N’Yawk turned to get his breakfast.  His light shirt was blood-stained in the back,—­seemed to be soaked.  “What’s the matter with your shirt, it’s soaked with blood?” some one asked.  “Then that durned Daisy Belle has been crawling in with me, that’s all,” he said.  “Blame his bleeding snoot.  I’ll punch it and give it something to bleed for.”

Then Mr. Watson said, “Daisy ain’t been in all night.  He took Jesse’s place when he went to town after supper.”  That started an inquiry and search which speedily showed that some one with a bleeding wound had gotten in with N’Yawk.  It also developed that Mr. Watson’s splendid horse and saddle were gone, the rope that the horse had been picketed with lying just as it had been cut from his neck.

Now all was bustle and excitement.  It was plainly evident that one of the outlaws had lain hidden on N’Yawk’s bed while the sheriff was there, and that afterwards he had saddled the horse and made his escape.  His own horse was found in the willows, the saddle cut loose and the bridle off, but the poor, jaded thing had never moved.  By sunup the search-party returned, all too worn-out with twenty-four hours in the saddle to continue the hunt.  They were even too worn-out to eat, but flung themselves down for a few hours’ rest.  The chase was hopeless anyway, for the search-party had gone north in the night.  The wounded outlaw had doubtless heard the sheriff talking and, the coast being clear to the southward, had got the fresh horse and was by that time probably safe in the heavy forests and mountains of Utah.  His getting in with N’Yawk had been a daring ruse, but a successful one.  Where his partner was, no one could guess.  But by that time all the camp excepting Herman and Mrs. Louderer were so panicky that we couldn’t have made a rational suggestion.

N’Yawk, white around his mouth, approached Mrs. Louderer.  “I want to quit,” he said.  “Well,” she said, calmly sipping her coffee, “you haf done it.”  “I’m sick,” he stammered.  “I know you iss,” she said, “I haf before now seen men get sick when they iss scared to death.”  “My old daddy—­” he began.  “Yes, I know, he waded the creek vone time und you has had cold feet effer since.”

Poor fellow, I felt sorry for him.  I had cold feet myself just then, and I was powerfully anxious to warm them by my own fire where a pair of calm blue eyes would reassure me.

I didn’t get to see the branding that was to have taken place on the range that day.  The boss insisted on taking the trail of his valued horse.  He was very angry.  He thought there was a traitor among the posse.  Who started the firing at the bridge no one knew, and Watson said openly that it was done to get the sheriff away from camp.

My own home looked mighty good to me when we drove up that evening.  I don’t want any more wild life on the range,—­not for a while, anyway.

  Your ex-Washlady,
    ELINORE RUPERT STEWART.