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The RangeDwellers, by B. M.Bower, Illustrated

by Charles M.Russell

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Title: The Range Dwellers

Author: B. M. Bower

Release Date: December 12, 2004 [eBook#14334]

Language: English

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THE RANGEDWELLERS

BY

B. M. BOWER

(B. M. SINCLAIR)

AUTHOR OF CHIP OF THE FLYING U,THE LONESOME TRAIL, HER PRAIRIE

KNIGHT, THE LURE OF THE DIMTRAILS, THE HAPPY FAMILY, THE

LONG SHADOW, ETC.

llustrated byCHARLES M.

RUSSELLNew York; Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers

1906

"She turned her back on me, and wentimperturbably on with her sketching."

Contents

ChapterI The Reward of Folly

II The White DivideIII The Quarrel RenewedIV Through King's HighwayV Into the Lion's Mouth

VI I ask Beryl King to DanceVII One Day Too Late

VIII A Fight and a Race for LifeIX The Old Life and the New

X I Shake Hands with Old ManKing

XI A Cable Snaps

XII I Begin to RealizeXIII We Meet Once MoreXIV Frosty DisappearsXV The Broken Motor-car

XVI One More RaceXVII The Final Reckoning

THE RANGEDWELLERS.

CHAPTER I.

The Reward of Folly.

I'm something like the old maid you readabout—the one who always knows allabout babies and just how to bring themup to righteous maturity; I've got a mightystrong conviction that I know heaps thatmy dad never thought of about the propertraining for a healthy male human. I don'tsuppose I'll ever have a chance todemonstrate my wisdom, but, if I do, thereare a few things that won't happen to myboy.

If I've got a comfortable wad of my own,

the boy shall have his fun without anynagging, so long as he keeps clean andhonest. He shall go to any college he maychoose—and right here is where mywisdom will sit up and get busy. If I'mfool enough to let that kid have moremoney than is healthy for him, and if I goto sleep while he's wising up to the art ofmaking it fade away without leavinganything behind to tell the tale, andlearning a lot of habits that aren't doinghim any good, I won't come down on himwith both feet and tell him all the differentbrands of fool he's been, and mournbecause the Lord in His mercy laid uponme this burden of an unregenerate son. Ishall try and remember that he's the son ofhis father, and not expect too much of him.It's long odds I shall find points of

resemblance a-plenty between us—andthe more cussedness he develops, themore I shall see myself in him reflected.

I don't mean to be hard on dad. He wasalways good to me, in his way. He's gotmore things than a son to look after, and asthat son is supposed to have a normalallowance of gray matter and is nophysical weakling, he probably took it forgranted that the son could look afterhimself—which the mines and railroadsand ranches that represent his millionscan't.

But it wasn't giving me a square deal. Hegave me an allowance and paid my debtsbesides, and let me amble through schoolat my own gait—which wasn't exactlyslow—and afterward let me go. If I do say

it, I had lived a fairly decent sort of life. Ibelonged to some good clubs—athletic,mostly—and trained regularly, and wascalled a fair boxer among the amateurs. Icould tell to a glass—after a lot ofpractise—just how much of 'steendifferent brands I could take withoutgetting foolish, and I could play poker andwin once in awhile. I had a steam-yachtand a motor of my own, and it wasgenerally stripped to racing trim. And Iwasn't tangled up with any women;actress-worship had never appealed tome. My tastes all went to the sporting sideof life and left women to the fellows withless nerve and more sentiment.

So I had lived for twenty-five years—justhaving the best time a fellow with an

unlimited resource can have, if he ishealthy.

It was then, on my twenty-fifth birthday,that I walked into dad's private librarywith a sonly smile, ready for the goodwishes and the check that I was in thehabit of getting—I'd been unlucky, andLord knows I needed it!—and what doesthe dear man do?

Instead of one check, he handed me asheaf of them, each stamped in diversplaces by divers banks. I flipped the endsand looked them over a bit, because I sawthat was what he expected of me; but thetruth is, checks don't interest me muchafter they've been messed up with red andgreen stamps. They're about as enticing asa last year's popular song.

Dad crossed his legs, matched his finger-tips together, and looked at me over hisglasses. Many a man knows that attitudeand that look, and so many a man has beenas uncomfortable as I began to be, and hasfelt as keen a sense of impending trouble. Ibegan immediately searching my memoryfor some especial brand of devilment thatI'd been sampling, but there was nothingdoing. I had been losing some at pokerlately, and I'd been away to the bad out atIngleside; still, I looked him innocently inthe eye and wondered what was coming.

"That last check is worthy of particularattention," he said dryly. "The others areremarkable only for their size andcontinuity of numbers; but that last oneshould be framed and hung upon the wall

at the foot of your bed, though you wouldnot see it often. I consider it a diploma ofyour qualification as Master Jackanapes."(Dad's vocabulary, when he is angry,contains some rather strengthy words ofthe old-fashioned type.)

I looked at the check and began to seelight. I had been a bit rollicky that time. Itwasn't drawn for very much, that check;I've lost more on one jack-pot, many atime, and thought nothing of it. And, thoughthe events leading up to it were a bit rapidand undignified, perhaps, I couldn't seeanything to get excited over, as I could seedad plainly was.

"For a young man twenty-five years oldand with brains enough—supposedly—tokeep out of the feeble-minded class, it

strikes me you indulge in some damnedpoor pastimes," went on dad disagreeably."Cracking champagne-bottles in front ofthe Cliff House—on a Sunday at that—may be diverting to the bystanders, but itcan hardly be called dignified, and I failto see how it is going to fit a man for anyuseful business."

Business? Lord! dad never had mentioneda useful business to me before. I felt myeyelids fly up; this was springing birthdaysurprises with a vengeance.

"Driving an automobile on forbiddenroads, being arrested and fined—onSunday, at that—"

"Now, look here, dad," I cut in, getting abit hot under the collar myself, "by all the

laws of nature, there must have been atime when you were twenty-five years oldand cut a little swath of your own. And,seeing you're as big as your offspring—six-foot-one, and you can't deny it—andfairly husky for a man of your age, I'll betall you dare that said swath was not of thenarrow-gage variety. I've never heard ofyour teaching a class in any Sunday-school, and if you never drove yourmachine beyond the dead-line and crackedchampagne-bottles on the wheels in frontof the Cliff House, it's becauseautomobiles weren't invented and CliffHouse wasn't built. Begging your pardon,dad—I'll bet you were a pretty rollickyyoung blade, yourself."

Now dad is very old-fashioned in some of

his notions; one of them is that a parentmay hand out a roast that will frizzle thefoliage for blocks around, and, guilty orinnocent, the son must take it, as he'd takecod-liver oil—it's-nasty-but-good-for-what-ails-you. He snapped his mouth shut,and, being his son and having that habitmyself, I recognized the symptoms andjudged that things would presently growinteresting.

I was betting on a full-house. Theatmosphere grew tense. I heard a lot ofthings in the next five minutes that no onebut my dad could say without me tryingmighty hard to make him swallow them.And I just sat there and looked at him andtook it.

I couldn't agree with him that I'd

committed a grievous crime. It wasn'tmuch of a lark, as larks go: just anincident at the close of a rather fullafternoon. Coming around up the beachfront Ingleside House a few days before,in the Yellow Peril—my machine—we gotto badgering each other about doing thingsnot orthodox. At last Barney MacTaguedared me to drive the Yellow Peril pastthe dead-line—down by the Pavilion—and on up the hill to Sutro Baths.Naturally, I couldn't take a dare like that,and went him one better; I told him I'd notonly drive to the very top of the hill, butI'd stop at the Gift House and crack abottle of champagne on each wheel of theYellow Peril, in honor of the occasion;that would make a bottle apiece, for therewere four of us along.

It was done, to the delight of the usualSunday crowd of brides, grooms, tourists,and kids. A mounted policemaninterviewed us, to the further delight of thecrowd, and invited us to call upon acertain judge whom none of us knew. Wedid so, and dad was good enough to paythe fine, which, as I said before, was notmuch. I've had less fun for more money,often.

Dad didn't say anything at the time, so Iwas not looking for the roast I was getting.It appeared, from his view-point, that Iwas about as useless, imbecile, and utterlyno-account a son as a man ever had, and ifthere was anything good in me it was notvisible except under a strong magnifying-glass.

He said, among other things too painful tomention, that he was getting old—dad isabout fifty-six—and that if I didn't buck upand amount to something soon, he didn'tknow what was to become of the business.

Then he delivered the knockout blow thathe'd been working up to. He was going tosee what there was in me, he said. Hewould pay my bills, and, as a birthdaygift, he would present me with a throughticket to Osage, in Montana—where heowned a ranch called the Bay State—anda stock-saddle, spurs, chaps, and ahundred dollars. After that I must work outmy own salvation—or the other thing. If Iwanted more money inside a year or two,I would have to work for it just as if Iwere an orphan without a dad who writes

checks on demand. He said that there wasalways something to do on the Bay StateRanch—which is one of dad's places. Icould do as I pleased, he said, but he'dadvise me to buckle down and learnsomething about cattle. It was plain Inever would amount to anything in anoffice. He laid a yard or two of ticket onthe table at my elbow, and on top of that acheck for one hundred dollars, payable toone Ellis Carleton.

I took up the check and read every wordon it twice—not because I needed to; Iwas playing for time to think. Then Itwisted it up in a taper, held it to the blazein the fireplace, and lighted a cigarettewith it. Dad kept his finger-tips togetherand watched me without any expression

whatsoever in his face. I took threedeliberate puffs, picked up the ticket, andglanced along down its dirty green length.Dad never moved a muscle, and Iremember the clock got to ticking louderthan I'd ever heard it in my life before. Imay as well be perfectly honest! Thatticket did not appeal to me a little bit. Ithink he expected to see that go up insmoke, also. But, though I'm pretty muchof a fool at times, I believe there are lucidintervals when I recognize certain objects—such as justice. I knew that, in the main,dad was right. I had been leading a ratherreckless existence, and I was getting prettyold for such kid foolishness. He hadmeasured out the dose, and I meant toswallow it without whining—but it wasexceeding bitter to the palate!

"I see the ticket is dated twenty-four hoursahead," I said as calmly as I knew how,"which gives me time to have Rankin packa few duds. I hope the outfit you furnishincludes a red silk handkerchief and aColt's .44 revolver, and a key to theproper method of slaying acquaintances inthe West. I hate to start in with all whitechips."

"You probably mean a Colt's .45," saiddad, with a more convincing calmnessthan I could show. "It shall be provided.As to the key, you will no doubt find thaton the ground when you arrive."

"Very well," I replied, getting up andstretching my arms up as high as I couldreach—which was beastly manners, ofcourse, but a safe vent for my feelings,

which cried out for something orsomebody to punch. "You've called theturn, and I'll go. It may be many moons erewe two meet again—and when we do, thecrime of cracking my own champagne—for I paid for it, you know—on my ownautomobile wheels may not seem theheinous thing it looks now. See you later,dad."

I walked out with my head high in the airand my spirits rather low, if the truth mustbe told. Dad was generally kind and wiseand generous, but he certainly did breakout in unexpected places sometimes.Going to the Bay State Ranch, just at thattime, was not a cheerful prospect. SanFrancisco and Seattle were just starting aseries of ballgames that promised to be

rather swift, and I'd got a lot up on theresult. I hated to go just then. AndMontana has the reputation of being ratherbeastly in early March—I knew that much.

I caught a car down to the Olympic, huntedup Barney MacTague, and played pokerwith him till two o'clock that night, andnever once mentioned the trip I wascontemplating. Then I went home, routedup my man, and told him what to pack, andwent to bed for a few hours; if there wasanything pleasant in my surroundings that Ifailed to think of as I lay there, it must bevery trivial indeed. I even went so far asto regret leaving Ethel Mapleton, whom Icared nothing for.

And above all and beneath all, hanging inthe background of my mind and dodging

forward insistently in spite of myself, wasa deep resentment—a soreness againstdad for the way he had served me.Granted I was wild and a uselesscumberer of civilization; I was only whatmy environments had made me. Dad hadlet me run, and he had never kicked on theprice of my folly, or tried to pull me up atthe start. He had given his time to hismines and his cattle-ranches andrailroads, and had left his only son to goto the devil if he chose and at his ownpace. Then, because the son had comenear making a thorough job of it, he haddone—this. I felt hardly used and at oddswith life, during those last few hours inthe little old burgh.

All the next day I went the pace as usual

with the gang, and at seven, after an earlydinner, caught a down-town car and set offalone to the ferry. I had not seen dad sinceI left him in the library, and I did notparticularly wish to see him, either.Possibly I had some unfilial notion ofmaking him ashamed and sorry. It is evenpossible that I half-expected him to comeand apologize, and offer to let things go onin the old way. In that event I wasprepared to be chesty. I would look at himcoldly and say: "You have seen fit to buyme a ticket to Osage, Montana. So be it; toOsage, Montana, am I bound." Oh, I had itall fixed!

Dad came into the ferry waiting-room justas the passengers were pouring off theboat, and sat down beside me as if nothing

had happened. He did not look sad, orcontrite, or ashamed—not, at least, enoughto notice. He glanced at his watch, andthen handed me a letter.

"There," he began briskly, "that is to PerryPotter, the Bay State foreman. I havewired him that you are on the way."

The gate went up at that moment, and hestood up and held out his hand. "Sorry Ican't go over with you," he said. "I've animportant meeting to attend. Take care ofyourself, Ellie boy."

I gripped his hand warmly, though I hadintended to give him a dead-fish sort ofshake. After all, he was my dad, and therewere just us two. I picked up my suit-caseand started for the gate. I looked back

once, and saw dad standing there gazingafter me—and he did not look particularlybrisk. Perhaps, after all, dad cared morethan he let on. It's a way the Carletonshave, I have heard.

CHAPTER II.

The White Divide.

If a phrenologist should undertake to"read" my head, he would undoubtedlyfind my love of home—if that is what it iscalled—a sharply defined welt. I knowthat I watched the lights of old Frisco slipbehind me with as virulent a case of thedeeps as often comes to a man when hisdigestion is good. It wasn't that I could notbear the thought of hardship; I've takenhunting trips up into the mountains moretimes than I can remember, and ateungodly messes of my own invention, and

waded waist-deep in snow and sleptunder the stars, and enjoyed nearly everyminute. So it wasn't the hardships that Ihad every reason to expect that got medown. I think it was the feeling that dadhad turned me down; that I was in exile,and—in his eyes, at least—disgraced, itwas knowing that he thought me prettypoor truck, without giving me a chance tobe anything better. I humped over the railat the stern, and watched the waves slap atus viciously, like an ill-tempered poodle,and felt for all the world like a dog that'sbeen kicked out into the rain. Maybe themedicine was good for me, but it wasn'tpleasant. It never occurred to me, thatnight, to wonder how dad felt about it; butI've often thought of it since.

I had a section to myself, so I could sulkundisturbed; dad was not small, at anyrate, and, though he hadn't let me have hiscar, he meant me to be decentlycomfortable. That first night I sleptwithout a break; the second I sat in thesmoker till a most unrighteous hour,cultivating the acquaintance of a drummerfor a rubber-goods outfit. I thought that,seeing I was about to mingle with theworking classes, I couldn't begin too soonto study them. He was a pretty good sort,too.

The rubber-goods man left me at Seattle,and from there on I was at the tendermercies of my own thoughts and an elderlylady with a startlingly blond daughter,who sat directly opposite me and was

frankly disposed to friendliness. I hadnever given much time to the study ofwomen, and so had no alternative but toanswer questions and smile fatuously uponthe blond daughter, and wonder if I oughtto warn the mother that "clothes do notmake the man," and that I was a blacksheep and not a desirable acquaintance.Before I had quite settled that point, theyleft the train. I am afraid I am notdistinctly a chivalrous person; I hummedthe Doxology after their retreating formsand retired into myself, with a feeling thatmy own society is at times desirable andgreatly to be chosen.

After that I was shy, and nothing happenedexcept that on the last evening of the trip, Igave up my sole remaining five dollars in

the diner, and walked out whistling softly.I was utterly and unequivocally strapped. Iwent into the smoker to think it over; Iknew I had started out with a hundred orso, and that I had considered that sufficientto see me through. Plainly, it was notsufficient; but it is a fact that I looked uponit as a joke, and went to sleep grinningidiotically at the thought of me, EllisCarleton, heir to almost as many millionsas I was years old, without the price of abreakfast in his pocket. It seemed noveland interesting, and I rather enjoyed thesituation. I wasn't hungry, then!

Osage, Montana, failed to rouse anyenthusiasm in me when I saw the placenext day, except that it offeredpossibilities in the way of eating—at

least, I fancied it did, until I stepped downupon the narrow platform and lookedabout me. It was two o'clock in theafternoon, and I had fasted since dinnerthe evening before. I was not happy.

I began to see where I might haveeconomized a bit, and so have gone oneating regularly to the end of the journey. Ireflected that stewed terrapin, forinstance, might possibly be considered anextravagance under the circumstances; anda fellow sentenced to honest toil andexiled to the wilderness should not, itseemed to me then, cause his table to besprinkled, quite so liberally as I had done,with tall glasses—nor need he tip theporter quite so often or so generously. Adollar looked bigger to me, just then, than

a wheel of the Yellow Peril . I began tofeel unkindly toward that porter! he hadlooked so abominably well-fed and sleek,and he had tips that I would be glad to feelin my own pocket again. I stood aloneupon the platform and gazed wistfullyafter the retreating train; many peoplehave done that before me, if one maybelieve those who write novels, and foronce in my life I felt a bond of sympathybetween us. It's safe betting that I did moresolid thinking on frenzied finance in thefive minutes I stood there watching thattrain slid off beyond the sky-line than I'ddone in all my life before. I'd heard, ofcourse, about fellows getting right downto cases, but I'd never personallyexperienced the sensation. I'd always hadmoney—or, if I hadn't, I knew where to

go. And dad had caught me when I'd allbut overdrawn my account at the bank. Iwas always doing that, for dad paid thebills. That last night with BarneyMacTague hadn't been my night to win,and I'd dropped quite a lot there. And—oh, what's the use? I was broke, all rightenough, and I was hungry enough to eat theproverbial crust.

It seemed to me it might be a good idea tohunt up the gentleman named Perry Potter,whom dad called his foreman. I turnedaround and caught a tall, brown-facednative studying my back with graveinterest. He didn't blush when I lookedhim in the eye, but smiled a tired smileand said he reckoned I was the chap he'dbeen sent to meet. There was no welcome

in his voice, I noticed. I looked him overcritically.

"Are you the gentleman with thealliterative cognomen?" I asked him airily,hoping he would be puzzled.

He was not, evidently. "Perry Potter? He'sat the ranch." He was damnably tolerant,and I said nothing. I hate to make the samesort of fool of myself twice. So when heproposed that we "hit the trail," I followedmeekly in his wake. He did not offer totake my suit-case, and I was about toremind him of the oversight when itoccurred to me that possibly he was not aservant—he certainly didn't act like one. Icarried my own suitcase—which was, Ihave thought since, the only wise move Ihad made since I left home.

A strong but unsightly spring-wagon, withmud six inches deep on the wheels,seemed the goal, and we trailed out to it,picking up layers of soil as we went. Theground did not look muddy, but it was; Ihave since learned that that particularphase of nature's hypocrisy is called"doby." I don't admire it, myself. I stoppedby the wagon and scraped my shoes on thecleanest spoke I could find, and swore.My guide untied the horses, gathered upthe reins, and sought a spoke on his side ofthe wagon; he looked across at me with agleam of humanity in his eyes—the first Ihad seen there.

"It sure beats hell the way it hangs on," heremarked, and from that minute I likedhim. It was the first crumb of sympathy

that had fallen to me for days, and you canbet I appreciated it.

We got in, and he pulled a blanket overour knees and picked up the whip. Itwasn't a stylish turnout—I had seenfarmers driving along the railroad-track inrigs like it, and I was surprised at dad forkeeping such a layout. Fact is, I didn'tthink much of dad, anyway, about thattime.

"How far is it to the Bay State Ranch?" Iasked.

"One hundred and forty miles, air-line,"said he casually. "The train was late, so Ireckon we better stop over till morning.There's a town over the hill, and a hotelthat beats nothing a long way."

A hundred and forty miles from thestation, "air-line," sounded to me like apretty stiff proposition to go up against;also, how was a fellow going to put up ata hotel when he hadn't the coin? Would mymysterious guide be shocked to learn thatJohn A. Carleton's son and heir hadlanded in a strange land without two-bitsto his name? Jerusalem! I couldn't havepaid street-car fare down-town; I couldn'teven have bought a paper on the street.While I was remembering all the things amillionaire's son can't do if he happens tobe without a nickel in his pocket, wepulled up before a place that, for the sakeof propriety, I am willing to call a hotel;at the time, I remember, I had anothername for it.

"In case I might get lost in this strangecity," I said to my companion as I jumpedout, "I'd like to know what people call youwhen they're in a good humor."

He grinned down at me. "Frosty Millerwould hit me, all right," he informed me,and drove off somewhere down the street.So I went in and asked for a room, and gotit.

This sounds sordid, I know, but the truthmust be told, though the artistic sense beshocked. Barred from the track as I was,sent out to grass in disgrace while thelittle old world kept moving without me tohelp push, my mind passed up all thethings I might naturally be supposed todwell upon and stuck to three little no-account grievances that I hate to tell about

now. They look small, for a fact, now thatthey're away out of sight, almost, in thepast; but they were quite big enough at thetime to give me a bad hour or two. Thebiggest one was the state of my appetite;next, and not more than a nose behind, wasthe state of my pockets; and the last was,had Rankin packed the gray tweedtrousers that I had a liking for, or had henot? I tried to remember whether I hadspoken to him about them, and I sat downon the edge of the bed in that little box of aroom, took my head between my fists, andcalled Rankin several names hesometimes deserved and had frequentlyheard from my lips. I'd have given a gooddeal to have Rankin at my elbow just then.

They were not in the suit-case—or, if they

were, I had not run across them. Rankinhad a way of stowing things away so thateven he had to do some tall searching, andhe had another way of filling up my suit-cases with truck I'd no immediate use for.I yanked the case toward me, unlocked it,and turned it out on the bed, just to proveRankin's general incapacity as valet to afastidious fellow like me.

There was the suit I had worn on thatmemorable excursion to the Cliff House—I had told Rankin to pitch it into the street,for I had discovered Teddy Van Greve inone almost exactly like it, and—Hello!Rankin had certainly overlooked a bet. Inever caught him at it before, that'scertain. He had a way of coming to my leftelbow, and, in a particularly virtuous tone,

calling my attention to the fact that I hadleft several loose bills in my pockets.Rankin was that honest I often told him hewould land behind the bars as anembezzler some day. But Rankin had doneit this time, for fair; tucked away in apocket of the waistcoat was money—real,legal, lawful tender—m-o-n-e-y! I don'tsuppose the time will ever come when itwill look as good to me as it did rightthen. I held those bank-notes—there weretwo of them, double XX's—to my face andsniffed them like I'd never seen the likebefore and never expected to again. Andthe funny part was that I forgot all aboutwanting the gray trousers, and all aboutthe faults of Rankin. My feet were onbottom again, and my head on top. Imarched down-stairs, whistling, with my

hands in my pockets and my chin in theair, and told the landlord to serve dinneran hour earlier than usual, and to make it agood one.

He looked at me with a curious mixture ofwonder and amusement. "Dinner," hedrawled calmly, "has been over for threehours; but I guess we can give yuh somesupper any time after five."

I suppose he looked upon me as therankest kind of a tenderfoot. I calculatedthe time of my torture till I might, withoutembarrassing explanations, partake of amuch-needed repast, and went to the door;waiting was never my long suit, and I hadthoughts of getting outside and taking alook around. At the second step I changedmy mind—there was that deceptive mud to

reckon with.

So from the doorway I surveyed all ofMontana that lay between me and the sky-line, and decided that my bets wouldremain on California. The sky was a dullslate, tumbled into what looked like rain-clouds and depressing to the eye. The landwas a dull yellowish-brown, with apurple line of hills off to the south, andwith untidy snow-drifts crouching in thehollows. That was all, so far as I couldsee, and if dulness and an unpeopledwilderness make for the reformation ofman, it struck me that I was in a fair wayto become a saint if I stayed here long. Ihad heard the cattle-range calledpicturesque; I couldn't see the joke.

Frosty Miller sat opposite me at table

when, in the course of human events, I ateagain, and the way I made the biscuit andham and boiled potatoes vanish filled himwith astonishment, if one may judge aman's feelings by the size of his eyes. Itold him that the ozone of the plains hadgiven me an appetite, and he did notcontradict me; he looked at my plate, andthen smiled at his own, and said nothing—which was polite of him.

"Did you ever skip two meals and try tomake it up on the third?" I asked him whenwe went out, and he said "Sure," androlled a cigarette. In those first hours ofour acquaintance Frosty was not what I'dcall loquacious.

That night I took out the letter addressed toone Perry Potter, which dad had given me

and which I had not had time to seal in hispresence, and read it cold-bloodedly. Idon't do such things as a rule, but I wasgetting a suspicion that I was beingqueered; that I'd got to start my exile undera handicap of the contempt of the natives.If dad had stacked the deck on me, Iwanted to know it. But I misjudged him—or, perhaps, he knew I'd read it. All hehad written wouldn't hurt the reputation ofany one. It was:

The bearer, Ellis H. Carleton, is myson. He will probably be with youfor some time, and will not try toassume any authority or usurp yourposition as foreman and overseer.You will treat him as you do theother boys, and if he wants to work,

pay him the same wages—if heearns them.

