Overland Red lay concealed in an arroyo at the foot of the range. He could overlook the desert without being seen. It was the afternoon of the day following Winthrop's departure.

Since discovering the dead prospector's camp and all that it meant, the tramp was doubly vigilant. He tried to believe that his anxiety was for his own safety rather than for Winthrop's. He finally gave up that idea, grumbling something about becoming "plumb soft in his feelin's since he took to associatin' with sassiety folks." However, had Winthrop been of the West and seasoned in its more rugged ways, Overland would have thought little of the young man's share in recent events. While he knew that Winthrop looked upon their venture as nothing more than a rather keenly exciting game, Overland realized also that the Easterner had played the game royally. Perhaps the fact that Winthrop's health was not of the best appealed to some hidden sentiment in the tramp's peculiar nature. In any event, Overland Red found himself strangely solicitous for his companion's return.

Far in the south a speck moved, almost imperceptibly. The tramp's keen eyes told him that this was no horseman. He rolled a cigarette and lay back in the shade of a boulder. "He's a couple of points off his course, but he can't miss the range," he reflected.

Desiring to assure himself that no horseman followed Winthrop, Overland Red made no sign that might help the other to find the trail over the range. The rim of Winthrop's hat became distinguishable; then the white lacing of his boots. Nearer, Overland saw that his face was drawn and set with lines of fatigue.

No riders appeared on the horizon. Overland stepped out from behind the rock. "Well, how did you make it?" he called.

Winthrop came forward wearily "No luck at all."

"Couldn't find it, eh?"

"I counted every tie between the tank and that little ditch under the track. The entire stretch has been relaid with new ties."

Overland whistled. Then he grinned. "You had a good healthy walk, anyhow," he observed.

"It doesn't seem to worry you much," said Winthrop.

"Nope. Now you're back, it don't. I reckon you done your dam'dest as the song says. Angels can do no less. Buck up, Billy! You 're limper'n a second-hand porous-plaster. Here, take a shot at this. That will stiffen your knees some. Did you meet up with anybody?"

"Not a soul. I thought I should freeze last night, though. I didn't imagine the desert could get so cold."

"Livin' out here on the old dry spot will either kill you or cure you. That's one reason I let you go look for them things. The harder you hit the trail, and can stand it, the quicker you'll get built up." Then Overland, realizing that his companion was worse than tired, that he was dispirited, became as wily as the proverbial serpent. His method, however, could hardly be compared with the dove's conciliatory cooing. "You sure are a bum scout," he began.

Winthrop flushed, but was silent.

"Bet a banana you didn't even leave the track and look for it."

"No, I didn't. Where could I have begun?"

Overland ignored the question. "I'm hungrier than a gorilla. Just send a wireless to them feet of your'n. We got some climbin' to do afore dark."

"I'd just as soon camp here. Go up to-morrow," said Winthrop.

"So'd I if it wasn't for bein' scared some of the hills would mosey off before I got back." And Overland set a brisk pace up the mountain, talking as he climbed. Winthrop could do nothing but listen. He was breathless.

"Or that cañon," continued Overland. "She might not be there if we stayed away all night. Besides, I'm scared to leave it alone by itself."

"Leave what?" gasped Winthrop.

"It. The find I made while you was out surveyin' the Santa Fé. I was feared you'd get nervous prosecution if I told you all to once, so I breaks it easy like."

"What was it?"

"Nothin' but a tent in the cañon we're campin' in. But, Billy, when you find a tent and some minin' tools and other signs of trouble 'way up some lonesome old slot in the hills, you want to get ready for a surprise. Mebby it'll be nothin' but some old clothes and bones. Mebby it'll be them and somethin' else. I didn't find the bones, but I found the somethin' else, coarse, and fair dribblin' thick in the dirt. It's there and rich, Billy, rich!"

Overland Red turned and paused as Winthrop leaned against a rock.

"It's the—the real thing?" queried the Easterner.

"The real thing, pardner. Now what do you think of that for highbrow stuff?"

"Meaning that you stumbled on the secret?"

"If you want to say it that way, yes. Just like fallin' into a sewer and findin' a gold watch where you lit."

"Then it's all true? We've found the gold? You really believed we should, and for that matter, so did I. I can't say why. I rather felt that we should."

"I guess I'm some class when it comes to findin' the incubator that hatches them little yella babies with the come-and-find-me eyes."

Winthrop straightened his tired shoulders. "You seem to think that you're pretty clever," he said, laughing. "But in the elegant and expressive diction of the late—the late Overland Red Summers, 'I think you're a bum scout.'" And they shook hands, laughing as they turned to climb the trail.

Near the crest, Overland again paused. "Say, Billy, you said the 'late' Overland Red Summers. You took particular noise to make me hear that word 'late.' Have you got any objections to explainin' that there idea? I been examinin' the works of that word 'late,' and it don't tick right to me. 'Late' means 'planted,' don't it?"

"Sometimes. It may also mean behind time. Do you remember that I said, a day or two ago, that I shouldn't be surprised if the lost gold were in the very cañon where we camped? I claim precedence of divination, auto-suggestion, and right of eminent domain. I shall not waive my prerogative."

"I never owned one," said Overland. "But afore I'll let you come any style over me, I'll have one made with a silk linin' and di'monds in the buttons, jest as soon as the claim gets to payin' good. Say, pardner, it's free gold, and coarse. I wisht Collie was here—the little cuss."

"Collie?"

"Uhuh. The kid I was tellin' you about, that I adopted back in Albuquerque. He's got a share in this here deal, by rights. He invested his eight rollers and four bits in the chances of my findin' the stuff. It was all the coin he had at the time. You see, I was campin' up on the Moonstone for a change of air, and Collie and me had a meetin' of the board of dissectors. The board votes unanimous to invest the paid-in capital in a suit of new jeans for the president, which was me. I got 'em on now. You see, I had to be dollied up to look the part so I could catch a come-on and get me grubstake."

