story in which he had unconsciously borne
part, as to constantly question those riding in front for details.

Westcott and Stella, in spite of the drear, dread monotony of those
miles of sand, the desolate barrenness of which extended about in every
direction, and, at last, weighed heavily upon their spirits, found the
ride anything but tedious. They had so much to be thankful for,
hopeful over: so much to say to each other. She described all that had
occurred during her imprisonment, and he, in turn, told the story of
what himself and Brennan had passed through in the search for her
captors. Cavendish listened eagerly to each recital, lifting his head
to interject a question of interest, and then dropping wearily back
again upon his blankets.

They stopped to lunch at Baxter Springs, and to water the team; and it
was considerably after dark when they finally drove creaking up the
main street of Haskell and stopped in front of the Timmons House to
unload. The street was devoid of excitement, although the Red Dog was
wide open for business, and Westcott caught a glimpse of Mike busily
engaged behind the bar. A man or two passing glanced at them
curiously, but, possibly because of failure to recognise him in the
darkness, no alarm was raised, or any effort made to block their
progress. Without Lacy to urge them on, the disciples of Judge Lynch
had likely enough forgotten the whole affair. Timmons, hearing the
creak of approaching wheels, and surmising the arrival of guests, came
lumbering out through the open door, his face beaming welcome. Behind
him the vacant office stood fully revealed in the light of
bracket-lamps.

As Westcott clambered over the wheel, and then assisted the lady to
alight, the face of the landlord was sufficiently expressive of
surprise.

"You!" he exclaimed, staring into their faces doubtfully. "What the
Sam Hill does this mean?"

"Only that we've got back, Timmons. Why this frigid reception?"

"Well, this yere is a respectable hotel, an' I ain't goin' ter have it
all mussed up by no lynchin' party," the landlord's voice full of
regret. "Then this yere gal; she wrote me she'd gone back East."

Westcott laughed.

"Stow your grouch, old man, and give us a hand. There will be no
lynching, because Lacy is in the hands of the marshal. As to this
lady, she never sent you that note. She was abducted by force, and has
just escaped. Don't stand there like a fool."

"But where did