It wasn't exactly throwing flowers in thepath my young feet should tread, but itmight have been worse. At least, he didnot give Perry Potter his unbiased opinionof me, and it left me with a free hand towarp their judgment somewhat in myfavor. But—"If he wants to work, pay himthe same wages—if he earns them."Whew!

I might have saved him the trouble ofwriting that, if I had only known it. Dadcould go too far in this thing, I told myselfchestily. I had come, seeing that heinsisted upon it, but I'd be damned if I'dwork for any man with a circus-postername, and have him lord it over me. I

hadn't been brought up to appreciate thatkind of joke. I meant to earn my living, butI did not mean to get out and slave forPerry Potter. There must be somethingrespectable for a man to do in this countrybesides ranch work.

In the morning we started off, with mytrunks in the wagon, toward the line ofpurple hills in the south. Frosty Millertold me, when I asked him, that they wereforty-eight miles away, that they markedthe Missouri River, and that we wouldstop there overnight. That, if I remember,was about the extent of our conversationthat day. We smoked cigarettes—FrostyMiller made his, one by one, as he neededthem—and thought our own thoughts. Irather suspect our thoughts were a good

many miles apart, though our shoulderstouched. When you think of it, people mayrub elbows and still have an ocean or twobetween them. I don't know where Frostywas, all through that long day's ride; forme, I was back in little old Frisco, withBarney MacTague and the rest of thecrowd; and part of the time, I know, I wastelling dad what a mess he'd made ofbringing up his only son.

That night we slept in a shack at the river—"Pochette Crossing" was the name itanswered to—and shared the same bed. Itwas not remarkable for its comfort—thatbed. I think the mattress was stuffed withpotatoes; it felt that way.

Next morning we were off again, over thesame bare, brown, unpeopled wilderness.

Once we saw a badger zigzagging along aside-hill, and Frosty whipped out a bigrevolver—one of those "Colt 45's," Isuppose—and shot it; he said inextenuation that they play the very devilwith the range, digging holes for cow-punchers to break their necks over.

I was surprised at Frosty; there he hadbeen armed, all the time, and I neverguessed it. Even when we went to bed thenight before, I had not glimpsed a weapon.Clearly, he could not be a cowboy, Ireflected, else he would have worn acartridge-belt sagging picturesquely downover one hip, and his gun dangling from it.He put the gun away, and I don't knowwhere; somewhere out of sight it went,and Frosty turned off the trail and went

driving wild across the prairie. I askedhim why, and he said, "Short cut."

Then a wind crept out of the north, andwith it the snow. We were climbing lowridges and dodging into hollows, andwhen the snow spread a white veil overthe land, I looked at Frosty out of the tailof my eye, wondering if he did not wish hehad kept to the road—trail, it is called inthe rangeland.

If he did, he certainly kept it to himself; hewent on climbing hills and setting thebrake at the top, to slide into a hollow,and his face kept its inscrutable calm;whatever he thought was beyond guessingat.

When he had watered the horses at a little

creek that was already skimmed with ice,and unwrapped a package of sandwicheson his knee and offered me one, I brokeloose. Silence may be golden, but evenold King Midas got too big a dose of gold,once upon a time, if one may believetradition.

"I hate to butt into a man's meditations," Isaid, looking him straight in the eye, "butthere's a limit to everything, and you'veplayed right up to it. You've had time, myfriend, to remember all your sins and planenough more to keep you hustling theallotted span; you've been given anopportunity to reconstruct the universe andbreed a new philosophy of life. ForHeaven's sake, say something!"

Frosty eyed me for a minute, and the

muscles at the corners of his mouthtwitched. "Sure," he responded cheerfully."I'm something like you; I hate to breakinto a man's meditations. It looks likesnow."

"Do you think it's going to storm?" Iretorted in the same tone; it had beensnowing great guns for the last three hours.We both laughed, and Frosty unbent andtold me a lot about Bay State Ranch andthe country around it.

Part of the information was an eye-opener;I wished I had known it when dad washanding out that roast to me—I rather thinkI could have made him cry enough. Itagged the information and laid it away forfuture reference.

As I got the country mapped out in mymind, we were in a huge capital H. Theeastern line, toward which we wereangling, was a river they call the Midas—though I'll never tell you why, unless it's aterm ironical. The western line is anotherriver, the Joliette, and the cross-bar is arange of hills—they might almost becalled mountains—which I had beenfacing all that morning till the snow camebetween and shut them off; White Divide,it is called, and we were creeping aroundthe end, between them and the Midas. Itseemed queer that there was no way ofcrossing, for the Bay State lies almost in adirect line south from Osage, Frosty toldme, and the country we were traversingwas rough as White Divide could be, andI said so to Frosty. Right here is where I

got my first jolt.

"There's a fine pass cut through WhiteDivide by old Mama Nature," Frosty said,in the sort of tone a man takes when hecould say a lot more, but refrains.

"Then why in Heaven's name don't youtravel it?"

"Because it isn't healthy for Ragged Hfolks to travel that way," he said, in thesame eloquent tone.

"Who are the Ragged H folks, and what'sthe matter with them?" I wanted to know—for I smelled a mystery.

He looked at me sidelong. "If you didn'tlook just like the old man," he said, "I'dthink yuh were a fake; the Ragged H is the

brand your ranch is known by—the BayState outfit. And it isn't healthy to travelKing's Highway, because there's a large-sized feud between your father and oldKing. How does it happen yuh aren't wiseto the family history?"

"Dad never unbosomed himself to me,that's why," I told him. "He has laboredfor twenty-five years under the impressionthat I was a kid just able to toddle alone.He didn't think he needed to tell me things;I know we've got a place called the BayState Ranch somewhere in this part of theworld, and I have reason to think I'mheaded for it. That's about the extent of myknowledge of our interest here. I neverheard of the White Divide before, or ofthis particular King. I'm thirsting for

information."

"Well, it strikes me you've got it coming,"said Frosty. "I always had your fathersized up as being closed-mouthed, but Ididn't think he made such a thorough job ofit as all that. Old King has sure got it infor the Ragged H—or Bay State, if yuh'drather call us that; and the Ragged H boysdon't sit up nights thinking kind and lovingthoughts about him, either. Thirty yearsago your father and old King startedjangling over water-rights, and I guessthey burned powder a-plenty; King goeslame to this day from a bullet your oldman planted in his left leg."

I dropped the flag and started him offagain. "It's news to me," I put in, "and youcan't tell me too much about it."

"Well," he said, "your old man was in theright of it; he owns all the land alongHoney Creek, right up to White Divide,where it heads; uh course, he overlookeda bet there; he should have got a cinch onthat pass, and on the head uh the creek. Buthe let her slide, and first he knew old Kinghad come in and staked a claim and builthim a shack right in our end of the pass,and camped down to stay. Your dadwasn't joyful. The Bay State had used thatpass to trail herds through and as theeasiest and shortest trail to the railroad;and then old King takes it up, strings afive-wired fence across at both ends of hisplace, and warns us off. I've heard Pottertell what warm times there were. Yourfather stayed right here and had it out withhim. The Bay State was all he had, then,

and he ran it himself. Perry Potter workedfor him, and knows all about it. Neitherold King nor your dad was married, andit's a wonder they didn't kill each other off—Potter says they sure tried. The timeKing got it in the leg your father and hispunchers were coming home from a breeddance, and they were feeling pretty nifty, Iguess; Potter told me they started out withsix bottles, and when they got to WhiteDivide there wasn't enough left to talkabout. They cut King's fence at the northend, and went right through, hell-bent-for-election. King and his men boiled out, andthey mixed good and plenty. Your fatherwent home with a hole in his shoulder,and old King had one in his leg to match,and since then it's been war. They tried tofight it out in court, and King got the best

of it there. Then they got married and kindo' cooled off, and pretty soon they both gotso much stuff to look after that they didn'thave much time to take pot-shots at eachother, and now we're enjoying what yuhmight call armed peace. We go roundabout sixty miles, and King's Highway isbad medicine.

"King owns the stage-line from Osage toLaurel, where the Bay State gets its mail,and he owns Kenmore, a mining-camp inthe west half uh White Divide. We can goaround by Kenmore, if we want to—butKing's Highway? Nit!"

I chuckled to myself to think of all thethings I could twit dad about if ever hewent after me again. It struck me that Ihadn't been a circumstance, so far, to what

dad must have been in his youth. At myworst, I'd never shot a man.

CHAPTER III.

The Quarrel Renewed.

That night, by a close scratch, we made alittle place Frosty said was one of the BayState line-camps. I didn't know what aline-camp was, and it wasn't much forstyle, but it looked good to me, after ridingnearly all day in a snow-storm. Frostycooked dinner and I made the coffee, andwe didn't have such a bad time of it,although the storm held us there for twodays.

We sat by the little cook-stove and toldyarns, and I pumped Frosty just about dry

of all he'd ever heard about dad.

I hadn't intended to write to dad, but, afterhearing all I did, I couldn't help handingout a gentle hint that I was on. When I'dbeen at the Bay State Ranch for a week, Iwrote him a letter that, I felt, squared myaccount with him. It was so short that I canrepeat every word now. I said:

DEAR DAD: I am here. Though yousent me out here to reform me, I findthe opportunities for unadulterateddeviltry away ahead of Frisco. Isaw our old neighbor, King, whomyou may possibly remember. Hestill walks with a limp. By the way,dad, it seems to me that when youwere about twenty-five you"indulged in some damned poor

pastimes," yourself. Your dutifulson, ELLIS.

Dad never answered that letter.

Montana, as viewed from the Bay StateRanch in March, struck me as being anunholy mixture of brown, sodden hills andvalleys, chill winds that nevercondescended to blow less than a gale,and dull, scurrying clouds, withsometimes a day of sunshine that wasbright as our own sun at home. (You can'tmake me believe that our California sunbothers with any other country.)

I'd been used to a green world; I neverwould go to New York in the winter,because I hate the cold—and here I was,with the cold of New York and with none

of the ameliorations in the way of clubsand theaters and the like. There were thehills along Midas River shutting off theEast, and hills to the south that Frosty toldme went on for miles and miles, and onthe north stretched White Divide—only itwas brown, and bleak, and several otherundesirable things. When I looked at it, Iused to wonder at men fighting over it. Idid a heap of wondering, those first fewdays.

Taken in a lump, it wasn't my style, and Iwasn't particular to keep my opinions asecret. For the ranch itself, it looked to melike a village of corrals and sheds andstables, evidently built with an eye tousefulness, and with the idea that harmonyof outline is a sin and not to be tolerated.

The house was put up on the same plan,gave shelter to Perry Potter and the cook,had a big, bare dining-room where themen all ate together without napkins orother accessories of civilization, and acouple of bedrooms that were colder, if Iremember correctly, than outdoors. I knowthat the water froze in my pitcher the firstnight, and that afterward I performed myablutions in the kitchen, and dipped hotwater out of a tank with a blue dipper.

That first week I spent adjusting myself tothe simple life, and trying to form anunprejudiced opinion of my companions inexile. As for the said companions, theysort of stood back and sized up my points,good and bad—and I've a notion they laidheavy odds against me, and had me down

in the Also Ran bunch. I overheard one ofthem remark, when I was coming up fromthe stables: "Here's the son and heir—come, let's kill him!" Another onedrawled: "What's the use? The bounty'srun out."

I was convinced that they regarded me asa frost.

The same with Perry Potter, a grizzledlittle man with long, ragged beard andgray eyes that looked through you andaway beyond. I had a feeling that dad hadtold him to keep an eye on me and reportany incipient growth of horse-sense. I mayhave wronged him and dad, but that ishow I felt, and I didn't like him any betterfor it. He left me alone, and I raised thebet and left him alone so hard that I

scarcely exchanged three sentences withhim in a week. The first night he askedafter dad's health, and I told him thedoctor wasn't making regular calls at thehouse. A day or so after he said: "How doyou like the country?" I said: "Damn thecountry!" and closed that conversation. Idon't remember that we had any more forawhile.

The cowboys were breaking horses to thesaddle most of the time, for it was tooearly for round-up, I gathered. When I saton the corral fence and watched the fun, Iobserved that I usually had my rail all tomyself and that the rest of the audienceroosted somewhere else. Frosty Millertalked with me sometimes, withoutappearing to suffer any great pain, but

Frosty was always the star actor when thecurtain rose on a bronco-breaking act. Asfor the rest, they made it plain that I didnot belong to their set, and I wasn'tsending them my At Home cards, either.We were as haughty with each other astwo society matrons when each aspires tobe called leader.

Then a blizzard that lasted five days cameripping down over that desolation, andeverybody stuck close to shelter, andamused themselves as they could. Thecowboys played cards most of the time—seven-up, or pitch, or poker; they didn'task me to take a hand, though; I fancy theywere under the impression that I didn'tknow how to play.

I never was much for reading; it's too

slow and tame. I'd much rather get out andlive the story I like best. And there wasnothing to read, anyway. I wentrummaging in my trunks, and in the bottomof one I came across a punching-bag and aset of gloves. Right there I took off my hatto Rankin, and begged his pardon for theunflattering names he'd been in the habit ofhearing from me. I carried the things downand put up the bag in an empty room at oneend of the bunk-house, and got busy.

Frosty Miller came first to see what wasup, and I got him to put on the gloves forawhile; he knew something of the manlyart, I discovered, and we went at it fastand furious. I think I broke up a game inthe next room. The boys came to the door,one by one, and stood watching, until we

had the full dozen for audience. Beforeany one realized what was happening, wewere playing together real pretty, with thechilly shoulder barred and the social icegone the way of a dew-drop in the sun.

We boxed and wrestled, with muchscientific discussion of "full Nelsons" andthe like, and even fenced with sticks. I hadthem going there, and could teach themthings; and they were the willingest pupilsa man ever had—docile and filled with adeep respect for their teacher who knewall there was to know—or, if he didn't, henever let on. Before night we had smashedthree window-panes, trimmed severalfaces down considerably, and got prettywell acquainted. I found out that theyweren't so far behind the old gang at home

for wanting all there is in the way of fun,and I believe they discovered that I washarmless. Before that storm let up theywere dealing cards to me, and allowingme to get rid of the rest of the forty dollarsRankin had overlooked. I got some of itback.

I went down and bunked with them,because they had a stove and I didn't, andit was more sociable; Perry Potter and thecook were welcome to the house, I toldthem, except at meal-times. And, morethan all the rest, I could keep out of rangeof Perry Potter's eyes. I never could getused to that watch-Willie-grow way hehad, or rid myself of the notion that he wassending dad a daily report of my behavior.

The next thing, when the weather quit

sifting snow and turned on the balmybreezes and the sunshine, I was down inthe corrals in my chaps and spurs, learningthings about horses that I never suspectedbefore. When I did something unusuallyfoolish, the boys were good enough toremember my boxing and fencing and suchlittle accomplishments, and did notwithdraw their favor; so I went on, buttinginto every new game that came up, andtaking all bets regardless, and actuallybegan to wise up a little and to forget afew of my grievances.

I was down in the corral one day, saddlingShylock—so named because he tried toexact a pound of flesh every time I turnedmy back or in other ways seemed off myguard—and when I was looping up the

latigo I discovered that the alliterative Mr.Potter was roosting on the fence, watchingme with those needle-pointed eyes of his.I wondered if he was about to prepareanother report for dad.

"Do yuh want to be put on the pay-roll?"he asked, without any preamble, when hecaught my glance.

"Yes, if I'm earning wages. 'The laboreris worthy of his hire,' I believe," I retortedloftily. The fact was, I was strapped again—and, though one did not need money onthe Bay State Ranch, it's a good thing tohave around.

He grinned into his collar. "Well," hesaid, "you've been pretty busy the lastthree weeks, but I ain't had any orders to

hire a boxing-master for the boys. I don'tknow as that'd rightly come under the headof legitimate expenses; boxing-masterscome high, I've heard. Are yuh going onround-up?"

"Sure!" I answered, in an exact copy—asnear as I could make it—of FrostyMiller's intonation. I was making Frostymy model those days.

He said: "All right—your pay starts on thefifteenth of next month"—which wasApril. Then he got down from the fenceand went off, and I mounted Shylock androde away to Laurel, after the mail. Notthat I expected any, for no one but dadknew where I was, and I hadn't heard aword from him, though I knew he wrote toPerry Potter—or his secretary did—every

week or so. Really, I don't think a fatherought to be so chesty with the only sonhe's got, even if the son is a no-accountyoung cub.

I was standing in the post-office, whichwas a store and saloon as well, when anold fellow with stubby whiskers and ajaw that looked as though it had beentrimmed square with a rule, and a limpthat made me know at once who he was,came in. He was standing at the littlesquare window, talking to the postmasterand waving his pipe to emphasize what hesaid, when a horse went past the door onthe dead run, with bridle-reins flying. Afellow rushed out past us—it was hishorse—and hit old King's elbow a clip ashe went by. The pipe went about ten feet

and landed in a pickle-keg. I went after itand fished it out for the old fellow—notso much because I'm filled with a naturalcourtesy, as because I was curious toknow the man that had got the best of dad.

He thanked me, and asked me across to thesaloon side of the room to drink with him."I don't know as I've met you before,young man," he said, eying me puzzled."Your face is familiar, though; been in thiscountry long?"

"No," I said; "a little over a month is all."

"Well, if you ever happen around my way—King's Highway, they call my place—stop and see me. Going to stay long outhere?"

"I think so," I replied, motioning thewaiter—"bar-slave," they call them inMontana—to refill our glasses. "And I'llbe glad to call some day, when I happen inyour neighborhood. And if you ever rideover toward the Bay State, be sure youstop."

Well, say! old King turned the color of aripe prune; every hair in that stubble ofbeard stood straight out from his chin, andhe looked as if murder would be apleasant thing. He took the glass anddeliberately emptied the whisky on thefloor. "John Carleton's son, eh? I might 'a'known it—yuh look enough like him. Medrink with a son of John Carleton? Thatbreed uh wolves had better not comehowling around my door. I asked yuh to

come t' King's Highway, young man, and Idon't take it back. You can come, butyou'll get the same sort uh welcome I'dgive that—"

Right there I got my hand on his throttle.He was an old man, comparatively, and Ididn't want to hurt him; but no man underheaven can call my dad the names he did,and I told him so. "I don't want to dig upthat old quarrel, King," I said, shaking hima bit with one hand, just to emphasize mywords, "but you've got to speak civilly ofdad, or, by the Lord! I'll turn you acrossmy knee and administer a stinging rebuke."

He tried to squirm loose, and to reachbehind him with that suggestive movementthat breeds trouble among men of theplains; but I held his arms so he couldn't

move, the while I told him a lot of thingsabout true politeness—things that I wasn'tliving up to worth mentioning. He yelledto the postmaster to grab me, and thefellow tried it. I backed into a corner andheld old King in front of me as a bulwark,warranted bullet proof, and wonderedwhat kind of a hornet's-nest I'd got into.The waiter and the postmaster were bothlooking for an opening, and I rememberedthat I was on old King's territory, and thatthey were after holding their jobs.

I don't know how it would have ended—Isuppose they'd have got me, eventually—but Perry Potter walked in, and it didn'tseem to take him all day to savvy thesituation. He whipped out a gun andleveled it at the enemy, and told me to

scoot and get on my horse.

"Scoot nothing!" I yelled back. "Whatabout you in the meantime? Do you thinkI'm going to leave them to clean you up?"

He smiled sourly at me. "I've held my ownwith this bunch uh trouble-hunters forthirty years," he said dryly. "I guess yuhain't got any reason t' be alarmed. Comeout uh that corner and let 'em alone."

I don't, to this day, know why I did it, but Iquit hugging old King, and the other twofell back and gave me a clear path to thedoor. "King was blackguarding dad, and Icouldn't stand for it," I explained to PerryPotter as I went by. "If you're not going, Iwon't."

"I've got a letter to mail," he said, calm asif he were in his own corral. "You wentoff before I got a chance to give it to yuh.I'll be out in a minute."

He went and slipped the letter into themail-box, turned his back on the three, andwalked out as if nothing had happened;perhaps he knew that I was watching them,in a mood to do things if they offered totouch him. But they didn't, and wemounted our horses and rode away, andPerry Potter never mentioned the affair tome, then or after. I don't think we spoke onthe way to the ranch; I was busy wishingI'd been around in that part of the worldthirty years before, and thinking what a lotof fun I had missed by not being as old asdad. A quarrel thirty years old is either

mighty stale and unprofitable, or else, likewine, it improves with age. I meant to rideover to King's Highway some day, and seehow he would have welcomed dad thirtyyears before.

CHAPTER IV.

Through King's Highway.

It was a long time before I was in aposition to gratify my curiosity, though;between the son and heir, with nothing todo but amuse himself, and a cowboyworking for his daily wage, there is agreat gulf fixed. After being put on thepay-roll, I couldn't do just as my fancyprompted. I had to get up at an ungodlyhour, and eat breakfast in about twominutes, and saddle a horse and "ridecircle" with the rest of them—which sameis exceeding wearisome to man and beast.

For the first time since I left school, I wasunder orders; and the foreman certainlytried to obey dad's mandate and treat mejust as he would have treated any otherstranger. I could give it up, of course—butI hope never to see the day when I can bejustly called a quitter.

First, we were rounding up horses—saddlers that were to be ridden in theround-up proper. We were not more thantwo or three weeks at that, though wecovered a good deal of country. Before itwas over I knew a lot more than when westarted out, and had got hard as nails;riding on round-up beats a gym for puttingwire muscles under a man's skin, in myopinion. We worked all around WhiteDivide—which was turning a pale, dainty

green except where the sandstone cliffsstood up in all the shades of yellow andred. Montana, as viewed on "horse round-up," looks better than in the first bleakdays of March, and I could gaze upon itwithout profanity. I even got to like tearingover the newborn grass on a good horse,with a cowboy or two galloping, keen-faced and calm, beside me. It was almostbetter than slithering along a hard roadwith a motor-car stripped to the running-gear.

When the real thing happened—the "calfround-up"—and thirty riders in white felthats, chaps, spurs a-jingle, andhandkerchief ends flying out in the wind,lined up of a morning for orders, the bloodof me went a-jump, and my nerves were

all tingly with the pure joy of being aliveand atop a horse as eager as hounds in theleash and with the wind of the plains inmy face and the grass-land lying allaround, yelling come on, and themeadowlarks singing fit to split theirthroats. There's nothing like it—and I'vetried nearly everything in the way ofblood-tinglers. Skimming through thewaves, alean to the wind in a racing-yacht, comes nearest, and even that takessecond money when circle-riding onround-up is entered in the race. But this isgetting away from my story.

We were working the country just north ofWhite Divide, when the foreman startedme home with a message for Perry Potter—and I was to get back as soon as

possible with the answer. Now, here'swhere I got gay.

As I said, we were north of White Divide,and the home ranch was south, and to goaround either end of that string of hillsmeant an extra sixty miles to cover eachway—a hundred and twenty for the roundtrip. Directly in the way of the proverbialcrow's flight lay King's Highway, which—if I got through—would put me at theranch the first day, and back at camp thesecond; and I rather guessed that wouldsurprise our worthy foreman not a little. Ididn't see why it couldn't be done; surelyold King wouldn't murder a man just forriding through that pass—that would bebloody-minded indeed!

And if I failed—why, I could go around,

and no one would be wise to the fact that Ihad tried it. I headed straight for the pass,which yawned invitingly, with two barepeaks for the jaws, not over six milesaway. It was against orders, for PerryPotter had given the boys to understandthat they were not to go that way, and thatthey were to leave King and hisstronghold strictly alone; but I didn'tworry about that. When I was fairly in themouth of the pass, I got down and lookedto the cinch, and then rode boldly forward,like a soldier riding up to the cannon'smouth with a smile on his face. Oh, Iwasted plenty of admiration on one EllisCarleton about that time, and rehearsed thebold, biting speech I meant to deliver atold King's very door.

So far it was easy sailing. There was ahard-beaten road, and the hills seemedstanding back and holding aside theirskirts for a free passing. The sun lay warmon their green slopes, and one could fairlysmell the grass growing. In the hollowswere worlds of blue flowers, with patcheshere and there a royal purple. I stoppedand gathered a handful and stuck them inmy buttonhole and under my hatband. Idon't know when I have felt so thoroughlysatisfied with said Ellis Carleton—ofwhom I am overfond of speaking—I evenmimicked the meadow-larks, until theywatched me with heads tilted, not knowingwhat to make of such an impertinentfellow.

King's Highway was glorious; I didn't

wonder that dad thought it worth fightingover, and as I went on, farther and fartherdown this lane made by nature for easypassing, I could see what an immenseadvantage it would be to take herdsthrough that way. I could see why the BayState men cursed King when they took therough trail around the end of WhiteDivide.