"I see," said Winthrop, his gray eyes twinkling. "And I was the come-on?"

"Well," said Overland, scratching his head, "mebby you was, but you ain't no more. If she pans out anything like I expect, you'll be standin' up so clost to bein' rich that if she was a bronc' you'd get kicked sure."

They rested for a few minutes, both gazing down on the evening desert. The reflected light, strong and clear, drew abrupt, keen-edged contrasts between the black, triangular shadows of the peaks and the gray of the range. Something elusive, awesome, unreal was in the air about them. The rugged mountain-side with its chaos of riven boulders, its forest of splintered rocky spires, silver cold in the twilight, its impassive bulk looming so large, yet a mere segment in the circling range, was as a day-dream of some ancient Valhalla, clothed in the mystic glory of ever-changing light, and crowned with slumbering clouds.

Winthrop sighed as he again faced the range. Overland heard and smiled. "You said it all," he muttered. "You said it all then."

"You're something of a poet, aren't you?" queried Winthrop.

"You bet! I'm some artist, too. A lady I was figurin' on acceptin' a invite to dinner with, once,—one of them rich kind that always wants to get their money's worth out of anything they do for a poor guy,—happened to come out on the back steps where I was holdin' kind of a coroner's request over a lettuce san'wich. 'My man,' she says, 'I have always been interested to know if you—er—tramps ever think of anything else but food and lodging and loafing. Nothing personal, I assure you. Merely a general interest in social conditions which you seem so well fitted to explode from experience. For instance, now, what are your favorite colors?'

"I couldn't see what that had to do with it, and I got kind of mad. A lettuce san'wich ain't encouragin' to confidence, so I up and says, 'What are me favorite colors, lady? Well, speakin' from experience, they is ham and eggs.'

"She took a tumble to herself and sent me out some of the best—and a bottle of Red Cross beer with it."

On up the slope they toiled, Winthrop half-forgetting his weariness in thinking of Overland's sprightly experiences with what he termed "the hard ole map—this here world."

At the summit they paused again to rest.

"That was the time," began Overland, "when I writ that there pome called 'Heart Throbs of a Hobo.' Listen!"

"Oh, my stummick is jest akein'
For a little bite of bacon,
A slice of bread, a little mug of brew.
I'm tired of seein' scenery,
Jest lead me to a beanery,
Where there's something more than only air to chew."

"The last line sounds like a sneeze," said Winthrop, laughing.

"Speakin' of sneeze," said Overland, "makes me think you ain't coughed so much lately, Billy."

"I had a pretty bad time yesterday morning," replied Winthrop.

"Well, you'll get cured and stay cured, up here," said Overland, hugely optimistic.

"Of course," rejoined Winthrop, smiling. "It's such hard work to breathe up here that I have to keep alive to attend to it."

"That's her! Them little old bellowsus of your'n 'll get exercise—not pumpin' off the effects of booze an' cigarettes, neither, but from pumpin' in clean thin air with a edge to it. Them little old germs will all get dizzy and lose their holt."

"That's getting rather deep into personalities," said Winthrop. "But I think you're correct. I could eat a whole side of bacon, raw."

And he followed Overland silently across the range and down into the cool depths of the hidden cañon, where the tramp, ever watchful of the younger man's health, slipped from his coat and made Winthrop put it on, despite the latter's protest that he was hot and sweating.

"What are you going to do with those things?" asked Winthrop. "Not burn them?"

"Yep; every strap and tie-string," replied Overland, gathering together the dead prospector's few effects. "Cause why? Well, Billy, if this claim ain't filed on,—and I reckon it ain't,—why, we files on her as the original locators. Nobody gets wise to anything and it saves the chance of gettin' jumped. The bunch over there would make it interestin' for us if they knowed we was goin' to file on it. They'd put up a fight by law, and mebby one not by law. Sabe?"

"I think so. Going to burn that little—er—cradle arrangement, too?"

"Yep. Sorry, 'cause it's wood, and wood is wood here. That little rocker is a cradle all right for rockin' them yella babies in and then out. The hand that rocks that cradle hard enough rules the world, as the pote says."

"So this is how gold is mined?" queried Winthrop, examining the crude rocker and the few rusted tools.

"One way. Pan, cradle, or sluice for free gold. They's about four other ways. This here's our way."

"Is it a rich claim?"

"Tolerable. I panned some up the branch. She runs about two dollars a pan."

"Is that all?"

Overland smiled as he poked a smouldering corner of blanket into the fire. "It is and it ain't. I reckon you could pan fifty pans a day. That's a hundred dollars. Then I could do that much and the cookin', too. That's another hundred. Two hundred dollars a day ain't bad wages for two guys. It ought to keep us in grub and postage stamps and some chewin'-gum once in a while."

"Two hundred a day!" And Winthrop whistled. "That doesn't seem much in New York—on the street, but out here—right out of the ground. Why, that's twelve hundred a week."

"Nope—not exactly. She's a rich one, and bein' so rich at the start she'll peter out fast, I take it. I know these here kind. When we come to the end of the cañon we're at the end, that's all. Besides, she's so rich we won't work six days every week. If she was half as good, mebby we would. You never done much fancy pick-handle exercise, did you?"

"No, but I'm going to. This beats signing checks all to pieces."

"Never got cramps that way myself," grunted Overland. "But I have from swingin' a pick. Your back'll be so blame stiff in about three days that you'll wish you never seen a pan or a shovel. Then you'll get over the fever and settle down sensible. Three of us could do a heap better than two. I wish Collie was on the job."

