In a short time the horses were saddled and the two girls dashed past the stable buildings and the rough assortment of men who stood silently about, past their watchful, alert eyes, on after the buggy, which had now become a mere speck high up on the mountain road. As they raced by the house and tepees the boy, Ned, cautiously raised his small body from behind a pile of logs which edged the road and beckoned to them frantically. Hope's quick eye saw him, but only as the flash of a moving picture across her mind, leaving no impression and instantly forgotten. But later, when she had entered the cook-tent at Sydney's camp and seated herself among the small company, the memory of the passing vision came back, annoying, troubling her. She scented danger more than she felt it. A sense of uneasiness possessed her. She condemned herself roundly for the wild thoughts that had carried her away from herself, and would have given much at that moment to have known what the breed boy had wanted to commune to her.

Clarice was chatting volubly to Livingston. Sydney leaned upon the table, listening attentively. Outside, old Jim McCullen was staking out the saddle-horses, while about the stove and mess-box William, the cook, flitted in great importance. Sydney jumped up from the table when the two girls entered and arranged some extra seats for them, then took one himself beside Louisa, who flushed prettily at his attentions.

"We beat you by fifteen minutes!" exclaimed Mrs. Van Rensselaer, breaking off from her conversation abruptly. "But we just came along spinning. And I must tell you that I'm perfectly happy now, and don't regret coming one bit! Just think, isn't this luck—Mr. Livingston has promised to take me back to the ranch to-morrow, or whenever I decide to return! And you should see what a splendid dinner we are going to have! After all, I'm coming out the best in the deal—in spite of Jim's 'didn't I tell you,' and Hope's 'what made you come.' This is a regular taste of the real West—wild and rugged! You don't get it at the ranch—luxurious quarters, Chinese servants everywhere, even the people especially imported. You might as well be in New York for everything except the climate. This is great—this little gulch here and these fresh, sweet tents; but horrors, that place back there! Isn't there any way to go around it when we go back to the ranch, Mr. Livingston? I don't want even to catch sight of it. I never saw such a lot of looking men in all my life!"

They all laughed at the look of abject horror which she put upon her face—all with the exception of Hope, who sat silently in the shadow of Louisa and Sydney.

"We've been to supper," said Sydney, turning around to his cousin, "so this is an extra one for the special benefit of our guests. You'd better appreciate it, for it's going to be a jim-dandy one. Livingston's been to supper, too, so this is just for the ladies."

"You're a good boy," murmured the girl, taking off her hat and pushing back the mass of dark hair from her forehead. "We'll soon show you our appreciation."

"I guess we'd better light up, it's getting dark a little earlier nowadays," he said, leaving Louisa's side to light the lanterns, which soon flooded the tent with soft radiance.

"I like the twilight," said Clarice to Livingston. "But then I like lots of light, too. Some people can talk best in the dark, but I have to see to talk."

"It's only eight o'clock," continued Sydney, from where he had left off. "Last month it was daylight at ten. It beats all how time flies, anyway!" He hung an extra lantern, lighted for the momentous occasion, right where the rays fell full upon Hope's face. From the far end of the tent Livingston watched her. He sought her eyes as usual. They were everywhere, anywhere, but did not meet his. Lately a new star had risen for him—a star of hope. O'Hara had told him, quite unsolicited, that there was no attachment between Hope and her cousin, much less an engagement, and suddenly a new world had opened for him.

"I don't see why you are lighting the lanterns now. It isn't dark at all," said the girl, rising suddenly from her seat. "From the top of the ridge out there you can see the sunset, I know."

"Did you ever see a sunset as beautiful as the sunrise?" asked Livingston.

She stopped and pondered an instant, then glanced at him quickly, and as quickly away.

"No, I have not," she replied. "A sunrise is a baptism. It is like being born into a new world. There is nothing so beautiful, so grand, so promising, as the vision of a new day's sun. And to stand in the cool morning air with the dew beneath your feet and feel all the promise of that vast, golden glory—to feel it——" She stopped suddenly, lifting her eyes to his for one brief instant. "There is no moment in life when one is so near to God."

"Admitting the sublimity and grandeur of the time," said Clarice. "Yet who ever heard of an enamored swain offering his heart at the feet of his fair lady at such an unearthly hour? It's preposterous!"

"In such a case he'd probably be sitting up too late the night before," said Carter. "But it's a pretty idea, just the same," he declared, looking at Louisa.

"I think a sunset is prettier," insisted Clarice. "I've never been able to rub the sleep out of my eyes to appreciate the sunrise as Hope describes it. But I think she is an exception."

"Would there were more then," said Livingston fervently.

His earnestness seemed to amuse Clarice, for she turned to him and laughed. Hope swung about quickly, stung for the instant.

"It is sacred," she cried softly, then opening the tent-flap with a quick movement she stepped out into the evening.

