Big Brother Bill changed his mind after all. He did not go to O’Brien’s saloon. At least not when he left the Seton’s house. Truth to tell, his unanticipated visit to Helen Seton’s home had inspired him with a distaste for exploring the less savory corners of this beautiful valley. For the time, at least, it had become a sort of Garden of Eden, in which he had discovered his Eve, and he had no desire to dispel the illusion by unnecessary contact with a grade of creatures whose existence therein could only mar the beauties and delights of his dream.

So, instead of carrying out his original intention, full of pleasant dreaming, he made his way back toward his brother’s home, hoping to find him returned so that he could pour out his enthusiastic feelings for the benefit of ears he felt would be sympathetic.

As he came to the clearing where he had first discovered Helen, however, his purpose underwent a further modification. His sentimental feelings getting the better of him, he sat down upon the very log over which the girl had fallen, and turned his face toward where the little home of the girls, with its single twinkling light, was rapidly losing itself in the deep of the gathering twilight.

He had no thought for the elder girl as he sat there. Her bolder beauty had no attraction for him, her big, dark eyes, so full of reliant spirit were scarcely the type he admired. She might be everything a woman should be, strong, sympathetic, generous, big in spirit, and of unusual courage; she might be all these and more, but, even so, she was incomparable to the fair delight of Helen’s bright, inconsequent prettiness. No, serious-minded people did not appeal to him, and, in his blundering way, he told himself that life itself was far too serious to be taken seriously.

Now Helen was full to the brim of a flippant, girlish humor that appealed to him monstrously. He felt that it was a man’s place to think seriously, if serious thought were needed. And he intended when he married to do the thinking. His wife must be wholly delightful and feminine, in fact, just as Helen was. Pretty, laughing, smartly dressed, and always preferring to lean on his decisions rather than indulge in the manufacture of wrinkles on her pretty forehead striving to find them for herself.

He felt sure that Helen would make a perfect wife for a man like himself. Particularly now, as she was used to the life of the valley. And, furthermore, he felt that a wife such as she would be essential to him, since he had definitely come to live as a rancher.

She certainly would be an ideal rancher’s wife. He could picture her quite well mounted upon a high-spirited prairie-bred horse, riding over the plains, or round the fences, since that seemed necessary, at his side. He would listen to her merry chatter as he inspected the work that was going forward, while she, simply bubbling with the joy of living, looked on with a perfect sense of humor for those things which her more sober-minded sister would have regarded as matters only for serious consideration.

Thus he went on dreaming, his eyes fixed upon the distant, lamp-lit window, all utterly regardless of the fall of night, and the passing of the hours. Nor was it until he suddenly awoke to the chill of the falling dew that he remembered that he was on his way home to tell Charlie of all his pleasant adventures.

Stirring with that swift impulse which always seemed to actuate him, he rose from his seat on the log and stumbled across the clearing, floundering among the fallen logs with a desperate energy that cost him many more bruises than were necessary, even in the profound darkness of the, as yet, moonless night.

Finally, however, he reached the track which led up to the house and hurried on.

A few minutes later he was wandering through the house searching in the darkened rooms for his brother. It was characteristic of him that he did not confine his search to the house, but sought the missing man in every unlikely spot his vigorous and errant imagination could suggest. He visited the corrals, he visited the barn, he visited the hog pens and the chicken roosts. Then he brought up to a final halt upon the veranda and sought to solve the problem by thought.

There was, of course, an obvious solution which did not occur to him. He might reasonably have sought his bed, and waited until morning—since Charlie had survived five years of life in the valley. That was not his way, however. Instead, a great inspiration came to him. It was an inspiration which he viewed with profound admiration. Of course, he ought to have gone at once to the village, as he had intended, and have visited O’Brien’s saloon.

Forthwith he once more set out, and this time, his purpose being really definite, after much unnecessary wandering he finally achieved it.

He reached the saloon as O’Brien was in the act of turning out the two swing lamps. Already one of them was turned low, and the saloonkeeper, with distended cheeks, was in the act of putting an end to its flickering life when Bill flung open the door.

O’Brien turned abruptly. He turned with that air which is never far from his class, living on the fringe of civilization. His whole look, his attitude, was a truculent demand, and had it found its equivalent in words he would have asked sharply: “What in hell d’you want here?”

But the significance of his attitude quite passed Big Brother Bill by. Had he understood it, it would have made no difference to him whatever. But that was his way. He never saw much more than a single purpose ahead of him, and possessed an indestructible conviction of his ability to carry it out, even in the face of superlative or even overwhelming odds.

He walked into the meanly lighted saloon, while O’Brien reluctantly turned up the light again. For a moment the saloonkeeper’s shrewd eyes surveyed the newcomer, and, as they did so, a quiet, derisive contempt slowly curled his thin lips.

“Wal?” he inquired, in the harsh drawl Bill was beginning to get accustomed to since he had traveled so far from his eastern home.

Bill laughed. He always seemed ready to laugh.

