"I hope so; but that is not the issue just now."
"Then promise you will not go with me to-night."
"No need of that. I have decided to send one of my men—and I think," he added briefly, "that there is no necessity of prolonging this conversation. Good-evening."
"Then you will not come!" she exclaimed, relieved. "And never mind telling your man, for I shall ride like the wind, and will be halfway home before he can get on his horse." She turned like a flash. The quick beats of her horse's hoofs echoed back until the sound was lost in the distance.
Livingston stood silent, listening, until he could no longer hear the dull notes on the dry earth—his thoughts perturbed as the night.
CHAPTER VIII
Captain Bill Henry, foreman of the Bar O outfit, and head by choice of the season's round up, had just ridden into camp. Most of the men were in the cook-tent when he turned his dripping bay horse in with the others. Then he picked up his saddle, bridle, and blanket and carried them up to the cook-tent, where he threw them down, hitting one of the stake-ropes with such violence as to cause the whole tent to quiver, and one of the boys inside to mutter under his breath:
"Lord, the Cap's on the prod! What in the devil's he got in his gizzard now?"
"Don't know," answered the second, returning from the stove, where he had loaded his plate with a wonderful assortment of eatables and seated himself on a roll of bedding beside the first speaker. "Too bad he couldn't knock the roof off'n our heads. He's sure enough mad, just look at him!" he whispered, as Captain Bill Henry stooped his tall, lank frame to come into the tent.