Bostil began to feel something strange, and, going to Lucy’s door, he knocked.  There was no reply.  Bostil pushed open the door.  Lucy was not in evidence, and her room was not as tidy as usual.  He saw her white dress thrown upon the bed she had not slept in.  Bostil gazed around with a queer contraction of the heart.  That sense of something amiss grew stronger.  Then he saw a chair before the open window.  That window was rather high, and Lucy had placed a chair before it so that she could look out or get out.  Bostil stretched his neck, looked out, and in the red earth beneath the window he saw fresh tracks of Lucy’s boots.  Then he roared for Jane.

She came running, and between Bostil’s furious questions and her own excited answers there was nothing arrived at.  But presently she spied the white dress, and then she ran to Lucy’s closet.  From there she turned a white face to Bostil.

“She put on her riding-clothes!” gasped Aunt Jane.

“Supposin’ she did!  Where is she?” demanded Bostil.

“She’s run off with Slone!”

Bostil could not have been shocked or hurt any more acutely by a knife-thrust.  He glared at his sister.

“A-huh!  So thet’s the way you watch her!”

“Watch her?  It wasn’t possible.  She’s—­well, she’s as smart as you are. . . .  Oh, I knew she’d do it!  She was wild in love with him!”

Bostil strode out of the room and the house.  He went through the grove and directly up the path to Slone’s cabin.  It was empty, just as Bostil expected to find it.

The bars of the corral were down.  Both Slone’s horses were gone.  Presently Bostil saw the black horse Nagger down in Brackton’s pasture.

There were riders in front of Brackton’s.  All spoke at once to Bostil, and he only yelled for Brackton.  The old man came hurriedly out, alarmed.

“Where’s this Slone?” demanded Bostil.

“Slone!” ejaculated Brackton.  “I’m blessed if I know.  Ain’t he home?”

“No.  An’ he’s left his black hoss in your field.”

“Wal, by golly, thet’s news to me. . . .  Bostil, there’s been strange doin’s lately.”  Brackton seemed at a loss for words.  “Mebbe Slone got out because of somethin’ thet come off last night. . . .  Now, Joel Creech an’—­an’—­”

Bostil waited to hear no more.  What did he care about the idiot Creech?  He strode down the lane to the corrals.  Farlane, Van, and other riders were there, leisurely as usual.  Then Holley appeared, coming out of the barn.  He, too, was easy, cool, natural, lazy.  None of these riders knew what was amiss.  But instantly a change passed over them.  It came because Bostil pulled a gun.  “Holley, I’ve a mind to bore you!”

The old hawk-eyed rider did not flinch or turn a shade off color.  “What fer?” he queried.  But his customary drawl was wanting.

“I left you to watch Lucy. . . .  An’ she’s gone!”