“I never expected,” she said querulously, “to be sitting on the Rocky Mountains under a horse, tying a piece of bed quilt on his feet.  I wouldn’t mind,” she added, “if the creature liked me.  But the way he feels toward me he’s likely to haul off and murder me at any moment.”

However, it was done at last, and it made a great change.  We moved along silently, and all went well except that, having neglected to draw the cinch tight, and the horse’s back being slippery without the padding, my saddle turned unexpectedly, throwing me off into the trail.  I bruised my arm badly, but Tish only gave me a glance of scorn and went on.

Being above carelessness herself, she very justly resents it in others.

We had expected, with reason, that the so-called highwaymen, having retreated to a certain distance, would there pause and very possibly lunch before returning.  It was, therefore, a matter of surprise to find that they had kept on.

Moreover, they seemed to have advanced rapidly, and Tish, who had read a book on signs of the trail, examined the hoofprints of their horses in a soft place beside a stream, and reported that they had been going at a lope.

“Now, remember,” she said as she prepared to mount again, “to all intents and purposes these are real bandits and to be treated accordingly.  Our motto is ‘No quarter.’  I shall be harsh, and I expect no protest from either of you.  They deserve everything they get.”

But when, after another mile or two, we came to a side trail, leading, by Tish’s map, not to Many Glaciers, but up a ravine to another pass, and Tish saw that they had taken that direction, we were puzzled.

But not for long.

“I understand now,” she said.  “It is all clear.  The photographer was riding ahead to get them up this valley somewhere.  They’ve probably got a rendezvous all ready, with another camera in place.  I must say,” she observed, “that they are doing it thoroughly.”

We rode for two hours, and no sign of them.  The stove polish had come off the handles of our revolvers by that time, and Aggie, having rubbed her face ever and anon to remove perspiration, presented under her turban a villainous and ferocious expression quite at variance with her customary mildness.

I urged her to stop and wash, but Tish, after a glance, said to keep on.

“Your looking like that’s a distinct advantage, Aggie,” she said.  “Like as not they’ll throw up their hands the minute they see you.  I know I should.  You’d better ride first when we get near.”

“Like as not they’ll put a hole in me,” Aggie objected.  “And as to riding first, I will not.  This is your doing, Tish Carberry, and as for their having blank cartridges—­how do we know someone hasn’t made a mistake and got a real one?”

Tish reflected on that.  “It’s a possibility,” she agreed.  “If we find that they’re going to spend the night out, it might be better to wait until they’ve taken off all the hardware they’re hung with.”