d with her 38-caliber six-shooter, that she
usually carried with her on the chance of getting a shot at a coyote or
a fox or something like that.

The three stood up and stared at her, their jaws sagging a little at
the suddenness of her appearance, and their eyes upon the gun. Jean
held it steady, and she had all the look of a person who knew exactly
what she meant, and who meant business. She eyed them curiously,
noting the fact that they were strangers, and cowboys,--though of a
type that she had never seen on the range. She glanced sharply at the
beaded, buckskin jacket of one of them, and the high, wide-brimmed
sombrero of another.

"Well," she said at length, "turn your backs, you've had a good look at
me. Turn--your--backs, I said. Now, drop those guns on the ground.
Walk straight ahead of you till you come to that bank. You needn't
look around; I'm still here."

She leaned a little, sending Pard slowly forward until he was close to
the six-shooters lying on the ground. She glanced down at them
quickly, and again at the men who stood, an uneasy trio, with their
faces toward the wall, except when they ventured a glance sidewise or
back at her over one shoulder. She glanced at the cattle huddled in
the narrow mouth of the "draw" behind them, and saw that they were
indeed Bar Nothing and Lazy A stock. The horses the three had been
riding she did not remember to have seen before.

Jean hesitated, not quite knowing what she ought to do next. So far
she had acted merely upon instincts born of her range life and
training; the rest would not be so easy. She knew she ought to have
those guns, at any rate, so she dismounted, still keeping the three in
line with her own weapon, and went to where the revolvers lay on the
ground. With her boot toe she kicked them close together, and stooped
and picked one up. The last man in the line turned toward her
protestingly, and Jean fired so close to his head that he ducked.

"Believe me, I could kill the three of you if I wanted to, before you
could turn around," she informed them calmly, "so you had better stand
still till I tell you to move." She frowned down at the rustler's gun
in her hand. There was something queer about that gun.

"Hey, Burns," called the man in the middle, without venturing to turn
his head, "come out of there and explain to the lady. This ain't in
the scene!"

"Oh, yes, it is!" a voice retorted chucklingly. "You bet your life this
is i