ad of us was a riderless horse, Dolly, who greeted her master with a
joyful whinny. Where was Yik Kee? Then Dot, my horse, shied from the
road at a recumbent black figure. It was the indomitable Yik Kee, who
had crawled all the way from the stack on his stomach, so that he could
not be seen, after lying in the ditch till the blaze had faded out.
"Hump! no catchee Chinee; heap sore," he said, laconically rubbing his
stomach.

He mounted Dolly, and we rode on to White's ranch. Harry rushed out at
the sound of horses' feet, at midnight. There, under the twinkling stars
I looked into his eyes, and I told him the whole story. He showed no
guilt, but only said we must stay the night at his ranch, for the men
would come back to Jack's for him, and then mounting his fleet colt rode
off down the road. I comforted his mother as best I could. At day-break
we rode home.

Mary was in a wild state of alarm. Where had we been? Where was Jack?
and how cruel we were to leave her alone. She said that at one o'clock
three masked men had come to the house and searched it and the
premises, and had not molested her or the children, only asking where
Jack was, very sternly and sharply.

At noon Jack, Harry, the sheriff, and a party of armed men from Denver
rode up, stopping only a moment to tell me they would be back at night.
I dared not tell Mary, and she worried all the afternoon at their
strange conduct. At night Jack and Harry came home, looking tired but
happy. Then Jack told Mary, and she clung to him as though she could
never let him go.

It seemed the pleasing ranchman from Chicago was one of a band of cattle
thieves. He sold the hides to Harry, who, honest and open himself, was
slow to suspect wrong dealings in others. The sheriff had caught the men
skinning a cow that belonged to Mead, and had captured the gang and
taken them to Denver.

The men concerned in the attempt to lynch Jack were sincerely sorry.
Their regrets would not have availed much, however, if they had
succeeded in their purpose. They gave each of the children ten acres of
land; they gave Ted sixty-five, and me, whom they pleased to consider
very plucky, one hundred and fifty acres. I felt rich enough, and time
has made it very valuable land. The man on guard was our warmest
admirer. He thought Ted, Shep, and I wonders of courage. He said when I
came down on the bridge with the open knife, he thought his last hour
had come.

Gil Mead committed suicide not lo