“Jake shot to frighten them?” inquired Lenore.

“Not much.  He stung one I.W.W., that’s sure.  We heard a cry, an’ this mornin’ we found some blood.”

“What do you suppose these—­these night visitors wanted?”

“No tellin’.  Jake thinks one of them looked an’ walked like the man Nash has been meetin’.  Anyway, we’re not takin’ much more chance on Nash.  I reckon it’s dangerous keepin’ him around.  I’ll have him drive me to-day—­over to Vale, an’ then to Huntington.  You can go along.  That’ll be your last chance to pump him.  Have you found out anythin’?”

Lenore told what had transpired between her and the driver.  Anderson’s face turned fiery red.

“That ain’t much to help us,” declared, angrily.  “But it shows him up....  So his real name’s Ruenke?  Fine American name, I don’t think!  That man’s a spy an’ a plotter.  An’ before he’s another day older I’m goin’ to corner him.  It’s a sure go I can’t hold Jake in any longer.”

To Lenore it was a further indication of her father’s temper that when they went down to enter the car he addressed Nash in cool, careless, easy speech.  It made Lenore shiver.  She had heard stories of her father’s early career among hard men.

Jake was there, dry, caustic, with keen, quiet eyes that any subtle, clever man would have feared.  But Nash’s thought seemed turned mostly inward.

Lenore took the front seat in the car beside the driver.  He showed unconscious response to that action.

“Jake, aren’t you coming?” she asked, of the cowboy.

“Wal, I reckon it’ll be sure dull fer you without me.  Nobody to talk to while your dad fools around.  But I can’t go.  Me an’ the boys air a-goin’ to hang some I.W.W.’s this mawnin’, an’ I can’t miss thet fun.”

Jake drawled his speech and laughed lazily as he ended it.  He was just boasting, as usual, but his hawklike eyes were on Nash.  And it was certain that Nash turned pale.

Lenore had no reply to make.  Her father appeared to lose patience with Jake, but after a moment’s hesitation decided not to voice it.

Nash was not a good nor a careful driver under any circumstances, and this morning it was evident he did not have his mind on his business.  There were bumps in the orchard road where the irrigation ditches crossed.

“Say, you ought to be drivin’ a hay-wagon,” called Anderson, sarcastically.

At Vale he ordered the car stopped at the post-office, and, telling Lenore he might be detained a few moments, he went in.  Nash followed, and presently came back with a package of letters.  Upon taking his seat in the car he assorted the letters, one of which, a large, thick envelope, manifestly gave him excited gratification.  He pocketed them and turned to Lenore.

“Ah!  I see you get letters—­from a woman,” she said, pretending a poison sweetness of jealousy.

“Certainly.  I’m not married yet,” he replied.  “Lenore, last night—­”