It was in a very wrathful mood that she turned her horse's head and struck into the timber, being careful to avoid Vil Holland's camp by a wide margin. Crossing the timbered plateau, she topped a low divide and found herself at the head of a deep, rocky valley, whose course she could trace for miles as it wound in and out among the far hills. Giving her horse his head, she began the descent of the valley, scanning its sides carefully as the animal picked his way slowly among the rock fragments and patches of scrub timber that littered its floor. She had proceeded for perhaps an hour when, in passing the mouth of a ravine that slanted sharply into the hills, she was startled by a rattling of loose stones, and a horse and rider emerged almost directly into her path. The next moment Vil Holland raised the Stetson from his head and addressed her gravely: "Good mornin' Miss Sinclair, I sure didn't mean to come out on you sudden, that way, but Buck slipped on the rocks an' we come mighty near pilin' up."

"It is about the first slip you've made, isn't it?" Patty answered, acidly. "Possibly if you'd left your jug at home you wouldn't have made that."

"Oh no. We've slipped before. Fact is, we've been into about every kind of a jack-pot the hills can deal. We rolled half way down a mountain once, an' barrin' a little skinnin' up, we come out of it all to the good. But it ain't the jug. Buck don't drink. It's surprisin' what a good habited horse he is. He's a heap better'n most folks." The man spoke gravely, with no hint of sarcasm in his tone, and Patty sniffed. He appeared not to notice. "How you comin' on with the prospectin'? Found yer dad's claim yet?"

"You ought to know whether I have or not," she retorted, hotly.

"That's so. If you had, you wouldn't still be huntin' it, would you?"

"No. And if I had, I'd have had a nice little race on my hands to file it, wouldn't I?"

"Well, I expect maybe you would. But that horse of yours is pretty handy on his feet. Used to belong to Bob Smith—that's his brand—that KN on the left shoulder."

"Yes," answered the girl, meaningly. "I understand there is only one horse in the hills that could outrun him."

"Buck can. I won ten dollars off Bob one time. We run a mile, an' Buck won, easy. But the best thing about Buck, he's a distance horse. He's got the wind—an' he don't know what it means to quit. He could run all day if he had to, couldn't you, Buck?" The man stroked the buckskin's neck affectionately as he talked.

Patty's eyes glinted angrily: "The stakes would have to be pretty high for you to run him, say, fifty miles, wouldn't they?"

"Yes. Pretty high," he repeated, and changed the subject abruptly. "Must find it kind of lonesome out here in the hills, after livin' in the East where there's lots of folks around all the time."

"Oh, not at all," answered the girl, quickly. "Some of my neighbors are good enough to call on me once in a while—when I am at home. And there is at least one that calls very regularly when I am not at home. He is a genius for detail—that one. Sharp eyes, and a light touch. He's something of an expert in the matter of duplicate keys, too. In any large city he should make a grand success—as a burglar. It is really too bad that he's wasting his talents, here in the hills."

"Maybe he figures that the stakes are higher, and the risk less—here in the hills."

"Of course," sneered Patty. "And I must say his reasoning does him credit. If he should succeed in burglarizing even the biggest bank in the richest city, he could not expect to carry off a gold mine. And, here in the hills, instead of burglar-proof devices and armed policemen, he has only an unlocked cabin, and a woman to contend with. Yes, the risk is far less here in the hills. His location speaks well for his reasoning—if not for his courage."

"I suppose he figures that plenty of brutes have got courage, but only humans can reason," answered the man, blandly. "But, ridin' out in the hills this way—that must be a lonesome job."

"Not at all," she answered, in a voice that masked the anger against the man who sat calmly baiting her. "In fact, I never ride alone. I have an unseen escort, who accompanies me wherever I go. 'My guardian devil of the hills' I call him, and even when I'm at home I know that he is watching from his notch in the rim of the hills."

"Guardian devil," the man repeated. "That's pretty good." He did not smile, in fact, Patty recalled, as she sat looking squarely into his eyes, that she had never seen him smile—had never seen him express any emotion. Without a trace of anger in tone or expression he had ordered the grasping hotel-keeper about—and had been obeyed to the letter. And without the slightest evidence of annoyance or displeasure he had listened, upon several occasions to her own sarcastic outbursts against him. Here was a man as devoid of emotion as a fish, or one whose complete self-mastery was astounding. "Pretty good," he repeated. "And does he know that you call him your 'guardian devil?'"

"Yes, I think he does—now," she answered, dryly. "By the way, Mr. Holland, you do a good deal of riding about the hills, yourself."

"Yeh, prospectors are apt to. Then, there's other little matters of interest here, too."

"Such as horse-thieving?" suggested the girl. "I heard you were paid to run down a gang of horse-thieves. I was wondering when you found time to earn your money."

"Yeh, there's some hair artists loose in the hills, an' some of the outfits kind of wanted me to keep an eye out for 'em."

An old saw flashed into the girl's mind, and the comers of her mouth drew into a sarcastic smile.

"'Settin' a thief to catch a thief,' is what you're thinkin'. We ain't so well acquainted yet as what we will be—when you get your eye teeth cut."

"I suppose our real acquaintance will begin when the game we are playing comes to a show-down?" she sneered. "But let me tell you this, if I win, our acquaintance will end, right where you think it will begin!"

The cowboy nodded: "That's fair an' square. An' if I win—you'll have to be satisfied with what you get. Good-day, I've fooled away time enough already." And, with a word to his horse, Vil Holland disappeared up the valley in the direction from which the girl had come.

When her anger had cooled sufficiently, Patty smiled, a rather grim, tight-lipped little smile. "If he wins I'll have to be satisfied with what I get," she muttered. "At least, he's candid about it. I think, now, Mr. Vil Holland and I understand each other perfectly."

Late in the afternoon she emerged from the mouth of her valley and, crossing a familiar tongue of bench, found herself upon the trail near the point of its intersection with Monte's Creek. Turning up the creek, she stopped for a few minutes' chat with Ma Watts.

"Law sakes! Climb right down an' set a while. I wus sayin' to Watts las' night how we-all hain't see nawthin' of yo' fer hit's goin' on a couple of weeks 'cept yo' hirein' the team, an' not stoppin' in to speak of, comin' er goin'. How be yo'? An' I 'spect yo' hain't found yer pa's claim yet. I saved yo' up a dozen of aigs. Hed to mighty near fight off that there Lord Clendennin' he wanted 'em so bad. But I done tol' him yo' wus promised 'em, an' yo'd git 'em not nary nother. So there they be, honey, all packed in a pail with hay so's they won't break. No sir, I tol' him how he couldn't hev' 'em if he wus two lords. An' all the time we wus a-augerin', Mr. Bethune an' Microby Dandeline sot out yonder a-talkin' an' laughin', friendly as yo' please." Ma Watts paused for breath and her eye fell upon her spouse, who stood meekly beside the kitchen door. "Watts, where's yer manners? Cain't yo' say 'howdy' to Mr. Sinclair's darter—an' her a-payin' yo' good money fer rent an' fer team hire. Yo' ort to be 'shamed, standin' gawpin' like a mud turkle. Folks 'ud think yo' hain't got good sense."

"I aimed to say 'howdy' first chanct I got." He shoved a chair toward the girl. "Set down an' take hit easy a spell."

"Where is Microby?" she asked, refusing the proffered seat with a smile, and leaning lightly against her saddle.

"Land sakes, I don't know! She's gittin' that no 'count, she goes pokin' off somewhere's in the hills on Gee Dot. Says she's a-prospectin'—like they all says when they're too lazy to do reg'lar work."

"My father was a prospector," answered the girl, quickly, "and there wasn't a lazy bone in his body. And I'm a prospector, and I'm sure I'm not lazy."

"Law, there I went an' done hit!" exclaimed Ma Watts, contritely. "I didn't mean no real honest-to-Gawd, reg'lar prospectors like yo' pa wus, an' yo', an' Mr. Bethune. But there's that Vil Holland, he's a cowpuncher, when he works, and a prospector when he don't. An' there's Lord Clendennin', he's a prospector all the time, 'cause he don't never work—an' that's the way hit goes. An' Microby Dandeline's a-gittin' as triflin' as the rest. Mr. Bethune, he tellin' her how she'd git rich ef she could find a gol' mind, an' how she could buy her some fine clos' like yourn, an' go to the city to live like the folks in the pitchers. Mr. Bethune, he's done found minds. He's rich. An' he's got manners, too. Watts, he's allus makin' light of manners—says they don't 'mount to nawthin'. But thet's 'cause he hain't quality. Quality's got 'em, an' they're nice to hev."

"Gre't sight o' quality—him," growled Watts. "He's part Injun."

"Hit don't make no diff'ence what he's part!" defended the woman. "He's rich, an' he's purty lookin', an' he's got manners like I done tol' yo'. Ef I wus you I'd marry up with him, an——"

"Why, Mrs. Watts! What do you mean?" exclaimed the girl flushing with annoyance.

"Jest what I be'n aimin' to tell yo' fer hit's goin' on quite a spell. Yo'n him 'ud step hit off right pert. Yo' pretty, an' yo' rich, er yo' will be when yo' find yo' pa's mind, an' yo' manners is most as good as his'n."

The humor of the mountain woman's serious effort at match-making struck Patty, and she interrupted with a laugh: "There are several objections to that arrangement," she hastened to say. "In the first place Mr. Bethune has never asked me to marry him. He may have serious objections, and as for me, I'm not ready to even think of marrying."

