E-text prepared by Al Haines

GLEN OF THE HIGH NORTH

by

H. A. CODY

Author of "The Frontiersman," "The Lost Patrol,"
"The Chief of the Ranges," "The Touch of Abner," etc.

McClelland and Stewart
Publishers : : : Toronto
George H. Doran Company

1920

To

ALL TRUE MEN AND WOMEN

Of the Outer Trails of the Yukon,

Where for Years the Author Lived and Travelled,

This Book is Affectionately Dedicated.

CONTENTS

I ONE FLEETING VISION II WHEN THE FOG-BANK LIFTED III A BIG BLAZIN' LAUGH IV BEYOND THE GREAT WHITE PASS V COMRADES OP THE TRAIL VI A SHOT THAT TOLD VII BOTTLES WILL DO VIII LOVE VERSUS GOLD IX THE OUTER TRAIL X ADRIFT IN THE WILDERNESS XI INTO THE GREAT UNKNOWN XII THE GIRL OF GLEN WEST XIII WHEN THE STORM BURST XIV ANOTHER PRISONER XV JIM WESTON XVI THE ORDEAL XVII MAN TO MAN XVIII THE PREPARED ROOM XIX THE TURN OF EVENTS XX A SHOT FROM THE GOLDEN CREST XXI THE PLOTTERS XXII THE CABIN IN THE HILLS XXIII AT THE REVOLVER'S POINT XXIV WHEN THE RIFLES CRACKED XXV BY THE INLAND LAKE XXVI THROUGH THE STORM XXVII IN THE TOILS XXVIII HELP FROM THE HILLS XXIX THE OLD TRUE STORY XXX THE UNMASKING XXXI OUTWARD BOUND

"Something lost beyond the Ranges,
Lost; and calling to you. Go."

KIPLING

"She had grown, in her unstained seclusion, bright and pure as a first opening lilac, when it spreads its clear leaves to the sweetest dawn of May."

PERCIVAL

GLEN OF THE HIGH NORTH

CHAPTER I

ONE FLEETING VISION

It all happened in less than two minutes, and yet in that brief space of time his entire outlook upon life was changed. He saw her across the street standing upon the edge of the sidewalk facing the throng of teams and motors that were surging by. She had evidently attempted to cross, but had hurriedly retreated owing to the tremendous crush of traffic. The gleam of the large electric light nearby brought into clear relief a face of more than ordinary charm and beauty. But that which appealed so strongly to the young man was the mingled expression of surprise, fear and defiance depicted upon her countenance. It strangely affected him, and he was on the point of springing forward to offer his assistance when she suddenly disappeared, swallowed up in the great tide of humanity.

For a few minutes the young man stood perfectly still, gazing intently upon the spot where the girl had been standing, hoping to see her reappear. He could not account for the feeling that had swept upon him at the sight of that face. It was but one of the thousands he daily beheld, yet it alone stirred him to his inmost depths. A few minutes before he had been walking along the street without any definite aim in life, listless and almost cynical. But now a desire possessed him to be up and doing, to follow after the fair vision which had so unexpectedly appeared. Who could she be, and where was she going? Should he ever see her again, and if he did would he have the slightest chance of meeting and talking with her?

These thoughts occupied his mind as he continued on his way. He walked erect now, with shoulders thrown back, and with a more buoyant step than he had taken in many a day. His blood tingled and his eyes glowed with a new-found light. He felt much of the old thrill that had animated him at the beginning of the Great War, and had sent him overseas to take his part in the titanic struggle. An overmastering urge had then swept upon him, compelling him to abandon all on behalf of the mighty cause. It was his nature, and the leopard could no more change its spots than could Tom Reynolds overcome the influence of a gripping desire. Ever since childhood thought and action had always been welded in the strong clear heat of an overwhelming purpose. It had caused him considerable trouble, but at the same time it had carried him through many a difficult undertaking that had daunted other men. It was only the afterwards that affected him, the depression, when the objective had been attained. So for months after the war ended his life had seemed of no avail, and he found it impossible to settle comfortably back into the grooves of civilian life in a bustling, thriving city. Everything seemed tame and insignificant after what he had experienced overseas. Time instead of lessening had only increased this feeling, until Reynolds believed that he could no longer endure the prosaic life of the city. Such was the state of his mind when he beheld the face across the street, which in some mysterious manner gave him a sudden impulse and a new outlook upon the world. After a short quick walk, he turned into a side street and stopped at length before a building from which extended a large electric sign, bearing the words Telegram and Evening News. He entered, and at once made his way through several rooms until he reached the editorial office at the back of the building. The door was open, and seated at the desk was an elderly man, busily writing. He looked up as Reynolds appeared, and a smile illumined his face.

"You are back early, Tom. Found something special?"

"Yes," Reynolds replied as he sat down upon the only vacant chair the office contained. "But nothing for publication."

The editor pushed back his papers, swung himself around in his chair and faced the visitor.

"What is it, Tom?" he asked. "You look more animated than I have seen you for many a day. What has come over you? What is the special something you have found?"

"Myself."

"Yourself!"

"That's just it. I'm through with this job."

The editor eyed the young man curiously yet sympathetically. He was to him as a son, and he had done everything in his power to help him since his return from the war. But he was well aware that Reynolds was not happy, and that newspaper work was proving most uncongenial.

"Where are you going, Tom, and what are you going to do?" he presently asked.

"I have not the slightest idea, sir. But I must get away from this hum-drum existence. It is killing me by inches. I need adventure, life in the open, where a man can breathe freely and do as he likes."

"Haven't you done about as you like, Tom, since you came home? I promised your father on his death-bed that I would look after you, and I have tried to do so in every possible way. I sincerely hoped that your present work would suit you better than in an office. You are free to roam where you will, and whatever adventure has taken place in this city during the past six months you were in the midst of it, and wrote excellent reports, too."

"I know that, sir, and I feel deeply indebted to you for what you have done. But what does it all amount to? What interest do I take in trouble along the docks, a fight between a couple of toughs in some dark alley, or a fashionable wedding in one of the big churches? Bah! I am sick of them all, and the sooner I get away the better."

Reynolds produced a cigarette, lighted it and threw the match upon the floor. From the corner of his eye he watched the editor as he toyed thoughtfully with his pen. This man was nearer to him than anyone else in the world, and he was afraid that he had annoyed him by his plain outspoken words.

"And you say you have nothing in view?" the editor at length enquired.

"Nothing. Can you suggest anything? Something that will tax all my energy of mind and body. That is what I want. I hope you do not misunderstand me, sir. I do not wish to seem ungrateful for what you have done."

"I do understand you, Tom, and were I in your position, and of your age, I might feel the same. But what about your painting? Have you lost all interest in that? When you were in France you often wrote what impressions you were getting, and how much you intended to do when you came home."

"I have done very little at that, and the sketches I made are still uncompleted. Some day I may do something, but not now."

"You certainly have lost all interest, Tom, in the things that once gave you so much pleasure."

"It is only too true, although I have honestly tried to return to the old ways. But I must have a fling at something else to get this restless feeling out of my system. What do you suggest! Perhaps it is only a thrashing I need. That does children good sometimes."

The editor smiled as he pulled out a drawer in his desk, and brought forth a fair-sized scrapbook. He slowly turned the pages and stopped at length where a large newspaper clipping had been carefully pasted.

"I do not think you need a thrashing, Tom," he began. "But I believe I can suggest something better than that. Here is an entry I made in this book over fifteen years ago, and the story it contains appeals strongly to me now. I read it at least once a year, and it has been the cause of many a day-dream to me, and night-dream as well, for that matter. Did you ever hear of the mysterious disappearance of Henry Redmond, the wealthy merchant of this city? But I suppose not, as you were young at the time."

"No, I never heard of him," Reynolds acknowledged. "Was he killed?"

"Oh, no. He merely disappeared, and left no trace at all. That was, as I have just said, over fifteen years ago, and no word has been received from him since."

"What was the trouble? Financial difficulties?"

"Not at all. He simply disappeared. It was due to his wife's death, so I believe. They were greatly attached to each other, and when she suddenly died Redmond was a broken-hearted man. I knew him well and it was pathetic to watch him. He took no interest in his business, and sold out as soon as possible. Then he vanished, and that was the last we heard of him. He was an odd man in many ways, and although one of the shrewdest men in business I ever knew, he was fond of the simple life. He was a great reader, and at one time possessed a very fine library. This article which I wish you to read tells the story of his life, how he built up his business, and of his sudden disappearance."

"How do you know he wasn't killed?" Reynolds asked.

"Because of this," and the editor laid his forefinger upon a small separate clipping at the bottom of the larger one. A short time after Redmond disappeared, and when the excitement of all was intense, this was received and published. Although it bore no name, yet we well know that it was from Redmond, for it was just like something he would do. This is what he wrote:

"'I go from the busy haunts of men, far from the bustle and worry of business life. I may be found, but only he who is worthy will find me, and whoever finds me, will, I trust, not lose his reward. From the loopholes of retreat I shall watch the stress and fever of life, but shall not mingle in the fray.'"

"Queer words, those," Reynolds remarked, when the editor had finished reading. "What do you make of them?"

"I hardly know, although I have considered them very carefully. I believe they contain a hidden meaning, and that the finding will consist of more than the mere discovery of his person. It must refer to something else, some quality of heart or mind, that is, the real personality behind the mere outward form."

"A double quest, eh, for anyone who undertakes the venture?"

"It seems so, Tom, and that makes it all the more difficult. But what an undertaking! How I wish I were young again, and I should be off to-morrow. I was a fool not to make the try fifteen years ago. I would not now be chained to this desk, I feel certain of that."

"And as you cannot go yourself, you want——?" Reynolds paused and looked quizzically at the editor.

"I want you to go in my stead," was the emphatic reply. "You are young, strong, and anxious for adventure."

"For what purpose, sir? Why do you wish me to undertake this wild-goose chase? For such it seems to me."

"I wish you to go for three reasons. First, for your own good; as an outlet to your abundant energy, and to give you some object in life. Next, to satisfy a curiosity that has been consuming me for years. I am more than anxious to know what has become of Henry Redmond. And finally, for the sake of my paper. If you should prove successful, what a write-up it will make, for you will have a wonderful story to tell. Doesn't the thing appeal to you? Why, it makes my blood tingle at the thought of such an undertaking."

"It does stir me a bit," Reynolds acknowledged. "But where am I to go? Have you any idea where Redmond is? The world is big, remember, and without any clue, the chase would be absolute folly."

"I am well aware of all that. I have no idea where Redmond is, and that makes the venture all the more interesting. If I could tell you where he is, and you merely went and found him, bah! that would not be worth the trouble. But the uncertainty of it all is what appeals to me. The whole world is before you, and somewhere in the world I believe Henry Redmond is living. Your task is to find him. Can you do it?"

For a few minutes Reynolds did not speak. He was interested, but the undertaking seemed so utterly hopeless and ridiculous that he hesitated. If he had the slightest clue as to the man's whereabouts it would be different.

"How old a man was Redmond when he disappeared?" he at length asked.

"About fifty, I understand, although he appeared much older at times. He was a fine looking man, over six feet in height, and a large head, crowned with a wealth of hair streaked with gray, when last I saw him. His commanding appearance attracted attention wherever he went, and that should aid you somewhat in your search."

"Had he any family?" Reynolds questioned.

"One little girl only, for he married late in life. His friends thought that he would remain a permanent bachelor, and they were greatly surprised when he unexpectedly took to himself a wife much younger than himself, and very beautiful. They lived most happily together, and when his wife died Redmond was heartbroken."

"Perhaps her death affected his mind," Reynolds suggested.

"I have thought of that, and his sudden disappearance, as well as the peculiar letter I read to you, lends color to the idea."

"What became of the child?"

"No one knows. He evidently took her with him, and that is another reason why I believe no harm befell him as you suggested. The whole affair is involved in the deepest mystery."

"And did no one attempt to solve it?" Reynolds asked. "Was no effort made to find the missing man?"

"There was at the time, and the newspapers far and near made mention of his disappearance. It was the talk of the city for several weeks, and I understand that several men thought seriously of searching for him. But the interest gradually waned, and he was forgotten except by a few, of whom I am one."

Reynolds rose to his feet and picked up his hat.

"Suppose I think this over for a few days?" he suggested. "If I get the fever I shall let you know. In the meantime I shall plug away at my present job. I can't afford to be idle, for 'idleness is the holiday of fools,' as someone has said."

"That's fine, Tom," and the editor's face brightened with pleasure. "And, remember, you shall be supplied with all the money you need, so do not worry about that."

"Thank you, but I have a little of my own that will last me for a while. When I run through with it I may call upon you."

"Very well, do as you like, Tom. But think it over and let me know of your decision as soon as possible."

CHAPTER II

WHEN THE FOG-BANK LIFTED

The Northern Light was lying at her wharf preparing for her long run to the far Northern Pacific, through the numerous islands studding the coastal waters of British Columbia, and the United States Territory of Alaska. All day long she had been taking on board great quantities of freight, and now on the eve of her departure passengers were arriving. The latter were mostly men, for new gold diggings had been discovered back in the hills bordering the Yukon River, and old-timers were flocking northward, anticipating another Klondyke, and all that it might mean.

Tom Reynolds stood on the wharf noting the excitement that was taking place around him. Apart from the article he would prepare for the next day's issue of The Telegram; he was more than usually interested in what he beheld. As he watched several bronzed and grizzly veterans of many a long trail and wild stampede, a desire entered into his heart to join them in their new adventure. He would thus find excitement enough to satisfy his restless nature, and perhaps at the same time share in the golden harvest.

This longing, however, was held in check by the thought of the story he had heard the evening before, and also by the hope of seeing again the face he had beheld for a few fleeting seconds at the street crossing. In fact, he had thought more of it than of the mysterious disappearance of Henry Redmond. For the greater part of the night and all the next day the girl had been in his mind. He tried to recall something more about her, the color of her hair, how she was dressed, and whether she was tall or short. But he could remember nothing except the face which alone stood out clear and distinct. Several times during the day he had been on the point of transferring his impressions to paper, but he always deferred action, preferring to muse upon the beautiful vision he had seen and to dream of meeting her again. She must still be in the city, he reasoned, and should he go away now his chance of finding her would be lost forever. That he would find her he had not the slightest doubt, for among the crowds that passed daily along the streets he would surely see her, and when he did—well, he was not certain what would happen. Anyway, he would know more about her than at present. He was standing watching an old man with a long gray beard and wavy hair falling below a broad-brimmed slouch hat. He was evidently a prospector, for he bore a good-sized pack across his right shoulder, and was dressed as if for the trail, with a pair of coarse boots upon his feet. His figure was commanding, almost patriarchal, and Reynolds watched him with much interest as he walked stately and deliberately up the gangway.

As Reynolds turned from his observation of the old man, he gave a great start, and his heart beat wildly, for there but a few feet from him was the very girl he had seen at the street crossing. She had just alighted from an hotel auto, and was pointing out her baggage to one of the cabin boys when Reynolds noticed her. He leaned eagerly forward to catch the sound of her voice, but the noise around him made this impossible. But he had a chance to feast his eyes upon her face, and to note her neat dark-brown travelling suit which fitted so perfectly her well-built erect figure. She was of medium height, and carried herself with complete assurance as one well accustomed to travel. She was apparently alone, for no one accompanied her as she presently went on board the steamer.

Reynolds was all alert now, and his old-time enthusiasm returned. She was going north, and why should not he go too? Once more thought and action became welded, and finding that it would be three-quarters of an hour before the steamer's departure, he hurried back to his boarding house, gathered together his few belongings, including his artist's outfit, thrust them into a grip, settled his board bill, and almost raced to the Telegram and Evening News building, where he found the editor who had just arrived for his nightly duties.

"I am off at once," he announced. "How will that suit you?"

"Good for you!" was the pleased reply. "Decided upon the Great Quest, eh?"

"Yes, all settled, and away in twenty minutes."

"Where to?"

"Up north, to the edge of nowhere. How will that do?"

"Found a clue?" The editor was quite excited now.

"All the clue I need," was the evasive reply. "I shall write as soon as possible, telling of my wanderings. So, good-by; I must be away."

"Have you enough money?" The editor was on his feet now, grasping the young man's hand in a firm grip.

"Yes, all that's necessary for the present. If I need more I shall let you know."

An hour later the Northern Light was steaming steadily on her way. Reynolds had been fortunate enough to obtain an upper berth, his roommate being a young clerk destined for a branch bank in a northern mining town. Reynolds strolled about the boat hoping to catch a glimpse of her who was much in his mind, but all in vain. It rained hard most of the next day, and the outside decks were uncomfortable. It was toward evening that he saw her, walking slowly up and down the hurricane deck abaft the funnel. She was with the captain, a fine looking, middle-aged man, and they seemed to be on very friendly terms, for the girl was smiling at something her companion was saying.

Reynolds lighted a cigar and began to pace up and down on the opposite side of the deck. Others were doing the same, so no one paid any heed to his presence. A casual observer might have thought that the silent young man took no interest in anything around him. But Reynolds missed hardly a movement of the girl but a few feet away. He always kept a short distance behind and was thus able to study her closely without attracting attention. She wore a raincoat, of a soft light material, and her head was bare. The wind played with her dark-brown hair, and occasionally she lifted her hand and brushed back a wayward tress that had drifted over her forehead. At times he caught a glimpse of her face as she swung around at the end of the beat, and it was always a happy, animated face he beheld.

For about fifteen minutes this walk was continued, and Reynolds had been unable to distinguish any of the conversation between the two. But as they ended their promenade, and started to go below, they almost brushed him in passing, and he heard the captain say, "Jack will be home soon, and he will——" That was all Reynolds was able to overhear, and yet it was sufficient to cause him to stop so abruptly that he nearly collided with a man a few steps behind. Was all that talk about Jack? he asked himself, and was that why the girl seemed so happy in listening to her companion? Was Jack the captain's son, and did he have the first claim upon the girl? Perhaps he was overseas, and was expected home shortly. No doubt the girl had been visiting his people.

Such an idea had not occurred to Reynolds before, but as he thought it all over that night as he sat silent in the smoking-room, it did indeed seem most reasonable. Why should he think any more about the girl? he mused. He had been a fool for allowing his heart to run away with his head. How could he for one instant imagine that such a girl would be left until now without many admiring suitors, with one successful over all the others? And no doubt that one was Jack, whose name had fallen from the captain's lips.

Although Reynolds felt that the girl was not for him, yet he could not banish her from his mind. She had aroused him from the paralysis of indifference, for which he was most grateful. He would make a desperate effort not to be again enmeshed in such a feeling. He would throw himself ardently into the search for gold, and then turn his attention to Henry Redmond, and strive to solve the mystery surrounding the man.

After breakfast the next morning he went out on deck, and found the girl already there comfortably seated in a large steamer chair. She had evidently been reading, but the book was now lying open upon her lap, and her hands were clasped behind her head. Reynolds caught the gleam of a jewel on one of her fingers, and he wondered if it was an engagement ring she was wearing. Her eyes were looking dreamily out across the water, away to a great fog-bank hanging and drifting over the face of the deep. Reynolds, too, looked, and the sight held him spellbound. The mass of fog slowly rose and rolled across the newly-bathed sun. Then it began to dissolve, and dim forms of trees and islands made their appearance, growing more distinct moment by moment. The scene fascinated him. It was truly a fairy world upon which he was looking.

And as he looked, his eyes rested upon a dark speck just beneath the overhanging fog. For a few minutes it made no impression upon his wandering mind. But slowly he began to realize that the object was in motion, and moving toward the steamer. Then he saw something dark being waved as if to attract attention. He was all alert now, feeling sure that someone was hailing the steamer. In a few minutes she would be past, when it would be too late to be of any assistance.

Turning almost instinctively toward the pilot-house, Reynolds' eyes fell upon the captain, who was again talking to the girl. Only for an instant did he hesitate, and then walking rapidly along the deck, he reached the captain's side and touched him lightly upon the arm.

"Excuse me, sir," he began, as the officer wheeled suddenly around. "Someone seems to be signaling to you over there, just where that fog-bank is lifting," and he pointed with his finger.

The captain and the girl both turned, and their eyes scanned the watery expanse.

"Can you see anything, Glen?" the captain asked. "My eyes must be failing me."

"I do now," was the reply. "Over there to the left," and she motioned with her hand. "I see it quite plainly. It is a boat of some kind with people in it, and they are waving to us."

"So it is!" the captain exclaimed. "Who can it be? However, we shall soon find out."

He hurried away, and soon a long raucous blast ripped the air. Then the steamer swerved to the right and made for the small craft which was now plainly visible. Many of the passengers were already crowding the rail, all greatly interested in this new diversion.

Reynolds stepped back and gave his place to another. He could watch the approaching boat just as well here, and at the same time study to a better advantage the girl who was standing close to the rail. He had accomplished something, anyway, which was worth a great deal to him. He had heard her speak and learned her name. He liked "Glen," and it seemed to suit her. But Glen what? He longed to know that, too. Her voice was soft and musical. It appealed to him. Yes, everything seemed to be in harmony, he mused. Name, voice, dress, and manner, all suited the girl admirably. It was a happy combination.

From where he was standing he could watch her unobserved. He could see the side of her face nearest to him, and he noted how flushed it was with excitement. She was keenly interested in the approaching boat, and her eyes followed it most intently.

The steamer had already slowed down, and its movement now was scarcely perceptible. Reynolds looked at the small approaching craft, and to his surprise he saw that it was a large canoe, being paddled by four stalwart Indians. There were several white men on board, although he could not distinguish their faces. Who could they be, and where had they come from? he wondered. A man standing nearby asked the same question, though no one seemed to be able to give a satisfactory answer.

By this time the canoe was so near the steamer that from his position Reynolds could see nothing more owing to the men crowding the rail. He glanced toward the girl just as she turned suddenly away from the side of the steamer and walked rapidly across the deck. She seemed much agitated, and the flush had fled her face, leaving it very white. All this Reynolds briefly noted, and when she had disappeared through a door leading into the observation room, he stood wrapped in thought, wondering as to the cause of the remarkable change that had so suddenly taken place. Was there some mystery connected with her life, and had she recognized someone in the canoe she did not wish to meet? He determined to learn what he could about the picked-up men, and to keep his eyes and ears open for further developments.

CHAPTER III

A BIG BLAZIN' LAUGH

"Fine sight that, sir."

Reynolds turned sharply at these words, and saw the old man with the long beard and flowing hair standing at his left. Although he himself was almost six feet in height, he seemed small by the side of this stranger, who was looking calmly out over the water toward the fog-bank, which had now lifted and was slowly dissolving.

"Ye don't see the likes of that often," he continued, "an' it ain't everyone who kin read its meanin', either."