"I'm willing," said Winthrop.

"'Course you are, but you get your half of this as agreed. Collie's share comes out of my half. I'm playin' this hand over the table, in plain sight."

Winthrop glanced quickly at Overland's inscrutable face. "Suppose I should tell you that my income, each week, is about equal to what we expect to get from this claim?"

"Makes no difference," growled Overland. "It wasn't your money that stood off the constable—and later out in the desert. It was you. They's some places left on this old map yet where a man is jest what his two fists and his head is worth. This here Mojave is one of 'em. Are you squeak to that?"

"I understand," said Winthrop.

They worked steadily until evening. They staked out their respective and adjoining claims, dropped the rusted tools in a bottomless crevice, and removed the last shred and vestige of a previous occupancy.

"This here's been too easy," said Overland, as he sliced bacon for the evening meal. "When things comes as easy as this, you want to watch out for a change in the weather. We ain't through with the bunch yet."

The Easterner, making the evening fire, nodded. "How are we to get provisions?" he asked.

"First, I was thinkin' of packin' 'em in from Gophertown, over yonder. She's about thirty miles from here, across the alkali. 'T aint a regular town, but they got grub. But if we got to comin' in regular, they'd smell gold quicker than bees findin' orange-blossoms. They got my number, likewise."

"How's that?"

"They know I been standin' out on the edge ever since I had a little fuss with some folks over at Yuma, quite a spell ago."

"Won't you tell me about it?"

"Sure! They was three parties interested—me and another gent and a hoss. I guess the hoss is still alive."

Winthrop laughed. "That's a pretty brief epic," he said.

"Uhuh. It was. But I reckon we got to hit the breeze out of here right soon. Here, le' me take that fry-pan a minute. It's this way. Me and you's located this claim. Now we go and file. But first we got to get some dough. I got a scheme. I'm thinkin' of gettin' a dude outfit—long-tailed coat and checker pants and a elevated lid with a shine to it. Then you and me to the State House and file on this here claim. You stay right in them kickie clothes and that puncher hat. We file, see? The gents supportin' the bars and store corners will be so interested in seein' me do you for your pile that they'll forget to remember who I am, like I would be in me natural jeans. They'll size me for a phoney promoter excavatin' your pocketbook. It's a chance—but we got to take it."

"That's all very weird and wonderful," said Winthrop, "and not so very flattering to me, but I am game. I'll furnish the expense money."

After the evening meal they drew nearer the fire and smoked in the chill silence. The flames threw strange dancing shadows on the opposite cliff.

Winthrop, mindful of Overland's advice, slipped on his coat as the night deepened. "About your adopting a disguise," he began; "I should think you would look well enough clean-shaven and dressed in some stylish, rough tweed. You have fine shoulders and—"

"Hold on, Billy! I'm a livin' statoo, I know. But listen! I got to go the limit to look the part. You can't iron the hoof-marks of hell and Texas out of my mug in a hundred years. The old desert and the border towns and the bottle burned 'em in to stay. Them kind of looks don't go with business clothes. I got to look fly—jest like I didn't know no better."

"Perhaps you are right. You seem to make a go of everything you tackle."

"Yep! Some things I made go so fast I ain't caught up with 'em yet. You know I used to wonder if a fella's face would ever come smooth again in heaven. That was a spell ago. I ain't been worryin' about it none lately."

"How old are you?"

"Me? I'm huggin' thirty-five clost. But not so clost I can't hear thirty-six lopin' up right smart."

"Only thirty-five!" exclaimed Winthrop. Then quickly, "Oh, I beg your pardon."

"That's nothin'", said Overland genially. "It ain't the 'thirty-five' that makes me feel sore—it's the 'only.' You said it all then. But believe me, pardner, the thirty-five have been all red chips."

"Well, you have lived," sighed Winthrop.

"And come clost to forgettin' to, once or twice. Anyhow,—speakin' of heaven,—I'd jest as soon take my chances with this here mug of mine, what shows I earned all I got, as with one of them there dead-fish faces I seen on some guys that never done nothin' better or worse than get up for breakfast."

Winthrop smiled. "Yes. And you believe in a heaven, then?"

"From mornin' till night. And then more than ever. Not your kind of a heaven, or mebby any other guy's. But as sure as you're goin' to crease them new boots by settin' too clost to the fire, there's somethin' up there windin' up the works regular and seein' that she ticks right, and once in a while chuckin' out old wheels and puttin' in new ones. Jest take a look at them stars! Do you reckon they're runnin' right on time and not jumpin' the track and dodgin' each other that slick—jest because they was throwed out of a star-factory promiscus like a shovel of gravel? No, sir! Each one is doin' its stunt because the other one is—same as folks. Sure, there's somethin' runnin the big works; but whether me or you is goin' to get a look-in,—goin' to be let in on it,—why, that's different."

Winthrop drew back from the fire and crossed his legs. He leaned forward, gazing at the flames. From the viewless distance came the howl of coyotes.

"They're tryin' to figure it out—same as us," said Overland, poking a half-burned root into the fire. "And they're gettin' about as far along at it, too. Like most folks does in a crowd—jest howlin' all together. Mebby it sounds good to 'em. I don' know."

"I'm somewhat of a scoffer, I think," said Winthrop presently.

"Most lungers is," was Overland's cheerful comment. "They're sore on their luck. They ain't really sore at the big works. They only think so. I've knowed lots of 'em that way."

"To-night,—here in this cañon,—with the stars and the desert so near, you almost persuade me that there is something."

"Hold on, Billy! You're grazin' on the wrong side of the range if you think I'm preachin'. My God! I hate preachin' worse than I could hate hell if I thought they was one. My little old ideas is mine. I roped 'em and branded 'em and I'm breakin' 'em in to ride to suit me. I ain't askin' nobody to risk gettin' throwed ridin' any of my stock. Sabe?"

