Dust-flecked and foaming, the Bay Devil thundered across the bridge at Ronan, to be checked at the livery barn. Dropping the reins, Jim rushed into the office to emerge a few moments later with features more set than ever. Without a word or answer to the inquiries of the surprised bystanders, he remounted and hurried away through the “Lane,” where Cogewea and Densmore had ridden a few hours previously. He did not notice the mocking twitter of the magpie as he crossed Crow Creek nor the sporting waterfowl on the various small lakes. The Bay Devil was becoming winded, and to the impatient rider, the road to Ravalli seemed to lengthen out interminably. It was there that he expected to come up with the runaways.

Jim at last covered the long stretch of prairie road and ascended the sloping ridge overlooking Post Creek, with its fringe of thick brush and cottonwoods. Here he paused. His gaze swept the intervening miles to the steepled church and convent of St. Ignatius, for both Indian and white alike. He scanned most anxiously the serpent like road winding up the steep Ravalli Hill; a climb of three weary miles, overlooking the railway station of the same name, two miles beyond. Could the Bay make it before the westbound passenger pulled in? Jim swore as he stroked the reeking neck of the iron-nerved steed and wondered why he had not thought to procure a fresh mount at Ronan.

Turning from the discouraging contemplation of the distant pass he dashed down the slope to the creek crossing. His horse showed thirst by following the trail into the stream instead of taking the bridge. Noticing fresh hoof prints at the water’s edge, Jim dismounted and with but a brief examination was satisfied that they had been made by the mounts of the fugitives. He was later convinced of this when he discovered the imprint of a boot in the dust. By a peculiarity of the heel, he recognized this to be that of the hated Shoyahpee. He followed the tracks for a short distance off the main road, where they disappeared, trampled out by a recent band of cattle.

Jim returned to the stream and again took up the trail, but with no better success. He circled wide, satisfied that the riders had not passed on towards Ravalli. He was on the edge of despair, when there was a rustling of leaves and Bringo came bounding toward him, wagging a bushy tail. Jim called to him but whether it was appreciation or an appeal, the ranch pet stretching out, rolled over, a trick which Cogewea had taught him. Leaping to his feet the dog dashed off over a stock trail penetrating the deeper woods. At a short distance he turned back to Jim, who stood watching in puzzled wonderment. He came leaping back, executed his former antic and again took the trail whining. Now fully aroused, the foreman mounted and followed. Suddenly Bringo forgetful of his mission⁠—if any⁠—darted into the brush in pursuit of a rabbit, which disturbed, broke cover. Jim proceeded only a few rods farther when the trail diverged into three or four minor passages, none of them showing hoof prints of horses. One after the other of these he explored, the tangled underbrush precluding horseback riding. He was losing precious time and cursed the fates that sent “that there dam’ rabbit” across the trail at so critical a moment. In sheer desperation he forced his way through the brambles choking the last remaining trail and unexpectedly found himself in more open ground among the larger cottonwoods. He listened but heard no other than the usual noises attributable to the wild woods-life. His impulse was to haloo, but upon second thought he refrained from doing so.

Baffled, the searcher again returned to the place of first starting but was able to follow the clues no farther than on former occasions. Suddenly the Bay, whom he was then leading, pricked up his ears and whinnied. There was an answer, just back of the fringe of thicket. Jim’s heart leaped and then stood still. It was Wanawish!

Leaving his horse, Jim burst through the thorny barrier six gun in hand. Two rods away Wanawish was standing in front of a cottonwood, saddle lying on the ground. For a moment he stood, half expecting an attack from ambush, but nothing materializing, he cautiously advanced. Not until he reached the horse did he discover the inert and bound figure at the tree. With hardly a change of facial expression, he tore away the smothering gag and with knife severed the tight-binding lariat, easing the unconscious girl to the ground. Bringing water in his sombrero, he bathed the bruised and swollen face, and when the dazed eyes opened he held the flood to the dry and parched lips. Cogewea drank deeply and then dropped back with a suppressed sigh. Jim was the first to speak.

“What happened, Sis? Where is that there dam’ Shoyahpee dog?”

