"Did you hear that, mother?"

"No; to what do you refer?"

"The sound of rifle-firing; something is wrong on the range."

The two paused and listened, looking in each other's pale countenances
as they did so.

"It _is_ rifle-firing!" said Mrs. Whitney in a scared voice; "what can
it mean?"

"Trouble with the rustlers," replied Jennie, hurrying through the
open door to the outside that she might hear the better. Her mother
followed, and the two stood side by side, listening and peering
across the wide stretch of undulating plain in the direction of the
mountains, whose wooded crests were outlined against the clear spring
sky.

There could be no mistaking the alarming sounds. They were made by
rifles, fired sometimes in quick succession, often mingling with each
other, and then showing comparatively long intervals between the
discharges of the weapons.

"Father said the rustlers were becoming bolder," remarked Jennie, "and
there was sure to be trouble with them before long."

"It has come," was the comment of the parent, "and who shall tell the
result?"