"But a chap may peek through the fence and watch, mayn't he?"

"Sure! Mebby you're breakin' some stock of your own like that. If you are, any little old rig I got is yours."

"Thank you. And I'm not joking. Perhaps I'll get the right grip on things later. I've been used to town and the pace. I've always had money, but I never felt really clean, inside and out, until now. I never before burned my bridges and went it under my own flag."

Overland nodded sagely. "Uhuh. It's the air. Your feelin' clean and religious-like is nacheral up here. Don't worry if it feels queer to you at first—you'll get used to it. Why, I quit cussin', myself, when everything seems so dum' quiet. Sounds like the whole works had stopped to listen to a fella. Swearin' ain't so hefty then. Sort of outdoor stage fright, I reckon. Say, do you believe preachin' ever did much good?"

"Sometimes I've thought it did."

"I seen a case once," began Overland reminiscently. "It was Toledo Blake. He was a kind of bum middleweight scrapper when he was workin' at it. When he wasn't trainin' he was a kind of locoed heavyweight—stewed most of the time. It was one winter night in Toledo. Me and him went into one of them 'Come-In-Stranger' rescue joints. 'Course, they was singin' hymns and prayin' in there, but it was warmer than outside, so we stayed.

"After a while up jumps the foreman of that gospel outfit. His foretop was long, and he wore it over one ear like a hoss's when the wind is blowin'.

"He commenced wrong, I guess. He points down the room to where me and Toledo was settin', and he hollers, 'Go to the ant, you slugger! Consider her game and get hep to it,' or somethin' similar.

"That word 'slugger' kind of jarred Toledo. He jumps up kind of mad. 'Mebby I am a slugger, and mebby I ain't, but you needn't to get personal about it. Anyhow, I ain't got no aunt.'

"'The text,' says the hoss-faced guy on the platform, 'the text, my brother, is semaphorical.'

"Toledo couldn't understand that, so I whispers, 'Set down, you mutt! Semaphore is a sign ain't it? Well, he's givin' you the sign talk. Set down and listen.'

"Toledo, he hadn't had a drink for a week, and he was naturally feelin' kind of ugly. 'All right,' he growls at the preacher guy. 'All right. I pass.'

"'Ah, my brother!' says the hoss-faced guy. 'I see the spirits is at work.' That kind of got Toledo's goat.

"'Your dope is bum,' says Toledo. 'I ain't had a drink for a week. First you tell a fella to go see his aunt, when she's been planted for ten years. Then—'

"'Listen, brother!' says the preacher guy. 'I referred to ants—little, industrious critters that are examples of thrift to the idle, the indignant, the—'

"'Hold on!' says Toledo. 'Do you mean red ants or black ants?' And I seen that a spark had touched Toledo's brainbox and that he was wrastlin' with somethin' that felt like thinkin'.

"'Either, my brother,' says the hoss-faced guy, smilin' clear up to his back teeth.

"'Well, you're drawin' your dope from the wrong can,' says Toledo, shufflin' for the door. 'Because,' says he, turnin' in the doorway, 'because, how in hell is a fella goin' to find any ants with two feet of snow on the ground?'

"And then Toledo and me went out. It was a mighty cold night."

Overland Red rolled a cigarette, pausing in his narrative to see whether Winthrop, who sat with bowed head, was asleep or not.

Winthrop glanced up. "I'm awake," he said, smiling. "Very much awake. I can see it all—you two, down on your luck, and the snow freezing and melting on the bottoms of your trousers. And the stuffy little rescue mission with a few weary faces and many empty chairs; the 'preacher guy,' as you call him, earnest, and ignorant, and altogether wrong in trying to reason with Toledo Blake's empty stomach."

"That's it!" concurred Overland. "A empty stomach is a plumb unreasonable thing. But the preacher guy done some good, at that. He set Toledo Blake to thinkin' which was somethin' new and original for Toledo.

"It was nex' spring Toledo and me was travelin' out this way, inspectin' the road-bed of the Santa Fé, when we runs onto a big red-ant's nest in the sand alongside of the track. Toledo, he squats down and looks. The first thing he sees was a leetle pa ant grab up a piece of crust twice his size and commence sweatin' and puffin' to drag it home to the kids.

"'The leetle cuss!' says Toledo. 'He's some strong on the lift!' And Toledo, he takes the piece of crust from the pa ant and sticks it at the top of the hole, thinkin' to help the pa ant along. But the pa ant, he hustles right up and grabs the crust and waves her around his head a couple of times to show how strong he is, and then starts back to where he found the crust. Down he plumps it—gives it a h'ist or two and then grabs it up. He waves it around in his mitts and wobbles off toward the hole again. Independent? Well, mostly!

"Toledo, he said nothin', but his eyes was pokin' out of his head tryin' to think. You never see a man sweat so tryin' to get both hands onto a idea at once. His dome was kind of flat, but he could handle one idea, in single harness, at a time.

"Anyhow, the next town we strikes, Toledo, he quits me and gets a sort of chambermaid's job tidyin' up around a little old boiler-factory and machine-shop; pilin' scrap-iron and pig-iron and little things like that. And he stuck, too.

"A couple of years after that I was beatin' it on a rattler goin' west, and I drops off at that town. About the first thing I seen was Toledo comin' down the street. Alongside of him was a woman carry in' a kid in her arms, and another one grazin' along close behind. And Toledo had a loaf of bread under his arm.

"'This here is Mrs. Blake,' says Toledo, kind of nervous.

"'I am glad she is,' says I. 'Toledo, you're doin' well. Don't know nothin' about the leetle colt in the blanket, but the yearlin' is built right. He's got good hocks and first-class action.'

