Did yu?”

“I shore did. Had an easy shot at a buck. But the light was bad an’ I missed. I’ll plug one in the mawnin’.”

“Deuce, if yu’d let me have the rifle we’d got the deer meat all right,” declared Ben.

“Is thet so? I’ll bet yu I can beat yu any old day!”

“What’ll yu bet?”

“Wal, I hate to take yore money, but——”

“Ssssh! Riders comin’,” interrupted Ackerman, in a sharp whisper.

Brite heard the thud of hoofs off under the trees. Horses were descending the road from above.

“Cain’t be any of our ootfit,” went on Ackerman, peering into the darkness. “Fellars, we may as wal be ready for anythin’.”

Dark forms of horses and riders loomed in the outer circle of camp-fire light. They halted.

“Who comes?” called out Ackerman, and his young voice had a steely ring.

“Friends,” came a gruff reply.

“Wal, advance friends an’ let’s see yu.”

Just then a hard little hand clutched Brite’s arm. He turned to see Reddie Bayne kneeling beside him. The lad’s sombrero was off, exposing his face. It was pale, and the big dark eyes burned.

“Wallen! He’s after me,” whispered Bayne, hoarsely. “Don’t let him——”

Brite gripped the lad and gave him a little shake. “Keep still.”

The riders approached the camp fire, but did not come close enough to be distinctly seen. The leader appeared to be of stalwart frame, dark of face, somehow forceful and forbidding. Brite had seen a hundred men like him ride into Texas camps.

“Trail drivers, huh?” he queried, with gleaming eyes taking in the boys round the camp fire.

“Wal, we ain’t Comanche Injuns,” retorted Deuce, curtly.

“Who’s ootfit?”

“Brite, of Santone. We got four thousand haid an’ twenty drivers. Any more yu want to know?”

“Reckon yu took on a new rider lately, huh?”

“Wal, if we did——”

Brite rose to stride out into the firelight.

“Who’re yu an’ what’s yore business heah?”

“My name’s Wallen. From Braseda. We tracked a—a young—wal, a fellar whose handle was Reddie Bayne.”

“Reddie Bayne. So thet was thet rider’s name? What yu trackin’ him for?”

“Thet’s my business. Is he heah?”

“No, he isn’t.”

“Wal then, he was heah, Brite.”

“Shore. Had supper with us. An’ then he cut oot for Santone. Reckon he’s there by now. What yu say, Deuce?”

“Reddie was forkin’ a fast hawse,” replied Ackerman, casually.

“Any camps between heah an’ Santone?” went on the rider.

“Not when we passed along. May be by this time.”

“Brite, if yu don’t mind we’ll spend the night heah,” said Wallen, speculatively.

“Wal, stranger, I’m sorry. One of my rules is not to be too hospitable on the old Trail,” drawled Brite. “Yu see thet sort of thing has cost me too much.”

“Air yu handin’ me a slap?” queried Wallen, roughly.

“No offense. Just my rule, thet’s all.”

“Ahuh. Wal, it’s a damn pore rule for a Texan.”

“Shore,” agreed Brite, coolly.

The rider wheeled, cursing under his breath, and, accompanied by his silent companion, thudded off into the darkness. Brite waited until he could make sure they took the road, then he returned to the spot where he had left the lad.