“Down to Swanson’s ranche.”

“We were heading the same way,” said Cummings.

Swanson’s ranche, situated in the northeastern part of the Indian Territory, near Coulby’s Bluff, was about one hundred and fifty miles south of Kansas City.  The rolling prairie which stretched between was interspersed with ranches, and an occasional small town, but for the greater part was wild and uninhabited.

Swanson, an Americanized Norwegian, had married a Cherokee squaw, which enabled him to locate in the Indian country.  His reputation was none of the best, but his unscrupulous character and well-known skill with the Winchester caused him to be feared, and an officer of the law would think twice before making any attempts to disturb him.  It was at this place that the three fugitives were seeking refuge.

The sun had risen, and it was broad day when Cummings, who naturally took the lead, commanded a halt.

A clump of cotton-wood trees on the verge of a small, shallow creek offered a good camping ground.

Hobbling their horses, after taking the saddles from them, they allowed them to graze at will, and the party busied themselves in collecting wood for a fire.

A few sheep which had escaped from some ranch were grazing near the spot, and Moriarity, who had his Winchester, dropped one by a well-directed ball back of the shoulder.

The warm fleece was taken from the still quivering body, and the appetizing smell of mutton steaks reminded the hungry men that the breakfast hour had long since passed.  The meal over, nature asserted her claims, and the thoroughly tired-out travelers wrapped themselves in their blankets and fell asleep.

They were not disturbed, for the trail which they had taken was seldom traveled over, and it was late in the afternoon when they were once more on their way.

The trail led over the beds of dried-up streams, and skirted the numerous patches of scrub oak and cotton-wood trees which were scattered all over the prairie.  The long prairie grass sometimes brushed the feet of the horsemen, and coveys of prairie chickens flew up and scurried away as the three outlaws galloped past.  Mile after mile was left behind, the tough Indian ponies they bestrode keeping the tireless lope for which they are noted without slacking the pace or becoming exhausted.  The three riders were expert horsemen, and had been accustomed to the saddle almost from infancy.

Little was said and few words spoken by the men as they skimmed over the prairie save to call attention to some obstacle in the way, or to some change in the trail, which stretched before them plain and distinct.

The few Indians and half-breeds they met paid no attention to them, thinking them to be cowboys bound for their camp, and in fact they did resemble those hardy specimens of plainsmen who range this country herding cattle or sheep.