The man turned savagely to Beulah.  “So I’m the goat,” he said with a curse.  “Rutherford is going to frame me, is he?  I’m to go to the pen in place of the whole bunch.  Is that it?”

“No, you’ve guessed wrong.  Yore hide is safe this time, Meldrum,” the cattleman explained.  “Reach for the roof.  No, don’t do that. . . .  Now, turn yore face to the wall.”

Dave stepped forward and gathered in the forty-four of the enemy.  He also relieved him of his “skinning” knife.  With the deft hands of an old roper he tied the man up and flung him on the bed.

This done, Dingwell made straight for the larder.  Though he was ravenous, the cattleman ate with discretion.  Into his pockets he packed all the sandwiches they would hold.

“Is it true that you—­that they didn’t give you anything to eat?” asked Beulah.

He looked at her—­and lied cheerfully.

“Sho, I got cranky and wouldn’t eat.  Yore folks treated me fine.  I got my neck bowed.  Can’t blame them for that, can I?”

“We must be going,” she told him.  “If you don’t get over the pass before morning, Tighe might catch you.”

He nodded agreement.  “You’re right, but I’ve got to look out for young Beaudry.  Do you know where he is?”

“He is waiting outside,” the girl said stiffly.  “Take him away with you.  I’ll not be responsible for him if he comes back.  We don’t like spies here.”

They found Roy lying against the wall of the hut, his white face shining in the moonlight.

“What’s the matter with you?” demanded Miss Rutherford sharply.

“I’m all right.”  Roy managed to rise and lean against the jacal.  “I see you made it.  Mr. Dingwell, my name is Beaudry.”

“Glad to know you.”  The cattleman’s strong hand gripped his limp one.  “Yore father was the gamest man I ever knew and one of my best friends.”

The keen eyes of Beulah had been fastened on Roy.  She recalled what she had heard the man say in the orchard.  In her direct fashion she flung a question at the young man.

“Are you wounded?  Did that man hit you when he fired?”

“It’s in my shoulder—­just a flesh wound.  The bleeding has stopped except when I move.”

“Why didn’t you say something about it?” she asked impatiently.  “Do you think we’re clairvoyants?  We’d better get him into the house and look at it, Mr. Dingwell.”

They did as she suggested.  A bullet had ploughed a furrow across the shoulder.  Except for the loss of blood, the wound was not serious.  With the help of Miss Rutherford, which was given as a matter of course and quite without embarrassment, Dave dressed and bandaged the hurt like an expert.  In his adventurous life he had looked after many men who had been shot, and had given first aid to a dozen with broken bones.

Roy winced a little at the pain, but he made no outcry.  He was not a baby about suffering.  That he could stand as well as another.  What shook his nerve was the fear of anticipation, the dread of an impending disaster which his imagination magnified.