"Mrs. Toledo, she kind of sniffed superior, but said nothin'. You know that kind of sayin' nothin' which is waitin' for you to move on.

"'Won't you come up to the shack and have grub?' says Toledo, hopin' I'd say 'No.'

"'Nope,' says I. 'Obliged jest the same. I see you got hep to the ant all right.'

"'I'll let you know I'm nobody's aunt!' says Mrs. Toledo, yankin' the yearlin' off his hoofs and settin' him down again. For a fact, she thunk I was alludin' to her.

"'Of course not, madam,' says I, polite, and liftin' me lid. 'And I judge somebody's in luck at that.'

"I guess it was her not used to bein' spoke and acted polite to that got her goat. Mebby she smelt somethin' sarcastic. I dunno. Anyhow, she was a longhorn with a bad eye. 'Go on, you chicken-lifter!' she says.

"Bein' no hand to sass a lady, I said nothin' more to her. But I hands Toledo a jolt for bein' ashamed of his old pal.

"'Well, so long,' says I, kind of offhand and easy. 'So long. I'll tell Lucy when I see her that you was run over by a freight and killed. Then she can take out them papers and marry Mike Brannigan that's been waitin' in the hopes you'd pass over. You remember Mike, the cop on Cherry Street. You oughta. He's pinched you often enough. 'Course you do. Well, so long. Little Johnny was lookin' fine the last I seen of him. He's gettin' more like his pa every day. But I got to beat it.'"

Overland Red leaned back and puffed a great cloud of smoke from a fresh cigarette.

"Who was Lucy?" asked Winthrop.

"Search me!" replied Overland. "They wasn't any Lucy or nobody like that. But I'd like to 'a' stayed to hear Toledo explain that to Mrs. Toledo, though. She was a hard map to talk to."

"I suppose there's a moral attached to that, or, more properly, embodied in that story. But it is good enough in itself without disemboweling it for the moral."

"You can't always go by ants, neither," said Overland.

Winthrop nodded. His eyes were filled with the awe of great distances and innumerable stars. "Gold!" he whispered presently, as one whispers in dreams. "Gold! Everywhere! In the sun—in the starlight—in the flowers—in the flame. In wine, in a girl's hair.... Gold! Mystery.... Power ... and as impotent as Fate." Winthrop's head lifted suddenly. "What shall we call the mine?" he asked.

Overland Red started, as though struck from ambush. "How did you guess?" he queried.

"Guess what?"

"That I was thinkin' about the claim?"

"I didn't guess it. I was dreaming. Suddenly I asked a question, without knowing that I was speaking."

"Mebby I was bearin' down so hard on the same idea that you kind of felt the strain."

"Possibly. That's not unusual. What shall we call it?"

"Wha—I was thinkin' of callin' it the 'Rose Girl' after a girl Collie and me knows up Moonstone Cañon way."

"It's rather a good name," said Winthrop. "Is the girl pretty?"

"Pretty? Gosh! That ain't the word. Her real name is Louise Lacharme, and, believe me, Billy, she's all that her name sounds like, and then some."

One after another, in the course of the two years following Collie's arrival, the old riders of the Moonstone Rancho drifted away. There remained but Brand Williams the foreman, Collie, and the sturdy, hard-riding Miguel, a young Spanish vaquero who was devoted to but two things in life, his splendid pinto pony, and the Moonstone Ranch.

The others had been lured to the new oil-fields up north—to the excitement of Goldfield, or to Mexico City, where even more excitement promised. In their stead came new men—Bud Light, Parson Long, Billy Dime, and one Silent Saunders.

Louise became acquainted with the new men while riding with her uncle. She was his constant companion in the hills. One by one the new arrivals became devoted to her. Her sincere interest in the ranch work pleased them, and naturally, for it was their work. Walter Stone was also pleased with his niece's interest in the detail of the ranch work. She was as a daughter to him. Some day the property would be hers.

Fully conscious, from within herself, of her dependence upon her uncle, Louise managed to be of inestimable service. She performed her self-allotted tasks without ostentation. She had that rare quality of stimulating enthusiasm among the men—enthusiasm for their work and pride in giving faithful and energetic service—pride in accomplishing a little more each day than was asked or expected of them. Louise's youth, her beauty, her sincerity, and, above all, her absolute simplicity of manner commanded admiration and respect among the hard-riding Moonstone boys. She was, to them, a "lady," yet a lady they could understand. Hers was a gentle tyranny. A request from her was deemed a great compliment by its recipient.

All of them, with the exception of Collie, openly praised her horsemanship, her quiet daring, her uniform kindness. Her beauty had ceased to be commented upon. It was accepted by them as one accepts the fragrant beauty of a rose, naturally, silently, gratefully.

Collie had gained in height and breadth of shoulder. He no longer needed instruction in managing broncho stock. He loved the life of the hills; the cool, invigorating mornings, the keen wind of the noon peaks, the placidity of the evening as the stars multiplied in the peaceful sky.

He became that rare quantity among cowmen, a rider who handled and mastered unbroken horses without brutality. This counted heavily for him both with Louise and Walter Stone. Men new to the range laughed at his method of "gentling" horses. Later their laughter stilled to envious desire. Lacking his invariable patience, his consistent magnetism, they finally resumed their old methods, and earned dominance by sheer strength of arm—"main strength and awkwardness," as Williams put it.

"It's easy—for him," commented Brand Williams, discussing Collie's almost uncanny quelling of a vicious, unbitted mustang. "It's easy. You fellas expect a boss to buck and bite and kick and buffalo you generally. He don't. He don't expect anything like that, and he don't let 'em learn how."

"Can you work it that way?" asked Billy Dime.

