was coming, and stationed
herself with intense delight behind the door, through a crack in which
she could both hear and see.

"Mary, my dear," said Pat insinuatingly, "how would you like to jump
into double harness with me an' jog along the path o' life together?"

Poor Mary, being agitated by the proposal, and much amused by the manner
of it, bent over a pot of something and tried to hide her blushes and
amusement in the steam. Buttercup glared, grinned, hugged herself, and
waited for more.

Pat, erroneously supposing that silence meant consent, slipped an arm
round Mary's waist. No man had ever yet dared to do such a thing to
her. The indignant girl suddenly wheeled round and brought her pretty
little palm down on the cow-boy's cheek with all her might--and that was
considerable!

"Who's a-firin' off pistles in de kitchen?" demanded Buttercup in a
serious tone, as she popped her woolly head through the doorway.

"Nobody, me black darlin'," said Pat; "it's only Miss Mary expressin'
her failin's in a cheeky manner. That's all!"

So saying the rejected cow-boy left the scene of his discomfiture,
mounted his mustang, took his departure from the ranch of Roarin' Bull
without saying farewell, and when next heard of had crossed the lonely
Guadaloupe mountains into Lincoln County, New Mexico.

But to return. While the troops and the outlaws were hastening thus to
the rescue of the dwellers in Bull's ranch, and the blood-thirsty
Redskins were making for the same point, bent on the destruction of all
its inhabitants, Roaring Bull himself, his pretty daughter, and Dick
Darvall, were seated in the ranch enjoying their supper, all ignorant
alike of the movements of friend and foe, with Buttercup waiting on
them.

One messenger, however, was speeding on his way to warn them of danger.
This was the cowboy Crux, who had been despatched on Bluefire by Hunky
Ben just before that sturdy scout had started to call out the cavalry at
Quester Creek.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE ALARM AND PREPARATIONS FOR DEFENCE.

"From what you say I should think that my friend Brooke won't have much
trouble in findin' Traitor's Trap," remarked Dick Darvall, pausing in
the disposal of a venison steak which had been cooked by the fair bands
of Mary Jackson herself, "but I'm sorely afraid o' the reception he'll
meet with when he gets there, if the men are such awful blackguards as
you describe."

"They're the biggest hounds unhung," gro