o a slope he had cooled sufficiently to
realize the foolishness of bravado. Not unlikely the murderer was
lying back out of sight, ready to shoot him when he came up out of the
creek. He reflected, and decided that the going was quite good enough
in the bottom of the creek bed. He rode on down the channel, over the
gravel bars, at an easy canter.

After a half mile the bank became so low and the creek bed so sandy
that he turned up on to the dry sod. As he did so he kept his eye
warily on the now distant ridge. But no bullet came pinging down after
him.

Instead, he heard the thud of galloping hoofs, and twisted about just
in time to see a rider top a rise a short distance in front of him.
He snapped down his breech sight and faced the supposed assailant with
the rifle ready at his shoulder. Almost as quickly he lowered the
weapon and snatched off his sombrero in joyful salute. The rider was
Miss Knowles.

She waved back gayly and cantered up to him, her lovely face aglow
with cordial greeting.

"Good noon!" she called. "So you have come at last? But better late
than never."

"How could I help coming?" he gallantly exclaimed.

"I see. The coyotes stole your cutlets, and you were hungry," she
bantered, as she came alongside and whirled her horse around to ride
with him down the creek.

"How did you guess?" he asked.

"I know coyotes," she replied. "They're the worst--" She stopped
short, gazing at the bleeding flanks of his pony. "Oh, Mr. Ashton! how
could you? I did not think you so cruel!"

"Cruel?" he repeated, twisting about to see what she meant. "Ah, you
refer to the spurring. But I simply couldn't help it, you know. There
was a bandit taking pot shots at me as I passed the ridge back
there."

"A bandit--on Dry Mesa?" she incredulously exclaimed.

"Yes; he pegged at me eight or nine times."

The girl smiled. "You probably heard one of the punchers shooting at a
coyote."

"No," he insisted, flushing under her look. "The ruffian was shooting
at me. See here."

He put his hand to his left hip pocket, one side of which had been
torn out. From it he drew his brandy flask.

"That was done by the third or fourth shot," he explained. "Do you
wonder I was flat on my pony's neck and spurring as hard as I could?"

The girl took the flask from his outstretched hand and looked it over
with keen interest. In one side of the silver case was a small, neat
hole. Opposite it half of the other side had been bur