“No.”

“There’s another picture in there.”

“Yes—­Dad’s.”

Now it chanced that as Jeff drew the portrait of Bud’s father from the case the boy had turned, and so missed the amazing expression of surprise, dismay, horror, that flitted into Jeff’s honest face, and for the moment distorted it.  But when he spoke his voice was the same, and his features were composed.

“This is your—­dad?”

“Yes.  I call him a peach.”  “It’s a fine head—­sure,” murmured Jeff.

Bud bent over him, eager to sing the praises of his sire.  But, for the first time since man and boy had met, Jeff’s face assumed a hard, professional look.  Bud eyed him interrogatively.

“Does your leg hurt any?”

“N-n-o.”

“I’ll fetch some more hot water, if you say so.”

“I’m feelin’ a heap easier—­in my leg.”

He put the two photographs into the case, closed it, and handed it to Bud with a sigh.

“Maybe you will meet Sadie some day,” said Bud, taking the case.

“Maybe,” Jeff replied, with an indifference which made the boy stare.  Jeff was gazing across the foothills with a queer steely glint in his blue eyes.  Bud ran into the house.

Instantly, Jeff was alert.  He pulled a tattered handbill from his pocket, smoothed it out, and read it with darkening brows.  The bill offered a handsome reward for any information which would lead to the arrest of one Sillett, a defaulting assistant-cashier of a Santa Barbara bank.  Sillett and his daughter had disappeared in a springboard, drawn by a buckskin horse, and were supposed to have travelled south, in the hope of crossing the border into Mexico.  At the head of the bill was a rough woodcut of Sillett.  Jeff crumpled up the sheet of paper, and stuffed it into his pocket.

“It’s him—­sure ’nough,” he growled.  Then he gasped suddenly, “Jee-roosalem!  Bud is a rosebud!”

He smiled, frowned, and tugged at his moustache as Bud appeared with some more hot water.  Jeff blushed.

“You’re real kind, but I hate to give ye all this trouble.”

Bud, after bathing the swollen leg, glanced up sharply.

“You’re as red as the king of hearts.  You ain’t going to have a fever?”

“I do feel kind o’ feverish,” Jeff admitted.

Bud lightly touched his forehead.

“Why, it’s burning hot, I do declare.”

Jeff closed his eyes, murmuring confusedly, “I b’lieve it’d help me some if you was to stroke my derned head.”

Bud obediently smoothed his crisp curls.  Jeff’s forehead was certainly hot, and it grew no cooler beneath the touch of Bud’s fingers.

“Hello!” exclaimed Bud, a few minutes later.

“Here’s Dad coming across the creek.”

* * * * *