After an hour of undisputed riding on thisforbidden trail, the pass narrowed ratherabruptly till it was not more than a furlongin width; the hills stretched their headsstill higher, as if they wanted to see thefun, and the shadow of the eastern rim laidclear across the narrow valley andtouched the foot of the opposite slope. Ihope I am not going to be called nervous if

I tell the truth about things; when I rodeinto the shadow I stopped whistling a badimitation of meadow-lark notes. A bitfarther and I pulled up, looked all around,and got off and tightened the cinch a bitmore. Shylock—I always rode him when Icould—threw his head around and nearlytook a chunk out of my arm, and inreproving him I forgot, for a minute, theticklish game I was playing. Then Iloosened my gun—I had learned to carry itinconspicuously under my coat, as did theother boys—made sure it could be pulledwithout embarrassing delay, and went on.Around the next turn a five-wired fencestretched across the trail, with a gatefastened by a chain and padlock. Iwhistled under my breath, and eyed thelock with extreme disfavor.

But I had learned a trick of the cowboys. Ipulled the wire off a couple of posts atone side of the gate, laid them flat on theground, and led Shylock over them. Then Ifound a rock, pounded the staples back inplace, and went on; only for the tracks,one could not notice that any had passedthat way. Still, it was a bit ticklish, ridingdown King's Highway alone and with noidea of what lay farther on. But dad haddared go that way, and to fight at the farend; and what dad had not been afraid totackle, it did not behoove his son to backdown from. I made Shylock walk the nexthalf-mile, with some notion of saving hiswind for an emergency run.

Of a sudden I rounded a sharp nose of hilland came plump on the palace of the King.

It looked a good deal like the Bay StateRanch—big corrals and sheds and stables,and little place for man to dwell. Thehouse, though, was bigger than ours, andlooked more comfortable to live in. Andthe thing that struck me most was the headwhich King displayed for strategy. Thetrail wound between those same sheds andcorrals, a gantlet two hundred yards longthat one must run or turn back. On eitherside the bluffs rose sheer, with thebuildings crowding close against theirbase. I didn't wonder Frosty called King'sHighway "bad medicine." It certainly didlook like it.

I went softly along that trail, turning sharpcorners around a shed here, circling acorral there, with my hand within an inch

of my gun, and my heart within an inch ofmy teeth, and you may laugh all you like.

No one seemed to be about; the shedswere deserted, and a few horses dozed ina corral that I passed; but human being Isaw none. It was evident that King did notconsider his enemy worth watching. Ipassed the last shed and found myselfheaded straight for the house; I had still toget through its very dooryard before I wasin any position to crow, and beyond thehouse was another fence; I hoped the gatewas not locked. Shylock pricked up hisears, then laid them back along his neck asif he did not approve the layout, either.But we ambled right along, like a deaconheaded for prayer-meeting, and I tried tolook in four different directions at one and

the same time.

For that reason, I didn't see her till shestood right in front of me; and when I did,I stared like an idiot. It was a girl, and shewas coming down a path to the trail, withher hands full of flowers, for all the worldlike a Duchess novel. Another minute, andI'd have run over her, I guess. She stoppedand looked at me from under lashes sothick and heavy they seemed almostpulling her lids shut, and there wassomething in her eyes that made me go hotand cold, like I was coming down withgrippe; when she spoke my symptomsgrew worse.

"Did you wish to see father?" she asked,as if she were telling me to leave theplace.

"I believe," I rallied enough to answer,"that 'father' would give a good deal to seeme." Then that seemed to shut off ourconversation too abruptly to suit me; thereare occasions when prickly chills have ahorrible fascination for a fellow; this wasone of the times.

"He's not at home, I'm very sorry to say,"she retorted in the same liquid-air voiceas before, and turned to go back to thehouse.

I thanked the Lord for that, in a whisper,and kept pace with her. It was plain shehated the sight of me, but I counted on herbeing enough like her dad not to run away.

"May I trouble you for a drink of water?" Iasked, in the orthodox tone of humility.

"There is no need to trouble me; there isthe creek, beyond the house; you arewelcome to all you want."

"Thanks." I watched the pink curve of hercheek, and knew she was dying for achance to snub me still more maliciously.We were at the steps of the veranda now,but still she would not hurry; she seemedto hate even the semblance of runningaway.

"Can you direct me to the Bay StateRanch?" I hazarded. It was my last card,and I let it go with a sigh.

She pointed a slim, scornful finger at thebrand on Shylock's shoulder.

"If you are in doubt of the way, Mr.

Carleton, your horse will take you home—if you give him his head."

That put a crimp in me worse than the lookof her eyes, even. I stared at her a minute,and then laughed right out. "The game'syours, Miss King, and I take off my hat toyou for hitting straight and hard," I said."Must the feud descend even to the secondgeneration? Is it a fight to the finish, andno quarter asked or given?"

I had her going then. She blushed—andwhen I saw the red creep into her cheeksmy heart was hardened to repentance. I'dhave done it again for the pleasure ofseeing her that way.

"You are taking a good deal for granted,sir," she said, in her loftiest tone. "We

Kings scarcely consider the Carletonsworthy our weapons."

"You don't, eh? Then, why did you beginit?" I wanted to know. "If you permit me,you started the row before I spoke, even."

"I do not permit you." Clearly, my ladycould be haughty enough to satisfy themost fastidious.

"Well," I sighed, "I will go my way. I'm alover of peace, myself; but since youproclaim war, war it must be. I'm not soungallant as to oppose a lady's wishes. Isthat gate down there locked?"

"Figuratively, it's always locked againstthe Carletons," she said.

"But I want to go through it literally," I

retorted. And she just looked at me fromunder those lashes, and never answered.

"Well, the air grows chill in King'sHighway," I shivered mockingly. "If ever Ifind you on Bay State soil, Miss King, Ishall take much pleasure in teaching youthe proper way to treat an enemy."

"I shall be greatly diverted, no doubt,"was the scornful reply of her—and justthen an old lady came to the door, and Ilifted my hand grandly in a precisemilitary salute and rode away, wonderingwhich of us had had the best of it.

The gate wasn't locked, and as for taking adrink at the creek, I forgot that I wasthirsty. I jogged along toward home, andwondered why Frosty had not told me that

King had a daughter. Also, I wondered ather animosity. It never occurred to me thather father, unlike my dad, had probablyharped on the Carletons until she hadcome to think we were in league with theOld Boy himself. Her dad's game legwould no doubt argue strongly against us,and keep the feud green in her heart—supposing she had one.

On the whole, I was glad I had traveledKing's Highway. I had discovered abrand-new enemy—and so far in my lifeenemies had been so scarce as to be apositive diversion. And it was novel andinteresting to be so thoroughly hated by agirl. No reason to dodge her net. I rathercongratulated myself on knowing one girlwho positively refused to smile on

demand. She hadn't, once. I got towondering, that night, if she had dimples. Imeant to find out.

CHAPTER V.

Into the Lion's Mouth.

Perry Potter, when he had read theforeman's note, asked how long since I leftcamp; when I told him that I was there atdaylight, he looked at me queerly andwalked off without a word. I didn't sayanything, either.

I stayed at the ranch overnight, intendingto start back the next morning. The round-up would be west of where I had leftthem, according to the foreman—orwagon-boss, as he is called. Logically,then, I should take the trail that led through

Kenmore, the mining-camp owned byKing, and which lay in the heart of WhiteDivide ten miles west of King's Highway.That, I say, was the logical route—but Iwasn't going to take it. I wasn't a bit stuckon that huddle of corrals and sheds, withthe trail winding blindly between, and Iwasn't in love with the girl or with oldKing; but, all the same, I meant to go backthe way I came, just for my own privatesatisfaction.

While I was saddling Shylock, in the opal-tinted sunrise, Potter came down and gaveme the letter to the wagon-boss, an answerto the one I had brought.

"Here's some chuck the cook put up foryuh," he remarked, handing me a bundletied up in a flour-sack. "You'll need it

'fore yuh get through to camp; you'll likelybe longer going than yuh was comin'."

"Think so?" I smiled knowingly to myselfand left him staring disapprovingly afterme. I could easily give a straight guess atwhat he was thinking.

I jogged along as leisurely as I couldwithout fretting Shylock, and, once clearof the home field, headed straight forKing's Highway. It wasn't the wisestcourse I could take, perhaps, but it waslike to prove the most exciting, and I neverwas remarkable for my wisdom. It seemedto me that it was necessary to my self-respect to return the way I came—and Imay as well confess that I hoped MissKing was an early riser. As it was, Ikilled what time I could, and so spent a

couple of hours where one would havesufficed.

Half a mile out from the mouth of the pass,I observed a human form crowning thepeak of a sharp-pointed little butte thatrose up out of the prairie; since the formseemed to be in skirts, I made for the spot.Shylock puffed up the steep slope, and atlast stopped still and looked back at me inutter disgust; so I took the hint and got off,and led him up the rest of the way.

"Good morning. We meet on neutralground," I greeted when I was closebehind her. "I propose a truce."

She jumped a bit, and looked very muchastonished to see me there so close. If ithad been some other girl—say Ethel

Mapleton—I'd have suspected thegenuineness of that surprise; as it was, Icould only think she had been very muchabsorbed not to hear me scrambling upthere.

"You're an early bird," she said dryly, "tobe so far from home." She glanced towardthe pass, as though she would like to cutand run, but hated to give me thesatisfaction.

"Well," I told her with inanecomplacency, "you will remember that 'it'sthe early bird that catches the worm.'"

"What a pretty speech!" she commented,and I saw what I'd done, and felt myselfturn a beautiful purple. Compare her to aworm!

But she laughed when she saw howuncomfortable I was, and after that I wasalmost glad I'd said it; she did havedimples—two of them—and—

The laugh, however, was no sign ofincipient amiability, as I very soondiscovered. She turned her back on meand went imperturbably on with hersketching; she was trying to put on paperthe lights and shades of White Divide—and even a desire to be chivalrous willnot permit me to lie and say that she wasmaking any great success of it. I don'tbelieve the Lord ever intended her for anartist.

"Aren't you giving King's Highway a muchwider mouth than it's entitled to?" I askedmildly, after watching her for a minute.

"I should not be surprised," she told mehaughtily, "if you some day wished it stillwider."

"There wouldn't be the chance for fighting,if it was; and I take great pleasure inkeeping the feud going."

"I thought you were anxious for a truce,"she said recklessly, shading a slope sothat it looked like the peak of a roof.

"I am," I retorted shamelessly. "I'manxious for anything under the sun thatwill keep you talking to me. People mightcall that a flirtatious remark, but I pleadnot guilty; I wouldn't know how to flirt,even if I wanted to do so."

She turned her head and looked at me in a

way that I could not misunderstand; it wasplain, unvarnished scorn, and a ladylikeanger, and a few other unpleasant things.

It made me think of a certain star in "TheTaming of the Shrew."

"Fie, fie! unknit that threatening,unkind brow,

And dart not scornful glances fromthose eyes,

To wound thy neighbor and thineenemy,"

I declaimed, with rather a free adaptationto my own need.

Her brow positively refused to unknit."Have you nothing to do but spout badquotations from Shakespeare on a

hilltop?" she wanted to know, in aparticularly disagreeable tone.

"Plenty; I have yet to win that narrowpass," I said.

"Hardly to-day," she told me, with morethan a shade of triumph. "Father is athome, and he heard of your tripyesterday."

If she expected to scare me by that! "Mustour feud include your father? When I methim a month ago, he gave me a cordialinvitation to stop, if I ever happened thisway."

She lifted those heavy lashes, and her eyesplainly spoke unbelief.

"It's a fact," I assured her calmly. "I met

him one day in Laurel, and was fortunateenough to perform a service which earnedhis gratitude. As I say, he invited me tocome and see him; I told him I should beglad to have him visit me at the Bay StateRanch, and we embraced each other withmuch fervor."

"Indeed!" I could see that she persisted indoubting my veracity.

"Ask your father if we didn't," I said,much injured. I knew she wouldn't, though.

A scrambling behind us made me turn, andthere was Perry Potter climbing up to us,his eyes sharper than ever, and his face soabsolutely devoid of expression that ittold me a good deal. I'll lay all I own hewas a good bit astonished at what he saw!

As for me, I could have kicked him backto the bottom of the hill—and I probablylooked it.

"There was something I forgot to put inthat note," he said evenly, just touching thebrim of his hat in acknowledgment of thegirl's presence. "I wrote another one. I'dlike Ballard to get it as soon as you canmake camp—conveniently." His eyeslooked through me almost as if I weren'tthere.

My desire to kick him grew almost intomania. I took the note, saw at a glance thatit was addressed to me, and said: "Allright," in a tone quite different from theone I had been using to tease Miss King.

He gave me another sharp look, and went

back the way he had come, leaving mestanding there glaring after him. MissKing, I noticed, was sketching for dearlife, and her cheeks were crimson.

When Potter had got to the bottom and wasriding away, I unfolded the note and read:

Don't be a fool. For God's sake,have some sense and keep awayfrom King's Highway.

I laughed, and Miss King looked upinquiringly. Following an impulse I'venever yet been able to classify, I showedher the note.

She read it calmly—I might sayindifferently. "He is quite right," she saidcoldly. "I, too—if I cared enough—would

advise you to keep away from King'sHighway."

"But you don't care enough to advise me,and so I shall go," I said—and I had thesatisfaction of seeing her teeth come downsharply on her lower lip. I waited aminute, watching her.

"You're very foolish," she said icily, andwent at her sketching again.

I waited another minute; during that timeshe succeeded in making the pass lookweird indeed, and a fearsome place toenter. I got reckless.

"You've spoiled that sketch," I said,stooping and taking it gently from her."Give it to me, and it shall be a flag of

truce with which I shall win my waythrough unscathed."

She started to her feet then, and her angerwas worth facing for the glow it broughtto eyes and cheeks, and the tremble thatcame to her lips.

"Mr. Carleton, you are perfectlydetestable!" she cried.

"Miss King, you are perfectly adorable!" Ireturned, folding the sketch very carefully,so that it would slip easily into my pocket."With so authentic a map of the enemy'sstronghold, what need I fear? I go—but,on my honor, I shall shortly return."

She stood with her fingers clasped tightlyin front of her, and watched me lead

Shylock down that butte—on the sidetoward the pass, if you are still in doubt ofmy intentions. When I say she watched me,I am making a guess; but I felt that shewas, and it would be hard to disabuse mymind of that belief. And when I started,her fingers had been clinging tightlytogether. At the bottom I turned and wavedmy hat—and I know she saw that, for sheimmediately whirled and took to studyingthe southern sky-line. So I left her andgalloped straight into the lion's den—touse an old simile.

I passed through the gate and up to thehouse, Shylock pacing easily along asthough we both felt assured of a welcome.Old King met me at his door as I wasgoing by; I pulled up and gave him my

very cheeriest good morning. He looked atme from under shaggy, gray eyebrows.

"You've got your gall, young man, to comethis way twice in twenty-four hours," hesaid grimly.

"You can turn around and go back the wayyou came in."

"You asked me to call," I reminded himmildly. "You were not at home yesterday,so I came again."

He glanced uneasily over his shoulder,and drew the door shut between himselfand whoever was within. "You damn'cur," he growled, "yuh know yuh ain't nofriend uh the Kings."

"I know you're all mighty unneighborly," I

said, making me a cigarette in the way thatcowboys do. "I asked a young lady—yourdaughter, I suppose—for a drink of water.She told me to go to the creek."

He laughed at that; evidently he approvedof his daughter's attitude. "Beryl knowshow to deal with the likes uh you," hemuttered relishfully. "And she hates theCarletons bad as I do. Get off my place,young man, and do it quick!"

"Sure!" I assented cheerfully, and jabbedthe spurs into Shylock—taking good carethat he was beaded north instead of south.And it's a fact that, ticklish as was thesituation, my first thought was: "So hername's Beryl, is it? Mighty pretty name,and fits her, too."

King wasn't thinking anything sosentimental, I'll wager. He yelled to twoor three fellows, as I shot by them near thefirst corral: "Round up that thus-and-how"—I hate to say the words right out—"and bring him back here!" Then he senta bullet zipping past my ear, and from thehouse came a high, nasal squawk which, Igathered, came from the old party I hadseen the day before.

I went clippety-clip around those shedsand corrals, till I like to have snapped myhead off; I knew Shylock could take firstmoney over any ordinary cayuse, and I lethim out; but, for all that, I heard themcoming, and it sounded as if they wereabout to ride all over me, they were soclose.

Past the last shed I went streaking it, andmy heart remembered what it was madefor, and went to work. I don't feel that,under the circumstances, it's any disgraceto own that I was scared. I didn't hear anymore little singing birds fly past, so Istraightened up enough to look around andsee what was doing in the way of pursuit.

One glance convinced me that my pursuersweren't going to sleep in their saddles.One of them, on a little buckskin that wasrunning with his ears laid so flat it lookedas if he hadn't any, was widening the loopin his rope, and yelling unfriendly thingsas he spurred after me; the others were alength behind, and I mentally put them outof the race. The gentleman with thebusinesslike air was all I wanted to see,

and I laid low as I could and slappedShylock along the neck, and told him tobestir himself.

He did. We skimmed up that trail like awinner on the home—stretch, and before Ihad time to think of what lay ahead, I sawthat fence with the high, board gate thatwas padlocked. Right there I sworeabominably—but it didn't loosen the gate.I looked back and decided that this was nooccasion for pulling wires loose andleading my horse over them. It was nooccasion for anything that required morethan a second; my friend of the rope wasnot more than five long jumps behind, andhe was swinging that loop suggestivelyover his head.

"His hind feet caught the top wire andsnapped it like thread."

I reined Shylock sharply out of the trail,saw a place where the fence looked a bitlower than the average, and put himstraight at it with quirt and spurs. Hewould have swung off, but I've ridden to

hounds, and I had seen hunters go overworse places; I held him to it withoutmercy. He laid back his ears, then, andwent over—and his hind feet caught thetop wire and snapped it like thread. Iheard it hum through the air, and I heardthose behind me shout as though somethingunlooked-for had happened. I turned, sawthem gathered on the other side lookingafter me blankly, and I waved my hatairily in farewell and went on about mybusiness.

I felt that they would scarcely chase methe whole twelve or fifteen miles of thepass, and I was right; after I turned thefirst bend I saw them no more.

At camp I was received with muchastonishment, particularly when Ballard

saw that I had brought an answer to hisnote.

"Yuh must 'a' rode King's Highway," hesaid, looking at me much as Perry Potterhad done the night before.

I told him I did, and the boys gatheredround and wanted to know how I did it. Itold them about jumping the fence, and myconceit got a hard blow there; with oneaccord they made it plain that I had done avery foolish thing. Range horses, theyassured me, are not much at jumping, as arule; and wire-fences are their specialabhorrence. Frosty Miller told me, inconfidence, that he didn't know which wasthe bigger fool, Shylock or me, and hehoped I'd never be guilty of another tricklike that.

That rather took the bloom off myadventure, and I decided, after muchthought, that I agreed with Frosty: King'sHighway was bad medicine. I amendedthat a bit, and excepted Beryl King; I didnot think she was "bad medicine,"however acid might be her flavor.

CHAPTER VI.

I ask Beryl King to Dance.

If I were just yarning for the fun there is init, I should say that I was back in King'sHighway, helping Beryl King gatherposies and brush up her repartee, the verynext morning—or the second, at the verylatest. As a matter of fact, though, I steeredclear of that pass, and behaved myself andstuck to work for six long weeks; that isn'tsaying I never thought about her, though.

On the very last day of June, as nearly as Icould estimate, Frosty rode into Kenmorefor something, and came back with that in

his eyes that boded mischief; his words,however, were innocent enough for themost straight-laced.

"There's things doing in Kenmore," heremarked to a lot of us. "Old King has aparty of aristocrats out from New York,visiting—Terence Weaver, half-owner inthe mines, and some women; they're fixingto celebrate the Fourth with a dance. Thewomen, it seems, are crazy to see a realMontana dance, and watch the cowboyschasse around the room in their chaps andspurs and big hats, and with two or threesix-guns festooned around their middles,the way you see them in pictures. Theythink, as near as I could find out, thatcowboys always go to dances in full war-paint like that—and they'll be

disappointed if said cowboys don'tpunctuate the performance by shooting outthe lights, every so often." He lookedacross at me, and then is when I observedthe mischief brewing in his eyes.

"We'll have to take it in," I said promptly."I'm anxious to see a Montana dance,myself."

"We aren't in their set," gloomed Frosty,with diplomatic caution. "I won't swearthey're sending out engraved invitations,but, all the same, we won't be expected."

"We'll go, anyhow," I answered boldly."If they want to see cow-punchers, itseems to me the Ragged H can enter abunch that will take first prize."

Frosty looked at me, and permittedhimself to smile. "Uh course, if you'rebound to go, Ellis, I guess there's nostopping yuh—and some of us willnaturally have to go along to see yuhthrough. King's minions would sure dothings to yuh if yuh went without a body-guard." He shook his head, and cupped hishands around a match-blaze and acigarette, so that no one could tell muchabout his expression.

"I'm bound to go," I declared, taking thecue. "And I think I do need some of you toback me up. I think," I added judicially, "Ishall need the whole bunch."

The "bunch" looked at one another gravelyand sighed. "We'll have t' go, I reckon,"they said, just as though they weren't dying

to play the unexpected guest. So that wasdecided, and there was much whisperingamong groups when they thought thewagon-boss was near, and muchunobtrusive preparation.

It happened that the wagons pulled inclose to the ranch the day before theFourth, intending to lay over for a day orso. We were mighty glad of it, and hurriedthrough our work. I don't know why therest were so anxious to attend that dance,but for me, I'm willing to own that Iwanted to see Beryl King. I knew she'd bethere—and if I didn't manage, by fairmeans or foul, to make her dance with me,I should be very much surprised anddisappointed. I couldn't remember evergiving so much thought to a girl; but I

suppose it was because she was so franklyantagonistic that there was nothing tameabout our intercourse. I can't like girlswho invariably say just what you expectthem to say.

When we came to get ready, there was adress-discussion that a lot of womenwould find it hard to beat. Some of theboys wanted to play up to, the aristocrats'expectations, and wear their gaudiestneckerchiefs, their chaps, spurs, and allthe guns they could get their hands on; butI had an idea I thought beat theirs, andproselyted for all I was worth. Rankin hadpacked a lot of dress suits in one of mytrunks—evidently he thought Montana wassome sort of house-party—and I wanted tobuild a surprise for the good people at

King's. I wanted the boys to use those suitsto the best advantage.

At first they hung back. They didn't muchlike the idea of wearing borrowed clothes—which attitude I respected, but feltbound to overrule. I told them it was noworse than borrowing guns, which a lot ofthem were doing. In the end my oratorywas rewarded as it deserved; it wasdecided that, as even my capacious trunkscouldn't be expected to hold thirty dresssuits, part of the crowd should ride in fullregalia. I might "tog up" as many aspossible, and said "togged" men must lendtheir guns to the others; for every man ofthe "reals" insisted on wearing a gundangling over each hip.

So I went down into my trunks, and

disinterred four dress suits and threeTuxedos, together with all theappurtenances thereto. Oh, Rankin wascertainly a wonder! There was a gay-colored smoking-jacket and cap that oneof the boys took a fancy to and insisted onwearing, but I drew the line at that. Wenearly had a fight over it, right there.

When we were dressed—and I had tovalet the whole lot of them, except Frosty,who seemed wise to polite apparel—wewere certainly a bunch of winners.Modesty forbids explaining just how Iappear in a dress suit. I will only say thatmy tailor knew his business—but theothers were fearful and wonderful to lookupon. To begin with, not all of them standsix-feet-one in their stocking-feet, or tip

the scales at a hundred and eighty odd;likewise their shoulders lacked thebreadth that goes with the othermeasurements. Hence my tailor woulddoubtless have wept at the sight; shouldersdrooping spiritlessly, and sleeves turnedup, and trousers likewise. Frosty Miller,though, was like a man with his mask off;he stood there looking the gentleman born,and I couldn't help staring at him.

"You've been broken to society harness,old man, and are bridle-wise," I said,slapping him on the shoulder. He whirledon me savagely, and his face was palerthan I'd ever seen it.

"And if I have—what the hell is it toyou?" he asked unpleasantly, and Istammered out some kind of apology. Far

be it from me to pry into a man's past.

I straightened Sandy Johnson's tie, turnedup his sleeves another inch, and westarted out. And I will say we were aquaint-looking outfit. Perhaps my meaningwill be clearer when I say that every oneof us wore the soft, white "Stetson" of therange-land, and a silk handkerchiefknotted loosely around the throat, andspurs and riding-gloves. I've oftenwondered if the range has ever seen justthat wedding of the East and the Westbefore in man's apparel.

We'd scarcely got started when the windcaught Frosty's coat-tails and slappedthem down along the flanks of his horse—an incident that the horse met with sterndisapproval. He went straight up into the

air, and then bucked as long as his windheld out, the while Frosty's quirt kept timewith the tails of his coat.

When the two had calmed down a bit, theother boys profited by Frosty'sexperience, and tucked the coat-tailssnugly under them—and those who worethe Tuxedos congratulated themselves ontheir foresight. We were a merry party,and we were willing to publish the fact.

When we had overtaken the others wewere still merrier, for the spectacularcontingent plumed themselves likepeacocks on their fearsomeness, andguyed us conventionally garbed fellowsunmercifully.