Jim McCullen was putting up a new tent down near the edge of the stream for the accommodation of the ladies. The girl went over to where he was at work and assisted him by steadying one pole while he fastened the canvas in position.

"How's the ranch, Jim?" she asked. "Mrs. Van Rensselaer hasn't had time to tell me yet."

"Well, it's about the same as ever," replied McCullen slowly. "I reckon your father's gettin' pretty lonesome without you. Feels like a lost horse by now. That there little Rosebush—Rosehill, he and them Cresmonds have gone back East to get ready fer the great weddin' they're talkin' about. Them folks seem to think it's a mighty fine thing to catch a lord er an earl. But it always seemed to me that the Almighty left out a whole pile in order to give some o' them fellers a title. Forgot Rosehill's brains entirely, an' he ain't no bigger'n a minute, neither."

"I guess you're right, about him," said Hope, kneeling beside McCullen as he fashioned a stake pin more to his liking. "I hope that outfit won't come out here another year; I don't like them very well. It's nice and sweet out here on the grass, isn't it? I don't mind staying here at all to-night. I don't see what makes me feel so sleepy and drowsy though, but I do—sort of tired, as though I wanted to get away and go to bed. I haven't ridden far to-day either—only a few miles after school. Jim, I wish I were back to-night at the ranch—I wish I could go and say good-night to my father, and go away to my own room."

McCullen looked up from the peg he was driving, and remarked: "I'll warrent you'll have as good a night's sleep out here in this tent as you would at home on the ranch. Plenty o' fresh air an' no misquitoes to bother. But I reckon your father'd like to see you just the same to-night."

"But he doesn't want me to go home until I've finished this school up here. I'm earning fifty dollars a month. How much are you?"

"A hundred," replied McCullen. "But, look a-here, your father said that, but he'd be mighty glad to have you drop in on him one o' these times. He's the sorriest father you ever seen!"

"But I shall stay, Jim, just as long as there is school here," said Hope decidedly. "So don't you try to get me to go home. Everyone else is. Sydney all the time, then Larry O'Hara. I'm glad he's gone over to camp with the soldiers. They're farther away than I thought. Louisa and I rode over in that direction after school, but only got to the top of the tall butte over there. We could see them where they were camped on Fox Creek, but it was too far to go, so we went back to Harris'. Larry was all the time urging me to go home while he was here—and now Clarice has come. But I won't go, Jim, until the school ends."

"Well, you just make the best of it," replied McCullen. "I like your grit. I'm a-goin' to stay right here so's to be near you whatever happens."

"Jim," said the girl suddenly, "were you ever nervous?"

"I reckon I've been, a few times," replied McCullen. "Why, you ain't nervous, be you, Hopie? There ain't nothin' goin' to bother you out here to-night. Mebby you ain't feelin' well."

She smiled at his consternation. "No, I don't think I'm nervous, Jim; just a little restless, that's all."

"I expect that woman's comin' has sort o' upset you. I didn't want to bring her, but she managed to overrule all o' my objections."

He finished driving the last peg, which made the tent secure against the strongest wind, then straightened himself up with his hands upon the small of his back as though the movement was a difficult one.

"Well, I reckon I'll bring in the beddin', an' you can fix it up to suit yourself," he said, looking down at the girl, who had seated herself on the grass before the tent.

"Listen," she whispered, holding up a warning hand, "I hear horsebackers."

"Sure enough," he replied after a moment's silence. "I reckon it's them breed boys o' yourn. Hungriest outfit I ever seen!"

"Yes," she said, rising suddenly to her feet and peering into the gathering dusk, "that's who it is. Go get the blankets, Jim."

"Where're you goin'!" asked McCullen, as she moved quickly away down the bank of the creek toward the dark brush of the bottom.

"To tell them school's out," she replied with a short laugh, then disappeared from his sight.

"I reckon she's afraid them boys'll annoy that Van Rensselaer woman. You'd think she'd never seen an Injun before, from the fuss she made back there at Harris'," soliloquized McCullen as he brought a great armful of blankets and deposited them inside the new tent.

But Hope was not thinking of Mrs. Van Rensselaer as she stood in the narrow brush trail holding the bridle of an impatient Indian pinto, while the soft-voiced twin looked at her through the semi-darkness.

"There's a bright moon to-night till three in the mornin', then it's as dark as pitch," he was saying.

"Who figured out all that?" demanded the girl.

The breed boy moved uneasily in his saddle. "I reckon Shorty Smith er some o' 'em did," he replied.

"And they're going to meet in the sheep-shed at the foot of the big hill," she said deliberately.

"Yes," replied Dan reluctantly, "the one just inside the pasture fence over there on this side. It's the nearest place to meet."

"How many men?" demanded Hope.

