During the following days Harry, with her mind on the mystery of her slaughtered animals, spent all her spare time looking for the recently lost scrub and keeping an eye open for suspicious-looking or stranger cowboys. She was putting up her pony one evening after a fruitless search when footsteps approaching through the twilight made her turn sharply, with every sense on guard. As she did so Joe Biane emerged from the shadows.

"Why, Joe!" she exclaimed. "How you startled me! What do you want?"

Joe laughed awkwardly. "Is Rob to home?"

"No. Did you want anything special?"

"Only to ask him could we borrow the team to-morrow to pack our traps to Shoshone. We're pullin' out."

"Pulling out! For the winter, you mean?"

"No. Quittin'. For good."

"Why, Joe! What on earth for? Why didn't Isita tell me before? What will you do with your stock? And your hay? Where are you going?"

"Aw, anywheres, I guess, to get out of this country. Ain't we starved all summer? And now they tell us we're in for a hard winter. Besides, dad mortgaged everything last year, and now it's been took: the team, wagon, stock everything. Dad's going back East, for all I know."

"Back East! And Isita never said a word of it!"

"She didn't know nothin' about it until yesterday."

"Oh! Well, I'll lend you the team of course. That is, I'll drive you in. What time did you want to start?"

"In the mornin', if it's all the same to you—so's we'll sure catch that night train."

"I see. I'll be over early."

"You needn't go," Joe insisted awkwardly. "I can fetch the team back next day. I ain't goin' out with the folks."

"I'd rather drive myself. It will give me a chance to visit with Isita."

For several minutes she stared after Joe when he had melted into the shadows. Was it really fear of the coming winter that was driving the Bianes away? Slowly she glanced round her. There in the caÑon the darkness was deep as a sea, with only here and there, like a pale face, a gleam of rocky butte facing the west. Not a cricket chirped, not a breeze whispered. In profound silence the earth waited; for what?

Without warning, overwhelmingly, like a great sea risen swiftly in the night, homesickness drowned her. How safe it was back there in that New England village!

Suddenly she shook herself. "I'm as bad as the Bianes," she said to herself, with a shaky laugh, "letting myself get scared by what people say. My job's here, snow or no snow."

But the cruelty of having Isita snatched away from her was not so easily ignored; the happy friendship that she had so patiently worked and waited for, torn up like a flower at the very moment of its blossoming!

But Harry was not the sort who, in the clutch of trouble, weeps or sulks or melts into flabby inertness. She finished her tasks for the night, rose an hour earlier than usual the next morning and went briskly about her work. After milking, she turned the calves into the pasture with the cows so that she need not milk that night, left a load of hay on the wagon in the corral so that the stock could feed out of the rack, and scattered plenty of wheat for the chickens. Her lips were set; there was a steady gaze in her eyes that meant unshaken purpose. Some time, somehow, she would have Isita back for "keeps."

With characteristic kindness she filled a basket with the best she had for the travelers' luncheon—a loaf of bread, some butter, a jar of jam, a cake, some home-made cheese—anything that might make the long journey easier for the two women.

If Isita were going back East she would need some clothes. In Harry's trunk there lay some that she had not worn since she had come to Idaho—clothes for all seasons and occasions, useless to her, yet too good to throw away. Harry selected some that she thought suitable and wrapped them in a bundle.

"Why couldn't I have kept her here?" she said to herself almost fiercely. "I'd have clothed and fed her as long as she needed. We'd have been so happy. At least," she consoled herself, "if they're really going East, Isita will have to go to school. She can tell me everything on our drive to Shoshone."

But Biane had other ideas. "They can tell you not'ing. They know not'ing," he interrupted blandly the moment Harry began to ask questions. "I myself decide to quit her-re. Where do we go?" He raised his eyebrows, smiling fatuously. "Aha! Perhaps even to Sout' Amer-rica. A fine cattle country that. Mebbe you hear from us one day. Eh?" He raised a shoulder, turned to walk away, then glanced back with a wise smile that made poor Harry wish she were a man and could say what she thought.

It took only a short time to stow the few boxes and bundles in the wagon. When all was ready, Harry hastened to help Isita into the front seat beside her, before any other arrangement could be suggested. She was determined to have some sort of talk with her friend before they were separated. But she was soon made to realize that Biane controlled his family absolutely. At every attempt she made to talk confidently with Isita, Biane leaned across the back of the seat and broke into their talk with other subjects until she gave up in despair.