"Don't take long to git ready, onct yo' git in the notion. An' I bet Mr. Bethune hain't abuzzin' 'round up an' down this yere crick fer nawthin'. Law sakes, child, when I tuk a notion to take Watts, come a supper time I wusn't no more a mind to git married than yo' be, an', by cracky! come moonrise me an' Watts had forked one o' pa's mewels with nothin' on but a rope halter, an' wus headin' down the branch with pa an' my brother Lafe a-cuttin' through the lau'ls with their rifle-guns fer to head us off."

"Yo' didn't take me fer looks ner manners, neither," reminded Watts.

"Law, I'd a be'n single yet, ef I hed. No sir, I tuk yo' to save a sight o' killin' that's what I done. Yo' see, Miss, my pa wus sot on me not marryin' no Watts—not that I aimed to, 'til he says I dasn't. But Watts hed be'n a pesterin' 'round right smart, nights, an' pa lowed he'd shore kill him daid ef he didn't mind his own business—so'd my brothers, they wus five of 'em, an' nary one that wusn't mighty handy with his rifle-gun.

"So Watts, he quit a-comin' to the cabin, but me an' him made hit up thet he'd hide out on t'other side o' the branch an' holler like a owl, an' then I'd slip out the back do'—an' that's the way we done our co'tin'. My folks didn't hev no truck with the Wattses thet lived on t'other side the mountain, 'count of them killin' two Strunkses a way back, the Strunkses bein' my pa's ma's folks, over a hawg. Even then I didn't hev no notion o' marryin' Watts, jest done hit to be a-doin' like, ontil pa an' the boys ketched on to whut we wus up to. After thet, hit got so't every time they heerd a squinch owl holler, they'd begin a-shootin' into the bresh with their rifle guns. Watts lowed they was comin' doggone clust to him a time er two, an' how he aimed to bring along his own gun some night, an' start a shootin' back.

"Law knows wher it would ended, whut one with another, the Biggses an' the Strunkses, an' the Rawlins, an' the Craborchards would hev be'n drug into hit, along of the Wattses an' the Scrogginses. So I tuk Watts, an' we went to live with his folks, an' we sent back the mewel with Job Swenky, who they wouldn't nobody kill 'cause he wus a daftie. An' pa brung back the mewel hisself, come alone, an' 'thouten his rifle-gun. He says seem' how Watts hed got me fair an' squr, an' we wus reg'lar married, he reckoned the ol' grudge wus dead, the Strunkses wasn't no count much, nohow, an' we wus welcome to keep the mewel to start on. So Watts's pa killed a shoat, an' brung out a big jug o' corn whisky, an' we-all et an' drunk all we could hold, an' from then on 'til whut time we come away from ther, they wusn't a man, outside a couple o' revenoos, killed on B'ar Track.

"So yo' see," the woman continued, with a smile. "Hit don't take no time to git ready, onct yo' git in the notion."

"I'm afraid I haven't the same provocation," Patty laughed, as she picked up her pail of eggs and swung into the saddle. "Good-by, and be sure and tell Microby Dandeline to come up and see me. Maybe she'd like to come up on Sunday. I never ride on Sunday."

"She'll come fast enough," promised Ma Watts, and watched the retreating girl until a bend of the creek carried her out of sight.

The long shadows of the mountains were slowly climbing the opposite wall of the valley, as the girl rode leisurely up Monte's Creek. And as she rode, she smiled: "Why is it that every married woman—and especially the older ones, thinks it is her bounden duty to pounce upon and marry off every single one? It is not one bit different out here in the heart of the hills, than it is in Middleton, or New York. And, it isn't because they're all so happy in their own marriages, either. Look at old Mrs. Stratford, who was bound and determined that I must marry that Archie Smith-Jones; she's been married four times, and divorced three. And Archie never will amount to a row of pins. He looks like a tailor's model, and acts like a Rolls-Royce. And, I don't see any supreme bliss about Mrs. Watts's married existence, although she's perfectly satisfied, I guess, poor thing. I love the subtle finesse with which she tried to arrange a match between me and Mr. Bethune. ''Ef I wus yo' I'd marry up with him'—just like that! Shades of Mrs. Stratford who spent two whole months trying to get Archie and me into the same canoe! And when she did, the blamed thing tipped over and ruined the only decent summer things I had, all because that fool Archie thought he had to stand up to fend the canoe off the pier.... At least, Mr. Bethune has got some sense, and he is good looking, and he seems to have money, and there is a certain dash and verve about him that one would hardly expect to find here in the hills—and yet—there's something—it isn't his Indian blood, I don't care a cent about that—but sometimes, there's something about him that makes me wonder if he's genuine."

She passed through the cottonwood grove and emerged into the open only a few hundred yards below the sheep camp. A moment later she halted abruptly and stared toward the cabin. Two saddled horses stood before the door, reins hanging loosely, and upon the edge of a low cut-bank, just below the shallow waters of the ford, two men were struggling, locked in each other's embrace. Hastily the girl drew back into the cover of the grove and watched with intense interest the two forms that weaved precariously above the deep pool formed by a sudden bend in the creek. The horses she recognized as Vil Holland's buckskin, and the big, blaze-faced bay ridden by Lord Clendenning. In the gathering dusk she could not make out the faces of the two men, but by their heaving, circling, swaying figures she knew that mighty muscles were being strained to their utmost, and that soon one or the other must give in. A dozen questions flashed through the girl's brain. What were they doing there? Why were they fighting at the very door of her cabin? And, above all, what would be the outcome? Would one of them kill the other? Would one of them be left maimed and bleeding for her to bind up and coax back to life?

The men were on the very verge of the cut-bank, now, and it seemed inevitable that both must go crashing into the creek. "Serve 'em right if they would," muttered Patty, "I'd like to give 'em a push." With the words on her lips, she saw a blur of motion, one of the forms leaped lightly back, and the other poised for a second, arms waving wildly in a vain effort to regain his balance, then fell suddenly backward and toppled headlong into the creek. Patty could distinctly hear the mighty splash with which he struck the water, as the other advanced to the edge and peered downward. She knew that this other was Vil Holland, and a moment later he turned away and catching up the reins of the buckskin, swung into the saddle, splashed through the ford, and disappeared into the scrub timber of the opposite side of the valley.

Patty urged her horse forward, at the imminent risk of injury to her pail of eggs. When she had almost reached the cabin, a grotesque, dripping form crawled heavily from the creek bed, gave one hurried glance in her direction, mounted his horse, and disappeared in a thunder of galloping hoofs.



CHAPTER XII

BETHUNE TRIES AGAIN

For several days following the incident of the two struggling horsemen, Patty rode, extending her quest farther and farther into the hills, and thus widening the circle of her exploration. She had overhauled her father's photographic outfit and found it contained complete supplies for the development and printing of his own pictures, and having brought several rolls of films from town, she proceeded to amuse herself by photographing the more striking bits of scenery she encountered upon her daily rides.

It was mid-summer, now, the sun shone hot and brassy from a cloudless sky, and the buffalo grass was beginning to exchange its fresh greenness for a shade of dirty tan. Only the delicious coolness of the short nights made bearable the long, hot, monotonous days during which the girl stuck doggedly to her purpose. Upon these rides she met no one. It was as if human beings had entirely forsaken the world and left it to the prairie dogs, the coyotes, and the lazily coiled rattle-snakes that lay basking upon the rocks in the hot glare of the sun. Even the occasional bunches of range cattle did not eye her with their accustomed interest, but lay in straggling groups close beside the cold waters of tiny streams.

And it was upon one of these hot days, long past the noon hour, that Patty dismounted in a narrow valley near the head of a cold mountain stream and, affixing the hobbles to her horse's legs, threw off the saddle and bridle, and spread the sweat-dampened blanket to dry in the sun. Freed of his accouterments, the horse shook himself, shuffled to the stream, and burying his muzzle to the eyes, sucked up great gulps of the cold water, and playfully thrashing his head, sent volleys of silver drops flying from side to side, as he churned the tiny pool into a veritable mud wallow. Tiring of that, he rolled luxuriously, the crisping buffalo grass scratching the irking saddle-feel from his back and sides: and as the girl spread her luncheon upon a clean white napkin in the shade of a stunted cottonwood, fell to grazing contentedly.

As Patty chipped at the shell of a hard-boiled egg she glanced toward the horse, which had stopped grazing and stood facing down stream with ears nervously alert. A few moments later the soft rattle of bit-chains and the low shuffling of hoofs told her that a rider was approaching at a walk. "Probably my guardian devil, ostensibly paying strict attention to his own business of prospecting, or trying to strike the trail of the horse-thieves, but in reality hot on the trail of little me. I just wish I could find the mine. He'll have to stop and drive his stakes and fix his notice, and if his old buckskin is as good as he thinks he is, he'll just about overtake me at Thompson's. And then on a fresh horse—I just want one good look into his face when I pass him, that's all!"

The horseman came suddenly into view a few yards distant, and the girl looked up into the black eyes of Monk Bethune.

"Well, well, my dear Miss Sinclair!" The quarter-breed's tone was one of glad surprise, as he dismounted and advanced, hat in hand. "This is indeed an unexpected pleasure. La, la, la, the luck of it! Shall we say, the romance? Hot and saddle-weary from a long ride, to come suddenly upon the fairest of ladies, at luncheon alone in the most charming of little valleys. It is a situation to be dreamed of. And, am I not to be asked to share your repast?"

Patty laughed. The light whimsicality of the man's mood amused her: "Yes, you may consider yourself invited."