"'Bout a dozen, I reckon," replied the twin. "Mebby not so many." He leaned forward until his face was close beside the girl's. "Say," he whispered nervously, "if they ever found out I put you onto this, they'd finish me mighty quick."

"Are they aware you know about it?" she asked quickly. "Do they know?"

"You can't never tell," replied the boy deliberately, sweetly.

The bushes rattled and another horse pushed its way alongside the pinto.

"If we only had that Gatlin' gun now we'd be all right," exclaimed the other twin enthusiastically, as his horse nosed its way in beside them. "But if we get behind the big rock we'll scare 'em to death, so's they won't have the nerve to do nothin'!"

"But what are they going to do?" demanded Hope impatiently. "You seem to know nothing except that they're going to meet there for some devilishness."

"Goin' to make a raid on the shed, I reckon," replied Dave. The soft-voiced twin was silent.

"And you think we can stand off a dozen men?" she demanded.

"They can't do a thing to us from the big rock, anyway, an' we can watch the fun an' pick off everyone that leaves the shed. We can do that much," said the soft-voiced twin eagerly.

"How you thirst for blood! They deserve death, every one—the dogs! But I can't do it! There must be some other way! He must be warned, and his men too, and the thing averted. Before, it just happened so—this time we have a chance and warning."

"It 'ud never do to tell him," exclaimed the soft-voiced twin nervously. "He'd put his own head right into the noose!"

"Never!" she cried. "You don't know what courage he has!"

The soft-voiced twin continued to demur. Suddenly she held up her hand to him commandingly. "Not another word! I'll manage this thing myself! It's for me to command, and you obey orders. Remember, you're my scouts—my brave scouts. Surely you want me to be proud of you!"

"You bet!" exclaimed Dave.

"Then do as I say," she commanded in a voice softly alluring, coaxing. "Go home, find out what you can, and bring me word here in an hour. If you are not back here then I will go down there and face them all, myself—alone."

"You wouldn't," whispered the soft-voiced twin excitedly.

"I would!" replied the girl. "Now go—and remember I'll expect you back in one hour. If you fail me, I'll go down there and face those devils single-handed! I could wipe the earth with forty such dogs!"

The breed boys turned away in silent, stolid, Indian fashion, and the bare-headed girl stood in the still gloom of the willow-brush listening to the sound of their horses' quick hoof-beats until the last dull thud had died in the distance.

"Chuck-away!" called a voice from the creek bank.

"Coming!" answered the girl, turning about with a start and running back along the path.

At the bank she stopped, unnerved with a rush of thoughts, overwhelming—terrifying. She knelt down in the long grass, clasped her hands over her heart as if to tear it from her, and raised for an instant a strained, white face to the starlit canopy of heaven.

"The brave can die but once," her heart repeated wildly. "But I am a coward—I cannot bear it! Oh, God,—if you are the great, good God,—spare him from all harm, from suffering and death! Spare him now! See, I offer myself instead—freely, gladly! Take me, but spare him!"

A dimly outlined face from the bank above looked down at her, followed by a soft, mellow laugh.

"The bank is so steep," said Livingston softly. "Here, give me your hand and I will pull you up."

She took a quick step upward, then stopped just below him and looked at him intently.

"God in heaven," she said wildly to herself, "I swear they shall not harm a hair of your head! I'll tear the heart out of every man of them that comes near you! I'll kill them all, the hounds, the sneaks, the low vermin!"

She looked at him an instant so, then laughed—an odd, mirthless, reverberant laugh, that echoed on the hills above.

"Come, let me help you," he urged gently, reaching down his hand to her. She laughed again, this time softly, more naturally.

"My lord," she said with grave emphasis, "you honor me! I am overwhelmed for the instant. Forgive my rudeness!"

"You have heard," he exclaimed regretfully. "Your friend has told you—I am so sorry! But then it really doesn't make any difference—only I thought you might like me better if you didn't know it."

"Oh, my lord," she laughed mockingly. "I must needs adore you now!"

"Stop your fooling," he exclaimed impatiently. "And give me your hand and I'll pull you up here."

With a sudden movement he stepped down toward her, grasping her hand firmly, drawing her up beside him on the bank. She looked at him in some surprise.

"I always had an idea," she said, "that you were a very mild-mannered young man."

"But you've given me a title that I didn't want—you've put me out of humor, and now you must take the consequences," he said.

"I tried to make you angry. Why aren't you?" said Hope seriously.

"Angry with you!" he exclaimed softly. "With you, my girl! Look at me closely—in my eyes and see the reason!" He stood beside her. His hand grasped hers, his powerful magnetism drew her until her cheeks flamed, but not the flicker of downcast eyelids betrayed more than the faintest, friendliest indifference.

"Come on," she said, turning abruptly toward the tent, "I'm starved for my supper!"