"What do you see there?" Reynolds asked, more interested in hearing the man's deliberate drawl than the meaning of the fog-bank.

"Wall, it seems to me that a fog-bank hasn't a ghost of a chance fer life when the sun hits it good an' hard."

"That one hasn't, anyway," Reynolds replied, as he watched the cloud gradually thinning and drifting away.

"It's the same with all clouds, sir, an' it makes no difference whether they're hangin' over the water or over one's life. They're bound to disappear when the sun gits after 'em."

"Do you think so?"

"I sartinly do. Why, there isn't a cloud but'll gather up its skirts an' run when a good big blazin' laugh gits after it. An' that's what we want in this world to-day; more cheerfulness, more of the joy of life."

"Have you tried it?"

"Y'bet I have, an' it's allus worked like a charm. I could tell ye of many a squabble that's been settled by the means of a smilin' face an' a good hearty laugh. There's nuthin' like it."

"You're an optimist, I see," and Reynolds smiled for the first time in many a day. He could not help it, for this stranger radiated a stimulating influence of cheerfulness and goodwill.

"I try to be, sir, an' when I see a fog-bank hoverin' over people like that one did out yonder a little while ago, I consider it my duty to act like the sun an' drive it away. Then, there's good feelin' all around, 'specially among the ones who were under the cloud."

"I imagine it is that way with those men who have just been picked up.
They must feel happy over the lifting of the fog at the right moment."

"That's jist what I mean. It meant much to them."

"Do you know who they are?"

"Miners, no doubt, who wish to go north. They've been prospecting mebbe, on some of the islands along the coast, an' started out to hail a passin' steamer. They do it at times."

"And the steamers always pick them up?"

"Sure; they wouldn't go by without takin' 'em on board, no matter who they are. It's the great Brotherhood of man, ye see, back of it all, an' ye'll find that spirit stronger the farther north ye go. It's different here from what it is in the big cities, an' the more ye preach of that the better."

"Preach! What do you mean?" Reynolds asked in amazement.

"You be one of them missionary chaps, ain't ye?"

Reynolds laughed. "What makes you think so?"

"Dunno, 'cept yer solemncoly face, an' the way yer dressed.
Missionaries ginerally come north lookin' about as you do, to turn the
sinner from the error of his way, an' to convart the heathen Injun.
They're not overly pop'lar up thar."

"Why not?"

"Oh, they've too high an' mighty notions about the way men should live; that's the trouble."

"And so you think they should make themselves popular with the men, eh?
In what way?"

"By bein' one of 'em, an' not bein' too hard on what they do."

"Do you think that their great Master ever said that they would be popular, and that they were to please all men?" Reynolds defensively asked.

"I dunno. Guess I can't recall anything He ever said about the matter," and the old man scratched his head in perplexity.

"Didn't He tell His first disciples that they would be hated of all men for His name's sake when He sent them forth to do His work?"

"I believe He did," was the reluctant assent. "But that was a long time ago. Things are different now."

"Only outwardly, remember. The heart is the same in all ages; you can't change that. If it is evil and full of vileness, it is bound to hate the good. Surely you know that."

"Then you really are one of them missionary chaps?" and the old man eyed Reynolds curiously.

"No, I am not," was the emphatic reply.

"But ye quote Scripter like a parson, though. I thought mebbe ye was."

"Is it necessary to be a parson to know something about the Bible? Isn't this a Christian land? Why shouldn't I know something about the greatest Book in the world? My mother taught it to me when I was a child, and I learned a great deal about it when I went to Sunday school. I did not value it so much then, but when over in France, with death on all sides, much of it came back to me, and I honestly confess it was a great comfort."

"An' so ye was over thar, young man? Wall, that's sartinly interestin'. Fer how long?"

"Nearly four years. I enlisted at the beginning of the war."

"An' come through all right?"

"Look," and Reynolds bared his left arm, showing a great scar. "I have several more on my body, some worse than that."

"Ye don't tell! My, I'm glad I've met ye. Got some medals, I s'pose."

Reynolds made no reply, as he already felt ashamed of himself for having told this much. It was not his nature to speak about himself, especially to a stranger, and he was determined to say nothing about the medals he had received for conspicuous bravery, and which he carried in his breast pocket.

"Do you smoke?" he suddenly asked.

"Yes; an old hand at it. Good fer the nerves."

"Well, suppose we go and have a smoke now. I am just in the mood for one myself."

Together they made their way to the smoking-room, which was situated well aft. It was partly filled with men, smoking, chatting, and playing cards. The air was dense with various brands of tobacco, making it impossible to see clearly across the room. No one paid any heed to the two as they entered, sat down in one corner of the room, filled and lighted their pipes. Reynolds noted that his companion became suddenly silent, and seemed to be deeply interested in four men playing cards at a small table a short distance from where they were sitting.

"Do you play?" Reynolds asked, thinking that the old man might be fond of cards.

"No," was the brief and absent-minded reply.

Reynolds said no more, but watched the four men. His attention was chiefly centered upon one who was facing him, and who was doing most of the talking. He was a young man, with a dark moustache and black curly hair. He played with keen interest and in a lofty dominating manner. Reynolds did not like his appearance, and the more he studied him the stronger became his repugnance. It was not only the low brutal face that compelled this feeling, but the coarse language that reeked from his lips. This so disgusted Reynolds that he was about to leave the room, when in an instant a commotion took place among the players. They sprang to their feet, and a miniature babel ensued.

"You're cheating."

"I'm not."

"You're a liar."

These were some of the terms hurled forth in sharp rasping sentences, and it seemed as if blood must surely be shed ere the confusion ended. As the word "liar" rang out, a sudden silence followed, and at once hands rested upon butts of revolvers concealed in four hip-pockets. But before they were drawn a peculiar noise broke the stillness, which caused Reynolds to start, for the sound came from the old prospector's lips.

"Me-o-o-o-ow. Me-o-o-o-ow. Bow-wow-wow. Bow-wow-wow."

So unexpected was this interruption that all in the room stared in amazement, and even the four angry men turned to see whence the sound came. So perfect was the imitation, and so humorous the expression upon the face of the old man, that the onlookers burst into a hearty laugh, which caused the four inflamed players to shuffle uneasily, and to look sheepishly at one another. Then their mouths expanded into a grin, and the storm was over.

The curly-haired man at once left his place and strode over to where the prospector was sitting.

"Frontier Samson!" he exclaimed, gripping him firmly by the hand. "Is it really you?"

"Sure, it's me, all right, Curly. Who else did ye think it was; me ghost?"

"Not when I heard that cat-call, an' the bow-wow."

"Heard 'em before, eh? Guess this isn't the first scrape I've got ye out of, is it?"

"Should say not. But where in h—— did ye drop from, Sam? I didn't know ye were on board."

"Oh, I'm jist on a visit from the outside. An' it's mighty lucky that I'm here, or else I don't know what 'ud have happened. Better leave cards alone, Curly, if ye can't play without fightin'. They make people act like a bunch of kids."

"It was those d—— fools' fault, though, Sam."

"Thar, now, don't make excuses an' blame others, Curly. That's jist what kids allus do. An' cut out them unholy words. There might be a parson around."

Curly flung himself down upon a seat, and lighted a cigarette. He cast a furtive glance at Reynolds, thinking that perhaps he might be the "parson."

"What have ye been doin', Curly?" the old man asked. "An' why was ye driftin' out under that fog-bank? Ye nearly got left, let me tell ye that."

"I know we did, and I thought that d——, excuse me, Sam," he apologized, as he again glanced toward Reynolds. "I mean, I thought that the fog-bank would never lift. We've been doing some of the islands for several months."

"Strike anything?"

"Nothing, an' nearly starved in the bargain. If it hadn't been fer an
Indian mission, we wouldn't be alive now."

"Then missionaries are of some use after all, Curly. You was allus hard on 'em, if I remember right."

"Umph! They're all right when one's starving. If they'd only leave the Gospel dope out, it wouldn't be so bad."

"Got a dose of it, eh?"

"Should say I did. Morning, noon an' night I had to go to church with the Indians. I've had enough to last me the rest of me life. Say, weren't we glad to get away!"

"Goin' north agin? I thought ye was through, up thar?"

"So did I. But we heard of the new strike at Big Draw, an' decided to try our luck once more."

"Think ye'll hit it this time?"

"I hope so. But it isn't altogether the gold that's taking me back.
There's something more attractive."

"So I imagined."

"I thought you would understand." Curly's voice was eager now. "She'll not escape me this time. Gad, she's a beaut! But as wild as a hawk."

"An' so ye think ye'll corner her, eh?" There was a peculiar note in Samson's voice which Reynolds was quick to detect, but which Curly missed.

"Just you wait an' see," the latter reminded. "That old cuss thinks he's got a regular Gibraltar behind those hills with his lousy Indians. But I'll show him a thing or two."

"Ye've never been thar, have ye?" Samson queried.

"Never. But the bird comes out of her nest sometimes, ye know, an' then——"

"You'll be the hawk, is that it?" Samson asked as the other paused.

"Oh, I'll be around," Curly laughed. "One doesn't run across the likes of her every day, an' she's the gold I'm really after."

"Wall, all I kin say is this," the prospector replied, as he rose slowly to his feet, "that ye'd better be mighty keerful, young man. That Giberalter, as ye call it, is guarded by a lion that ain't to be fooled with. He's got claws that reach from sun-up to sun-down as several smarter ones than you have found out to their sorrow. Leave him alone, an' he'll bother nobody. But interfere with that lass of his, an' the hull north won't be big enough to hide ye. That's my warnin', an' if yer not a fool ye'll heed it."

Reynolds had a good long sleep that afternoon. He had been much disturbed the night before by several men in the next room, who shouted and sang until early morning. During the evening he went out upon deck, well forward, as he wished to be alone, and away from the men who were drinking and gambling in other parts of the steamer. It was a beautiful evening, with scarcely a ripple disturbing the surface of the water. The air was mild, and when the sun went down, the moon rose big and cheery above the dense dark forest away to the right. Reynolds thought over the conversation he had heard between Frontier Samson and the man known as "Curly." That the latter was a scoundrel he had not the slightest doubt. His face alone would have betrayed him even if he had not spoken a word. He was curious concerning the reference to "Gibraltar," the "lion," and the "lass."

As he thus sat and mused, listening to the zip-zip of the vessel as it cut through the water, his mind naturally drifted off to her of the street crossing incident. He wondered what had become of her. Why had she left the railing in such a hurry, and what was the cause of the sudden pallor that had come upon her face? Had Curly anything to do with her agitation, and was it possible that she was the girl to whom he referred? As this idea flashed into his mind, he sat bolt upright in his chair. It did seem reasonable when he considered it. In fact, it gave him a certain degree of pleasure as well. If his suspicions were true, then the girl needed protection from that brute, and was it not his duty to keep a sharp lookout, and if necessary to protect her from all harm?

And as he thought of this, the girl herself came upon deck, and walked at once toward the bow close to the tall flag-staff, which pointed upwards like a quivering slender needle. Reynolds could see her plainly as she stood looking straight before her. A cloak was thrown carelessly over her shoulders, and her head was bare. What a perfect picture of gracefulness she presented to the admiring young man as he watched her by the light of the full-orbed moon. How he longed to go forward, speak to her, and listen to her voice. But, no, he did not dare to do that. He must adore her at a distance and wonder what she was thinking about.

Presently an idea leaped into his mind that thrilled his entire being. He was pushing out into the Great Unknown, with all its dangers and uncertainties. But standing there before him was his guiding star, the one girl in all the world who unconsciously had inspired and stirred him to action. Was she really to be his guiding star? Anyway, the sight of her standing before him seemed to be a favorable portent of the future.

For almost half an hour the girl stood silently at the bow, apparently unconscious that anyone was near. Reynolds remained a long time after she had gone. It was good to be there on such a night, with no one to disturb him, alone with a fair vision before him, and a sweet peace in his soul.

CHAPTER IV

BEYOND THE GREAT WHITE PASS

"All aboard!"

The train was on the point of pulling out from the little coast town of Skagway on its run inland of one hundred and ten miles. There had been much bustle and excitement ever since the steamer landed early that morning. But now everything was in readiness, the signal had been given, and the train began to move.

Reynolds was comfortably seated and looking out of the open window, when Frontier Samson came and sat down by his side. The old prospector was much out of breath and panting heavily.

"I nearly missed the train," he explained. "She was movin' when I swung on board."

"Sight-seeing, eh?" Reynolds queried.

"That's about it, I guess. Watchin' a mix-up, an' gittin' Curly out of a scrape. That's what delayed me."

"What was the trouble?"

"Oh, the same old story. Curly kin never mind his own bizness. He's allus pokin' his nose into other people's affairs. He's too sassy."

"Where is he now?"

"In the smoker. I had to drag him along with me, an' that's what made me late."

"Why didn't you leave him behind?"

"I should have done that. But it's the Brotherhood, ye see, that made me do it. That feller ain't safe runnin' at large, an' somebody's got to keep an eye on him, 'specially up here."

"It seems to me that you have undertaken a big task," and Reynolds smiled.

"Indeed I have an' no one knows that better'n me. If I had my way, he'd be shipped off to some Penitentiary. That's the right place for the likes of him. An' he'll land thar some day, as sure as guns. But in the meantime somebody's got to watch him."

Reynolds made no reply. In fact, he hardly heard his companion's last words, for his eyes were riveted upon the wonderful sights around him. Above towered the peaks of the White Pass Range, grand and majestic. Away to the left, and far above, could be seen the railway track, twisting along the mountain side like a thin dark thread. It seemed incredible that the train could make such a tremendous climb.

"Do we go up there?" he asked in amazement.

"Sure. We'll be thar in a short time, but it takes four engines, though, to tug us up. Then ye'll see something that'll make ye wonder. Guess thar's nuthin' like it in the hull world. We'll go up three thousand feet, an' it'll be the nearest to heaven that some of the chaps on this train'll ever be. Jist look at that, now!"

Reynolds was indeed looking. Far down below a few cabins appeared like little toy houses, while away beyond could be seen the blue cold waters of the North Pacific. The air was becoming keen. But it was bracing and stimulating.

"Say, I'd like to paint that!" he mused half aloud. "It is grand, stupendous, appalling! And what a work to build this road! How was it ever done!"

"It sartinly was, young man. It cost a mint of money, to say nuthin' of the lives sacrificed. Thar was some mighty bad accidents on this bit of road, though thar was some funny ones, too. I often have a good laugh to meself whenever I think of one of the stories that was told."

"What was it?" Reynolds asked. He was interested in everything now.

"Wall, ye see, the company that built this road was considered mighty mean, an' ground the men down to the last cent. One day a big blast went off before its time, an' a feller was blown high into the air. Everybody thought fer sure that thar wouldn't be a speck of him left. But strange to say, in about fifteen minutes he came down pat on his feet, an' but fer a few bruises an' a bad shakin' up he was as chipper as ye please. He got another shock, though, at the end of the week which nearly put him out of bizness."

The old man paused, and a smile overspread his face as he gazed thoughtfully out of the window.

"Yes," he continued, "it sartinly was some shock, an' no mistake. When he went to the office to be paid fer his week's work, he found that the company had docked him two-bits fer the fifteen minutes he was absent on that air-trip when the blast went off. Now, what d'ye think of that?"

"Close shaving, I should say," was the reply. "It's a good yarn, though, and worth remembering. But, my, isn't that a wonderful sight!" And Reynolds motioned to the great mountains away in the distance. "We seem to be surrounded by them."

"So we are, young man. Ye can't escape 'em in the north any more'n ye kin git clear of the sky-scrapers in New York. But them over thar are the work of the Almighty, an' a grand job He made of 'em. This hull land reminds me of a big cathedral; the woods an' valleys are the aisles, an' the mountains are the spires pointin' man to heaven. I tell ye, it's a great place out alone on the hills to worship. Yer not cramped thar, an' it doesn't matter what kind of clothes ye have on. It's wonderful the sights ye see an' the things ye hear. Talk about music! Why, ye have the finest in the world when nature's big organ gits to work, 'specially at night. I've shivered from head to toe when the wind was rippin' an' roarin' through the woods, down the valleys, an' along the mountain passes. That's the music fer me!"

"You seem to love this country," Reynolds remarked, as he noted the intense admiration upon his companion's face.

"I sartinly do, young man. It grips me jist as soon as I cross this range. Thar's nuthin' like it to my way of thinkin', though it takes ye years to find it out. Yet, it doesn't altogether satisfy the soul, although it helps. Thar's something within a man that needs more'n the mountains an' the wonderful things around him. But, thar, I must see what Curly's doin'. He may be up to some more mischief."

Although Reynolds was much interested in the scenery and in listening to the philosophy of the old prospector, yet his mind turned continually to Glen, for it was by that name he now thought of her. He knew that she was on the train, for he had seen her as she stepped aboard but a few minutes before it left the coast. She had passed close to where he was standing, carrying a grip in her hand. He had caught sight of the leather tag fastened to the handle of the grip, and had strained his eyes in a futile effort to read the name written thereon. He was determined in some manner to find out what that name was, as he feared lest he should lose her altogether when the journey by rail was ended. He must have something more definite than the one word Glen.

This opportunity was afforded him when he entered the principal hotel of the little town of Whitehorse at the terminus of the railway. It was just across the street from the station, and when he arrived at the office she was there before him, and about to enter her name in the hotel register. He stood by her side and watched her write. It was a firm sun-browned hand that held the pen, and she wrote in a rapid business-like way. "Glen Weston" were the only words Reynolds saw there as he wrote his own name a minute later below hers. She had not even mentioned where she was from—that space was left blank. He also noticed that the hotel clerk seemed to know who she was, for he was more affable to her than to anyone else. She asked him if her father had yet arrived, and she appeared disappointed when he answered in the negative.

The name "Glen Weston" kept running through Reynolds' mind all that evening. He liked it, and it suited her admirably, so he thought. But who was she, and where was she going? That was what he wished to know.

The town of Whitehorse was of considerable interest to Reynolds as he strolled that evening through its various streets. It was a surprise to him as well, for he had not expected to find such a settled community. He had imagined that all such towns in the north were wild and almost lawless places, abounding in desperate characters, ready to shoot on the slightest provocation. But here all was order, and it was little different from one of the many small conventional towns in Eastern Canada. There were several up-to-date stores, a large post office, bank, churches, and comfortable dwelling houses, though many of the latter were built of logs. The Royal Northwest Mounted Police had their large barracks at the rear of the town under the brow of a high hill, where all day long the flag of the clustered crosses floated from its tall white staff in the centre of the square.

It was the time of year when the light of day reaches far into the night, and deep darkness is unknown. The sun merely dips for a few hours below the mountain Crests, and skims along the horizon, thus illuminating the western sky, and holding back the heavy draperies of night. The light on the far-off ranges and the glory of the distant heavens fascinated Reynolds. He had beheld many beautiful sunsets, but never such a one as this, and his entire soul was stirred within him.

Leaving the level of the town, he climbed the hill, and there on the edge of the steep bank he feasted his eyes upon the wonderful panorama stretched out before him. Like a silver thread the river wound its sinuous way between its steep banks, and faded from view amidst its setting of dark firs and jack-pines; around rose the mountains, their great sides either bathed in the glow of evening, or lying sombre and grim, telling of crouching valleys and funnel-like draws from which the light of day had retreated. And below lay the little town, silent save for the occasional bark of a dog, or the shrill voices of children away to the right.

For some time Reynolds remained here. He was in no hurry to go elsewhere, for the evening was mild and conducive to thought. There was nothing to take him back to the hotel, and he preferred to be out of doors. Just what he was to do next he had no clear idea. He knew that somewhere out from this town was the new mining camp for which he had started. But where it was and how to reach it he had not the faintest knowledge. In truth, he had never been sufficiently interested to make any inquiries, even from Frontier Samson. What had become of the prospector, he wondered, as he had not seen him since his arrival in town. And where was Glen? He had followed her this far, and was he to lose her after all? She had aroused him to action, and caused him to take this long and apparently foolish journey. But he had not spoken a word to her, and so far as he knew she was totally unaware of his existence. He smiled at the thought, and wondered what his friend, the editor, would say if he knew of it. And what about his search for the missing man, Henry Redmond? Instead of throwing himself earnestly and actively into the quest he was frittering away his time, following the will-o'-the-wisp of a fancy, and going daft over a mere slip of a girl who moved serenely apart from his world of thought and being. He called himself a fool and chided himself over and over again. But for all that, he was unable to tear her out of his heart and mind. She seemed to belong to him, and to no one else.

"I believe that my experiences in France have affected my brain," he muttered, as he at length rose to his feet. "I am sure I was not like this before the war. But here I am now dazzled and mystified by a fair face, a pair of sparkling eyes, and the charm of a name. This will never do. I must shake off this fascination, or I shall be good for nothing."

He walked rapidly down the hill, and then along a trail that wound through a thicket of small fir trees. This brought him in a few minutes to one of the streets leading straight to the river. He walked slower now, much interested in the quaint log houses, with here and there a miner's or a prospector's tent. Presently he saw before him a large building, with galvanized roof and sides. People were entering the place, and drawing nearer, the sound of music fell upon his ears. A band was playing, he could easily tell, and it was dancing music at that.

Reaching the building, Reynolds paused and listened. The music was good, the best he had heard in a long time. Through an open door he could see men playing billiards and pool. It was a lively and an attractive scene, which caused him to enter and stand for a while near the door watching the games. No one paid any attention to him, and from what he observed there were others like himself, strangers, who found the time hanging heavily on their hands, and had dropped into the place for the sake of companionship. There were several large tables, and these were all occupied by eager players. Nearby was a bar, where drinks of various kinds were being served. The room was brilliantly lighted by electricity, and the whole atmosphere of the place was most congenial.

At one end of the billiard room were two doors, and here a number of people were standing watching the dancing that was going on in the main part of the building. Reynolds presently joined them, and he was greatly surprised at the size of the room, and the number of people upon the floor. There was a gallery immediately overhead, and here the band was placed.

For a few minutes Reynolds stood and watched the dancers in a somewhat indifferent manner. He learned from a man standing by his side that this building belonged to a town club, and that such dances were not uncommon, at which most of the people attended.

At first Reynolds could not recognize anyone he knew, but as he watched, he gave a great start, for there but a short distance away was Glen, and her partner was none other than the rascal, Curly. He could hardly believe his eyes, and he followed them most intently as they moved about the room. He felt certain now that Glen was the girl mentioned by Curly on the steamer in his conversation with Frontier Samson. He had found her, and was it to her liking? he wondered. He recalled her pale face and agitated manner as Curly boarded the vessel along the coast. Was he the cause of her distress, or was it someone else? It seemed then as if she wished to keep clear of the fellow, and her seclusion during the remainder of the voyage lent color to this idea. But here she was dancing with him, and apparently enjoying herself. All this puzzled Reynolds as he stood there, unheeding everything else save those special two.

