icturesque
and unstudied relaxation of perfect symmetry.

"Hallo, Mister!"

He raised his head so carelessly and listlessly that he did not
otherwise change his attitude. Stepping from behind the tree, the woman
of the preceding night stood before him. Her hands were free except for
a thong of the _riata_, which was still knotted around one wrist, the
end of the thong having been torn or burnt away. Her eyes were
bloodshot, and her hair hung over her shoulders in one long black
braid.

"I reckoned all along it was _you_ who shot the bear," she said; "at
least some one hidin' yer," and she indicated the hollow tree with her
hand. "It wasn't no chance shot." Observing that the young man, either
from misconception or indifference, did not seem to comprehend her, she
added, "We came by here, last night, a minute after you fired."

"Oh, that was _you_ kicked up such a row, was it?" said the young man,
with a shade of interest.

"I reckon," said the woman, nodding her head, "and them that was with
me."

"And who are they?"

"Sheriff Dunn, of Yolo, and his deputy."

"And where are they now?"

"The deputy--in h--ll, I reckon. I don't know about the sheriff."

"I see," said the young man quietly; "and you?"

"I--got away," she said savagely. But she was taken with a sudden
nervous shiver, which she at once repressed by tightly dragging her
shawl over her shoulders and elbows, and folding her arms defiantly.

"And you're going?"

"To follow the deputy, may be," she said gloomily. "But come, I say,
ain't you going to treat? It's cursed cold here."

"Wait a moment." The young man was looking at her, with his arched
brows slightly knit and a half smile of curiosity. "Ain't you Teresa?"

She was prepared for the question, but evidently was not certain
whether she would reply defiantly or confidently. After an exhaustive
scrutiny of his face she chose the latter, and said, "You can bet your
life on it, Johnny."

"I don't bet, and my name isn't Johnny. Then you're the woman who
stabbed Dick Curson over at Lagrange's?"

She became defiant again. "That's me, all the time. What are you going
to do about it?"

"Nothing. And you used to dance at the Alhambra?"

She whisked the shawl from her shoulders, held it up like a scarf, and
made one or two steps of the _sembicuacua_. There was not the least
gayety, recklessness, or spontaneity in the action; it was simply
mechanical bravado. It was so ineffective, even upon