ool job ter entertain a female thet's es frisky es a
young colt. And now, I reckon as how it's got ter be Injuns."

"Whut's got ter be Injuns?"

"Why thet outfit whut runs off with her, of course. I reckon you
fellers will stand in all right ter help pull me out o' this hole?"

Long Pete nodded.

"Well, Pete, this is 'bout whut's got ter be done, es near es I kin
figger it out. You pick out maybe half a dozen good fellers, who kin
keep their mouths shet, an' make Injuns out of 'em. 'Tain't likely she
'll ever twig any of the boys fixed up proper in thet sorter
outfit--anyhow, she'd be too durned skeered. Then you lay fer her, say
'bout next Wednesday, out in them Carter woods, when she 's comin' home
from school. I 'll kinder naturally happen 'long by accident 'bout the
head o' the gulch, an' jump in an' rescue her. _Sabe_?"

Lumley gazed at his companion with eyes expressive of admiration. "By
thunder, if you haven't got a cocoanut on ye, Jack! Lord, but thet
ought to get her a flyin'! Any shootin'?"

"Sure!" Moffat's face exhibited a faint smile at these words of
praise. "It wouldn't be no great shucks of a rescue without, an' this
hes got ter be the real thing. Only, I reckon, ye better shoot high,
so thar' won't be no hurt done."

When the two gentlemen parted, a few moments later, the conspiracy was
fully hatched, all preliminaries perfected, and the gallant rescue of
Miss Spencer assured. Indeed, there is some reason now to believe that
this desirable result was rendered doubly certain, for as Moffat moved
slowly past the Occidental on his way home, a person attired in chaps
and sombrero, and greatly resembling McNeil, was in the back room,
breathing some final instructions to a few bosom friends.

"Now don't--eh--any o' you fellers--eh--go an' forget the place. Jump
in--eh--lively. Just afore she--eh--gits ter thet thick
bunch--eh--underbrush, whar' the trail sorter--eh--drops down inter the
ravine. An' you chumps wanter--eh--git--yerselves up so she can't pipe
any of ye off--eh--in this yere--eh--road-agent act. I tell ye, after
what thet--eh--Moffat's bin a-pumpin' inter her, she's just got ter
be--eh--rescued, an' in blame good style, er--eh--it ain't no go."

"Oh, you rest easy 'bout all thet, Bill," chimed in Sandy Winn, his
black eyes dancing in anticipation of coming fun. "We 'll git up the
ornariest outfit whut ever hit the pike."

The long shadows of the late afternoon were