When the thirty of us filed into the long,

barn-like hall where they were having thedance, I believe I can truthfully say thatwe created a sensation. That "ripple ofexcitement" which we read about so oftenin connection with belles and balls wentround the room. Frosty and I led the way,and the rest of the "biscuit-shooterbrigade," as the others called us, followedtwo by two. Then came the real WildWest show, with their hats tilted far backon their heads and brazen faces which itpained me to contemplate. We arrivedduring that humming hash which comesjust after a number, and every one staredimpolitely, and some of them notovercordially. I began to wonder if wehadn't done a rather ill-bred thing, to hurlourselves so unceremoniously into themerrymakings of the enemy; but I

comforted myself with the thought that thedance was given as a public affair, so thatwe were acting within our technical rights—though I own that, as I looked aroundupon our crowd, ranged solemnly alongthe wall, it struck me that we were a bitspectacular.

She was there, chatting with some otherwomen, at the far end of the hall, and ifshe saw me enter the room she did notshow any disquietude; from where I stood,she seemed perfectly at ease, andunconscious of anything unusual havingoccurred. Old King I could not see.

A waltz was announced—rather,bellowed—and the boys drifted awayfrom me. It was evident that they did notintend to become wall flowers. For

myself, it occurred to me that, except mysomewhat debatable acquaintance withMiss King, I did not know a woman in theroom. I called up all my courage andfortitude, and started toward her. I wasdetermined to ask her to dance, and I gotsome chilly comfort out of the reflectionthat she couldn't do any worse than refuse;still, that would be quite bad enough, and Iwill not say that I crossed that room, withthree or four hundred eyes upon me, in anyoh-be-joyful frame of mind. I rathersuspect that my face resembled thatplebeian and oft-mentioned vegetable, thebeet. I was within ten feet of her, and Iwas thinking that she couldn't possiblyhold that cool, unconscious look muchlonger, when a hand feminine wasextended from the row of silent watchers

and caught at my sleeve.

"Ellie Carleton, it's never you!" chirped afamiliar voice.

I turned, a bit dazed with the unexpectedinterruption, and saw that it was EdithLoroman, whom I had last seen in the Eastthe summer before, when I was gyratingthrough Newport and all those places,with Barney MacTague for chaperon, andwhom I had known for long. Edith hadchosen to be very friendly always, and Iliked her—only, I suspected her of being abit too worldly to suit me.

"And why isn't it I? I can't see that myidentity is more surprising than yours," Iretorted, pulling myself together. It didcertainly give me a start to see her there,

and looking so exactly as she had alwayslooked. I couldn't think of anything more tosay, so, as the music had started, I askedher if she had any dances saved for me. Icouldn't decently leave her and carry outmy original plan, you see.

She laughed at my ignorance, and told methat this was a "frontier" dance, and therewere no programs.

"You just promise one or two dancesahead," she explained. "As many as youcan remember. Beryl told me all abouthow they do here; Beryl King is mycousin, you know."

I didn't know, but I was content to take herword for it, and asked her for that danceand got it, and she chattered on about

everything under the sun, and told allabout how they happened to be inMontana, and how long they were going tostay, and that Mr. Weaver had brought hisauto, and another fellow—I forget hisname—had intended to bring his, butdidn't, and that they were going to tourthrough to Helena, on their way home, andit would be such fun, and that if I didn'tcome over right away to call upon her, shewould never forgive me.

"There's a drawback," I told her. "I'm noton your cousin's visiting-list; I've nevereven been introduced to her."

"That," said Miss Edith complacently, "iseasily remedied. You know mama wellenough, I should think. Aunt Lodema—funny name, isn't it?—is stopping here all

summer, with Beryl. Beryl has thestrangest tastes. She will spend everysummer out here with her father, and if anyof us poor mortals want a glimpse of herbetween seasons, we must come whereshe is. She's a dear, and you must knowher, even if you do hold yourself superiorto us women. She's almost as much acrank on athletics as you are; you ought tosee her on the links, once! That's why Ican't understand her running away off hereevery summer. And, by the way, Ellie,what are you doing here—a stranger?"

"I'm earning my bread by the sweat of mybrow," I told her plainly. "I'm a cowboy—a would-be, I suppose I should say."

She looked up at me horrified. "Have you—lost—your millions?" she wanted to

know. Edith Loroman was always astraightforward questioner, at any rate.

"The millions," I told her, laughing, "areall right, I believe. Dad has a cattle-ranchin this part of the world, and he sent meout here to reform me. He meant it as apunishment, but at present I'm gettingrather the best of the deal, I think."

"And where's Barney?" she asked. "Onereason I came near not recognizing youwas because you hadn't your shadowalong."

"Barney is luxuriating in idlenesssomewhere," I answered lightly. "Onecouldn't expect him to turn savage, justbecause I did. I can't imagine Barneyworking for his daily bread."

"I can," retorted Miss Edith, "every bit aseasily as I can imagine you! And, if you'llpardon me, I don't believe a word of it,either."

On the whole, I could hardly blame her.As she had always known me, I must haveappeared to her somewhat like Solomon'slilies. But I did not try to convince her;there were other things more important.

I went and made my bow to Mrs.Loroman, and answered sundry questions—more conventional, I may say, thanwere those of her daughter. Mrs. Loromanwas one of the best type of society dames,and I will own that I was a bit surprised tofind that she was Beryl King's aunt. Inspite of that indefinable little air ofbreeding that I had felt in my two meetings

with Miss King, I had thought of her asdistinctly a daughter of the range-land.

"I'll introduce you to my cousin and auntnow, if you like," Edith offeredgenerously, in an undertone—for the twowere not ten feet from us, although MissKing had not yet seen fit to know that Iwas in the room. How a woman can act sodeuced innocent, beats me.

Miss King lowered her chin as much ashalf an inch, and looked at me as if I werean exceeding commonplace, inanimateobject that could not possibly interest her.Her aunt, Lodema King, was almost asbad, I think; I didn't notice particularly.But Miss King's I-do-not-know-you-sir aircould not save her; I hadn't schemed like avillain for a week, and ridden twenty-five

miles at a good fast clip after a stiff day'swork, just to be presented and walk away.I asked her for the next waltz.

"The next waltz is promised to Mr.Weaver," she told me freezingly.

I asked for the next two-step.

"The next two-step is also promised—toMr. Weaver."

I began to have unfriendly feelings towardMr. Weaver. "Will you be good enough toinform what dance is not promised?" Ialmost finished "to Mr. Weaver," but I'mnot quite a cad, I hope.

"Really, we haven't programs here to-night," she parried.

I played a reckless lead. "I wonder," Isaid, looking straight down into those eyesof hers, and hoping she couldn't suspectthe prickles chasing over me at the verylook of them—"I wonder if it's becauseyou're afraid to dance with me?"

"Are you so—fearsome?" she retortedevenly, and I got back instantly:

"It would almost seem so."

I had the satisfaction of seeing her lip goin between her teeth. (I should like to saysomething about those teeth—only itwould sound like the advertisement of adentifrice, for I should be bound tomention pearls once or twice.)

"You are flattering yourself, Mr. Carleton;

I am not at all afraid to dance with you,"she said—and, oh, the tone of her!

"I shall expect you to prove that instantly,"I retorted, still looking straight into herface.

A quadrille—the old-fashioned kind—was called, and she looked up at me andput out her hand. Only an idiot wouldwonder whether I took it.

"This isn't a fair test," I told her, afterleading her out in position. "You won't bedancing with me a quarter of the time, youknow. Only the closest observer may tell,after we once get going, whom you aredancing with."

"That," she retorted, with a gleam in her

eyes I couldn't—being no lady's man—interpret—"that is a mere quibble, andwould not hold in court."

"It's going to hold in this court," Ianswered boldly, and wished I had not sosystematically wasted my opportunities inthe past—that I had spent more timedrinking tea and studying the "infernalfeminine."

She gave me a quick, puzzling glance, andas we were commanded at that instant tosalute our partners, she swept me a half-curtsy that made me grit my teeth, though Itried to make my own bow quite aselaborate and mocking. I couldn't makeher out at all during that dance. Wheneverwe came together there was that little airof mockery in every move she made, and

yet something in her eyes seemed to inviteand to challenge. The first time we wereprivileged, by the old-fashioned "caller,"to "swing our partners," milady wouldhave given me her finger-tips—only Iwouldn't have it that way. I held her asclose as I dared, and—I don't know butI'm a fool—she didn't seem in any greatrage over it. Lord, how I did wish I waswise to the ways of women!

The next waltz I couldn't have, becauseshe was to dance it with Mr. Weaver. So Ihad the fun of sitting there watching themfly around the room, and getting a good-sized dislike of the fellow over it. I don'tpretend to be one of those large-mindedmen who are always painfullyunprejudiced. Weaver looked like a pretty

good sort, and under other circumstances Ishould probably have liked him, but as itwas I emphatically did not.

However, I got a waltz, after a heart-breaking delay, and it was worth waitingfor. I had felt all along that we could hit itoff pretty well together, and we did. Wedidn't say much—we just floated off intoanother world—or I did—and there wasnothing I wanted to say that I dared say. Icall that a good excuse for silence.

Afterward I asked her for another, and shelooked at me curiously.

"You're a very hard man to convince, Mr.Carleton," she told me, with that samequeer look in her eyes. I was beginning toget drunk—intoxicated, if you like the

word better—on those same eyes; theyalways affected me, somehow, as if I'dnever seen them before; always that samelittle tingle of surprise went over me whenshe lifted those heavy fringes of lashes.I'm not psychologist enough to explainthis, and I'm strictly no good atintrospection; it was that way with me,and that will have to do.

I told her she probably would never meetanother who required so much convincing,and, after wrangling over the matterpolitely for a minute, got her to promiseme another waltz, said promise to beredeemed after supper.

I tried to talk to "Aunt Lodema," but shewould have none of me, and she seemed tothink I had more than my share of

effrontery to attempt such a thing. Mrs.Loroman was better, and I filled in fifteenminutes or so very pleasantly with her.After that I went over to Edith and got herto sit out a dance with me.

The first thing she asked me was aboutFrosty. Who was he? and why was hehere? and how long had he been here? Itold her all I knew about him, and thenturned frank and asked her why shewanted to know.

"Mama hasn't recognized him—yet," shesaid confidentially, "but I was sure he wasthe same. He has shaved his mustache, andhe's much browner and heavier, but he'sFred Miller—and why doesn't he comeand speak to me?"

Out of much words, I gathered that she andFrosty were, to put it mildly, old friends.She didn't just say there was anengagement between them, but she hintedit; his father had "had trouble"—thevagueness of women!—and Edith's mamahad turned Frosty down, to put it bluntly.Frosty had, ostensibly, gone to SouthAfrica, and that was the last of him. MissEdith seemed quite disturbed over seeinghim there in Kenmore. I told her that ifFrosty wanted to stay in the background,that was his privilege and my gain, andshe smiled at me vaguely and said ofcourse it didn't really matter.

At supper-time our crowd got thestorekeeper intimidated sufficiently toopen his store and sell us something to eat.

The King faction had looked upon usblackly, though there were too many of usto make it safe meddling, and none of uswere minded to break bread with them.Instead, we sat around on the counter andon boxes in the store, and ate crackers andsardines and things like that. I couldn'thelp remembering my last Fourth, and thebanquet I had given on board the MollyStark—my yacht, named after the ladyknown to history, whom dad claims for anancestress—and I laughed out loud. Theboys wanted to know the cause of mymirth, and so, with a sardine laid outdecently between two crackers in onehand, and a blue "granite" cup of plebeianbeer in the other, I told them all about thatbanquet, and some of the things we had toeat and drink—whereat they laughed, too.

The contrast was certainly amusing. But,somehow, I wouldn't have changed, justthen, if I could have done so. That, also, issomething I'm not psychologist enough toexplain.

That last waltz with Miss King was like toprove disastrous, for we swisheduncomfortably close to her father, standingscowling at Frosty and some of the othersof our crowd near the door. Luckily, hedidn't see us, and at the far end Miss Kingstopped abruptly. Her cheeks were pink,and her eyes looked up at me—wistfully, Icould almost say.

"I think, Mr. Carleton, we had betterstop," she said hesitatingly. "I don'tbelieve your enmity is so ungenerous as towish to cause me unpleasantness. You

surely are convinced now that I am notafraid of you, so the truce is over."

I did not pretend to misunderstand. "I'mgoing home at once," I told her gently,"and I shall take my spectacular crowdalong with me; but I'm not sorry I came,and I hope you are not."

She looked at me soberly, and then away."There is one thing I should like to say,"she said, in so low a tone I had to lean tocatch the words. "Please don't try to ridethrough King's Highway again; father hatesyou quite enough as it is, and it is scarcelythe part of a gentleman to needlesslyprovoke an old man."

I could feel myself grow red. What a cad Imust seem to her! "King's Highway shall

be safe from my vandal feet hereafter," Itold her, and meant it.

"So long as you keep that promise," shesaid, smiling a bit, "I shall try toremember mine enemy with respect."

"And I hope that mine enemy shallsometimes view the beauties of WhiteDivide from a little distance—say half amile or so," I answered daringly.

She heard me, but at that minute thatWeaver chap came up, and she begantalking to him as though he was her long-lost friend. I was clearly out of it, so I toldEdith and her mother good night, bowed to"Aunt Lodema" and got the stony stare formy reward, and rounded up my crowd.

We passed old King in a body, and hegrowled something I could not hear; oneof the boys told me, afterward, that it wasjust as well I didn't. We rode away underthe stars, and I wished that night had beenfour times as long, and that Beryl Kingwould be as nice to me as was EdithLoroman.

CHAPTER VII.

One Day Too Late!

I suppose there is always a time when afellow passes quite suddenly out of thecub-stage and feels himself a man—or, atleast, a very great desire to be one. Untilthat Fourth of July life had been to me aplayground, with an interruption or two tothe game. When dad took such heroicmeasures to instil some sense into myhead, he interrupted the game for ten daysor so—and then I went back to my play,satisfied with new toys. At least, that isthe way it seemed to me. But after that

night, things were somehow different. Iwanted to amount to something; I wasabsolutely ashamed of my generaluselessness, and I came near writing todad and telling him so.

The worst of it was that I didn't know justwhat it was I wanted to do, except rideover to that little pinnacle just out fromKing's Highway, and watch for BerylKing; that, of course, was out of thequestion, and maudlin, anyway.

On the third day after, as Frosty and Iwere riding circle quite silently andmoodily together, we rode up into a littlecoulée on the southwestern side of WhiteDivide, and came quite unexpectedly upona little picnic-party camped comfortablydown by the spring where we had meant

to slake our own thirst. Of course, it wasthe Kings' house-party; they were the onlyluxuriously idle crowd in the country.

Edith and her mother greeted me withmuch apparent joy, but, really, I felt sorryfor Frosty; all that saved him fromrecognition then was the providentialnear-sightedness of Mrs. Loroman. Iobserved that he was careful not to comeclose enough to the lady to run any risk.

Aunt Lodema tilted her chin at me, andBeryl—to tell the truth, I couldn't make upmy mind about Beryl. When I first rode upto them, and she looked at me, I fanciedthere was a welcome in her eyes; after thatthere was anything else you like to name. Ilooked several times at her to make sure,but I couldn't tell any more what she was

thinking than one can read the face of aChinaman. (That isn't a pretty comparison,I know, but it gives my meaning, for, of allhumans, Chinks are about the hardest tounderstand or read.) I was willing,however, to spend a good deal of timestudying the subject of her thoughts, andgot off my horse almost as soon as Mrs.Loroman and Edith invited me to stop andeat lunch with them. That Weaver fellowwas not present, but another man, whomthey introduced as Mr. Tenbrooke, wassitting dolefully on a rock, watching amaid unpacking eatables. Edith told methat "Uncle Homer"—which was old manKing—and Mr. Weaver would be alongpresently. They had driven over toKenmore first, on a matter of business.

Frosty, I could see, was not going to stay,even though Edith, in a polite little voicethat made me wonder at her, invited him todo so. Edith was not the hostess, and hadreally no right to do that.

I tried to get a word with Miss Beryl,found myself having a good many wordswith Edith, instead, and in fifteen minutesI became as thoroughly disgusted withunkind fate as ever I've been in my life,and suddenly remembered that duty madefurther delay absolutely impossible. Werode away, with Edith protesting prettilyat what she was pleased to call my badmanners.

For the rest of the way up that couléeFrosty and I were even more silent andmoody than we had been before. The only

time we spoke was when Frosty asked megruffly how long those people expected tostay out here. I told him a week, and hegrunted something under his breath aboutfemale fortune-hunters. I couldn't see whathe was driving at, for I certainly shouldnever think of accusing Edith and hermother of being that especial brand ofabhorrence, but he was in a bitter mood,and I wouldn't argue with him then—I hadtroubles of my own to think of. I wasbeginning to call myself several kinds of afool for letting a girl—however wonderfulher eyes—give me bad half-hours quite sofrequently; the thing had never happenedto me before, and I had known hundreds ofnice girls—approximately. When a fellowgoes through a co-ed course, and has adad whom the papers call financier, he

gets a speaking-acquaintance with a fewgirls. The trouble with me was, I nevergave the whole bunch as much thought as Iwas giving to Beryl King—and the more Ithought about her, the less satisfactionthere was in the thinking.

I waited a day or two, and then practicallyran away from my work and rode over tothat little butte. Some one was sitting onthe same flat rock, and I climbed up to theplace with more haste than grace, Iimagine. When I reached the top, pantinglike the purr of the Yellow Peril —myautomobile—when it gets warmed up andgoing smoothly, I discovered that it wasEdith Loroman sitting placidly, with acamera on her knees, doing things to theinternal organs of the thing. I don't know

much about cameras, so I can't be moreexplicit.

"If it isn't Ellie, looking for all the worldlike the Virginian just stepped down frombehind the footlights!" was her greeting."Where in the world have you been, thatyou haven't been over to see us?"

"You must know that the palace of theKing is closed against the Carletons," Isaid, and I'm afraid I said it a bit crossly; Ihadn't climbed that unmerciful butte just tobandy commonplaces with Edith Loroman,even if we were old friends. There aretimes when new enemies are morediverting than the oldest of old friends.

"Well, you could come when UncleHomer is away—which he often is," she

pouted. "Every Sunday he drives over toKenmore and pokes around his miners andmines, and often Terence and Beryl gowith him, so you could come—"

"No, thank you." I put on the dignity threedeep there. "If I can't come when youruncle is at home, I won't sneak in whenhe's gone. I—how does it happen you areaway out here by yourself?"

"Well," she explained, still doing things tothe camera, "Beryl came out hereyesterday, and made a sketch of thedivide; I just happened to see her putting itaway. So I made her tell me where she gotthat view-point, and I wanted her to comewith me, so I could get a snap shot; it ispretty, from here. But she went over to themines with Mr. Weaver, and I had to come

alone. Beryl likes to be around those dirtymines—but I can't bear it. And, now I'mhere, something's gone wrong with thething, so I can't wind the film. Do youknow how to fix it, Ellie?"

I didn't, and I told her so, in a word. Edithpouted again—she has a pretty mouth thatlooks well all tied up in a knot, and I havea slight suspicion that she knows it—andsaid that a fellow who could take anautomobile all to pieces and put it togetheragain ought to be able to fix a kodak.That's the way some women reason, Ibelieve—just as though cars and kodaksare twin brothers.

Our conversation, as I remember it now,was decidedly flat and dull. I kept thinkingof Beryl being there the day before—and I

never knew; of her being off somewhereto-day with that Weaver fellow—and Iknew it and couldn't do a thing. I hardlyknow which was the more unpleasant todwell upon, but I do know that it made memighty poor company for Edith. I sat thereon a near-by rock and lighted cigarettes,only to let them go out, and glowered atKing's Highway, off across the flat, as if itwere the mouth of the bottomless pit. Ican't wonder that Edith called me a bear,and asked me repeatedly if I hadtoothache, or anything.

By and by she had her kodak in workingorder again, and took two or three picturesof the divide. Edith is very pretty, Ibelieve, and looks her best in shortwalking-costume. I wondered why she had

not ridden out to the butte; Beryl had, thetime I met her there, I remembered. Shehad a deep-chested blue roan that lookedas if he could run, and I had noticed thatshe wore the divided skirt, which is sopopular among women who ride. I don't,as a rule, notice much what women haveon—but Beryl King's feet are altogethertoo small for the least observant man topass over. Edith's feet were well shod, butcommonplace.

"I wish you'd let me have one of thosepictures when they're done," I told her, asamiably as I could.

She pushed back a lock of hair. "I'll sendyou one, if you like, when I get home.What address do you claim, in thiswilderness?"

I wrote it down for her and went my way,feeling a badly used young man, with astrong inclination to quarrel with fate.Edith had managed, during her well-meantefforts at entertaining me, to couple Mr.Weaver's name all too frequently with thatof her cousin. I found it very depressing—a good many things, in fact, weredepressing that day.

I went back to camp and stuck to work forthe rest of that week—until some of theboys told me that they had seen the Kings'guests scooting across the prairie in thebig touring-car of Weaver's, evidentlyheaded for Helena.

After that I got restless again, and everymile the round-up moved south I took as aspecial grievance; it put that much greater

distance between me and King's Highway—and I had got to that unhealthy stagewhere every mile wore on my nerves, andall I wanted was to moon around that littlebutte. I believe I should even have taken amorbid pleasure in watching the light inher window o' nights, if it had been at allpracticable.

CHAPTER VIII

A Fight and a Race for Life.

It was between the spring round-up andthe fall, while the boys were employed indesultory fashion at the home ranch,breaking in new horses and the like, andwhile I was indefatigably wearing a trailstraight across country to that little butte—and getting mighty little out of it save theexercise and much heart-burnings—thatthe message came.

A man rode up to the corrals on a lather-gray horse, coming from Kenmore, wherewas a telephone-station connected from

Osage. I read the message incredulously.Dad sick unto death? Such a thing hadnever happened—couldn't happen, itseemed to me. It was unbelievable; not tobe thought of or tolerated. But all thewhile I was planning and scheming toshave off every superfluous minute, andget to where he was.

I held out the paper to Perry Potter, "Havesome one saddle up Shylock," I ordered,quite as if he had been Rankin. "AndFrosty will have to go with me as far asOsage. We can make it by to-morrownoon—through King's Highway. I mean toget that early afternoon train."

The last sentence I sent back over myshoulder, on my way to the house. Dadsick—dying? I cursed the miles between

us. Frisco was a long, a terribly long, wayoff; it seemed in another world.

By then I was on my way back to thecorral, with a decent suit of clothes on anda few things stuffed into a bag, and with aroll of money—money that I had earned—in my pocket. I couldn't have been tenminutes, but it seemed more. And Friscowas a long way off!

"You'd better take the rest of the boys partway," Potter greeted dryly as I came up.

I brushed past him and swung up into thesaddle, feeling that if I stopped to answerI might be too late. I had a foolish notionthat even a long breath would conspire todelay me. Frosty was already on hishorse, and I noticed, without thinking

about it at the time, that he was riding along-legged sorrel, "Spikes," that couldmatch Shylock on a long chase—as thiswas like to be.

We were off at a run, without oncelooking back or saying good-by to a manof them; for farewells take minutes in thesaying, and minutes meant—more than Icared to think about just then. They weregood fellows, those cowboys, but I leftthem standing awkwardly, as men do inthe face of calamity they may not hinder,without a thought of whether I should eversee one of them again. With Frostygalloping at my right, elbow to elbow, wefaced the dim, purple outline of WhiteDivide.

Already the dusk was creeping over the

prairie-land, and little sleepy birds startedout of the grasses and flew protestingaway from our rush past their nesting-places. Frosty spoke when we had passedout of the home-field, even in our hastestopping to close and tie fast the gatebehind us.

"You don't want to run your horse down inthe first ten miles, Ellis; we'll make timeby taking it easy at first, and you'll getthere just as soon." I knew he was rightabout it, and pulled Shylock down to thesteady lope that was his natural gait. Itwas hard, though, to just "mosey" along asif we were starting out to kill time andearn our daily wage in the easiest possiblemanner. One's nerves demanded anunusual pace—a pace that would soothe

fear by its very headlong race againstmisfortune.

Once or twice it occurred to me towonder, just for a minute, how we shouldfare in King's Highway; but mostly mythoughts stuck to dad, and how it happenedthat he was "critically ill," as the messagehad put it. Crawford had sent thatmessage; I knew from the precise way itwas worded—Crawford never saidsick—and Crawford was about asconservative a man as one could well be,and be human. He was as unemotional as aproperly trained footman; Jenks, ourbutler, showed more feeling. ButCrawford, if he was conservative, wasalso conscientious. Dad had had him forten years, and trusted him a million miles

farther than he would trust anybody else—for Crawford could no more lie than couldthe multiplication-table; if he said dadwas "critically ill," that settled it; dadwas. I used to tell Barney MacTague,when he thought it queer that I knew solittle about dad's affairs, that dad was afireproof safe, and Crawford was thecombination lock. But perhaps it was theother way around; at any rate, theyunderstood each other perfectly, and noother living man understood either.

The darkness flowed down over the landand hid the farther hills; the sky-line creptcloser until White Divide seemed theboundary of the world, and all beyond itstumbled shade was untried mystery.Frosty, a shadowy figure rising and falling

regularly beside me, turned his face andspoke again:

"We ought to make Pochette's Crossing bydaylight, or a little after—with luck," hesaid. "We'll have to get horses from him togo on with; these will be all in, when weget that far."

