otion.

On this night Hans Becher had eaten his supper and returned to the
hotel office, as was his wont, for an evening smoke, when, without
apparent reason, Bud Evans and Jim Donovan, the blacksmith, came
quietly in and sat down.

"Evening," they nodded, and looked about them.

A minute later Dr. Curtis and Hank Judge, the machine man, dropped
unostentatiously into chairs. They likewise muttered "Evening," and
made observation from under their hat-brims. Others followed rapidly,
until the room was full and dark figures waited outside. At last
Curtis spoke.

"Your boarder, Asa Arnold, where is he, Hans?"

The unsuspecting German blew a cloud of smoke.

"He a while ago went out." Then, as an afterthought: "He will return
soon."

Silence once more for a time, and a steadily thickening haze of smoke
in the room.

"Did he have supper, Hans?" queried Bud Evans, impatiently.

Again the German's face expressed surprise.

"No, it is waiting for him. He went to shoot a rabbit he saw."

The men were on their feet.

"He took a gun, Hans?"

"A rifle, to be sure." The mild brown eyes glanced up reproachfully.
"A man does not go hunting without--... What is this!" he completed in
consternation, as, finding himself suddenly alone, he hurried outside
and stood confusedly scratching his bushy poll, in the block of light
surrounding the open doorway.

The yard was deserted. As one snuffs a candle, the men had vanished.
Hans' pipe had gone out and he went inside for a match. Though the
stars fell, the German must needs smoke. Only a minute he was gone,
but during that time a group of horsemen had gathered in the street.
Others were coming across lots, and still others were emerging from
the darkness of alleys. Some were mounted; some led by the rein, wiry
little bronchos. Watching, it almost seemed to the German that they
sprang from the ground.

"Are you all ready?" called a voice, Bud Evans' voice.

"Here--"

"Here--"

"All ready?"

"Yes--"

"We're off, then."

There was a sudden, confused trampling, as of cattle in stampede; a
musical creaking of heavy saddles; a knife-like swish of many quirts
through the air; a chorus of dull, chesty groans as the rowels of long
spurs bit the flanks of the mustangs, and they were gone--down the
narrow street, out upon the prairie, their hoof beats pattering
_diminuendo_ into silence; a cloud of dust, grayish in the starlight,
marking the way they had taken.

Jim Dono