nger swung the chestnut aside from the wagon road, to
follow a narrow trail through the chaparral. To the artist, the little
path in the darkness was invisible, but he gave his horse the rein and
followed the shadowy form ahead. Three-quarters of an hour later, they
came out into the main road, again; near the Carleton ranch corral, a mile
and a half below the old camp in the sycamores behind the orchard of the
deserted place.

It was now eleven o'clock and the ranch-house was dark. Without
dismounting, Brian Oakley called, "Hello, Henry!" There was no answer.
Moving his horse close to the window of the room where he knew the rancher
slept, the Ranger tapped on the sash. "Henry, turn out; I want to see you;
it's Oakley."

A moment later the sash was raised and Carleton asked, "What is it, Brian?
What's up?"

"Is Sibyl stopping with you folks, to-night?"

"Sibyl! Haven't seen her since they went down from their summer camp.
What's the matter?"

Briefly, the Ranger explained the situation. The rancher interrupted only
to greet the artist with a "howdy, Mr. King," as the officer's words made
known the identity of his companion.

When Brian Oakley had concluded, the rancher said, "I heard that 'auto'
going up, and then heard it going back down, again, about an hour ago. You
missed it by turning off to Morton's. If you'd come on straight up here
you'd a met it."

"Did you see the man on horseback, going down, just before dusk?" asked
the officer.

"Yes, but not near enough to know him. You don't suppose Sibyl would go up
to her old home do you, Brian?"

"She might, under the circumstances. Aaron and I will ride up there, on
the chance."

"You'll stop in on your way back?" called the rancher, as the two horsemen
moved away.

"Sure," answered the Ranger.

An hour later, they were back. They had found the old home under the giant
sycamores, on the edge of the little clearing, dark and untenanted.

Lights were shining, now, from the windows of the Carleton ranch-house.
Down at the corral, the twinkling gleam of a lantern bobbed here and
there. As the Ranger and his companion drew near, the lantern came rapidly
up the hill. At the porch, they were met by Henry Carleton, his two sons,
and a ranch hand. As the four stood in the light of the window, and of the
lantern on the porch, listening to Brian Oakley's report, each held the
bridle-reins of a saddle-horse.

"I figured that the chance of her being up there wa