He hesitated, and then, as if making up his mind by a great effort:  “There ain’t no use blamin’ him; better let it drop, Glendin.”

“Nothin’ else to do, Steve; but it’s funny Sally let him do it.”

“It is,” said Nash with emphasis, “but then women is pretty funny in lots of ways.  Ready to start, Bard?”

“All ready.”

“S’long, Sally.”

“Good-night, Miss Fortune.”

“Evenin’, boys.  We’ll be lookin’ for you back in Eldara to-morrow night, Bard.”

And her eyes fixed with meaning on Nash.

“Certainly,” answered the other, “my business ought not to take longer than that.”

“I’ll take him by the shortest cut,” said Nash, and the two went out to their horses.

They had difficulty in riding the trail side by side, for though the roan was somewhat rested by the delay at Eldara it was impossible to keep him up with Bard’s prancing piebald, which sidestepped at every shadow.  Yet the tenderfoot never allowed his mount to pass entirely ahead of the roan, but kept checking him back hard, turning toward Nash with an apology each time he surged ahead.  It might have been merely that he did not wish to precede the cowpuncher on a trail which he did not know.  It might have been something quite other than this which made him consistently keep to the rear; Nash felt certain that the second possibility was the truth.

In that case his work would be doubly hard.  From all that he had seen the man was dangerous—­the image of the tame puma returned to him again and again.  He could not see him plainly through the dark of the night, but he caught the sway of the body and recognized a perfect horsemanship, not a Western style of riding, but a good one no matter where it was learned.  He rode as if he were sewed to the back of the horse, and, as old William Drew had suggested, he probably did other things up to the same standard.  It would have been hard to fulfil his promise to Drew under any circumstances with such a man as this; but with Bard apparently forewarned and suspicious the thing became almost impossible.

Almost, but not entirely so.  He set himself calmly to the problem; on the horn of his saddle the lariat hung loose; if the Easterner should turn his back for a single instant during all the time they were together old Drew should not be disappointed, and one thousand cash would be deposited for the mutual interest of Sally Fortune and himself.  That is to say, if Sally would consent to become interested.  To the silent persuasion of money, however, Nash trusted many things.

The roan jogged sullenly ahead, giving all the strength of his gallant, ugly body to the work; the piebald mustang pranced like a dancing master beside and behind with a continual jingling of the tossed bridle.

The masters were to a degree like the horses they rode, for Nash kept steadily leaning to the front, his bulldog jaw thrusting out; and Bard was forever shifting in the saddle, settling his hat, humming a tune, whistling, talking to the piebald, or asking idle questions of the things they passed, like a boy starting out for a vacation.  So they reached the old house of which Nash had spoken—­a mere, shapeless, black heap huddling through the night.