When the music ceased, Glen and Curly walked across the room and sat down but a short distance from the door. Reynolds could see the girl's face most plainly now, and he could tell at a glance that she was unhappy. Curly, on the other hand, was very animated and did all of the talking. He was speaking in a low voice and seemed very much in earnest. Occasionally the girl shook her head, and looked uneasily around as if fearful lest someone should overhear what was being said. At length, however, as she glanced to her right, her face brightened, and the light of joy leaped into her eyes. Reynolds also turned his head, and he was surprised to see, standing not far away, a tall and powerfully-built Indian. Where he had come from Reynolds had not the least idea, but there he was, clad in a soft buckskin suit, motionless, and heeding no one except the young girl sitting by Curly's side. His placid face relaxed a little, however, as Glen moved swiftly to where he was standing and spoke to him in a low voice. The Indian merely nodded in reply, and without even glancing around upon the curious watchers in the room, he at once followed the girl as she passed out of the building through a side door which opened upon the street.

CHAPTER V

COMRADES OF THE TRAIL

There was no wild stampede to the Big Draw mining camp on Scupper Creek, where gold had been discovered. There had been so many such reports in the past which proved but flurries, that many of the old-timers became sceptical, and waited for further developments. There were some, however, who were always on the lookout for anything new, and the hope of making a strike induced them to hasten away at the least information of any discovery. These drifted forth in little groups by the way of the river and mountain passes. Among such there were always newcomers, men from the outside, as well as miners who had left the country years before.

It was with the latest arrivals that Reynolds made his way into Big Draw. He was accustomed to life in the open, and his recent experience of camp life in France served him in good stead now. He had just himself to look after, and, accordingly, he did not need a large outfit. He also learned that provisions could be procured at the mining camp, where a store had been established. He, therefore, took with him only what was absolutely necessary, such as a small tent, a few cooking utensils, a good rifle, and sufficient food to last him for several days. A steamer would carry him part of the way, while the rest of the journey would be made overland on foot.

After her departure from the dance that night, Reynolds saw nothing more of Glen. He found that she had left the hotel, but where she had gone he did not know. He inquired of the clerk, and was answered with a curt "Don't know." He wondered who the Indian could be. There seemed to be a mutual understanding between him and the girl, at any rate, and they must have departed together. During the remainder of his stay in town he had wandered about the streets, with the faint hope that he might again see the girl, or learn something as to her whereabouts.

Frontier Samson had also disappeared, and no one seemed to know anything about him. Reynolds did not mind asking about the old prospector, as it was different from enquiring about Glen. In fact, the girl had become so real to him and such a vital part of his very existence that should he speak of her to others he might betray his deep concern.

During the voyage down river he thought much about her and tried to imagine who she really was and what had become of her. The idea even suggested itself that she might be that stolid Indian's wife. Strange things often happened in the north, so he had read, and this might be one of them. He banished the thought, however, as too ridiculous, and beyond the bounds of probability.

The voyage was an uneventful one to Reynolds, who kept much to himself and did not join his companions at cards, which were played day and night. At times there was considerable roughness, though no shooting. Curly was there, and enjoying himself to his heart's content. He played most of the time, losing and winning in turn. Reynolds often sat and watched him as he played, wondering where the fellow had first met Glen and what he knew about her. He had never spoken to the rascal, and had no inclination to do so. But several times glancing up from his cards Curly noticed Reynolds' eyes fixed intently upon him. Although he had found out that the quiet, reserved man was not a "parson," yet he knew that he had been with Frontier Samson, and he was curious to know what the old prospector had told him about his career. His record was so black that he naturally became suspicious until he at length imagined that the young man with the steady unswerving eyes was following him north with some special object in view. The idea annoyed him, although he said nothing, but went on with his game.

It took the little steamer some time to reach her destination, as she had to buck a heavy current part of the way. When she at length tied up at the landing where the trail over the mountain began, the passengers scrambled quickly ashore, and started at once upon their hard journey, carrying heavy loads upon their backs. With their long trip of several thousand miles almost at an end, the excitement of the quest increased, and eagerly and feverishly they pressed forward, each anxious to be the first of the party to reach the mining camp.

But Reynolds was in no hurry. He had not the same incentive as the others, and so long as his supply of food lasted he was as contented on the trail as anywhere else. His pack was heavy and the day promised to be very warm. He preferred to be alone, away from the insipid chatter and profanity of his companions. It would give him an opportunity to think and to study the beauty of the landscape.

Leaving the landing, he walked along the trail, which in a short time began to ascend around the right side of the mountain. Here he stopped and looked back. The river wound below, and the little steamer was lying at the bank discharging her cargo. It was the last link between him and the great outside world of civilization. In a few hours it would be gone, and for an instant there came to him the longing to go back and give up his foolish quest. He banished the temptation, however, and plodded steadily on his way. He had never turned back yet, and he was determined that this should not be the first time. He had the unaccountable conviction that the lap of the future held something in store for him, and that he would come into his own in due time.

The higher he climbed the more wonderful became the view. The trail twisted around the mountain side, and from this vantage ground the solitary traveller could look forth upon vast reaches of forest and great wild meadows far below, with here and there placid lakes, mirroring trees, mountain peaks, and billowy clouds. The voices of his companions had long since died away, and he was alone with the brooding silence all around, and his own thoughts for company.

At noon he rested under the shade of an old storm-beaten tree, and ate his meagre lunch. This finished, he lighted his pipe and stretched himself full length upon the mossy ground. He was feeling more contented than he had been in many a day. The air was invigorating, and a desire came over him to be up and doing. His old indifference to life seemed to slip away like a useless and impeding garment, leaving him free for action. He even thought with pleasure of mingling again in the activities of civilization, and winning for himself a worthy reputation. He would make good in the north, and then go back and surprise his friend, the editor, and all who knew him.

So strong was this feeling that he sat suddenly up, wondering what had come over him to cause the subtle change. "It must be the wild mystery of this region," he mused. "It is stimulating and impelling. It may be the spirit of the mountains, and the other grand things of nature. They are carrying out the designs for which they were intended, and perhaps they have silently rebuked me for being a traitor to the highest that is in me. But I shall show them a thing or two, if I am not much mistaken."

Springing lightly to his feet, he continued his journey. His step was more buoyant, his heart lighter, and the pack seemed less heavy than when he left the river.

He travelled all that afternoon, crossed the summit, and moved swiftly down the opposite slope. It was easy walking now, and he hoped to reach the valley and there spend the night. He believed that he should find water among that heavy timber ahead of him, and thither he made his way. Neither was he mistaken, for when his steps at length began to lag he heard the ripple of water drifting up the trail. As he drew nearer he smelled the smoke of a camp-fire, and the appetizing odor of roasting meat. "Somebody must be camping there," he mused, "and I may have company. I am sorry, but then it can't be helped."

The brook was a small one, shallow, and Reynolds easily sprang across. Gaining the opposite bank, he peered among the trees, and to his surprise he saw Frontier Samson squatting upon the ground, roasting a grouse over a fire he had previously lighted. The old prospector's face brightened as the young man approached.

"My, y've been a long time comin'," he accosted. "I thought mebbe ye'd played out, tumbled down the side of the mountain, or a grizzly had gobbled ye up. What in time kept ye so long?"

"And where in the world did you come from?" Reynolds asked in reply, as he unslung his pack and tossed it aside. "I never expected to meet you here."

"Ye didn't, eh? Wall, ye never want to be surprised at anything I do. I'm here to-day an' somewhere else to-morrow. I'm allus on the move, rovin' from place to place. It's me nature, I guess."

"A rolling stone gathers no moss, so I've heard. Is that the way with you?" Reynolds asked, with a twinkle to his eyes.

"I may git no moss, young man, an' not become a fossil like some of the fellers in big cities, but I git a heap of rubbin' with me rollin', an' that keeps me brightened up."

"But how did you get here ahead of me?" Reynolds questioned. "You were not on the steamer, and I am certain you didn't walk."

Samson drew the grouse from the fire, and examined it critically.
Finding it not done to his satisfaction, he thrust it back again.

"Jist hand me that fryin'-pan, will ye?" and he motioned to his left.
"I want it handy when the bird's cooked. Ye didn't expect to find a
supper here to-night, young man, did ye?" and he looked quizzically at
Reynolds.

"Indeed I didn't," was the emphatic reply.

"Neither did ye imagine that it 'ud be a grouse's bones ye'd be pickin'. Why, it's no tellin' where that bird was three days ago. It may have been fifty miles or more away, fer all we know. But it's here now, isn't it?"

"It looks very much like it," and Reynolds laughed.

"Wall, that's jist the way with many other things. It's allus the unexpected that happens, an' thar are surprises on every trail, as ye'll larn if ye haven't done so already. Meetin' me here is one of 'em, an' my movements are jist as unsartin an' mysterious as were them of that bird which is now sizzlin' over this fire."

"But with not such an unhappy ending, I hope," and again Reynolds smiled.

The prospector's eyes twinkled as he drew the bird from the fire, and laid it carefully in the frying-pan.

"Guess it's done all right this time," he remarked. "Now fer supper.
I'm most starved."

Reynolds was hungry, and he did full justice to the meal. Samson had some excellent sour-dough bread of which he was very proud.

"Made it last night," he explained, "an' it turned out better'n usual.
Thought mebbe I'd have company before long."

"Did you meet the others?" Reynolds asked.

"Oh, yes, I met 'em," Samson chuckled.

"Were they far ahead?"

"Y' bet, an' chatterin' like a bunch of monkeys. Guess they're thar by now."

"Were they surprised to see you?"

"H'm, they didn't see me. I was settin' under a tree well out of sight. I didn't want to meet that crowd; they're not to my likin'. I jist wished to see if Curly was along."

"You seem to be keepin' a sharp eye on that fellow still," Reynolds remarked. He was anxious to draw the prospector out. Perhaps he might learn something about Curly's acquaintance with Glen.

"Yes, I do keep me eyes peeled fer Curly," Samson drawled, as he finished his supper and pulled out his pipe. "It's necessary, let me tell ye that. He ain't safe nohow."

"You have known him for some time, then?"

"Long enough to be suspicious of the skunk."

"He seems to be very friendly with you, though."

"Oh, he's got sense enough not to buck up aginst me. An' besides, I've yanked him out of many a nasty fix. Most likely he'd been planted long before this if I hadn't been around at the right moment."

"He's up here for more than gold, so I understand."

"How did ye larn that, young man?" There was a sharp note in Samson's voice.

"Oh, I merely overheard your conversation with him in the smoking-room of the Northern Light. That was all, but I drew my own conclusion."

"An' what was that?"

"Nothing very definite. I simply inferred that he is after a girl somewhere here in the north, and that she is so guarded by a lion of a father that Curly hasn't much of a chance."

"An' so that's what ye surmised, is it?" the prospector queried.

"Am I right?"

"Guess yer not fer astray."

"Have you seen the girl? Do you know her father?"

"Have I seen the girl? Do I know her father?" the old man slowly repeated. "Yes, I believe I've seen her, all right. But as fer knowin' her father, wall, that's a different thing. Frontier Samson doesn't pretend to know Jim Weston; he never did."

"Weston, did you say?" Reynolds eagerly asked.

"That's what I said, young man. The name seems to interest ye."

"It does. When I registered at the hotel in Whitehorse, the name just before mine was 'Glen Weston,' and the girl who wrote it came north on the Northern Light. Do you suppose she is Jim Weston's daughter?"

"She might be," was the somewhat slow reply. "As I told ye before, it's ginerally the unexpected that happens. Anyway, ye can't tell much by names these days."

"But Curly knows her, for I saw them together at a dance the night I arrived in town."

"Ye did!" The prospector took his pipe from his mouth and stared hard at Reynolds. "Are ye sure?"

"Positive. Why, I was standing at the door watching the dance, when I saw the two together upon the floor. Later they came over and sat down quite close to me. Curly did most of the talking, and the girl seemed quite uneasy. She left shortly after with a fine-looking Indian, who had evidently come for her. I have not seen her since."

"So Curly was dancin' with her," Samson mused. "Then she must be Jim
Weston's gal. I wonder what the old man'll say when he hears about it?"

"How will he know?"

"Oh, he'll find out, all right. There's nuthin' that misses him here in the north."

"What will he do to Curly?"

"I wouldn't like to say at present. That remains to be seen."

"Is this Jim Weston a desperate character?"

"The ones who have tried to fool with him say he is, an' I guess they ought to know. He's a holy terror when he gits goin', 'specially when anyone's after that lass of his."

"The men up here all know about her, I suppose?"

"Should say so. They're about crazy over her. She's been the cause of many a row, an' several shootin' rackets."

"Does she favor anyone?"

"Not as fer as I know. She's in a class all by her lonesome, an' well able to take care of herself. She's not anxious fer lovers, so I understand, at least, not the brand ye find up here. She's some lass, all right, an' whoever succeeds in winnin' her'll be a mighty lucky chap."

"What does her father do? Is he a miner?"

"It's jist hard to tell what Jim Weston does an' what he doesn't do. No one seems to know fer sartin. He lives like a lord on Big Lake, way over yonder," and Samson motioned to the east. "All the folks know that he lives thar with his lass, guarded by a hull pack of Injuns. But what he does an' what he doesn't do is a mighty problem."

"His daughter travels, though, and alone at that, doesn't she?"
Reynolds queried.

"Occasionally. Jim's givin' her an eddication, so I hear. She must be comin' back now, as this is vacation time."

"But what happened to her, do you suppose, after the dance that night?"
Reynolds asked. "She disappeared as if by magic, and I believe the big
Indian had something to do with it."

"How d'ye know she disappeared?" was the sudden and somewhat embarrassing question.

Reynolds laughed, and his face flushed. He knew that he had betrayed himself, and that the prospector noted his confusion.

"Oh, I didn't notice her in town," he explained, "and I saw by the register that she had left the hotel."

"So you're interested in her, too, are ye, young man?"

"I certainly am," was the candid confession. "From the moment that I first saw her at a street crossing in Vancouver she has been hardly out of my mind. I never saw any girl who affected me so much, and she is the reason why I am here now."

"Ye don't tell!" Samson tapped the ashes out of his pipe, and then stretched himself full length upon the ground. "Make a clean breast of it, young man," he encouraged. "I'm an old hardened chap meself, but I do like to hear a real interestin' heart-story once in a while. I git sick an' disgusted listenin' to brutes on two legs, callin' themselves men when they talk about women. But when it comes to a clean young feller, sich as I take you to be, tellin' of his heart-stroke, then it's different, an' I'm allus pleased to listen."

And make a clean breast of it Reynolds did. He was surprised at himself for talking so freely as he told about his indifference to life until he first saw Glen Weston. It was easy to talk there in the silence of the great forest, with the shadows of evening closing around and such a sympathetic listener nearby. He felt better when his story was ended, for he had shared his heart feeling with one worthy of his confidence, so he believed.

Frontier Samson remained silent for a few minutes after the confession had been concluded.. He looked straight before him off among the trees as if he saw something there. Reynolds wondered what he was thinking about, and whether he considered him a fool for becoming so infatuated over a mere girl.

"I must seem ridiculous to you," he at length remarked. "Would any man in his senses act as I have?"

"Ye might do worse," was the quiet reply. "I am sartinly interested in what ye've jist told me, an' I thank ye fer yer confidence. Me own heart was stirred once, an' the feelin' ain't altogether left me yit. But ye've got a difficult problem ahead of ye, young man. Ye want that lass, so I believe, but between you an' her stands Jim Weston."

"And the girl, why don't you say?"

"Sure, sure; she's to be considered. But a gal kin be won when she takes a fancy to a man of your make-up. The trouble'll be with her dad, an' don't fergit that. But thar, I guess we've talked enough about this fer the present. I'm dead beat an' want some sleep. We must be away early in the mornin', remember."

"What! are you going my way?" Reynolds eagerly asked.

"Sure; if ye'd like to have me along. I'm bound fer Big Draw meself."

It was just what Reynolds desired. He liked the old prospector, and now that he had confided to him his tale of love, he was drawn closer than ever to this wandering veteran of the trails.

CHAPTER VI

A SHOT THAT TOLD

The life at Big Draw mining camp on Scupper Creek did not appeal to Reynolds. He watched the men at work upon their various claims, and noted how meagre was their success. They toiled like slaves, lured on by the hope of a rich strike that never came. The principal place of meeting was the roadhouse, where "Shorty" Bill held sway. He lodged men, served meals, and conducted a bar. He was a good-hearted fellow, rough and uncouth, but well liked by all, and a genial companion. It was, therefore, but natural that at this place many of the men should congregate at night, and at times during the day, for a brief respite from their labors. It was here, too, that news would occasionally drift in from the outside world, which would be discussed by the men as they played cards, the only amusement for which they seemed to care. When the mail arrived, as it did at irregular intervals, all work on the creek was suspended, and the men flocked to the roadhouse to receive their scanty dole of letters and papers. Shorty was the custodian of the mail after its arrival, and he magnified his office. With a quid of tobacco tucked away in his cheek, he would study each address most carefully before calling forth the owner's name in a stentorian voice.

Although mining was not in his line, Reynolds realised that he must do something. As he studied the life of the camp, and watched the men at their work, he thought of his friend, the editor. What an article he might write for The Telegram that would make the editor's eyes dance with joy. And he could do it, too, he felt certain, if he could only get up sufficient energy. He could add a number of sketches drawn from life, which would be of much value. He thought of all this as he wandered aimlessly around, and as he lay at night in his little tent.

Several days thus passed without anything being done. Frontier Samson had again disappeared, and no one had any idea where he had gone. Reynolds soon grew tired with having nothing to do, so he accordingly turned his attention to the hills. Fresh meat was urgently needed for the camp, as the miners would not spare the time to go after it themselves. Wild sheep roamed the mountains, and Reynolds decided that he could make more money by supplying the camp with meat than digging for the uncertain gold. It would also satisfy his desire to get away into the wilds, where he could explore to his heart's content the mysteries of the foothills, the great valleys, and the vast expanses of wild meadows.

Reynolds at once put this plan into execution, and each morning he left camp for a day in the hills. At night he returned, loaded down with a mountain sheep he had bagged, and which he readily sold for several ounces of gold. When not hunting, he would spend his time either exploring some creek or lying on the hillside studying the scenery around him, and imbibing impressions for the masterpieces he planned to produce.

But it was not always the beauties of nature which occupied his mind. No matter where he went Glen was ever with him. In some mysterious manner she seemed to be near, and he wondered if he should ever see her again. He often looked away to the east, for there Frontier Samson had told him she lived. How far off was the place? he asked himself, and if he did find her what would her lion of a father do? He was tempted to make the try, anyway, and find out for himself if Jim Weston was as desperate a character as he had been painted. He could do no more than kill him, and he did not fear death. Had he not often faced it on the field of battle, and why should he shrink now?

The more Reynolds thought about this, the more inclined he became to make the effort. It would be another grand adventure to once again go over the top. He might fail, but he would have the satisfaction of making the attempt and showing Glen that he was not a coward. He had been longing for some wild undertaking, and here was the opportunity right at hand. It would be far more preferable than spending his time around camp, or even hunting mountain sheep.

He was thinking seriously of this one beautiful afternoon as he lay on the side of a deep ravine beneath a big weather-beaten fir tree. Below, a brook gurgled, now very small owing to the dryness of the season, but at times swollen by floods into a raging torrent. Across this ravine the mountain rose steep and rugged. Along its side a narrow trail wound, worn smooth by the feet of Indians, mountain sheep, and other denizens of the wild. Reynolds idly wondered whither the trail led, and he was half tempted to start forth on an exploration journey. But it was so comfortable there on the hillside that he gave up the idea, so, lying full upon his back with his hands under his head, he watched the tops of the far-off mountains, and the clouds drifting across the great savannas of the blue.

For some time he remained thus, thinking of Glen and recalling the last time he had seen her. He was trying once more to solve the mystery of her disappearance from Whitehorse, when a sudden noise across the ravine arrested his attention. Casting his eyes in that direction, great was his surprise to see a woman mounted on a magnificent horse riding slowly down that crooked and dangerous trail. Then his heart leaped within him as he recognized Glen. What was he to do? he intuitively asked himself. Should he remain where he was, or hurry down to the brook to meet her? But what right had he to go near her? He had never spoken a word to her, and as she did not even know who he was, she might resent his appearance. Would it not be better for him to remain where he was, and worship at a distance? But was it gentlemanly that he should stay there and watch her when she was unaware of his presence?

And all this time Glen was coming slowly down that winding trail. Reynolds watched her almost spell-bound. She was a superb horsewoman, and rode as one born to the saddle. How graceful was her figure, and how perfectly the noble animal she was riding responded to the lightest touch of the rein as he cautiously advanced. Reynolds could see the girl most plainly now. She sat astride the saddle, with the reins in her right hand, and a small riding-whip in the other. She wore buckskin riding-breeches, a khaki-colored blouse, open at the throat, and a soft felt hat of the same color. The sleeves of her blouse were rolled up to her elbows, thus exposing her strong, supple arms. All this Reynolds quickly noticed, and he believed that he had never before beheld a more beautiful picture of true virile womanhood.

The horse was jet-black, and although walking on such a perilous and difficult trail, it was easy to tell at the first glance that it was a splendid thoroughbred. The animal's carriage showed not only pride in bearing such a beautiful rider, but a full sense of its responsibility as well. Fine were its proportions, reminding Reynolds more of some victor of the race-track than the rough and hardy cayuses of the north.

And even as he looked and wondered from whence such a pair of creatures had so unexpectedly come, the horse gave a terrified snort, threw up its head, and recoiled back upon its haunches. The cause of this fright was at once apparent, for around a huge boulder a large hear had suddenly made its appearance. Reynolds saw at a glance that it was a grizzly, the most formidable animal of the north, and the terror of the trails. Although greatly startled at meeting the horse and its rider, the bear had no idea of retreating. They were blocking his lordly advance and it made him angry. Its coarse savage growl sawed the air as it moved menacingly forward.

All this Reynolds noted as he kneeled upon the ground, firmly clutching his rifle with both hands. Beads of perspiration stood out upon his forehead as he watched the scene across the deep gulch. The horse was rearing wildly, and backing slowly up the trail. There was no room to turn around, so with remarkable coolness and self-control the fair rider was keeping him pressed close to the bank and face to face with the on-coming grizzly. At any instant the horse might disregard the guiding hand as well as the friendly words of encouragement, and in mad terror attempt to swerve suddenly around, and thus hurl itself and rider into the yawning abyss below.