"And be assured that I accept, that is, upon condition that I be allowed to contribute my just share toward the feast." As he talked, Bethune fumbled at his pack-strings, and brought forth a small canvas bag, from which he drew sandwiches of fried trout and bacon thrust between two slabs of doubtful looking baking-powder bread. "No dainty lunch prepared by woman's hand," he apologized, "but we of the hills, no matter how exotic or aesthetic our tastes may be, must of stern necessity descend to the common level of cowboys and offscourings in the matter of our eating. See, beside your own palatable food, this rough fare of mine presents an appearance unappetizing almost to repugnance."

"At least, it looks eminently satisfying," said Patty, eyeing the thick sandwiches.

"Satisfying, I grant you. Satisfying to the beast that is in man, in that it stays the pangs of hunger. So is the blood-dripping carcass of the fresh-killed calf satisfying to the wolf, and carrion satisfying to the buzzard. But, not at all satisfying to the unbestial ego—to the thing that makes man, man."

"You should have been a poet," smiled the girl. "But come, even poets must eat."

"God help the man who has no poetry in his soul—no imagination!" exclaimed Bethune, a trifle sententiously, thought the girl, as she resumed the chipping of her egg. "Imagination," the word hovered elusively in her brain—she had applied that word only recently to someone—oh, yes, the man whose habit it was to search her cabin. She smiled ever so slightly as she glanced sidewise at Bethune who was nibbling at one of his own sandwiches.

"Please try one of mine," she urged, "and there are some pickles, and an olive or two. I have loads of them at home, and really I believe I should like that other sandwich of yours. I haven't tasted fish for ages."

"Take it and welcome," smiled the man. "But do not deny yourself the pleasure of eating all the fish you want. Why, with a bent pin, a bit of thread, and housefly, you can catch yourself a mess of trout any morning without venturing a hundred yards from your own door. Monte's Creek is alive with them, and taken fresh from the water and fried to a crisp in butter, they make a breakfast fit for a king, or in the present instance, I should have said, a queen."

"Tell me," asked Patty, abruptly. "Has Vil Holland imagination?"

"Imagination! My dear lady, Vil Holland is the veriest clod! Too lazy to do the honest work for which he is fitted, he roams the hills under pretense of prospecting."

"But, how does he make a living?"

Bethune shrugged. "Who can tell? I know for a certainty that he has never made a cent out of his alleged prospecting. It is true he rides the round-up for a couple of months in the spring and fall, but four months' work at forty dollars a month will hardly suffice for a man's yearly needs." He unconsciously lowered his voice, and continued: "Several ranchers have complained of losing horses and only a few days ago, up near the line, my good friend Corporal Downey, of the Mounted, told me that a number of American horses, with brands skillfully doctored, had been regularly making their appearance in Canada. It is an ugly suspicion, and I am making no open accusation, but—one may wonder."

The man finished his sandwich, dipped his fingers into the creek, wiped them upon his handkerchief, and proceeded to roll a cigarette. "Speaking of Vil Holland, why did you ask whether he had—imagination?"

"Oh, I don't know," replied the girl, lightly. "I just wondered."

Bethune regarded her steadily. "Has he been,—er, interfering in any way with your attempt to locate your father's strike?"

"Hardly interfering, I should say."

"You believe he still follows you?"

"Yes."

"You do not fear him?"

"No."

"That is because you do not know him! I tell you he is a dangerous man!" Bethune puffed shortly at his cigarette, hurled it from him, and faced the girl with glowing eyes: "Ah, Miss Sinclair, why don't you end this uncertainty? Why do you continue every day to jeopardize your interests—yes, your very life——?"

"Do you mean," interrupted the girl, "why don't I form a partnership with you?"

"A partnership! Ah, no, not a—and, yet—yes, a partnership. A partnership of life, and love, and happiness!" The man moved close, and the black eyes seemed, in the intensity of their gaze to devour her very soul. "There I have said it—the thing I have been wanting to say, yet have feared to say." Patty's lips moved, as if to speak, but the man forestalled the words with a gesture. "Before you answer, let me tell you how, since you first came into the hills, I have lived in the shadow of a mighty fear—I, who have lived my life among men, and have never known the meaning of fear, have been harassed by a multitude of fears. From the moment of our first meeting I have loved you. And, by all the saints, I swear you are the only woman I have ever loved! And, yet, I feared to tell you of that love. Twice the words have trembled on my tongue, and remained unspoken, because I feared that you might spurn me. Then in my heart rose another fear, and I cursed myself for a craven. I feared that chance might favor you in locating your father's strike, and then people would say, 'he loves her for her wealth.' I even thought that you, yourself, might doubt—might ask yourself why he waited until I became rich before he told me of his love? But, believe me, my dear lady, for your wealth, I care not the snap of my fingers—so!" He snapped his fingers loudly and continued: "But say the word, and we will go far from the hill country, and leave your father's secret to the guardianship of his beloved mountains. For I am rich. I own mines, mines, mines! What is one mine more or less to me?"

Patty Sinclair felt herself drifting under the spell of his compelling ardor. "Why not?" she asked herself. "Why not marry this man and give up the hopeless struggle?" She thought of her depleted bank account. At best, she could not hope to hold out much longer. Bethune had taken her hand as he talked, and she had not withdrawn it from his palm. Swiftly he bent his head and pressed the brown hand passionately to his lips. She felt his grip tighten as the burning kisses covered her hand—her wrist. She drew the hand away.

"But, I do not want to leave the hill country," she said, quite calmly. "I shall never leave it until I have vindicated my father's course in the eyes of the people back home—the men who scoffed at him, and called him a ne'er-do-well, and a dreamer—who refused to back his judgment with their miserable dollars—who killed him with their cruelty, and their doubt!"

"I hoped you would say that!" exclaimed Bethune, his eyes alight with approval. "I knew you would say it! The daughter of your father could not do otherwise. I knew him well, and loved him as a son should love. And I, too, would see his judgment vindicated in the eyes of all the world. Listen, together we will remain, and together we will locate the lost strike, if it takes every cent I own." The man's voice gripped in its intensity, and Patty's eyes returned from the distance where the summer haze bathed far mountain tops in soft purple, and looked into the eyes of velvet black.

"But, why should you want to marry me?" she inquired, a puzzled little frown wrinkling her forehead. "You hardly know me. You have not always lived in the hills. You have met many women."

"A man meets many women. He marries but one. You ask me why I want to marry you. I cannot tell you why. Many times since we first met I have asked myself why. I, who have openly scoffed at the yoke, and boasted proudly of my freedom. I do not know why, unless it is that to me you are the embodiment of all womanhood—of all that is desirable and worth while, or maybe the reason is in the fact that while I am with you I am supremely happy, and while I am absent from you I am restless and unhappy—a prey to my fears. I suppose it all sums up in the reason—world-old, but ever new—because I love you." The man was upon his feet, now, bending toward her with arms outstretched. For just an instant Patty hesitated, then shook her head.

"No!" she cried and struggling to her feet, faced him across the remains of the luncheon. "No, it would not be playing the game. I have my work to do, and I'll do it alone. It would be like quitting—like calling for help before I am beaten. This is my work—not yours, this vindication of my father!"

"But think," interrupted Bethune, "you will not let such Quixotic ideals stand between us and happiness! You have your right to happiness, and so have I, and in the end 'twill be the same, your father's name will be cleared of any suspicion of unworthiness."

"It is my work," Patty repeated, stubbornly, "and besides, I do not think I love you. I do not know——"

"Ah, but you will love me!" cried Bethune. "Such love as mine will not be denied!" The black eyes glowed, and he took a step toward her, but the girl drew away.

"Not now—not yet! Stop!" At the command Bethune recoiled slightly, and the arms that had been about to encircle the girl, fell slowly to his sides. Patty had suddenly drawn herself erect and looked him eye for eye: and as she looked, from behind the soft glow of the velvet eyes, leaped a wolfish gleam—a glint of baffled rage, a flash of hate. In a moment it was gone and the man's lips smiled.

"Pardon," he said, "for the moment I forgot I have not the right." The voice had lost its intense timbre, and sounded dull, as if held under control only by a mighty effort of will. And in that moment a strange fear of him took possession of the girl, so that her own voice surprised her with its calm.

"I must be going, now."

Bethune bowed. "I will saddle your horse, while you clear up the table." He nodded toward the napkin spread upon the grass with the remains of the luncheon upon it. "My way takes me within a short distance of your cabin; may I ride with you?" he asked a few moments later, as he led her horse, bridled and saddled, to his own.

"Why certainly. I should be glad to have you. And we can talk."

"Of love?"

The girl laughed: "No, not of love. Surely there are other things——"

"Yes, for instance, I may again warn you that you are in danger."

"Danger?" she glanced up quickly.

"From Vil Holland." They had mounted, and turned their horses toward a long divide.

"Oh, yes, from Vil Holland," she repeated slowly, as she drew in beside him. "I had almost forgotten Vil Holland."

"I wish to God I could forget him," retorted the man, viciously. "But, as long as you remain unprotected in these hills I shall never for one moment forget him. Your secret is not safe. Your person is not safe. He dogs your footsteps. He visits your cabin during your absence. He is bad—bad! And here I must tell you of an incident—or rather explain an incident, the unfortunate conclusion of which you saw with your own eyes. Poor Clen! He is beside himself with mortification at the sorry spectacle he presented when you rode up and saw him crawl dripping from the creek.

"I was away to the northward, on important business, and knowing that it had become my custom to ride over occasionally to see how you fared, he decided to do the same during my absence. Arriving at the cabin, he was surprised to see Vil Holland's horse before the door. He rode boldly up, dismounted, and caught the scoundrel in the act of searching among your effects. The sight, together with the memory of the cut pack sack, enraged him to such an extent that, despite the fact that the other was armed, he attacked him with his fists. In the fighting that ensued, Holland, being much the younger and more agile, succeeded in pitching Clen over the edge of the bank into the creek. Whereupon, he leaped into the saddle and vanished.

