“Yes, Sir, I’ll deliver your message a’ right,” flickered the headlights reassuringly.

The old man stood stolidly and scorched the lady’s eyes.

“How long since y’r sheriff thing set out?  Did he break loose by the back door?”

“There ain’t no back door,” snapped the headlights; and the front door slammed in their faces.  Wayland burst in a peal of laughter.

“’Tis no laughing matter!  ‘Tis bad enough t’ depend on that broken reed of a dastard coward sheriff hidin’ under the bed!  A’ve a mind to go back an’ have him oot; but that—­pot ash pate—­” what else the old man called her was more truthful than elegant for an expurgated age.  They replaced the post of the barbed wire gate in its loop and mounted their horses.

“Well, Sir?” asked Wayland.  “I don’t wish to offend your British sense of law; but which way now?”

The old man left the reins hanging on the broncho’s neck.  The horses began cropping the grass.  The Ranger was fumbling at his stirrup.

“A’m sore puzzled, Wayland!  ’Tis not in the blood of a British born to go outside law.  Y’r no thinkin’ that; are y’, Wayland?”

“I am saying nothing!  The law protects them in their lawlessness.  It doesn’t protect us in our lawfulness.  The American citizen is the law-maker.  There is only one thing for an American citizen to do—­get to work and enforce his laws—­”

“Then—­God’s name, Wayland, go ahead and do it!  Take the lead!  A’ll follow!  This trail go behind the mountain?”

“Yes, it brings us round behind!  They have the start of us by three hours; but they’ll camp to-night somewhere along the Lake Behind the Peak.  Beyond that, there are some mighty bad slides.  These rains have loosened snows.  They’ll hardly cross the slides beyond the lake but by daylight.  If we can reach the lake to-day, we’ll have a chance at ’em.”

“Wayland, A’m on the last lap of my trail!  It doesn’t matter what happens to me; but have you thought what might happen when we catch up on them?  Those fellows are out to kill.  We are out to arrest.  Have you thought what that might mean at close quarters?”

“It’s close quarters I’m seeking,” said Wayland, “though it’s hardly fair to drag you into the fight.  All I want is a man as a witness who’s got red blood that won’t turn yellow.  This Nation has been cowering behind the line of law, while the looters and skinners have disarmed our very firing line.  It’s time somebody risked his neck to reverse the order—­”

“Git epp,” said the old man roughly to his broncho.