matter how she pleaded. And it would be her fault. She had betrayed the
rustler to them. It would be the same as if she had murdered him. He had
known while she was tending his wounds that she had delivered him to
death, and he had not even reproached her.

Courage flowed back to her heart. She would save him if it were
possible. It must be by strategy if at all. But how? For of course he
was guarded.

She stepped out into the corridor. All was dark there. She tiptoed along
it to the guest room, and found the door unlocked. Nobody was inside.
She canvassed in her mind the possibilities. They might have him
outdoors or in the men's bunk house with them under a guard, or they
might have locked him up somewhere until the arrival of the others. If
the latter, it must be in the store, since that was the only safe place
under lock and key.

Phyllis slipped out of the back door into the darkness, and skirted the
house at a distance. There were lights in the bunk house of the ranch
riders, and through the window she could see a group gathered. Creeping
close to the window, she looked in. Their prisoner was not with them. In
front of the store two men were seated in the darkness. She was almost
upon them before she saw them. Each of them carried a rifle.

"Hello! Who's that?" one of them cried sharply.

It was Tom Dixon.

Phyllis came forward and spoke. "That you, Tom? I suppose you are
guarding the prisoner."