All this passed through Reynolds' mind with lightning rapidity, and he realised that there was not a moment to lose. The bear was advancing more rapidly now, and in a twinkling he might hurl his full weight of eight hundred pounds of compact flesh, bone and muscle upon horse and rider. But ere it could do this, Reynolds brought the rifle to his shoulder, took a quick, steady aim, and fired. The bullet sped true and pierced the bear's body just back of its powerful right shoulder. The great brute stopped dead in its tracks. It swayed for an instant, and then with a roar that drove the recoiling horse almost frantic with terror, it leaped sideways and plunged down the precipice, carrying with it a small avalanche of rocks, earth, and rattling stones.

Reynolds watched the bear until it had plowed its way to the ravine below, where it remained a confused and motionless heap. Then a smile of satisfaction over-spread his face as he lowered his rifle and lifted his eyes to the trail above. The girl had the horse under control now, and was urging him slowly down the narrow way. But the animal's fear was most apparent, for he was advancing very timidly, his whole body quivering with excitement. The fair rider, however, seemed perfectly at ease, and not the least disturbed at what had just happened.

After she had passed the spot where the bear had first appeared, she reined up the horse and looked across to where Reynolds was standing watching her most intently. Waving her band in friendly salutation, she called aloud:

"Come on over."

The young man obeyed with alacrity. He sped down the hill, leaped across the narrow stream, and hurried up the trail. He was panting heavily when he reached the girl's side, and the perspiration was streaming down his face. She looked at him curiously, and her eyes danced with merriment.

"Do you always do that?" she questioned.

"Do what?" Reynolds asked in reply.

"Hustle like that at a woman's call?"

"I never did so before, simply because I never had the chance. This is a new experience to me."

The girl looked at him steadily for a few seconds. Then she smiled and held out her hand.

"I wish to thank you for what you have done for me to-day," she naïvely told him. "I am certain you saved my life. My, that was a great shot you made!"

Reynolds took her hand in his, and a thrill of joy swept through his body. It was not a soft hand, but brown and firm as if accustomed to toil. Her eyes met his and there was something in her look which aroused the noblest within him. It was an expression of admiration, almost hero-worship, and confidence. It said to him, "I know I can trust you, for you are worthy. You are different from most men in this region. Why are you up here?"

"I am glad that I happened to be near," Reynolds replied. "I was merely resting and enjoying the scenery when you and the bear appeared. You must be more careful in the future, as I might not be around."

The girl gave a merry laugh, and brushed back a wayward tress of hair that had drifted temptingly over her right cheek.

"I forgot to bring my gun," she explained, "and so the bear had me at its mercy. It is always the way, isn't it? Something is sure to happen when you are not prepared."

"And do you always ride alone in such dangerous places?" Reynolds asked.

"Oh, yes," and again the girl smiled. "Midnight and I know the trails well, don't we, old boy?" and she affectionately patted the horse's sleek neck. "But we came farther to-day than usual. But it was worth it, though, just to see that shot you made. Won't daddy be interested when I tell him about it."

"It was nothing much," Reynolds replied, although the sudden flush which mantled his face told Glen that he was pleased at her words of praise. "I am used to shooting brutes. In fact, it was my special work for several years."

"Grizzlies?" the girl queried.

"Worse than grizzlies, and far more ugly, crafty, and brutal."

"My, I never heard of such creatures," and the girl's eyes grew big with astonishment.

"Oh, I guess you have," and Reynolds smiled. "They raise and train them in Germany. I met them in France."

"What! were you over there?" Glen's interest and admiration were intense now.

"Yes, almost from the beginning of the war. I was a sharpshooter, you see, and so had excellent practice."

"Oh!" It was all the girl said, but it thrilled the young man's very soul, and when his eyes again met hers a sudden embarrassment came upon him.

"Do you live here?" he unexpectedly asked.

This question aroused Glen, and she at once assumed the defensive. The expression in her eyes changed, and she looked apprehensively around.

"A long way from here," she replied. "I must be off at once."

"Let me go with you, Miss Weston," Reynolds suggested. "You are unarmed, and may meet another grizzly before you reach home."

"How do you know who I am?" the girl asked. "You never saw me before, did you?"

"We travelled up the coast together on the Northern Light," Reynolds explained. "I was the one who drew the captain's attention to that canoe when the fog-bank lifted. You remember that, I suppose."

"Indeed I do, and too well at that. I wish that the fog had not lifted just then. Your eyes were too sharp that morning."

"But the men in the canoe were not sorry, though. They seemed to be mighty glad to be picked up."

"It is too bad that the fog lifted when it did," and the girl gave a deep sigh.

"You know the men, then?"

"Only one, but he is enough."

"I saw you with him at the dance. I suppose he is the one you mean."

"Where is he now?" There was a note of sternness in the girl's voice.

"At Big Draw. Any message I can take to him?"

The girl's face underwent a marvellous change. It was like the sweep of a cloud over a sunny landscape. She touched Midnight with her whip, and he sprang forward. Down the trail he clattered at a reckless gait, and when he had reached the level below his rider swung him sharply around. Then he bounded upward, and when near to where Reynolds was standing, Glen pulled him up with a sudden jerk.

"There is no message," she announced. "Why have you misjudged me? Are all men alike? Thank you for what you did for me to-day. Good-by."

She again lifted her whip and it was about to fall upon Midnight's flank when Reynolds stepped forward and laid his right hand upon the horse's bridle.

"Forgive me," he pleaded. "I meant nothing. I was merely joking.
Perhaps I understand more than you realise. May I accompany you home?
It is not safe for you to travel alone, unarmed as you are, in a place
like this."

"No, no, you must not come," the girl protested. "It is much safer for me than it would be for you. Never cross the Golden Crest. I have warned you, so remember."

Again she touched her whip to Midnight, who leaped forward up the steep trail, pleased to be away from the place where he had received such a fright. Only once did the girl look back to wave a friendly hand to Reynolds ere a sharp turn in the trail hid her from view.

CHAPTER VII

BOTTLES WILL DO

For a few minutes Reynolds stood and looked up the trail after the girl and horse had disappeared from view. He was strongly tempted to follow to the heights above to see what lay beyond. He refrained, however, as the afternoon was fast wearing away, and he had a heavy load to carry back to camp. Retracing his steps to the brook, he walked up the ravine until he came to the spot where the grizzly was lying, half buried beneath the rocks and earth.

"Too bad, old chap," he remarked, as he looked down upon the brute. "But, then, it served you right. You attacked the innocent and defenseless, little thinking that such swift vengeance was so near. You were little different, however, from certain two-legged brutes who tried the same game to their own sorrow. You did me a great favor to-day, though, and it's too bad I had to shoot you. I would like to take your skin and keep it as a souvenir of this day. Guess I'll have to come back for it as I cannot carry it now. And, besides, I shall need a shovel to dig you out of that heap."

It was later than usual when Reynolds reached camp. The way was long and the sheep he carried was heavy. But his step was light and his heart happy. He had met Glen, had talked with her, looked into her eyes, and felt the firm pressure of her hand. Fate was kind to him, he reasoned, and it augured well for the future.

He was tired and hungry when he reached his little tent on the bank of the creek. A supper of broiled lamb, sour-dough bread, stewed dried fruit, and tea greatly refreshed him. He then lighted his pipe, and stretching himself out upon his blankets, meditated upon all that had taken place during the afternoon. It was good to lie there and rest with deep silence all around, the vision of Glen before him, and the remembrance of her voice and the touch of her hand. He wondered how and when he should see her again. He was determined that it must be soon, and he smiled at the idea of a terrible father keeping him away from her. What did he care for desperate men? Had he not faced them over and over again as they lay entrenched behind blazing rifles and deadly machine-guns? He had carried his life in his hand on numerous occasions on behalf of King and country, and he was not afraid to do it again for his own personal satisfaction. Just how he was to accomplish his object he had no definite idea. It was enough for him as he lay there to think of Glen's voice, the charm of her face, and the glory of her kindling eyes.

When he had finished his smoke he arose, and hoisting the sheep once again upon his back he carried it down to the roadhouse, where he sold it to Shorty, who had bargained with him the evening before for his game of the day. It was much easier than toting it around to the various tents and shacks, and selling it by the piece to the miners. He made less, to be sure, but he was satisfied. In fact, he was becoming tired of this business, and longed for something else, especially since he had met Glen in the hills.

Several men had arrived at Big Draw that day, and had brought a number of letters. One was for Reynolds, from his old friend, the editor. It was a fatherly letter, full of interest for his welfare, and the hope that he would soon return and enter upon the quest to find the missing Henry Redmond.

"I cannot get this notion out of my mind," he wrote in conclusion. "It is with me night and day since I talked it over with you. I believe you are the person best fitted for the undertaking. Give up your present wild-goose chase, and come home."

Reynolds smiled as he thrust the letter into his pocket, The editor called his trip north a "wild-goose chase." He little knew that it was a chase of a different kind, and the bird was a fascinating girl. "I guess I shall have to tell Harmon that the bird I'm after is not a wild goose, but a new species, found solely up here, and with only one known specimen in existence. But I must write to him, anyway, and tell him something about my doings and the life at Big Draw."

In an adjoining room men were playing cards. Reynolds entered and stood watching them, especially Curly, who was deep in a game. He was evidently losing heavily, and he was in a bad frame of mind. As Reynolds stood and watched him, he began to wonder when the fellow had first met Glen. Was it on the trail, or had Curly ventured beyond the Golden Crest? It pleased him to know that the girl disliked the man, and how she wished that the fog-bank had not lifted just when it did. He longed to know what was in Curly's mind. Would he attempt to meet the girl again? That he was capable of the basest villainy, he had not the shadow of a doubt. Frontier Samson had told him as much, and the old prospector apparently knew whereof he spoke. It was not safe for Glen to travel alone among the hills, he mused. She was in danger of meeting a worse brute than the raging grizzly she had encountered that afternoon.

As Reynolds thought of these things he kept his eyes fixed intently upon Curly's face, not realising that he was staring so hard. But Curly did, and glancing up several times from his cards, he met those steady, inscrutable eyes. At first it annoyed him, making him nervous and impatient. He wondered what the quiet, reserved fellow meant by looking at him in such a manner. At length he became angry, and noticing that the eyes never left his face, he leaped to his feet with a savage oath, and moving over to where Reynolds was standing, demanded of him an explanation.

Brought suddenly to earth, Reynolds started, and asked what was the trouble.

"Trouble!" Curly roared. "You'll d—— soon find out if you don't mind your own business."

"Why, I have been doing nothing," and Reynolds looked his surprise. "I was merely watching the game."

"No, you weren't. You were watching me like a cat watches a mouse, and
I want to know what you mean."

Reynolds laughed.

"I didn't realise I was watching you," he explained. "My mind was elsewhere. I was thinking of more important things. You seem to be looking for trouble."

"I am, and you're the trouble, d—— you. You've made me lose my game."

"H'm, you needn't accuse me. It must be your own conscience. I am not looking for a quarrel, even if you are. I shall leave at once if my presence is so objectionable to you. I'm rather fond of my own company."

"Coward!"

Reynolds had partly turned as this word smote him like a knife. He wheeled in an instant and faced Curly.

"Did you refer to me?" he asked. His eyes spoke danger, and the muscles of his body were tense. But Curly did not heed the signs; he had thrown caution to the winds.

"I did," he replied. "And I repeat it, 'Coward!' for that is what——"

Curly never finished the sentence, for a rigid fist caught him suddenly under the right jaw, and sent him reeling backward upon a small table. Recovering himself as speedily as possible, and wild with pain and rage, he ripped forth a revolver from a hip-pocket. A dead silence pervaded the room, like a calm before a storm. And during that silence something unexpected happened. It was not the report of the revolver, but the angry growl of a dog, the spitting of a cat, the bleat of a sheep, and the crow of a cock.

"Gr-r-r-r, ps-s-s-s, ba-a-a-a, cock-a-doodle-do-o-o."

So incongruous did the peculiar sounds appear, that all stared in amazement. Then when they beheld Frontier Samson standing near the door, their faces broadened into knowing grins, followed by hearty outbursts of laughter.

The prospector walked at once over to where Curly was standing, and laid his big right hand upon his shoulder.

"What's all this about?" he asked. "In trouble agin, eh?"

"I've been insulted by that?" and Curly motioned to Reynolds.

"An' so yer goin' to shoot?"

"I certainly am, so leave me alone."

"An unarmed man?"

"What in h—— do I care whether he's armed or unarmed?"

"H'm, I guess ye'd care if he had a gun in his hands."

"Let him do it, Samson." It was Reynolds speaking. "An unarmed man is the only one he would try to shoot. He took mighty good care to keep out of range of the German guns during the war."

"You're a liar," Curly yelled, for the taunt stung him to the quick.

"Then the lie is on your own bead," was the quiet reply. "You and others have made the boast that you hid in the mountains and could not be caught when men were so sorely needed at the Front. If it's a lie, then you lied first, so don't blame me."

Curly's only response was to raise his revolver and fire. But Samson's hand struck the weapon in time to divert the aim, and no harm was done.

"Thar, that's enough of sich nonsense." The old prospector's voice was more than usually stern. "I'm not goin' to stand here an' see a man shot down in cold blood by the likes of you, Curly. The chap ye want to kill is worth ten of you any day. An' as fer shootin', why, ye wouldn't have a peek in with him if he had a gun."

"Give him one, then, and see how he can shoot," was the surly reply.

"But give me that first," and Samson laid his hand upon Curly's revolver.

"What for?"

"Never mind; I'll explain later, so jist let go. Thar, that's better," he commented when Curly had reluctantly obeyed. "Now, look here, I've got a suggestion to make. Let's settle this racket outside. It's no use practisin' on human bodies which the Lord made fer something more important. Whiskey bottles will do as well, an' the more ye smash of them the better, to my way of thinkin'. So s'pose we stick several of 'em up an' let you two crack away at 'em. That's the best way to find out who's the real marksman. Anyone got a rifle handy?"

This suggestion was not at all to Curly's liking. He preferred to have matters all his own way, and his opponent completely at his mercy. But Frontier Samson, as well as all the miners present, decided otherwise, and so Curly was forced to bow to the inevitable.

The men entered enthusiastically into this shooting-test, and in a few minutes three bottles were stuck upon a stump about fifty yards off. A rifle was procured, which Samson at once handed to Curly.

"Now, shoot, ye beggar," he ordered. "Here's the chance to show what ye kin do."

Curly's hand trembled as he took the weapon. The miners crowded around and assailed him with various remarks.

"Go to it, Curly," one encouraged. "Ye were always good at hitting the bottle."

"But not so far away," another bantered. "Curly likes it near, and full, at that."

Curly looked as if he would have liked to turn the rifle upon the men instead of the bottles. He was angry, and an angry man is always at a great disadvantage, especially where a steady nerve is needed. He accordingly fired wild, and when, the third shot had been made, the bottles remained untouched.

During this performance Reynolds had been standing silently by, apparently the least concerned of all. He felt annoyed at the trouble which had occurred, and he was anxious that Curly should be taught a salutary lesson. He picked up the rifle from the ground where his opponent had flung it in his rage, and brought it to his shoulder. He never felt calmer in his life as he took a quick and steady aim. Thrice he pulled the trigger, and each time a bottle crashed to the ground, while the excited miners cheered and shouted themselves hoarse.

When he was through, Reynolds quietly handed the rifle to Frontier
Samson. Then he turned to Curly.

"Are you satisfied now?" he asked, "or do you want some more shooting?
If so, I am ready."

With an oath, Curly turned upon his heel, and was about to walk away, when the old prospector laid a firm hand upon his shoulder.

"Jist a minute, young man," he ordered. "I want to give ye a word of advice, which ye kin take or leave as ye see fit. Ye've made a miserable fool of yerself today, though it isn't the first time ye've done it, not by a long chalk. If ye want to git along in this camp, stow that nasty temper of yours, an' mind yer own bizness. This young feller wasn't interferin' with you one bit. The devil was in ye, an' ye had to spit it out on somebody. Ye better be more keerful in the future, as I mightn't allus be around to check ye on yer rampage."

"But he hit me," Curly growled.

"Sure he did, an' wouldn't anyone with the least grain of spunk in him do the same if he'd been called a coward fer nuthin'? This young chap is no coward, let me tell ye that. He did more'n his bit over in France when you was hidin' away in the hills. Oh, I know all about it, an' whar ye was an' what ye was doin'. Why, this chap ye wanted to shoot has more scars on his body an' more medals to his credit than you have toes an' fingers. An' yit ye called him a coward! I guess the men here know purty well by this time who is the coward an' who isn't. Thar, that's all I have to say, so ye may go. I'm sick of the sight of ye."

Curly was angry, but so fierce and powerful did the old prospector look that he did not dare to reply. He slunk away, leaving the miners greatly amused at his defeat. But Frontier Samson was not amused, for he knew Curly better than any of the men gathered there.

CHAPTER VIII

LOVE VERSUS GOLD

The next day Reynolds spent as usual out in the hills, though he did no hunting. When not stretched out upon the ground, he was wandering aimlessly around wherever his spirit listed. He had no more interest in the mountain sheep, and he passed several fine flocks without firing a shot. His thoughts were elsewhere, upon game of far greater importance. He had spent a sleepless night, for Curly's action not only annoyed but disgusted him. He did not wish to remain near such a cur, and the sooner he left, the better it would be for both of them. His only desire was to be left alone, and that seemed impossible so long as he stayed at Big Draw. But where could he go, and what should he do? Had he not met Glen Weston it would be an easy task to leave the north at once. But since she was here, and just beyond the hills, he could not bear the thought of going away without seeing her again.

As he lay under a big tree, there suddenly came into his mind the old fairy tale of "The Sleeping Beauty and the Enchanted Palace." He smiled as he recalled it now, for was not he himself something like the young knight who faced all manner of difficulties and won the prize? But the knight of the fairy tale did not have to contend with a desperate father and a tribe of Indians, as all the people connected with the ancient story were asleep. This was a much more difficult undertaking, and a greater adventure by far. It stirred his blood as he thought of it, making him anxious to be away upon the quest.

It was about the middle of the afternoon when he at length made his way to the ravine where he had met Glen the previous day. There was just the slightest chance that he might see her again, for something he had detected in her eyes encouraged him in the belief that she looked upon him with favor. But when he reached the place no sign of life could he behold. He went to the spot where he had left the grizzly half buried beneath the rocks and earth. To his surprise no sign of the bear was to be seen. No doubt the Indians had been sent to recover the animal for its skin and meat. Had Glen come with them? he wondered, to show where the animal had fallen? Such an idea was feasible, and he chided himself for not being there early in the day when he might have again met her.

Going to the tree on the bank where he had first beheld the girl on horseback, he threw himself down upon the ground and kept his eyes fixed upon the trail across the ravine. He still cherished the hope that she might reappear, and this would be the best place to see her. His earnest longings, however, were of no avail, for no sign of the girl could he behold. Birds flitted here and there, while a great eagle alighted upon a rocky pinnacle and eyed him curiously and somewhat suspiciously.

"If I only had your power of flight, my fine fellow," Reynolds mused, "it would not take me long to go beyond the Golden Crest. I wonder why human beings were made the most helpless of all creatures? We are endowed with aspirations, yet how often they come to naught for lack of power to achieve them. But I shall achieve mine. If I have not the wings of an eagle, I have the mind of a man, as well as strength of body. I shall go to her, no matter what obstacles intervene." He rose from his reclining position and began to descend the bank. He had gone but half way, when, happening to glance once more across the ravine, he was surprised to see an Indian mounted upon a horse far up the trail. Both horse and rider were motionless until Reynolds' eyes rested upon them, when they vanished as if by magic. He gazed in amazement, thinking that perhaps he had seen a vision. But look as he might, nothing more could he see, and, much mystified, he continued on his way back to Big Draw.

Reynolds' mind was now fully made up. The day of meditation spent in the hills had proven beneficial. He would at once undertake the venture, and find out what lay beyond the Golden Crest. He would be the knight of the fairy tale, and either win or die in the attempt to win the Princess of his heart and mind.

So much was Glen in Reynolds' thoughts that he could think of little else. He visioned her mounted upon her horse, facing the grizzly. What a picture she would make! Never before had he beheld such a scene, and his fingers burned to sketch her as she now stood out clear and distinct in his mind.

Producing a pencil and a sheet of his scanty supply of paper, he was soon at work before the door of his tent. The bottom of a biscuit box, placed at the proper angle on the stump of a jack-pine, formed his easel. Perched upon another box, he was soon busily engaged upon the outline of what was to be his masterpiece. Forgotten was everything else as he sat there, devoting all the energy of heart, mind, and hand to the work before him. The miners might delve for gold; Curly and his companions might gamble to their hearts' content; such things were nothing to him. He had struck a vein of wealth, the true gold of love, by the side of which all the treasures of earth were as dross.

And as he worked, a shadow suddenly fell across the picture. Looking quickly up, he was surprised to see Frontier Samson standing quietly by his side, looking intently upon the sketch.

"You startled me," and Reynolds gave a slight laugh, feeling for the instant a sense of embarrassment.

"Caught in the act, eh?" the prospector queried.

"It seems so, doesn't it? I wasn't expecting company."

"Oh, I don't mean you, young man. I was thinkin' of her," and Samson pointed to the picture. "Where did ye ketch her?"

"Out on the hills. Isn't she wonderful?"

"Mebbe she is an' mebbe she isn't," was the cautious reply.

"Have you any doubt about it?" Reynolds somewhat impatiently asked.

"Wall, no, I s'pose not. I'll take yer word fer it."

"But can't you see for yourself, man, what she is?"

"H'm, d'ye expect me to see what you do in that picter?"

"And why not?"

"Simply 'cause I'm not as young as you are. Now that," and he pointed to the sketch, "doesn't tell me much. I see some drawin's thar of a gal on horseback, but they don't show me the gal herself. They don't tell me anything about the sound of her voice, the look in her eyes, nor the heavin' of her buzom. I can't see what her mind's like, nor her heart, fer that matter. Them's the things ye can't draw, an' them's the things by which I judge a gal."

"But good gracious! if you saw her only once you would know what she's like; the most wonderful creature in the whole world. Heaven and earth must have combined in bestowing upon her their choicest graces."

"When did ye see her like that?" and Samson again motioned to the sketch.

"Yesterday; out in the hills."

"On horseback?"

"Yes, and face to face with a grizzly."

"A grizzly!"

"It certainly was, and a monster, too. My! you should have seen the way she handled her horse when the brute was coming toward her. Some day I am going to sketch her as she looked when the horse was rearing backward. This drawing merely shows her in repose when last I saw her."

"An' what happened to the grizzly?" the old man queried.