Half averting her face in shame, Cogewea told of every transaction with Densmore, from the scene at the teepee the previous evening up to the time of losing consciousness soon after the miscreant had left her. She had not known of Bringo’s following her, but she had a vague conception of Wanawish coming and standing near her.

Jim brought his mount and removing the saddle, laved the sweaty back at the creek and then left him to roll and graze on the shrivelled grass. He then returned to Cogewea, who, now that reaction had set in, was lying on an outspread saddle blanket sobbing. Jim sat down near her, but it was a long half hour before he spoke; his voice low and softly modulated with suppressed emotion:

“Sis,” he began, “it ain’t no use tryin’ to get back your dough ’lessen I could overtake that there Shoyahpee snake ’fore he reaches Ravalli which I can’t. No laws of recovery like this here case is for our kind!” he continued with a tinge of bitterness, “ceptin’ this,” tapping his six-shooter. “I’m a goin’ take you back to the ranch and ’range my ’fairs and then go a trailin! When I run a white-skinned coyote to hole, they can hang old Jim, ’cause all ’counts is then a goin’ be settled. There ain’t no place here now for the best rider of the Flathead.”

“No Jim,” answered Cogewea, who had ceased crying. “Let the Shoyahpee go! He is not worth your hunting. He got my money, but it was cheap to find him out in time. I saved my Wanawish! I was blind not to listen to Stemteemä’s warnings from the Indian spirits. I do not want you to go away. It is for me to go back to the Okanogan and forget.”

“The sun is fallin’ low,” observed Jim, rising to his feet. “We better be goin’, ’cause the mountain air’ll be cold for you.”

While Cogewea dipped her aching head in the cooling water and rearranged her disheveled hair, Jim saddled the horses and they were soon on their way. Scarce had they struck the main road when the clatter of hoofs drew their attention, as amid a smother of dust, Celluloid Bill and Silent Bob came sweeping down the slope, followed closely by Rodeo Jack, Frenchy and Slim of the Foot Hills.

“Where is that there tenderfoot guy!” demanded Celluloid as they came to a halt.

Jim briefly explained the situation, not even withholding the money loss, and declared that it was then too late to think of overhauling the miscreant before he should have arrived at Ravalli and boarded the train; that he was well mounted and had had several hours the lead with every possible advantage in his favor.

At this moment Cogewea’s bruised face was sighted by Frenchy who immediately went into wild gesticulation. When the boys saw her pitiable condition, they became frenzied. Celluloid and Rodeo felt that they were in a measure responsible for the deplorable affair and were ready to go any limit in righting, in their own way, the deadly wrong suffered by the companionable girl. Blind with fury, they insisted on following in pursuit, even with their then winded mounts.

“What’s meanin’ of all this here hesitatin’!” stormed Rodeo. “Yo’ goin’ let th’ dam’ robbin’, gal-beating’ son-of-a-cuss go like this? He’s worse as any bloomin’ cattle-rustlin’ coyote an’ yo’ know yo’d foller one of them there sneaks plum to hell, what yo’d stop his sinnin’ again his feller man. Com’on boys! No dam’ dirt like this is a goin’ with the H-B riders.”

This declaration of purpose was greeted with a chorus of approval by the boys, but Cogewea overruled the violent measure, by pointing out the fallacy of any attempt at reprisal.

Not only was Densmore out of their reach, but they being mere “breed Injuns,” any extreme measures on their part would not be countenanced, and for the same reason an appeal to the courts looking to justice, would be of little or no avail. She showed them that because of the relative social standing of the two races, there were devious ways by which the Shoyahpee would be able to escape merited punishment. She finally persuaded them to forego all thoughts of pursuit, but there was a scowl on each dark face as they turned homeward. They worshipped this free, wild girl of the range, whose word with them was law.

Brooding and dejected, Cogewea rode with Jim in the midst of the cavalcade on its return. Her heart was numb! She had lived and died in this one day. The sunset, glorious in its fiery splendors reflected from the snow-capped Rockies, held not its accustomed interest for her.

To Cogewea, the world was dead!