"You'd better remain here and have your night's rest," advised the girl, wonderfully calm, it would seem. "Let Mr. Peckham and his men catch that bad fellow."

"And me sit here idle?" cried Pratt. "Not much!"

She saw him start for the corral, and suddenly showed emotion. "Oh, Pratt!" she cried, weakly.

The young man did not hear her. Should she shout louder for him? She paled and then grew rosy red. Should she run after him? Should she tell him the truth about that chest?

"Do come in the house, Miss Frances," urged Mrs. Peckham. And the girl from the Bar-T obeyed her and allowed Pratt to go.

"You must sure be done up," said Mrs. Peckham, bustling about. "I'll make you a cup of tea."

"Thank you," said Frances. She listened for the posse to start, and knew that, when they dashed away, Pratt Sanderson was with them.

Mack Hinkman arrived with the double mule team soon after. He said the crowd had gone by him "on the jump."

"I 'low they'll ketch that feller that stole your chist, Miss Frances, 'bout the time two Sundays come together in the week," he declared.

"He's had plenty of time to make himself scarce."

"But the trunk?" cried Mrs. Peckham. "That was some heavy, wasn't it?"

"Aw, he had a wagon handy. He wouldn't have tried to take the chist if he hadn't. Don't you say so, Miss Frances?" said the teamster.

"I don't know," said the girl, and she spoke wearily. Indeed, she had suddenly become tired of hearing the robbery discussed.

"Don't trouble the poor girl," urged Mrs. Peckham. "She's all done up.

We'll know all about it when John Peckham gets back. You wanter go to bed, honey?"

Frances was glad to retire. Not alone was she weary, but she wished to escape any further discussion of the incident at the ford.

Mrs. Peckham showed her to the room she was to occupy. Mack would remain up to repair properly the cracked axle of the wagon.

For, whether the chest was recovered or not, Frances proposed to go right on in the morning to Amarillo.

She did not awaken when Mr. Peckham and his men returned; but Frances was up at daybreak and came into the kitchen for breakfast. Mrs. Peckham was bustling about just as she had been the night before when the girl from the Bar-T retired.

"Hard luck, Miss Frances!" the good lady cried. "Them men ain't worth more'n two bits a dozen, when it comes to sending 'em out on a trail.

They never got your trunk for you at all!"

"And they did not catch the man who stopped us at the ford?"

"Of course not. John Peckham never could catch anything but a cold."

"But where could he have gone--that man, I mean?" queried Frances.

"Give it up! One party went up stream and t'other down. Your friend, Mr.

Sanderson, went with the first party."

"Oh, yes," Frances commented. "That would be on his way to the Edwards ranch where he is staying."

"Well, mebbe. They say he was mighty anxious to find your trunk. He's an awful nice young man----"

"Where's Mack?" asked Frances, endeavoring to stem the tide of the lady's speech.

"He's a-getting the team ready, Frances. He's done had his breakfast.

And I never did see a man with such a holler to fill with flapjacks. He eat seventeen."

"Mack's appet.i.te is notorious at the ranch," admitted Frances, glad Mrs.

Peckham had finally switched from the subject of the lost chest.

"He was telling me about that burned wagon you pa.s.sed on the trail.

Can't for the life of me think who it could belong to," said Mrs.

Peckham.

"We thought once that Mr. Bob Ellis was ahead of us on the trail," said Frances.

"He'd have come right on here," declared the ranchman's wife. "No.

'Twarn't Bob."

"Then I thought it might have belonged to that man who stopped us,"

suggested Frances.

"If that's so, I reckon he got square for his loss, didn't he?" cried the lady. "I reckon that chest was filled with valuables, eh?"

Fortunately, Frances had swallowed her coffee and the mule team rattled to the door.

"I must hurry!" the girl cried, jumping up. "Many, many thanks, dear Mrs. Peckham!" and she kissed the good woman and so got out of the house without having to answer any further questions.

She sprang into Molly's saddle and Mack cracked his whip over the mules.

"Mebbe we'll have good news for you when you come back, Frances!" called the ranchwoman, quite filling the door with her ample person as she watched the Bar-T wagon, and the girl herself, take the trail for Amarillo.

Mack Hinkman was quite wrought up over the adventure of the previous evening.

"That young Pratt Sanderson is some smart boy--believe me!" he said to Frances, who elected to ride within earshot of the wagon-seat for the first mile or two.

"How is that?" she asked, curiously.

"They tell me it was him found the place where the chest had been put aboard that punt."

"What punt?"

"The boat the feller escaped in with the chest," said Mack.

"Then he wasn't the man whose wagon and one horse was burned?" queried Frances.

"Don't know. Mebbe. But that's no difference. This old punt has been hid down there below the ford since last duck-shooting season. Maybe he knowed 'twas there; maybe he didn't. Howsomever, he found the boat and brought it up to the ford. Into the boat he tumbled the chest. There was the marks on the bank. John Peckham told me himself."

"And Pratt found the trail?"