Jennie Whitney was studying him closely, for he must be father, brother, or one of the two hired men.  She was praying that he was a relative, but it was not so.

The mother could now distinguish the horseman plainly, though not as much so as her daughter.

“I think it is father,” she said, speaking her hope rather than her conviction.

“No; it is not he,” replied the daughter.

“Then it is Fred.”

“No; you are mistaken; it is Budd.”

“Alas and alas! why should it be he, and neither my husband nor son?” wailed the parent.

Jennie was right.  The man was the veteran cowboy, Budd Hankinson, who had whirled the lasso on the arid plains of Arizona, the Llano Estacado of Texas and among the mountain ranges of Montana; who had fought Apaches in the southwest, Comanches in the south and Sioux in the north, and had undergone hardships, sufferings, wounds and privations before which many a younger man than he had succumbed.

No more skilful and no braver ranchman lived.

Budd had a way of snatching off his hat and swinging it about his head at sight of the ladies.  It was his jocular salutation to them, and meant that all was well.

But he did not do so now.  He must have seen the anxious mother and daughter almost as soon as they discerned him.  Jennie watched for the greeting which did not come.

“Something is amiss,” was her conclusion.

The hoofs of the flying horse beat the hard ground with a regular rhythm, and he thundered forward like one who knew he was bringing decisive tidings which would make the hearts of the listeners stand still.

The black eyes of the cowman were seen gleaming under his hat-rim as he looked steadily at the couple, against whom his horse would dash himself the next minute, like a thunderbolt, unless checked.

No fear, however, of anything like that.  He rounded to in front of the women, and halted with a suddenness that would have flung a less skilful rider over his head, but which hardly caused Budd Hankinson a jar.

He read the questioning eyes, and before the words could shape themselves on the pallid lips he called out: 

“The mischief is to pay!”

“What is it, Budd?” asked Jennie, she and her mother stepping close to his box-stirrup.

“We have had a fight with the rustlers—­one of the worst I ever seed—­there was eight of ’em.”

“Was anybody—­hurt?” faltered the mother.

“Wal, I reckon; three of them rustlers won’t rustle again very soon, onless that bus’ness is carried on below, where they’ve gone; two others have got holes through their bodies about the size of my hat.”

“But—­but were any of our people injured?” continued the parent, while Jennie tried to still the throbbing of her heart until the answer came.

“Wal, yes,” replied Budd, removing his hat and passing his handkerchief across his forehead, as though the matter was of slight account; “I’m sorry to say some of us got it in the neck.”