"When Clen finally succeeded in reaching the bank and drawing himself over the top, he was horrified to see you approaching. Above all things Clen is a gentleman, and rather than appear before you in his bedraggled condition, he fled. Upon my return he insisted that I see you and explain the awkward situation to you in person. I beg of you never to refer to the incident in Clen's presence, especially not in levity, for he has, more strongly than anyone I ever knew, the Englishman's horror of appearing ridiculous."

Patty smiled: "It was too funny for words. The way he gave one horrified glance in my direction and then scrambled into his saddle and dashed away, with the water flowing from him in rivulets. But of course, I shall never mention it to Lord Clendenning, and I wish you would thank him for his valiant championship of my cause."

Bethune shot her a swift sidewise glance. Was there just a trace of mockery in the tone? If so, her expression masked it perfectly.

They rode in silence for a time, following down the course of a broad valley, and presently came out onto the trail. A rider approached them at a walk, the low-hung white dust cloud in his wake marking the course of the long, hot trail. Bethune scrutinized the man intently. "Jack Pierce," he announced. "He runs a little yak outfit, a few head of horses, and some cattle over on Big Porcupine." A moment later Bethune drew up and greeted the rider with a great show of cordiality. "Hello, Pierce, old hand! How's everything over on Porcupine?"

The rancher returned the greeting with a curt nod, and a level stare: "Things on Porky's all right, I guess—so far."

"I hear old man Samuelson's sick?"

"Yes."

"How's he getting on?"

"Ain't heard. So long." He touched his horse with a quirt and the animal continued down the trail at a brisk trot.

"Surly devil," growled Bethune, as he gazed for a moment at the retreating horseman, and this time Patty was sure she detected the snake-like gleam in the black eyes. He dug his horse viciously with his spurs and jerked him in, dancing and fighting the bit. He laughed, shortly. "These little ranchers—bah!"

"Mr. Christie rode over to see Mr. Samuelson the other day. I met him at Thompson's."

"Oh, so you know the soul-puncher, do you? Makes a big play with his yellow chaps and six-gun. Suppose he had to be there to see that old Samuelson gets a ring-side seat if he happens to cash in."

"He said he was going over to see if there was anything he could do," answered the girl, ignoring the venom of the man's words.

"Pretty slick graft—preaching. Educated for it myself. Old Samuelson's rich. Christie goes over and pulls a long face, and sends up a hatful of prayers, and if he gets well Samuelson will hand him a nice fat check for the church. If he don't, the old woman kicks in. And you know, and I know how much of it the church ever sees. Did the soul-puncher have anything to say about me?"

"About you?" asked the girl in apparent surprise. "Why should he say anything about you?"

"Because they all take a crack at me!" said Bethune in an injured tone. "You just saw how Pierce answered a civil question. They all hate me because I have made money. They never made any, and they never will, and they're jealous of my success. They never lose a chance to malign and injure me in every way possible—but I'll show them! Damn them! I'll show them all!" They rode for a short distance in silence, then Bethune laughed. It was the ringing boyish laugh that held no hint of bitterness or sneer. "I hope you will pardon my outburst. I have my moments of irascibility, for which I am heartily ashamed. But—poof! Like a summer cloud, they are gone as quickly as they come. Why should I care what they say of me. They betray their own meanness of soul in their envy of my success. We part here for the time. I must ride over onto the east slope—a little matter of some horses." Again he laughed: "In a few days I shall return—I give you fair warning—return to win your love. And I will win—I am Monk Bethune—I always win!" Without waiting for a reply, the man drove his spurs into his horse's sides and, swerving abruptly from the trail, disappeared down a narrow rock chasm that led directly into the heart of the hills.



CHAPTER XIII

PATTY DRAWS A MAP

That evening after supper, Patty sat upon her doorstep and watched the slowly fading opalescent glow in which the daylight surrendered to encroaching darkness. "How wonderful it all is, and how beautiful!" she breathed. "The indomitable ruggedness of the hills—rough and forbidding, but never ugly. Always beckoning, always challenging, yet always repulsing. Guarding their secrets well. Their rock walls and mighty precipices frowning displeasure at the presumptuous meddling of the intruder, and their valleys gaping in sardonic grins at the puny attempts to wrest their secret from them. Always, the mountains mock, even as they stimulate to greater effort with their wonderful air, and soothe bitter disappointment with the soft caress of twilight's after-glow. I love it—and yet, how I hate it all! I can't hold out much longer. I'm like a general who has to withdraw his forces, not because he is beaten, but because he has run short of ammunition. It is August, and by the end of September I'll be done." She clenched her fists until the nails dug into her palms. "But I'll come back," she cried, defiantly. "I'll work—I'll find some way to earn some money, and I'll come back year after year, if I have to, until I have explored every single one of these mountains from the littlest foothill to the top of the highest peak. And someday, I'll win!"

"Mr. Bethune is rich." She started. The thought flashed upon her brain, vivid as whispered words. Involuntarily, she shuddered at the memory of his burning eyes, the hot touch of his lips upon her hand—her arm. She remembered the short, curt answers of the hard-eyed Pierce. And the thinly veiled distrust of Bethune, voiced by Vil Holland, Thompson, and the preacher whom he had affectionately referred to as "The Bishop of All Outdoors." Could it be possible—was it reasonable, that these were all so mean and contemptible of soul that their words were actuated by jealousy of Bethune's success? Patty thought not. Somehow, the characters did not fit the role. "If he'd have explained their dislike upon the grounds of his Indian blood, it might have carried the ring of truth—at least, it would have been reasonable. But, jealousy—as Mr. Vil Holland would say, 'I don't grab it.'"

She recalled the wolfish gleam that flashed into Bethune's eyes, and the malicious hatred expressed in his insinuations and accusations against these men. Could it be possible that her distrust of Vil Holland was unfounded? But no, there was the repeated searching of her cabin—and had not Lord Clendenning caught him in the act? There was the trampled grass of the notch in the hills from which he was accustomed to spy upon her. And the cut pack sack—somehow, she was not so sure about that cut pack sack. But, anyway—there is the jug! "I don't trust him!" she exclaimed, "and I don't trust Monk Bethune, now. I'm glad I found him out before it was—too late. He's bad—I could see the evil glitter in his eyes. And, how do I know that he told the truth about Lord Clendenning and Vil Holland?" Darkness settled upon the valley and Patty sought her bunk where, for a restless hour, she tossed about thinking.

The following morning the girl paused, coffee pot in hand, in the act of preparing breakfast, and listened. Distinct and clear above the sound of sizzling bacon, floated the words of an old ballad:

Oh, ye'll tak' the high road, and I'll tak' the low road, An' I'll be in Sco'lan' afore ye;

But, oh, my true love I'll never meet again, On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomon'.

Hastening to the open door she peered down the valley. The song ceased, and presently from the cottonwood thicket emerged a horse and rider. The rider wore a roll-brimmed hat and brilliant yellow chaps, and he was mounted upon a fantastically spotted pinto. "It's—'The Bishop of All Outdoors'," she smiled, as she returned to the stove. "He certainly has a voice. I don't blame Mr. Thompson for being crazy about him. Anybody that can sing like that! And he loves it, too."

A hearty "Good morning" brought her once more to the door.

"Just in time for breakfast," she smiled up into the eyes of the man on the pinto.

"Breakfast! Bless you, I didn't stop for breakfast. I figured on breakfasting with my friend, The Villain, over across the ridge."

"The Villain?"

"Vil Holland," laughed the man. "His name, I believe is, Villiers. I shortened it to Villain, and the natives hereabouts have bobbed it down to Vil. But he'll have to breakfast alone this morning, as usual. I've changed my mind. You see, I share the proverbial weakness of the clergy for a good meal. And against so charming a hostess, old Vil hasn't a chance in the world." Dismounting, the Reverend Len Christie removed his saddle and bridle and, with a resounding slap on the flank turned the pinto loose. "Get along, old Paint, and lay in some of this good grass!" he laughed as the pinto, cavorting like a colt, galloped across the creek to join Patty's hobbled cayuse.

"My, that bacon smells good," he said, a moment later, as he stood in the doorway and watched the girl turn the thin strips in the pan. "Do let me furnish part of the breakfast," he cried, eagerly and began swiftly to loosen from behind the cantle of his saddle a slender case, from which he produced and fitted together a two-ounce rod. "I'll take it right from your own dooryard in just about two jiffies." He affixed a reel, threaded a cobweb line, and selected a fly. "Just save that bacon fry for a few minutes and we'll have some speckled beauties in the pan before you know it."

Pushing the frying pan to the back of the stove, Patty accompanied him to the bank of the stream where she watched enthusiastically as, one after another, he pulled four glistening trout from the water.

"That's enough," he said, as the fourth fish lay squirming upon the grass. And in what seemed to the girl an incredibly short time, he had them cleaned, washed, and ready for the pan. While she fried them he busied himself with his outfit, wiping his rod and carefully returning it to its case, and spreading his line to dry. And a few moments later the two sat down to a breakfast of hot biscuits, coffee, bacon, and trout, crisp and brown, smoking from the pan.

"You must have ridden nearly all night to have reached here so early," ventured the girl as she poured a cup of steaming coffee.

