A soft wind swept the prairie, which was now bare of snow.  Larry rode down the trail that led through the Cedar Bluff.  He was freely sprinkled with mire, for spring had come suddenly, and the frost-bleached sod was soft with the thaw; and when he pulled up on the wooden bridge to wait until Breckenridge, who appeared among the trees, should join him, the river swirled and frothed beneath.  It had lately burst its icy chains, and came roaring down, seamed by lines of foam and strewn with great fragments of half-melted snow-cake that burst against the quivering piles.

“Running strong!” said Breckenridge.  “Still, the water has not risen much yet, and as I crossed the big rise I saw two of Torrance’s cow-boys apparently screwing up their courage to try the ford.”

“It might be done,” said Larry.  “We have one horse at Fremont that would take me across.  The snow on the ranges is not melting yet, and the ice will be tolerably firm on the deep reaches; but it’s scarcely likely that we will want to swim the Cedar now.”

“No,” said Breckenridge, with a laugh, “the bridge is good enough for me.  By the way, I have a note for you.”

“A note!” said Larry, with a slight hardening of his face, for of late each communication that reached him had brought him fresh anxieties.

“Well,” said Breckenridge drily, “I scarcely think this one should worry you.  From the fashion in which it reached me I have a notion it’s from a lady.”

There was a little gleam in Larry’s eyes when he took the note, and Breckenridge noticed that he was very silent as they rode on.  When they reached Fremont he remained a while in the stable, and when at last he entered the house Breckenridge glanced at him questioningly.

“You have something on your mind,” he said.  “What have you been doing, Larry?”

Grant smiled curiously.  “Giving the big bay a rub down.  I’m riding to Cedar Range to-night.”

“Have you lost your head?” Breckenridge stared at him.  “Muller saw the Sheriff riding in this morning, and it’s more than likely he is at the Range.  You are wanted rather more badly than ever just now, Larry.”

Grant’s face was quietly resolute as he took out the note and passed it to his companion.  “I have tried to do my duty by the boys; but I am going to Cedar to-night.”

Breckenridge opened the note, which had been written the previous day, and read, “In haste.  Come to the bluff beneath the Range ­alone ­nine to-morrow night.”

Then, he stared at the paper in silence until Grant, who watched him almost jealously, took it from him.  “Yes,” he said, though his face was thoughtful, “of course, you must go.  You are quite sure of the writing?”

Grant smiled, as it were, compassionately.  “I would recognize it anywhere!”

“Well,” said Breckenridge significantly, “that is perhaps not very astonishing, though I fancy some folks would find it difficult.  The ’In haste’ no doubt explains the thing, but it seems to me the last of it does not quite match the heading.”

“It is smeared ­thrust into the envelope wet,” Larry said.

Breckenridge rose, and walked, with no apparent purpose, across the room.  “Larry,” he said, “Tom and I will come with you.  No ­you wait a minute.  Of course, I know there are occasions on which one’s friends’ company is superfluous ­distinctly so; but we could pull up and wait behind the bluff ­quite a long way off, you know.”

“I was told to come alone.”  Larry turned upon him sharply.

Breckenridge made a gesture of resignation.  “Then I’m not going to stay here most of the night by myself.  It’s doleful.  I’ll ride over to Muller’s now.”

“Will it be any livelier there?”

Breckenridge wondered whether Larry had noticed anything unusual in his voice, and managed to laugh.  “A little,” he said.  “The fraeulein is pretty enough in the lamplight to warrant one listening to a good deal about Menotti and the franc tireurs.  She makes really excellent coffee, too,” and he slipped out before Grant could ask any more questions.

Darkness was just closing down when the latter rode away.  There was very little of the prairie broncho in the big horse beneath him, whose sire had brought the best blood that could be imported into that country, and he had examined every buckle of girth and headstall as he fastened them.  He also rode, for lightness, in a thin deerskin jacket which fitted him closely, with a rifle across his saddle, gazing with keen eyes across the shadowy waste when now and then a half-moon came out.  Once he also drew bridle and sat still a minute listening, for he fancied he heard the distant beat of hoofs, and then went on with a little laugh at his credulity.  The Cedar was roaring in its hollow and the birches moaning in a bluff, but as the damp wind that brought the blood to his cheeks sank, there was stillness save for the sound of the river, and Grant decided that his ears had deceived him.

It behooved him to be cautious, for he knew the bitterness of the cattle-men against him, and the Sheriff’s writ still held good; but Hetty had sent for him, and if his enemies had lain in wait in every bluff and hollow he would have gone.

