look--Dear, there's pretty sure to be
trouble outside. Maybe there'll be a fight. You can do nothing. You must
not go."

"Perhaps I can prevent trouble," she replied.

As she left the patio she was aware that Alfred, with Florence at his
side and the cowboys behind, were starting to follow her. When she got
out of her room upon the porch she heard several men in loud, angry
discussion. Then, at sight of Bonita helplessly and cruelly bound upon
a horse, pale and disheveled and suffering, Madeline experienced the
thrill that sight or mention of this girl always gave her. It yielded to
a hot pang in her breast--that live pain which so shamed her. But almost
instantly, as a second glance showed an agony in Bonita's face, her
bruised arms where the rope bit deep into the flesh, her little
brown hands stained with blood, Madeline was overcome by pity for the
unfortunate girl and a woman's righteous passion at such barbarous
treatment of one of her own sex.

The man holding the bridle of the horse on which Bonita had been bound
was at once recognized by Madeline as the big-bodied, bullet-headed
guerrilla who had found the basket of wine in the spring at camp.
Redder of face, blacker of beard, coarser of aspect, evidently under
the influence of liquor, he was as fierce-looking as a gorilla and as
repulsive. Besides him there were three other men present, all mounted
on weary horses. The one in the foreground, gaunt, sharp-featured,
red-eyed, with a pointed beard, she recognized as the sheriff of El
Cajon.

Madeline hesitated, then stopped in the middle of the porch. Alfred,
Florence, and several others followed her out; the rest of the cowboys
and guests crowded the windows and doors. Stillwell saw Madeline,
and, throwing up his hands, roared to be heard. This quieted the
gesticulating, quarreling men.

"Wal now, Pat Hawe, what's drivin' you like a locoed steer on the
rampage?" demanded Stillwell.

"Keep in the traces, Bill," replied Hawe. "You savvy what I come fer.
I've been bidin' my time. But I'm ready now. I'm hyar to arrest a
criminal."

The huge frame of the old cattleman jerked as if he had been stabbed.
His face turned purple.

"What criminal?" he shouted, hoarsely.

The sheriff flicked his quirt against his dirty boot, and he twisted his
thin lips into a leer. The situation was agreeable to him.

"Why, Bill, I knowed you hed a no-good outfit ridin' this range; but I
wasn't wise thet you hed more 'n one