carelessly and listlessly that he did not
otherwise change his attitude. Stepping from behind the tree, the woman
of the preceding night stood before him. Her hands were free except for
a thong of the riata, which was still knotted around one wrist, the end
of the thong having been torn or burnt away. Her eyes were bloodshot,
and her hair hung over her shoulders in one long black braid.

"I reckoned all along it was YOU who shot the bear," she said; "at least
some one hiding yer," and she indicated the hollow tree with her hand.
"It wasn't no chance shot." Observing that the young man, either from
misconception or indifference, did not seem to comprehend her, she
added, "We came by here, last night, a minute after you fired."

"Oh, that was YOU kicked up such a row, was it?" said the young man,
with a shade of interest.

"I reckon," said the woman, nodding her head, "and them that was with
me."

"And who are they?"

"Sheriff Dunn, of Yolo, and his deputy."

"And where are they now?"

"The deputy--in h-ll, I reckon; I don't know about the sheriff."

"I see," said the young man quietly; "and you?"

"I--got away," she said savagely. But she was taken with a sudden
nervous shiver, which she at once repressed by tightly dragging her
shawl over her shoulders and elbows, and folding her arms defiantly.

"And you're going?"

"To follow the deputy, may be," she said gloomily. "But come, I say,
ain't you going to treat? It's cursed cold here."

"Wait a moment." The young man was looking at her, with his arched brows
slightly knit and a half smile of curiosity. "Ain't you Teresa?"

She was prepared for the question, but evidently was not certain whether
she would reply defiantly or confidently. After an exhaustive scrutiny
of his face she chose the latter, and said, "You can bet your life on
it, Johnny."

"I don't bet, and my name isn't Johnny. Then you're the woman who
stabbed Dick Curson over at Lagrange's?"

She became defiant again.

"That's me, all the time. What are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing. And you used to dance at the Alhambra?" She whisked the shawl
from her shoulders, held it up like a scarf, and made one or two steps
of the sembicuacua. There was not the least gayety, recklessness, or
spontaneity in the action; it was simply mechanical bravado. It was so
ineffective, even upon her own feelings, that her arms presently dropped
to her side, and she coughed embarrassedly. "Where's that whis