gly. "Otherwise any of us would."

He stopped and then spoke in a different tone. "If Lew stays off the
ranch long enough, maybe you'll get to hear her sing. Wow-ee, but that
lady has sure got the meadow-larks whipped! But look out for Honey,
old-timer."

Bud laughed unmirthfully. "Looks to me as if you aren't crazy over
Honey," he ventured. "What has she done to you?"

"Her?" Jerry inspected his cigarette, listened to the whisper of
prudence in his ear, and turned away. "Forget it. I never said a word."
He swept the whole subject from him with a comprehensive gesture, and
snorted. "I'm gettin' as bad as Pop," he grinned. "But lemme tell yuh
something. Honey Krause runs more 'n the post-office."

CHAPTER ELEVEN: GUILE AGAINST THE WILY

Bud liked to have his life run along accustomed lines with a more or
less perfect balance of work and play, friendships and enmities. He
had grown up with the belief that any mystery is merely a synonym for
menace. He had learned to be wary of known enemies such as Indians
and outlaws, and to trust implicitly his friends. To feel now, without
apparent cause, that his friends might be enemies in disguise, was a new
experience that harried him.

He had come to Little Lost on Tuesday, straight from the Muleshoe
where his presence was no longer desired for some reason not yet
satisfactorily explained to him. You know what happened on Tuesday. That
night the land crouched under a terrific electric storm, with crackling
swords of white death dazzling from inky black clouds, and ear-splitting
thunder close on the heels of it. Bud had known such storms all his
life, yet on this night he was uneasy, vaguely disturbed. He caught
himself wondering if Lew Morris's wife was frightened, and the
realization that he was worrying about her fear worried him more than
ever and held him awake long after the fury of the storm had passed.

Next day, when he came in at noon, there was Hen, from the Muleshoe,
waiting for dinner before he rode back with the mail. Hen's jaw dropped
when he saw Bud riding on a Little Lost hay-wagon, and his eyes bulged
with what Bud believed was consternation. All through the meal Bud had
caught Hen eyeing him miserably, and looking stealthily from him to the
others. No one paid any attention, and for that Bud was rather thankful;
he did not want the Little Lost fellows to think that perhaps he had
done something which he knew would hang him if it were discovered,
which