t Slavens had drawn a
blanket over his back as he sat before his dying fire, Indian fashion,
on the ground, drawing what solace he could from his pipe.

A sound of scrambling hoofs laboring up the sharp hill from the
direction of Meander came to him suddenly, startling him out of his
reflections. His thought leaped to the instant conclusion that it was
Agnes; he laid light fuel to the coals, blowing it to quicken a blaze
that would guide and welcome her.

When the rider appeared an eager flame was laving the rocks in the
yellow light, and Slavens was standing, peering beyond its radius. A
glance told him that it was not she for whom he had lighted his guiding
fire. It was a man. In a moment he drew up on the other side of the
blaze and leaned over, looking sharply into Slavens' face.

"Hello!" he hailed loudly, as if shouting across a river.

Slavens returned his bellowed hail with moderation, recognizing in the
dusty traveler Comanche's distinguished chief of police, Ten-Gallon, of
the diamond rings. Slavens never had been able to feel anything but the
most lively contempt for the fellow; now, since learning of Ten-Gallon's
treatment of Agnes, and his undoubted hand in the plot of Hun Shanklin
and Boyle against himself, the doctor held him to be nothing short of an
open enemy.

"I'm lookin' for a man by the name of Boyle," announced Ten-Gallon. "Are
you holdin' down camp for him?"

"He's on down the road a little way."

"Oh, yes," said Ten-Gallon, "I know you now. You're the feller that beat
him to it. Well, I had a complaint ag'in' you for stealin' a man's coat
over in Comanche."

"I'm out of your jurisdiction right now, I guess; but I'll go down to
Comanche and give you a chance at me if you want to take it," the doctor
told him, considerably out of humor, what with his own disappointment
and the fellow's natural insolence.

The police chief of Comanche laughed.

"I'd be about the last man to lay hands on you for anything you done to
that feller, even if you'd 'a' took his hide along with his coat," said
he.

"Then the crime trust of Comanche must be dissolved?" sneered Slavens.

"I don't git you, pardner," returned Ten-Gallon with cold severity.

"Oh, never mind."

"You're the feller that beat Boyle to it, too," added the chief; "and I
want to tell you, pardner, I take off my katy to you. You're one smart
guy!"

"You'll find your man on down the road about a quarter," directed
Slavens, on whose e