"No," laughed Christie, "I spent the night at the Wattses'. I had some drawing paper and pencils for David Golieth. Do you know, I've a notion to send that kid to school some place. He's wild about drawing. Takes me all over the hills for a mile or two around the ranch and shows me pictures he has drawn with charcoal wherever there is a piece of flat rock. He's as shy and sensitive as a girl, until he begins to talk about his drawing, then his big eyes fairly glow with enthusiasm as he points out the good points of some of his creations, and the defects of others. All of them, of course, are crude as the pictorial efforts of the Indians, but it seems to me that here and there I can see a flash of real genius."

"Wouldn't it be wonderful if he should become a famous artist!" exclaimed the girl. "And wouldn't you feel proud of having discovered him? And I guess lots of them do come from just as unpromising parentage."

"It wouldn't be so remarkable," smiled the man. "Watts, himself is a genius—for inventing excuses to rest."

"How is the sick man?" asked Patty. "The one you went to see, over on Big Porcupine, wasn't it?"

"Yes, old man Samuelson. Fine old fellow—Samuelson. I sure hope he'll pull through. Doc Mallory came while I was there, and he told me he's got a good fighting chance. And a fighting chance is all that old fellow asks—even against pneumonia. He's a man!"

"I wonder if there is anything I could do?" asked the girl.

Christie's face brightened. "Why, yes, if you would. It's a long ride from here—thirty miles or so. There's nothing you could take them, they're very well fixed—capital Chinese cook and all that. But I've an idea that just the fact that you called would cheer them immensely. They lost a daughter years ago who would be about your age, I think. They've got a son, but he's up in Alaska, or some place where they can't reach him. Decidedly I think it would do those old people a world of good. You'll find Mrs. Samuelson different from——"

"Ma Watts?" interrupted Patty.

The man laughed, "Yes, from Ma Watts. Although she's a well meaning soul. She's going over and 'stay a spell' with the Samuelsons, just as soon as she can 'fix to go.' Mrs. Samuelson is a really superior old lady, refined and lovable in every way. You'll like her immensely. I'm sure. And I know she will enjoy you."

"Thank you," Patty bowed elaborately. "Poor thing, she must be frightfully lonely."

"Yes. Of course, the neighbors do all they can. But neighbors are few and far between. Vil Holland has been over a couple of times, and Jack Pierce stopped work right in the middle of his upland haying to go to town for some medicine. I tell you, Miss Sinclair, a person soon learns who's who in the mountains."

Christie pushed back his chair. "I must be going. I hate to hurry off, but I want to see Vil and caution him to have an eye on the old man's stock—you see, there are some shady characters in the hills, and old man Samuelson runs horses as well as cattle. It is very possible they may decide to get busy while he is laid up.

"By the way, Miss Sinclair, may I ask if you are making satisfactory headway in your own enterprise?"

Patty shook her head. "No. I'm afraid I'm making no headway at all. Sometimes, I think—I'm afraid—" she stumbled for words.

"Is there anything in the world I can do to help you?" asked the man, eagerly. "If there is, just mention it. I knew your father, and admired him very much. I'm satisfied he made a strike, and I do hope you can locate it."

The girl shook her head. "No, nothing, thank you," she answered and then suddenly looked up, "That is—wait, maybe there is something——"

"Name it." Christie waited eagerly for her to speak.

"It just occurred to me—maybe you could help me—find a school."

"A school!"

"Yes, a school to teach. You see, I have used nearly all my money. By the end of next month it will be gone, and I must get a job." The man noticed that the girl was doing her best to meet the situation bravely.

"Indeed I will help you!" he exclaimed. "In fact, I think I can right now promise that whenever you get ready to accept it, there will be a position waiting."

"Even if it is only a country school—just so I can make enough money this winter to come back next summer."

"I couldn't think of letting a country school get you. We need you right in town. You see, I happen to be president of the school board, and if I were to let a perfectly good teacher get away, I'd deserve to lose my job." Stepping to the door, he whistled shrilly, and a moment later the piebald cayuse trotted to his side. When the horse stood saddled and bridled, the man turned to Patty: "Oh, about the Samuelsons—do you know how to get to Big Porcupine?"

Patty shook her head. "No, but I guess I can find it."

"Give me a pencil and a piece of paper, and I'll show you in a minute." Leaning over the table, the man sketched rapidly upon the paper. "We'll say this is the Watts ranch, and mark it R. That's our starting point. Then you follow down the creek to the ford—here, at F. Then, instead of following the trail, you turn due east, and follow up a little creek about ten miles. This arrow pointing upward means up the creek. When you come to a sharp pinnacle that divides your valley—we'll mark that [^] so—you take the right hand branch, and follow it to the divide. That leads, let's see, southeast—we'll mark it S. E. 3 to D; it runs about three miles to the divide which you cross. Then you follow down another creek four or five miles until it empties into Big Porcupine, 4 E. to P., and from there it's easy. Just turn up Porcupine, pass Jack Pierce's ranch, and about five miles farther on you come to Samuelson's. Do you get it?"

Patty watched every move of the pencil, as she listened to the explanation. And when, a few moments later, the big "Bishop of All Outdoors" crossed the ford and rode out of sight up the coulee that led to the trampled notch in the hills, she threw herself down at the table and with eyes big with excitement, drew her father's map from its silk envelope and spread it out beside Christie's roughly sketched one. "What a fool I am not to have guessed that those letters must stand for the points of the compass!" she cried. "It ought to be plain as day, now." Carefully, she read the cabalistic line at the bottom of the map. "SC 1 S 1 1/2 E 1 S [up arrow] to [union symbol] 2 W to a. to b. Stake L. C. [zigzag symbol] center." Her brow drew into a puzzled frown "SC," she repeated. "S stands for south, but what does SC mean? SW or SE would be southwest, or southeast, but SC—?" She glanced at the other map. "Let's see, Mr. Christie's first letter is R—that stands for Watts' Ranch. SC must represent daddy's starting point, of course! But, SC? Let's see, South Corner—south corner of what? I wish he'd put his letters right on the map like this one, instead of all in a row at the bottom, then I might figure out what he was driving at. SC, SC, SC, SC," she repeated over and over again, until the letters became a mere jumble of meaningless sounds. "S must stand for South," she insisted, "and C could stand for creek, or cave, only there are no caves around here that I've seen, or camp—South Camp—that don't do me any good, I don't know where any of his camps were. And he'd hardly say Creek, that would be too indefinite. Let's see, C—cottonwood—south cottonwood—short cottonwood, scarred cottonwood, well if I have to hunt these hills over for a short cottonwood or a scarred cottonwood, when there are millions of both, I might better keep on hunting for the crack in the rock wall."

For a long time she sat staring at the paper. "If I could only get the starting point figured out, the rest would be easy. It says one mile south, one and one half miles east, one mile south, then the arrowhead pointing up, must mean up a creek or a mountain to something that looks like an inverted horseshoe, then, two miles west to a. to b. whatever a. and b. are. There are no letters on the map, then it says to stake L. C.—L. C., is lode claim, at least, I know that much, and it can be 1500 feet long along the vein, and 300 feet each way from the center. But what does he mean by the wiggly looking mark before the word center? I guess it isn't going to be quite as easy as it looks," she concluded, "even when I know that the letters stand for the points of the compass. If I could only figure out where to start from I could find my way at least to the a. b. part—and that would be something.

"Anyway, I know how to make a map, now, and that is just exactly what I needed to know in order to set my trap for the prowler who is continually searching this cabin. It's all ready but the map, and I may as well finish up the job to-day as any time." From the pocket of her shirt she drew a photograph and examined it critically. "It looks a good deal like the close-up of one of daddy's," she said approvingly, "and it certainly looks as if it might have been carried for a year." Returning the picture to her pocket, she folded the preacher's map with her father's and replaced them in the envelope, then making her way to the coulee, extracted from the tin can two or three of her father's ore samples. These, together with a light miner's pick, she placed in an empty flour sack which she secured to her saddle and struck out northwestward into the hills.

At the top of the first divide she stopped, carefully studied the back trail, and producing paper and pencil made a rough sketch which she marked 1 NW. She rode on, mapping her trail and adding letters and figures to denote distance and direction.

Her continued scrutiny of the back trail satisfied her that she was not followed. Two hours brought her to her journey's end, a rock wall some seven miles from her cabin. Producing the photograph, she verified the exact location, and with her pick, proceeded to stir up the ground and loose rocks at the base of the ledge. For an hour she worked steadily, then carefully replaced the dirt and small fragments, taking care to leave the samples from her sack where they would appear to have been tossed with the other fragments. Indicating the spot by a dot on the photograph she rode back to her cabin and spent the entire afternoon covering sheets of paper with trail maps, and letters, and figures, in an endeavor to produce a sketch that would pass as a prospector's hastily prepared field map. At last she produced several that compared favorably with her father's and taking a blank leaf from an old notebook she found in the pack sack, drew a very creditable rough sketch.

"Now, for putting in the letters and figures," she said, as she held the paper up for inspection. "Let's see, where would daddy have started from? Watts's ranch, maybe, or he could have started from here. This cabin was here then, and that would make it seem all the more reasonable that I should have chosen this for my home. C stands for cabin, or, let's see, what did they call this place. The sheep camp, here goes SC—Why! SC—SC! That's the starting point on daddy's map! And here I sat right in this chair and nearly went crazy trying to figure out what SC meant! And, if it weren't so late, I'd start right out now to find my mine! If it weren't for that a. b. part I could ride right to it, and snap my fingers at the prowler. But, it may take me a long time to blunder onto the meaning of these letters, and anyway, I want to know 'who's who,' as Mr. Christie says." She continued her work, and a half-hour later examined the result critically. "SC 1 NW 1 N [up arrow] to [union symbol] 2 E to a. Stake L. C. center at dot," she read, "and just to make it easier for him, I put the a. down on the map." With a sigh of satisfaction the girl carefully placed the new map and photograph in the silk envelope, and placing the others in the pocket of her shirt, fastened it with a pin. Whereupon, she gathered up all the practice sketches and burned them.

