When Scipio turned his back upon the valley it was with the intention of resting his old mule at the place of the friendly farmer whom he had encountered on his first memorable visit to James’ secret abode. From thence, after a night’s rest, he would start late next day, and make the creek soon after sundown. For the sake of Jessie he had no desire to make a daylight entry into the camp.

The old mule certainly needed rest. And, besides, it was pleasant to prolong the journey. Moments such as the present were scarce enough in life. And though Jessie was with him for all time now, he greedily hugged to himself these hours alone with her, when there was nothing but the fair blue sky and waving grass, the hills and valleys, to witness his happiness, none of the harshness of life to obtrude upon his perfect joy; nothing, not even the merest duties of daily life, to mar the delicious companionship which his wife’s long-desired presence afforded him. The whole journey was to be a sort of honeymoon, a thousand times sweeter for the misery and unhappiness through which they had both passed.

He thought of nothing else. The very existence of James and his gang had passed from his recollection. He had no mind for dangers of any sort. He had no mind for anything or anybody but his Jessie, his beautiful Jessie––his wife.

Had he had the least curiosity or interest in other matters, there were many things, strange things, about the recovery of his wife which might have set him wondering. For instance, he might have speculated as to the desertion of the ranch––the absence of dogs, the absence of all those signs which tell of a busy enterprise––things which could not be adequately accounted for by the mere absence of the head of it, even though he were accompanied by his fighting men. He might have glanced about among the barns and corrals, or––he might even have questioned his Jessie.

Had he done either of these things a certain amount of enlightenment would undoubtedly have penetrated to his unsuspicious mind. He must inevitably have detected the hand or hands of his earthly guardian angels in the manner in which his path had been cleared of all obstructions.

Had he been less occupied with his own happiness, with the joy of having Jessie once more beside him, and chanced to look back into the valley as he left it forever, he would certainly have received enlightenment. But he never knew what had been done for him, he never knew the subtle working for his welfare.

Thus it was, all unobserved by him, the moment he was at sufficient distance from the ranch, three horsemen suddenly appeared from amidst the most adjacent point of the forest on the far side of the valley and galloped across to the house. They ran their horses to cover amongst the buildings and dismounted, immediately vanishing into one of the barns.

And as they disappeared a good deal of laughter, a good deal of forceful talk, came from the place which had swallowed them up. Then, after awhile, the three reappeared in the open, and with them came an old choreman, whose joints ached, and whose villainous temper had seriously suffered under the harsh bonds which had held him secure from interference with Scipio for so long.

The men herded him out before them, quite heedless of his bitter vituperation and blasphemy. And when they had driven him forth Sunny Oak pointed out to him the retreating buckboard as it vanished over the far hillside.

“Ther’ they go, you miser’ble old son of a moose,” he cried with a laugh. “Ther’ they go. An’ I guess when James gits around ag’in you’ll likely pay a mighty fine reck’nin’. An’ I’ll sure say I won’t be a heap sorry neither. You’ve give me a power o’ trouble comin’ along out here. I ain’t had no sort o’ rest fer hours an’ hours, an’ I hate folks that sets me busy.”

“You’re a pizenous varmint, sure,” added Sandy, feeling that Sunny must not be allowed all the talk. “An’ your langwidge is that bad I’ll need to git around a Bible-class ag’in to disinfect my ears.”

“You sure will,” agreed Toby, with one of his fatuous grins. “I never see any feller who needed disinfectin’ more.” Then he turned upon the evil-faced choreman and added his morsel of admonition. “Say, old man, as you hope to git buried yourself when James gits around ag’in, I guess you best go an’ dig that miser’ble cur o’ yours under, ’fore he gits pollutin’ the air o’ this yer valley, same as you are at the moment. He’s cost me a goodish scrap, but I don’t grudge it him noways. Scrappin’s an elegant pastime, sure––when you come out right end of it.”

After that, cowed but furious, the old man was allowed to depart, and the three guardians of Scipio’s person deliberately returned to their charge. Their instructions were quite clear, even though they only partially understood the conditions making their work necessary. Scipio must be safeguarded. They were to form an invisible escort, clearing his road for him and making his journey safe. So they swung into the saddle and rode hot-foot on the trail of their unconscious charge.

For the most part they rode silently. Already the journey had been long and tiresomely uneventful, and Sunny Oak particularly reveled in an impotent peevishness which held him intensely sulky. The widower, too, was feeling anything but amiable. What with his recent futile work on a claim which was the ridicule of the camp, and now the discomfort of a dreary journey, his feelings towards Wild Bill were none too cordial. Perhaps Toby was the most cheerful of the three. The matters of the Trust had been a pleasant break in the daily routine of dispossessing himself of remittances from his friends in the East. And the unusual effort made him feel good.

They had reached the crown of the hill bordering the valley, where the trail debouched upon the prairie beyond, and the effort of easing his horse, as the struggling beast clawed its way up the shelving slope, at last set loose the tide of the loafer’s ill-temper. He suddenly turned upon his companions, his angry face dirty and sweating.

“Say,” he cried, “of all the blamed fules I’d say we three was the craziest ever pupped.”

Sandy turned inquiring, contemptuous eyes in his direction. He always adopted a defensive attitude when Sunny opened out. Toby only grinned and waited for what was to come.

“Meanin’?” inquired Sandy in his coldest manner.

