Then he went back to the bunkhouse and in ten minutes was fast asleep.

As he pulled out in the morning Red noted that the horses which he rode
and packed were Douglass's private property. Just before mounting he
said, holding McVey's fist in a cordial grip, his other hand upon the
brawny shoulder:

"Red, I have decided to make my vacation a permanent one. I am not
coming back. You are in full charge now and naturally will be retained
in that capacity. You are a square, straight, _white_ man, and I am
leaving you a free field. I wish you luck." He rode away, McVey watching
him out of sight with wonder and consternation written all over his
honest face.

Over at Tin Cup he tarried long enough to bait and rest his horses and
bid his friends good-by, confiding to them the scant information that he
was tired of ranch work and was going to try his luck at mining. He made
all kinds of exaggerated promises to little Eulalie as she clung to him
sobbingly, and solemnly pledged himself to kill a bear for Bud, who
wanted the hide to make a pair of _chaparejos_.

He remained over night in town, leaving rather late the next day. The
animals were fresh and the going good, nevertheless he did not get so
far away but what the sweet face of Grace Carter glowed almost life-size
in the field of his powerful prism binoculars as she sprang expectantly
out of the stage and looked eagerly around with a keen disappointment
growing in her eyes as McVey and Abbie alone appeared to welcome her.
He saw her shake hands cordially with the former and a sneer disfigured
his mouth; but it involuntarily dissipated as she was buried in the hug
of the old woman who was patting her on the shoulder and crying for joy.

He suddenly changed the focus of the glass as another face came in view;
Robert Carter was assisting a woman to alight and as she reached terra
firma the declining sun rays irradiated her face sharply. The man licked
his lips nastily: "Hell!" he muttered with a fierce regret, "why didn't
I know that this was coming? Guess I've overlooked the best bet of my
life." And that, with Ken Douglass, was a sin.

He watched them get under way for the ranch, and followed them with his
glass until the distance swallowed them up. He had a broadside view for
nearly the whole distance, as their course lay at nearly right angles to
his line of vision. Occasionally he looked at the equestrienne on the
prancing roan, but for the greater part of the time