Glancing out of the window, she saw Microby Dandeline approaching the cabin, her dejected old Indian pony, ears a-flop, placing one foot before the other with the extreme deliberation that characterized his every movement. Patty smiled as her eyes took in the details of the grotesque figure; the old harness bridle with patched reins and one blinder dangling, the faded gingham sunbonnet hanging at the back of the girl's neck, held in place by the strings knotted tightly beneath her chin, the misshapen calico dress caught over the saddle-horn in a manner that exposed the girl's bare legs to the knees, and the thick bare feet pressed uncomfortably into the chafing rope stirrups—truly, a grotesque, and yet, Patty frowned—a pitiable figure, too. The pony halted before the door, and Patty greeted the girl who scrambled clumsily to the ground.

"Well, well, if it isn't Microby Dandeline! You haven't been to see me lately. The last time you were here I was not at home."

"Hit wasn't me."

"What!" exclaimed Patty, remembering the barefoot track at the spring.

"I wasn't yere las' time."

Patty curbed a desire to laugh. The girl was deliberately lying—but why? Was it because she feared displeasure at the invasion of the cabin. Patty thought not, for such was the established custom of the country. The girl did not look at her, but stood boring into the dirt with her bare toe.

"Well, you're here now, anyway," smiled Patty. "Come on in and help me get supper, and then we'll eat. You get the water, while I build the fire."

When the girl returned from the spring, Patty tried again: "While I was in town somebody came here and cooked a meal, and when they got through they washed all the dishes and put them away so nicely I thought sure it was you, and I was glad, because I like to have you come and see me."

"Hit wasn't me," repeated the girl, stubbornly.

"I wonder who it could have been?"

"Mebbe hit was Mr. Christie. He was to our house las' night. He brung Davy some pencils an' a lot o' papers fer to draw pitchers. Pa 'lowed how Davy'd git to foolin' away his time on 'em, an' Mr. Christie says how ef he learnt to drawer good, folks buys 'em, an' then Davy'll git rich. Pa says, whut's folks gonna pay money fer pitchers they kin git 'em fer nothin'? But ef folks gits pitchers they does git rich, don't they?"

"Why, yes——"

"You got pitchers, an' yo' rich."

Patty laughed. "I'm afraid I'm not very rich," she said.

"Will yo' give me a pitcher?"

"Why, yes." She glanced at the few prints that adorned the log wall, trying to make up her mind which she would part with, and deciding upon a mysterious moonlight-on-the-waves effect, lifted it from the wall and placed it in the girl's hands.

Microby Dandeline stared at it without enthusiasm: "I want a took one," she said, at length.

"A what?"

"A one tooken with that," she pointed at the camera that adorned the top of the little cupboard.

"Oh," smiled Patty, "you want me to take your picture! All right, I'd love to take your picture. You can get on Gee Dot, and I'll take you both. But we'll have to wait till there is more light. The sun has gone down and it's too dark this evening."

The girl shook her head, "Naw, I don't want none like that. That hain't no good. I want one like yo' pa tookened of his mine. Then I'll git rich too."

"So that's it," thought Patty, busying herself with the biscuit dough. And instantly there flashed into her mind the words of Ma Watts, "Mr. Bethune tellin' her how she'd git rich ef she could fin' a gol' mine, an' how she could buy her fine clos' like yourn an' go to the city an' live." And she remembered that the woman had said that all the time she and Lord Clendenning had been wrangling over the eggs, Bethune and Microby had "talked an' laughed, friendly as yo' please."

"How do you know my father took any pictures of his mine?" asked Patty, cautiously.

"'Cause he did."

"What would you do with the picture if I gave it to you?"

"I'd git rich."

"How?"

"'Cause I would."

Patty whirled suddenly upon the girl and grasping her shoulder with a doughy hand shook her smartly: "Who told you that? What do you mean? Who are you trying to get that picture for? Come! Out with it!"

"Le' me go," whimpered the girl, frightened by the unexpected attack.

"Not 'til you tell me who told you about that picture. Come on—speak!" The shaking continued.

"Hit—wu-wu-wus—V-V-Vil Hol-Holland!" she sniffled readily—all too readily to be convincing, thought Patty, as she released her grip on the girl's shoulder.

"Oh, it was Vil Holland, was it? And what does he want with it?"

"He—he—s-says h-how h-him an' m-me'd g-git r-r-rich!"

"Who told you to say it was Vil Holland?"

"Hit wus Vil Holland—an' that's whut I gotta say," she repeated, between sobs. "An' now yo' mad—an'—an' Mr. Bethune he'll—he'll kill me."

"Mr. Bethune? What has Mr. Bethune got to do with it?"

The girl leaped to her feet and faced Patty in a rage: "An' he'll kill yo', too—an' I'll be glad! An' he says he's gonna By God git that pitcher ef he's gotta kill yo', an' Vil Holland, an' everyone in these damn hills—an' I'm glad of hit! I don't like yo' no more—an' pitcher shows hain't as good as circusts—an' I don't like towns—an' I hain't a-gonna wear no shoes an' stockin's—an' I'm a-gonna tell ma yo' shuck me—an' she'll larrup yo' good—an' pa'll make yo' git out o' ar sheep camp—an' I'm glad of hit!" She rushed from the cabin, and mounting her pony, headed him down the creek, turning in the saddle every few steps to make hateful mouths at the girl who stood watching from the doorway.



CHAPTER XIV

THE SAMUELSONS

Patty retired that night with her thoughts in a whirl. So, it was Monk Bethune who, all along, had been plotting to steal the secret of her father's strike? Monk Bethune, with his suave, oily manner, his professed regard for her father, and his burning words of love! Fool that she couldn't have penetrated his thin mask of deceit! It all seemed so ridiculously plain, now. She remembered the flash of distrust that her first meeting with him engendered. And, step, by step, she followed the course of his insidious campaign to instill himself into her good graces. She thought of the blunt warning of Vil Holland when he told her that her father always played a lone hand, and his almost scornful question as to whether her father had told her of his partnership with Bethune. And she remembered her defiance of Holland, and her defense of Bethune. And, with a shudder, she recollected the moments when, in the hopelessness of her repeated failures, she had trembled upon the point of surrendering to his persuasive eloquence.

With the villainous scheming of Bethune exposed, her thoughts turned to the other, to her "guardian devil of the hills." What of Vil Holland? Had she misjudged this man, even as she had so nearly become the dupe of Bethune? She realized now, that nearly everyone with whom she had come into contact, distrusted Bethune, and that they trusted Vil Holland. She realized that her own distrust of him rested to a great extent upon the open accusations of Bethune, and the fact that he was blunt to rudeness in his conversations with her. If he were to be taken at his neighbors' valuation, why was it that he watched her comings and goings from his notch in the hills? Why did he follow her about upon her rides? And why did he carry that disgusting jug? She admitted that she had never seen him the worse for indulgence in the contents of the jug, but if he were not a confirmed drunkard, why should he carry it? She knew Bethune hated him—and that counted a point in his favor—now. But it did not prove that he was not as bad as Bethune. But why had Bethune told Microby that he would get that picture if he had to kill her and Vil Holland? What had Vil Holland to do with his getting the picture! Surely, Bethune did not believe that Vil Holland shared her secret! Vil Holland must be lawless—the running of the sheep herder out of the hills was a lawless act. Why, then, were such men as Thompson and the Reverend Len Christie his friends? This question had puzzled her much of late, and not finding the answer, she realized her own dislike of the man had waned perceptibly. Instinctively, she knew that Len Christie was genuine. She liked this "Bishop of All Outdoors," who could find time to ride a hundred miles to cheer a sick old man; who would think to bring pencils and drawing paper to a little boy who roamed over the hillsides with a piece of charcoal, searching for flat rocks upon which to draw his pictures; and who sang deep, full-throated ballads as he rode from one to the other of his scattered hill folk, upon his outlandish pinto. Surely, such men as he, and the jovial, whole-hearted Thompson—men who had known Vil Holland for years,—could not be deceived.

"Is it possible I've misjudged him?" she asked herself. And when at last she dropped to sleep it was to plunge into a confused jumble of dreams whose dominant figure was her lone horseman of the hills.

Patty resolved to keep her promise to Christie and ride over to the Samuelson ranch, before she started to work out the directions of her father's map. "I may be weeks doing it if I continue to be as dumb as I have been," she laughed. "And when I get started I know I'll never want to stop 'til I've worked it out."

Immediately after breakfast she saddled her horse and returning to the cabin, picked up the little oiled silk packet that contained photograph and map. Where should she hide it? Her glance traveled from the locked trunks to the loose board in the floor. Each had been searched time and again. "Whoever he is, he'd think it was funny that I decided all at once to hide the map, when I've been carrying it with me so persistently," she muttered. Her eyes rested upon the little dressing table. "The very thing!" she cried. "I'll leave it right out in plain sight, and he'll think I forgot it." Her first impulse was to remove the thin gold chain but she shook her head: "No, it will look more as if I'd just slipped it off for the night if I leave the chain on. And besides," she smiled, "he ought to get some gold for his pains." With a last glance of approval at the little packet lying as if forgotten upon the dressing table, she closed the door and headed down the creek.

