ekly in its wake. The man in the tree had
selected his station with good judgment. When Mack halted his four
mules, and Frances and Pratt obeyed a commanding gesture to stop at the
water's edge, all three were splendid targets for the man behind the
rifle.

"Ride up to that wagon, young fellow," commanded Pete. "Rip open that
canvas. That's right. Roll off your horse and climb inside; but don't
you go out of sight. If you do I'll make that canvas cover a sieve in
about one minute. Get me?"

Pratt nodded. He could not help himself. He gave an appealing glance
toward Frances. She nodded.

"Don't be foolish, Pratt," she whispered. "Do what he tells you to do."

Thus encouraged, the young fellow obeyed the mandate of the man who had
stopped them on the trail. He had read of highwaymen and hold-ups; but
he had believed that such things had gone out of fashion with the coming
of farmers into the Panhandle, the building up of the frequent
settlements, and the extension of the railroad lines.

Pratt's heart was warmed by the girl's evident desire that he should not
run into danger. The outlaw in the tree was after the chest hidden in
the wagon; but Frances put his safety above the value of the treasure
chest.

"Heave that chist out of the end of the wagon, and be quick about it!"
was the expected order from the desperado. "And don't try anything
funny, young fellow."

Pratt was in no mood to be "funny." He hesitated just a moment. But
Frances exclaimed:

"Do as he says! Don't wait!"

So out rolled the chest. Mack was grumbling to himself on the front
seat; but if he was armed he did not consider it wise to use any weapon.
The man with the rifle had everything his own way.

"Now, drive on!" commanded the latter individual. "I've got no use for
any of you folks here, and you'll be wise if you keep right on moving
till you get to that Peckham ranch. Git now!"

"All right, old-timer," grunted Mack. "Don't be so short-tempered about
it."

He let the mules go and they scrambled up the bank, drawing the wagon
after them. The chest lay on the river's edge. Pratt Sanderson had
climbed upon his pony again.

"You two git, also," growled the man in the tree. "I got all I want of
ye."

Pratt groaned aloud as he urged the grey pony after Molly.

"What will your father say, Frances?" he muttered.

"I don't know," returned the girl, honestly.

"I'm going to ride ahead to the Peckham ranch and rouse them. That
fellow can