"We'll try and sneak through the pass," Ianswered, putting unpleasant thoughtsresolutely behind me. "We can't take timeto argue the point out with old King."

"Sneak nothing," Frosty retorted grimly."You don't know King, if you're countingon that."

I came near asking how he expected to getthrough, then; when I remembered my own

spectacular flight, on a certain occasion, Ifelt that Frosty was calmly disowning ouronly hope.

We rode quietly into the mouth of King'sHighway, our horses stepping softly in thedeep sand of the trail as if they, too,realized the exigencies of the situation.We crossed the little stream that is thefirst baby beginning of Honey Creek—which flows through our ranch—withscarce a splash to betray our passing, andstopped before the closed gate. Frosty gotdown to swing it open, and his fingerstouched a padlock doing business withbulldog pertinacity. Clearly, King wasminded to protect himself fromunwelcome evening callers.

"We'll have to take down the wires,"

Frosty murmured, coming back to where Iwaited. "Got your gun handy? Yuh mightneed it before long." Frosty was notwarlike by nature, and when he advisedhaving a gun handy I knew the situation tobe critical.

We took down a panel of fence withoutinterruption or sign of life at the house, notmore than fifty yards away; Frostywhispered that they were probably atsupper, and that it was our best time. Iwas foolish enough to regret going bywithout chance of a word with Beryl,great as was my haste. I had not seen hersince that day Frosty and I had ridden intotheir picnic—though I made effortsenough, the Lord knows—and I was not atall happy over my many failures.

Whether it was good luck or bad, I sawher rise up from a hammock on the porchas we went by—for, as I said before,King's house was much closer to the trailthan was decent; I could have leaned fromthe saddle and touched her with my quirt.

"Mr. Carleton"—I was fool enough togloat over her instant recognition, in thedark like that—"what are you doing here—at this hour? Don't you know the risk?And your promise—" She spoke in anundertone, as if she were afraid of beingoverheard—which I don't doubt she was.

But if she had been a Delilah she couldn'thave betrayed me more completely. Frostymotioned imperatively for me to go on, butI had pulled up at her first word, and thereI stood, waiting for her to finish, that I

might explain that I had not lightly brokenmy promise; that I was compelled to cutoff that extra sixty miles which wouldhave made me, perhaps, too late. But Ididn't tell her anything; there wasn't time.Frosty, waiting disapprovingly a lengthahead, looked back and beckoned againinsistently. At the same instant a doorbehind the girl opened with a jerk, andKing himself bulked large and angry in thelamplight. Beryl shrank backward with alittle cry—and I knew she had not meantto do me a hurt.

"Come on, you fool!" cried Frosty, andstruck his horse savagely. I jabbed in myspurs, and Shylock leaped his length andfled down that familiar trail to the"gantlet," as I had always called it

mentally after that second passing. ButKing, behind us, fired three shots quickly,one after another—and, as the bullets sangpast, I knew them for a signal.

A dozen men, as it seemed to me,swarmed out from divers places to disputeour passing, and shots were being fired inthe dark, their starting-point betrayed byvicious little spurts of flame. Shylockwinced cruelly, as we whipped around thefirst shed, and I called out sharply toFrosty, still a length ahead. He turned justas my horse went down to his knees.

I jerked my feet from the stirrups andlanded free and upright, which was ablessing. And it was then that I swungmorally far back to the primitive, andwanted to kill, and kill, with never a

thought for parley or retreat. Frosty, likethe stanch old pal he was, pulled up andcame back to me, though the bullets wereflying fast and thick—and not wide enoughfor derision on our part.

"Jump up behind," he commanded,shooting as he spoke. "We'll get out of thisdamned trap."

I had my doubts, and fired away withoutpaying him much attention. I wanted, morethan anything, to get the man who had shotdown Shylock. That isn't a prettyconfession, but it has the virtue of beingthe truth. So, while Frosty fired at thespurts of red and cursed me for stoppingthere, I crouched behind my dead horseand fought back with evil in my heart anda mighty poor aim.

Then, just as the first excitement washardening into deliberate malevolence,came a clatter from beyond the house, anda chorus of familiar yells and the spitefulsnapping of pistols. It was our boys—thirty of the biggest-hearted, bravestfellows that ever wore spurs, and, as theycame thundering down to us, I could makeout the bent, wiry figure of old PerryPotter in the lead, yelling and shootingwickeder than any one else in the crowd.

"Ellis!" he shouted, and I lifted up myvoice and let him know that, like Webster,"I still lived." They came on with a rushthat the King faction could not stay, towhere I was ambushed between the solidwalls of two sheds, with Shylock's bulkbefore me and Frosty swearing at my

back.

"Horse hit?" snapped Perry Potterbreathlessly. "I knowed it. Just like yuh.Get onto this'n uh mine—he's the best inthe bunch—and light out—if yuh still wantt' catch that train."

I came back from the primitive with arush. I no longer wanted to kill and kill.Dad was lying "critically ill" in Frisco—and Frisco was a long way off! The milesbetween bulked big and black before me,so that I shivered and forgot my quarrelwith King. I must catch that train.

I went with one leap up into the saddle asPerry Potter slid down, thought vaguelythat I never could ride with the stirrups soshort, but that there was not time to

lengthen them; took my feet peevishly outof them altogether, and dashed down, thatwinding way between King's sheds andcorrals while the Ragged H boys keptKing's men at bay, and the unmusicalmedley of shots and yells followed us farin the darkness of the pass. At the lastfence, where we perforce drew rein tomake a free passage for our horses, Ilooked back, like one Mrs. Lot. A redglare lit the whole sky behind us withstarry sparks, shooting up higher into thelow-hanging crimson smoke-clouds. Istared, uncomprehending for a moment;then the thought of her stabbed through mybrain, and I felt a sudden horror. "AndBeryl's back among those devils!" I criedaloud, as I pulled my horse around.

"Beryl"—Frosty laid peculiar stress uponthe name I had let slip—"isn't likely to bedown among the sheds, where that fire is.Our boys are collecting damages forShylock, I guess; hope they make a goodjob of it."

I felt silly enough just then to quarrel withmy grandmother; I hate giving a man causefor thinking me a love-sick lobster, as I'dno doubt Frosty thought me. I led my horseover the wires he had let down, and wewent on without stopping to put them backon the posts. It was some time before Ispoke again, and, when I did, the subjectwas quite different; I was mourningbecause I hadn't the Yellow Peril to eat upthe miles with.

"What good would that do yuh?" Frosty

asked, with a composure I could only callunfeeling. "Yuh couldn't get a train,anyway, before the one yuh will get;motors are all right, in their place—but ahorse isn't to be despised, either. I'd ratherbe stranded with a tired horse than abroken-down motor."

I did not agree with him, partly because Iwas not at all pleased with my presentmount, and partly because I was not inamiable mood; so we galloped along insulky silence, while a washed-out moonsidled over our heads and dodged behindcloud-banks quite as if she were ashamedto be seen. The coyotes got to yapping outsomewhere in the dark, and, as we cameamong the breaks that border the Missouri,a gray wolf howled close at hand.

Perry Potter's horse, that had shownunmistakable symptoms of disgust at theendless gallop he had been called upon tomaintain, shied sharply away from thesound, stumbled from leg-weariness, andfell heavily; for the second time that nightI had need to show my dexterity—but, inthis case, with Perry Potter's stirrupsswinging somewhere in the vicinity of myknees, the danger of getting caught was notso great. I stood there in the darkloneliness of the silent hills and thehowling wolf, and looked down at thebrute with little pity and a good deal ofresentment. I applied my toe tentatively tohis ribs, and he just grunted. Frosty gotdown and led Spikes closer, and togetherwe surveyed the heavily breathing, graybulk in the sand at our feet.

"If he was the Yellow Peril, instead of oneof your much-vaunted steeds," I remarkedtartly, "I could go at him with a wrenchand have him in working order again infive minutes; as it is—" I felt that thesentence was stronger uncompleted.

"As it is," finished Frosty calmly, "you'lljust step up on Spikes and go on toPochette's. It's only about ten miles, now;Spikes is good for it, if you ease him onthe hills now and then. He isn't the YellowPeril, maybe, but he's a good little horse,and he'll sure take yuh through the best heknows."

I don't know why, but a lump came up inmy throat at the tone of him. I put out myhand and laid it on Spikes' wet, sweat-roughened neck. "Yes, he's a good little

horse, and I beg his pardon for what Isaid," I owned, still with the ache justback of my palate. "But he can't carry usboth, Frosty; I'll just have to tinker up thisold skate, and make him go on."

"Yuh can't do it; he's reached his limit.Yuh can't expect a common cayuse likehim to do more than eighty miles in oneshift—at the gait we've been traveling. I'msurprised he's held out so long. Yuh takeSpikes and go on; I'll walk in. Yuh knowthe way from here, and I can't help yuh outany more than to let yuh have Spikes. Goon—it's breaking day, and yuh haven't gotany too much time to waste."

I looked at him, at Spikes standing wearilyon three legs but with his ears perkedgamily ahead, and down at the gray, worn-

out horse of Perry Potter's. They havedone what they could—and not oneseemed to regret the service. I felt, at thatmoment, mighty small and unworthy, andtempted to reject the offer of the last ounceof endurance from either—for which Iwas not as deserving as I should haveliked to be.

"You worked all day, and you've riddenall night, and gone without a mouthful ofsupper for me," I protested hotly. "Andnow you want to walk ten beastly miles ofsand and hills. I won't—"

"Your dad cared enough to send for you—" he began, but I would not let himfinish.

"You're right, Frosty," and I wrung his

hand. "You're the real thing, and I'd do asmuch for you, old pal. I'll make thatFrenchman rub Spikes down for an hour,or I'll kill him when I get back."

"You won't come back," said Frostybruskly. "See that streak uh yellow, overthere? Get a move on, if yuh don't want tomiss that train—but ease Spikes up thehills!"

I nodded, pulled my hat down low overmy eyes, and rode away; when I did getcourage to glance back, Frosty still stoodwhere I had left him, looking down at thegray horse.

An hour after sunrise I slipped off Spikesand watched them lead him away to thestable; he staggered like a man when he

has drunk too long and deeply. Iswallowed a cup of coffee, mounted alittle buckskin, and went on, withPochette's assurance, "Don't be afraid toput heem through," ringing in my ears. Iwas not afraid to put him through. Thatlast forty-eight miles I rode mercilessly—for the demon of hurry was again urgingme on. At ten o'clock I rolled stiffly off thebuckskin at the Osage station, walkedmore stiffly into the office, and asked for amessage. The operator handed me two,and looked at me with much curiosity—but I suppose I was a sight. The first wasto tell me that a special would be ready atten-thirty, and that the road would becleared for it. I had not thought about aspecial—Osage being so far from Frisco;but Crawford was a wonder, and he had a

long arm. My respect for Crawfordincreased amazingly as I read thatmessage, and I began at once to bully theagent because the special was not ready atthat minute to start. The second messagewas a laconic statement that dad was stillalive; I folded it hurriedly and put it out ofsight, for somehow it seemed to say agood many nasty things between thewords.

I wired Crawford that I was ready to startand waiting for the special, and then Ifumed and continued my bullying of theman in the office; he was not to blame foranything, of course, but it was atremendous relief to take it out ofsomebody just then.

The special came, on time to a second,

and I swung on and told the conductor toput her through for all she was worth—buthe had already got his instructions as tospeed, I fancy; we ripped down the track amile a minute—and it wasn't long till webettered that more than I'd have believedpossible. The superintendent's car hadbeen given over to me, I learned from theporter, and would carry me to Ogden,where dad's own car, the Shasta, wouldmeet me. There, too, I saw the hand ofCrawford; it was not like dad or him toborrow anything unless the necessity wasabsolute.

I hope I may never be compelled to takeanother such journey. Not that I wasnervous at the killing pace we went—andit was certainly hair-raising, in places; but

every curve that we whipped around ontwo wheels—approximately—told me thatdad was in desperate case indeed, and thatCrawford was oiling every joint with goldto get me there in time. At every divisionthe crack engine of the shops was coupledon in seconds, rather than minutes,bellowed its challenge to all previousrecords, and scuttled away to the west; anew conductor swung up the steps andanswered patiently the questions I hurledat him, and courteously passed over theinvectives when I felt that we werecrawling at a snail's pace and wanted himto hurry a bit.

At Ogden I hustled into the Shasta and felta grain of comfort in its familiaratmosphere, and a sense of companionship

in the solemn face of Cromwell Jones, ourporter. I had taken many a jaunt in the oldcar, with Crom, and Rankin, and Tony, thebest cook that ever fed a hungry man, andit seemed like coming home just to throwmyself into my pet chair again, with Cromto fetch me something cold and fizzy.

From him I learned that it was pneumonia,and that if I got there in time it would beconsidered a miracle of speed and atriumph of faultless railroad system. If Ihad been tempted to take my ease and tosleep a bit, that settled it for me. TheShasta had no more power to lull my fearsor to minister to my comfort. I refused tobe satisfied with less than a couple ofhundred miles an hour, and I was sore atthe whole outfit because they refused to

accommodate me.

Still, we got over the ground at such a clipthat on the third day, with screech ofwhistle and clang of bell, we slowed atOakland pier, where a crowd wascheering like the end of a race—which itwas—and kodak fiends were underfoot asif I'd been somebody.

A motor-boat was waiting, and the racewent on across the bay, where Crawfordmet me with the Yellow Peril at the ferrydepot. I was told that I was in time, andwhen I got my hand on the wheel, andturned the Peril loose, it seemed, for thefirst time since leaving home, that fate wasstanding back and letting me run things.

Policemen waved their arms and said

things at the way we went up MarketStreet, but I only turned it on a bit moreand tried not to run over any humans; adog got it, though, just as we whipped intoSacramento Street. I remember wishingthat Frosty was with me, to be convincedthat motors aren't so bad after all.

It was good to come tearing up the hillwith the horn bellowing for a clear track,and to slow down just enough to make theturn between our bronze mastiffs, and skidup the drive, stopping at just the rightinstant to avoid going clear through thestable and trespassing upon our neighbor'sflower-beds. It was good—but I don'tbelieve Crawford appreciated the fact;imperturbable as he was, I fancied that helooked relieved when his feet touched the

gravel. I was human enough to enjoyscaring Crawford a bit, and even regrettedthat I had not shaved closer to a collision.

Then I was up-stairs, in an atmosphere ofdrugs and trained nurses and funeral quiet,and knew for a certainty that I was still intime, and that dad knew me and was gladto have me there. I had never seen dad inbed before, and all my life he had beenassociated in my mind with calm self-possession and power and perfectgrooming. To see him lying there like that,so white and weak and so utterly helpless,gave me a shock that I was quiteunprepared for. I came mighty near actinglike a woman with hysterics—and, comingas it did right after that run in the Peril, Igave Crawford something of a shock, too,

I think. I know he got me by the shouldersand hustled me out of the room, and hewas looking pretty shaky himself; and ifhis eyes weren't watery, then I sawexceedingly crooked.

A doctor came and made me swallowsomething, and told me that there was achance for dad, after all, though they hadnot thought so at first. Then he sent me offto bed, and Rankin appeared fromsomewhere, with his abominablyrighteous air, and I just escaped makinganother fool scene. But Rankin had thesense to take me in hand just as he used todo when I'd been having no end of a timewith the boys, and so got me to bed. Thestuff the doctor made me swallow did therest, and I was dead to the world in ten

minutes.

CHAPTER IX.

The Old Life—and the New.

Now that I was there, I was no good toanybody. The nurse wouldn't let me put mynose inside dad's door for a week, and Ihadn't the heart to go out much while hewas so sick. Rankin was about all therecreation I had, and he palled after thefirst day or two. I told him things aboutMontana that made him look painfulbecause he hardly liked to call me a liar tomy face; and the funny part was that I wastelling him the truth.

Then dad got well enough so the nurse had

no excuse for keeping me out, and I spenta lot of time sitting beside his bed andanswering questions. By the time he wassitting up, peevish at the restraint ofweakness and doctor's orders, we beganto get really acquainted and to be able totalk together without a burdensomerealization that we were father and son—and a mighty poor excuse for the son. Dadwasn't such bad company, I discovered.Before, he had been mostly the man thathandled the carving-knife when I dined athome, and that wrote checks and dictatedletters to Crawford in the privacy of hisown den—he called it his study.

Now I found that he could tell a story thathad some point to it, and could laugh atyours, in his dry way, whether it had any

point or not. I even got to telling him someof the scrapes I had got into, and aboutPerry Potter; dad liked to hear about PerryPotter. The beauty of it was, he couldunderstand everything; he had lived therehimself long enough to get the range view-point. I hate telling a yarn and then goingback over it explaining all the fine points.

I remember one night when the fog wasrolling in from the ocean till you couldhardly see the street-lamps across theway, we sat by the fire—dad was alwaysgreat for big, wood fires—and smoked;and somehow I got strung out and told himabout that Kenmore dance, and how theboys rigged up in my clothes and went.Dad laughed harder than I'd ever heardhim before; you see, he knew the range,

and the picture rose up before him allcomplete. I told that same yarn afterwardto Barney MacTague, and there wasnothing to it, so far as he was concerned.He said: "Lord! they must have been anout-at-heels lot not to have any clothes oftheir own." Now, what do you think ofthat?

Well, I went on from that and told dadabout my flying trips through King'sHighway, too—with the girl left out. Dadmatched his finger-tips together while Iwas telling it, and afterward he didn't saymuch; only: "I knew you'd play the foolsomehow, if you stayed long enough." Hedidn't explain, however, just whatparticular brand of fool I had been, orwhat he thought of old King, though I

hinted pretty strong. Dad has got a smoothway of parrying anything he doesn't wantto answer straight out, and it takes afellow with more nerve than I've got tocorner him and just make him give up anopinion if he doesn't want to. So I didn'tfind out a thing about that old row, or howit started—more than what I'd learned atthe Ragged H, that is.

Frosty had written me, a week or two afterI left, that our fellows had really burnedKing's sheds, and that Perry Potter had abullet just scrape the hair off the top of hishead, where he hadn't any to spare. Itmade him so mad, Frosty said, that hewanted to go back and kill, slay, andslaughter—that is Frosty's way of puttingit. Another one of the boys had been hit in

the arm, but it was only a flesh wound andnothing serious. So far as they could findout, King's men had got off without ascratch, Frosty said; which was anothergreat sorrow to Perry Potter, who wentaround saying pointed things about poormarkmanship and fellows who couldn't hita barn if they were locked inside—thatkept the boys stirred up and undecidedwhether to feel insulted or to take it as ajoke. I wished that I was back there—untilI read, down at the bottom of the last page,that Beryl King and her Aunt Lodema hadgone back to the East.

The next day I learned the same thing fromanother source. Edith Loroman had kepther promise—as I remembered her, shewasn't great at that sort of thing, either—

and sent me a picture of White Divide justbefore I left the ranch. Somehow, afterthat, we drifted into letter-writing. I wroteto thank her for the picture, and she wroteback to say "don't mention it"—in effect,at least, though it took three full pages toget that effect—and asked some questionsabout the ranch, and the boys, and FrostyMiller. I had to answer that letter and thequestions—and that's how it began. It wasa good deal of a nuisance, for I never didtake much to pen work, and my consciencewas hurting me half the time over delayedanswers; Edith was always prompt; sheliked to write letters better than I did,evidently.

But when she wrote, the day after I got thatletter from Frosty, and said that Beryl and

Aunt Lodema had just returned and weregoing to spend the winter in New Yorkand join the Giddy Whirl, I will own that Iwas a much better—that is, prompt—correspondent. Edith is that kind of girlwho can't write two pages withoutmentioning every one in her set; like thoseLocal Items from little country towns; aparagraph for everybody.

So, having a strange and unwholesomehankering to hear all I could about Beryl, Iencouraged Edith to write long and oftenby setting her an example. I didn'tconsider that I was taking a meanadvantage of her, either, for she's the kindof girl who boasts about the number of herproposals and correspondents. I knewshe'd cut a notch for me on the stick where

she counted her victims, but it was worththe price, and I'm positive Edith didn'tmind.

The only drawback was the disgustingfrequency with which the words "Beryland Terence Weaver" appeared; that didrather get on my nerves, and I did askEdith once if Terence Weaver was theonly man in New York. In fact, I was atone time on the point of going to NewYork myself and taking it out of Mr.Terence Weaver. I just ached to give hima run for his money. But when I hinted it—going to New York, I mean—dad lookedrather hurt.

"I had expected you'd stay at home untilafter the holidays, at least," he remarked."I'm old-fashioned enough to feel that a

family should be together Christmas week,if at no other time. It doesn't necessarilyfollow that because there are only two left—" Dad dropped his glasses just then, anddidn't finish the sentence. He didn't needto. I'd have stayed, then, no matter whatstring was pulling me to New York. It's soseldom, you see, that dad lowers his guardand lets you glimpse the real feeling thereis in him. I felt such a cur for even wantingto leave him, that I stayed in that eveninginstead of going down to the Olympic,where was to be a sort of impromptuboxing-match between a couple of ourswiftest amateurs.

Talking to dad was virtuous, butunexciting. I remember we discussed theprofit, loss, and risk of cattle-raising in

Montana, till bedtime came for dad. ThenI went up and roasted Rankin for lookingso damned astonished at my wanting to goto bed at ten-thirty. Rankin is unbearablyrighteous-looking, at times. I used often towish he'd do something wicked, just totake that moral look off him; but thepedestal of his solemn virtue was too highfor mere human temptations. So I had tocontent myself with shying a shoe his wayand asking him what there was funny aboutme.

After dad got well enough to go back towatching his millions grow, and didn'tseem to need me to keep him cheered up,life in our house dropped back to its oldlevel—which means that I saw dad once aday, maybe. He gave me back my

allowance and took to paying my billsagain, and I was free to get into the oldpace—which I will confess wasn't slow.The Montana incident seemed closed forgood, and only Frosty's letters and a ratherpersistent memory was left of it.

In a month I had to acknowledge twoemotions I hadn't counted on: surprise anddisgust. I couldn't hit the old pace.Somehow, things were different—or I wasdifferent. At first I thought it was becauseBarney MacTague was away cruisingaround the Hawaii Islands, somewhere,with a party.

I came near having the Molly Stark put incommission and going after him; but dadwouldn't hear of that, and told me I'dbetter keep on dry land during the stormy

months. So I gave in, for I hadn't the heartto go dead against his wishes, as I used todo. Besides, he'd have had to put up thecoin, which he refused to do.

So I moped around the clubs, backed thelight-weight champion of the hour for abig match, put up a pile of money on him,and saw it fade away and take with it mytrust in champions. Dad was good about it,and put up what I'd gone over myallowance without a whimper. Then Ichased around the country in the YellowPeril and won three races down at LosAngeles, touring down and back with afellow who had slathers of money, woreblue ties, and talked through his nose. Ileave my enjoyment of the trip to yourimagination.

When I got back, I had the Yellow Perilrefitted and the tonneau put back on, andwent in for society. I think that spell lastedas long as three weeks; I quit immenselypopular with a certain bunch of widowsand the like, and with a system sopermeated with tea and bridge that it tooka stiff course of high-balls and poker totake the taste out of my mouth.

I think it was in March that Barney cameback; but he came back an engaged youngman, so that in less than a week Barneybegan to pall. His fiancée had got him toswear off on poker and prize-fighting andsmokers and everything. And I leave it toyou if there would be much left of afellow like Barney. All he was free to do—or wanted to do—was sit in a retired

corner of the club with Shasta water andcigarettes for refreshments, and talk aboutHer, and how It had happened, and thepangs of uncertainty that shot through hisheart till he knew for sure. Barney's full astall as I am, and he weighs twenty-fivepounds more; and to hear a great, hulkingbrute like that talking slush was enough tomake a man forswear love in all formsforever. He'd show me her picture regular,every time I met him, and expect me tohand out a jolly. She wasn't so much,either. Her nose was crooked, and shedidn't appear to have any eyebrows tospeak of. I'd like to have him see—well, acertain young woman with eyelashes and—Oh, well, it wasn't Barney's fault thathe'd never seen a real beauty, and so wassatisfied with his particular Her. I began

to shy at Barney, and avoided him assystematically as if I owed him money;which I didn't. I just couldn't stand for somuch monologue with a girl with noeyebrows and a crooked nose for thenever-failing subject.

My next unaccountable notion wasmanifested in an unreasoning dislike ofRankin. He got to going to some mission-meetings, somewhere down near theBarbary Coast; I got out of him that much,and that he sometimes led the meetings.Rankin can't lie—or won't—so he saidright out that he was doing what little hecould to save precious souls. That partwas all right, of course; but he was sobeastly solemn and sanctimonious that hecame near sending my soul—maybe it isn't

as precious as those he was laboring with—straight to the bad place.

Every morning when he appeared like theghost of a Puritan ancestor's remorse at mybedside, I swore I'd send him off beforenight. To look at him you'd think I haddone a murder and he was an eye-witnessto the deed. Still, it's pretty raw to send aman off just because he's the embodimentof punctiliousness and looks virtuouslygrieved for your sins. In his generaldemeanor, I admit that Rankin was quiteirreproachable—and that's why I hatedhim so.