It was evident to Patty, upon reaching the Watts ranch that Microby Dandeline had not carried out her threat to "tell ma" about the shaking. For the mountain woman was loquaciously cordial as usual: "Decla'r ef hit hain't yo', up an' a-ridin' fo' sun-up! Yo' shore favor yo' pa. He wus the gittin'est man—Yo'd a-thought he wus ridin' fer wages, 'stead o' jest prospectin'. Goin' down the crick, to-day, eh? Well, I don't reckon yo' pa's claim's down the crick, but yo' cain't never tell. He wus that clost-mouthed—I've heard him an' Watts set a hour, an' nary word between the two of 'em. 'Pears like they's jest satisfied to be a-lightin' matches an' a-puffin' they pipes. Wimmin folks hain't like thet. They jest nachelly got to let out a word now an' then, 'er bust—one."

"Microby Dandeline!" there was a sudden rush of bare feet upon the wooden floor, and Patty caught a flick of calico and a flash of bare legs as the girl disappeared around the corner of the barn.

"Land sakes! Thet gal acts like she's p'ssessed! She tellin' whut a nice time she had to yo' place las' evenin', an' then a-runnin' away like she's wild as a hawrk. Seems like she's a-gittin' mo' triflin' every day——"

"Sence Monk Bethune's tuk to ha'ntin' this yere crick so reg'lar," interrupted Watts, who stood leaning against the door jamb.

"'T'aint nothin' agin Mr. Bethune, 'cause he's nice to Microby," retorted the woman; "I s'pose 'cordin' to yo' idee, he'd ort to cuss her an' kick her aroun'."

"Might be better in the long run, an' he did," opined the man, gloomily.

"Where's yo' manners at? Not sayin' 'howdy'?" reminded his wife.

"I be'n a-fixin' to," he apologized, "yo' lookin' mighty peart this mawnin'." A cry from the baby brought a torrent of recrimination upon the apathetic husband: "Watts! Watts! Looks like yo' ort to could look after Chattenoogy Tennessee, that Microby Dandeline run off an' left alone. Like's not she's et a nail thet yo' left a han'ful of on the floor thet day yo' aimed fer to fix me a shelft."

"She never et no nail," confided the man, as he returned a moment later carrying the infant. "She done fell out the do' an' them hens wus apeckin' her. She's scairt wuss'n hurt."

"Well," smiled Patty. "I must go. Tell Microby to come up to my cabin right soon. I'd like to have a talk with her."

"Might an' yo' pa's claim 'ud be som'ers up the no'th branch," suggested the woman. "He rid that-a-way sometimes, didn't he, Watts?"

"I'm not prospecting to-day. I'm going over to see the Samuelsons. Mr. Samuelson is sick."

"Law, yes! I be'n a-aimin' fer to git to go, this long while. I heern it a spell back, an' Mr. Christie done tol' us over again. They do say he's bad off. But yo' cain't never tell, they's hopes of 'em gittin' onto they feet agin right up 'til yo' hear the death rattle. Yo' tell Miz Samuelson I aim to git over soon's I kin. I'll bring along the baby an' a batch o' sourdough bread, an' fix to stay a hull week. Watts'll hev to make out with Microby an' the rest. Yo' tell Miz Samuelson I say not to git down in the mouth. They all got to die anyhow. An' 'taint so bad, onct it's over an' done. But lots of 'em gits well, too. So they hain't no call to do no diggin' right up to the death rattle—an' even then they don't allus die. Ol' man Rink, over on Tom's Hope, back in Tennessee, he rattled twict, an' come to both times, an' then, couple days later, he up an' died on 'em 'thout nary rattle. So yo' cain't never tell—men's thet ornery, even the best of 'em."

Christie's prediction that Patty would like Mrs. Samuelson proved to be conservative in the extreme. From the moment the slight gray-haired little woman greeted her, the girl felt as though she were talking to an old friend. There was something pathetic in the old lady's cheerful optimism, something profoundly pathetic in the endeavor to transform her bit of wilderness into some semblance to the far-away home she had known in the long ago. And she had succeeded admirably. To cross the Samuelson threshold was to step from the atmosphere of the cow-country and the mountains into a region of comfort and quiet that contrasted sharply with the rough and ready air of the neighboring ranches. The house itself was not large, but it was built of lumber, not logs. The long living room was provided with tastefully curtained casement windows, and rugs of excellent quality took the place of the inevitable carpet upon the floor. A baby grand piano projected into the room from its niche beside the huge log fireplace, and bookcases, guiltless of glass fronts, occupied convenient spaces along the wall, their shelves supporting row upon row of good editions. It was in this room, looking as though she had stepped from an ivory miniature, that the mistress of the house greeted Patty.

"You are very welcome, my dear. Mr. Samuelson and I were deeply grieved to hear the sad news of your father. We used to enjoy his occasional brief visits."

"How is Mr. Samuelson?" asked Patty, as she pressed the little woman's thin, blue-veined hand.

"He seems better to-day."

The girl noted the hopeful tone of voice. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked.

"Not a thing, thank you. Mr. Samuelson sleeps a good part of the time, and Wong Yie is a wonderful nurse. But, come, you must have luncheon. I know you will want to refresh yourself after your long ride. The bathroom is at the head of the stairs. I'll take a peep at my invalid and when you are ready we'll see what Wong Yie has for us."

Patty looked hungrily at the porcelain tub—"A real bathroom!" she breathed, "out here in the mountains—and books, and a piano!"

Mrs. Samuelson awaited her at the foot of the stair and led the way to the dining room. When she was seated at the round mahogany table she smiled across at the old lady in frank appreciation.

"It seems like stepping right into fairyland," she said. "Like the old stories when the heroes and heroines rubbed magic lamps, or stepped onto enchanted carpets and were immediately transported from their miserable hovels to castles of gold inhabited by beautiful princes and princesses."

The old lady's eyes beamed: "I'm glad you like it!"

"Like it! That doesn't express it at all. Why, if you'd lived in an abandoned sheep camp for months and prepared your own meals on a broken stove, and eaten them all alone on a bumpy table covered with a piece of oilcloth, and taken your bath in an icy cold creek and then only on the darkest nights for fear someone were watching, and read a few magazines over and over 'til you knew even the advertisements by heart—then suddenly found yourself seated in a room like this, with real china and silver, and comfortable chairs and a luncheon cloth—you'd think it was heaven."

Patty was aware that the old lady was smiling at her across the table. "If I had lived like that for months, did you say? My dear girl, we lived for years in that little shack—you can see it from where you sit—it's the tool house, now. Mr. Samuelson built it with his own hands when there weren't a half-dozen white men in the hills, and until it was completed we lived in a tepee!"

"You've lived here a long time."

"Yes, a long, long time. I was the first white woman to come into this part of the hill country to live. This was the first ranch to be established in the hills, but we have a good many neighbors now—and such nice neighbors! One never really appreciates friends and neighbors until a time—like this. Then one begins to know. A long time ago, before I knew, I used to hate this place. Sometimes I used to think I would go crazy, with the loneliness—the vastness of it all. I used to go home and make long visits every year, and then—the children came, and it was different." The woman paused and her eyes strayed to the open window and rested upon the bold headland of a mighty mountain that showed far down the valley.

"And—you love it, now?" Patty asked, softly, as she poured French dressing over crisp lettuce leaves.

"Yes—I love it, now. After the children came it was all different. I never want to leave the valley, now. I never shall leave it. I am an old woman, and my world has narrowed down to my home, and my valley—my husband, and my friends and neighbors." She looked up guiltily, with a tiny little laugh. "Do you know, during those first years I must have been an awful fool. I used to loathe it all—loathe the country—the men, who ate in their shirt sleeves and blew into their saucers, and their women. It was the uprising that brought me to a realization of the true worth of these people—" The little woman's voice trailed off into silence, and Patty glanced up from her salad to see that the old eyes were once more upon the far blue headland, and the woman's thoughts were evidently very far away. She came back to the present with an apology: "Why bless you, child, forgive me! My old wits were back-trailing, as the cowboys would say. You have finished your salad, come, let's go out onto the porch, where we can get the afternoon breeze and be comfortable." She led the way through the living-room where she left the girl for a moment, to tiptoe upstairs for a peep at the sick man. "He's asleep," she reported, as they stepped out onto the porch and settled themselves in comfortable wicker rockers.

"What was the uprising?" asked Patty. "Was it the Indians? I'd love to hear about it."

"Yes, the Indians. That was before they were on reservations and they were scattered all through the hills."

A cowboy galloped to the porch, drew up sharply, and removed his hat. "We rode through them horses that runs over on the east slope an' they're all right—leastways all the markers is there, an' the bunches don't look like they'd be'n any cut out of 'em. But, about them white faces—Lodgepole's most dried up. Looks like we'd ort to throw 'em over onto Sage Crick."

The little woman looked thoughtful. "Let's see, there are about six hundred of the white faces, aren't there?"

"Yessum."

"And how long will the water last in Lodgepole?"

"Not more'n a week or ten days, if we don't git no rain."

"How long will it take to throw them onto Sage Creek?"

"Well, they hadn't ort to be crowded none this time o' year. The four of us had ort to do it in three or four days."

The old lady shook her head. "No, the cattle will have to wait. I want you boys to stay right around close 'til you hear from Vil Holland. Keep your best saddle horses up and at least one of you stay right here at the ranch all the time. The rest of you might ride fences, and you better take a look at those mares and colts in the big pasture."

The cowboy's eyes twinkled: "I savvy, all right. Guess I'll take the bunk-house shift myself this afternoon. Got a couple extry guns to clean up an' oil a little."

"Whatever you do, you boys be careful," admonished the woman. "And in case anything happens and Vil Holland isn't here, send one of the boys after him at once."

