seemed nothing to do but let him go.”

“I suppose he might have had some other private reason than stealing cattle,” commented Mrs. Archer.

“He had,” returned Mary, suppressing a momentary sense of annoyance that her aunt had shown the greater faith. “As nearly as I can make out, he was here to shadow Tex. As a matter of fact he really wanted 287 to leave the ranch and work from a different direction, so it turned out all right in the end. He thinks it was Tex himself who secretly instigated the cattle-stealing.”

“The villain!” ejaculated Mrs. Archer energetically. “But where has—er—Buck been all this time? Where is he now?”

The girl smiled faintly. “He was here a little while ago. He and Bud are both with the sheriff’s posse. They believe the men are heading for the mountains and have gone after them.”

Mrs. Archer glanced sharply at her niece, noted a faint flush on the girl’s face, and pursed her lips.

“When are they coming back?” she asked, after a little pause.

Mary shrugged her shoulders. “Not until they catch them, I suppose.”

“Which certainly won’t be to-night. I’m rather surprised at Buck. It seems to me that he ought to have stayed here to look after things, instead of rushing off to chase outlaws.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” defended Mary quickly. “He thought Alf and Stella were here.”

“Alf and Stella! Good gracious, child! How could he, when they left four days ago?”

“He didn’t know that. He took it for granted they were still here, and I let him think so. They needed him to guide the posse, and I knew if I told him, 288 he’d insist on staying behind. After all, dear, there’s nothing for us to worry about. It’ll be a bit lonesome to-night, but—”

“Worry! I’m not worrying—about myself.” Mrs. Archer regarded her niece with a curiously keen expression that seemed oddly incongruous in that delicate fragile-looking face. “I’m not blind,” she went on quickly. “I’ve noticed what’s been going on—the wretch! You’re afraid of him, too, I can see, and no wonder. I wish somebody had stayed—Still, we must make the best of it. What are you going to do about the stock?”

“Feed them,” said Mary laconically, quelling a little shiver that went over her. “Let’s go and do it now.”

Together they walked around to the corral, where Mary forked down some hay for the three horses, and filled the sunken water-barrel from the tank. Already shadows were creeping up from the hollows, and the place seemed very still and deserted.

In the kitchen the sense of silent emptiness was even greater, accustomed as they were to the constant presence of Pedro and his wife. The two women did not linger longer than was necessary to fill a tray with supper, which they carried into the living-room. Here Mary closed the door, lit two lamps, and touched a match to the wood piled up in the big fireplace.

“It’ll make things more cheerful,” she remarked 289 with an attempt at casualness which was not altogether successful. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t heat some water here and make tea,” she added with sudden inspiration.

Mrs. Archer, who liked her cup of tea, made no objections, and Mary sprang up and went back to the kitchen. Filling a saucepan from the pump, she got the tea-caddy out of a cupboard, and then paused in the middle of the room, staring out into the gathering dusk.

Neither doors nor windows in the ranch-house were ever locked, and, save on really cold nights, they were rarely even closed. But now, of a sudden, the girl felt she would be much more comfortable if everything were shut up tight, and setting down the pan and caddy on the table, she went over to the nearest window.

It looked out on the various barns and sheds clustered at the back of the ranch-house. The harness-room occupied the ground floor of the nearest shed, with a low, seldom-entered loft above, containing a single, narrow window without glass or shutters.

As Mary approached the open kitchen window, herself invisible in the shadows of the room, a slight sense of movement in that little square under the eaves of the shed roof drew her glance swiftly upward. To her horror she caught a momentary glimpse of a face framed in the narrow opening. It vanished swiftly—far 290 too swiftly to be recognized. But recognition was not necessary. The mere knowledge that some one was hidden in the loft—had probably been hidden there all along—turned the girl cold and instantly awakened her worst fears.