“Meanin’? Gee! it don’t need a mule’s intellec’ to get my meanin’,” said the loafer witheringly. “Wot, in the name o’ glory, would I mean but this doggone ride we’re takin’? Say, here’s us three muttons chasin’ glory on the tail o’ two soppy lambs that ain’t got savvee enough between ’em to guess the north end of a hoss when he’s goin’ south. An’, wot’s more, we’re doin’ it like a lot o’ cluckin’ hens chasin’ a brood o’ fule chicks. I tell you it jest makes me sick. An’ ef I don’t git six weeks’ rest straight on end after this is thro’ I’ll be gettin’ plumb ‘bug,’ or––or the colic, or suthin’ ornery bum. I’ve done. Sufferin’ Creek ain’t no place fer a peace-lovin’ feller like me, whose doin’ all he knows to git thro’ life easy an’ without breakin’ up a natterally delicate constitootion. I’m done. I quit.”

Sandy’s face was a study in sneers. Not because he did not agree with the sentiments, but Sunny always irritated him. But Toby only grinned the harder, and for once, while the widower was preparing an adequate retort, contrived to forestall him.

“Seems to me, Sunny, you ain’t got a heap o’ kick comin’ to you,” he said in his slow way. “I allow you come in this racket because you notioned it. Mebbe you’ll say why you did it, else?”

This unexpected challenge from Toby had the effect of diverting the widower’s thoughts. He left the consideration of the snub he had been preparing for the loafer for some future time, and waited for the other’s reply. But Sunny was roused, and stared angrily round upon the grinning face of his questioner.

“Guess that ain’t no affair of yours, anyway,” he snorted. “I don’t stand fer questions from no remittance guy. Gee! things is gittin’ pretty low-down when it comes to that.”

“Maybe a remittance man ain’t a first-class callin’,” said Toby, his grin replaced by a hot flush. “But if it comes to that I’d say a lazy loafin’ bum ain’t a heap o’ credit noways neither. Howsum, them things don’t alter matters any. An’ I, fer one, is sick o’ your grouse––’cos that’s all it is. Say, you’re settin’ ther’ on top o’ that hoss like a badly sculptured image that needs a week’s bathin’, an’ talkin’ like the no-account fule most fellers guess you to be. Wal, show us you ain’t none o’ them things, show us you got some sort of a man inside your hide, an’ tell us straight why you’re out on this doggone trail when you’re yearnin’ fer your blankets.”

The attack was so unexpected that for once Sunny had no reply ready. And Sandy positively beamed upon the challenger. And so they rode on for a few moments. Then Toby broke the silence impatiently.

“Wal?” he inquired, his face wreathed in a grin that had none of the amiability usual to it.

Sunny turned; and it was evident all his good-nature was restored. He had suddenly realized that to be baited by the fatuous Toby was almost refreshing, and he spoke without any sort of animosity. It would certainly have been different had the challenge come from the hectoring widower.

“Why for do I do it––an’ hate it? Say, that’s jest one o’ them things a feller can’t tell. Y’see, a feller grouses thro’ life, a-worritin’ hisself ’cos things don’t seem right by his way o’ thinkin’. That’s natteral. He guesses he wants to do things one way, then sudden-like, fer no reason he ken see, he gits doin’ ’em another. That’s natteral, too. Y’see, ther’s two things, it seems to me, makes a feller act. One’s his fool head, an’ the other––well, I don’t rightly know what the other is, ’cep’ it’s his stummick. Anyways, that’s how it is. My head makes me want to go one way, an’ my feet gits me goin’ another. So it is with this lay-out. An’ I guess, ef you was sure to git to rock-bottom o’ things, I’d say we’re all doin’ this thing ’cos Wild Bill said so.”

He finished up with a chuckle that thoroughly upset the equilibrium of the widower, and set him jumping at the chance of retort.

“Guess you’re scairt to death o’ Wild Bill,” he sneered.

“Wal,” drawled Sunny easily, “I guess he’s a feller wuth bein’ scairt of––which is more than you are.”

Sandy snorted defiantly. But a further wordy war was averted by the remittance man.

“Ther’s more of a man to you than I allowed, Sunny,” he said sincerely. “There sure is. Bill’s a man, whatever else he is. He’s sure the best man I’ve seen on Sufferin’ Creek. But you’re wrong ’bout him bein’ the reason of us worritin’ ourselves sick on this yer trail. It ain’t your head which needs re-decoratin’, neither. Nor it ain’t your stummick, which, I allow, ain’t the most wholesome part of you. Neither it ain’t your splay feet. You missed it, Sunny, an’ I allus tho’t you was a right smart guy. The reason you’re on this doggone trail chasin’ glory wot don’t never git around, is worryin’ along in a buckboard ahead of us, behind ole Minky’s mule, an’ he’s hoofin’ to home at an express slug’s gait. That’s the reason you’re on the trail, an’ nothin’ else. You’re jest a lazy, loafin’, dirty bum as ’ud make mud out of a fifty-gallon bath o’ boilin’ soapsuds if you was set in it, but you was mighty sore seein’ pore Zip kicked to death by his rotten luck. An’ feelin’ that always you kind o’ fergot to be tired. That’s why you’re on this doggone trail. ’Cos your fool heart ain’t as dirty as your carkis.”

And as he fired his last word Toby dashed his spurs into the flanks of his jaded horse, and galloped out of reach of the tide of vituperation he knew full well to be flowing in his wake.