pressure, and swiftly, almost
soundlessly, he darted within and stood before the astounded trio like a
ghost--an armed and very warlike ghost.

"What's going on here?" he demanded, pleasantly, as with weapon in
complete readiness he confronted them.

He had no need to command quiet. They were all schooled in the rules of
the game he was playing, and understood perfectly the advantage which he
held over them. They read in his easy smile and jocular voice the deadly
determination which possessed him.

The woman was sitting in a low chair with the guitar in her lap and her
feet stretched out upon a stool. Her companions, two young men, hardly
more than boys, were standing near a table on which stood a bottle of
liquor. All had been stricken into instant immobility by the sudden
interruption of the ranger. Each stared with open mouth and dazed eyes.

Hanscom knew them all. The girl was the wilful daughter of a Basque
rancher over on the Porcupine. One of the boys was Henry Kitsong, a
nephew of Abe, and the other a herder named Busby, who had been at one
time a rider for Watson.

"Having a pleasant time, aren't you?" the ranger continued, still
retaining his sarcastic intonation. From where he stood he could see the
bottom of the girl's upturned shoes, and his alert brain took careful
note of the size and shape of the soles. A flush of exultation ran over
him. "Those are the shoes that left those telltale footprints in the
flour," he said to himself.

"You lads had better let me have your guns," he suggested. "Busby, I'll
take yours first."

The young ruffian yielded his weapon only when the ranger repeated his
request with menacing intonation. "You next, Henry," he said to Kitsong,
and, having thus cut the claws of his young cubs, his pose relaxed. "You
thought the owners of the place safely out of reach, didn't you? You saw
me go down in the valley with them? Well, I had a hunch that maybe you'd
take advantage of my absence, so I just rode over. I was afraid you
might drop down here and break things up. You see, I'm responsible for
all these goods, and I don't want to see them destroyed. That music-box,
for instance" (he addressed the girl); "I happen to know that's a
high-priced instrument, and I promised the owner to take good care of
it. That bottle you fellows dug up I didn't know anything about, but I
guess I'll confiscate that also. It ain't good for little boys." He
turned sharply on Kitsong. "Henry, was you