“When did you make that hurry-up appointment, Chet?” laughed Dingwell.  “You didn’t seem in no manner of hurry when you was lying in the mesquite back there at Lonesome Park.”

“You’ve got no business to keep him here.  He can go if he wants to,” flashed the young woman.

“You hear that, Chet.  You can go if you want to,” murmured Dave with good-natured irony.

“Said he’d shoot me in the back if I hit the trail any faster,” Fox snorted to the girl.

“He wouldn’t dare,” flamed Beulah Rutherford.

Her sultry eyes attacked Dingwell.

He smiled, not a whit disturbed.  “You see how it is, Chet.  Maybe I will; maybe I won’t.  Be a sport and you’ll find out.”

For a minute the three rode in silence except for the sound of the horses moving.  Beulah did not fully understand the situation, but it was clear to her that somehow Dingwell was interfering with a plan of her people.  Her untamed youth resented the high-handed way in which he seemed to be doing it.  What right had he to hold Chet Fox a prisoner at the point of a rifle?

She asked a question flatly.  “Have you got a warrant for Chet’s arrest?”

“Only old Tried and True here.”  Dave patted the barrel of his weapon.

“You’re not a deputy sheriff?”

“No-o.  Not officially.”

“What has Chet done?”

Dingwell regarded the other man humorously.  “What have you done, Chet?  You must ‘a’ broke some ordinance in that long career of disrespectability of yours.  I reckon we’ll put it that you obstructed traffic at Lonesome Park.”

Miss Rutherford said no more.  The rain had given way to a gentle mist.  Presently she took off her slicker and held it on the left side of the saddle to fold.  The cattleman leaned toward her to lend a hand.

“Lemme roll it up,” he said.

“No, I can.”

With the same motion the girl had learned in roping cattle she flung the slicker over his head.  Her weight on the left stirrup, she threw her arms about him and drew the oil coat tight.

“Run, Chet!” she cried.

Fox was off like a flash.

Hampered by his rifle, Dave could use only one hand to free himself.  The Rutherford girl clung as if her arms had been ropes of steel.  Before he had shaken her off, the runaway was a hundred yards down the road galloping for dear life.

Dave raised his gun.  Beulah struck the barrel down with her quirt.  He lowered the rifle, turned to her, and smiled.  His grin was rueful but friendly.

“You’re a right enterprising young lady for a schoolmarm, but I wouldn’t have shot Chet, anyhow.  The circumstances don’t warrant it.”

She swung from the saddle and picked her coat out of the mud where it had fallen.  Her lithe young figure was supple as that of a boy.

“You’ve spoiled my coat,” she charged resentfully.