“Guess I don’t seem to have come along at the best time,” he said, glancing at the lamp above O’Brien. “Say, I’m sorry to have troubled you. I thought maybe my brother was down here. I’m Bill Bryant, and I’m looking for Charlie—my brother. Has—has he been along here to-night?”

The man’s big blue eyes glanced swiftly around the squalid, empty interior. It was the first time he had been inside a western saloon of this class, and he was interested.

Meanwhile O’Brien had taken him in from head to foot, and the growing smile in his eyes expressed his opinion of what he beheld.

“You’re Charlie Bryant’s brother, eh?” he said contemplatively. “Guess I sure heard you was around. Wal, since you’re lookin’ fer Charlie, you’d better go lookin’ a bit farther. He was around, but he’s quit half an hour since. I’d surely say ef you ain’t built in the natur’ of a cat, or you ain’t a walkin’ microscope, you best wait till daylight to find Charlie. There’s more folks than you’d like to find Charlie at night, but most of ’em ain’t gifted with second sight. Say, seein’ you’re his brother, an’ ain’t one of them other folk, I’ll admit you’re more likely to find him somewhere around the old pine just now than anywhere else. And, likewise, seein’ you’re his brother, you’d better not open your face wider than Providence makes necessary—till you’ve found him.”

O’Brien’s manner rather pleased the simple easterner, for his unspoken contempt was beyond the reach of the latter’s understanding. He smiled his perfect amiability.

“Thanks,” he cried readily. “I’ve got to go that way back, so I’ll chase around there.” He half turned away, as though about to depart, but turned again immediately. “It’s that pine up on the side of the valley, isn’t it?” he questioned doubtfully.

“There’s only one pine in this valley—yes.”

O’Brien’s hand was again raised toward the lamp.

“I see.” Bill nodded. Then, “What’s he doing there?” he asked sharply. A thought had occurred to him. It was one which contained a faint suspicion.

The other looked him squarely in the eyes. Then a sort of voiceless chuckle shook his broad shoulders.

“Doin’? Wal, I guess he ain’t sparkin’ any lady friend, and I don’t calc’late he’s holdin’ any conversazione with Fyles and his crew.” O’Brien’s amusement had spread to his features, and Bill found himself wondering as to what internal trouble he was suffering from. “Charlie Bryant, bein’ a rancher, guess he’s roundin’ up a bunch of ‘strays.’ Y’see, he’s got a few greenback stock he’s mighty pertickler about. They was last seen around that pine.”

Bill stared.

“Greenbacked—cattle?” he exclaimed incredulously.

O’Brien laughed outright, and Bill was no longer left in doubt as to his malady.

“They’re a fancy breed,” the saloonkeeper declared, “and kind of rare hereabouts. They come from Ottawa way. The States breed ’em, too. Guess I’ll say good night.”

Bill was left with no alternative but to take his departure, for O’Brien, with scant courtesy, extinguished the light overhead and crossed to the second lamp. His visitor made for the door, and, as he reached it, a flash of inspiration came to him. This man was making fun of him, of his inexperience. Of course. He was half inclined to get angry, but changed his mind, and, instead, turned with a good-natured laugh as he reached the door.

“I see,” he cried. “You mean dollars, eh? Charlie’s collecting some dollars—some one owes him? For the moment I thought you were talking of cattle—greenbacked cattle. Guess you surely have the laugh on me.”

O’Brien nodded.

“That’s so,” he admitted, and Bill closed the door behind him as the saloonkeeper extinguished the second lamp.

Big Brother Bill hurried away in the darkness. He swung along with long, powerful strides that roused dull echoes as he moved down the wide, wood-lined trail. It seemed to him that he had been wandering around the village for hours, the place was growing so ridiculously familiar.

Nor was it until he reached the spot where the trail divided that he realized what a perfect fool the saloonkeeper had made of him. It always took a long time for such things to filter through his good-natured brain. Now, however, he grew angry—really very angry, and, for a moment, even considered the advisability of turning back to tell the man what he thought of him.

After a few moments’ consideration better counsel prevailed, and he continued on his way, his thoughts filled with a great pity for a mind so small as to delight in such a cheap sort of humor. No doubt it was his own fault. Somehow or other he generally managed to impress people with the conviction that he was a fool. But he wasn’t a fool by any means. No, not by any means. What was more, before he had done with Rocky Springs he would show some of them. He would show Mr. O’Brien. Greenbacked cattle! The thought thoroughly annoyed him.

But, as he clambered up the hill toward the pine, his heat moderated, and his thoughts turned upon Charlie again. He remembered that he was collecting money, and quite suddenly it occurred to him as strange that he should be doing so as this time of night, and in the neighborhood of the pine. In the light of greenbacked cattle, that, too, seemed like perfect nonsense, unless, of course, some one were living in the neighborhood of the tree. He could not remember to have seen a house there. Wait a minute. Yes, there was. A smallish log building, not far from the new church.

Of course. That was it. Why hadn’t that fool O’Brien said so right out instead of leaving him guessing? Yes, he would call at that house on——. Hallo, what was that?