"Oh, a bullet hit him, that was all, and he took a header into the ravine below."

"It did! An' whar did the bullet come from? Jist dropped down by accident at the right moment, I s'pose."

Reynolds merely smiled at the prospector's words, and offered no explanation.

"Modest, eh?" and Samson chuckled. "No more trouble to knock over a grizzly than it was to smash three whiskey bottles without winkin'. I like yer coolness, young man. Now, some fellers 'ud have blatted it all over camp in no time. An' that happened yesterday, so ye say?"

"Yes; toward evening."

"An' the gal was thar all alone?"

"It seems so. I wanted to go home with her, but she would not let me."

"She wouldn't! An' why not?"

"She said it wasn't safe for me to go beyond the Golden Crest."

"Did she give any reason?"

"None at all, and that's what makes me curious."

"About what?"

"What lies beyond the Golden Crest. The spirit of adventure is on me, and I intend to make the attempt to find out for myself about the mystery surrounding that place."

"Ye do! Didn't the gal say it wasn't safe?"

"All the greater reason, then, why I should go. If that girl will not come to me, I am going to her. Death is the worst that can happen to me, and I would rather die than live without Glen Weston."

"Ye've got it bad, haven't ye?" and Samson smiled. "But mebbe she's got the fever, too, since yesterday, an' has been back to the ravine to see if you was thar."

"Perhaps she did, but I was too late. I was there this afternoon, and saw no one except an Indian on horseback. The bear, too, was gone."

"Ye saw an Injun, ye say? What was he doin'?"

"Merely sitting upon his horse at the top of the trail. But he vanished just as soon as I glimpsed him."

"An' the bear was gone, too, did ye say?"

"Yes; nothing left of it. I suppose the Indians came for it. Perhaps
Glen was with them, and so I missed another chance of seeing her."

During this conversation Frontier Samson had been standing. But now he sat down upon the ground, and remained for some time in deep thought. He filled and lighted his pipe, and smoked in silence, while Reynolds continued his work upon the sketch.

"When d'ye expect to leave camp?" Samson at length asked.

But Reynolds made no reply. He went on steadily with his work, while the old man watched him with twinkling eyes.

"Completely gone," he mused. "Deaf to the world. Can't hear nuthin'.
It's a sure sign."

"What's that? Were you speaking?" Reynolds suddenly asked.

"Speakin'! Sure. Why, me tongue's been goin' like a mill-clapper, though ye never heard a word I said."

"I was lost, I guess," and Reynolds smiled as he turned toward the sketch.

"So I imagined. But, then, I fergive ye, fer I was young once meself, an' in love, too, so I know all the signs. I only wanted to know when ye expect to hit the trail on yer great adventure?"

"To-morrow," was the emphatic reply. "This place won't keep me an hour longer than I can help. I am sick of it."

"How d'ye expect to travel?"

"On foot, of course; straight over the mountains."

"D'ye realise the dangers?"

"Dangers are nothing to me; I am used to them."

"But s'pose I should tell ye it's impossible to git behind the Golden
Crest?"

"Then, I like to do the impossible. There are plenty to do the ordinary things. I want to do the extraordinary, the so-called impossible. Did you ever hear the song that the Panama Canal diggers used to sing to cheer them up?"

"No; what is it?"

"I only know four lines; they go this way:

"'Got any rivers they say are uncrossable?
Got any mountains you can't tunnel through?
We specialize on the wholly impossible,
Doing the things that no man can do.'

"I like those words, and they have heartened me more than once."

"They're sartinly stirrin', an' I like the spirit of 'em," the prospector replied. "But it seems to me that ye've got to use common sense as well as spirit. Now reason tells me that ye need someone to help ye in this undertakin' of yours, an' why shouldn't that someone be me?"

"You! Could you help me?" Reynolds eagerly asked. "Will you go with me?"

"I might on a sartin condition."

"And what is that?"

"Nuthin' much, 'cept you'll go with me."

"And why shouldn't I?"

"That's jist the pint about which I ain't sure. Though you've got the feet of a man, yit from what I gather yer heart an' yer head have eagle's wings, which'll make ye impatient to foller an old feller like me, who ain't as spry as he once was, an' whose jints are somewhat stiff."

"Oh, you needn't worry about that," Reynolds laughingly told him. "I hope I have a little sense left yet, although it's quite true what you say about my heart and my head having eagle's wings. You lead on and I'll follow like a dog."

"Now, look here, young man, thar's something else I want to put to ye. 'Twixt two things, one sartin an' t'other unsartin, which will ye choose?"

"I do not understand. Explain what you mean."

"Wall, ye see, it's this way: The findin' that gal on which ye've set yer heart is a mighty unsartin proposition. But thar's another which is as sure as the sun, an' about which all the men here in camp, an' the hull world fer that matter, would go crazy over if they knew about it."

"What is it?'

"It's gold; that's what it is, an' plenty of it, too."

"Where?" Reynolds' eyes were big with excitement.

"Oh, back in the hills. I discovered it over a year ago, an' nobody knows of it but me."

"Why didn't you report it?"

"H'm, what would be the good of doin' that? Haven't I seen too many gold strikes already, an' what have they amounted to? Look at this camp, fer instance. The men have come here an' ruined this place. They may git some gold, but what good will it do 'em? They'll gamble it, or waste it in other ways. Oh, I know, fer I've seen it lots of times."

"Why, then, are you willing to reveal the secret of your mine to me?"
Reynolds asked.

"Did I say I was willin'?"

"That is what I inferred from your words."

"I merely asked ye 'twixt which would ye choose: the findin' that gal, which is an unsartin proposition, or gittin' the gold, which is as sure as the sun. That's all I asked."

"But if I choose the gold, then your secret will be known, and there will be a wild stampede into the place. You don't want that to happen, do you? It would be the same story of other camps, and perhaps worse."

"No, I don't want it to happen, that's a fact. But, ye see, it's bound to come sooner or later. Thar are so many men pokin' thar noses into every hole an' corner, that they are sure to find my mine before long. Now, I want someone to my likin' to be first on the ground, an' that someone is you. Ye kin then make yer choice an' stake two claims as discoverer. Tharfore, which will ye choose, that gal proposition or the gold? It's up to you. Is it hard to decide?"

"Not at all," was the reply. "I shall take the girl. One might run across gold any time, but a girl like that one won't find again. And, besides, what good would the gold be to me without her? I, therefore, take the girl proposition."

Samson looked at his companion in surprise, as if he had not heard aright. Here was a phase of character beyond the bounds of his experience.

"An' ye don't want the gold?" he asked.

"Certainly I want the gold, who wouldn't? But you told me I had to choose it or the girl, didn't you?"

"I surely did, though I never imagined ye'd throw down the gold. Now, all the fellers I ever met up here would have taken the gold first."

"Feeling sure of getting the girl later; is that it?"

"That's about the gist of it. They'd tackle what's sartin first, but you're willin' to try the unsartin."

"I am, and when can we start?"

"In the morning if it's all the same to you. We'll need some extry grub, which we kin git from Shorty. We won't want much, as we'll find plenty of meat along the way. We'll hit out before the camp's astir, so nobody'll know what's become of us."

"How long will it take us to cross the Golden Crest?" Reynolds asked.

"That depends upon many things. We might do it in three or four days by the way we're goin', or, again, it might take six months, an' mebbe longer. In fact, we might never git thar at all."

"I planned to do it in a couple of days," Reynolds declared.

"I s'pose ye did. But things don't allus turn out as ye plan, 'specially if ye undertake to cross the Golden Crest. Ye see, things happen thar quick as lightnin' sometimes, an' if yer lucky enough to git off alive, the patchin'-up process might take a long time. See?"

"I see," Reynolds replied, as he took the sketch from the improvised easel, "I have a number of patches on my body already, so a few more won't make much difference."

CHAPTER IX

THE OUTER TRAIL

A profound silence lay over Big Draw mining camp as Frontier Samson and Tom Reynolds slipped quietly away among the hills. The sun had not yet lifted itself above the horizon, but the speediness of its coming was heralded in the eastern sky, and the tallest mountain peaks had already caught the first shafts of its virgin glory. The valleys were still robed in semi-darkness, and the two wayfarers seemed like mere spectres as they sped forward.

"My, this is great!" Reynolds exclaimed as he at length stopped to readjust his pack. "I believe I should live to be a hundred or over if I could breathe air like this all the time. It's a fine tonic."

"It sure is," Samson agreed, as he laid aside his rifle and pulled out his pipe. "Not much like the smell of yer city streets, whar ye swaller hundreds of disease germs every second."

"Have you ever lived there?" Reynolds asked, curious to learn something of the old man's history.

"Long enough to know what they're like. I've poked me nose into a good many cities, an' they're all the same, to my way of thinkin'. It's a wonder to me why so many people live in sich places, crowded, together like sheep, when thar's all this, an' millions of places like it, whar ye kin breathe the air as the Lord made it, an' not fouled by the work of human bein's."

"You are very fond of this wild life, I see," Reynolds replied. "Have you lived here many years?"

The prospector threw aside his burnt match, gave his pack an extra hitch, picked up his rifle and moved forward.

"Guess we'd better git on," he said. "Thar's a little brook we want to reach in time fer dinner. Ye don't find much water in these valleys."

Reynolds moved along by his companion's side, wondering why he did not answer his question. It was not until they were eating their dinner by the side of the brook did Samson vouchsafe any information.

"Ye asked me if I've been long in this country," he began. "My reply may seem strange to you, but it's true. Judgin' by years, I've been here a long time, but, accordin' to life, only a little while. I uster reckon things by years, but I don't do that any longer."

"No?" Reynolds looked quizzically at his companion.

"I don't count time by years, young man, an' the sooner ye larn to do the same the better it'll be fer ye. In the cities ye find clocks an' watches everywhere, an' they all remind people that time is passin'. Ye kin hardly walk along a street hut ye'll see funeral processions, an' the doctors are busy with the sick. Big hospitals are crowded with patients, an' accidents happen every minute of the day. These all tell that life is brief an' unsartin. The feelin' gits in the blood an' on the nerves that death is right near, an' as people think, so they are. Age an' health are accordin' to the mind, an' don't ye ever fergit that."

Samson paused and looked around.

"See them big mountains," and he pointed away to the left. "A man kin never feel old with them on every side. They don't remind ye of the passin' of time an' of dyin'. They're jist the same as they were thousands of years ago. An' so it's purty much like that with other things up here. I never feel old when I look around me on the wonderful sights; I feel young. An' why shouldn't I? Thar's so much to do, an' so many things to see an' larn that I haven't time to think of dyin'. Life after all, as I said, ain't to be judged by years, but by love of livin'."

Samson seemed to be on his pet theme, and he continued his talk as he and Reynolds again resumed their journey. Several times the latter endeavored to find out something about the old man's past history, but all in vain. The prospector gave him not the slightest information concerning himself, but discoursed volubly about the difference between the ways of the city and the wilderness.

"Money ain't everything," he declared, "even though some seem to think it is. It has its uses, I acknowledge, but it was never meant to starve the soul, though that is jist what it too often does. I know of men who sacrificed everything to the pilin' up of money, even love, without which life ain't worth a straw."

"Have you been able to find love here in the north?" Reynolds asked.

"Thar are different kinds of love, young man," was the somewhat slow and thoughtful reply. "The brand you mean, if I understand ye aright, I've never experienced in this country, an' in fact, I never expect to find it agin on this side of the grave. It's the pure love of a true man fer a good woman, I mean. I believe you have it, an' yer to be congratulated. It's the most wonderful thing in life. Even the love of children, though it is great, kin never equal it. It's in a class all by itself."

"But suppose the love isn't mutual, what then?" Reynolds asked.

"That'd be a pity, an' no mistake. Are ye referrin' to yer own case?"

"I certainly am. I am positive that the only woman in the world I want cares nothing for me. She does not even know my name, while I—oh, well, you know how I feel toward her."

"Jist keep up courage an' plod along, that's my advice. If she's meant fer you, ye'll win her all right. I'm a great believer in the idea that our own'll come to us some day, an' often in ways we least expect. But, hello! what's that?"

The trail on which they were now walking wound along the side of a deep valley, through which flowed a small stream. Samson was looking across toward the opposite bank, and as Reynolds turned his eyes in that direction he saw an Indian on horseback as motionless as the trees around him. He was facing the two travellers, and apparently he had been watching them for some time.

"Where do you suppose he has come from, and what does he want?"
Reynolds asked.

His companion's only reply was to bring his rifle to his shoulder and fire two shots in rapid succession across the valley toward the horseman, neither of which took effect. The Indian quickly unslung his rifle, fired one shot in return, and immediately vanished into the forest.

"Is that the best you can do?" Reynolds asked. "You should have let me have a crack at him."

"Me aim's unsartin to-day," was the reply. "I don't allus miss like that."

"But why did you shoot, anyway? The Indian was doing us no harm."

"He was skulkin' around, though, an' I jist gave him a hint to move along."

"So you didn't intend to shoot him?"

"Oh, no. It was merely a hint, as I told ye."

"A queer hint, I should say," and Reynolds laughed. "Manners of the wilderness, I suppose?"

"Sure. We don't stand on ceremony up here. We're a bluff bunch, an' if we don't like a feller's company we tell him so without beatin' around the bush."

"And did the Indian understand your meaning?"

"Y'bet he did. He took my shots as sayin', 'Good day. How are the missus an' the kids? Mebbe they need ye.' His shot in reply jist said, 'Thank ye; mebbe they do.' That was all."

Reynolds laughed at this quaint explanation, although he felt certain that Samson was not telling him the truth. He said nothing about it, however, and the prospector did not refer to it again. But Reynolds had the feeling that his companion and the Indian understood each other, and that the shots they had fired were signals, the meaning of which was known only to themselves. Who was this Frontier Samson? he mused. Was he in some manner in league with the Indians? Why had he taken such an interest in him, a complete stranger, and a chechahco at that? Why should he wish to reveal to him the secret of his gold discovery? He could not for a moment think that Samson had any evil purpose in mind, but as he thought it all over during the remainder of the afternoon, he felt that there was something very peculiar and mysterious about it all.

This feeling was intensified that first night on the trail. They camped by a little stream, where the trees stood thick, and larger than on the uplands. They had shot a couple of grouse on their way, and these Samson prepared for supper.

"I'll jist cook both of 'em," he remarked, "an' what we don't eat to-night will be fine warmed up to-morrow."

"I should like to get a moose," Reynolds declared. "I haven't shot one since I came north."

"Don't do it, young man, unless ye kin git nuthin' else," Samson advised. "A moose is a purty big animal, an' we could tote only a little piece of its carcass. The rest we'd have to leave to spile. I've allus made a practice of shootin' something that I kin clean up in a few meals. Some critters, who call 'emselves men, shoot everything in sight, an' leave it to spile. That is wasteful slaughter, an' not true sport."

Reynolds was glad to roll himself up in his blanket that night, for he was tired after his day's tramp, with a heavy pack on his back. Samson did likewise, and soon silence reigned in the deep forest, broken only by the ripple of the brook a short distance away. It was a calm night, mild, and with not a breath of wind astir.

Some time during the night Reynolds awoke with a start. He sat up and looked around. It was light enough for him to see that his companion was gone, and he believed that it was his footsteps that had aroused him. After waiting for some time and nothing happened, he once again stretched himself out upon the ground. But he could not sleep. What was the meaning of Samson's departure? he wondered. Had it anything to do with the Indian they had seen that day across the ravine? The more he thought of it, the more mystified he became. How long he thus lay there with every sense alert, he did not know, though it seemed a long time before the prospector at last returned. Reynolds pretended that he was asleep, but his suspicions were now firmly confirmed when the old man bent over him for a few seconds as if to make sure that he was not awake.

Reynolds did not refer to the incident the next day, and Samson made no mention of it. The latter was in excellent spirits, and talked freely as they moved on their way. That night they halted, and made ready their camp by the side of a small lake. It was a peaceful and beautiful spot. Not a ripple ruffled the surface of the water, and the trees along the shore were mirrored in the clear depths. Reynolds was delighted, and he expressed his admiration to his companion.

"Isn't this great!" he exclaimed. "I have never seen anything to equal it! It is a matchless gem, with a perfect setting."

"Yes, it sartinly is wonderful," the prospector drawled. "An' I'm glad ye like it. Guess thar should be ducks over yonder," and he motioned to the upper end of the lake. "A good fat feller'd be nice fer dinner to-morrow."

Picking up his rifle, he disappeared among the trees, and in another minute his light tread was unheard. Reynolds stood for some time viewing the scene before him. He longed for his paints and brushes that he might catch the impressions ere they faded. Unfortunately he had left them behind, so he had to satisfy himself with feasting his soul instead.

At length he turned and walked back to their camping ground. He had just reached the place when a magnificent moose trotted majestically by but a short distance away. Forgotten was Samson's admonition about the shooting of big game, so seizing his rifle, he slipped quickly and quietly after the big animal. The latter had already passed out of sight, but expecting to catch a glimpse of it at any instant, Reynolds hastened forward. This led him down into a valley, and there he saw the moose in a small open clearing to the left. Before he was near enough to shoot, the animal once more vanished among the trees. The fever of the chase was now upon him, and unheeding his bearings, he pressed rapidly on, expecting every minute to come in sight of the lordly creature. But he was doomed to disappointment, and most reluctantly he was compelled to relinquish the pursuit.

Reynolds had no definite idea how far he had travelled, nor the direction he had taken. So intent had he been upon following the moose, that he had lost all trace of his bearings, and he knew not the way back to the camp. This was a most disquieting situation, and he chided himself for his stupidity. Night was also upon him, and this added to his perplexity.

"What a mess I have made of it!" he growled. "In this labyrinth of valleys, hills, trees, and wild meadows, how in the name of common sense am I to find that speck of camping ground? It must lie over there," and he looked away to his right. "The sun was before me when I started, and by keeping due east I should come somewhere near the place."

For over an hour he plowed his way through the forest, up hill and down, each moment expecting to see the lake for which he was searching. His efforts, however, were all in vain, so wearied almost to the point of exhaustion, and with clothes torn, hands and face bleeding, he was forced to give up for the night.

Sinking upon the ground, he tried to calm the agitated state of his mind. From the first he had realised his serious predicament, and how difficult it would be to extricate himself from that vast wilderness.

"I can't go any farther to-night," he declared, "so I might as well make the best of a bad affair. I have my rifle, and that's some comfort. I needn't starve, anyway, even though I am lost."

He felt for his cartridge belt, and immediately he gave a great start of dismay. It was not there! Then he remembered that he had taken it off when pitching camp that night by the shore of the lake. With trembling hands he next examined the magazine of his rifle, and found that but three cartridges were left, as he had fired two shots in the hope of attracting Frontier Samson's attention. This was a serious situation, and he realised that upon those three remaining cartridges his life depended.

CHAPTER X

ADRIFT IN THE WILDERNESS

Nowhere, perhaps, except adrift in mid-ocean, is the sense of loneliness more appalling than to be lost in a labyrinthine forest of the mighty north. Even upon the ocean there is always the chance of being picked up by a passing vessel. But lost in the wilderness! hidden from view, what hope can the stoutest heart entertain of rescue? Here a man is but a thing of naught, an insect creeping upon the ground, a mere speck, the veritable plaything of chance.

Reynolds, however, was well hardened to desperate situations. Often in
France he had been alone in "No Man's Land," with death close at hand.
He had never flinched then, and he was determined that he would not do
so now.

"I told Harmon that I like adventure and desperate undertakings," he mused. "I have certainly enough here to satisfy me for a while. But it can't be helped, and so I must make the best of it. Rest is what I need at present, and I am not going to worry about to-morrow. 'One thing at a time' has been my motto, and I guess it's a good one."

He awoke early the next morning, though the sun was up ahead of him. He sprang to his feet and peered around. But nothing could he see, except trees on every side.

"I must get out of this," he muttered, "and strike for the high hills. Perhaps there I may be able to get my proper bearings. I must find a breakfast somewhere, but with my scanty supply of ammunition, it is necessary to be careful."

Picking up his rifle, he started forth, and for several hours moved steadily onward. Through a break in the forest he had caught sight of a high hill, and toward this he laboriously made his way. He had to descend first into a deep valley, where a large wild meadow offered an inviting feeding-ground for moose. But not a sign of life could he see, and greatly disappointed he was forced to begin the hard climb up the opposite side of the hill.

About the middle of the afternoon he succeeded in shooting a rabbit, which he at once skinned and broiled over a small fire. He was weak from hunger and hard, anxious travelling, so this food gave him much refreshment. He ate sparingly, nevertheless, knowing that he might not be able to procure anything more for supper. With only two cartridges left, his outlook was far from encouraging.

When the summit of the hill was at length reached, he climbed a large fir tree from which he was enabled to obtain an excellent view of the surrounding country. Far off rose great snow-capped mountain peaks, over which fleecy clouds were lazily drifting. A vast sea of forest stretched on every side, broken here and there by placid, shimmering lakes. But which was the one near the camp where Frontier Samson was no doubt anxiously awaiting the wanderer's return? That was the question which agitated Reynolds' mind. No sign of human life could he behold, and he wondered in which direction Big Draw mining camp lay. So completely had he lost his bearings that he had no idea which was the right course to pursue. Anyway, it was necessary to keep on the move, for to remain where he was meant certain death. If he must die, he would die fighting, game to the very last. Surely beyond some of those outstanding hills he could find a river, which would bear him out of that wilderness maze. A high crest to the left looked promising, and toward this he at once started.

He slept that night in a valley by a little brook which gurgled down to a lake beyond. The remains of the rabbit served him for supper, and where was he to obtain his next meal? He had startled several grouse during the day, and once he detected the plunging of a moose. But nothing came within the range of his rifle except a few noisy squirrels, but upon these he did not dare to waste his two remaining cartridges. In his extremity he would have welcomed the sight of a bear, and even a grizzly at that. He could then afford to exhaust his ammunition, as the flesh of a bear would last him for many days. But no bear had he met, although signs of them were at times abundant, especially in the valleys.

The next morning in a mood of desperation, he took a long shot at a flying grouse and missed it. One cartridge now remained, and it was absolutely necessary to reserve that for something large. Down the valley lay a big wide meadow, and here he believed he might find a moose feeding. It was worth trying, at any rate. Walking warily along the edge of the forest, he was at length rewarded by seeing a fine animal some distance off on the opposite side of the meadow. Reynolds instantly stopped, and his hands trembled through the excitement of his discovery. If he could get a little closer he felt sure that the moose would be his. But just as he took a few steps forward, the animal lifted its great head and sniffed the air. There was not a second to lose, so bringing the rifle to his shoulder, he took a quick aim and fired. With a startled snort, the moose reared, staggered, and then with tremendous leaps bounded across the twenty or thirty yards of intervening meadow and vanished in the forest. Reynolds could hear it crashing its way among the trees as he hurried out into the open. The sounds grew fainter and fainter, and finally ceased. The animal had made good its escape, although evidently wounded.