Besides, Montana had spoiled me forwanting to be dressed like a baby, and Iwould much rather get my own hat andstick; I never had the chance, though. I'd

turn and find him just back of my elbow,with the things in his hands and thatdamned righteous look on his face, andgenerally I'd swear he did get on mynerves so.

I'm afraid I ruined him for a good servant,and taught him habits of idleness he'llnever outgrow; for every morning I'd sendhim below—I won't state the exactdestination, but I have reasons for thinkinghe never got farther than the servants' hall—with strict—and for the most partprofane—orders not to show his faceagain unless I rang. Even at that, I alwaysfound him waiting up for me when I camehome. Oh, there was no changing the waysof Rankin.

I think it was about the middle of May

when my general discontent with life inthe old burgh took a virulent form. I'd beenlosing a lot one way and another, andBarney and I had come together literallyand with much force when we werehaving a spurt with our cars out towardIngleside. The Yellow Peril looked prettysick when I picked myself out of the messand found I wasn't hurt except in myfeelings. Barney's car only had the lampssmashed, and as he had run into me, thatmade me sore. We said things, and Icaught a street-car back to town. Barneydrove in, about as hot as I was, I guess.

So, when I got home and found a letterfrom Frosty, my mind was open forsomething new. The letter was short, but itdid the business and gave me a hunger for

the old days that nothing but a hard gallopover the prairie-lands, with the windblowing the breath out of my nostrils,could satisfy. He said the round-up wouldstart in about a week. That was about all,but I got up and did something I'd neverdone before.

I took the letter and went straight down todad's private den and interrupted himwhen he was going over his afternoonletters with Crawford. Dad was veryparticular not to be interrupted at suchtimes; his mail-hours were held sacred,and nothing short of a life-or-death matterwould have taken me in there—in anynormal state of mind.

Crawford started out of his chair—if youknew Crawford that one action would tell

you a whole lot—and dad whirled towardme and asked what had happened. I thinkthey both expected to hear that the housewas on fire.

"The round-up starts next week, dad," Iblurted, and then stopped. It just occurredto me that it might not sound important tothem.

Dad matched his finger-tips together."Since I first bought a bunch of cattle," hedrawled, "the round-up has never failed tostart some time during this month. Is itvitally important that it should not start?"

"I've got to start at once, or I can't catchit." I fancied, just then, that I detected aglimmer of amusement on Crawford'sface. I wanted to hit him with something.

"Is there any reason why it must becaught?" dad wanted to know, in his worsttone, which is almost diabolically calm.

"Yes," I rapped out, growing a bit riled,"there is. I can't stand this do-nothingexistence any longer. You brought me upto it, and never let me know anythingabout your business, or how to help yourun it—"

"It never occurred to me," drawled dad,"that I needed help to run my business."

"And last spring you rose up, all of asudden, and started in to cure me of beinga drone. The medicine you used wasstrong; it did the business prettythoroughly. You've no kick coming at theresult. I'm going to start to-morrow."

Dad looked at me till I began to feelsquirmy. I've thought since that he wasn'tas surprised as I imagined, and that, on thewhole, he was pleased. But, if he was, hewas mighty careful not to show it.

"You would better give me a list of yourdebts, then," he said laconically. "I shallsee that your allowance goes on just thesame; you may want to invest in—er—cattle."

"Thank you, dad," I said, and turned to go.

"And I wish to Heaven," he called afterme, "that you'd take Rankin along and turnhim loose out there. He might do to herdsheep. I'm sick of that hark-from-the-tombs face of his. I made a footman of himwhile you were gone before, rather than

turn him off; but I'm damned if I do itagain."

I stopped just short of the door andgrinned back at him. "Rankin," I said, "isone of the horrors I'm trying to leavebehind, dad."

But dad had gone back to hiscorrespondence. "In regard to that Clark,Marsden, and Clark affair, I think,Crawford, it would be well—"

I closed the door quietly and left them. Itwas dad's way, and I laughed a little tomyself as I was going back to my room toround up Rankin and set him to packing. Imeant to stand over him with a club thistime, if necessary, and see that I got what Iwanted packed.

The next evening I started again forMontana—and I didn't go in dad's privatecar, either. Save for the fact that I had nogrievance with him, and that we ate dinneralone together and drank a bottle of extradry to the success of my pilgrimage, Iwent much as I had gone before: humblyand unheralded except for a telegram forsome one to meet me at Osage.

Rankin, I may say, did not go with me,though I did as dad had suggested andoffered to take him along and get him a jobherding sheep. The memory of Rankin'spained countenance lingers with me yet,and cheers me in many a dark hour whenthere's nothing else to laugh over.

CHAPTER X.

I Shake Hands with Old ManKing.

For the second time in my irresponsiblecareer I stood on the station platform atOsage and watched the train slide off tothe East. It's a blamed fool who neverlearns anything by experience, and I neverhave accused myself of being a fool—except at odd times—so I didn't landbroke. I had money to pay for severalmeals, and I looked around for somebodyI knew; Frosty, I hoped.

For the sodden land I had looked uponwith such disgust when first I had seen it,the range lay dimpled in all the enticementof spring. Where first I had seen dirtysnow-banks, the green was bright as ourlawn at home. The hilltops were lighter inshade, and the jagged line of hills in thefar distance was a soft, soft blue, juststopping short of reddish-purple. I'm notthe sort of human that goes wading to hischin in lights and shades and dimperspectives, and names every tone he canthink of—especially mauve; they do go itstrong on mauve—before he's through. ButI did lift my hat to that dimply green reachof prairie, and thanked God I was there.

I turned toward the hill that hid the town,and there came Frosty driving the same

disreputable rig that had taken me first tothe Bay State. I dropped my suit-case andgripped his hand almost before he hadpulled up at the platform. Lord! but I wasglad to see that thin, brown face of his.

"Looks like we'd got to be afflicted withyour presence another summer," hegrinned. "I hope yuh ain't going to claim Icoaxed yuh back, because I took particularpains not to. And, uh course, the boys arejust dreading the sight of yuh. Where'syour war-bag, darn yuh?"

How was that for a greeting? It suited me,all right. I just thumped Frosty on the backand called him a name that it would makea lady faint to hear, and we laughed like acouple of fools.

I'm not on oath, perhaps, but still I feelsomehow bound to tell all the truth, andnot to pass myself off for a saint. So I willsay that Frosty and I had a celebration,that night; an Osage, Montana, celebration,with all the fixings. Know the brand—because if you don't, I'd hang before I'dtell just how many shots we put throughceilings, or how we rent the atmosphereoutside. You see, I was glad to get back,and Frosty was glad to have me back; andsince neither of us are the fall-on-your-neck-and-put-a-ring-on-your-finger kind,we had to exuberate some other way; and,as Frosty, would put it, "We sure did."

I can't say we felt quite so exuberant nextmorning, but we were willing to take ourmedicine, and started for the ranch all

serene. I won't say a word about mauvesand faint ambers and umbras, but I dowant to give that country a good word, asit looked that morning to me. It was great.

There are plenty of places can put it allover that Osage country for straightscenery, but I never saw such a contented-looking place as that big prairie-land wasthat morning. I've seen it with the tearsrunning down its face, and pretty welldraggled and seedy; but when we startedout with the sun shining against our cheeksand the hills looking so warm and lazy andthe hollows kind of smiling to themselvesover something, and the prairie-dogsgossiping worse than a ladies' self-culturemeeting, I tell you, it all looked good tome, and I told Frosty so.

"I'd rather be a forty-dollar puncher in thisman's land," I enthused, "than a lily-of-the-field somewhere in civilization."

"In other words," Frosty retortedsarcastically, "you think you prefer thecanned vegetables and contentment, as theBible says, to corn-fed beefsteak andhomesickness thereby. But you wait tillyuh get to the ranch and old Perry Potterputs yuh through your paces. You'll thankthe Lord every Sundown that yuh ain't aforty-dollar man that has got to drill rightalong or get fired; you'll pat yourself onthe back more than once that you've got acinch on your job and can lay offwhenever yuh feel like it. From all thesigns and tokens, us Ragged H punchers'llbe wise to trade our beds off for lanterns

to ride by. Your dad's bought a lot morecattle, and they've drifted like hell; we'vegot to cover mighty near the whole Stateuh Montana and part uh South Africa togather them in."

"You're a blamed pessimist," I told him,"and you can't give me cold feet that easy.If you knew how I ache to get a goodhorse under me—"

"Thought they had horses out your way,"Frosty cut in.

"A range-horse, you idiot, and a range-saddle. I did ride some on a fancy-gaitedsteed with a saddle that resembled a porusplaster and stirrups like a lady's bracelet;it didn't fill the aching void a little bit."

"Well, maybe yuh won't feel any achingvoid out here," he said, "but if yuh followround-up this season you'll sure haveplenty of other brands of ache."

I told him I'd be right with them at thefinish, and he needn't to worry any aboutme. Pretty soon I'll show you how well Ikept my word. We rode and rode, andhanded out our experiences to each other,and got to Pochette's that night. I couldn'thelp remembering the last time I'd beenover that trail, and how rocky I felt aboutthings. Frosty said he wasn't worriedabout that walk of his into Pochette'sgrowing dim in his memory, either.

Well, then, we got to Pochette's—I think Ihave remarked the fact. And at Pochette's,just unharnessing his team, limped my

friend of White Divide, old King. Funnyhow a man's view-point will change whenthere's a girl cached somewhere in thebackground. Not even the memory ofShylock's stiffening limbs could bring meto a mood for war. On the contrary, I feltmore like rushing up and asking him howwere all the folks, and when did Berylexpect to come home. But not Frosty; hedrove phlegmatically up so that there wasjust comfortable space for a man tosqueeze between our rig and King's,hopped out, and began unhooking thetraces as if there wasn't a soul but usaround. King was looping up the lines ofhis team, and he glared at us across thebacks of his horses as if we were—well,caterpillars at a picnic and he was a girlwith nice clothes and a fellow and a set of

nerves. His next logical move would be tolet out a squawk and faint, I thought; inwhich case I should have started in to dothe comforting, with a dipper of waterfrom the pump. He didn't faint, though.

I walked around and let down the neck-yoke, and his eyes followed me withsuspicion. "Hello, Mr. King," I sang out ina brazen attempt to hypnotize him into thebelief we were friends. "How's the worldusing you, these days?"

"Huh!" grunted the unhypnotized one, deepin his chest.

Frosty straightened up and looked at mequeerly; he said afterward that he couldn'tmake out whether I was trying to pull off agun fight, or had gone dippy.

But I was only in the last throes ofexuberance at being in the country at all,and I didn't give a damn what Kingthought; I'd made up my mind to besociable, and that settled it.

"Range is looking fine," I remarked,snapping the inside checks back into thehame-rings. "Stock come through thewinter in good shape?" Oh, I had my nerveright along with me.

"You go to hell," advised King, bringingout each word fresh-coined and shiny withfeeling.

"I was headed that way," I smiled acrossat him, "but at the last minute I gaveMontana first choice; I knew you werestill here, you see."

He let go the bridle of the horse he wasabout to lead away to the stable, andlimped around so that he stood within twofeet of me. "Yuh want to—" he began, andthen his mouth stayed open and silent.

I had reached out and got him by the hand,and gave him a grip—the grip that madeall the fellows quit offering their paws tome in Frisco.

"Put it there, King!" I cried idiotically andas heartily as I knew how. "Glad to seeyou. Dad's well and busy as usual, andsends regards. How's your good health?"

He was squirming good and plenty, by thattime, and I let him go. I acted the fool, allright, and I don't tell it to have any onethink I was a smart young sprig; I'm just

putting it out straight as it happened.

Frosty stood back, and I noticed, out of thetail of my eye, that he was ready fortrouble and expecting it to come inbunches; and I didn't know, myself, butwhat I was due for new ventilators in mysystem.

But King never did a thing but stand andhold his hand and look at me. I couldn'teven guess at what he thought. In half aminute or less he got his horse by thebridle again—with his left hand—andwent limping off ahead of us to the stable,saying things in his collar.

"You blasted fool," Frosty muttered to me."You've done it real pretty, this time. Thatold Siwash'll cut your throat, like as not,

to pay for all those insulting remarks andthat hand-shake."

"First time I ever insulted a man byshaking hands and telling him I was gladto see him," I retorted. "And I don't think itwill be necessary for you to stand guardover my jugular to-night, either. That oldboy will take a lot of time to study out thesituation, if I'm any judge. You won't heara peep out of him, and I'll bet money onit."

"All right," said Frosty, and his tonesounded dubious. "But you're the firstRagged H man that has ever walked upand shook hands with the old devil. PerryPotter himself wouldn't have the nerve."

Now, that was a compliment, but I don't

believe I took it just the way Frosty meantI should. I was proud as thunder to havehim call me a "Ragged H man" sounconsciously. It showed that he reallythought of me simply as one of the boys;that the "son and heir" view-point—oh,that had always rankled, deep downwhere we bury unpleasant things in ourmemory—had been utterly forgotten. Sothe tribute to my nerve didn't go foranything beside that. I was a "Ragged Hman," on the same footing as the rest ofthem. It's silly owning it, but it gave me alittle tingle of pleasure to have one ofdad's men call dad's son and heir "ablasted fool." I don't believe the Lordmade me an aristocrat.

We didn't see anything more of King till

supper was called. At Pochette's you sitdown to a long table covered with dark-red mottled oilcloth and sprinkled withthings to eat, and watch that your elbowdoesn't cause your nearest neighbor to dothe sword-swallowing act involuntarilyand disastrously with his knife, or—youdon't eat. Frosty and I had walked down tothe ferry-crossing while we waited, andthen were late getting into the game whenwe heard the summons.

We went in and sat down just as theChinaman was handing thick cups ofcoffee around rather sloppily. From forceof habit I looked for my napkin,remembered that I was in a napkinlessregion, and glanced up to see if any onehad noticed.

Just across from me old King was pushingback his chair and getting stiffly upon hisfeet. He met my eyes squarely—friend orenemy, I like a man to do that—andscowled.

"Through already?" I reached for thesugar-bowl.

"What's it to you, damn yuh?" he snapped,but we could see at a glance that King hadnot begun his meal.

I looked at Frosty, and he seemed waitingfor me to say something. So I said: "Toobad—we Ragged H men are such mightyslow eaters. If it's on my account, sit rightdown and make yourself comfortable. Idon't mind; I dare say I've eaten in worsecompany."

He went off growling, and I leaned backand stirred my coffee as leisurely as if Iwere killing time over a bit of crab in thePalace, waiting for my order to come.Frosty, I observed, had also slowed downperceptibly; and so we "toyed with theviands" just like a girl in a story—in reallife, I've noticed, girls develop full-grownappetites and aren't ashamed of them. Kingwent outside to wait, and I'm sure I hopehe enjoyed it; I know we did. We drankthree cups of coffee apiece, ate a platter offried fish, and took plenty of time over thebones, got into an argument over who wasLazarus with the fellow at the end of thetable, and were too engrossed to eat amouthful while it lasted. We had the badmanners to pick our teeth thoroughly withthe wooden toothpicks, and Frosty showed

me how to balance a knife and fork on atoothpick—or, perhaps, it was two—onthe edge of his cup. I tried it several times,but couldn't make it work.

The others had finished long ago and weresitting around next the wall watching uswhile they smoked. About that time Kingput his head in at the door, and looked atus.

"Just a minute," I cheered him. Frostybegan cracking his prune-pits and eatingthe meats, and I went at it, too. I don't likeprune-pits a little bit.

The pits finished, Frosty looked anxiouslyaround the table. There was nothing moreexcept some butter that we hadn't thenerve to tackle single-handed, and some

salt and a bottle of ketchup and thetoothpicks. We went at the toothpicksagain; until Frosty got a splinter stuckbetween his teeth, and had a deuce of atime getting it out.

"I've heard," he sighed, when the splinterlay in his palm, "that some state dinnerslast three or four hours; blamed if I seehow they work it. I'm through. I lay downmy hand right here—unless you're willingto tackle the ketchup. If you are, I staywith you, and I'll eat half." He sighedagain when he promised.

For answer I pushed back my chair. Frostysmiled and followed me out. For thesatisfaction of the righteous I will say thatwe both suffered from indigestion thatnight, which I suppose was just and right.

CHAPTER XI.

A Cable Snaps.

Our lazy land smiling and dreaming toitself had disappeared; in its stead, thewind howled down the river from thewest and lashed the water into whatwould have looked respectable waves toone who had not been on the ocean andseen the real thing. The new grass lay flatupon the prairies, and chunks of dirtrattled down from the roof of Pochette'sprimitive abiding-place. It is true the sunshone, but I really wouldn't have been atall surprised if the wind had blown it out,

'most any time.

Pochette himself looked worried when wetrooped in to breakfast. (By the way, oldKing never showed up till we werethrough; then he limped in and sat down tothe table without a glance our way.) Whilewe were smoking, over by the fireplace,Pochette came sidling up to us. He was alittle skimpy man with crooked legs, a realFrench cut of beard, and an apologeticmanner. I think he rather prided himselfupon his familiarity with the Englishlanguage—especially that part which iscensored so severely by editors that only ahalf-dozen words are permitted to appearin cold type, and sometimes even theymust hide their faces behind such flimsyveils as this: d——n. So if I never quote

Mr. Pochette verbatim, you'll know why.

"I theenk you will not wish for cross onthe reever, no?" he began ingratiatingly."The weend she blow lak —— ————, and my boat, she zat small, she—— ——."

I caught King looking at us from under hiseyebrows, so I was airily indifferent towind or water. "Sure, we want to cross," Isaid. "Just as soon as we finish our smoke,Pochette."

"But, mon Dieu!" (Ever hear tell of aFrenchman that didn't begin his sentencesthat way? In this case, however, Pochettereally said just that.) "The weend, sheblow lak ——"

"'A hurricane; bimeby by she blaw somemore,'" I quoted bravely. "It's all right,Pochette; let her howl. We're going tocross, just the same. It isn't likely you'llhave to make the trip for any body else to-day." I didn't mean to, but I looked overtoward King, and caught the glint of hisunfriendly eyes upon me. Also, the cornersof his mouth hunched up for a second inwhat looked like a sneer. But the Lordknows I wasn't casting any aspersions onhis nerve.

He must have taken it that way, though; forhe went out when we did and hooked up,and when we drove down to where thelittle old scow they called a ferry wasbobbing like a decoy-duck in the water, hewas just behind us with his team. Pochette

looked at him, and at us, and at the river;and his meager little face with its pointedbeard looked like a perturbed gnome—ifyou ever saw one.

"The leetle boat, she not stand for ze beegload. The weend, she—"

"Aw, what yuh running a ferry for?"Frosty cut in impatiently. "There's a good,strong current on, to-day; she'll go acrosson a high run."

Pochette shook his head still moredubiously, till I got down and bolstered uphis courage with a small piece of gold.They're all alike; their courage ebbs andflows on a golden tide, if you'll let meindulge in a bit of unnecessary hyperbole.He worked the scow around end on to the

bank, so that we could drive on. The teamwasn't a bit stuck on going, but Frostyknows how to handle horses, and theysteadied when he went to their heads andtalked to them.

We were so busy with our own affairs thatwe didn't notice what was going on behindus till we heard Pochette declaiming badprofanity in a high soprano. Then I turned,and he was trying to stand off old King.But King wasn't that sort; he yelled to usto move up and make room, and then tookdown his whip and started up. Pochettepirouetted out of the way, and stoodholding to the low plank railing while hewent on saying things that, properlypronounced, must have been veryblasphemous.

King paid about as much attention to himas he would to a good-sized prairie-dogchittering beside its burrow. I reckon heknew Pochette pretty well. He got his rigin place and climbed down and went tohis horses' heads.

"Now, shove off, dammit," he ordered,just as if no one had been near bursting ablood-vessel within ten feet of him.

Pochette gulped, worked the point of hisbeard up and down like a villain in asecond-rate melodrama, and shoved off.The current and the wind caught us in theirgrip, and we swashed out from shore andgot under way.

I can't say that trip looked good to me,from the first rod out. Of course, the river

couldn't rear up and get real savage, likethe ocean, but there were choppy littlewaves that were plenty nasty enough, onceyou got to bucking them with a blum-nosedold scow fastened to a cable that swayedand sagged in the wind that came howlingdown on us. And with two rigs on, wefilled her from bow to stern; all but aboutfour feet around the edges.

Frosty looked across to the farther shore,then at the sagging cable, and then at me. Igathered that he had his doubts, too, but hewouldn't say anything. Nobody did, forthat matter. Even Pochette wasn't doinganything but chew his whiskers and watchthe cable.

Then she broke, with a snap like a rifle,and a jolt that came near throwing us off

our feet. Pochette gave a yell and relapsedinto French that I'd hate to translate; itwould shock even his own countrymen.The ferry ducked and bobbed, now therewas nothing to hold its nose steady to thecurrent, and went careering down riverwith all hands aboard and looking fortrouble.

We didn't do anything, though; there wasn'tanything to do but stay right where wewere and take chances. If she stayed rightside up we would probably landeventually. If she flopped over—whichshe seemed trying to do, we'd get a coldbath and lose our teams, if no worse.

Soon as I thought of that, I beganunhooking the traces of the horse nearest.The poor brutes ought at least to have a

chance to swim for it. Frosty caught on,and went to work, too, and in half a minutewe had them free of the wagon andstripped of everything but their bridles.They would have as good a show as we,and maybe better.

I looked back to see what King was doing.He was having troubles of his own, tryingto keep one of his cayuses on all its feet atonce. It was scared, poor devil, and ittook all his strength on the bit to keep itfrom rearing and maybe upsetting thewhole bunch. Pochette wasn't doinganything but lament, so I went back andunhooked King's horses for him, and tookoff the harness and threw it in the back ofhis wagon so they wouldn't tangle theirfeet in it when it came to a show-down.

I don't think he was what you could callgrateful; he never looked my way at all,but went on cussing the horse he washolding, for acting up just when he shouldkeep his wits. I went back to Frosty, andwe stood elbows touching, waiting forwhatever was coming.

For what seemed a long while, nothingcame but wind and water. But I don't mindsaying that there was plenty of that, and ifeither one had been suddenly barred out ofthe game we wouldn't any of us havecalled the umpire harsh names. Wedrifted, slippety-slosh, and the windripped holes in the atmosphere and madeour eyes water with the bare force of itwhen we faced the west. And none of ushad anything to say, except Pochette; he

said a lot, I remember, but never mindwhat. I don't suppose he was mentallyresponsible at the time.

Then, a long, narrow, yellow tongue ofsand-bar seemed to reach right out into theriver and lap us up. We landed with aworse jolt than when we broke away fromthe cable, and the gray-blue river wenthumping past without us. Frosty and Ilooked at each other and grinned; after all,we were coming out of the deal better thanwe had expected, for we were still rightside up and on the side of the river towardhome. We were a mile or so down riverfrom the trail, but once we were on thebank with our rig, that was nothing.

We had landed head on, with the nose ofthe scow plowed high and dry. Being at

the front, we went at getting our team off,and our wagon. There was a four or five-foot jump to make, and the horses didn'tknow how about it, at first. But with oneof us pulling, and the other slashing themover the rump, they made it, one at a time.The sand was soft and acted somethinglike quicksand, too, and we hustled themto shore and tied them to some bushes.The bank was steep there, and we didn'tknow how we were going to make theclimb, but we left that to worry overafterward; we still had our rig to getashore, and it began to look like quite acontract.

We went back, with our boot tracks goingdeep, and then filling up and settling backalmost level six steps behind us. Frosty

looked back at them and scowled.

"For sand that isn't quicksand," he said,"this layout will stand about as littlemonkeying with as any sand I ever met upwith. Time we make a few trips over it,she's going to be pudding without theraisins. And that's a picnic, with our rig onthe main deck, as you might say."

We went back and sat swinging our legsoff the free board end of the ferry boat,and rolled us a smoke apiece andconsidered the next move. King wassomewhere back between our rig and his,cussing Pochette to a fare-you-well forhaving such a rotten layout and makingwhite men pay good money for theprivilege of risking their lives andproperty upon it.

"We'll have to unload and take the wagonto pieces and pack everything ashore—Iguess that's our only show," said Frosty.We had just given up my idea of workingthe scow up along the bar to the bank. Wecouldn't budge her off the sand, andPochette warned us that if we did the windwould immediately commence doingthings to us again.

Frosty's idea seemed the only possibleway, so we threw away our cigarettes andgot ready for business; the dismemberingand carrying ashore of that road-wagonpromised to be no light task. Frosty yelledto Pochette to come and get busy, andwent to work on the rig. It looked to melike a case where we were all in the samefix, and personal spite shouldn't count for

anything, but King was leaning against thewheel of his buggy, cramming tobaccointo his stubby pipe—the same oneapparently that I had rescued from thepickle barrel—and, seeing the windscatter half of it broadcast, as though hedidn't care a rap whether he got solidearth beneath his feet once more, or wentfloating down the river. I wanted topropose a truce for such time as it wouldtake to get us all safe on terra firma, but onsecond thoughts I refrained. We could getoff without his help, and he was the sort ofman who would cheerfully have gone tohis last long sleep at the bottom of thatboiling river rather than accept theassistance of an enemy.