While he rode, troubled by vague apprehensions, which now and then gave place to exultation that set his heart throbbing, Hetty sat with Miss Schuyler in her room at Cedar Range.  An occasional murmur of voices reached them faintly from the big hall below where Torrance and some of his neighbours sat with the Sheriff over their cigars and wine, and the girls knew that a few of the most daring horsemen among the cow-boys had their horses saddled ready.  Hetty lay in a low chair with a book she was not reading on her knee, and Miss Schuyler, glancing at her now and then over the embroidery she paid almost as little attention to, noticed the weariness in her face and the anxiety in her eyes.  She laid down her needle when Torrance’s voice came up from below.

“What can they be plotting, Hetty?” she said.  “Horses ready, that most unpleasant Sheriff smiling cunningly as he did when I passed him talking to Clavering, and the sense of expectancy.  It’s there.  One could hear it in their voices, even if one had not seen their faces, and when I met your father at the head of the stairs he almost frightened me.  Of course, he was not theatrical ­he never is ­but I know that set of his lips and look in his eyes, and have more than a fancy it means trouble for somebody.  I suppose he has not told you anything ­in fact, he seems to have kept curiously aloof from both of us lately.”

Hetty turned towards her with a little spot of colour in her cheek and apprehension in her eyes.

“So you have noticed it, too!” she said very slowly.  “Of course, he has been busy and often away, while I know how anxious he must be; but when he is at home he scarcely speaks to me ­and then, there is something in his voice that hurts me.  I’m ’most afraid he has found out that I have been talking to Larry.”

Miss Schuyler smiled.  “Well,” she said, “that ­alone ­would not be such a very serious offence.”

The crimson showed plainer in Hetty’s cheek and there was a faint ring in her voice.  “Flo,” she said, “don’t make me angry ­I can’t bear it to-night.  Something is going to happen ­I can feel it is ­and you don’t know my father even yet.  He is so horribly quiet, and I’m afraid of as well as sorry for him.  It is a long while ago, but he looked just as he does now ­only not quite so grim ­during my mother’s last illness.  Oh, I know there is something worrying him, and he will not tell me ­though he was always kind before, even when he was angry.  Flo, this horrible trouble can’t go on for ever!”

Hetty had commenced bravely, but she faltered as she proceeded, and Miss Schuyler, who saw her distress, had risen and was standing with one hand on her shoulder when the maid came in.  She cast a hasty glance at her mistress, and appeared, Flora Schuyler fancied, embarrassed, and desirous of concealing it.

“Mr. Torrance will excuse you coming down again,” she said.  “He may have some of the Sheriff’s men and one or two of the cow-boys in, and would sooner you kept your room.  Are you likely to want me in the next half-hour?”

“No,” said Hetty.  “No doubt you are anxious to find out what is going on.”

The maid went out, and Miss Schuyler fixed anxious eyes on her companion.  “What is the matter with the girl, Hetty?” she asked.

“I don’t know.  Did you notice anything?”

“Yes.  I think she had something on her mind.  Any way, she was unexplainably anxious to get away from you.”

Hetty smiled somewhat bitterly.  “Then she is only like the rest.  Everybody at Cedar is anxious about something now.”

Flora Schuyler rose, and, flinging the curtains behind her, looked out at the night.  The moon was just showing through a rift in the driving cloud, and she could see the bluff roll blackly down to the white frothing of the river.  She also saw a shadowy object slipping through the gloom of the trees, and fancied it was a woman; but when another figure appeared for a moment in the moonlight the first one came flitting back again.

“I believe the girl has gone out to meet somebody in the bluff,” she said.

Hetty made a little impatient gesture.  “It doesn’t concern us, any way.”

Miss Schuyler sat down again and made no answer, though she had misgivings, and five or ten minutes passed silently, until there was a tapping at the door, and the maid came in, very white in the face.  She clutched at the nearest chair-back, and stood still, apparently incapable of speech, until, with a visible effort, she said:  “Somebody must go and send him away.  He is waiting in the bluff.”

Hetty rose with a little scream, but Flora Schuyler was before her, and laid her hand upon the maid’s arm.

“Now, try to be sensible,” she said sternly.  “Who is in the bluff?”

The girl shivered.  “It is not my fault ­I didn’t know what they wanted until the Sheriff came.  I tried to tell him, but Joe saw me.  Go right now, and send him away.”

Hetty was very white and trembling, but Flora Schuyler nipped the maid’s arm.

“Keep quiet, and answer just what we ask you!” she said.  “Who is in the bluff?”

“Mr. Grant,” said the girl, with a gasp.  “But don’t ask me anything.  Send him away.  They’ll kill him.  Oh, you are hurting me!”