Reynolds' previous discouragement was nothing to what he experienced now. He moved mechanically toward the spot where the moose had been grazing. Why he did so he could not tell. He reached the border of the forest, and flung himself down upon the grass. With his last cartridge gone, what chance had he of life? He had been in many a dire strait in the past, but nothing to equal this. He was face to face with death, more surely and in a far more terrible form than he had ever encountered in far off France.

"This is certainly 'No Man's Land,'" he muttered. "I do not believe a human being ever trod this region before and it is not likely that anyone will come here during the next one hundred years. And to think that I missed that shot when my life depended upon it! It must be my nerves."

A feeling of annoyance swept upon him, and picking up his rifle, he hurled it among the trees.

"Lie there," he ordered. "You are of no use to me now, and I have no strength to tote you along."

Then he laughed, and the hollow sound of his voice startled him. He sprang to his feet and looked around. Why had he laughed? he asked himself. Was he going out of his mind? He glanced at his hands and shuddered, so bruised and bleeding were they. His clothes, too, were in tatters, while his boots were so worn that portions of his feet were visible.

For a few minutes he stood rigidly still, as if in a dream. The intense loneliness of the place was appalling. It was unnerving him, and he was losing control of himself. Suddenly he started and ran as if for life, back over the track he had recently traversed. He was no longer the Tom Reynolds who had started forth from Big Draw, but a denizen of the wilds. The desire for food possessed him. It made him mad, a demon, ready to fall upon any creature that crossed his path. He was crafty as well, and reaching the shelter of the forest, he glided cautiously along the edge of the meadow, up toward the little brook where he had slept the night before. No tiger creeping through the jungle moved more stealthily than did he. Nothing escaped his notice, and he eagerly watched for rabbit or squirrel that he might pounce upon it.

For some time he thus advanced, but nothing could he see. At length he came to an opening in the trees, which exposed the brook plainly to view. His eyes swept the stream, and as they did so they presently rested upon a black object crouched upon a fallen tree projecting out over the brook. He recognized it at once as a black bear, watching for fish. It was lying flat on the log, with one big paw close to the water waiting for its breakfast.

Reynolds' first impulse was to rush forward and engage the brute in a deadly conflict. But a natural caution restrained him, and he accordingly waited to see what would happen. Neither did he have to wait long, for in a twinkling the big paw struck, the water splashed, and a shiny form hurtled through the air, and fell several yards away. And after it sprang the bear, but his body had scarcely left the log ere Reynolds was bounding toward him with such yells and whoops that the forest resounded on all sides. Startled and surprised beyond measure, the bear paused and looked back. Seeing, but not understanding the strange creature rushing toward him with wildly waving arms, and emitting such blood-curdling yells, it uttered a hoarse growl of fear and rage and lumbered off for the shelter of the forest as fast as its legs would carry it.

Reynolds paid no more attention to the bear than if it had been a gnat, but sprang greedily upon the fish, which was wriggling and beating itself around upon the ground. It was a young king-salmon, and although not large, Reynolds thought it the finest fish he had ever beheld. It did not take him long to despatch his prize, and in a few minutes a portion of it was sizzling over a small fire he had lighted. Never had any food tasted so good, he imagined, and the strength thus gained brought back his normal state of mind. He felt more like himself, and ready for another effort to free himself from his wilderness prison. He even smiled as he thought of the bear's fright and its ignominious retreat.

"Lost your breakfast, old boy, didn't you?" he called out. "You weren't expecting company, were you? But I am grateful to you, and wish you better luck next time."

Taking with him the remainder of the fish, Reynolds once more continued his journey. The high ridge was a long way off, and before it could be reached it would be necessary to cross several smaller hills and a number of valleys. But with strength renewed, he sped onward.

All through the day the heat had been almost over-powering. It poured its hot rays full upon him, and not a breath of wind stirred the trees. He was about half way up the high hill when the weather suddenly changed. The sky darkened, and the wind began to howl through the forest. Great black clouds massed in vast battalions overhead, and in less than half an hour the storm burst.

Reynolds had paused on a rocky ledge as the tempest swept upon him. Never before had he experienced such a storm. It seemed as if the very windows of heaven had suddenly opened to deluge the earth. He looked hurriedly around for shelter, and seeing an overhanging portion of rock, he at once made his way thither, and crouched low for protection. The rain, however, swirled in after him, forcing him to move farther back. That he was able to do this surprised him, and feeling with his hands, he discovered that there was a big open space to the rear, and that he was at the entrance of a cave, how large he did not know. Fortunately he was provided with a good supply of matches, so striking one, he examined his new abode. The brief feeble light showed that the cave was about a foot higher than his head, and much larger than he had supposed. He had no inclination to explore it just then, for some dry sticks lying at his feet arrested his attention. He was hungry after his hard tramp, so a piece of salmon would be most acceptable.

It did not take him long to light a small fire as near the mouth of the cave as the rain would permit, and, prepare his meal. The fire felt good, too, for the air was damp and chilly.

"I might as well spend the night here," he mused, "for even if the storm does let up, I would only get soaked from the drenched trees. And, besides, I cannot see anything from the top of the hill until the clouds roll away and the air clears."

He ate the nicely browned piece of fish, and when he had finished he leaned comfortably back, filled and lighted his pipe. This was the first time he had thought of smoking since leaving Frontier Samson. He wondered where the old prospector was, and whether he was hunting frantically for his lost companion. His mind turned naturally to Glen. He was farther from her now than ever, and should he see her again? The thought of her had stimulated him during his recent terrible experiences. Over and over again she seemed to be standing by his side, urging him to go on, and renewing his fainting spirits. He pictured her now as he had last seen her at the top of that steep trail, mounted upon her horse. He recalled for the thousandth time her clear musical voice, the bright flash of her eyes, and the deep flush which had mantled her cheeks at the mention of Curly's name.

"I must find her," he emphatically declared, as he stirred up the dwindling fire, and added a couple of sticks. "I expected to be with her before this, but here I am, lodged like a bear in this dismal hole."

He glanced around the cave, and as he did so, he gave a sudden start. Something in one side of the wall where the fire-light fell attracted his attention. It made his heart beat fast, and brought him to his feet in an instant. His hand reached up and touched it. Then he quickly struck a match, and examined it more carefully. Yes, he was right, and he had made no mistake. It was gold!

CHAPTER XI

INTO THE GREAT UNKNOWN

For a few seconds Reynolds stared upon his new discovery. Then he examined the walls elsewhere, and no matter where he looked, he found nuggets of gold protruding from the earth. His excitement now became intense, and seizing a burning stick he began to explore the cave. Everywhere it was the same. The earth beneath his feet was even filled with nuggets, and, they gleamed upon him from overhead. He felt that he must be dreaming, or else his terrible experiences of late had turned his brain. Could it be possible that he had accidentally stumbled upon a vein of the precious metal, rich beyond the wildest bounds of imagination! He put his hand to his face, and even pinched himself to make sure that he was awake.

When the brand had flickered out, he walked back to the fire and sat down. He tried to calm himself that he might think over his wonderful discovery. The rain still pelted down outside, and the wind roared among the trees. But Reynolds paid no attention to them now. He saw nothing but gold, heaps of it, piled high before him, and himself the richest man in the whole world. What would not the miners of Big Draw give to know of this discovery! How they would flock to the place, followed by thousands of others. What a change would ensue in a short time. No longer would it be the desolate wilderness, but alive with frantic human beings.

But suppose he should never live to tell the tale? He was lost, far from any habitation, and with only enough food for a most meagre breakfast. No, he must not die. It was necessary for him to live, to make his great discovery known; and to reap the rich harvest himself. And Glen! Again he thought of her. He would be able to go to her a rich man instead of almost a beggar. He smiled as he recalled what he had said to Frontier Samson. The prospector had given him his choice between gold and the girl, and he had chosen the latter. His love had not changed in the least degree, but why should he not have the gold as well as the girl?

Reynolds sat for a long time that night absorbed in deep thought. He slept upon the ground, and his dreams were a jumble of wild animals, gold, and a beautiful girl. He awoke early and noted with satisfaction that the storm had ceased, and the sky was clear. Having eaten the last of the salmon, he left the cave and viewed his surroundings in order to locate his bearings should he ever return to the place. He believed that he was about half way up the highest hill in the immediate vicinity, and that he could not fail to miss seeing it from a distance. He noticed that the hill formed the apex of a triangular formation, while two hills, one to the right and the other to left, served as base corners. He was sure that he could remember such guiding marks, and would be able to return to the cave without any difficulty.

It was with a feeling of reluctance that he at length left the cave and again assayed the climb up the side of the hill, which became steeper and more precipitous the farther he advanced. At times he was forced to pull himself up by means of roots and small trees, so his progress was accordingly slow. The sun was hot, and often he grew faint from heat and fatigue. He watched for any sign of life, of rabbit, bird, or squirrel. But the place seemed deserted, and even the plant life was scant and scrubby. A fierce thirst came upon him, for no water had passed his lips since the previous day.

Thus hour after hour he toiled upward. He did not dare to return to the brook below, for that would mean certain death. It had to be ever on until the summit was reached, and what then? His courage almost failed as he thought of what that barren peak might have in store for him. He had been disappointed so often, surely Fate would not abandon him now after he had made such a fierce fight for life.

When but a hundred yards from his goal, he paused for a minute's respite. He turned his bloodshot eyes to the sky. A great eagle was soaring majestically athwart the blue. It seemed to mock him by its easy flight. It angered him as he followed its every movement. Why should a mere bird have such freedom of motion, while man was so helpless? To the eagle, distance was nothing; it laughed the highest mountain peak to scorn, and its food was wherever its fancy led. He suddenly thought of the gold he had discovered. In the world of civilization what a power it would mean. What could it not do toward providing ease and reputation? And of what use was that treasure to him now? It was of no more value than the stones beneath his feet, and he would gladly have given it all for one good meal and a draught of refreshing water.

The eagle was still soaring overhead, free and buoyant. It was nearer now, wheeling closer and closer to Reynolds as he clung like a snail to the side of the hill. And he was made in the image of God! The thought stung him. Why should such things be? Instantly there flashed into his mind a picture he had often seen. It was the side of a steep cliff, and there a shepherd was rescuing a sheep from its perilous position. The man was clinging with His left hand to a crevice in the rock, while with His right He was reaching far over to lift up the poor animal, which was looking up pathetically into the shepherd's loving face. He knew the meaning of that picture, and it came to him now with a startling intensity. Why did he think of it? he asked himself. Although his life was clean, yet Reynolds was not what might be called a religious man. He was not in the habit of praying, and he seldom went to church. But something about that picture appealed to him as he crouched on that burning hillside. Was there One who would help him out of his present difficulty? He believed there was, for he had been so taught as a little child. He remembered the Master's words, "Ask, and ye shall have." "Here, then, is a chance to test the truthfulness of that saying," a voice whispered.

"I shall not do it," Reynolds emphatically declared. "I have not prayed for so long, that I'm not going to act the hypocrite now, and cry for help when I'm in a tight corner. I daresay He would assist me, but I am ashamed to ask Him. If I should only think of a friend when I am in trouble I should consider myself a mean cur, and unfit to have the friendship of anyone. And that's about how I stand with Him, so I do not consider myself worthy of His help."

Although Reynolds reasoned in this manner, yet that picture of The Good Shepherd inspired him. He could not get it out of his mind as he lay there watching the eagle soaring nearer and nearer.

"I wonder what that bird is after?" he mused. "It is coming this way, and it seems to be getting ready to alight. Perhaps it has a nest somewhere on this hill."

This thought aroused him. An eagle's nest! It was generally built on some high rocky place, and why should there not be one here? And if so, there might be eggs, and eggs would mean food for a starving man.

Eagerly and anxiously he watched the bird now, hoping and longing that it would alight close to where he was crouching. Neither was he disappointed, for in a few minutes the eagle drove straight for the hill, about fifty yards above, and landed upon a rocky ledge. Seizing a stick lying near, with cat-like agility, Reynolds sprang forward, and hurried to the spot where the bird had alighted. From what he had heard and read about eagles he surmised that a struggle lay ahead of him, so he clutched the stick firmly as he advanced.

It took him but a few minutes to reach the place, and as he paused and looked keenly around for the nest, an infuriated mass of great wings and feathers hurled itself upon him. Taken by surprise, Reynolds staggered back, and lifted his stick to ward off the attack. How he saved himself from being torn to pieces by the talons and beak of that angry bird he never could tell. It was a mystery to him that he was able to defend himself at all. But do it he did, and used his stick in such a skilful manner that he kept the creature from tearing at his face. Fortunately he had a good footing, which enabled him to retreat at each desperate onslaught, and to meet the bird with a furious blow as it wheeled and circled close above his head. But he realised that he could not endure the strain much longer, for he was weak through lack of food and hard climbing. The energy of the eagle, on the other hand, seemed just as keen as ever, and it might continue the fight for hours. Reynolds grew desperate as he thought of this, and he was determined that he should not leave his body there as food for his opponent.

He watched as the bird again circled and once more swept to the attack. But he was ready, and as it swooped close enough he threw his entire remaining strength into one great swinging blow. The stick struck the eagle fair on the head with a resounding crash, and so great was the force of the impact that the cudgel snapped like a pipestem, and the broken end hurtled over the ledge. The eagle's fight was done. It swerved from its course, and frantically tried to recover itself. But all in vain. Far out over the hillside it swung, and then a helpless and inert mass, it dropped down, and crashed into the tops of the firs and jack-pines, which lifted their heads like pointed spears to receive the victim.

Reynolds watched until the bird had disappeared. Then he breathed a deep sigh of relief, and examined his wounds. His hands were bleeding, and such clothes as he had were literally torn into shreds. He was so weak that he could hardly stand, and he sank down upon the ground.

"How long will this keep up?" he panted. "What else lies before me? I am a poor specimen of a human being now, and unfitted for another encounter of any kind. This was my own fault, though. That poor devil I just sent to its doom was merely acting in self-defence. But the survival of the fittest is the law of the wilderness just as in the ways of so-called civilization. That bird had what I needed; and that settles it."

This turned his mind upon the nest, which he suspected was somewhere near. In another minute he had found it, a mass of sticks, in the midst of which was a hollow lined with wild grass, and lying there were three white eggs. Eagerly he seized one, and held it in his hand. Was it fresh? he wondered, or was it ready to be hatched?

Drawing forth his pocket-knife, he perforated each end of the egg, and smelled the contents. It was fresh, having been recently laid. In another instant it was at his parched lips, and never did he remember having tasted anything half as refreshing. Then he looked longingly at the other two.

"No, I must not eat them now," he told himself. "I shall need them for supper and breakfast. The Lord only knows when I shall get anything more."

The mention of the Lord brought back to him the picture of The Good Shepherd rescuing the lost sheep. "Strange, very strange," he mused, as he picked up the eggs and continued his climb. "Can it be possible that the Lord had anything to do with that eagle coming here just when I was about all in, and ready to drop from hunger and thirst? I am not ashamed, anyway, to confess my gratitude, even though I disliked the idea of praying."

A few minutes later he stood on the top of the hill, a bleak, desolate spot, rocky, and devoid of the least sign of vegetation. But this mattered nothing to him now, for his eyes rested almost immediately upon a silver gleam away to the left. It was water, and a river at that! An exclamation of joy leaped from his lips, as from that lonely peak he viewed the river of his salvation. Where it led, he did not know, but surely along that stream he would find human beings, able and willing to succor him.

Forgotten now was his weariness, and a new hope possessed his soul. He could not expect to reach the river that afternoon, for several valleys and small hills intervened. But he could go part of the way and on the morrow complete the journey. Carefully guarding his two precious eggs, he hurried down the opposite side of the hill as fast as it was possible, and night found him by the side of a small wood-enshrouded lake. Here he stopped, drank of the cool refreshing water, and built a small fire. Finding a smooth stone, he washed it clean, and heating it thoroughly, he was enabled to fry one of the eggs upon the surface. In the morning the other was treated in a similar manner, and thus strengthened, but his hunger not appeased, he sped onward.

This last lap of his journey to the river was a trying one. Reynolds made it more difficult by his feverish impatience, and when about the middle of the afternoon he heard the ripple of water, and caught the first gleam through the trees of its sparkling surface, he was completely exhausted, and had only sufficient strength to drag his weary form to the river's bank. A refreshing drink of the ice-cold water and a rest of a few minutes revived him. The stream was swift, far swifter than he had anticipated. But this encouraged him, for if once launched upon its surface it would bear him speedily out of that desolate wilderness.

A craft of some kind was necessary, so searching around, he found several good-sized trees, stripped and bare, which had been brought down stream by the spring floods, and left stranded upon the bank. With considerable difficulty he managed to fashion these into a rude raft, binding all together with strong, pliable willow withes. As a boy he had often made rafts, and the knowledge acquired then served him in good stead now.

Finding a stout pole, he stepped upon the raft, and to his delight found that it would easily bear his weight. Pushing it from the shore, it was soon caught by the strong current and borne rapidly down stream. The steering was an easy matter, so, sitting upon the raft, he gave himself up to the luxury of this new mode of travel. It was such a great relief from his fearful wandering through the woods and climbing the hills, that but for his pangs of hunger he would have been quite happy.

All through, the night the raft swung on its way, the plaything of the current which kept it clear of bars and rocks. Reynolds did not dare to sleep, for he could not tell what lay ahead. It might be a dangerous rapid, or at any minute he might come to some camp along the shore, and it would be necessary to be wide awake and alert.

But nothing happened, and morning found him still floating onward into the great unknown. He was ravenously hungry, and once he ran the raft ashore and gathered a number of willow twigs. These he gnawed as he once more continued his voyage. This, however, was poor food for a starving man, and he was well aware that unless he could obtain something more substantial he must miserably perish. Game was plentiful along the river, and several times he saw moose and bears, while early that morning he ran close to a flock of wild ducks. But their presence only mocked him now, weaponless as he was.

This day was a most trying one, for about the middle of the forenoon it began to rain, and Reynolds was wet to the skin as he sat huddled upon the raft. Anxiously he peered forward, hoping that around every bend something more cheering than the monotonous trees would meet his eyes. But hour after hour it was just the same, and the rain continued without any cessation. Would the river never end? he asked himself over and over again. Whither was it bearing him, anyway? At times the sinuous water appeared like a demon, carrying him on to destruction. Its gurgle and ripple sounded in his ears like mocking laughter, and the great brooding forest in its intense silence seemed in league with the stream. Of what avail were all his mighty efforts? He had escaped from the tangle of the forest, only to be lured to ruin by the river.

The afternoon waned, and night drew near, and still the raft swept onward. Reynolds felt that he could endure the strain but little longer. He was chilled to the bone, and cramped from his huddled position. He must land, and get some circulation in his body, providing he had any strength left.

He was about to run the raft ashore, when to his great delight it suddenly shot forth from its forest prison into the open expanse of a broad and silent lake. Reynolds staggered painfully to his feet and looked around. He could only see a short distance, as a heavy mist lay over the water. His eyes scanned the shore, but no sign of human habitation could he behold. There was nothing except the same scene of desolation which had been his companion for weary days.

The raft was motionless now, some distance out upon the lake. Slowly
Reynolds forced it to the shore, and secured it in a little cove.

"I might as well stay here for the night," he muttered. "It may be clear to-morrow which will enable me to see farther. Oh, for something to eat!"

With much difficulty he started a fire, for the wood was wet, and then warmed himself before the cheerful blaze. It was not raining so hard now, for which he was thankful. He tried to dry his rags of clothes by hanging them on sticks near the fire. His boots were off his feet, with the uppers alone clinging to his ankles. Removing these, he examined them. Then an idea flashed into his mind. He had heard of men eating their boots in their extremity, and why should not he! It was worth the try, at any rate.

It took him but a second to whip out his knife and cut a piece from the top of one of the boots. This he washed clean in the lake, and tasted it. Only one on the extreme verge of starvation can in any manner comprehend what even a portion of a boot means. There is some nourishment there, as Reynolds soon found. Almost ravenously he chewed that piece of leather, extracting from it whatever life-giving substance it contained. When it had been converted to mere pulp, he helped himself to another piece. He was in a most desperate situation, but if he could sustain his strength for another night and day he believed that his life would be spared. Surely along that lake he would find human beings, whether Indians or whites he did not care, who would give him food.

He awoke early the next morning, and having partaken his breakfast of another piece of boot, he pushed off his raft. There was only one way for him to go, and that was with the breeze which was drawing down the lake. The mist was now lifting, and although he strained his eyes, he could see no sign of life. He had to pole the raft now, and in order to do so he was forced to keep close to the shore where the water was shallow.

Thus all through the morning and far on into the afternoon he urged the raft forward with all the strength at his command. There were so many curves to the shore that following these lengthened the voyage. From point to point he moved, each time to be disappointed as he looked ahead and saw nothing but trees and water.

The sun was hot, and the perspiration poured down his face. But with the energy of despair he drove his pole again and again into the water. As the afternoon waned, and night drew near, the limit of his endurance was reached, and he knew that he could do no more. He had struggled for life, but to no purpose. Rest was all that he cared for now. His head began to swim, and he sank exhausted upon the raft. And there he lay, face downward, while the raft drifted at its own sweet will. Presently a breeze sprang up and cooled the air. But it did not affect Reynolds in the least. He had fought to the last grain of strength, and when that left him he was beyond all sense of time, place, and feeling.

CHAPTER XII

THE GIRL OF GLEN WEST

When Glen Weston reached the top of the hill that afternoon of her encounter with the grizzly, she reined in Midnight and swung him sharply around. She was confident that she could not be seen from the valley below, as a large projecting rock hid her from view. She was in no hurry to leave the place, and several times she was tempted to dismount, peer around the rock to see if her rescuer were still at the bottom of the trail. She refrained from doing so, however, lest he might see her, and thus be induced to follow her.

Glen was not a girl to be easily affected, but she had to acknowledge to herself that the gallant stranger interested her in an unusual manner. He was not like the men she was in the habit of meeting. He was different and so courteous. And he was good looking, too, she mused. He had also been at the Front! That appealed to her, and aroused her curiosity. What had he done over there? she wondered. Had he performed special deeds of daring, and carried off any medals?

For some time she remained there facing the west. The sun was riding over the distant mountain peaks, and the whole landscape was bathed in resplendent glory. Midnight was standing close to the rocky ledge, with ears pointed forward and his large eyes turned to the left. His body was still quivering, and every nerve was keenly alert. Occasionally his right fore-hoof struck the rock, indicating his impatience to be away. The slightest sound startled him, for he could not easily forget his encounter with the bear.