"Nope. I learned the other way and the bosses knows it. I always had to sweat. He's born to it natural, like a good cow-pony is."

And Collie looked upon his work as a game—a game that had to be played hard and well, but a game, nevertheless. Incidentally he thought often of Overland Red. He had searched the papers diligently for a year, before he received the first letter from Overland. The news it contained set Collie to thinking seriously of leaving the Moonstone Rancho and joining his old companion in this new venture of gold-digging which, as Overland took pains to explain, was "paying big." But there was Louise.... They were great friends. They had even ridden to town together and attended the little white church in the eucalyptus grove.... He thought of their ride homeward late that Sunday afternoon....

Once and once only had Overland's name been mentioned in the bunk-house. Saunders, discussing horses and riders in general, listened to Collie's account of Overland's escape from the deputy, Tenlow. Then he spoke slightingly of the feat, claiming that any man who had ever ridden range could do as much, with the right pony.

Brand Williams tried to change the subject, for shrewd reasons of his own, but Collie flamed up instantly. "I got a little saved up," he said; "mebby eight hundred. She's yours if you dast to walk a horse, comin' or goin', over that drift that Red took on the jump. Are you game?"

"I'm not on the bet," replied Saunders. "So Overland Red is a friend of yours, eh?"

"Overland Red could ride where you dassent to walk and drag a halter," asserted Collie. Then he relapsed to silence, a little ashamed in that he had been trapped into showing temper.

Williams the taciturn astonished the bunk-house by adding: "The kid is right. Red could outride most men. I was his pal once, down in Sonora. There ain't a better two-gun artist livin'." And the lean foreman looked pointedly at Saunders.

Saunders smiled evilly. He had reason to believe that Williams had spoken the truth.

A few weeks later, Williams, returning unexpectedly to the bunk-house, found Saunders changing his shirt preparatory to a ride to town. The rest of the boys were already on their way to the Oro Rancho across the valley. Williams saw two puckered scars, each above the elbow on Saunders's bared arms.

"That was dam' good shootin'," said the foreman, indicating the other's scarred arms.

"Fair," said Saunders gruffly.

"Takes a gun-artist to put a man out of business that way and not finish him," said Williams, smiling.

"Cholo mix-up," said Saunders.

"And shootin' from the ground, at that," continued Williams. "And at a fella on a horse. Easy to see that, for the both holes are slantin' up. The shootin' was done from below."

Saunders flushed. He was about to speak when Williams interrupted him. "Makes me think of some of Overland Red's—that is, old Red Jack Summers's fancy work. I don' know why," he drawled, and turning he left the bunk-house.

Collie, returning from a visit to the Oro Rancho that evening, was met by Williams. The latter was on foot.

"Drop into my shack after dark," said the foreman. Then he stepped back into the bushes as the other men rode up.

The foreman's interview with Collie that evening was brief. It left a lot to the imagination. "You said too much about Overland Red the other night, when you was talkin' to Silent Saunders," said Williams. "He's tryin' to find out somethin'. I don't know what he's after. Keep your eye peeled and your teeth on the bit. That's all."

"Oh, he's built all right, and he comes of good stock," said Brand Williams, nodding toward a bay colt that stood steaming in the sun.

It had rained the night before—an unexpected shower and the last of the winter rains. Now that the snow had left the hills, the young stock, some thirty-odd year-old colts had been turned into the north range. Collie and Williams had ridden over to look at the colts; Williams as a matter of duty, Collie because he was interested and liked Williams's society.

The colt, shaking itself, turned and nipped at its shoulder and switched its tail.

"He's stayed fat, too," continued Williams. "But look at him! He's bitin' and switchin' because he's wet. Thinks it's fly-time a'ready. He's jest a four-legged horse-hide blunder. I know his kind."

Collie, dismounting and unbuttoning his slicker, rolled it and tied it to the saddle. "I guess you're right, Brand. Last week I was over this way. He had his head through the corral bars at the bottom and he couldn't get loose. He was happy, though. He must have been there quite a spell, for he ate about half a bale of hay. I got him loose and he tried his darndest to kick my head off."

"Uhuh," grunted the foreman. "Reckon it's the last rain we'll get this year. Now would you look at that! He's the limit!"

The colt, sniffing curiously at a crotch in the live-oak against which he had been rubbing, had stepped into the low fork of the tree. Perhaps he had some vague notion to rub both his sides at once as an economy of effort. His front feet had slipped on the wet ground. He went down, wedged fast. He struggled and kicked. He nickered plaintively, and rolled his terror-stricken eyes toward the cowmen in wild appeal.

"And like all of his kind, hoss and human," said Williams, dismounting, "he's askin' for help in a voice that sounds like it was our fault that he's in trouble. He's the limit!"

With much labor they finally released the colt, who expressed prompt gratitude by launching a swift and vicious kick at Collie.

"He's feeling good enough," said that youth, coolly picking up his hat that had dropped as he dodged.

"Yes. All he needs is a couple of punchers and a hoss-doctor and a policeman to ride round with him and keep him out of trouble. He's no account; never will be," growled Williams.

"I don't know, Brand. He's a mighty likely-looking and interesting specimen. He's different. I kind of like him."

"Well, I don't. I ain't got time. He's always goin' to manufacture trouble, when he don't come by it natural. He's got a kind eye, but no brains behind it."

They mounted and rode up the hill, looking for breaks in the fences and counting the colts, some of whom, luxuriously lazy in the heat of the sun, stood with lowered heads, drowsing. Others, scattered about the hillsides and in the arroyos, grazed nippingly at the sparse bunch-grass, moving quickly from clump to clump.

The "blunder" colt seemed to find his own imbecilities sufficiently entertaining, for he grazed alone.

