y.

"Said he'd shoot me in the back if I hit the trail any faster," Fox
snorted to the girl.

"He wouldn't dare," flamed Beulah Rutherford.

Her sultry eyes attacked Dingwell.

He smiled, not a whit disturbed. "You see how it is, Chet. Maybe I
will; maybe I won't. Be a sport and you'll find out."

For a minute the three rode in silence except for the sound of the
horses moving. Beulah did not fully understand the situation, but it
was clear to her that somehow Dingwell was interfering with a plan of
her people. Her untamed youth resented the high-handed way in which he
seemed to be doing it. What right had he to hold Chet Fox a prisoner
at the point of a rifle?

She asked a question flatly. "Have you got a warrant for Chet's
arrest?"

"Only old Tried and True here." Dave patted the barrel of his weapon.

"You're not a deputy sheriff?"

"No-o. Not officially."

"What has Chet done?"

Dingwell regarded the other man humorously. "What have you done, Chet?
You must 'a' broke some ordinance in that long career of
disrespectability of yours. I reckon we'll put it that you obstructed
traffic at Lonesome Park."

Miss Rutherford said no more. The rain had given way to a gentle mist.
Presently she took off her slicker and held it on the left side of the
saddle to fold. The cattleman leaned toward her to lend a hand.

"Lemme roll it up," he said.

"No, I can."

With the same motion the girl had learned in roping cattle she flung
the slicker over his head. Her weight on the left stirrup, she threw
her arms about him and drew the oil coat tight.

"Run, Chet!" she cried.

Fox was off like a flash.

Hampered by his rifle, Dave could use only one hand to free himself.
The Rutherford girl clung as if her arms had been ropes of steel.
Before he had shaken her off, the runaway was a hundred yards down the
road galloping for dear life.

Dave raised his gun. Beulah struck the barrel down with her quirt. He
lowered the rifle, turned to her, and smiled. His grin was rueful but
friendly.

"You're a right enterprising young lady for a schoolmarm, but I
wouldn't have shot Chet, anyhow. The circumstances don't warrant it."

She swung from the saddle and picked her coat out of the mud where it
had fallen. Her lithe young figure was supple as that of a boy.

"You've spoiled my coat," she charged resentfully.

The injustice of this tickled him. "I'll buy you a new one when we get
to town," he told