Maybe the others had not seen little Maggie Wiggins. But Bob had seen her. The child's cry had carried him back into the path of the brindle terrier. June was proud, not only of what he had done, but of the way he had done it. His brain had functioned swiftly, his motions been timed exactly. Only coordination of all his muscles had enabled him to down the dog so expertly and render the animal harmless.

During the months since she had seen him June had thought often of the man whose name she legally bore. After the first few hours there had been no harshness in her memories of him. He was good. She had always felt that. There was something fine and sweet and generous in his nature.

Without being able to reason it out, she was sure that no fair judgment would condemn him wholly because at a crisis he had failed to exhibit a quality the West holds in high esteem and considers fundamental. Into her heart there had come a tender pity for him, a maternal sympathy that flowed out whenever he came into her musings.

Poor boy! She had learned to know him so well. He would whip himself with his own scorn. This misadventure that had overwhelmed him might frustrate all the promise of his life. He was too sensitive. If he lost heart--if he gave up--

She had longed to send a message of hope to him, but she had been afraid that he might misunderstand it. Her position was ambiguous. She was his wife. The law said so. But of course she was not his wife at all except in name. They were joint victims of evil circumstance, a boy and a girl who had rushed to a foolish extreme. Some day one or the other of them would ask the law to free them of the tie that technically bound them together.

Now she need not worry about him any longer. He had proved his mettle publicly. The court of common opinion would reverse the verdict it had passed upon him. He would go out of her life and she need no longer feel responsible for the shadow that had fallen over his.

So she reasoned consistently, but something warm within her gave the lie to this cold disposition of their friendship. She did not want to let him go his way. She had no intention of letting him go. She could not express it, but in some intangible way he belonged to her. As a brother might, she told herself; not because Blister Haines had married them when they had gone to him in their hurry to solve a difficulty. Not for that reason at all, but because from the first hour of meeting, their spirits had gone out to each other in companionship. Bob had understood her. He had been the only person to whom she could confide her troubles, the only pal she had ever known.

Standing before the glass in her small bedroom, June saw that her eyes were shining, the blood glowing through the dusky cheeks. Joy had vitalized her whole being, had made her beautiful as a wild rose. For the moment at least she was lyrically happy.

This ardor still possessed June when she went into the dining-room to make the set-ups for supper. She sang snatches of "Dixie" and "My Old Kentucky Home" as she moved about her work. She hummed the chorus of "Juanita." From that she drifted to the old spiritual "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot."

A man was washing his hands in the tin basin provided outside for guests of the hotel. Through the window came to him the lilt of the fresh young voice.

"Swing low, sweet chariot, Comin' fo' to carry me home."

The look of sullen, baffled rage on the man's dark face did not lighten.

He had been beaten again. His revenge had been snatched from him almost at the moment of triumph. If that mad dog had not come round the corner just when it did, he would have evened the score between him and Dillon.

June had seen the whole thing. She had been a partner in the red-headed boy's ovation. Houck ground his teeth in futile anger.

Presently he slouched into the dining-room.

Mollie saw him and walked across the room to June. "I'll wait on him if you don't want to."

The waitress shook her head. "No, I don't want him to think I'm afraid of him. I'm not, either. I'll wait on him."

June took Houck's order and presently served it.

His opaque eyes watched her in the way she remembered of old. They were still bold and possessive, still curtained windows through which she glimpsed volcanic passion.

"You can tell that squirt Dillon I ain't through with him yet, not by a jugful," he growled.

"If you have anything to tell Bob Dillon, say it to _him_," June answered, looking at him with fearless, level eyes of scorn.

"An' I ain't through with you, I'd have you know."

June finished putting his order on the table. "But I'm through with you, Jake Houck," she said, very quietly.

"Don't think it. Don't you think it for a minute," he snarled. "I'm gonna--"

He stopped, sputtering with fury. June had turned and walked into the kitchen. He rose, evidently intending to follow her.

Mollie Larson barred the way, a grim, square figure with the air of a brigadier-general.

"Sit down, Jake Houck," she ordered. "Or get out. I don't care which. But don't you think I'll set by an' let you pester that girl. If you had a lick o' sense you'd know it ain't safe."

There was nothing soft about Houck. He was a hard and callous citizen, and he lived largely outside the law and other people's standards of conduct. But he knew when he had run up against a brick wall. Mrs. Larson had only to lift her voice and half a dozen men would come running. He was in the country of the enemy, so to say.

"Am I pesterin' her?" he demanded. "Can't I talk to a girl I knew when she was a baby? Have I got to get an O.K. from you before I say 'Good-mawnin' to her?"

"Her father left June in my charge. I'm intendin' to see you let her alone. Get that straight."

Houck gave up with a shrug of his big shoulders. He sat down and attacked the steak on his plate.

CHAPTER XXIX

"INJUNS"

Bob swung down from the saddle in front of the bunkhouse.

Reeves came to the door and waved a hand. "'Lo, Sure-Shot! What's new in Bear Cat?"

"Fellow thinkin' of startin' a drug-store. Jim Weaver is the happy dad of twins. Mad dog shot on Main Street. New stage-line for Marvine planned.

Mr. Jake Houck is enjoyin' a pleasant visit to our little city. I reckon that's about all."

Dud had joined Tom in the doorway. "Meet up with Mr. Houck?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Have any talk?"

"He had some, but he hadn't hardly got to goin' good when the mad dog sashayed up the street. Mr. Houck he adjourned the meetin' immediate."

"More important business, I reckon," Dud grinned.

"He didn't mention it, but all those present were in a kinda hurry."

"So's some one else." Reeves nodded his head toward a small cloud of dust approaching the ranch.

A rider galloped up and dragged his mount to a halt. "Utes have broke out! Killed a trapper on Squaw Creek! Burned two nesters' houses!" His voice was high and excited.

"Rumor?" asked Dud.

"No, sir. I talked with a fellow that seen the body. Met two families that had lit out from Squaw Creek. They're sure enough on the warpath."

Harshaw took the matter seriously. He gave crisp orders to his riders to cover the creeks and warn all settlers to leave for Bear Cat or Meeker.

Dud and Bob were assigned Milk Creek.

It was hard for the young fellows, as they rode through a land of warm sunshine, to believe that there actually was another Indian outbreak. It had been ten years since the Meeker massacre and the defeat of Major Thornburg's troops. The country had begun to settle up. The Utes knew that their day was done, though they still came up occasionally from the reservation on illicit hunting trips.

This very country over which they were riding was the scene of the Thornburg battle-field. The Indians had lain in ambush and waited for the troops to come over the brow of the rise. At the first volley the commander of the soldiers had fallen mortally wounded. The whites, taken by surprise, fell back in disorder. The Utes moved up on them from both sides and the trapped men fled.