Flora Schuyler shook her.  “How did he come there?”

“I took Miss Torrance’s letter, and wrote the rest of it.  I didn’t know they meant to do him any harm, but they made me write.  I had to ­he said he would marry me.”

The maid writhed in an agony of fear, but she stood still shivering when Hetty turned towards her with a blanched face that emphasized the ominous glow in her dark eyes.

“You wicked woman!” she said.  “How dare you tell me that?”

“I mean Mr. Clavering.  Oh !”

The maid stopped abruptly, for Flora Schuyler drove her towards the door.  “Go and undo your work,” she said.  “Slip down at the back of the bluff.”

“I daren’t ­I tried,” and the girl quivered in Miss Schuyler’s grasp.  “If I could have warned him I would not have told you; but Joe saw me, and I was afraid.  I told him to come at nine.”

It was evident that she was capable of doing very little just then, and Flora Schuyler drew her out into the corridor.

“Go straight to your room and stay there,” she said, and closing the door, glanced at Hetty.  “It is quite simple.  This woman has taken your note-paper and written Larry.  He is in the bluff now, and I think she is right.  Your friends mean to make him prisoner or shoot him.”

“Stop, and go away,” said Hetty hoarsely.  “I am going to him.”

Flora Schuyler placed her back to the door, and raised her hand.  “No,” she said, very quietly.  “It would be better if I went in place of you.  Sit down, and don’t lose your head, Hetty!”

Hetty seized her arm.  “You can’t ­how could I let you?  Larry belongs to me.  Let me go.  Every minute is worth ever so much.”

“There are twenty of them yet.  He has come too early,” said Flora Schuyler, with a glance at the clock.  “Any way, you must understand what you are going to do.  It was Clavering arranged this, but your father knew what he was doing and I think he knows everything.  If you leave this house to-night, Hetty, everybody will know you warned Larry, and it will make a great difference to you.  It will gain you the dislike of all your friends and place a barrier between you and your father which, I think, will never be taken away again!”

Hetty laughed a very bitter laugh, and then grew suddenly quiet.

“Stand aside, Flo,” she said.  “Nobody but Larry wants me now.”

Miss Schuyler saw that she was determined, and drew aside.  “Then,” she said, with a little quiver in her voice, “because I think he is in peril you must go, my dear.  But we must be very careful, and I am coming with you as far as I dare.”

She closed the door, and then her composure seemed to fail her as they went out into the corridor; and it was Hetty who, treading very softly, took the lead.  Flitting like shadows, they reached the head of the stairway, and stopped a moment there, Hetty’s heart beating furiously.  The passage beneath them was shadowy, but a blaze of light and a jingle of glasses came out of the half-opened door of the hall, where Torrance sat with his guests; and while they waited, they heard his voice and recognized the vindictive ring in it.  Hetty trembled as she grasped the bannister.

“Flo,” she said, “they may come out in a minute.  We have got to slip by somehow.”

They went down the stairway with skirts drawn close about them, in swift silence, and Hetty held her breath as she flitted past the door.  There was a faint swish of draperies as Flora Schuyler followed her, but the murmur of voices drowned it; and in another minute Hetty had opened a door at the back of the building.  Then, she gasped with relief as she felt the cold wind on her face, and, with Miss Schuyler close behind her, crept through the shadow of the house towards the bluff.  When the gloom of the trees closed about them, she clutched her companion’s shoulder.

“No,” she said hoarsely, “not that way.  Joe is watching there.  We must go right through the bluff and down the opposite side of it.”

They floundered forward, sinking ankle-deep in withered leaves and clammy mould, tripping over rotting branches that ripped their dresses, and stumbling into dripping undergrowth.  There was no moon now, and it was very dark, and more than once Flora Schuyler valiantly suppressed the scream that would have been a vast relief to her, and struggled on as silently as she could behind her companion; but it seemed to her that anybody a mile away could have heard them.  Then, a little trail led them out of the bluff on the opposite side to the house, and the roar of the river grew louder as they hastened on, still in the gloom of the trees, until something a little blacker than the shadows behind it grew into visibility; and when it moved a little, Flora Schuyler touched Hetty’s arm.

“Yes,” she said.  “It is Larry.  If I didn’t know the kind of man he is, I would not let you go.  Kiss me, Hetty.”

Hetty stood still a second, for she understood, and then very quietly put both hands on Flora Schuyler’s shoulders and kissed her.

“It can’t be very wrong; and you have been a good friend, Flo,” she said.

She turned, and Flora Schuyler, standing still, saw her slim figure flit across a strip of frost-bleached sod as the moon shone through.