st protection available. Somehow the weapons that garnished them
had leaped to their hands before their feet touched the ground.

"That coyote isn't one of our men. I'll back that opinion high," said
McWilliams promptly.

"Who is he?" the girl whispered.

"That's what we're going to find out pretty soon," returned Bannister
grimly. "Chances are it's me he is trying to gather. Now, I'm going to
make a break for that cottonwood. When I go, you better run up a white
handkerchief and move back from the firing-line. Turn Buck loose when
you leave. He'll stay around and come when I whistle."

He made a run for it, zigzagging through the sage-brush so swiftly as to
offer the least certain mark possible for a sharpshooter. Yet twice the
rifle spoke before he reached the cottonwood.

Meanwhile Mac had fastened the handkerchief of his mistress on the end
of a switch he had picked up and was edging out of range. His tense,
narrowed gaze never left the bush-clump from which the shots were being
pumped, and he was careful during their retreat to remain on the danger
side of the road, in order to cover Helen.

"I guess Bannister's right. He don't want us, whoever he is."

And even as he murmured it, the wind of a bullet lifted his hat from
his head. He picked it up and examined it. The course of the bullet was
marked by a hole in the wide brim, and two more in the side and crown.

"He ce'tainly ventilated it proper. I reckon, ma'am, we'll make a run
for it. Lie low on the pinto's neck, with your haid on the off side.
That's right. Let him out."

A mile and a half farther up the road Mac reined in, and made the
Indian peace-sign. Two dejected figures came over the hill and resolved
themselves into punchers of the Lazy D. Each of them trailed a rifle by
his side.

"You're a fine pair of ring-tailed snorters, ain't y'u?" jeered the
foreman. "Got to get gay and go projectin' round on the shoot after y'u
got your orders to stay hitched. Anything to say for yo'selves?"

If they had it was said very silently.

"Now, Miss Messiter is going to pass it up this time, but from now on
y'u don't go off on any private massacrees while y'u punch at the Lazy
D. Git that? This hyer is the last call for supper in the dining-cah. If
y'u miss it, y'u'll feed at some other chuckhouse." Suddenly the drawl
of his sarcasm vanished. His voice carried the ring of peremptory
command. "Jim, y'u go back to the ranch with Miss Messiter, AND KEEP
YOUR