n the scene! Lowry's been pamming it all in; don't you worry about
that!" Jean was startled, but she did not lower her gun from its steady
aiming at the three of them. It was just some trick, very likely,
meant to throw her off her guard. There were more than the three, and
the fourth man probably had her covered with a gun. But she would not
turn her head toward his voice, for all that.

"The gentleman called Burns may walk out into the open and explain, if
he can," she announced sharply, her eyes upon the three whom she had
captured so easily.

She heard the throaty chuckle again, from somewhere to the left of her.
She saw the three men in front of her look at each other with sickly
grins. She felt that the whole situation was swinging against
her,--that she had somehow blundered and made herself ridiculous. It
never occurred to her that she was in any particular danger; men did
not shoot down women in that country, unless they were drunk or crazy,
and the man called Burns had sounded extremely sane, humorous even.
She heard a rattle of bushes and the soft crunching of footsteps coming
toward her. Still she would not turn her head, nor would she lower the
gun; if it was a trick, they should not say that it had been successful.

"It's all right, sister," said the chuckling voice presently, almost at
her elbow. "This isn't any real, honest-to-John bandit party. We're
just movie people, and we're making pictures. That's all." He
stopped, but Jean did not move or make any reply whatever, so he went
on. "I must say I appreciate the compliment you paid us in taking it
for the real dope, sister--"

"Don't call me sister again." Jean flashed him a sidelong glance of
resentment. "You've already done it twice too often. Come around in
front where I can see you, if you're what you claim to be."

"Well, don't shoot, and I will," soothed the chuckling voice. "My, my,
it certainly is a treat to see a real, live Prairie Queen once. Beats
making them to order--"

"We'll omit the superfluous chatter, please." Jean looked him over and
tagged him mentally with one glance. He did not look like a
rustler,--with his fat good-nature and his town-bred personality, and
his gray tweed suit and pigskin puttees, and the big cameo ring on his
manicured little finger, and his fresh-shaven face as round as the sun
above his head and almost as cheerful. Perfectly harmless, but Jean
would not yield to the extent of softening