He tied the halter of his lead pack-horse to the tail of his saddle-horse. The second pack-animal was similarly attached to the first. Then, bridle in hand, he stepped aboard.

"All right, boy. Go ahead."

"But, sir, ain't you fetchin' your hosses on, too?"

"Yes, but I'll swim them over behind the boat. Get a move on now."

The ferry-boy pushed off with his pole, and dropping that for the big oar he worked the boat out into the current, which caught it and moved it across quite readily into the slack water on that side. The rider had to hold his impatient horse to keep him from jumping before the boat was beached.

"Didn't like that, did you, Bay?" the rider said, as he led the animal ashore.

Hays slapped his mount, driving him off the ferry, while he watched the stout man lead his three horses along the gunwale of the boat, until they could touch bottom. Heaving and splashing, they waded out, and their owner followed, carrying one pack.

"Fetch my other pack, boy," he called.

"Johnny, don't do nothin' of the kind," observed Hays.

"I reckon I didn't intend to," said the boy, resentfully.

"Many travelers lately?"

"Nope. First I've had for three days. Then a couple of cowpunchers. We've only had the boat in about two weeks. River too high. Dad reckons Green River will boom this summer."

Puffing hard, the stout man carried his second pack ashore.

"You're not very--obliging," he said, gruffly, as he felt in his pocket for loose change. The ferry-boy came ashore, followed by Hays.

Presently the stout man, grumbling, and evidently annoyed at the necessity of producing a fat pocketbook, took out a one-dollar bill.

"Here. Give me seventy-five cents change."

The boy produced it like a flash, and replied, disgustedly, "I'll bet you don't play thet trick on me if you ever come back."

The rider, amused and interested from his stand on the bank, saw something that made him start. Hays whipped out a gun.

"Hands up!" he ordered.

The stout man stared aghast.

"Throw up your hands!" suddenly yelled Hays, harshly. "I'm not in the habit of sayin' thet twice." And he stuck the gun square into the plump abdomen before him. The stout man, gasping and turning livid of face, hastily complied by lifting hands that shook palpably.

"Wha-at's this? R-robbers!" he gulped. Hays reached inside the man's coat, for his wallet, and extracted it. Then he stepped back, but still with gun extended.

"Get the hell out of here now," he ordered. And apparently he paid no more heed to his frightened victim. But the rider had his idea that Hays watched him, nevertheless.

"Pretty well heeled, thet old bird," observed the robber, squeezing the fat wallet. . . .

"If there's law in this--country--you'll pay for this," burst out the traveler, working like a beaver to repack his horses.

"Haw! Haw! You ain't lookin' for law, air you, granpaw? . . .

Wal, the only law is what you see here in my hand--an' I don't mean your money."

Hays slipped the wallet in his inside vest pocket. Then, with the same hand--and all the while covering the traveler with his gun--he drew a bill from his pocket.

"Thar, Johnny, thet's for all of us," he said.

"But, I--Oh, sir, I oughtn't take so much," faltered the boy, who was somewhat scared himself.

"Shore you ought. It's not his money, you noticed," drawled the robber, forcing the bill upon the reluctant youth. Then he addressed the traveler. "Say, Mormon, when you get uptown, or wherever you're goin'--jest say Hank Hays paid you his respects."

"You'll hear from me, you glib-tongued robber," replied the other, furiously, as he rode away.

Hays sheathed his gun.