Sillett advanced leisurely, not seeing the figures under the live-oak.  He carried a tin box and a butterfly-net.  He was dressed in the brown over-alls of Southern California, stained and discoloured by sun and tar-weed.  His face, brown as the over-alls, had, however, a pinched look, and in his eyes lay a curious tenseness familiar enough to deputy-sheriffs.  For the rest, he had a mild forehead, which he was wiping as he crossed the creek, a pleasant mouth, and a chin a thought too delicately modelled for a man.  He walked soberly, with the dragging stride of a tired pedestrian.  He was tall, thin, and angular.

Bud ran to meet him.

“We’ve comp’ny,” he cried, indicating Jeff.  Sillett quickened his step.

“Company?”

Sillett met Jeff’s glance with a simple bow, and the inevitable remark, “Hurt yourself?”

Jeff explained.  While describing his misadventure he decided that Bud could not be a party to the father’s crime.  Sillett asked for permission to examine the wounded leg Presently he asked Jeff to stand up.

“Oh, Dad!” protested Bud.

Jeff obeyed, glad to discover that he could stand upon the injured foot.

“Same thing happened to me once,” Sillett remarked.  “The tight boot caused more than half the trouble.  Sit down, Mr.——?”

“Wells.  Jefferson Wells.”

“Thank you.  My name is—­of no service to you.  And this is my daughter —­Sarah.  Run away, Sadie.”

Jeff, watching the daughter, thought her confusion the prettiest thing he had ever seen.

“You are a cowboy, I presume?” said Sillett, as Bud disappeared.  Not waiting for Jeff’s answer, he went on fluently:  “I’m sure I can trust you; you have an honest face, sir.  I’m collecting certain plants and butterflies, but—­I have other reasons for camping out.  My daughter has played the boy, because a boy is safe in these wild hills; an unprotected girl might be molested.  We will do what we can for you.  You, I am sure, will respect this confidence.”

Sillett played his trumps boldly, not knowing that he was speaking to a deputy-sheriff.  Jeff said nothing.  Sillett, after asking if the horse had been fed and watered, followed his daughter into the hut.  Jeff groaned to himself.  “Mighty soon I’ll be wishing I’d never been born!”

However, assured that he was alone, he carefully examined his six-shooter, and began to reckon what chances there were for and against arresting Sillett single-handed.  Ordinarily, he was quick enough at such calculations, but Bud introduced confusion into every sum.  “I’m in an awful hole,” reflected the unhappy Jeff.

The hole became a bottomless pit when Bud appeared in a pretty linen frock, and asked him demurely how he fared.

“You’re looking worse,” she said.

Changing her dress, she had cast off with the rough overalls such rugosities of manner, speech, and intonation as belonged to the ragamuffin of the foothills.  Poor Jeff assumed his “society” manner and accent.