“Whut’s got ter be Injuns?”

“Why thet outfit whut runs off with her, of course.  I reckon you fellers will stand in all right ter help pull me out o’ this hole?”

Long Pete nodded.

“Well, Pete, this is ’bout whut’s got ter be done, es near es I kin figger it out.  You pick out maybe half a dozen good fellers, who kin keep their mouths shet, an’ make Injuns out of ’em.  ’Tain’t likely she ’ll ever twig any of the boys fixed up proper in thet sorter outfit—­anyhow, she’d be too durned skeered.  Then you lay fer her, say ’bout next Wednesday, out in them Carter woods, when she ‘s comin’ home from school.  I ’ll kinder naturally happen ’long by accident ’bout the head o’ the gulch, an’ jump in an’ rescue her. Sabe?”

Lumley gazed at his companion with eyes expressive of admiration.  “By thunder, if you haven’t got a cocoanut on ye, Jack!  Lord, but thet ought to get her a flyin’!  Any shootin’?”

“Sure!” Moffat’s face exhibited a faint smile at these words of praise.  “It wouldn’t be no great shucks of a rescue without, an’ this hes got ter be the real thing.  Only, I reckon, ye better shoot high, so thar’ won’t be no hurt done.”

When the two gentlemen parted, a few moments later, the conspiracy was fully hatched, all preliminaries perfected, and the gallant rescue of Miss Spencer assured.  Indeed, there is some reason now to believe that this desirable result was rendered doubly certain, for as Moffat moved slowly past the Occidental on his way home, a person attired in chaps and sombrero, and greatly resembling McNeil, was in the back room, breathing some final instructions to a few bosom friends.

“Now don’t—­eh—­any o’ you fellers—­eh—­go an’ forget the place.  Jump in—­eh—­lively.  Just afore she—­eh—­gits ter thet thick bunch—­eh—­underbrush, whar’ the trail sorter—­eh—­drops down inter the ravine.  An’ you chumps wanter—­eh—­git—­yerselves up so she can’t pipe any of ye off—­eh—­in this yere—­eh—­road-agent act.  I tell ye, after what thet—­eh—­Moffat’s bin a-pumpin’ inter her, she’s just got ter be—­eh—­rescued, an’ in blame good style, er—­eh—­it ain’t no go.”

“Oh, you rest easy ’bout all thet, Bill,” chimed in Sandy Winn, his black eyes dancing in anticipation of coming fun.  “We ’ll git up the ornariest outfit whut ever hit the pike.”

The long shadows of the late afternoon were already falling across the gloomy Carter woods, while the red sun sank lower behind old Bull Mountain.  The Reverend Howard Wynkoop, who for more than an hour past had been vainly dangling a fishing-line above the dancing waters of Clear Creek, now reclined dreamily on the soft turf of the high bank, his eyes fixed upon the distant sky-line.  His thoughts were on the flossy hair and animated face of the fair Miss Spencer, who he momentarily expected would round the edge of the hill, and so deeply did he become sank in blissful reflection as to be totally oblivious to everything but her approach.