saying a word. It was Beresford who said ironically, "Talking about
those who keep faith."

"You hadn't oughta of done that, Bully," Gosse expostulated. "We'd
done agreed this feud was off for to-night."

"Get your horses and clear out of here," the constable ordered. "If
this man's able to fight he's able to travel. You can make camp
farther down the creek."

A few minutes later the clatter of horse-hoofs died away. Beresford
was alone with his prisoners and his guests.

Those who were still among the big rocks came forward to the
camp-fire. Jessie arrived before the others. She had crept to the camp
on the heels of Beresford and Morse, driven by her great anxiety to
find out how badly West was hurt.

From the shadows of a buffalo wallow she had seen and heard what had
taken place.

One glance of troubled curiosity she flashed at Morse. What sort of
man was this quiet, brown-faced American who smuggled whiskey in to
ruin the tribes, who could ruthlessly hold a girl to a bargain that
included horsewhipping for her, who for some reason of his own fought
beside the man taking him to imprisonment, and who had flung defiance
at the terrible Bully West on her behalf? She hated him. She always
would. But with her dislike of him ran another feeling now, born of
the knowledge of new angles in him.