man named Pete.

"If he turns to look back, he will see me," thought the excited girl.

Instantly she was off Molly's back. There might be no time to ride out
of sight over the ridge. Here was an old buffalo wallow, and she took
advantage of it.

In the old days when the bison roamed the plains of the Panhandle the
beasts made wallows in which they ground off the grass, and the
grassroots as well, leaving a barren hollow from two to four feet in
depth. These dust baths were used frequently by the heavily-coated
buffalo in hot weather.

Holding Molly by the head the girl commanded her to lie down. The
cow-pony, perfectly amenable to her young mistress now, obeyed the
order, grunting as she dropped to her knees, the saddle squeaking.

"Be dead!" ordered Frances, sternly. The pinto rolled on her side,
stretched out her neck, and blinked up at the girl. She was entirely
hidden from any chance glance thrown back by the stranger on the trail;
and when Frances dropped down, too, both of them were well out of sight
of any one riding the range.

The range girl waited until she was quite sure the stranger had ridden
beyond the first line of cottonwoods. Perhaps he merely wished to water
his steed at the ford, but Frances had her doubts of him.

When she finally stood up to scrutinize the plain ahead, there was no
moving object in sight. Yet she did not mount and ride Molly when she
had got the pinto on its legs.

Instead, she led the pony, and kept off the wellworn trail, too. The
pounding of hoofs on a hard trail can be distinguished for a long
distance by a man who will take the trouble to put his ear to the
ground. The sound travels almost as far as the jar of a coming railroad
train on the steel rails.

It was more than two miles to the beginning of the cottonwood grove, and
one cannot walk very fast and lead a horse, too. But with a hand on
Molly's neck, and speaking an urgent word to the pinto now and then,
Frances was able to accomplish the journey within a reasonable time.

Meantime she saw no sign of the man on horseback, nor of anybody else.
He had ridden down to the ford, she was sure, and was still down there.

Once among the trees, Frances tied the pinto securely and crept through
the thickets toward the shallow part of the stream. She heard no voices
this time; but she did smell smoke.

"Not tobacco," thought Frances Rugley, with decision. "He's built a
campfire. He is going to stay here for a time. W