"I reckon we'll slide down, Keno, and work out close to the fire zone,"
the rider said to his horse, as they began to slither down the
precipitous slope, starting rubble at every motion.

Man and horse were both of the frontier, fit to the minute for any call
that might be made on them. The broncho was a roan, with muscles of
elastic leather, sure-footed as a mountain goat. Its master--a slim,
brown man, of medium height, well knit and muscular--looked on the
world, quietly and often humorously, with shrewd gray eyes.

As he reached the bottom of the gulch, his glance fell upon another
rider--a woman. She crossed the stream hurriedly, her pony flinging
water at every step, and cantered up toward him.

Her glance was once and again over her shoulder, so that it was not
until she was almost upon him that she saw the young man among the
cottonwoods, and drew her pony to an instant halt. The rifle that had
been lying across her saddle leaped halfway to her shoulder, covering
him instantly.

"_Buenos dios, senorita._ Are you going for to shoot my head off?" he
drawled.

"The rustler!" she cried.

"The alleged rustler, Miss Sanderson," he corrected gently.

"Let me past," she panted.

He observed that her eyes mirrored terror of the scene she had just