the fire the punchers surveyed his face with slow and
suspicious glances; and for once Kitty Bonnair was silent, watching
his deliberate motions with a troubled frown. Balanced rakishly upon
his cracker box Bill Lightfoot regarded his rival with a sneering
smile, a retort trembling on his lips, but Creede only leaned forward
and picked a smoking brand from the fire--he was waiting for the
"come-on."

Now to ask the expected question at the end of such a story was to
take a big chance. Having been bitten a time or two all around, the
_rodeo_ hands were wary of Jeff Creede and his barbed jests; the
visitors, being ignorant, were still gaping expectantly; it was up to
Bill Lightfoot to spring the mine. For a moment he hesitated, and then
his red-hot impetuosity, which had often got him into trouble before,
carried him away.

"W'y, sure it would be deep for Coloraydo," he answered, guardedly.

Jefferson Creede glanced up at him, smoking luxuriously, holding the
cigarette to his lips with his hand as if concealing a smile.

"Aw, rats," snapped out Lightfoot at last, "why don't you finish up
and quit? What happened then?"

"Then?" drawled Creede, with a slow smile. "W'y, nothin', Bill--_I
died_!"

"Ah-hah-hah!" yelled the punchers, throwing up handfuls of dirt in the
extravagance of their delight, and before Bill could realize the
enormity of the sell one of his own partisans rose up and kicked the
cracker box out from under him in token of utter defeat. For an hour
after their precipitate retreat the visitors could hear the whoops
and gibes of the cowboys, the loud-mouthed and indignant retorts of
Lightfoot, and the soothing remonstrances of Jefferson Creede--and
from the house Kitty the irrepressible, added to their merriment a
shriek of silvery laughter. But after it was all over and he had won,
the round-up boss swore soberly at himself and sighed, for he
discerned on the morrow's horizon the Indian signs of trouble.

CHAPTER XIV

FOREBODINGS

To the Eastern eye, blinded by local color, the Four Peaks country
looked like a large and pleasantly variegated cactus garden, sparsely
populated with rollicking, fun-loving cowboys who wore their
interesting six-shooters solely to keep their balance in the saddle.
The new grass stood untrampled beneath the bushes on Bronco Mesa,
there were buds and flowers everywhere, and the wind was as sweet and
untainted as if it drew out of Eden. But somewhere, somewhere in