The "Wild West" Collection. William MacLeod Raine

      "What made you think so?"

      "He was the leader, I think, moved the way he does." Her anger flashed for an instant. "And acted like him--detestably."

      "Was he violent to West? Injure him?"

      "No--he didn't do him any physical injury that I saw. I wasn't thinking about Mr. West."

      "Surely he didn't lay hands on _you_!"

      She looked up, in time to see the flicker of amusement sponged from his face. It stirred vague anger in her. "He was insolent and ungentlemanly."

      "As how?"

      "It doesn't matter how." Her manner specifically declined to particularize.

      "Would you recognize him again if you met him? Describe him, if you can."

      "Yes. I used to know him well--before he became known as an outlaw," she added after a perceptible hesitation. "There's something ravenous about him."

      "You mean that he is fierce and bloodthirsty?"

      "No--I don't mean that; though, for that matter, I don't think he would stick at anything. What I mean is that he is pantherine in his movements--more lithe and supple than most men are."

      "Is he a big man?"

      "No--medium size, and dark."

      "There were four of them, you say?"

      "Yes. Jack saw them, too, but at a distance."

      "He reached you after they were out of sight?"

      "They had been gone about five minutes when I saw him--five or ten. I couldn't be sure."

      "Boone offered no personal indignity to you?"

      "Why are you so sure?" she flashed.

      "The story is that he is quite the ladies' man."

      Melissy laughed scornfully.

      At his request, she went over again the story of the abduction, telling everything save the matter of the ravished kisses. This she kept to herself. She did not quite know why, except that there was something she did not like about this Bucky O'Connor. He had a trick of narrowing his eyes and gloating over her, as a cat gloats over its expected kill.

      However, his confidence impressed her. Cocksure he was, and before long she knew him boastful; but competence sat on him, none the less. She thought she could see why he was held to be the most deadly bloodhound on a trail that even Arizona could produce. That he was fearless she did not need to be told, any more than she needed a certificate that on occasion he could be merciless. On the other hand, he fitted very badly with the character of the young lieutenant of rangers, as Jack Flatray had sketched it for her. Her friend's description of his hero had been enthusiastic. She decided that the young cattleman was a bad judge of men--though, of course, he had never actually met O'Connor.

      "I reckon I'll not wait for your father's report, Miss Lee. I work independent of other men. That is how I get the wonderful results I do."

      His conceit nettled her; also, it stung her filial loyalty. "My father was the best sheriff this county ever had," she said stiffly.

      He smiled satirically. "Still, I reckon I'll handle this my own way--unless your father's daughter wants to go partners with me in it."

      She gave him a look intended to crush his impudence. "No, thank you."

      He ate a breakfast which she had the cook prepare hurriedly for him, and departed on the horse for which she had telephoned to the nearest livery stable. Melissy was a singularly fearless girl; yet she watched him go with a decided relief, for which she could not account. He rode, she observed, like a centaur--flat-backed, firm in the saddle with the easy negligence of a plainsman. He turned as he started, and waved a hand debonairly at her.

      "If I have any luck, I'll bring back one of the Roaring Fork bunch with me--a present for a good girl, Miss Melissy."

      She turned on her heel and went inside. Anger pulsed fiercely through her. He laughed at her, made fun of her, and yet called her by her first name. How dared he treat her so! Worst of all, she read admiration bold and unveiled in the eyes that mocked her.

      Half an hour later Flatray, riding toward town with his prisoner in front of him, heard a sudden sharp summons to throw up his hands. A man had risen from behind a boulder, and held him covered steadily.

      Jack looked at the fellow without complying. He needed no second glance to tell him that this man was not one to be trifled with. "Who are you?" he demanded quietly.

      "Never mind who I am. Reach for the sky."

      The captured outlaw had given a little whoop, and was now loosening the rope from his neck. "You're the goods, Cap! I knew the boys would pull it off for me, but I didn't reckon on it so durn soon."

      "Shut up!" ordered the man behind the gun, without moving his eyes from Flatray.

      "I'm a clam," retorted the other.

      "I'm waiting for those hands to go up; but I'll not wait long, seh."

      Jack's hands went up reluctantly. "You've got the call," he admitted.

      They led him a couple of hundred yards from the trail and tied him hand and foot. Before they left him the outlaw whom he had captured evened his score. Three times he struck Flatray on the head with the butt of his revolver. He was lying on the ground bleeding and senseless when they rode away toward the hills.

      Jack came to himself with a blinding headache. It was some time before he realized what had happened. As soon as he did he set about freeing himself. This was a matter of a few minutes. With the handkerchief that was around his neck he tied up his wounds. Fortunately his hair was very thick and this had saved him from a fractured skull. Dizzily he got to his feet, found his horse, and started toward Mesa.

      Not many people were on the streets when the sheriff passed through the suburbs of the little town, for it was about the breakfast hour. One stout old negro mammy stopped to stare in surprise at his bloody head.

      "Laws a mussy, Mistah Flatray, what they done be'n a-doin' to you-all?" she asked.

      The sheriff hardly saw her. He was chewing the bitter cud of defeat and was absorbed in his thoughts. He was still young enough to have counted on the effect upon Melissy of his return to town with one of the abductors as his prisoner.

      It happened that she was on the porch watering her flower boxes when he passed the house.

      "Jack!" she cried, and on the heels of her exclamation: "What's the matter with you? Been hurt?"

      A gray pallor had pushed through the tan of her cheeks. She knew her heart was beating fast.

      "Bumped into a piece of bad luck," he grinned, and told her briefly what had occurred.

      She took him into the house and washed his head for him. After she saw how serious the cuts were she insisted on sending for a doctor. When his wounds were dressed she fed him and made him lie down and sleep on her father's bed.

      The sun was sliding down the heavens to a crotch in the hills before he joined her again. She was in front of the house clipping her roses.

      "Is the invalid better?" she asked him.

      "He's a false alarm. But he did have a mighty thumping headache that has gone now."

      "I've been wondering why you didn't meet Lieutenant O'Connor. He must have taken the road you came in on."

      The young man's eyes lit. "Is Bucky here already?"

      "He was. He's gone. I was greatly disappointed in him. He's not half the man you think he is."

      "Oh, but he is. Everybody says so."

      "I never saw a more conceited man, or a more hateful one. There's something about him--oh, I don't know. But he isn't good. I'm sure of that."

      "His reputation isn't of that kind. They say he's devoted to his wife and kids."