“Looks like something’s broke loose,” the young man drawled aloud.  “The band’s sure playing a right lively tune this glad mo’ning.”

Save for one or two farewell shots, the firing ceased.  The riders had disappeared into the chaparral.

The rider did not need to be told that this was a man hunt, destined perhaps to be one of a hundred unwritten desert tragedies.  Some subtle instinct in him differentiated between these hurried shots and those born of the casual exuberance of the cow-puncher at play.  He had a reason for taking an interest in it—­an interest that was more than casual.

Skirting the rim of the saucer-shaped valley, he rode forward warily, came at length to a canon that ran like a sword cleft into the hills, and descended cautiously by a cattle trail, its scarred slope.

Through the defile ran a mountain stream, splashing over and round boulders in its swift fall.

“I reckon we’ll slide down, Keno, and work out close to the fire zone,” the rider said to his horse, as they began to slither down the precipitous slope, starting rubble at every motion.

Man and horse were both of the frontier, fit to the minute for any call that might be made on them.  The broncho was a roan, with muscles of elastic leather, sure-footed as a mountain goat.  Its master—­a slim, brown man, of medium height, well knit and muscular—­looked on the world, quietly and often humorously, with shrewd gray eyes.

As he reached the bottom of the gulch, his glance fell upon another rider—­a woman.  She crossed the stream hurriedly, her pony flinging water at every step, and cantered up toward him.

Her glance was once and again over her shoulder, so that it was not until she was almost upon him that she saw the young man among the cottonwoods, and drew her pony to an instant halt.  The rifle that had been lying across her saddle leaped halfway to her shoulder, covering him instantly.

“Buenos dios, senorita. Are you going for to shoot my head off?” he drawled.

“The rustler!” she cried.

“The alleged rustler, Miss Sanderson,” he corrected gently.

“Let me past,” she panted.

He observed that her eyes mirrored terror of the scene she had just left.

“It’s you that has got the drop on me, isn’t it?” he suggested.

The rifle went back to the saddle.  Instantly the girl was in motion again, flying up the canon past the white-stockinged roan, her pony’s hindquarters gathered to take the sheep trail like those of a wild cat.

Keller gazed after her.  As she disappeared, he took off his hat, bowed elaborately, and remarked to himself, in his low, soft drawl: 

“Good mo’ning, ma’am.  See you again one of these days, mebbe, when you ain’t in such a hurry.”

But though he appeared to take the adventure whimsically his mind was busy with its meaning.  She was in danger, and he must save her.  So much he knew at least.