ns had already (unknown to him) plunged into
it, and had conceived a road through the tangled brush that would
shorten the distance by some miles. He had figured it out, and believed
that it "would pay." But by this time they were beginning the somewhat
steep and difficult ascent of the canyon on the other side. The vehicle
had not crawled many yards before it stopped. Dick Boyle glanced around.
Miss Cantire was getting down. She had expressed a wish to walk the rest
of the ascent, and the coach was to wait for her at the top. Foster had
effusively begged her to take her own time--"there was no hurry!" Boyle
glanced a little longingly after her graceful figure, released from her
cramped position on the box, as it flitted youthfully in and out of the
wayside trees; he would like to have joined her in the woodland ramble,
but even his good nature was not proof against her indifference. At a
turn in the road they lost sight of her, and, as the driver and mail
agent were deep in a discussion about the indistinct track, Boyle lapsed
into his silent study of the country. Suddenly he uttered a slight
exclamation, and quietly slipped from the back of the toiling coach to
the ground. The action was, however, quickly noted by the driver, who
promptly put his foot on the brake and pulled up. "Wot's up now?" he
growled.

Boyle did not reply, but ran back a few steps and began searching
eagerly on the ground.

"Lost suthin?" asked Foster.

"Found something," said Boyle, picking up a small object. "Look at that!
D----d if it isn't the card I gave that Indian four hours ago at the
station!" He held up the card.

"Look yer, sonny," retorted Foster gravely, "ef yer wantin' to get out
and hang round Miss Cantire, why don't yer say so at oncet? That story
won't wash!"

"Fact!" continued Boyle eagerly. "It's the same card I stuck in his
hat--there's the greasy mark in the corner. How the devil did it--how
did HE get here?"

"Better ax him," said Foster grimly, "ef he's anywhere round."

"But I say, Foster, I don't like the look of this at all! Miss Cantire
is alone, and"--

But a burst of laughter from Foster and the mail agent interrupted him.
"That's so," said Foster. "That's your best holt! Keep it up! You
jest tell her that! Say thar's another Injin skeer on; that that thar
bloodthirsty ole 'Fleas in His Blanket' is on the warpath, and you're
goin' to shed the last drop o' your blood defendin' her! That'll fetch
her, and she