"Steady, laddie," Glen soothed, when he became more restless than usual. "I know you are anxious to be off, but I like this place. I wonder where we would be now but for that wonderful shot. Most likely we would be lying down there in the ravine instead of the grizzly."

For about fifteen minutes longer she remained in this position, silently looking out toward the great mountains beyond. Had Reynolds but seen her then, how the artist soul within him would have rejoiced. With a remarkable grace and ease she sat there, as one well accustomed to the saddle. Her left hand held the reins, and her right the riding-whip. Her soft felt hat, caught up at one side, partly shaded her face. A deep flush mantled her cheeks, due not to the reflection of the sun alone, but to buoyant health, and the excitement through which she had just passed.

Almost wistfully she at length wheeled her horse and headed him away from the summit. Midnight needed no urging, and the light of satisfaction gleamed in his eyes as he sped swiftly and nimbly along the narrow trail. No guiding hand directed him, and the reins lay loose upon his glossy neck, for his mistress' mind was elsewhere. At times he was compelled to slow down to a walk where the rocks were thick, or the trail steep and dangerous. But whenever possible, such as on the wild meadows, he laid back his ears and sped like the wind. This always aroused Glen and brought her back to earth. She enjoyed such races, and when they were over, she would pat Midnight on the neck and utter affectionate words of praise. Horse and rider understood each other, which feeling had been developed through years of companionship on many a hard trail.

For over an hour they thus moved steadily onward, and at length there loomed before them the high frowning ridge of the Golden Crest. At first it seemed to form an impassable barrier to their advance. But as they continued, an opening suddenly appeared, flanked on either side by huge projecting rocks. It was Nature's great doorway in one of the mighty partitions of the house not made with hands. Through this Midnight speedily loped and ere long swept out upon a wild meadow which extended to the left farther than the eye could see, and over a mile in width. Horses were feeding here, and at once Midnight lifted up his voice in a friendly neigh of salutation, which was immediately answered by several horses in the distance. In fact, he was on the point of slowing down and swerving from the trail, but a light flick of the whip reminded him that his mistress had other business on hand which had to be attended to first, so again throwing back his ears, he dashed onward.

The wild meadow crossed, they reached a wooded region where the trail ascended and wound up a steep hill. Midnight took this with a bound, and in a few minutes he was at the top, panting heavily from his vigorous exercise. Here Glen reined him in, and sat silently looking straight before her. And truly it was a magnificent scene which was thus so suddenly presented to her view. Below stretched a dense forest, lying sombre beneath the shades of evening. Away in the distance rose the mighty mountains, sentinel-like and austere, while between, flashing like a jewel in its dark stern setting, was a large body of water. Not a ripple ruffled its surface, and nothing could Glen discern there, although her eyes scanned it most intently.

A word to Midnight, and down the incline they moved, and in a short time emerged from the forest, when a large open clearing burst into view. To a stranger the sight would have been startling, for a short distance away was a neat village, close to the water's edge. But to Glen it was not at all out of the ordinary. She had been accustomed to it from childhood, and to her it was home.

The village consisted of well built log houses, at the doors of which children were playing, and dogs lying around. The former smiled as the girl rode by. She did not stop as was her wont, to talk to them, but at once made her way to a building larger than the others. This was a store, in front of which a number of Indians were gathered.

As Glen rode up and stopped, a tall, powerfully built native came forth and laid his hand upon the horse's bridle. It was the same Indian Reynolds had seen that night at the dance in Whitehorse. He was evidently accustomed to waiting upon Glen, and needed no instructions. But on this occasion the girl did not dismount. She merely leaned over and whispered a few words to her attendant, who simply nodded, and let his hand drop from the bridle. Then as Glen continued on her way, he walked by her side through the street, up along the water-front.

In a few minutes they passed from the village and entered a grove of trees which extended down to the shore of the lake. In the midst of this was a clearing, and situated here was a log building of generous proportions, well made, and altogether different from the rest in the settlement. It was a two-story building, facing the water, with large windows, and a spacious verandah sweeping around the front and both sides. Wherever it was possible, paint had been liberally applied, and the white on the sashes, the green on the corner-boards, and the red on the roof gave it a striking appearance. It might well have been the home of some millionaire, who had thus sought seclusion in the wilderness, adding to his domicile a few touches of the world of civilization.

The grounds were well kept, showing that much attention had been bestowed upon them. Flowers bloomed in profusion, and off to the left a vegetable garden showed what the north could produce. A gravelly walk led to the water, and here at a small wharf floated a motor-boat, graceful in appearance, and capable of carrying passengers and freight. Several Indian men were standing on the wharf, while others, including women and children, were paddling in canoes but a short distance away. It was a scene of peace and seclusion, a regular fairy-land nestling there in the wilds. Even the storms of winter could not affect the place, for besides the sheltering trees which surrounded it on all sides, the frowning ridge of the Golden Crest formed a mighty barrier to the rear.

But Glen noticed none of these things, for something else occupied her mind this evening. She had remained silent since leaving the store, but now that the house was in sight, she halted Midnight at the edge of the woods and looked at her Indian companion.

"Is daddy home yet?" she asked, speaking in the rhythmical native language with which she was so familiar.

"Not home," was the brief reply.

"He said that he might come to-day, didn't he?"

The Indian, merely nodded.

"He has been gone for nearly a week now," Glen continued, "and I wonder what can be keeping him. Do you think he will come to-night?"

"Sconda doesn't know. Big white chief alone knows."

Glen laughed and stroked Midnight's neck with an impatient hand.

"I guess you are right, Sconda. Daddy alone knows what he is going to do, for he never tells me, at any rate. But as he is not here I must take matters into my own hands. You know Deep Gulch beyond the Golden Crest?" and she motioned to the left.

Again the Indian nodded.

"Well, then, there is a dead bear in the Gulch, Sconda, and I want you to take men and bring it in, see?"

A new light now shone in the native's eyes, and he looked enquiringly into the girl's face.

"Bear?" he asked. "In Deep Gulch?"

"Yes, and a grizzly at that; a monster. Oh, it was terrible!" and Glen shivered as the recollection of the brute's fierce charge swept upon her.

"Bear dead, eh?" Sconda queried.

"Yes, dead, and lying in the ravine, half covered with earth and rocks. Go down Crooked Trail to the bottom, then up the gulch, and you will find it."

"Who shoot grizzly?" the Indian asked.

"A white man. And, oh, Sconda, you should have seen what a shot he made! It was wonderful! I am sure you never did anything like it."

"Greater than Sconda made at Saku, when he shot grizzly, and saved
Injun, eh?"

"Greater? Listen, Sconda. That white man shot the grizzly from the other side of Deep Gulch. He was way up on the hill, and he hit the bear in the heart."

The Indian's eyes showed his astonishment as he studied the girl's face as if to make sure that she was telling the truth.

"It is true, Sconda. I was there and saw him do it."

"What was bear doing?"

"Coming at me for all it was worth, and Midnight was almost frantic with fright. If it hadn't been for that white man we would be down there now where that grizzly is lying."

"And you want Sconda to fetch bear to camp, eh?"

"I do. Take as many men as you need and go in the morning. Tell the women to be ready to prepare the meat. And, Sconda, I want you to look after the dressing of the skin. Get Klota to do it. Tell her it is for me, and she will understand. That is all, I guess."

Glen dismounted, and handed the reins to the Indian.

"Midnight is hungry, Sconda. Look after him yourself, and see that he gets a good bite of grass. And, Sconda," she added, as if an afterthought, "you will be sure to go with the men in the morning?"

"Ah, ah, Sconda will go."

"That's good. And I want you to do something for me. Keep a sharp watch to see if that white man comes again to Deep Gulch. You will, won't you?"

"Sconda will watch."

"But don't let him think you are watching, remember. You stay behind when the others have brought the bear home. But don't let the white man see you."

Into Sconda's eyes flashed an expression of understanding. He knew now what the girl meant. What would he not do for her? the white girl he had known since she was but a child, and whose word to him was law, not of force but of affection.

"Now, don't forget, Sconda," Glen warned. "Stay there, if necessary, until night, and watch him carefully from the top of Crooked Trail. And don't tell anybody, not even Klota. Her eyes and ears are sharp, and she might suspect something. This is the greatest secret I have ever had. You have never failed me yet, Sconda, and I know that I can trust you now."

CHAPTER XIII

WHEN THE STORM BURST

Glen West Lodge, the name of this fine building on the shore of that inland lake, was a comfortable and cozy abode. The rooms were not large, but their furnishings and decorations showed the artistic taste of the owner. The pictures adorning the walls had evidently been chosen with careful discrimination, most of them representing nature scenes, with a few well known paintings of the world of civilization. Each room contained a fire-place, and over the mantel of the livingroom, which opened off the hallway, was Watt's symbolical figure of "Hope." Glen had often seen her father standing before this, studying it most intently. Once he had told her its meaning. "You see that woman sitting on the top of the world," he had said. "The strings of her harp are all broken but one, and upon that she is making the best music she can. It teaches us, Glen, never to despair, but with the one string of limited power to do our best."

In one corner of this room was a piano, and the piece of modern music above the key-board showed that someone had been recently playing. A lamp of neat design hung from the wainscoted ceiling, while another with a soft shade stood upon a centre-table. The chairs in the room were comfortable, the largest being placed near the big southern window, close to which was a case well filled with books. The floor was covered with a rich carpet, of a quiet pattern, while before the fire-place was stretched a great bearskin rug. It was a room to delight the heart, especially on a night when a storm was raging over the land.

It was through this that Glen passed after entering the house. She went at once into the dining-room, adjoining, where she found the table all set for supper, and a white-haired woman standing before the side-board, arranging knives and forks in a drawer. She turned as Glen entered, and a bright smile of welcome illumined her face.

"You are late, dear," she reminded. "Supper has been ready for some time."

"I am sorry, Nannie," the girl apologized. "But I went farther to-day than I intended. There is no word from daddy, I suppose?"

"None at all, dearie. But, hurry and change your clothes, as your father may arrive at any minute. He will be angry if he knows that you have been far beyond the Golden Crest, for he has warned you to be careful. It is not safe for a girl to be riding alone since the miners have come into this region."

Glen smiled gaily at the woman's fears, and hastened away to her own room. In about a quarter of an hour she returned, but in that brief space of time a marvellous transformation had taken place. In a soft white dress, open at the throat, her beauty was enhanced ten-fold. Her luxuriant wavy hair had been hurriedly brushed back, and her cheeks bore the deep flush of health and youth. The woman at the head of the table looked at her with undisguised admiration as she passed her a piece of nicely browned fried salmon which an Indian servant girl had brought in from the kitchen.

"It is too bad that your father isn't here to see you, Glen," she remarked. "I never saw you look prettier. If we were outside, I might suspect that the color in your cheeks is not due to health and exercise alone."

"I am afraid you are flattering me, Nannie," Glen laughingly replied.
"You will make me vain, if you are not careful."

"I am not in the habit of flattering without good reason, as you well know, dear. But I have been thinking lately what a great pity it is that you should be wasting your young life in a place like this."

"Losing my sweetness on the desert air; is that it, Nannie? But what about you?"

"Oh, I do not signify," and again the sad expression came into the woman's eyes. "I might as well be here as anywhere else. But with you it is different. You need companions of your own age, and a more agreeable life than this place can provide."

"I certainly do," was the emphatic assent. "I never realised it until my return from the Seminary. What is the use of all my education if I am to spend the rest of my days here, with not a girl friend, and not a——"

Glen floundered and paused, while her cheeks flushed a deep crimson.

"I understand, dear, so do not try to explain. It is only natural that you should wish to be admired. I was the same when I was your age. But you cannot expect to find admirers up here, that is, the right kind, and especially the one above all others."

Glen looked keenly into her companion's eyes, as if to divine her meaning. But she saw nothing there which might lead her to suspect that the secret of her heart was known.

"Do you think that daddy will ever consent to leave this place?" she asked. "I have not spoken to him about it, for I was quite satisfied with this life until recently."

"I have mentioned it to him," was the reply. "Ever since you were a child I have been urging him to leave the north, for your sake, if for nothing else. He always said that he expected to do so some day, but here we are the same as ever, and I see no signs of his going."

"I wonder what in the world daddy ever came here for, anyway?"

"Why, for trading purposes, of course. He has done wonderfully well, and understands the Indians better than any white man in this country. You know they will do anything for him, because he is so fair and just in all his dealings."

"Yes, I know that, Nannie. But daddy never goes outside, and he will not allow white men to come here. You know as well as I do that he turns the Indians upon every white stranger who comes across the Golden Crest or by water. Daddy never mentioned it to me, but both Sconda and Klota have told me how the miners fear this place, and think that daddy is a terrible monster. When I asked them what became of the white men who ventured here, they wouldn't tell me, but looked at each other in a queer way. There is something mysterious about it all, and it has puzzled me ever since I was able to understand anything."

"There, dearie, never mind worrying your brain about it now," her companion soothed. "You are too young to have wrinkles in your smooth skin. Play that nice piece you were singing before you left to-day. I never heard it before, and it did me so much good. The piano has been idle all winter, so it must make up for lost time now."

Glen told Nannie nothing about her experiences that afternoon. She was afraid that this woman, gifted with more than ordinary insight, might read her heart. It made her feel somewhat guilty, nevertheless, for Nannie was the only mother she had ever known, and she lay awake a long time that night thinking it all over, and wondering whether she should tell her secret to the one woman in the world in whom she should confide. She had studied herself more carefully than usual in her large mirror before retiring, and what she beheld there was far from displeasing. She knew that she was beautiful, and her heart told her that her brave rescuer had looked upon her with admiration. Should she ever see him again? she asked herself, or had he already forgotten her?

Glen awoke early the next morning, and after breakfast she went down to the store. Here she learned that Sconda and a dozen men had gone to Deep Gulch after the grizzly. Formerly, women would have done most of the heavy work, but the ruler of Glen West had changed all that. The men did not take kindly to this at first, but Jim Weston had been firm.

"If you do not like this order of things, you can go elsewhere," he told them. "Women are not going to do men's work here. You bring the game into camp, and then let your wives attend to it."

Thus the custom of the men bringing in the bear or moose became established, and no one left, for the objectors knew that they were far better off at Glen West than they had ever been in their lives, and that it was to their advantage to obey their Big White Chief, as they called Weston.

Glen waited impatiently for the men's return, and the hours dragged slowly by until their arrival about the middle of the afternoon. They had skinned the bear, and cutting up the carcass, they had strapped the pieces upon their horses. They rode gaily into camp, and most of the inhabitants of the place were gathered around the store to acclaim their arrival. All had heard of the wonderful shot across Deep Gulch, and they were naturally curious to see the monster which had dared to face the Big Chief's daughter. There was the certainty, too, of fresh meat, which added much to the interest.

Sconda, however was not with the returned men, and Glen was greatly disappointed. Her rescuer, then, had not come back to the gulch, so he evidently had no more thought for her. She had imagined that he would be anxious to obtain the grizzly's fine skin as a souvenir of his meeting with her. At first she was tempted to ride forth toward Crooked Trail and await Sconda's return, but changing her mind, she launched her light canoe, and was soon skimming out over the water of the big lake. She generally took an Indian girl, or Sconda with her. But now she wished to be alone, that she might think as she drifted or paddled.

For over an hour she remained on the water, and when she returned, Sconda was waiting for her on the shore. Her face brightened as she saw him, and she at once questioned him about her rescuer.

"Did you see him?" she asked.

"Ah, ah. Sconda see white man."

"And did he see you?"

"Ah, ah."

"Oh! Did he stay long at Deep Gulch?"

A shake of the head was the native's only response.

"Did he seem surprised when he found that the grizzly was gone?" Glen asked. "Did he look up Crooked Trail as if expecting to see someone there?"

"White man act queer," the Indian explained. "He stay on big hill watching trail. He saw Sconda once."

"What did he do?"

"Nothing," and the Indian's eyes twinkled. "Sconda leave quick."

"And you didn't see him again?"

"Sconda come to Glen West. White man go to Big Draw, maybe."

Although Glen was not altogether satisfied at what Sconda told her, yet it was some comfort to know that her rescuer had returned to Deep Gulch, and stayed there for a while watching the trail as if expecting to see someone. And was that someone herself? she wondered. She had the feeling that it was, and the thought pleased her.

Glen now found the life at Glen West more irksome than ever. She missed her companions of the Seminary and the excitement of the city. She did not even have her father, for several days had now passed since his expected return. She had no idea what was keeping him, and she naturally became very anxious. Several times she discussed his delay with Nannie.

"Did you ever know daddy to stay away as long as this?" she asked one evening as they sat at supper.

"I have known him to be away much longer," was the reply. "Once he was gone for a whole month. He is prospecting for gold, you know, and goes far off at times."

"But he has never discovered anything, has he?"

"Nothing of great value as yet, although he is always expecting to do so some day. You need not worry about him, dearie, for he is well able to take care of himself, and I understand that an Indian always keeps in touch with him. He has a comfortable cabin out in the hills where he sleeps at night."

"Well, I wish to goodness he would come home," and Glen gave a deep sigh. "He might think of me, and how much I need him. If he doesn't come soon, I shall pack up and go outside again. I believe a trip to Whitehorse would do me good, for I am tired of staying here with nothing to do."

"Your father would not like it," her companion reminded. "He would be very angry if he came home and found that you had left Glen West. Why not take a spin on the lake this evening? You once were very fond of the boat."

"I suppose I might as well go," and again Glen sighed as she rose from the table and looked out of the window. "Sconda is on the wharf now, and that will save my going after him. Won't you come, too, Nannie? A spin will do you good."

"Not this evening," was the reply. "Your father may come at any minute, and it would not do for both of us to be away from the house."

Sconda's eyes brightened as Glen came down to the wharf and asked him to take her out upon the water. The Frontiersman, the name of the motor-boat, was the pride of Sconda's heart. When he had been appointed captain of the craft, his highest ambition was reached. This, together with the fact that he was the special guardian of the Big Chief's daughter, gave him a high standing in the camp. No one knew the waters of the north better than did he, and Jim Weston's mind was always easy when Glen was with him.

In a few minutes The Frontiersman was cutting through the water out into the open. Sconda was at the wheel, with Glen by his side, while Taku, an Indian with special mechanical gifts, looked after the engine.

"Which way?" Sconda at length asked, after they had run out of the sheltered creek into the main body of water.

"Up-stream," Glen replied. "Daddy came down the Tasan once on a raft, and he had a hard time getting home. He may be coming that way now, so we may be able to pick him up."

Sconda at once gave the wheel a sharp turn to the left, and the boat swinging obediently to its master's will, rushed rapidly forward. A stiff breeze was now blowing dead ahead, and this Glen thoroughly enjoyed. It suited her nature, especially this evening, and she longed for a tempest to sweep upon them. Adventure and excitement she dearly enjoyed, and she had often bewailed the fact that she was a woman and not a man.

"Women are supposed to be demure quiet creatures," she had more than once declared. "They are not supposed to run any risks, but must stay safely in the house. That may satisfy some, but it does not suit me."

Her father and Nannie had always smiled at these outbursts of impatience, thinking that as she grew older her mind would change, and she would see things in a different light. But Glen did not change, and the longing for adventure was as strong in her heart now as ever. The sweep of the wind this evening not only tossed her hair but thrilled her very being, and for the first time since her return home she felt how good it was to live in such a place.

For about half an hour they sped onward, with the wind steadily increasing.

"Big blow soon," Sconda casually remarked, as he glanced at the heavy clouds massing over the mountains. Then he gave a start, and peered keenly forward. His eyes had caught sight of something unusual.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing to the left.

Glen's eyes followed his outstretched arm, and presently she was enabled to detect a dark object upon the water.

"It's only a stick, isn't it, Sconda?"

"No; it's a raft," was the reply. "There's something on it."

"Oh; maybe it's daddy!" Glen exclaimed, now thoroughly aroused. "Make the boat go faster. He will be swamped by these waves!"

The boat, however, was running at full speed, and in short time they were able to view the object more clearly. It was certainly a raft, and the form upon it looked like a human being. Glen almost stopped breathing as they drew nearer. Could it be her father? she asked herself. Who else would be out there on the lake?

As the boat slowed down and ran close to the raft, Sconda called aloud to the figure huddled upon the logs. But there was no reply. The wind was tossing the rags which once were clothes, and the waves were speedily breaking the rude craft asunder. There was no time to lose, so in another minute Sconda had the boat close alongside, and with the aid of Taku the helpless man was lifted from his perilous position.

When Glen saw that the rescued man was not her father, she breathed more freely. But the first glimpse of his face, bearded though it was, reminded her of someone she had seen before. Then the light of recognition leaped into her eyes, and with a cry of surprise she dropped upon her knees by the side of the prostrate man as he lay upon the deck.

Almost instantly the impending storm burst with terrible fury over that inland body of water. The raft went to pieces like matchwood, and Sconda had all that he could do to manage the boat. With the assistance of Taku, the unconscious man was carried inside, and as Glen watched by his side, unable to do anything for his relief, the tempest raged without. It was one of those terrific storms which at times sweep down so suddenly from deep mountain draws, and lash the lake in wildest fury. The Frontiersman reeled and plunged as she struggled through the hurricane, and the waves dashed continuously over the deck, threatening to smash the glass in the cabin where Glen was keeping watch. That large lake, so peaceful at morn, was now a raging monster. Many an unwary voyager had been caught in such a storm, and in bygone days the natives always used their stoutest charms in their efforts to propitiate the demon of the mountains.

Sconda's hands firmly grasped the wheel, and his alert eyes studied every wave as he guided the boat on her plunging course. He realised how much was at stake, for was not his master's daughter on board, and he responsible for her safety? Could he have run straight before the gale, it would not have been so difficult. But the creek was over there to the right, hence it was necessary to run in a diagonal manner which caused the boat to ship a great deal of water. But keep this steadfast course he did, and after a desperate struggle, The Frontiersman poked her nose into the opening of the creek, and was soon gliding calmly over the smooth water within.

CHAPTER XIV

ANOTHER PRISONER

It was morning when Reynolds opened his eyes and looked around. He believed that he had been dreaming, and a horrible dream it was. In a few minutes his senses returned, and he vividly recalled the terrible experiences through which he had recently passed. But where was he? What had happened to him? Why was he not yet upon the raft, drifting with the wind and tide? He glanced about the room and saw that it was a cozy place, with the sunlight streaming in through an open window on the right. He attempted to rise, but fell back wearily upon the bed. Then he called, and the sound of his own voice startled him, so strangely hollow and unreal did it seem.

