The reader may naturally expect to hear something of Rupert's experience as a hunter. But so far as this story is concerned, this is not called for. He had other experiences which will speedily be set forth.

For, after all, it was not so much the hunting that Rupert cared about. He thoroughly enjoyed his opportunity to travel through the wild scenery of Middle Colorado. It was camping out in a much more interesting way than when, as a boy, he went but a little way from home, and knew that only a few miles intervened between him and his ordinary life.

Then he was interested in his guide. At the East he had never met such a man as Ben Boone. He seemed a product of the country. As for Ben, he carried out his contract, and served as a guide, philosopher and—I was about to say friend, but on the whole we'll substitute companion.

Though Ben was a skillful hunter and mountaineer he did not particularly enjoy his work. He was a thoroughly lazy man, and would prefer to have remained at home in the rude cabin which passed for such, and, lying on his back with a pipe in his mouth, have drowsed and dreamed away his time. He did not understand, for his part, why city people who could live comfortably should want to rough it, incurring the fatigue of hunting just for the sake of amusement.

"I am tired," he said, on the night after Rupert's adventure with the snake.

"Yes," said Rupert, "I am tired, too. We have come a good many miles."

"Do you like it?"

"Oh, yes," said Rupert enthusiastically; "it is grand."

"I don't see what good it is," rejoined Ben, lying back with a sense of exquisite enjoyment in his chance to rest. "You are not making any money."

"No," replied Rupert, laughing, "but I enjoy the wild mountain scenery; don't you?"

"No; a mountain isn't much to see."

"Then there are the valleys, the woods and the waterfalls."

"Oh, I've seen plenty of them. I don't care for them."

"I suppose that is why you don't care for them. You are too familiar with them."

"I reckon so," drawled Ben.

"Don't you enjoy seeing anything? Is there anything you would rather see than this wild and romantic scenery?"

"Yes. I would rather see cities. Where do you live when you are at home?"

"In New York."

"That is a wonderful city, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"I expect it is a great deal larger than Denver?"

"Yes; forty or fifty times as large."

At this time Denver probably had a population of less than thirty thousand.

Ben Boone's eyes opened.

"And I suppose there are some grand buildings?" he said, inquiringly.

"Yes," and Rupert told his guide something about the great city, of the horse-car lines, the elevated trains running thirty feet above the ground, the big hotels, the Brooklyn bridge, and other marvels, to which Ben Boone listened with rapt attention.

"I should like to see New York before I die," he said.

"Have you ever been there?"

"No."

"But you have probably seen other cities—St. Louis, or Chicago?"

"No; I have only seen Denver. Well, yes, I saw St. Louis when I was a boy. It seemed a large city to me then, but I reckon New York is much bigger."

"Yes, it is a great deal larger—several times as large as St. Louis was when you saw it."

"Does it cost a great deal of money to go to New York?"

"I think one might go there for fifty dollars, ten less by second class."

"Second class is good enough for me."

"Yes, you would be a good deal more comfortable traveling second class than we are on our hunting trip."

"Then I should be satisfied. I ain't used to living first class."

"I should think you would like to go to New York. Is there any reason why you should not go?"

"There's the money."

"But, as I told you, it doesn't cost a very large sum."

"Fifty dollars is a good deal to me. I never had so much money in my life."

"Because you don't save up your money."

"I don't know how to save money," said Ben Boone in a listless manner.

"But you could. Now how much money is Mr. Packard paying you for going with me?"

"Three dollars a day."

"Now suppose we are out ten days—that will make thirty dollars, won't it?"

"Yes; but I had to leave some money with my wife."

"You will at any rate have twenty-five dollars. Now, why can't you put that aside, and add to it when you can. Then by and by you will have money enough to go to New York. When you get there you can find work and earn enough to keep you and pay your expenses back."

"Yes, I reckon I might," said Ben, not knowing how to controvert Rupert's statement.

"If you really try hard to save, I will give you something toward your expenses myself."

"Are you rich?" asked Ben, looking up quickly.

"No, but I have some money."

"How much?"

This question Rupert did not care to answer. Ben Boone was a very good guide and hunting companion, but he was not exactly the kind of man he would choose as a confidant.

"I think everybody is rich that lives in New York," said Ben, with a touch of envy.

"What makes you think that?"

"I have had New York people with me before. I have traveled with them, and hunted with them. They always seemed to have plenty of money."

"It may be so with those who come out here, but there are plenty who never travel at all, who live in poor houses in a poor way, who earn small wages, and are no better off than you, perhaps not so well off. I was very poor myself once, and had scarcely money enough to buy myself food."

"But you got over it. You got rich after a while."

Rupert protested that he was not rich, but Ben Boone was incredulous, though he did not say so. He talked more and more about New York. He seemed to want to learn all he could about it.

Rupert was not surprised. He remembered that when he was a boy in the country, he, too, thought and dreamed a great deal about the great city. After he lived there and grew familiar with its marvels, he became indifferent to it, as much so as Ben Boone was to the wonderful mountain scenery. He felt disposed to joke a little about is.

"There is one thing you have here that we don't have in New York," he said with a laugh.

"What is that?"

"Rattlesnakes."

"No. I reckon not. I shouldn't miss rattlesnakes."

Ben Boone said this so gravely that Rupert could not forbear laughing.

"Nor I," he said. "I am willing that Colorado should keep all her rattlesnakes."

Ben Boone, for a wonder, lay awake beyond his usual time. He could not get New York and its wonders out of his head. The more he thought of it the more he longed to see it.

And there wasn't so much time, either. He was forty-nine years old, and yet he had never been on the other side of the Mississippi River. Yet here was Rupert, who couldn't be more than sixteen or seventeen years old, who had actually lived in New York, and now had wandered to the far West and seen that also. If a boy could have those happy experiences, why not he?

Why not?

The question was easily answered. The difference between them was money. He didn't know how much money Rupert had, but probably he had more than the sum necessary to carry him to New York. Ben felt that it was not fair that a mere boy should have so much and he so little.

This was a dangerous path of thought, and led to a strong temptation. This temptation was increased when, waking at an early hour, he looked across at Rupert, lying not many yards away, and noticed that his pocketbook had in some way dropped out of his pocket and was lying on the grass beside him.

Ben's eyes sparkled with unholy excitement. An eager curiosity assailed him to learn how much money the pocketbook contained. It was a temptation which he did not seem able to resist.

He looked over towards Rupert again. The boy was sleeping calmly, peacefully. There was little chance that he would wake up.

Ben rose cautiously from his couch, and with a stealthy step he made his way to the sleeping boy.

He stooped down and picked up the wallet and then opened it, peering eagerly at the contents.

There was a thick roll of bills. He counted them in a quick, stealthy way, and his heart beat with excitement when he ascertained that the roll contained eighty-one dollars.

"Why, that will take me to New York," he thought.

Yes, it would take him to New York. There would be no weary waiting, no probable disappointment in the end. The dream of his life might be realized, and at once.

Ben was not naturally dishonest. If he had not had a special use for the money it would not have tempted him. But he wanted to go to New York, and the temptation seemed too great for him to resist.

His resolution was taken. With one backward glance at the sleeping boy he thrust the wallet into his pocket and started for the river, where the skiff awaited him.