The foreman's inspection terminated with the repairing of a break in the fence inclosing the spring-hole, a small area of bog-land dotted with hummocks of lush grass. Between the hummocks was a slimy, black ooze that covered the bones of more than one unfortunate animal. The heavy, ripe grass lent an appearance of stability, of solidity, to the treacherous footing.

Williams and Collie reinforced the sagging posts with props of fallen limbs and stones carried from the trail below. They piled brush where the wire had parted, filling the opening with an almost impassable barrier of twisted branches. Until the last rain, the spring-hole fence had appeared solid—but one night of rain in the California hills can work unimaginable changes in trail, stream-bed, or fence line.

"Get after that fence first thing in the morning," said Williams as he unsaddled the pinto that afternoon. "I noticed the blunder colt followed us up to the spring. If there's any way of gettin' bogged, he'll find it, or invent a new way for himself."

The blunder colt's mischief-making amounted to absolute genius. There was much of the enterprising puppy in his nature and in his methods. The impulse which seemed to direct the extremely uneven tenor of his way would have resolved itself orally into: "Do it—and then see what happens!" He was not vicious, but brainlessly joyful in his mischief.

As the foreman and Collie disappeared beyond the crest of the hill, the colt, who had watched them with absurdly stupid intensity, lowered his head and nibbled indifferently at the grass along the edge of the spring-hole fence. He approached the break and sniffed at the props and network of branches. This was interesting! And a very carelessly constructed piece of fence, indeed! He would investigate. The blunder colt was never too hungry to cease grazing and turn toward adventure.

He nosed one of the props. He leaned against it heavily, deliberately, and rubbed himself. Verily "His eye had all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming"—of unalloyed mischief.

The prop creaked, finally became loosened, and fell. The colt sprang back awkwardly, snorting in indignant surprise. "The very idea!" he would have said, even as he would have chewed gum and have worn a perpetual tear in his trousers had he been human.

With stiff stealthiness he approached the break again, pretending a hesitancy that he enjoyed immensely. He reached under the lower wire, neck outstretched, and nibbled at a bunch of ripe grass. There was plenty of grass within easier reach, but he wanted the unattainable. A barb caught in his mane. He jerked his head up. The barb pricked his neck. He jerked harder. Another prop became loosened. Then he strode away, this time with calm indifference. He pretended to graze, but his eye roved back to the break. His attitude expressed a sly alertness—something of the quiet vigilance a grazing horse betrays when one approaches with a bridle. He drew nearer the fence again. With head over the top wire he gazed longingly at the clumps of grass on the hummocks scattered over the muck of the overflow. His shoulder needed scratching. With drooping head, eyes half-closed, and lower lip pendant, he rubbed against the loosened post. The post sagged and wobbled. Whether it was deliberate intent, or just natural "horse" predominating his actions, it would be difficult to determine. Finally the post gave way and fell. The colt drew back and contemplated the opening with a vacuous eye. It was not interesting now. No, indeed! He wandered away.

But in the dusk of that evening, when a chill dew sparkled along the edges of the bog, he came, a clumsy shadow and grazed among the hummocks. Slowly he worked toward the treachery of black ooze that shone in the starlight. He sank to his fetlocks. He drew his feet up one after another, still progressing toward the centre of the bog, and sinking deeper at each step. He became stricken with fear as he sank to his hocks. He plunged and snorted. The bog held him with a soft, detaining grip—and drew him slowly down. He nickered, and finally screamed in absolute terror. Up to his heaving belly the black mud crept. He flung himself sideways. Exhausted, he lay with neck and head outstretched. Again he struggled, his eyes wild and protruding with the blood pressure of his straining. Then the chill of night crept over him. He became quiet—shivered a little, and nickered faintly.

In the willows a little owl called pensively.

The morning light, streaming across the hills, spread like raw gold over the bog. Collie whistled as he rode down the trail, and beat his gloved hands to keep warm. He heard a plaintive whinny and a bubbling gasp. He leaped from his pony, the coiled riata in his hand as he touched the ground.

The blunder colt, neck outstretched, was still above the ooze. His eyes were bloodshot, as their white rims showed. His nose quivered and twisted with his quick, irregular breathing.

It was a "two-man job," but Collie knew that the colt would probably be gone before he could ride back and return with help. He swung the riata, then hesitated. To noose the colt's neck would only result in strangling it when he pulled. He found a branch large enough to stiffen the brush near the break. Swiftly he built a shaky footing and crept out toward the colt. By shoving the riata under the colt's belly with a forked stick, and fishing the loose end up on the other side, he managed to get a loop round the animal's hind quarters. He mounted his own horse and took a turn of the riata round the saddle-horn.

His pony set its feet and leaned to the work. Slowly the colt was drawn to solid ground.

He was a pitiful object as he lay panting and shivering, plastered with mud and black slime, and almost dead from shock and chill. Collie spread his slicker over him and rode up the hill at a trot. The blunder colt raised its head a little, then dropped it and lay motionless.

When Collie and Billy Dime returned with gunnysacks and an old blanket, the sun had warmed the air. The mud on the colt's side and neck had begun to dry.

Billy Dime commented briefly. "He's a goner. He's froze clean to his heart. Why didn't you leave him where he was?"

Collie spread the gunnysacks on a level beneath a live-oak, beneath which they dragged the colt and covered him with the blanket. They gave him whiskey with water that they heated at a little fire of brush. The colt lifted its head, endeavoring spasmodically to get to its feet.

"He's wearin' hisself out. He ain't got much farther to go," said Billy Dime, mounting and turning his pony. "Come on, kid. If he's alive to-morrow mornin'—good enough."

"I think I'll stay awhile," said Collie. "Brand says he isn't worth saving, but—I kind of like the cuss. He's different."

