re a brave boy. I will give you a coat. That will
protect you if you are caught by the white men. Saddle your pony."

With a smile he turned on his heel and went out as cheerfully as though
he were going on an errand to the issue-house.

In his letter to the sheriff Curtis said: "I have found the murderer. He
is a half-crazy boy called Cut Finger. Make out a warrant for him and I
will deliver him to you. You will need no deputies. No one but yourself
will be permitted to cross the line for the present."

After Crane had galloped off, Curtis laid down his pen and sat for a
long time recalling the events of the evening. He remembered that Lawson
and Elsie went away together, and a pang of jealous pain took hold upon
him. "I never had the privilege of taking her arm," he thought,
unreasonably.

XXVII

BRISBANE COMES FOR ELSIE

Among other perplexities which now assailed the agent was the question
of how to secure Cut Finger without inciting further violence. He
confidently expected the police to locate the fugitive during the day,
probably in the camp of Red Wolf, on the head-waters of the Elk.

"He cannot escape. There is no place for him to go."

"He may have committed suicide," said Wilson, discussing the matter with
his chief the following morning.

"He may, but his death will not satisfy the ranchers unless they are
made the instrument of vengeance. They would feel cheated and bitterer
than ever," replied Curtis, sombrely. "He must be taken and delivered up
to the law."

On his return to the office after breakfast Curtis stopped at the door
of Elsie's studio, his brain yet tingling with the consciousness that no
other man's claim stood between them now.

She greeted him joyously. "I am starting a big canvas this morning," she
said. "Come in and see it."

He stepped inside to see, but the canvas only had a few rude, reddish
lines upon it, and Elsie laughed at his blank look as he faced the
easel.

"This thing here," she pointed with her brush, "is a beautiful purple
butte; this yellow circle is the sun; these little crumbly looking boxes
are trees; this streak is a river. This jack-in-the-box here is Crow
Wing on his horse."

Her joking helped to clear his brain, though his blood was throbbing in
his ears.

"Ah! I'm glad to know all that. Will you tag each anomalous hump?"

"Certainly. You will recognize everything by number or otherwise." She
turned a suddenly serious face upon him. "I am