Yes, she agreed, the horseman was equal to the scene. He fitted it all,
mountains, sky, the sense of wildness and freedom in the air. What was
he, then? Undoubtedly a native--perhaps part Indian--perhaps----

There was something sinister, she was certain, in the glance he cast
towards the car. He was armed. Could it be that he and the station man
were road-agents, plotting some act of violence? They were certainly
talking about the machine, or its owner, with exceptional earnestness of
purpose.

Bostwick had finished with the tire.

"Come along, Beth, come along!" he called abruptly.

No sooner had she turned to walk to the car than the horseman rode up in
her path. Her heart sank suddenly with misgivings. She halted as the
unknown visitor addressed himself to Bostwick.

"May I speak to you a moment privately?"

Bostwick bristled with suspicions at once.

"I have nothing of a private nature to discuss with you," he answered.
"If you have anything to say to me, please say it and be prompt."

The horseman changed color, but lost no whit of the native courtesy that
seemed a part of his being.

"It isn't particularly private," he answered quietly. "I only wished to
say I wouldn't rush off to Goldite this morning. I'd advise you to stay