The island teemed with early sunflowers and hints of goldenrod yet to come. The fine, white, sandy soil deadened the sound of the horses’ hoofs. They seemed to be spinning through space. Under the cottonwoods it grew dusky and still.  
At the toll house a dingy buckboard in a state of weird dilapidation, with a team of shaggy buckskin ponies, stood waiting. Jim drew up. Two men were lounging in front of the shanty, chatting to the toll-man.
 
“Hello, Jim!” called one of them, a tall, slouching fellow with sandy coloring.
 
“Now, how the devil did you git so familiar with my name?” growled Jim.
 
“The Three Bars is gettin’ busy these days,” spoke up the second man, with an insolent grin.
 
“You bet it is,” bragged Jim. “When the off’cers o’ the law git to sleepin’ with hoss thieves and rustlers, and take two weeks to arrest a bunch of ’em, when they know prezactly where they keep theirselves, and have to have special deputies app’inted over ’em five or six times and then let most o’ the bunch slip through their fingers, it’s time for some one to git busy. And when Jesse Black and his gang are so desp’rit they pizen the chief witnesses—”
 
A gentle pressure on his arm stopped him. He turned inquiringly.
 
“I wouldn’t say any more,” whispered Louise. “Let’s get on.”
 
The hint was sufficient, and with the words, “Right you are, Miss Reporter, we’ll be gittin’ on,” Jim paid his toll and spoke to his team.
 
“Just wait a bit, will you?” spoke up the sandy man.
 
“What for?”
 
“We’re not just ready.”
 
“Well, we are,” shortly.
 
“We aren’t, and we don’t care to be passed, you know.”
 
He spoke indifferently. In deference to Louise, Jim waited. The men smoked on carelessly. The toll-man fidgeted.
 
“You go to hell! The Three Bars ain’t waitin’ on no damned hoss thieves,” said Jim, suddenly.
 
His nervous team sprang forward. Quick as a flash the sandy man was in the buckboard. He struck the bays a stinging blow with his rawhide, and as they swerved aside he swung into the straight course to the narrow bridge of boats. In another moment the way would be blocked. With a burning oath Jim, keeping to the side of the steep incline till the river mire cut him off, deliberately turned his stanch little team squarely, and crowded them forward against the shaggy buckskins. It was team against team. Louise, clinging tightly to the seat, lips pressed together to keep back any sound, felt a wild, inexplicable thrill of confidence in the strength of the man beside her.
 
The bays were pitifully, cruelly lashed by the enraged owner of the buckskins, but true as steel to the familiar voice that had guided them so often and so kindly, they gave not nor faltered. There was a snapping of broken wood, a wrench, a giving way, and the runabout sprang over debris of broken wheel and wagon-box to the narrow confines of the pontoon bridge.
 
“The Three Bars is gettin’ busy!” gibed Jim over his shoulder.
 
“It’s a sorry day for you and yours,” cried the other, in black and ugly wrath.
 
“We ain’t afeared. You’re nothin’ but a hoss thief, anyway!” responded Jim, gleefully, as a parting shot.
 
“Now what do you suppose was their game?” he asked of the girl at his side.
 
“I don’t know,” answered Louise, thoughtfully. “But I thought it not wise to say too much to them. You are a witness, I believe you said.”
 
“Then you think they are part o’ the gang?”
 
“I consider them at least sympathizers, don’t you? They seemed down on the Three Bars.”
 
In the Indian country at last. Mile after mile of level, barren stretches after the hill region had been left behind. Was there no end to the thirst-inspiring, monotonous, lonely reach of cacti? Prairie dogs, perched in front of their holes, chattered and scolded at them. The sun went down and a refreshing coolness crept over the hard, baked earth. Still, there was nothing but distance anywhere in all the land, and a feeling of desolation swept over the girl.
 
The air of August was delicious now that night was coming on. There was no wind, but the swift, unflagging pace of the Boss’s matched team made a stiff breeze to play in their faces. It was exhilarating. The listlessness and discouragement of the day were forgotten. Throwing her rain-coat over her shoulders, Louise felt a clumsy but strangely gentle hand helping to draw it closer around her. Someway the action, simple as it was, reminded her of the look in that brakeman’s eyes, when he had asked her if she were homesick. Did this man think she was homesick, too? She was grateful; they were very kind. What a lot of good people there were in the world! Now, Jim Munson did not call her “little white lamb” to himself, the metaphor never entered his mind; but in his big, self-confident heart he did feel a protecting tenderness for her. She was not like any woman he had ever seen, and it was a big, lonesome country for a slip of a girl like her.
 
The moon came up. Then there were miles of white moonlight and lonely plain. But for some time now there has been a light in front of them. It is as if it must be a will-o’-the-wisp. They never seem to get to it. But at last they are there. The door is wide open. A pleasant odor of bacon and coffee is wafted out to the tired travellers.
 
“Come right in,” says the cheery voice of Mary. “How tired you must be, Miss Dale. Tie up, Jim, and come in and eat something before you go. Well, you can eat again—two suppers won’t hurt you. I have kept things warm for you. Your train must have been late. Yes, Dad is better, thank you. He’ll be all right in the morning.”