Frances had been utterly fearless while riding herd, or camping with the cowboys, or even when alone on the range. If she met strange men she expected and received from them the courtesy for which the Western man is noted.
But this leering fellow was different from any person with whom Frances had ever come in contact before. Each moment she became more fearful of him.
And he realized her attitude of fear and worked upon her emotions until she was almost ready to burst out into hysterical screams.
Indeed, she might have done this very thing the next time Pete came near her had not suddenly a voice spoken her name.
“Frances! what is the matter with you?”
“Oh!” she gasped. “Pratt!”
The young man stepped out of the bushes, not seeing Pete at all. He had been watching the girl only, and had not understood what made her look so strange.
“You haven’t been thrown, Frances, have you?” asked Pratt, solicitously. “Are you hurt?”
Then the girl’s frightened gaze, or some rustle of Pete’s movement, made Pratt Sanderson turn. Pete had reached for his rifle and secured it. And by so doing he completely mastered the situation.
“Put your hands over your head, young feller!” he growled, swinging the muzzle of the heavy gun toward Pratt. “And keep ’em there till I’ve seen what you carry in your pockets.”