The next couple of hours was a season of

aching back, and sloppy feet, and grunting,and swearing that I don't much care aboutremembering in detail. The wind blew tillthe tears ran down our cheeks. The sandstuck and clogged every move we madetill I used to dream of it afterward. If youthink it was just a simple little job, takingthat rig to pieces and packing it to dry landon our backs, just give another guess. Andif you think we were any of us in a moodto look at it as a joke, you're miles off thetrack.

Pochette helped us like a little man—hehad to, or we'd have done him up rightthere. Old King sat on the ferry-rail andsmoked, and watched us break our backssardonically—I did think I had that lastword in the wrong place; but I think not.

We did break our backs sardonically, andhe watched us in the same fashion; so theword stands as she is.

When the last load was safe on the bank, Iwent back to the boat. It seemed a low-down way to leave a man, and now heknew I wasn't fishing for help, I didn'tmind speaking to the old reprobate. So Iwent up and faced him, still sitting on theferry-rail, and still smoking.

"Mr. King," I said politely as I could,"we're all right now, and, if you like, we'llhelp you off. It won't take long if we allget to work."

He took two long puffs, and pressed thetobacco down in his pipe. "You go tohell," he advised me for the second time.

"When I want any help from you or yourtribe, I'll let yuh know."

It took me just one second to backslidefrom my politeness. "Go to the devil,then!" I snapped. "I hope you have to stayon the damn' bar a week." Then I wentplucking back through the sand that almostpulled the shoes off my feet every step,kicking myself for many kinds of a fool.Lord, but I was mad!

Pochette went back to the boat and oldKing, after nearly getting kicked into theriver for hinting that we ought to pay forthe damage and trouble we had causedhim. Frosty and I weren't in any frame ofmind for such a hold-up, and it didn't takehim long to find it out.

The bank there was so steep that we hadto pack my trunk and what other truck hadbeen brought out from Osage, up to the topby hand. That was another temper-sweetening job. Then we put the wagontogether, hitched on the horses, and theymanaged to get to the top with it, by ascratch. It all took time—and, as forpatience, we'd been out of that commodityfor so long we hardly knew it by name.

The last straw fell on us just as we wereloading up. I happened to look down uponthe ferry; and what do you suppose thatold devil was doing? He had torn up theback part of the plank floor of the ferry,and had laid it along the sand for a bridge.He had made an incline from boat nose tothe bar, and had rough-locked his wagon

and driven it down. Just as we looked, hehad come to the end of his bridge, and heand Pochette were taking up the planksbehind and extending the platform out infront.

Well! maybe you think Frosty and I stoodthere congratulating the old fox. Frostywanted me to kick him, I remember; andhe said a lot of things that soundedinspired to me, they hit my feelings off sostraight. If we had had the sense to dowhat old King was doing, we'd have beenten or fifteen miles nearer home than wewere.

But, anyway, we were up the bank aheadof him, and we loaded in the last packageand drove away from the painful scene ata lope. And you can imagine how we

didn't love old King any better, after thatexperience.

CHAPTER XII.

I Begin to Realize.

If I had hoped that I'd gotten over anyfoolishness by spending the fall andwinter away from White Divide—or thesight of it—I commenced right away tofind out my mistake. No sooner did the bigridge rise up from the green horizon, thanevery scar, and wrinkle, and abrupt littlepeak fairly shouted things about BerylKing.

She wasn't there; she was back in NewYork, and that blasted Terence Weaverwas back there, too, making all kinds of

love to her according to the letters ofEdith. But I hadn't realized just howseriously I was taking it, till I got withinsight of the ridge that had sheltered herabiding-place and had made all thetrouble.

Like a fool I had kept telling myself that Iwas fair sick for the range; for range-horses and range-living; for the wind thatalways blows over the prairies, and forthe cattle that feed on the hills and troopdown the long coulée bottoms to drink attheir favorite watering-places. I thought itwas the boys I wanted to see, and togallop out with them in the soft sunrise,and lie down with them under a tent roofat night; that I wanted to eat my mealssitting cross-legged in the grass, with my

plate piled with all the courses at onceand my cup of coffee balancedprecariously somewhere within reach.

That's what I thought. When things tastedflat in old Frisco, I wasn't dead sure why,and maybe I didn't want to be sure why.When I couldn't get hold of anything thathad the old tang, I laid it all to a hankeringafter round-up.

Even when we drove around the end ofWhite Divide, and got up on a ridge whereI could see the long arm that stretched outfrom the east side of King's Highway, Iwouldn't own up to myself that there wasthe cause of all my bad feelings. I thinkFrosty knew, all along; for when I had satwith my face turned to the divide, and hadlet my cigarette go cold while I thought

and thought, and remembered, he didn'tsay a word. But when memory came downto that last ride through the pass, and toShylock shot down by the corral, at last toFrosty standing, tall and dark, against thefirst yellow streak of sunrise, while I rodeon and left him afoot beside a half-deadhorse, I turned my eyes and looked at histhin, thoughtful face beside me.

His eyes met mine for half a minute, andhe had a little twitching at the corners ofhis mouth. "Chirk up," he said quietly."The chances are she'll come back thissummer."

I guess I blushed. Anyway, I didn't think ofanything to say that would be either wittyor squelching, and could only relight mycigarette and look the fool I felt. He'd

caught me right in the solar plexus, and weboth knew it, and there was nothing to say.So after awhile we commenced talkingabout a new bunch of horses that dad hadbought through an agent, and that had to besaddle-broke that summer, and I kept myeyes away from White Divide and mymind from all it meant to me.

The old ranch did look good to me, andPerry Potter actually shook hands; if youknew him as well as I do you'd realizebetter what such a demonstration means,coming from a fellow like him. Why, evenhis lips are always shut with a drawstring—from the looks—to keep any words butwhat are actually necessary from comingout. His eyes have the same look, kind ofpulled in at the corners. No, don't ever

accuse Perry Potter of being ademonstrative man, or a loquacious one.

I had two days at the ranch, getting fittedinto the life again; on the third the round-up started, and I packed a "war-bag" ofessentials, took my last summer's chapsdown off the nail in the bunk-house wherethey had hung all that time as a sort ofabsent-but-not-forgotten memento, one ofthe boys told me, and started out in fullregalia and with an enthusiasm that wasreal—while it lasted.

If you never slept on the new grass withonly a bit of canvas between you and thestars; if you have never rolled out, atdaylight, and dressed before your eyeswere fair open, and rushed with the bunchover to the mess-wagon for your

breakfast; if you have never saddledhurriedly a range-bred and range-brokencayuse with a hump in his back and sevendevils in his eye, and gone careeningacross the dew-wet prairie like a tug-boatin a choppy sea; if you have never—well,if you don't know what it's all like, andhow it gets into the very bones of you sothat the hankering never quite leaves youwhen you try to give it up, I'm not going totell you. I can't. If I could, you'd know justhow heady it made me feel those first fewdays after we started out to "work therange."

I was fond of telling myself, those days,that I'd been more scared than hurt, andthat it was the range I was in love with,and not Beryl King at all. She was simply

a part of it—but she wasn't the wholething, nor even a part that was going to beindispensable to my mental comfort. I wasa free man once more, and so long as I hada good horse under me, and a bunch of theright sort of fellows to lie down in thesame tent with, I wasn't going to worrymuch over any girl.

That, for as long as a week; and that, morethan pages of description, shows you howgreat is the spell of the range-land, andhow it grips a man.

CHAPTER XIII.

We Meet Once More.

I think it was about three weeks that Istayed with the round-up. I didn't get tiredof the life, or weary of honest labor, oranything of that sort. I think the troublewas that I grew accustomed to the life, sothat the exhilarating effects of it wore off,or got so soaked into my system that Ibegan to take it all as a matter of course.And that, naturally, left room for otherthings.

I know I'm no good at analysis, and that'sas close as I can come to accounting for

my welching, the third week out. You see,we were working south and west, andgetting farther and farther away from—well, from the part of country that I knewand liked best. It's kind of lonesome,leaving old landmarks behind you; sowhen White Divide dropped down behindanother range of hills and I couldn't turn inmy saddle almost any time and see thejagged, blue sky-line of her, I stood it forabout two days. Then I rolled my bed onemorning, caught out two horses from mystring instead of one, told the wagon-bossI was going back to the ranch, and lit out—with the whole bunch grinning after me.As they would have said, they were all"dead next," but were good enough not tosay so. Or, perhaps, they remembered theboxing-lessons I had given them in the

bunk-house a year or more ago.

I did feel kind of sneaking, quitting themlike that; but it's like playing higher thanyour logical limit: you know you're doinga fool thing, and you want to plant yourfoot violently upon your own personsomewhere, but you go right ahead in theface of it all. They didn't have to tell me Iwas acting like a calf that has lost hismother in the herd. (You know he is proneto go mooning back to the last place hewas with her, if it's ten miles.) I knew it,all right. And when I topped a hill andsaw the high ridges and peaks of WhiteDivide stand up against the horizon to thenorth, I was so glad I felt ashamed ofmyself and called one Ellis Carletonworse names than I'd stand to hear from

anybody else.

Still, to go back to the metaphor, I kept onshoving in chips, just as if I had a chanceto win out and wasn't the biggest, softest-headed idiot the Lord ever made. Why,even Perry Potter almost grinned when Icame riding up to the corral; and I caughtthe fellow that was kept on at the ranch,lowering his left lid knowingly at thecook, when I went in to supper that firstnight. But I was too far gone then to caremuch what anybody thought; so long asthey kept their mouths shut and left mealone, that was all I asked of them. Oh, Iwas a heroic figure, all right, those days.

On a day in June I rode dispiritedly overto the little butte just out from the mouth ofthe pass. Not that I expected to see her; I

went because I had gotten into the habit ofgoing, and every nice morning just simplypulled me over that way, no matter howmuch I might want to keep away. Thatargues great strength of character for me, Iknow, but it's unfortunately the truth.

I knew she was back—or that she shouldbe back, if nothing had happened to upsettheir plans. Edith had written me that theywere all coming, and that they would havetwo cars, this summer, instead of just one,and that they expected to stay a month. Sheand her mother, and Beryl and AuntLodema, Terence Weaver—deuce takehim!—and two other fellows, and aGertrude—somebody—I forget just who.Edith hoped that I would make my peacewith Uncle Homer, so they could see

something of me. (If I had told her howeasy it was to make peace with "UncleHomer," and how he had turned me down,she might not have been quite so sure thatit was all my bull-headedness.) Shecomplained that Gertrude was engaged toone of the fellows, and so was awfullystupid; and Beryl might as well be—

I tore up the letter just there, and the wind,which was howling that day, caught thepieces and took them over into NorthDakota; so I don't know what else Edithmay have had to tell me. I'd read enough toput me in a mighty nasty temper at anyrate, so I suppose its purpose wasaccomplished. Edith is like all the rest: Ifshe can say anything to make a manuncomfortable she'll do it, every time.

This day, I remember, I went mooningalong, thinking hard things about the worldin general, and my little corner of it inparticular. The country was beginning toirritate me, and I knew that if somethingdidn't break loose pretty soon I'd be offsomewhere. Riding over to little buttes,and not meeting a soul on the way orseeing anything but a bare rock when youget there, grows monotonous in time, andrather gets on the nerves of a fellow.

When I came close up to the butte,however, I saw a flutter of skirts on thepinnacle, and it made a difference in mygait; I went up all out of breath,scrambling as if my life hung on a fewseconds, and calling myself a differentkind of fool for every step I took. I kept

assuring myself, over and over, that it wasonly Edith, and that there was no need toget excited about it. But all the while Iknew, down deep down in the thumpingchest of me, that it wasn't Edith. Edithcouldn't make all that disturbance in mycirculatory system, not in a thousandyears.

She was sitting on the same rock, and shewas dressed in the same adorable ridingoutfit with a blue wisp of veil woundsomehow on her gray felt hat, and thesame blue roan was dozing, with draggingbridle-reins, a few rods down the otherside of the peak. She was sketching soindustriously that she never heard mecoming until I stood right at her elbow.

It might have been the first time over

again, except that my mental attitudetoward her had changed a lot.

"That's better; I can see now what you'retrying to draw," I said, looking down overher shoulder—not at the sketch; it mighthave been a sea view, for all I knew—butat the pink curve of her cheek, which wasgrowing pinker while I looked.

She did not glance up, or even start; so shemust have known, all along, that I washeaded her way. She went on making a lotof marks that didn't seem to fit anywhere,and that seemed to me a bit wobbly anduncertain. I caught just the least hint of asmile twitching the corner of her mouth—Iwanted awfully to kiss it!

"Yes? I believe I have at last got

everything—King's Highway—in theproper perspective and the properproportion," she said, stumbling a bit overthe alliteration—and no wonder. It was asentence to stampede cattle; but I didn'tstampede. I wanted, more than ever, tokiss—but I won't be like Barney, if I canhelp it.

"It's too far off—too unattainable," Icriticized—meaning something more thanher sketch of the pass. "And it's toonarrow. If a fellow rode in there he wouldhave to go straight on through; therewouldn't be a chance to turn back."

"Ergo, a fellow shouldn't ride in," sheretorted, with a composure positivelywicked, considering my feelings. "Thoughit does seem that a fellow rather enjoys

going straight on through, regardless ofanything; promises, for instance."

That was the gauntlet I'd been hoping for.From the minute I first saw her there itflashed upon me that she was astonishedand indignant that night when she sawFrosty and me come charging through thepass, after me telling her I wouldn't do itany more. It looked to me like I'd have tosquare myself, so I was glad enough of thechance.

"Sometimes a fellow has to do thingsregardless of—promises," I explained."Sometimes it's a matter of life and death.If a fellow's father, for instance—"

"Oh, I know; Edith told me all about it."Her tone was curious, and while it did not

encourage further explanations orapologies, it also lacked absolution of theoffense I had committed.

I sat down in the grass, half-facing her tobetter my chance of a look into her eyes. Iwas consumed by a desire to know if theystill had the power to send crimply wavesall over me. For the rest, she was prettiereven than I remembered her to be, and Icould fairly see what little sense orcomposure I had left slide away from me.I looked at her fatuously, and she lookedspeculatively at a sharp ridge of thedivide as if that sketch were the only thingaround there that could possibly interesther.

"Why do you spend every summer out herein the wilderness?" I asked, feeling certain

that nothing but speech could save mefrom going hopelessly silly.

She turned her eyes calmly toward me,and—their power had not weakened, at allevents. I felt as if I had taken hold of abattery with all the current turned on.

"Why, I suppose I like it here in summer.You're here, yourself; don't you like it?"

I wanted to say something smart, there,and I have thought of a dozen brightremarks since; but at the time I couldn'tthink of a blessed thing that came within amile of being either witty orepigrammatic. Love-making was all newto me, and I saw right then that I wasn'tgoing to shine. I finally did remark that Ishould like it better if her father would be

less belligerent and more peaceful as aneighbor.

"You told me, last summer, that youenjoyed keeping up the feud," shereminded, smiling whimsically down atme.

She made a wrong play there; she let mesee that she did remember some things thatI said. It boosted my courage a notch.

"But that was last summer," I countered."One can change one's view-point a lot intwelve months. Anyway, you knew allalong that I didn't mean a word of it."

"Indeed!" It was evident that she didn'tquite like having me take that tone.

"Yes, 'indeed'!" I repeated, feeling a

rebellion against circumstances and atconvention growing stronger within me.Why couldn't I put her on my horse andcarry her off and keep her always? Iwondered crazily. That was what I wantedto do.

"Do you ever mean what you say, Iwonder?" she mused, biting her pencil-point like a schoolgirl when she can'tremember how many times three goes intotwenty-seven.

"Sometimes. Sometimes I mean more." Iset my teeth, closed my eyes—mentally—and plunged, insanely, not knowingwhether I should come to the surface aliveor knock my head on a rock and staydown. "For instance, when I say that someday I shall carry you off and find a

preacher to marry us, and that we shalllive happily ever after, whether you wantto or not, because I shall make you, I meanevery word of it—and a lot more."

That was going some, I fancy! I was soscared at myself I didn't dare breathe. Ikept my eyes fixed desperately on themouth of the pass, all golden-green in thesunshine; and I remember that my teethwere so tight together that they achedafterward.

The point of her pencil came off with asnap. I heard it, but I was afraid to look."Do you? How very odd!" Her voicesounded queer, as if it had been squeezeddry of every sort of emotion. "And—Edith?"

I looked at her then, fast enough. "Edith?"I stared at her stupidly. "What the—what'sEdith got to do with it?"

"Possibly nothing"—in the same squeezedtone. "Men are so—er—irresponsible;and you say you don't always mean—Still,when a man writes pages and pages to agirl every week for nearly a year, onenaturally supposes—"

"Oh, look here!" I was getting desperateenough to be a bit rough with her. "Edithdoesn't care a rap about me, and you knowit. And she knows I don't care, and—andif anybody had anything to say, it wouldbe your Mr. Terence Weaver."

"My Mr. Terence Weaver?" She waslooking down at me sidewise, in a

perfectly maddening way. "You are reallyvery—er—funny, Mr. Carleton."

"Well," I rapped out between my teeth, "Idon't feel funny. I feel—"

"No? But, really, you know, you act thatway."

I saw she was getting all the best of it—and, in my opinion, that would kill whatlittle chance a man might have with a girl.I set deliberately about breaking throughthat crust of composure, if I did nothingmore.

"That depends on the view-point," Igrinned. "Would you think it funny if Icarried you off—really, you know—and—er—married you and made you live

happy—"

"You seem to insist upon the happy part ofit, which is not at all—"

"Necessary?" I hinted.

"Plausible," she supplied sweetly.

"But would you think it funny, if I did?"

She regarded her broken pencil ruefully—or pretended to—and pinched her browstogether in deep meditation. Oh, she wasthe most maddening bit of youngwomanhood—But, there, no Barney forme.

"I—might," she decided at last. "It wouldbe rather droll, you know, and I wonderhow you'd manage it; I'm not very tiny, and

I rather think it wouldn't be easy to—er—carry me off. Would you wear a mask—ablack velvet mask? I should insist uponblack velvet. And would you say:'Gadzooks, madam! I command you not toscream!' Would you?" She leaned towardme, and her eyes—well, for downrighttorture, women are at times perfectlyfiendish.

I caught her hand, and I held it, too, inspite of her. That far I was master.

"No," I told her grimly. "If I saw that youwere going to do anything so foolish as toscream, I should just kiss you, and—kissyou till you were glad to be sensible aboutit."

Well, she tried first to look calmly

amused; then she tried to look insulted,and to freeze me into sanity. She ended,however, by looking a good bit confused,and by blushing scarlet. I had won that far.I kept her hand held tight in mine; I couldfeel it squirm to get away, and it felt—oh,thunder!

"Let's play something else," she said, aftera long minute. "I—I never did admirehighwaymen particularly, and I must gohome."

"No, you mustn't," I contradicted. "Youmust—"

She looked at me with those wonderful,heavy-lashed eyes, and her lips had a littlequiver as if—Oh, I don't know, but I let goher hand, and I felt like a great, hulking

brute that had been teasing a child till itcried.

"All right," I sighed, "I'll let you go thistime. But I warn you, little girl. If—no,when I find you out from King's Highwayby yourself again, that kidnaping is suregoing to come off. The Lord intended youto be Mrs. Ellis Carleton. And forty feudsand forty fathers can't prevent it. I don'tbelieve in going against the decrees ofProvidence; a wise Providence."

She bit her lip at the corner. "You musthave a little private Providence of yourown," she retorted, with something likeher old assurance. "I'm sure mine neverhinted at such a—a fate for me. And onefeud is as good as forty, Mr. Carleton. Ifyou are anything like your father, I can

easily understand how the feud began. TheKings and the Carletons are fond of theirown way."

"Thy way shall be my way," I promisedrashly, just because it sounded smart.

"Thank you. Then there will be nomelodramatic abductions in the shadow ofWhite Divide," she laughed triumphantly,"and I shall escape a most horrible fate!"She went, still laughing, down to whereher horse was waiting.

I followed—rather, I kept pace with her."All the same, I dare you to ride out alonefrom King's Highway again," I defied."For, if you do, and I find you—"

"Good-by, Mr. Carleton. You'd be

splendid in vaudeville," she mocked fromher saddle, where she had got with all theease of a cowboy, without any help fromme. "Black velvet mask and gadzooks,madam—I must certainly tell Edith. It willamuse her, I'm sure."

"No, you won't tell Edith," I flung afterher, but I don't know if she heard.

She rode away down the steep slope, theroan leaning back stiffly against theincline, and I stood watching her like afool. I didn't think it would be good policyto follow her. I tried to roll a cigarette—in case she might look back to see how Iwas taking her last shot. But she didn't,and I threw the thing away half-made. Itwas a case where smoke wouldn't helpme.

If I hadn't made my chance any better, Iknew I couldn't very well make it worse;but there was mighty little comfort in thatreflection. And what a bluff I had put up!Carry her off and marry her? Lord knows Iwanted to, badly enough! But—

CHAPTER XIV.

Frosty Disappears.

On the way back to the ranch I overtookFrosty mooning along at a walk, with hisshoulders humped in the way a man haswhen he's thinking pretty hard. I had leftFrosty with the round-up, and I was prettymuch surprised to see him here. I didn'tfeel in the mood for conversation, evenwith him; but, to be decent, I spurred upalongside and said hello, and where hadhe come from? There was nothing in thatfor a man to get uppish about, but heturned and actually glared at me.

"I might be an inquisitive son-of-a-gun andask you the same thing," he growled.

"Yes, you might," I agreed. "But, if youdid, I'd be apt to tell you to departimmediately for a place called Gehenna—which is polite for hell."

"Well, same here," he retortedlaconically; and that ended ourconversation, though we rode stirrup tostirrup for eight miles.

I can't say that, after the first shock ofsurprise, I gave much time to wonderingwhat brought Frosty home. I took it he hadhad a row with the wagon-boss. Frosty isan independent sort and won't stand aword from anybody, and the wagon-bossis something of a bully. The gait they were

traveling, out there with the wagons, wasfraying the nerves of the whole bunchbefore I left. And that was all I thoughtabout Frosty.

I had troubles of my own, about that time.I had put up my bluff, and I keptwondering what I should do if Beryl Kingcalled me. There wasn't much chance thatshe would, of course; but, still, she wasn'tthat kind of girl who always does theconventional thing and the expected thing,and I had seen a gleam in her eyes that, ina man's, I should call deviltry, pure andsimple. If I should meet her outsomewhere, and she even looked a dare—I'll confess one thing: for a whole week Iwas mighty shy of riding out where Iwould be apt to meet her; and you can call

me a coward if you like.

Still, I had schemes, plenty of them. Iwanted her—Lord knows how I wantedher!—and I got pretty desperate,sometimes. Once I saddled up with thefixed determination of riding boldly—andmelodramatically—into King's Highway,facing old King, and saying: "Sir, I loveyour daughter. Let bygones be bygones.Dad and I forgive you, and hope you willdo the same. Let us have peace, and let mehave Beryl—" or something to that effect.

He'd only have done one of two things;he'd have taken a shot at me, or he'd havetold me to go to the same old place wherewe consign unpleasant people. But I didn'ttempt him, though I did tempt fate. I wentover to the little butte, climbed it

pensively, and sat on the flat rock andgazed forlornly at the mouth of the pass.

I had the rock to myself, but I made adiscovery that set the nerves of mejumping like a man just getting over a—well, a season of dissipation. In the sandysoil next the rock were many confusedfootprints—the prints of little riding-boots; and they looked quite fresh. Shehad been there, all right, and I had missedher! I swore, and wondered what she mustthink of me. Then I had an inspiration. Irolled and half-smoked eight cigarettes,and scattered the stubs with carefulcarelessness in the immediate vicinity ofthe rock. I put my boots down in a clearspot of sand where they left marks thatfairly shouted of my presence. Then I

walked off a few steps and studied theeffect with much satisfaction. When shecame again, she couldn't fail to see that Ihad been there; that I had waited a longtime—she could count the cigarette stubsand so form some estimate of the time—and had gone away, presumably in deepdisappointment. Maybe it would make herfeel a little less sure of herself, to knowthat I was camping thus earnestly on hertrail. I rode home, feeling a good dealbetter in my mind.

That night it rained barrelsful. I laid andlistened to it, and gritted my teeth. Wherewas all my cunning now? Where werethose blatant footprints of mine that wereto give their own eloquent message? Icould imagine just how the water was

running in yellow streams off the peak ofthat butte. Then it came to me that, at allevents, some of the cigarette-stubs wouldbe left; so I turned over and went to sleep.

I wish to say, before I forget it, that I don'tthink I am deceitful by nature. You see, itchanges a fellow a lot to get all tangled upin his feelings over a girl that doesn't seemto care a rap for you. He does things thatare positively idiotic At any rate, I did.And I could sympathize some with BarneyMacTague; only, his girl had a crookednose and no eyebrows to speak of, so hehadn't the excuse that I had. Take a girlwith eyes like Beryl—

A couple of days after that—days when Ihadn't the nerve to go near the little butte—Frosty drew six months' wages and

disappeared without a word to anybody.He didn't come back that night, and thenext day Perry Potter, who knows well thestrange freaks cowboys will sometimestake when they have been workingsteadily for a long time, suggested that Iride over to Kenmore and see if Frostywas there, and try my powers ofpersuasion on him—unless he was alreadybroke; in which case, according to PerryPotter, he would come back without anypersuading. Perry Potter added dryly thatit wouldn't be out of my way any, andwould only be a little longer ride. I mustsay I looked at him with suspicion. Theway that little dried-up sinner found outeverything was positively uncanny.

