The cowpuncher's steady eyes met him. "It'll go this time."

The girl gave her champion a quiet little nod and a low "Thank you." It
was not much, but enough. For on the frontier "white men" do not war on
women. Her instinct gave just the right manner of treating his help. It
assumed that since he was what he was he could do no less. Moreover, it
had the unexpected effect of spurring the Wolf's vanity, or something
better than his vanity. She could see the battle in his face, and the
passing of its evil, sinister expression.

"Beg your pardon, Miss Mackenzie. York's right. I'll add my word to his
about your safety. I'm a wolf, they'll tell you. But when I give my word
I keep it."

They turned and followed through the gateway the cattle which Hardman
and another rider were driving up the canon. Presently the walls fell
back, the gulch opened to a saucer-shaped valley in which nestled a
little ranch.

Leroy indicated it with a wave of his hand. "Welcome to Hidden Valley,
Miss Mackenzie," he said cynically.

"Afraid I'm likely to wear my welcome out if you keep me here until my
father raises thirty thousand dollars," she said lightly.

"Don't you worry any about that. We need the refining influences of
ladies' society here. I can see York's a heap improved already. Just to
teach us manners you're worth your board and keep." Then hardily, with a
sweeping gesture toward the weary cattle: "Besides, your uncle has sent
up a contribution to help keep you while you visit with us."

York laughed. "He sent it, but he didn't know he was sending it."

Leroy surrendered his room to Miss Mackenzie and put at her service
the old Mexican woman who cooked for him. She was a silent, taciturn
creature, as wrinkled as leather parchment and about as handsome, but
Alice found safety in the very knowledge of the presence of another
woman in the valley. She was among robbers and cutthroats, but old
Juanita lent at least a touch of domesticity to a situation that would
otherwise have been impossible. The girl was very uneasy in her mind.
A cold dread filled her heart, a fear that was a good deal less
than panic-terror, however. For she trusted the man Neil even as she
distrusted his captain. Miscreant he had let himself be called, and
doubtless was, but she knew no harm could befall her from his companions
while he was alive to prevent it. A reassurance of this came to her
that evening in the fragment of a conversation she overheard.