Our first sight of them we had in Guthrie.  Tired and hungry, we stumbled, unwashed, into a little yellow-pine hotel and sat at a table.  In the opposite corner we saw the fugitives.  They were bent upon their meal, but looked around at times uneasily.

The girl was dressed in brown—­one of these smooth, half-shiny, silky-looking affairs with lace collar and cuffs, and what I believe they call an accordion-plaited skirt.  She wore a thick brown veil down to her nose, and a broad-brimmed straw hat with some kind of feathers adorning it.  The man wore plain, dark clothes, and his hair was trimmed very short.  He was such a man as you might see anywhere.

There they were—­the murderer and the woman he had stolen.  There we were—­the rightful avenger, according to the code, and the supernumerary who writes these words.

For one time, at least, in the heart of the supernumerary there rose the killing instinct.  For one moment he joined the force of combatants—­orally.

“What are you waiting for, Sam?” I said in a whisper.  “Let him have it now!”

Sam gave a melancholy sigh.

“You don’t understand; but he does,” he said. “He knows.  Mr. Tenderfoot, there’s a rule out here among white men in the Nation that you can’t shoot a man when he’s with a woman.  I never knew it to be broke yet.  You can’t do it.  You’ve got to get him in a gang of men or by himself.  That’s why.  He knows it, too.  We all know.  So, that’s Mr. Ben Tatum!  One of the ‘pretty men’!  I’ll cut him out of the herd before they leave the hotel, and regulate his account!”

After supper the flying pair disappeared quickly.  Although Sam haunted lobby and stairway and halls half the night, in some mysterious way the fugitives eluded him; and in the morning the veiled lady in the brown dress with the accordion-plaited skirt and the dapper young man with the close-clipped hair, and the buckboard with the prancing nags, were gone.

It is a monotonous story, that of the ride; so it shall be curtailed.  Once again we overtook them on a road.  We were about fifty yards behind.  They turned in the buckboard and looked at us; then drove on without whipping up their horses.  Their safety no longer lay in speed.  Ben Tatum knew.  He knew that the only rock of safety left to him was the code.  There is no doubt that, had he been alone, the matter would have been settled quickly with Sam Durkee in the usual way; but he had something at his side that kept still the trigger-finger of both.  It seemed likely that he was no coward.

So, you may perceive that woman, on occasions, may postpone instead of precipitating conflict between man and man.  But not willingly or consciously.  She is oblivious of codes.

Five miles farther, we came upon the future great Western city of Chandler.  The horses of pursuers and pursued were starved and weary.  There was one hotel that offered danger to man and entertainment to beast; so the four of us met again in the dining room at the ringing of a bell so resonant and large that it had cracked the welkin long ago.  The dining room was not as large as the one at Guthrie.