to the cedars. Lying flat he crawled stealthily to the
bushy fringe of the bench.

A bright fire blazed under the cliff. Men were moving and laughing.
The cabin door was open. Mescal stood leaning back from Snap Naab,
struggling to release her hands.

"Let me untie them, I say," growled Snap.

Mescal tore loose from him and stepped back. Her hands were bound before
her, and twisting them outward, she warded him off. Her dishevelled
hair almost hid her dark eyes. They burned in a level glance of hate and
defiance. She was a little lioness, quivering with fiery life, fight in
every line of her form.

"All right, don't eat then--starve!" said Snap.

"I'll starve before I eat what you give me."

The rustlers laughed. Holderness blew out a puff of smoke and smiled.
Snap glowered upon Mescal and then upon his amiable companions. One of
them, a ruddy-faced fellow, walked toward Mescal.

"Cool down, Snap, cool down," he said. "We're not goin' to stand for a
girl starvin'. She ain't eat a bite yet. Here, Miss, let me untie your
hands--there. . . . Say! Naab, d--n you, her wrists are black an' blue!"

"Look out! Your gun!" yelled Snap.

With a swift movement Mescal snatched the man's Colt from its holster
and was raising it when he grasped her arm. She winced and dropped the
weapon.

"You little Indian devil!" exclaimed the rustler, in a rapt admiration.
"Sorry to hurt you, an' more'n sorry to spoil your aim. Thet wasn't kind
to throw my own gun on me, jest after I'd played the gentleman, now, was
it?"

"I didn't--intend--to shoot--you," panted Mescal.

"Naab, if this's your Mormon kind of wife--excuse me! Though I ain't
denyin' she's the sassiest an' sweetest little cat I ever seen!"

"We Mormons don't talk about our women or hear any talk," returned Snap,
a dancing fury in his pale eyes. "You're from Nebraska?"

"Yep, jest a plain Nebraska rustler, cattle-thief, an' all round no-good
customer, though I ain't taken to houndin' women yet."

For answer Snap Naab's right hand slowly curved upward before him and
stopped taut and inflexible, while his strange eyes seemed to shoot
sparks.

"See here, Naab, why do you want to throw a gun on me?" asked the
rustler, coolly. "Haven't you shot enough of your friends yet? I reckon
I've no right to interfere in your affairs. I was only protestin'
friendly like, for the little lady. She's game, an' she's called your
hand. An' it's not a straight hand. Thet's all, an' d--n