Frosty, as I soon discovered, was not in

Kenmore. He had been, for I learned byinquiring around that he had passed thenight there at that one little hotel. Also thathe had, not more than two hours before—or three, at most—hired a rig and drivenon to Osage. A man told me that he hadtaken a lady with him; but, knowing Frostyas I did, I couldn't quite swallow that. Itwas queer, though, about his hiring a rigand leaving his saddle-horse there in thestable. I couldn't understand it, but I wasn'tgoing to buy into Frosty's affairs unless Ihad to. I ate my dinner dejectedly in thehotel—the dinner was enough to make anyman dejected—and started home again.

CHAPTER XV.

The Broken Motor-car.

Out where the trail from Kenmoreintersects the one leading from Laurel toand through King's Highway, I passedover a little hill and came suddenly upon abig, dark-gray touring-car stalled in theroad. In it Beryl King sat looking intentlydown at her toes. I nearly fell off my horseat the shock of it, and then my blood got toacting funny, so that my head felt queer.Then I came to, and rode boldly up to her,mentally shaking hands with myself overmy good luck. For it was good luck just to

see her, whether anything came of it ornot.

"Something wrong with thewheelbarrow?" I asked her, with a placidsuperiority.

She looked up with a little start—shenever did seem to feel my presence until Ispoke to her—and frowned prettily; butwhether at me or at the car, I didn't know.

"I guess something must be," she answeredquite meekly, for her. "It keeps making thefunniest buzz when I start it—and it's Mr.Weaver's car, and he doesn't know—I—Iborrowed it without asking, and—"

"That car is all right," I bluffed from mysaddle. "It's simply obeying instructions. It

comes under the jurisdiction of my privateProvidence, you see. I ordered it that youshould be here, and in distress, andgrateful for my helping hand." How wasthat for straight nerve?

"Well, then, let's have the helping handand be done. I should be at home, by now.They will wonder—I just went for a—alittle spin, and when I turned to go back, itstarted that funny noise. I—I'm afraid of it.It—might blow up, or—or something."

She seemed in a strangely explanatorymood, that was, to say the least,suspicious. Either she had come outpurposely to torment me, or she wasafraid of what she knew was in my mind,and wanted to make me forget it. But mymettle was up for good. I had no notion of

forgetting, or of letting her.

"I'll do what I can, and willingly," I toldher coolly. "It looks like a good car—anaccommodating car. I hope you areprepared to pay the penalty—"

"Penalty?" she interrupted, and opened hereyes at me innocently; a bit too innocently,I may say.

"Penalty; yes. The penalty of letting mefind you outside of King's Highway,alone," I explained brazenly.

She tried a lever hurriedly, and the cargrowled up at her so that she quit. Thenshe pulled herself together and faced menonchalantly.

"Oh-h. You mean about the black velvet

mask? I'm afraid—I had forgotten thatfunny little—joke." With all she could do,her face and her tone were not convincing.

I gathered courage as she lost it. "I see thatI must demonstrate to you the fact that I amnot altogether a joke," I said grimly, andgot down from my horse.

I don't, to this day, know what sheimagined I was going to do. She sat verystill; the kind of stillness a rabbit adoptswhen he hopes to escape the notice of anenemy. I could see that she hardlybreathed, even.

But when I reached her, I only got awrench out of the tool-box and yankedopen the hood to see what ailed the motor.I knew something of that make of car; in

fact, I had owned one before I got theYellow Peril , and I had a suspicion thatthere wasn't much wrong; a loosened nutwill sometimes sound a good deal moreserious than it really is. Still, a half-formed idea—a perfectly crazy idea—made me go over the whole machine verycarefully to make sure she was all right.

When I was through I stood up and foundthat she was regarding me curiously, yetwith some amusement. She seemed to feelherself mistress of the situation, and toconsider me as an interesting plaything. Ididn't approve that attitude.

"At all events," she said when she met myeyes, and speaking as if there had been nobreak in our conversation, "you are rathera good joke. Thank you so much."

I put away the wrench, fastened the lid ofthe tool-box, and then I faced her grimly."I see mere words are wasted on you," Isaid. "I shall have to carry you off—BerylKing; I shall carry you off if you look atme that way again!"

She did look that way, only more so. Iwonder what she thought a man was madeof, to stand it. I set my teeth hard together.

"Have you got the—er—the black velvetmask?" she taunted, leaning just the leastbit toward me. Her eyes—I say itdeliberately—were a direct challenge thatno man could refuse to accept and feelhimself a man after.

"Mask or no mask—you'll see!" I turnedaway to where my horse was standing

eying the car with extreme disfavor,picked up the reins, and glanced over myshoulder; I didn't know but she would giveme the slip. She was sitting very straight,with both hands on the wheel and her eyeslooking straight before her. She mighthave been posing for a photograph, fromthe look of her. I tied the reins with aquick twist over the saddle-horn and gavehim a slap on the rump. I knew he wouldgo straight home. Then I went back andstepped into the car just as she reacheddown and started the motor. If she hadmeant to run away from me she had beenjust a second too late. She gave me asidelong, measuring glance, and gasped.The car slid easily along the trail as if itwere listening for what we were going tosay.

"I shall drive," I announced quietly, takingher hands gently from the wheel. Shemoved over to make room mechanically,as if she didn't in the least understand thisnew move of mine. I know she neverdreamed of what was really in my heart todo.

"You will drive—where?" her voice waspolitely freezing.

"To find that preacher, of course," Ianswered, trying to sound surprised thatshe should ask, I sent the speed up a notch.

"You—you never would dare!" she criedbreathlessly, and a little anxiously.

"The deuce I wouldn't!" I retorted, andlaughed in the face of her. It was queer,

but my thoughts went back, for just a flash,to the time Barney had dared me to drivethe Yellow Peril up past the Cliff House toSutro Baths. I had the same heady elationof daredeviltry. I wouldn't have turnedback, then, even if I hadn't cared so muchfor her.

She didn't say anything more, and I sentthe car ahead at a pace that almostmatched the mood I was in, and thatbrought White Divide sprinting up to meetus. The trail was good, and the car was adandy. I was making straight for King'sHighway as the best and only chance ofcarrying out my foolhardy design. I doubtif any bold, bad knight of old ever had theeffrontery to carry his lady-love straightpast her own door in broad daylight.

Yet it was the safest thing I could do. Imeant to get to Osage, and the onlypracticable route for a car lay through thepass. To be sure, there was a preacher atKenmore; but with the chance of old Kingbeing there also and interrupting theceremony—supposing I brought matterssuccessfully that far—with a shot or two,did not in the least appeal to me. I hadmade sure that there was plenty ofgasoline aboard, so I drove her rightalong.

"I hope your father isn't home," I remarkedtruthfully when we were slipping into thewide jaws of the pass.

"He is, though; and so is Mr. Weaver. Ithink you had better jump out here and runhome, or it is not a velvet mask you will

need, but a mantle of invisibility." Icouldn't make much of her tone, but herwords implied that even yet she would nottake me seriously.

"Well, I've neither mask nor mantle," Isaid, "But the way I can fade down thepass will, I think, be a fair substitute forboth."

She said nothing whatever to that, but shebegan to seem interested in the affair—asshe had need to be. She might havejumped out and escaped while I was downopening the gate—but she didn't. She satquite still, as if we were only out on acommonplace little jaunt. I wondered ifshe didn't have the spirit of adventure inher make-up, also. Girls do, sometimes.When I had got in again, I turned to her,

remembering something.

"Gadzooks, madam! I command you not toscream," I quoted sternly.

At that, for the first time in ouracquaintance, she laughed; such adelicious, rollicky little laugh that I feltready, at the sound, to face a dozen fathersand they all old Kings.

As we came chugging up to the house,several faces appeared in the doorway asif to welcome and scold the runaway. Isaw old King with his pipe in his mouth;and there were Aunt Lodema and Weaver.They were all smiling at the escapade—Beryl's escapade, that is—and I don't thinkthey realized just at first who I was, orthat I was in any sense a menace to their

peace of mind.

When we came opposite and showed nodisposition to stop, or even to slow up, Isaw the smiles freeze to amazement, andthen—but I hadn't the time to look. OldKing yelled something, but by that time wewere skidding around the first shed, whereShylock had been shot down on my lasttrip through there. It was a new shed, Iobserved mechanically as we went by. Iheard much shouting as we disappeared,but by that time we were almost throughthe gantlet. I made the last turn on twowheels, and scudded away up the opentrail of the pass.

CHAPTER XVI.

One More Race.

A faint toot-toot warned from behind.

"They've got out the other car," said Beryl,a bit tremulously; and added, "it's a muchbigger one than this."

I let her out all I dared for the road wewere traveling; and then there we were, atthat blessed gate. I hadn't thought of it tillwe were almost upon it, but it didn't takemuch thought; there was only one thing todo, and I did it.

I caught Beryl by an arm and pulled herdown to the floor of the car, not taking myeyes from the trail, or speaking. Then Idrove the car forward like a cannon-ball.We hit that gate like a locomotive, andscarcely felt the jar. I knew the make ofthat motor, and what it could do. The airwas raining splinters and bits of lamps,but we went right on as if nothing hadhappened, and as fast as the winding trailwould allow. I knew that beyond the passthe road ran straight and level for many amile, and that we could make good time ifwe got the chance.

Beryl sat half-turned in the seat, glancingback; but for me, I was busy watching thetrail and taking the sharp turns in a way tolift the hair of one not used to traveling by

lightning. I will confess it was ticklishgoing, at that pace, and there were placeswhen I took longer chances than I had anyright to take. But, you see, I had Beryl—and I meant to keep her.

That Weaver fellow must have had abigger bump of caution than I, or else he'dnever raced. I could hear them coming, butthey didn't seem to be gaining; rather, theylost ground, if anything. Presently Berylspoke again, still looking back.

"Don't you think, Mr. Carleton, this jokehas gone far enough? You havedemonstrated what you could do, if—"

I risked both our lives to glance at her."This joke," I said, "is going to Osage. Iwant to marry you, and you know it. The

Lord and this car willing, I'm going to.Still, if you really have been deceived inmy intentions, and insist upon going back,I shall stop, of course, and give you backto your father. But you must do it now, atonce, or—marry me."

She gave me a queer, side glance, but shedid not insist. Naturally I didn't stop,either.

We shot out into the open, with thewindings of the pass behind, and then Iturned the old car loose, and maybe wedidn't go! She wasn't a bad sort—but Iwould have given a good deal, just then, ifshe had been the Yellow Peril stripped fora race. I could hear the others coming up,and we were doing all we could; I saw tothat.

"I think they'll catch us," Beryl observedmaliciously. "Their car is a sixty h.p.Mercedes, and this—"

"Is about a forty," I cut in tartly, not likingthe tone of her; "and just plain Americanmake. But don't you fret, my money's onUncle Sam."

She said no more; indeed, it wasn't easy totalk, with the wind drawing the breathright out of your lungs. She hung onto herhat, and to the seat, and she had her handsfull, let me tell you.

The purr of their motor grew louder, and Ididn't like the sound of it a bit. I turned myhead enough to see them slithering alongclose—abominably close. I glimpsed oldKing in the tonneau, and Weaver humped

over the wheel in an unpleasantlybusinesslike fashion.

I humped over my own wheel and tried tocoax her up a bit, as if she had been theYellow Peril at the wind-up of a closerace. For a minute I felt hopeful. Then Icould tell by the sound that Weaver wascrowding up.

"They're gaining, Mr. Carleton!" Beryl'svoice had a new ring in it, and I caught mybreath.

"Can you get here and take the wheel andhold her straight without slowing her?" Iasked, looking straight ahead. The trailwas level and not a bend in it for half amile or so, and I thought there was achance for us. "I've a notion that friend

Weaver has nerves. I'm going to rattlehim, if I can; but whatever happens, don'tloose your grip and spill us out. I won'thurt them."

Her hands came over and touched mine onthe wheel. "I've raced a bit myself," shesaid simply. "I can drive her straight."

I wriggled out of the way and stood up,glancing down to make sure she was allright. She certainly didn't look much likethe girl who was afraid because something"made a funny noise." I suspected that sheknew a lot about motors.

A bullet clipped close. Beryl set her teethinto her lips, but grittily refrained fromturning to look. I breathed freer.

"Now, don't get scared," I warned,balanced myself as well as I could in theswaying car, and sent a shot back at them.

Weaver came up to my expectations. Heducked, and the car swerved out of thetrail and went wavering spitefully acrossthe prairie. Old King sent another rifle-bullet my way—I must have made a finemark, standing up there—and he was agood shot. I was mighty glad he wasgetting jolted enough to spoil his aim.

Weaver came to himself a bit and grabbedfrantically for brake and throttle andsteering-wheel all at once, it looked like.He was rattled, all right; he must havegiven the wheel a twist the wrong way, fortheir car hit a jutting rock and went up inthe air like a pitching bronco, and old

King sailed in a beautiful curve out of thetonneau.

I was glad Beryl didn't see that. I watched,not breathing, till I saw Weaver scrambleinto view, and Beryl's dad get slowly tohis feet and grope about for his rifle; so Iknew there would be no funeral come ofit. I fancy his language was anything butmild, though by that time we were too faraway to hear anything but the faintchurning of their motor as their wheelspawed futilely in the air.

They were harmless for the present. Theircar tilted ungracefully on its side, and,though I hadn't any quarrel with Weaver, Ihoped his big Mercedes was out ofbusiness. I put away my gun, sat down,and looked at Beryl.

She was very white around the mouth, andher hat was hanging by one pin, Iremember; but her eyes were fixedunswervingly upon the brown trailstretching lazily across the green of thegrass-land, and she was driving that bigcar like an old hand.

"Well?" her voice was clear, and anxious,and impatient.

"It's all right," I said. I took the wheelfrom her, got into her place, and broughtthe car down to a six-mile gait. "It's allright," I repeated triumphantly. "They'reout of the race—for awhile, at least, andnot hurt, that I could see. Just plain, old-fashioned mad. Don't look like that,Beryl!" I slowed the car more. "You'reglad, aren't you? And you will marry me,

dear?"

She leaned back panting a little from thestrain of the last half-hour, and did thingsto her hat. I watched her furtively. Thenshe let her eyes meet mine; those dear,wonderful eyes of hers! And her mouthwas half-smiling, and very tender.

"You silly!" That's every word she said,on my oath.

But I stopped that car dead still andgathered her into my arms, and—Oh, well,I won't trail off into sentiment, youcouldn't appreciate it if I did.

It's a mercy Weaver's car was done for, orthey could have walked right up and gottheir hands on us before we'd have known

it.

CHAPTER XVII.

The Final Reckoning.

About four o'clock we reached the ferry,just behind a fagged-out team and a lightbuggy that had in it two figures—one ofwhom, at least, looked familiar to me.

"Frosty, by all that's holy!" I exclaimedwhen we came close enough to recognizea man. "I clean forgot, but I was sent toKenmore this morning to find that veryfellow."

"Don't you know the other?" Beryl laughedteasingly. "I was at their wedding this

morning, and wished them God-speed. Inever dreamed I should be God-speededmyself, directly! I drove Edith, over toKenmore quite early in the car, and—"

"Edith!"

"Certainly, Edith. Whom else? Did youthink she would be left behind, pining atyour infidelity? Didn't you know they areold, old sweethearts who had quarreledand parted quite like a story? She used toread your letters so eagerly to see if youmade any remark about him; you did, quiteoften, you know. I drove her over toKenmore, and afterward went off towardLaurel just to put in the time and not arrivehome too soon without her—which mighthave been awkward, if father took anotion to go after her. I'm so glad we came

up with them." She stood up and wavedher hand at Edith.

I shouted reassurances to Frosty, who waslooking apprehensively back at us. But itwas a facer. I had never once suspectedthem of such a thing.

"Well," I greeted, when we overtook themand could talk comfortably; "this is luck.When we get across to Pochette's you canget in with us, Mr. and Mrs. Miller, andadd the desired touch of propriety to ourwedding."

They did some staring themselves, then,and Beryl blushed delightfully—just asshe did everything else. She was growingan altogether bewitching bit of femininity,and I kept thanking my private Providence

that I had had the nerve to kidnap her firstand take chances on her being willing.Honest, I don't believe I'd ever have gother in any other way.

When we stopped at Pochette's door thegirls ran up and tangled their arms aroundeach other and wasted enough kisses tomake Frosty and me swear. And theywhispered things, and then laughed aboutit, and whispered some more, and all wecould hear was a gurgle of "You dear!"and the like of that. Frosty and I didn't domuch; we just looked at each other andgrinned. And it's long odds we understoodeach other quite as well as the girls didafter they'd whispered and gurgled anhour.

We had an early dinner—or supper—and

ate fried bacon and stewed prunes—andright there I couldn't keep the joke, but hadto tell the girls about how Frosty and I haddeviled Beryl's father, that time. Theycould see the point, all right, and theyseemed to appreciate it, too.

After that, we all talked at once,sometimes; and sometimes we wouldn'thave a thing to say—times when the girlswould look at each other and smile, withtheir eyes all shiny. Frosty and I wouldlook at them, and then at each other; andFrosty's eyes were shiny, too.

Then we went on, with the motor purringlove-songs and sliding the miles behindus, while Frosty and Edith cooed in thetonneau behind us, and didn't thank us tolook around or interrupt. Beryl and I didn't

say much; I was driving as fast as waswise, and sometimes faster. There wasalways the chance that the other car wouldcome slithering along on our trail.Besides, it was enough just to know thatthis was real, and that Beryl would marryme just as soon as we found a preacher.There was no incentive to linger along theroad.

It yet lacked an hour of sunset when weslid into Osage and stopped before a littlegoods-box church, with a sample of thesame style of architecture chucked closeagainst one side.

We left the girls with the preacher's wife,and Frosty wrote down our ages—Berylwas twenty-one, if you're curious—andour parents' names and where we were

born, and if we were black or white, and afew other impertinent things which he,having been through it himself, insistedwas necessary. Then he hustled out afterthe license, while I went over to the dry-goods and jewelry store to get a ring. Iwill say that Osage puts up a mighty poorshowing of wedding-rings.

We were married. I suppose I ought tostop now and describe just how it was,and what the bride wore, and a list of thepresents. But it didn't last long enough tobe clear in my mind. Everything is a bithazy, just there. I dropped the ring, I knowthat for certain, because it rolled under anarticle of furniture that lookedsuspiciously like a folding-bedmasquerading as a cabinet, and Frosty had

to get down on all fours and fish it outbefore we could go on. And Edith put herhandkerchief to her mouth and giggleddisreputably. But, anyway, we gotmarried.

The preacher gave Beryl an impressivelily-and-rose certificate, which caused hermuch embarrassment, because it wouldnot go into any pocket of hers or mine, butmust be carried ostentatiously in the hand.I believe Edith was a bit jealous of thatbeflowered roll. Her preacher had beenout of certificates, and had made shift witha plain, undecorated sheet of foolscap thatFrosty said looked exactly like a home-made bill of sale. I told Edith she couldpaint some lilies around the edge, and sheflounced out with her nose in the air.

We had decided that we must go back inthe morning and face the music. We had nodesire to be arrested for stealing Weaver'scar, and there was not a man in Osagewho could be trusted to drive it back.Then the girls needed a lot of things; andthough Frosty had intended to take the nexttrain East, I persuaded him to go back andwait for us.

Beryl said she was almost sure her fatherwould be nice about it, now there was nogood in being anything else. I think thatlong roll of stiff paper went a long waytoward strengthening her confidence; shesimply could not conceive of any fatherbeing able to resist its appeal and its lookof finality.

We all got into the car again, and went up

to the station, so I might send a wire todad. It seemed only right and fair to lethim know at once that he had a daughter tobe proud of.

"Good Lord!" I broke out, when we werenearly to the depot "If that isn't—do any ofyou notice anything out on the side-track,over there?" I pointed an unsteady fingertoward the purple and crimson sunset.

"A maroon-colored car, with dark-green—" Beryl began promptly.

"That's it," I cut in. "I was afraid joy hadgone to my head and was making me seecrooked. It's dad's car, the Shasta. And Iwonder how the deuce she got here!"

"Probably by the railroad," said Edith

flippantly.

I drove over to the Shasta, and westopped. I couldn't for the life of meunderstand her being, there. I stared up atthe windows, and nodded dazedly toCrom, grinning down at me. The nextminute, dad himself came out on theplatform.

"So it's you, Ellie?" he greeted calmly. "Ithought Potter wasn't to let you know Iwas coming; he must be getting garrulousas he grows old. However, since you arehere, I'm very glad to see you, my boy."

"Hello, dad," I said meekly, and helpedBeryl out. I wasn't at all sure that I wasglad to see him, just then. Telling dad faceto face was a lot different from telling him

by telegraph. I swallowed.

"Dad, let me introduce you to Miss—Mrs.Beryl King—that is, Carleton; my wife." Igot that last word out plain enough, at anyrate.

Dad stared. For once I had rather flooredhim. But he's a thoroughbred, all right; youcan't feaze him for longer than tenseconds, and then only in extreme cases.He leaned down over the rail and held outhis hand to her.

"I'm very glad to meet you, Mrs. BerylKing—that is, Carleton," he said,mimicking me. "Come up and give yourdad-in-law a proper welcome."

Beryl did. I wondered how long it had

been since dad had been kissed like that. Itmade me gulp once or twice to think of allhe had missed.

Frosty and Edith came up, then, and Edithshook hands with dad and I introducedFrosty. Five minutes, there on theplatform, went for explanations. Daddidn't say much; he just listened and sizedup the layout. Then he led us through thevestibule into the drawing-room. And Iknew, from the look of him, that we wouldget his verdict straight. But it was a reliefnot to see his finger-tips together.

"Perry Potter wrote me something of allthis," he observed, settling himselfcomfortably in his pet chair. "He said thisyoung cub needed looking after, or King—your father, Mrs. Carleton—would have

him by the heels. I thought I'd better comeand see what particular brand of—er—

"As for the motor, I might make shift totake it back myself, seeing Potter hasn'tgot a rig here to meet me. And if you'd likea little jaunt in the Shasta, you four, you'rewelcome to her for a couple of weeks orso. I'm not going back right away. Ellishas done his da—er—is married and offmy hands, so I can take a vacation too. Ican arrange transportation over any linesyou want, before I start for the ranch. Willthat do?"

I guess he found that it would, from theway Edith and Beryl made for him.

Frosty glanced out of the window andmotioned to me. I looked, and we both

bolted for the door, reaching it just as oldKing's foot was on the lower step of theplatform. Weaver, looking like chiefmourner at a funeral, was down below inhis car. King came up another step, glaringand evidently in a mood for war andextermination.

"How d'y' do, King?" Dad greeted overmy shoulder, before I could say a word.He may not have had his finger-tipstogether, but he had the finger-tip tone, allright, and I knew it was a good man whowould get the better of him. "Out lookingfor strays? Come right up; I've got twobrand new married couples here, and Ineed some sane person pretty bad to helpme out." There was the faintest possibleaccent on the sane.

Say, it was the finest thing I had ever seendad do. And it wasn't what he said, somuch as the way he said it. I knew thenwhy he had such, a record for getting hisown way.

King swallowed hard and glared from dadto me, and then at Beryl, who had come upand laid my arm over her shoulder—where it was perfectly satisfied to stay.There was a half-minute when I didn'tknow whether King would shootsomebody, or have apoplexy.

"You're late, father," said Beryl sweetly,displaying that blessed certificate ratherconspicuously. "If you had only hurried alittle, you might have been in time for thewe-wedding."

I squeezed my arm tight in approval, andcame near choking her. King gasped as ifsomebody had an arm around his neck,too, and was squeezing.

"Oh, well, you're here now, and it's allright," put in dad easily, as thougheverything was quite commonplace andhad happened dozens of times to us."Crom will have dinner ready soon,though as he and Tony weren't notified thatthere would be a wedding-party here, Ican't promise the feast I'd like to. Still,there's a bottle or two good enough todrink even their happiness in, Homer. Justsend your chauffeur down to the town, andcome in." (Good one on Weaver, that—and, the best part of it was, he heard it.)

King hesitated while I could count ten—if

I I counted fast enough—and came in,following us all back through thevestibule. Inside, he looked me over anddrew his hand down over his mouth; Ithink to hide a smile.

"Young man, yuh seem born to leave apath uh destruction behind yuh," he said."There's a lot uh fixing to be done on thatgate—and I don't reckon I ever will findthe padlock again."

His eyes met the keen, steady look of dad,stopped there, wavered, softened tofriendliness. Their hands went out half-shyly and met. "Kids are sure terrors,these days," he remarked, and theylaughed a little. "Us old folks have got tostand in the corners when they're around."

King's Highway is open trail. Beryl and Igo through there often in the Yellow Peril ,since dad gave me outright the Bay StateRanch and all pertaining thereto—except,of course, Perry Potter; he stays on of hisown accord.

Frosty is father King's foreman, and AuntLodema went back East and stayed there.She writes prim little letters to Beryl,once in awhile, and I gather that shedoesn't approve of the match at all. ButBeryl does, and, if you ask me, I approvealso. So what does anything else matter?

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