The other laughed: "Guess they ain't much danger, if anything happens he won't be a-ridin' right on the head of it." The cowboy gathered up his reins, dropped them again, and his gloved fingers fumbled with his leather hat band. The smile had left his face.

"Anything else, Bill?" asked Mrs. Samuelson, noting his evident reluctance to depart.

"Well, ma'am, how's the Big Boss gittin' on?"

"He's doing as well as could be expected, the doctor says."

The cowboy cleared his throat nervously: "You know, us boys thinks a heap of him, an' we'd like fer him to git a square deal."

"A square deal!" exclaimed the woman. "Why, what in the world do you mean?"

"About that there doc—d'you s'pect he savvys his business?"

"Of course he does! He's considered one of the best doctors in the State. Why do you ask?"

"Well, it's this way. When he was goin' back to town yesterday I laid for him. You see, the Old Man—er, I mean—you know, ma'am, the Big Boss, he's a pretty sick man—an' it looks to us boys like things had ort to break pretty quick, one way er another. So, I says, 'Doc, how's he gittin' on?' an' the doc he says, jest like you done, 'good as could be expected.' When you come right down to cases, that don't tell you nothin'. So I says, 'that's 'cordin' to who's doin' the expectin'. What we want to know,' I says, 'is he goin' to git well, er is he goin' to die?' 'I confidently hope we're going to pull him through,' he comes back. 'Meanin', he's goin' to git well?' I says. 'Yes,' he says. 'Fer how much?' I asks him. I didn't have but thirty-five dollars on me, but I shook that in under his nose. You see, I wanted to find out if the fellow would back his own self up with his money. 'What do you mean?' he says. 'I mean,' I informs him, 'that money talks. Here's the Missus payin' you good wages fer to cure up the Old Man. You goin' to do it, an' earn them wages, or ain't you? Here's thirty-five dollars that says you can't cure him.'"

The corners of the old lady's mouth were twitching behind the handkerchief she held to her lips: "What did the doctor say?" she asked.

"Tried to laugh it off," declared the cowboy in disgust. "But I reminds him that this here ain't no laughin' matter. 'D'you s'pose,' I says, 'if the Old Man told me: "Bill, there's a bad colt to bust," or "Bill, go over onto Monte's Crick, an' bring back them two-year-olds," do you s'pose I wouldn't bet I could do it? They's plenty of us here to do all the "confidently hopin'" that's needed. What you got to do is to git busy with them pills an' make him well,' I says, 'or quit an' let someone take holt that kin.'" The man paused and regarded the woman seriously. "What I'm gittin' at is this: If this here doc ain't got confidence enough in his own dope to back it with a bet, it's time we got holt of one that will. Now, ma'am, you better let me send one of Jack Pierce's kids to town to see Len Christie an' tell him to git the best doc out here they is. I'll write a note to Len on the side an' tell him to tell the doc he kin about double his wages, 'cause the rest of the boys feels just like I do, an' we'll all bet agin him so't it'll be worth his while to make a good job of it." He paused, awaiting permission to carry out his plan.

The little woman explained gravely: "Doctors never bet on their cases, Bill. It isn't that they won't back their judgment. But because it isn't considered proper. Doctor Mallory is doing all any mortal man can do. He's a wonderfully good doctor, and it was Len Christie, himself, that recommended him."

The cowboy's eyes lighted: "It was? Well, then, mebbe he's all right. I never had no time fer preachers 'til I know'd Len. But, what he says goes with me—he's square. I don't go much on no doctor, though. They're all right fer women, mebbe, an' kids. I believe all the Old Man needs right now to fix him up good as ever is a big stiff jolt of whisky an' bitters." The cowboy rode away, muttering and shaking his head, but not until he was well out of sight round the corner of the house did the little woman with the gray hair smile.

"I hope Doctor Mallory will understand," she said, a trifle anxiously, "I have some rather trying experiences with my boys, and if Bill has gone and insulted the doctor I'll have to get Jack Pierce to go to town and explain."

"This Bill seems to just adore Mr. Samuelson," ventured Patty. "Why his voice was almost—almost reverent when he said 'the Old Man.'"

The little lady nodded: "Yes, Bill thinks there's no one like him. You see, Bill shot a man, one day when—he was not quite himself. Over in the Blackfoot country, it was, and Vil Holland knew the facts in the case, and he rode over and told Mr. Samuelson all about it, and they both went and talked it over with the prosecuting attorney, and with old Judge Nevers, with the result that they agreed to give the boy a chance. So Mr. Samuelson brought him here. That was five years ago. Bill is foreman of this outfit now, and our other three riders are boys that were headed the same way Bill was. Vil Holland brought one of them over, and Bill and Mr. Samuelson picked up the other two—and, if I do say it myself," she declared, proudly, "there isn't an outfit in Montana that can boast a more capable or loyal, or a straighter quartet of riders than this one."

As Patty listened she understood something of what was behind the words of Thompson and Len Christie, when they had spoken that day of "Old Man" Samuelson. But, there was something she did not understand. And that something was—Vil Holland. Everybody liked him, everybody spoke well of him, and apparently everybody but herself trusted him implicitly. And yet, to her own certain knowledge, he did carry a jug, he did follow her about the hills, and he did tell her to her face that when she found her father's claim she would have a race on her hands, and that if she were beaten she would have to be satisfied with what she would get.

But Vil Holland, his comings and his goings were soon forgotten in the absorbing interest with which Patty listened as her little gray-haired hostess recounted incidents and horrors of the Indian uprising, the first sporadic depredations, the coming of the troops, and finally the forcing of the belligerent tribes onto their reservations.

It had been Patty's intention to ride back to her cabin in the evening, but Mrs. Samuelson would not hear of it. And, indeed the girl did not insist, for despite the fact that she had become thoroughly accustomed to her surroundings, the anticipation of a dinner prepared and served by the highly efficient Wong Yie, in the tastefully appointed dining room, with its real silver and china, proved sufficiently attractive to overcome even her impatience to begin the working out of her father's map. And the realization fully justified the anticipation. When the meal was finished the two women had talked the long evening away before the cheerful blaze of the wood fire, and when at last she was shown to her room, the girl retired to luxuriate in a real bed of linen sheets and a box mattress.



CHAPTER XV

THE HORSE RAID

Patty did not know how long she had slept when she awoke, tense and listening, sitting bolt upright in bed. Moonlight flooded the room through the windows thrown wide to admit the chill night air. Beyond the valley floor, green with the luxuriant second crop of alfalfa, she could see the mountains looming dim and mysterious in the half-light.

The whole world seemed silent as the grave—and yet, something must have awakened her. She shuddered, partly at the chill that struck at her thinly clad shoulders, and partly at the recollection of some of the scenes those selfsame mountains had witnessed, during the uprisings, and which her hostess had so vividly recounted. The girl smiled, and gazing toward the mountains, pictured long lines of naked horsemen stealing silently into the valley. She started violently. Through the open window came sounds, the muffled thud of hoofs upon the soft ground, the low rattle of bit-chains and spur-rowels, and the creak of saddle leather. There were horsemen in the valley, and the horsemen were passing almost beneath her windows—and they were moving stealthily.

For a moment her heart raced madly—the fancy of those conjured horsemen, and then the mysterious sounds from the night that were not fancy, combined in just the right proportion to overcome her with a momentary terror. She realized that the sounds were passing—growing fainter, and leaping from the bed, rushed to the window and peered out. Only silence—profound, unbroken silence, and the moonlight. In vain she strained her ears to catch a repetition of the faint sounds, and in vain she peered into the dark shadows cast by the bunk house and the pole horse-corral. Her windows commanded the eastern wall of the valley, and its upper reaches. Had there actually been horsemen, or were the sounds part of her vivid vision of the long ago? "No," she muttered, "those sounds were real," and she leaned far out of the window in a vain effort to catch a glimpse of the trail that led down the creek toward Pierce's.

For some time she remained at the window and then, shivering, crept back to bed, where she lay speculating upon the identity of these horsemen who passed in the night. She knew that a horse raid had been expected. Could these raiders have had the audacity to pass through the very dooryard of the ranch, knowing as they must have known, that four armed and determined cowboys occupied the bunk house?

And who were these raiders? At Thompson's she had heard Monk Bethune's name mentioned in connection with possible horse-thieving. Bethune had spoken of hurried trips, "to the northward." She remembered that upon the occasion of their first meeting, she had heard him dickering with Watts for the rent of his horse pasture, and she recollected the incident of the changed name. Then, again, only a few days before, she had parted with him when he struck off the trail to the eastward with the excuse that he was going over onto the east slope on a matter having to do with some horses. Bill had mentioned, in talking to Mrs. Samuelson, that he had been riding through the horses on the east slope. Could it be possible that the suave Bethune was a horse-thief? On the other hand, Bethune had openly hinted that Vil Holland was a horse-thief—and yet, these other people all believed that he was persistently on the trail of the horse-thieves.

For a long time she lay thinking, guessing, trying to recall little scraps of evidence that would bear upon the case. Again, a slight sound brought her to a sitting posture. This time it was the opening of a door across the hall from her room. The sound was followed by the soft padding of slippered feet in the hall, the low tapping, evidently at another door, a few low-voiced words, and a return of the padding steps. A few moments later other steps hurried along the hall past her door and rapidly descended the stairs. Patty heard the opening of an outside door, and once more stealing to the window she saw the Chinaman hurry across the moonlit yard to the bunk house and throw open the door. He entered to emerge a moment later and rush to the horse-corral, where he peered between the poles for a moment and then made his way swiftly back to the house.