Phyllis slipped out of the back door into the darkness, and skirted the house at a distance.  There were lights in the bunk house of the ranch riders, and through the window she could see a group gathered.  Creeping close to the window, she looked in.  Their prisoner was not with them.  In front of the store two men were seated in the darkness.  She was almost upon them before she saw them.  Each of them carried a rifle.

“Hello!  Who’s that?” one of them cried sharply.

It was Tom Dixon.

Phyllis came forward and spoke.  “That you, Tom?  I suppose you are guarding the prisoner.”

“Yep.  Can’t you sleep, Phyl?” He walked a dozen yards with her.

“I couldn’t, but I see you’re keeping watch, all right.  I probably can now.  I suppose I was nervous.”

“No wonder.  But you may sleep, all right.  He won’t trouble you any.  I’ll guarantee that,” he promised largely.  “Oh, Phyl!”

She had turned to go, but she stopped at his call.  “Well?”

“Don’t you be mad at me.  I was only fooling the other day.  Course I hadn’t ought to have got gay.  But a fellow makes a break once in a while.”

Under the stress of her deeper anxiety she had forgotten all about her tiff with him.  It had seemed important at the time, but since then Tom and his affairs had been relegated to second place in her mind.  He was only a boy, full of the vanity that was a part of him.  Somehow, her anger against him was all burnt out.

“If you never will again, Tom,” she conceded.

“I’ll be good,” he smiled, meaning that he would be good as long as he must.

“All right,” she said, without much enthusiasm.

She left him and passed into the house without haste.  But once inside she fairly flew to Phil’s room.  On a nail near the head of his bed hung a key.  She took this, descended to the kitchen, and from there noiselessly down the stairway to the cellar.  She groped her way without a light along the adobe wall till she came to a door which was unlocked.  This opened into another part of the cellar, used as a room for storing supplies needed in their trade.  Past barrels and boxes she went to another stairway and breathlessly ascended it.  At the top of eight or nine steps a door barred progress.  Very carefully she found the keyhole, fitted in the key, and by infinitesimal degrees unlocked the door.

The night seemed alive with the noise of her movements.  Now the door creaked as it swung open before her.  She waited, heart beating like a trip hammer, and stared into the blackness of the store.

“Who is it?” a voice asked in a low tone.

“It’s me, Phyl Sanderson.  Are you alone?” she whispered.

“Yes.  Tied to a chair.  Guards are just outside.”

She went toward him softly with hands outstretched in the darkness, and presently her fingers touched his face.  They travelled downward till they found the ropes which bound him.  For a moment she fumbled at the knots before she remembered a swifter way.