The conviction that this abrupt departure was caused by other reasons than those that Joe and his father had offered, grew steadily in her, and the uneasy suspense that she noticed in the whole Biane family strengthened her belief. By the time they reached Shoshone she was so tired, so nervously on edge, that she drove at once to Kinney's Hotel, got out there, and left Biane to take his family on to the station.

"When you've finished with the team," she said to him, "bring them back here to the livery stable. I'll leave orders for feeding them. What time does your train leave?"

"Our train?" he repeated, darting a suspicious glance at her.

"Yes. I want to come down and say good-by to Isita."

"Sur-rely. I was forgetting. We go at ten o'clock." And with his cold smile that showed his teeth and half closed his yellow eyes, the Portuguese drove off. Isita turned to give Harry one entreating look before the dusk hid her.

"If I'd had the least chance to talk to her," Harry said to herself, with a sigh, "we could have fixed up a plan of escape. She could have slipped off the train at the next station, or something. I could see that her mother was nearly scared to death, or she'd have explained this journey to me."

Well, it was too late now to think of what might have been done. Harry could only have faith in Isita's courage and ambition to free herself from this hateful bondage.

In the hotel office she stopped to chat with the clerk, who was an old-time friend of hers and Rob's. "I'm going up to my room to rest now," she said, "but I want to be called in plenty of time to meet that ten-o'clock train going East."

She was so tired that the moment her head touched the pillow she was off to sleep. When some time later there came a pounding on the door, she stumbled up, forgetting where she was.

"It's a girl to see you, Miss Holliday!" the clerk called. "Says its awful pertickler and to come a-hurryin'!"

"Coming, coming!" Harry cried, as she hunted for her shoes under the edge of the bed. "Isita, of course," she told herself. "What can have happened? Has she actually escaped?" Her heart was thumping with suspense and hope as she snatched hat and coat and ran out. Isita was waiting at the foot of the stairs.

Harry saw that Isita's black eyes were actually glassy with fear, and that beads of sweat glistened on her forehead.

"Isita, dear!" she exclaimed. "What is it? Come upstairs and——"

"No! no! Not a moment! Come!" the girl cried in a rasping voice and, catching Harry's arm, pulled her toward the door. "Come. I'll tell you."

Too much astonished to dispute or question, Harry followed her to the street. No one in the office had seen them, and the street was empty. After a frightened glance up and down, Isita looked at Harry and opened her lips to speak. But twice she made an effort before a sound came. At last, hoarsely, came the words, "They're going to steal your team!"

"Steal my team!" Harry almost smiled with relief and stopped short, but Isita clasped her hands imploringly.

"Don't wait," she entreated; "there's not a moment to lose! I ran the second they left me and mother, but they'll be back soon."

"But wait. The horses are here. In Kinney's barn," Harry protested.

"No, they're not. Oh, you don't understand! Please trust me; I'll explain."

Her words came quick and broken, and Harry realized that the girl must have run a great way. No longer questioning or waiting, Harry followed her obediently. Turning down a side street, they came after a while to a place where the pavement ended and an old road curved off. A little beyond this stood a group of old buildings, stone and brick, the deserted roundhouse and shops of a past era. Into one of these Isita led the way, and Harry heard from the darkness the familiar nicker of Rock and Rye.

"All right, boys," she began reassuringly, when a voice said:

"Please be quiet. You might be overheard."

Mrs. Biane stood beside her.

"No, don't ask me! I can't say a word!" she exclaimed in a low voice of distress. "'Sita here'll tell you the hull of it by and by. Only hurry and git off, you two. I want you should take my gurl with you, Miss Holliday. I'll be more grateful to you than I can tell. She can come back to me some day when it's safer, happier. There, deary, I know," she said soothingly as the young girl threw herself, weeping, upon her mother's breast.

For a minute Mrs. Biane held Isita to her; then, with a last kiss, she unlocked her child's arms and put her gently aside.

"I know she's safe with you, Miss Holliday," she said as she tucked Isita into the wagon beside Harry. "You're a good girl and you've been a real friend to her—to me; and you can help her to grow up good. There, go! Don't drive past the station. He's liable to be round there. And hurry!"

She led the way to the road, stared toward the town, listening for a moment, and then walked swiftly away without a backward glance.