A light footstep near the door caused him to look in that direction. An Indian woman was coming toward him, a big motherly-looking person, with a smile upon her face.

"Where am I?" Reynolds asked. "And how did I get here?"

The woman made no reply, but still smiling with apparent satisfaction, she turned and left the room. She was back again in a few minutes, this time carrying in her hand a bowl of steaming broth.

"Eat," she ordered, offering him a spoon. "No talk."

But Reynolds did not take the spoon. He was too famished for that. Seizing the bowl with hands that trembled from weakness and excitement, he drained it to the last drop.

"More, more," he cried. "I'm starving."

Again the woman smiled as she took the bowl.

"No more now," she told him. "Sleep."

"But where am I?" Reynolds demanded. "I must know."

"Bimeby. Sleep now," was all the satisfaction he obtained, as the woman left the room and closed the door.

For several minutes Reynolds lay there uncertain, what to do. But the bed was comfortable, and he was so tired. It was good to rest, and not worry about anything. He was in friendly hands, and that was sufficient for the present.

When he again awoke, he felt much refreshed, and longed to get up. He attempted to do so, but in an instant the same Indian woman was by his side.

"No get up," she ordered, handing him another bowl of broth she had brought with her.

Reynolds drank this more leisurely, the woman watching him closely all the time.

"Thank you," he said, when he had finished. "I feel better now. But please tell me where I am, and how I came——"

The words died upon his lips, for in the doorway Glen had suddenly appeared. She looked at him, and with a bright smile upon her face, came to his side. So surprised was Reynolds that he was unable to utter a word. He merely stared, so great was his astonishment.

"I hope I have not startled you," the girl began. "You look frightened."

"But where have you come from?" Reynolds asked, not yet sure that he was in his right mind.

"From the other room, of course," and again Glen smiled. "You need not look at me that way for I am no ghost. I do not feel like one, anyway."

Reynolds gave a sigh of relief, and a thrill of joy swept over him. It was almost too good to be true. He had found the girl at last!

"Are you feeling better now?" Glen asked.

Reynolds put his hand to his face, and glanced at the rags upon his body.

"I am not sure," he doubtfully replied. "But perhaps I shall when this beard is removed and I get some decent clothes. I must be a fearful looking object."

"I have seen you look better. But, then, you need not worry, Klota will attend to you presently."

"And you know who I am?" Reynolds eagerly asked.

"Certainly. You are my brave rescuer. You saved me from the grizzly on Crooked Trail, didn't you?"

"I know I did, but I am surprised that you recognize me in my present condition."

"Oh, I knew you as soon as you were taken off the raft."

"You did! And so it was you who saved me?"

"I had something to do with it, though not all. But won't you tell me what happened to you? Why were you adrift on the lake?"

"I can not tell you now," Reynolds replied. "I want to forget the terrible experiences through which I have just passed. I hope you do not mind."

"No, certainly not. I am only curious, that's all. When you get well you can tell me everything. I shall leave you now, for you must be tired."

"Don't go yet," Reynolds pleaded. "It is so nice to have you here, and talking does not tire me. Do you mind telling me where I am?"

"Why, at Glen West, of course. Where did you think you are?"

"Glen West," Reynolds repeated. "I cannot recall that name. Is it far from Big Draw?"

"Too far for anyone but you," and the girl smiled. "You are beyond the
Golden Crest, remember, and you have heard what that means."

"I am! Why, I thought one could only get here by crossing the range."

"But you came by water; that is the only other way. And it is lucky for you that you did," she added after a slight pause.

"You mean that my life would be in danger had I come over Golden Crest?"

"Most likely."

"And am I safe now?"

The sunny expression vanished from Glen's eyes, and her face became serious. She gazed out of the window, as if watching several Indian children at play. To Reynolds she had never seemed more beautiful, and he could hardly believe it possible that she was standing there but a few feet away. She turned her face suddenly to his, and the look of admiration in his eyes brought a deep flush to her cheeks.

"Pardon me for not answering your question at once," she began. "I am afraid you are not safe, as you are on forbidden ground, though the fact that you were brought here in a helpless condition may make a difference. But, then, one can never tell what daddy will think about it."

"Does your father know I am here?"

"Not yet. He has been away in the hills for some time, and we are expecting him home at any minute."

"What do you suppose he will do with me? I fear he will find my bones poor picking after what I have gone through."

"Oh, daddy is not such a cannibal as all that," Glen laughingly replied. "But he is very jealous of this place, as others have found out to their sorrow. I cannot understand him at times, although he is very good to me."

"Have you lived here long?"

"Ever since I was a child. But I am tired of it now, and want to live outside. I was satisfied until I attended the Seminary and saw something of the world beyond the Golden Crest. What is the use of having an education if one must always live in a place like this?"

"I agree with you," Reynolds emphatically declared. "You should induce your father to go outside."

"You do not know daddy, or you would not speak about inducing him. But, there, I must go. I have been talking too much, and you are tired."

Reynolds lay there thinking about Glen long after she had gone. He had found her at last, and she was just as sweet and beautiful as the day he had rescued her on Crooked Trail. Yes, he had found her, but was he not as far from gaining her as ever? he asked himself. He thought about her father, and wondered what he would do when he returned home. Perhaps he would pack him at once across the Golden Crest, if he did no worse. But what could be worse than to be driven from her who had become so dear to him, and for whose sake he had ventured and suffered so much?

The next morning he felt almost like his former self, and when Klota brought him his breakfast, he informed her that he was going to get up. The woman smiled, left the room, and returned when Reynolds had finished the meal, and viewed with satisfaction the empty dishes.

"Did you cook my breakfast?" Reynolds asked.

"Ah, ah," was the reply. "Good, eh?"

"Good! It's the best I've had in a long time. I feel like a new man this morning, and must get up. I wish I had a shave, a bath, and some decent clothes. Look at these," and he pointed to his rags.

"Come," the woman simply ordered. "Me fix you, all right."

Reynolds at once got up, and followed her into the kitchen. He was greatly surprised at the neatness of the place, as he had no idea that an Indian woman could be such a good housekeeper. Klota noted his look of wonder, and smiled.

"Injun all sam' white woman, eh?" she queried.

"Why, yes. You do all this?"

"Ah, ah. All sam' beeg house."

She then opened a door to the left, and pointed within.

"See. All sam' white woman. All sam' Missie Glen. Savvey?"

Reynolds certainly did understand, and with an exclamation of surprise and delight, he entered the little room, where he found a bath-tub partly filled with water, clean towels, a suit of clothes, and a shaving-outfit.

"Where did all these things come from?" he asked.

"Sconda fix 'em all sam' beeg house. Savvey?"

"And are these clothes for me?"

"Ah, ah. Missie Glen send 'em."

Reynolds asked no more questions just then. He was more than satisfied at the kindness he was receiving. He believed it was due to Glen, and that she had instructed the Indians to do all in their power for his comfort. This filled his heart with gladness, for it told him that the girl was interested in his welfare, and that she looked upon him with kindly eyes. He was beginning to understand, too, something of Jim Weston's influence among the Indians. He had taught them the value of cleanliness, at any rate, and if all the natives in the place were like Klota and her husband, it must be an ideal settlement.

An hour later Reynolds came forth looking like a new man, and greatly refreshed after his bath. Klota's eyes beamed their approval as he stood before her.

"Do I look better now?" he asked.

"Good," was the reply. "All sam' white man. No Injun now."

Reynolds laughed as he went out of the house. The woman amused him, although he was most grateful for her kindness. It was a beautiful morning, and not a ripple ruffled the surface of the lake. The village was astir with life, the voices of children and the barking of dogs resounding on every side. No one interfered with him as he walked slowly along the street, but he could easily tell that he was being watched by many curious eyes. He had the feeling, too, that he was a prisoner, and while he could roam about at will, to escape would be impossible. The strong burly Indians he saw seemed to have nothing to do, but he knew that this was their idle season, and that during the winter they would be off to their hunting-grounds.

Reynolds was much interested in the store which he presently reached. A couple of Indians were in charge, who nodded to him as he entered, but apparently paid no further attention to him after their formal salutation. The building was well filled with all kinds of goods, and resembled a large up-to-date store in some large country town such as he had often seen. The sight of pipes and tobacco made him realise that he had not smoked for days, and having his money with him, he soon made his purchase. He stayed for a while at the store, smoking, and watching the customers as they came and went. It was all of considerable interest to him, and he beheld in this trading-place another tangible evidence of Jim Weston's influence.

He spent the rest of the morning wandering about the village, and it was noon by the time he returned to the house, which for the present he called home. Here he found Sconda near the back door carefully examining a large bearskin. He turned as the young man approached, and without the least sign of surprise, motioned to the skin.

"See um?" he asked. "Beeg skin, eh?"

"It certainly is," was the reply. "A grizzly?"

"Ah, ha. You shoot um, eh?"

"Why, that's not the one I shot on Crooked Trail, is it?" Reynolds asked in astonishment.

"Ah, ah. All sam' bear. Skin dry bimeby."

"What are you going to do with it? Will you let me have it?"

Sconda shook his head as he again felt the skin.

"Missie Glen get skin bimeby."

"Is it for her?"

"Ah, ah. She want skin. She send Injuns to Deep Gulch. She tell Sconda make good skin. Bimeby Missie Glen put skin in room, all sam' dis," and Sconda stooped and spread his hands over the ground.

Reynolds understood, and his heart bounded with joy. So Glen was going to keep the skin as a souvenir of her rescue on Crooked Trail. Then she must care something for him after all, more than he had expected. The thought made him happier than he had been for days, and he was grateful to Sconda for what he had told him.

That afternoon Glen came again to see him. She was greatly pleased at the change in his appearance, and suggested that they should go for a spin upon the creek.

"I want to show you what a beautiful place Glen West really is," she told him. "We can take Sconda's canoe, which is at the shore."

Reynolds was delighted, and eagerly he agreed to the proposition. Glen seated herself in the middle of the canoe, and the deft manner in which she handled the paddle showed that she was well accustomed to the water. Reynolds paddled aft, and headed the light craft up the creek.

"I am anxious for you to see what a wonderful piece of water this arm of the lake is," Glen remarked. "I have never seen anything like it in the north, and we are all very proud of it. Oh, if more people could only see it!"

She sighed as she drove the paddle into the water. Reynolds was more intent upon watching the graceful poise of her body as it swayed to the rhythmic stroke of the paddle than he was in viewing the scenery. He could hardly believe it true that she was seated there before him, and that he was privileged to watch her to his heart's content. He was very happy, and to him Glen West was the most delightful place in the world.

At length they came in front of the big house, and when Reynolds saw it, and also The Frontiersman lying at her wharf, his interest was intense. He ceased paddling, and stared in amazement.

"Am I dreaming, or have I taken leave of my senses?" he asked.

Glen laughed, as she rested on her paddle, and turned partly around.

"That is where I live," she explained. "And that is our boat. You were brought in on it the day we picked you up on the lake."

Reynolds made no immediate reply, but drove his paddle suddenly into the water. He knew that this girl had been largely instrumental in saving his life, and he was learning more and more what an important part she was playing in his life, and how one by one the links were being formed to bind them closer together.

Reynolds believed that he had seen the most wonderful sights in the north, but he had to confess that the grandest of all had been reserved for him that afternoon. As they moved on their way, the creek narrowed, and passing through an opening with high frowning rocks on both sides, they ran into a body of water of unruffled calmness, with steep banks, wooded to the shores. On the left rose the high ridge of the Golden Crest, as it shouldered in close to the stream, while on the right towered another crest, grand and austere. Their pinnacles were reflected in the lake, which was one of nature's jewels of surpassing brilliance, set by unseen hands on the fair bosom of the virgin north.

Many were the things the happy young couple talked about that afternoon. They did not paddle all the time, but often were content to let the canoe drift or lie still along the shore. Glen described the life at the Seminary and at Glen West, while Reynolds told of his terrible experiences in the hills and his voyage on the raft down the river.

"I am afraid that Frontier Samson is still hunting for me," he said.
"He is a fine old man, so kind and humorous. Have you ever met him,
Miss Weston?"

"Not to my knowledge," was the reply, "although I have heard a great deal about him."

"He has never been here, I suppose?"

"Oh, no. Daddy never permits any white man to come, not even that old prospector."

"But I am here," Reynolds reminded.

"I know you are. But you came in a different way, you see. I believe you are the first white man who ever stayed this length of time here."

"I would like to stay here forever," Reynolds fervently declared. "I have never been so happy in my life as I have been since I came to this place. I wonder what your father will do when he comes home."

"I wish I knew," and Glen sighed. "Anyway, it's no use to worry about that now. Let us enjoy ourselves while we can."

It was supper time when they at length reached Sconda's shore, where they pulled the canoe out of the water. They then walked up to the house, talking and laughing like two children. They had just reached the street, when a strange noise to their left arrested their attention. Looking in that direction, they saw a number of Indian men and children surrounding a man, who was evidently a prisoner. As they drew nearer, Reynolds saw that it was a white man, and that his hands were tied behind his back.

"Another prisoner, I believe," he remarked. "I shall have company."

Then he gave a sudden start, and took a quick step forward as if to obtain a better view.

"Why, it's Curly!" he exclaimed. "What in the world is he doing here!"

But Glen made no reply. Her eyes were fixed upon the prisoner, and her face was very white, as she turned slightly, as if about to flee into the house. In another minute Curly was near, and a most wretched figure he presented. His clothes were torn and his face dirty and bleeding. He had apparently received severe treatment at the hands of his captors. He walked with a shambling and unsteady gait, with his eyes fixed upon the ground. But as he came to where Glen and Reynolds were standing, he suddenly lifted his head, and seeing the two, he stopped dead in his tracks. For an instant he stared as if he had not seen aright. Then his face became contorted with a mingled expression of surprise and hatred. He strained at his bonds in a desperate effort to free himself, but he was immediately checked by his Indian guardians, who caught him by the arms, and hustled him along. He struggled violently for a few seconds, pouring forth at the same time a stream of blood-curdling oaths, abuse and vile words, which caused Glen to put her hands to her ears, and flee hurriedly into the house, while Reynolds slowly followed.

CHAPTER XV

JIM WESTON

Glen's mind was greatly agitated as she made her way slowly homeward. Curly's presence was the cause of this, as she feared that her father would be so angry with the villain that it would make it hard for Reynolds. He might imagine that the two were in league with each other, as they were both from Big Draw. She despised Curly, knowing what a vile loathsome creature he was, and she had a very fair idea why he had ventured across the Golden Crest. Had he not avowed his affection for her at the dance, and had told her that he would run any risk to meet her again? How glad she had been that night when Sconda came for her, and she could free herself from her unwelcome and insistent suitor. And Curly was now a prisoner at Glen West! She shuddered as she recalled the look on his face when he saw her and Reynolds together. And his language! She could not get the terrible words out of her mind. The meaning of some she did not know, never having heard them before, but she fully realised that they must be very bad, or else Curly would not have used them in his rage. And should he now escape, there was no telling what his revengeful spirit might lead him to do, either to herself, or to him who was now beginning to mean so much to her.

Thinking thus, she reached the house, and as soon as she entered she knew that her father was at home, for the door of his private room was open. He was seated at his desk when he turned and saw her. Springing to his feet, he caught her in his arms, kissed her on both cheeks, and then holding her at the full length of his powerful arms, he looked eagerly and lovingly upon her now flushed and excited face.

"Why, you are getting better looking every day," he declared. "Just like your dear mother at her age. My, my, how the time has gone! and it seems but yesterday that I first met her. But, there, there, I must not give way to such feelings on this my first night home. Come, sit by my side and tell me all about yourself, and how things are going at Glen West."

For the first time in her young life Glen was sorry that her father had come home. She was really more than sorry, for a nameless fear possessed her heart, which restrained her usual free and happy manner. Her father's keen intuition noted this, and that her words seemed forced. Her enthusiasm over his arrival was not so hearty and natural as formerly, and he wondered why.

"What is the matter, dear?" he asked after Glen had somewhat haltingly told him about her music and certain household affairs. "You do not seem like yourself. Has anything out of the ordinary happened at Glen West since I have been away?"

"Yes, lots of things, daddy," was the reply. "One of the most important is your absence from home for such a length of time. You should be ashamed of yourself."

Weston laughed, although he felt quite sure that she was evading the real issue.

"I am sorry, dear, and I make my humble confession now. But what else of importance has been taking place?"

"I was nearly eaten up by a bear on Crooked Trail, and it was a grizzly at that."

Glen was surprised that her father did not seem more concerned, and she told him so.

"You take it very coolly, daddy. Just think, you might have come home and not found me here."

"I am very thankful that you escaped, dear, but did I not forbid your going so far alone beyond the Golden Crest? I hope your experience has taught you a lesson. How were you saved from the grizzly?"

"Oh, a hunter shot it just in the nick of time," Glen explained as indifferently as possible, although she knew that her cheeks were aflame. "And, oh, daddy, you should have seen the shot he made; it was wonderful!"

"Where was the hunter from, Glen?"

"From Big Draw mining camp, so I understand."

"Were you talking to him?"

"Yes, just for a few minutes."

"And have you seen him since?"

Glen's eyes dropped and the flush left her cheeks. Her father noted this, and he laid his right hand suddenly upon her arm.

"Speak, Glen, and tell me at once whether you have seen him since."

Something in her father's voice startled the girl, and she looked up quickly into his face.

"Tell me," he again demanded. "What is the matter? Have you seen that man lately?"

"Yes, I have."

"Where?"

"Here."

"At Glen West? He has been here, and you have seen him? Are you sure?"

"I am certain. I was with him this afternoon in the canoe. But, daddy, what is the matter? Oh, don't get angry. I didn't do anything wrong."

Jim Weston had risen to his feet, and was looking down upon his daughter. He was a powerfully-built man, of more than ordinary height. The northern winter was in his thick hair and heavy moustache, while his steady light-blue eyes and firm, well-built chin betokened a strong will power of unyielding determination. Glen had often expressed her unbounded admiration for her father, and believed him to be the most handsome man in the world. But now he seemed like an avenging god, about to visit upon her the force of his wrath. For the first time in her life she cowered before him, and hid her face in her hands.

"And you say that your rescuer is here?" Weston at length asked. "When did he come, and where is he staying?"

"We saved him from a raft out on the lake just before that fearful storm," Glen faintly replied. "He was almost dead, and in a minute more he would have been drowned. Oh, it was terrible! He is now at Sconda's."

"Another miner's trick, I suppose, to get here," Weston growled. "It has been tried before, but with scanty success. This must be one more fool who was trying the same game."

"He is not a fool," Glen stoutly protested, lifting her eyes defiantly to her father's face. "Mr. Reynolds is a gentleman. He is different from the rest of the miners."

"What was he doing out on the lake?" her father asked.

"He got lost in the hills, and nearly died. He drifted down the Tasan
River on a raft which he built. He was almost starved to death."

"And what was he doing in the hills?"

"Prospecting, so he told me. He was with Frontier Samson, and, going after a moose, lost his way."

"H'm," Weston grunted. "A trumped-up yarn, no doubt. Don't you think it looks rather suspicious?"

"It might if it were someone else. But he is different, and I believe he told me the truth."

"Well, we shall soon find out, Glen. If he begins any of his lies or fancy tales to me, he will learn his mistake. I am not going to have any young man wandering about this region, let me tell you that. It has been tried too often already, so we might as well make a special example of him in order to warn others. It's the 'Ordeal' for him, all right."

At these words Glen sprang to her feet and confronted her father. Her eyes were blazing with intense emotion, and Jim Weston stared at her in amazement. A feeling of pride welled up within him at her appearance and courage.

"You shall not lay hands on him," Glen passionately declared. "He is an innocent man, and it would be unjust to hurt him."

"Glen, Glen, what is the meaning of this?" her father demanded. "You seem to be greatly interested in this fellow. I am surprised at you."

"I am interested, daddy. Nay, I am more than interested, for I love him with my whole heart, so there. Don't you dare to touch him."

The strain of this interview was telling upon Glen. As soon as this confession had left her lips, she was wild with regret. Why had she done this? she asked herself, as she stood with big staring eyes watching her father. What would he say? What would he not do to her? Her body trembled, a weakness swept upon her, and sinking down into her chair, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed as if her heart would break.

If Jim Weston was astonished before, he was dumbfounded now at what his daughter had told him. His heart went out in a great rush of pity to his only child and he longed to take her in his arms and comfort her. But he felt that he must be firm and not give way to any feeling of emotion at a time like this. Instead, he laid his hand somewhat heavily upon her shoulder.

"Does this fellow, Reynolds, know of your love?" he asked.

"No, no; he has not the least idea of it," was the low reply.

"And he has not avowed his love to you? Are you sure?"

"I am certain. He has never given the least sign that he cares for me more than if I were an ordinary acquaintance. But he is a gentleman both in word and action."

For a few minutes Jim Weston stood lost in thought. It seemed to Glen as if he would never speak. The silence of the room was so intense that she was sure her fast-beating heart could be distinctly heard.

"I must have time to think this over, Glen," her father at length informed her. "You may go now and get ready for supper. Nannie has been kept waiting too long already."

Never before had Glen heard her father speak to her in such a cold, peremptory manner. Slowly she rose to her feet and walked across the room. Her head was aching, and she was glad to get away, anywhere in order that she might be alone, and from her father's stern, accusing eyes.

She had almost reached the door, when Sconda stood suddenly before her. She paused, while the Indian entered and walked at once toward his master.

"Well, Sconda, what is it?" the latter demanded, annoyed at the native's intrusion at this critical moment. "Anything wrong?"

Weston spoke in the Indian language, with which he was most familiar.

"Big White Chief," Sconda began, "the Golden Crest has been crossed.
Another white man is here."

"I know it," was the curt reply. "He came by water this time, so I understand."

"Not by water, Big White Chief, but through the pass, over Crooked
Trail."

"He did! Why, Glen, you told me he came by way of the lake. Have you been deceiving me, girl?"

"Indeed I have not," was the emphatic and somewhat angry denial. "I am surprised that you think I would deceive you, daddy. Sconda refers to someone else. It is Curly who came by the pass, and not Mr. Reynolds."

"Curly! Curly here, did you say?" Weston almost shouted the words, and so fierce did he look that the Indian retreated a step.

"Ah, ah, Curly here," Sconda replied.

"When did he come?"

"To-day. He was caught as he came through the pass. He shot, but missed."

"Where is he now?"

"At Taku's."

Weston placed his hand to his forehead in perplexity.

"This is certainly a great home-coming," he muttered. "Trouble everywhere, with white men entering the place by lake and pass. Look, Sconda, bring Curly here in one hour. See?"

The Indian merely nodded.