the loft where the workmen slept. He had
wrapped himself in a blanket and, with another for a pillow, had settled
himself in a corner of the loose box next the stalls where his team
stood. He was so devoted to them that he couldn't leave them alone in a
strange stable, though from the snores which already came from him he
didn't seem a great protection to anything.

But Silent Pete was wily. He had heard the voices of the pair without
the building, asking a groom to tell where Pete could be found, and had
resented being disturbed. He had done his day's work, he had no
intention of joining in any search that might be made for the
delinquents, and he promptly pretended slumber. But he hadn't reckoned
upon Leslie's persistence nor his own uneasy conscience.

"Wake up there, Peter, if that's your name! I'm your boss's son, and I
want a word with you. Wake up, man!"

The snores deepened. Rarely had the nose of mortal man emitted such
ear-splitting sounds as now issued from the nostrils of the ranchman, as
Leslie shoved aside the sliding door of the loose box and stepped
within.

"Here, Molly-without-the-Miss, take the lantern and hold it so I can
find the head inside that roll of blankets! Feet are big enough. Can't
miss them," said the lad, stumbling over the protruding boots of the
sleeper. "I'll take this pitchfork and prod him up a bit. Hello, Pete! I
say, Pete, you've earned your name one way--but you hardly deserve it
another. 'Silent!' You'll certainly keep the horses awake and--Wake up,
I say! You shall!"

Leslie thrust the pitchfork into the boards of the floor so
uncomfortably near that snoring nose that Pete hitched aside and so
admitted himself awake. Molly ran into the box and held the lantern low,
while the boy squatted at the teamster's head and thumped it soundly.
Both were giggling, which incensed their victim still further, and he
suddenly tossed off his blanket with such force that it hit Molly's face
and made her jump away, while Leslie ordered:

"Quit that! Don't you know how to treat a lady?"

There was no answer, save a frown directed toward the laughing girl, and
the lad demanded:

"You're to open your lips and tell us what you think has happened to
that tenderfoot driver and his team. Why doesn't he come in? They say
you're the oldest driver round, know the most about the roads, or
trails, and your opinion's wanted. Give it quick, because--Well,
there'll be some thing doin' if you do know a