“But—­why?”

She threw out a gesture of self-contempt.  “Why did I do it?  I don’t know.  Because he was wounded, I suppose.”

“Wounded!  Then I did hit him?”

“Yes.  In the arm—­a flesh wound.  I met him riding through the mesquite.  After I had tied up his wound, I took him to Jim’s.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.  “So you tied up his wound?”

“Yes,” she answered defiantly, her head up.

“That tender heart of yours,” he murmured, with almost a sneer.

“Yes.  I’m a fool.”

He shrugged his shoulders.  “Oh, well.”

“And he pays me back by trying to throw it on Phil.  Hunt him down, Brill.  Bring him to me.  I’ll tell all I know against him,” she cried vindictively.

“I’ll get him, Phyl,” he promised, and the sound of his laughter was not pleasant.  “I’ll get him for you, or find out why.”

“Think of him trying to put it on Phil, and after I stood by him and kept his secret.  Isn’t that the worst ever?” the girl flamed.

“He rode away not five minutes ago as big as coffee on that ugly roan of his with the white stockings; knew what we thought about him, but didn’t pay any more attention to us than as if we were bumps on a log.”

Healy strode out to the porch, told his story, and within five minutes had organized his posse and appointed a rendezvous for two hours later at Seven Mile.

At the appointed time his men were on hand, six of them, armed with rifles and revolvers, ready for grim business.

From her window Phyllis saw them ride away, and persuaded herself that she was glad.  Vengeance was about to fall upon this insolent freebooter who had not even manhood enough to appreciate a kindness.  But as the hours passed she was beset by a consuming anxiety.  What more likely than that he would resist!  If so, there could be only one end.  She could not keep her thoughts from those seven men whom she had sent against the one.

There was nobody to whom she could talk about it, for Phil and her father were away at Noches.  Restless as a caged panther, she twice had her horse brought to the door, and rode into the hills to meet her posse.  But she could not be sure which way they would come, and after venturing a short distance she would return for fear they might arrive in her absence.  Night had fallen over the country, and the stars were out long before she got back the second time.  Nine—­ten—­eleven o’clock struck, and still no sign of those for whom she waited.

At last they came, their prisoner riding in the midst, bareheaded and with his hands tied.

“I’ve got him, Phyl!” Healy cried in a voice that told the girl he was riding on a wave of triumph.

“I see you have.”

Nevertheless she looked not at the victor, but at the vanquished, and never had she seen a man who looked more master of his fate than this one.  He was smiling down at her whimsically, and she saw they had not taken him without a struggle.  The marks of it were on them and on him.  Healy’s cheek bone was laid open in a nasty cut, and Slim had a handkerchief tied round his head.