“Sally Bent!  That’s an old-maidish-sounding name.”

Denver Jim grinned broadly.  “Tolerable,” he said, “just tolerable old-maidish sounding.”

When they reached the top of the knoll, the horses paused, as if by common assent.  Now they stood with their heads bowed, sullen, tired already, steam going up from them into the cool of the morning.

“There it is!”

It was as comfortably placed a house as Riley Sinclair had ever seen.  The mountain came down out of the sky in ragged, uneven steps.  Here it dipped away into a lap of quite level ground.  A stream of spring water flashed across that little tableland, dark in the shadow of the big trees, silver in the sunlight.  At the back of the natural clearing was the cabin, built solidly of logs.  Wood, water, and commanding position for defense!  Riley Sinclair ran his eye appreciatively over these advantages.

“My guns, I’d forgot Sally!” exclaimed the massive Buck Mason.

“Is that her?” asked Riley Sinclair.

A woman had come out of the shadow of a tree and stood over the edge of the stream, a bucket in her hand.  At that distance it was quite impossible to make out her features, although Riley Sinclair found himself squinting and peering to make them out.  She had on something white over her head and neck, and her dress was the faded blue of old gingham.  Then the wind struck her dress, and it seemed to lift the girl in its current.

“I’d forgot Sally Bent!”

“What difference does she make?” asked Riley.

“You don’t know her, stranger.”

“And she won’t know us.  Got anything for masks?”

“I’m sure a Roman-nosed fool!” declared Mason.  “Of course we got to wear masks.”

The girl’s pail flashed, as she raised it up from the stream and dissolved into the shadow of a big tree.

“She don’t seem noways interested in this here party,” remarked Riley.

“That’s her way,” said Denver Jim, arranging his bandanna to mask the lower part of his face from the bridge of his nose down.  “She’ll show plenty of interest when it comes to a pinch.”

Riley adjusted his own mask, and he did it thoroughly.  Out of his vest he ripped a section of black lining, and, having cut eyeholes, he fastened the upper edge of the cloth under the brim of his hat and tied the loose ends behind his head.  Red, white, blue, black, and polka dot was that quaint array of masks.

Having completed his arrangements, Larsen started on at a lope, and the rest of the party followed in a lurching, loose-formed wedge.  At the edge of the little tableland, Larsen drew down his mount to a walk and turned in the saddle.

“Quick work, no talk, and a getaway,” he said as he swung down to the ground.

In the crisis of action the big Swede seemed to be accorded the place of leader by natural right.  The others imitated his example silently.  Before they reached the door Larsen turned again.