Now the step continued again, down the short hall.  A hand fell on the knob of the door and pressed it slowly open.  Against the deeper blackness of the hall beyond, Buck saw a tall figure, hatless.  His finger curved about the trigger, and still he did not fire.  Even to his hysterical brain it occurred that Dan Barry would be wearing a hat—­and moreover the form was tall.

“Buck!” called a guarded voice.

The muzzle of Daniels’ revolver dropped; he threw the gun on his bed and stood up.

“Jim Rafferty!” he cried, with something like a groan in his voice.  “What in the name of God are you doin’ here at this hour?”

“Someone come here and banged on the door a while ago.  Had a letter for you.  Must have rid a long ways and come fast; while he was givin’ me the letter at the door I heard his hoss pantin’ outside.  He wouldn’t stay, but went right back.  Here’s the letter, Buck.  Hope it ain’t no bad news.  Got a light here, ain’t you?”

“All right, Jim,” answered Buck Daniels, taking the letter.  “I got a lantern.  You get back to bed.”

The other replied with a noisy yawn and left the room while Buck kindled the lantern.  By that light he read his name upon the envelope and tore it open.  It was very brief.

   “Dear Buck,

Last night at supper Dan found out where you are.  In the morning he’s leaving the ranch and we know that he intends to ride for Rafferty’s place; he’ll probably be there before noon.  The moment you get this, saddle your horse and ride.  Oh, Buck, why did you stay so close to us?

Relay your horses.  Don’t stop until you’re over the mountains.  Black Bart is well enough to take the trail and Dan will use him to follow you.  You know what that means.

   Ride, ride, ride!

   Kate.”

He crumpled up the paper and sank back upon the bed.

“Why did you stay so close?”

He had wondered at that, himself, many times in the past few days.  Like the hunted rabbit, he expected to find safety under the very nose of danger.  Now that he was discovered it seemed incredible that he could have followed so patently foolish a course.  In a sort of daze he uncrumpled the note again and read the wrinkled writing word by word.  He had leaned close to read by the uncertain light, and now he caught the faintest breath of perfume from the paper.  It was a small thing, smaller among scents than a whisper is among voices, but it made Buck Daniels drop his head and crush the paper against his face.  It was a moment before he could uncrumple the paper sufficiently to study the contents of the note thoroughly.  At first his dazed brain caught only part of the significance.  Then it dawned on him that the girl thought he had fled from the Cumberland Ranch through fear of Dan Barry.

Ay, there had been fear in it.  Every day at the ranch he had shuddered at the thought that the destroyer might ride up on that devil of black silken grace, Satan.  But every day he had convinced himself that even then Dan Barry remembered the past and was cursing himself for the ingratitude he had shown his old friend.  Now the truth swept coldly home to Buck Daniels.  Barry was as fierce as ever upon the trail; and Kate Cumberland thought that he—­Buck Daniels,—­had fled like a cur from danger.