an' flee for his life just because his fool
brother is a-scared of shadows. He says th' beast was drunk tonight an'
didn't know what he was doin'."

Tom spread out his hands helplessly, and then clenched them. He paced a
few turns and stopped again. "All right, Uncle Joe; he's her father and
he's backin' his best judgment. I'm an outsider an' have nothin' to say.
Boys," he said, looking at his three hunter friends, "we got work ter
do. We got ter watch Patience Cooper every minute that she's out o' th'
house. Thar's too much at stake fer us to rendezvous hyar, we'll stay at
Armstrong's. Enoch, git our rifles over thar as soon as ye kin. I want
another repeatin' pistol, in a leather case, to hang under my shirt,
below my left arm-pit. Thank th' Lord that Turley's plantin' a relay fer
us up in th' mountains; I'm bettin' we'll need it bad." He looked at
Hank. "Bet it's eighty mile to that place, ain't it?"

"Th' way we come it is," replied the hunter. "I know a straighter trail
that ain't got so many people livin' along it. It's twenty mile shorter,
but harder travelin'."

"If thar's anybody at Bent's ranch on th' Purgatoire, we might pick up a
re-mount thar," muttered Tom. "That'd give us fresh hosses fer th' last
ninety miles to th' fort; but we'll have ter cross th' wagon road ter
git thar."

"We'll use that fer th' second bar'l," said Hank. "I know a better way,
over an old Ute trail leadin' toward th' Bayou Salade; but we'll have
hosses at Bent's ranch if I kin git word ter Holt, Carson or Bill Bent.
We better go 'round an' see Armstrong right away; he may know o'
somebody that's goin' up on th' trail through Raton Pass. He'll do
anythin' fer me."

"Cover th' candle," said Tom. "Give us our rifles; we kin carry 'em all
right at this time o' night, with everybody stayin' indoors on account
o' th' Texans. Any time ye have news fer us, Enoch, an' can't git it ter
Armstrong's, set a box outside th' door."

"It'll be stole," said Enoch, grinning.

"Then set somethin' else out."

"That'll be stole, too."

"What will?"

"Anythin' we put out."

"God help us!" ejaculated Uncle Joe. "Try a busted bottle."

"Glass?" laughed Alonzo, derisively. "No good. If you kin think o'
anythin' that won't be stole, I shore want to larn o' it." He considered
a moment. "Hyar! If I git flour on my elbow an' brush ag'in th' door, we
got news fer ye. I don't think they kin steal that, not all o' it,
anyhow!"

Enoch nodded. "If t