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“You may retain command, Mr. Blake,” said the former, thickly. “I have an engagement this evening.”

In an instant Baker was at my side. We had not met before since he was wearing the gray at the Point.

“For God’s sake, don’t let him follow me,–but you,–come if you possibly can. I’ll slip off into the willows up-stream as soon as I can do so without his seeing.”

I signalled Blake to join us, and presently he sauntered over our way, Gleason meantime admonishing his camp cook that he expected to have the very best hot supper for himself and his friend, Lieutenant Baker, ready in twenty minutes,–twenty minutes, for they had an important engagement, an affaire de coor, by Jove!

“You fellows know something of this matter,” said Baker, hurriedly; “but I cannot begin to tell you how troubled I am. Something is wrong with her. She has not met me once this week, and the house is still as a grave. I must see her. She is either ill or imprisoned by her people, or carried away. God only knows why that hound Burnham forbids me the house. I cannot see him. I’ve never seen his wife. The door is barred against me and I cannot force an entrance. For a while she was able to slip out late in the evening and meet me down the hill-side, but they must have detected her in some way. I do not even know that she is there, but to-night I mean to know. If she is within those walls–and alive–she will answer my signal. But for heaven’s sake keep that drunken wretch from going over there. He’s bent on it. The major gave me leave again for to-night, provided I would see Gleason safely to your camp, and he has been maundering all the way out about how he knew more’n I did,–he and Potts, who’s half-drunk too,–and how he meant to see me through in this matter.”

“Well, here,” said Blake, “there’s only one thing to be done. You two slip away at once; get your horses, and ford the Sandy well below camp. I’ll try and keep him occupied.”

In three minutes we were off, leading our steeds until a hundred yards or so away from the fires, then mounting and moving at rapid walk. Following Baker’s lead, I rode along, wondering what manner of adventure this was apt to be. I expected him to make an early crossing of the stream, but he did not. “The only fords I know,” said he, “are down below Starlight,” and so it happened that we made a wide detour; but during that dark ride he told me frankly how matters stood. Zoe Burnham had promised to be his wife, and had fully returned his love, but she was deeply attached to her poor mother, whose health was utterly broken, and who seemed to stand in dread of her father. The girl could not bear to leave her mother, though he had implored her to do so and be married at once. “She told me the last time I saw her that old Burnham had sworn to kill me if he caught me around the place, so I have to come armed, you see;” and he exhibited his heavy revolver. “There’s something shady about the old man, but I don’t know what it is.”

At last we crossed the stream, and soon reached a point where we dismounted and fastened our horses among the willows; then slowly and cautiously began the ascent to the ranch. The slope here was long and gradual, and before we had gone fifty yards Baker laid his hand on my arm.

“Wait. Hush!” he said.

Listening, we could distinctly hear the crunching of horses’ hoofs, but in the darkness (for the old moon was not yet showing over the range to the east) we could distinguish nothing. One thing was certain: those hoofs were going towards the ranch.