Lord Ralles by this time was making almost as much noise as an engine pulling a heavy freight up grade under forced draft, swearing over his trousers, and was offering the cowboy and Hance money to recover them.  When they told him this was impossible he tried to get them to sell or hire a pair, but they didn’t like the idea of riding into camp minus those essentials any better than he did.  While I waited they settled the difficulty by strapping a blanket round him, and by splitting it up the middle and using plenty of cord they rigged him out after a fashion; but I think if he could have seen himself and been given an option he would have preferred to wait till it was dark enough to creep into camp unnoticed.

Before long Miss Cullen called, and when I went to her she handed me, without a word, three letters.  As she did so she crimsoned violently, and looked down in her mortification.  I was so sorry for her that, though a moment before I had been judging her harshly, I now couldn’t help saying—­

“Our positions have been so difficult, Miss Cullen, that I don’t think we either of us are quite responsible for our actions.”

She said nothing, and, after a pause, I continued—­

“I hope you’ll think as leniently of my conduct as you can, for I can’t tell you how grieved I am to have pained you.”

Cullen joined us at this point, and, knowing that every moment we remained would be distressing to his sister, I announced that we would start up the trail.  I hadn’t the heart to offer to help her mount, and after Frederic had put her up we fell into single file behind Hance, Lord Ralles coming last.

As soon as we started I took a look at the three letters.  They were all addressed to Theodore E. Camp, Esq., Ash Fork, Arizona—­one of the directors of the K. & A. and also of the Great Southern.  With this clue, for the first time things began to clear up to me, and when the trail broadened enough to permit it, I pushed my mule up alongside of Cullen and asked—­

“The letters contain proxies for the K. & A. election next Friday?”

He nodded his head.  “The Missouri Western and the Great Southern are fighting for control,” he explained, “and we should have won but for the three blocks of Eastern stock that had promised their proxies to the G.S.  Rather than lose the fight, we arranged to learn when those proxies were mailed—­that was what kept me behind—­and then to hold up the train that carried them.”

“Was it worth the risk?” I ejaculated.

“If we had succeeded, yes.  My father had put more than was safe into Missouri Western and into California Central.  The G.S. wants control to end the traffic agreements, and that means bankruptcy to my father.”

I nodded, seeing it all as clear as day, and hardly blaming the Cullens for what they had done; for any one who has had dealings with the G.S. is driven to pretty desperate methods to keep from being crushed, and when one is fighting an antagonist that won’t regard the law, or rather one that, through control of legislatures and judges, makes the law to suit its needs, the temptation is strong to use the same weapons one’s self.