All day Orlando wondered when he should see that face again; all day the
eyes of Louise pleaded for another look at the ranchman with the dress of
a dandy, the laugh of a child, and the face of an Apollo--or so it seemed
to her. It was the sort of day which ministers to human emotion, which
stirs the sluggish blood, revives the drooping spirit. There was a
curious, delicate blueness of the sky over which an infinitely more
delicate veil of mist was softly drawn. At many places on the prairie
the haymakers were loading the great wagons; here and there a fallow
field was burning; yonder a house was building; cattle were being rounded
up; and far off, like moving specks, ranchmen were climbing the hills
where the wild bronchos were, for a day of the toughest, most thrilling
sport which the world knows.

Night fell, and found Orlando making for the trail between what was known
as the Company's Ranch and Tralee. To reach his own ranch, he had to
cross it at an angle near the Tralee homestead. It was dark, with no
moon, but the stars were bright.

As he crossed the Tralee trail, he suddenly heard a cry for help.
Between him and where the sound came from was a fire burning. It was the
camp-fire of some prairie pioneer making for a new settlement in the
North; and beside it was a tent whose owner was absent in Askatoon.

Orlando dug heels into his horse and rode for the point from which the
cry for help had come. Something was undoubtedly wrong. The voice was
that of one in real trouble--a hoarse, strangled sort of voice.

As he galloped through the light of the camp-fire, a pistol-shot rang
out, and he felt a sharp, stinging pain in his side. Still urging his
horse, he cleared the little circle of light and presently saw a man