His name is Sam Cullison. And you needn't
to tell me where he is. I'll find him."

"I know you don't mean any harm to him." But she said it as if she were
pleading with him.

"C'rect. I don't. Can you tell me how to get to Soapy Stone's horse ranch
from here, Miss London?"

She laughed. Her doubts were vanishing like mist before the sunshine.
"Good guess. At least he was there the last I heard."

"And I expect your information is pretty recent."

That drew another little laugh accompanied by a blush.

"Don't you think I have told you enough for one day, Mr. Flandrau?"

"That 'Mr.' sounds too solemn. My friends call me 'Curly,'" he let her
know.

She remembered that he was a stranger and a rustler and she drew herself
up stiffly. This pleasant young fellow was too familiar.

"If you take this trail to the scrub pines above, then keep due north for
about four miles, you'll strike the creek again. Just follow the trail
along it to the horse ranch."

With that she turned on her heel and walked into the kitchen.

Curly had not meant to be "fresh." He was always ready for foolery with
the girls, but he was not the sort to go too far. Now he blamed himself
for having moved too fast. He had offended her sense of what was the
proper thing.

There was nothing for it but to saddle and take the road.

CHAPTER VI

A BEAR TRAP

The winding trail led up to the scrub pines and from there north into the
hills. Curly had not traveled far when he heard the sound of a gun fired
three times in quick succession. He stopped to listen. Presently there
came a faint far call for help.

Curly cantered around the shoulder of the hill and saw a man squatting on
the ground. He was stooped forward in an awkward fashion with his back to
Flandrau.

"What's up?"

At the question the man looked over his shoulder. Pain and helpless rage
burned in the deep-set black eyes.

"Nothing at all. Don't you see I'm just taking a nap?" he answered
quietly.

Curly recognized him now. The man was Soapy Stone. Behind the straight
thin-lipped mouth a double row of strong white teeth were clamped tightly.
Little beads of perspiration stood out all over his forehead. A glance
showed the reason. One of his hands was caught in a bear trap fastened to
a cottonwood. Its jaws held him so that he could not move.

The young man swung from the back of Keno. He found the limb of a
cottonwood about as thick as his forearm below the elbow. This