New and rude emotions surged through Harry as whipping up the horses, she drove quickly out from the town. Sympathy for Isita, sympathy for that stricken mother, and humbly grateful joy for herself mingled in almost painful force. It relieved her to put her arm round Isita and draw the frail body close against her own.

"After all, they couldn't separate us, could they?" she said.

"Looks not." Isita tried to answer cheerfully, but her voice broke into a sob. "It's so hard to give up mother. She could have stayed. It was them two men made a mess of things."

"But why did they have to rush off so suddenly?" Harry asked. "Haven't they been doing pretty much the same, year after year?"

"Oh, sure, ever since I can remember; but they never got caught before."

"Caught? They seemed to be going off quite freely."

"They wouldn't of been free long. Not—not now since you—you found your hides."

"My hides!" Harry repeated slowly. "You think—they knew—who——"

"You needn't mind saying it." Isita gave a hard, hurt laugh. "Not if they didn't mind doing it. Oh, how often I've prayed you'd come on them driving one of your steers down home or burying a hide in the pothole!"

"But why did they skin them?" Harry asked. "I thought rustlers stole live stock and drove them out of the country."

"They wasn't brave enough, even for that! It was much easier to butcher and haul them out at night to Shoshone. Nobody could trace it that way, without any hide or brand. That's why they didn't want the herd law; with all them cattle grazing in the hills, yours and Ludlum's and stray brands out of other herds, they could pick up one most every day; work a little bunch down our way and, when night come, shoot one. That's what Joe was doing when he was on your land. He seen you wasn't suspicious; your critters were the best of all, big and fat. That's why he killed your cows, too; so's he could steal their calves. Oh, they knew how to do it, all right! It was a regular business."

She stopped abruptly; the hard note in her young voice was like an echo of those cruel days. Harry was silent. How simple it all was now; Joe's mysterious cut; Mrs. Biane's suspicion of strangers or even of friends; Joe's poaching; Isita's terror, and the never-explained stampeding of the herds that night.

With a new, less bitter, accent in her voice, the younger girl went on: "Before, it hadn't seemed so bad to me. But after I knew you, when you were so generous, so kind, things were different. Oh, I wanted to be friends! You never guessed. But, of course, they wouldn't let me. I had to be round home to keep watch. You know. And then they knew I'd have warned you, put you on your guard. You know I would of, don't you?"

"Dear Isita," Harry said, much moved, "of course I know you would have." The realization of what this mere child had suffered made her own loss insignificant. "There's one thing I should like to know, though," she said. "Your father must have made money selling beef to the butcher. Why were you always so poor? You had scarcely enough to eat."

"He gambled it all away as fast as he made it. Mother and I never saw a penny."

"I understand. Well, don't let's think of it any more!" Harry exclaimed. "All that is past and gone. I've lost a few cattle, but I've gained a real friend. I'm satisfied, and I think we're going to have no end of good times together." Her ringing voice, her beaming face, would have reassured the most troubled heart, and in fact, for the first time in many days Isita smiled happily.

There was only one shadow to mar Harry's satisfaction. This was the knowledge that in taking Isita home she was adding another burden of expense to Rob's already heavy load. Of course, if he succeeded in finding a buyer for her herd there would not be the debt to Ludlum to reckon with, and if they did go down to the South Side she could probably find work in the large towns there.

When, after resting for the night at a ranch house, they started on again the next morning, her mind was busy with plans. Even if her herd were sold, they would need more money for part payment on hay to feed Rob's stock. And if she did go to work for wages, it would not be hard to place Isita with some good family who would give her her board in exchange for help with the housework while she went to school. Yes, it seemed that all would arrange itself; that is, if only Rob had managed to sell her herd and to find hay for his own.

"If only! if only!" The monotonous clip-clop! of the horses feet repeated those significant little words—significant because upon them hinged all that had gone before. If only she had been satisfied with thirty head! If she had not been in such a hurry to own a big herd! If only she had not lost her temper and in doing so shot one of Ludlum's cows! If only she had herded her own cattle more understandingly! As she looked back over the year she saw that from the very start she had done things that meant spending money, had got herself and her brother into predicaments, while Rob had plodded behind straightening out the difficulties, and finding the money to pay for her mistakes.

And now here she was bringing home Isita! Not that she could have refused the responsibility. Rob would not have wanted her to do that. Only somehow, Isita seemed to be the last straw that she was adding to his load. A sudden vision rose up before her of Rob traveling endless miles up and down the South Side hunting for hay, hunting for a buyer of her herd.