Bayne sat against the tree. By the dim light Brite saw the gleam of a gun in his hand.

“Wal, I steered them off, Bayne,” said Brite. “Hope I did yu a good turn.”

“Yu bet yu did. …Thank yu—Mr. Brite,” replied the lad in a low voice.

Deuce Ackerman had followed Brite under the tree. Boss, thet Wallen shore didn’t get nowheres with me. Strikes me I’d seen him some place.”

“Who is Wallen, son?”

“Rancher I rode for over Braseda way.”

“What’s he got against yu?”

There was no reply. Ackerman bent over to peer down. “Throwed yore hardware, hey, Reddie? Wal, I don’t blame yu. Now, cowboy, come clean if yu want to, or keep mum. It’s all the same to us.”

“Thank yu. …I’m no rustler—or thief—or anythin’ bad. …It was just … Oh, I cain’t tell yu,” replied the lad, with emotion.

“Ahuh. Wal, then it must be somethin’ to do aboot a gurl?”

“Yes. …Somethin’ aboot a gurl,” hurriedly replied Bayne.

“I’ve been there, cowboy. …But I hope thet hombre wasn’t her dad. ‘Cause she’s liable to be an orphan.”

Ackerman returned to the camp fire, calling out: “Roll in, fellers. Yu’re a-gonna need sleep this heah trip.”

“Bayne, I’m shore glad it wasn’t anythin’ bad,” said Brite, in a kindly tone.

One of the boys rekindled the fire, which burned up brightly. By its light the old cattleman had a better view of young Bayne’s face. The hard and bitter expression appeared softening. He made a forlorn little figure that touched Brite.

“I—I’ll tell yu—sometime—if yu won’t give me away,” whispered the lad, and then hurried off into the darkness.

Brite sought his own blankets and lay thinking of the lad’s confession—something about a girl! That had been true of him once, long ago, and to it could be traced the fact of his lonely years. He warmed to this orphaned lad. The old Trail was a tough and bloody proposition; but anything might be met with upon it.

Chapter Three

BRITE opened his eyes to gray dawn. A rifle-shot had awakened him. Moze was singing about darkies and cotton, which argued that the camp had not been attacked by Indians. Brite crawled out of his blankets, stiff and sore, to pull on his boots and don his vest, which simple actions left him dressed for the day. He rolled his bed. Then securing a towel, he made through camp for the creek. Texas Joe was in the act of getting up. Three other boys lay prone, quiet, youthful, hard faces clear in the gray light.

“Boss, it’s sho turrible gittin’ oot in de mawnin’,” was Moze’s laconic greeting.

“Moze, I reckon I’m not so young as I was.”

Down by the stream Brite encountered Reddie Bayne busy with his ablutions.