s the next
man."

"Let it drop," said Wilbur, sober again, for he shared with all of
Boone's crew a deep-rooted unwillingness to press Red Pierre beyond a
certain point. "The one subject I won't quarrel about is Jack, God
bless her."

"She's the best pal," said Pierre soberly, "and the nearest to a man
I've ever met."

"Nearest to a man?" queried Wilbur, and smiled, but so furtively that
even the sharp eye of Red Pierre did not perceive the mockery. He went
on:

"But the dance, what of that? It's a masquerade. There'd be no fear
of being recognized."

Pierre was silent a moment more. Then he said:

"This girl--what did you call her?"

"Mary."

"And about her hair--I think you said it was black?"

"Golden, Pierre."

"Mary, and golden hair," mused Red Pierre. "I think I'll go to that
dance."

"With Jack? She dances wonderfully, you know."

"Well--with Jack."

So they reached a tumbled ranch-house squeezed between two hills so
that it was sheltered from the storms of the winter but held all the
heat of the summer.

Once it had been a goodly building, the home of some cattle-king. But
bad times had come.

A bullet in a saloon brawl put an end to the cattle king, and now his
home was a wreck of its former glory. The northern wing shelved down
to the ground as if the building were kneeling to the power of the
wind, and the southern portion of the house, though still erect, seemed
tottering and rotten throughout and holding together until at a final
blow the whole structure would crumple at once.

To the stables, hardly less ruinous than the big house, Pierre and
Wilbur took their horses, and a series of whinnies greeted them from
the stalls. To look down that line of magnificent heads raised above
the partitions of the stalls was like glancing into the stud of some
crowned head who made hunting and racing his chief end in life, for
these were animals worthy of the sport of kings.

They were chosen each from among literal hundreds and thousands, and
they were cared for far more tenderly than the masters cared for
themselves. There was a reason in it, for upon their speed and
endurance depended the life of the outlaw. Moreover, the policy of Jim
Boone was one of actual "long riding."

Here he had come to a pause for a few days to recuperate his horses and
his men. To-morrow, perhaps, he would be on the spur again and
sweeping off to a distant point in the mountain desert to strike and be