The black-visaged Moze rolled his eyes like a mad bull and Jim Wilson studiously examined a stick he held in his hands. Riggs showed immense relief.
“Anson, stake me to some of your outfit an' I'll ride off with the girl,” he said, eagerly.
“Where'd you go now?” queried Anson, curiously.
Riggs appeared at a loss for a quick answer; his wits were no more equal to this predicament than his nerve.
“You're no woodsman. An' onless you're plumb locoed you'd never risk goin' near Pine or Show Down. There'll be real trackers huntin' your trail.”
The listening girl suddenly appealed to Wilson.
“Don't let him take me off—alone—in the woods!” she faltered. That was the first indication of her weakening.
Jim Wilson broke into gruff reply. “I'm not bossin' this gang.”
“But you're a man!” she importuned.
“Riggs, you fetch along your precious firebrand an' come with us,” said Anson, craftily. “I'm particular curious to see her brand you.”