"Correct, nurse, he is. You can telephone me if the patient shows signs of bitin' you. Keep tabs on his pulse—give him his whiskey regular, but don't by no means allow him to set up in bed and smoke. I'll call again nex' year. So long, sweetness."

"You go plump!" laughed Collie.

And Billy Dime rode over the hill singing a dolefully cheerful ditty about burying some one on the "lo-o-ne prairee." To him a horse was merely something useful, so long as it could go. When it couldn't go, he got another that could.

Collie replenished the smoking fire, scraped some of the mud from the colt's thick, winter coat, and heated a half-dozen large stones.

His brother cowmen would have laughed at these "tender ministrations," and Collie himself smiled as he recalled Billy Dime's parting directions.

Collie placed the heated stones round the shivering animal, re-dried the blanket at the fire, and covered the pitifully weak and panting creature. The colt's restless lifting of its head he overcame by sitting near it and stroking its muzzle with a soothing hand.

Time and again he rose to re-heat the stones and replenish the fire. The colt's breathing became less irregular. He gave it more of the hot whiskey and water.

Then he mended the fence. He had brought an axe with him and a supply of staples.

Toward mid-afternoon he became hungry and solaced himself with a cigarette.

Again the blunder colt became restless, showing a desire to rise, but for lack of strength the desire ended with a swaying and tossing of its head.

Evening came quickly. The air grew bitingly chill. Collie wished that one of the boys would bring him something to eat. The foreman surely knew where he was. Collie could imagine the boys joking about him over their evening "chuck."

With the darkness he drew on his slicker and squatted by the fire. He fell asleep. He awoke shivering, to find the embers dull. The stars were intensely brilliant and large.

Once during the evening he made up his mind to return to the ranch-house, but a stubborn determination to save the colt, despite the ridicule he knew he would elicit, held him to his task. Should he leave, the colt might become chilled again and die. Then he would be open to ridicule. Collie reasoned that he must finish the task as he had begun it—thoroughly.

Again he heated the stones, warmed the blanket, and gave "Blunder," as he now called him affectionately, some hot whiskey. Then he built a larger fire, wrapped himself in his saddle-blankets, and, with feet to the blaze, slept. His own pony grazed at large, dragging a rope.

Habit brought Collie awake early. The fire had gone out. He was stiff with cold. Arising, he glanced at the heap beneath the blanket ringed with stones. "Time to eat!" he cried lustily, and whipped the blanket from the mud-encrusted Blunder. The colt raised its head, struggled, put out one stiff fore leg, and then the other. Collie grabbed the animal's tail and heaved. Blunder humped himself—and was on his feet, wobbling, dizzy-eyed, scandalously "mussed up"—but alive!

"Whoop-ee!" shouted Collie as the colt staggered a pace or two trying his questionable strength. "Gee! But I'm hungry!"

The Blunder, a mere caricature of a horse in pose and outward seeming, gazed at his rescuer with stupid eyes. He had not the faintest idea what all the joy was about, but something deep in his horse nature told him that the boisterous youth was his friend. Timidly he approached Collie, wagged his head up and down experimentally, as if trying his neck hinges, and reached out and nuzzled the young man's hand, nipping playfully at his fingers.

Collie was dumbfounded. "He's thankin' me—the little cuss! Why, you rubber-kneed, water-eyed mud turtle you! I didn't know you had that much sense."

The youth did not hear the regular beat of hoofs as Williams loped up, until the colt, stilt-legged, emitted a weak nicker. Collie turned.

Williams smiled grimly. "Knew you'd stick," he said.

He gazed at the revived colt, the circle of stones, and the blanket. He made no comment.

Collie caught up his pony and mounted. As they rode over the hill together, Williams, turning in the saddle, laughed and pointed down toward the arroyo.

The blunder colt, apparently overjoyed to be alive, had ambled awkwardly up to one of his mates who stood stolidly waiting for the sun to warm him. The other colt, unused to the Blunder's society and perhaps unfavorably impressed by his dissipated appearance, received this friendly overture with a pair of punishing hoofs. Blunder staggered and fell, but scrambled to his feet again, astonished, indignant, highly offended.

"If you was to drive that blunder colt up to horse-heaven and he knew it was horse-heaven, you'd have to turn him around and back him in. Then I reckon he'd bust the corral tryin' to get out again."

Collie grinned. "Well, I wouldn't this morning—if there was anything to eat there, even hay."

"Well, you don't get your breakfast at the chuck-house this morning," said Williams gruffly.

"I don't, eh? Since when?"

Williams again turned in his saddle, observing Collie for a minute before he spoke. "I see you're smilin', so I'll tell you. Since when? Well, since about two hours ago, when Miss Louise come steppin' over to the bunk-house and asks where you are. Billy Dime ups and tells her you was sick-nursin' the blunder colt. She didn't smile, but turned to me and asked me. I told her about what was doin'. I seen she had it in for somebody. It was me. 'Brand,' she says, quiet-like, 'is it customary on the Moonstone for lunch or dinner to be taken to the men that are staying out from camp?'

"'Yes, ma'am,' says I.

"And the plumb hell of it was," continued Williams, "she didn't say another word. I wisht she had. I feel like a little less than nothin' shot full of holes this lovely mornin'."

Collie rode on silently.

"Why don't you say somethin'?" queried Williams.

"I was waiting for the rest of it," said Collie.

Williams laughed. "I guess you ain't such a fool, at that, with your nussin' stock and settin' up nights with 'em. Miss Louise says to tell you to come right up to the house,—the house, you understand,—and get your breakfast with them. They said they was goin' to wait for you. I guess that ain't throwin' it into the rest of us some. Keep it up, Collie kid, keep it up, and you'll be payin' us all wages some day."