A great dull yellow light was gleaming through the foliage ahead. A beautiful golden light. Bill laughed abruptly. It was the full moon just appearing on the horizon. For the moment he had not recognized it.

Now it held his attention completely. What a beautiful scene it made, lighting up the shadowy foliage. His mind went back to the Biblical story of the burning bush. He found himself wondering if it were like that. Much brighter, of course. But how green it looked, and how intensely it threw the thinner foliage into relief. What a pity Helen Seton wasn’t there to see it! It would appeal to her, he was sure. Pretty name, Helen Seton.

From this point, as he toiled up the hill, his thoughts became engrossed with the girl who had been so angry with him at first. He wished he could find some excuse for seeing her again that night. But, of course, that was——

He suddenly stopped dead, and his train of thought ended. There was the great pine ahead of him right in the back of the moonlight. There, too, was the figure of a man standing silhouetted against the great ball of golden light as it rose slowly above the horizon.

Charlie! Yes, of course it was Charlie. There could be no doubt. The slight figure was unmistakable. Even at that distance he was certain he could make out his dark hair.

In a moment he was hailing the distant figure.

“Ho, Charlie!” he cried.

But his greeting met with an unexpected result. The figure vanished as if by magic, and he was left at a loss to understand.

Then further astonishment came to him. There was a sharp rustling of bush, and breaking of twigs close by, and the sound of heavy, plodding hoofs. The next moment two horsemen broke from the dense cover about him, and flung out of the saddle.

“Darnation take it, what in blazes are you shouting around for at this hour of the night?”

Inspector Fyles stood confronting the astounded man. Beside him stood another man in uniform, with three gold stripes on his arm. It was Sergeant McBain.

In spite of his recognition of the Inspector, Bill’s anger rose swiftly, and his great muscles were set tingling at the man’s words and tone.

“’Struth!” he cried in exasperation. “This is a free country, isn’t it? If I need to shout it’s none of your damn business. What in the name of all that’s holy has it got to do with you? I saw my brother ahead, and was hailing him. Well?”

Bill’s eyes were fiercely alight. He and Fyles stood eye to eye for a moment. Then the latter’s resentment seemed to suddenly die out.

“Say, I’m sorry, Mr. Bryant,” he apologized. “I just didn’t recognize you in the darkness. Guess I thought you were some tough from the saloon. That was your brother—ahead?”

Fyles’s calm, clean-cut features were in strong contrast to his subordinate’s. He was smiling slightly, too. Sergeant McBain was wholly grim.

Bill glanced from one to the other.

“Of course it was my brother,” he said, promptly, mollified by the officer’s expression of regret. “I’ve been chasing him half the night. You see, O’Brien told me he was up this way, and when I sighted him yonder by the pine, I——”

He broke off. He had suddenly remembered O’Brien’s warning. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he had opened his mouth very wide. Far wider than Providence had made necessary.

“You——?”

Fyles was distinctly smiling as he urged him.

But Bill had no intention of blundering further. He laughed, but without his usual buoyancy.

“Say, what are you doing up here?” he demanded, seeking to turn the tables on the officer. “Rounding up ‘strays’?”

At that moment a black cloud swept swiftly across the face of the moon. And though Fyles’s smile had broadened at the other’s clumsy attempt at subterfuge, it was quite lost upon Bill in the darkness.

Fyles glanced quickly at the sky.

“Storm,” he said. Then he turned back to his questioner. “Why, I guess I’m always chasing ‘strays.’ They’re toughs mostly—pretty bad ’uns, too.” Then he laughed audibly. “Makes me laugh,” he went on. “I’ve been tracking the fellow for quite a piece. And all the time he’s your brother. You’re sure?”

Bill nodded. He was still feeling uncomfortable.

“I’m glad you saw him,” Fyles went on at once. “It’s put us wise. We don’t need to waste any more time. It’s lucky, with a storm coming on. Guess we’ll get right back, McBain,” he added, turning to his companion.

Fyles had no more difficulty in fooling the guileless Bill than O’Brien had.

“Going home?” Bill inquired of the officer as the latter turned to his horse.

“Sure.”

“Me, too.”

Fyles leaped into the saddle. McBain, too, had mounted.

“Best hurry,” said Fyles, with another quick glance at the sky. “We get sharpish storms hereabouts in summer. You’ll be drowned else. So long.”

Bill moved away.

“So long,” he cried, relieved at the parting. “I haven’t far to go, but since you reckon a storm’s getting busy I’ll take a cut through the bush. It’ll be quicker that way.”

As he thrust his way into the bush he glanced back at the two policemen. They were both in the saddle watching him. Neither made any attempt at the hasty departure the Inspector had suggested.

However, their attitudes gave him no uneasiness. Truth to tell, he did not realize any significance. The one thing that did concern him and trouble him was that he somehow felt convinced that he had committed the very indiscretion O’Brien had warned him against.

The whole thing was very disquieting. An air of mystery seemed to have suddenly surrounded him, and he hated mystery. Why should there be any mystery? If there was one thing he delighted in more than another, it was the thought that his life was all in the open. The broad daylight could search the innermost corners of his every action. He had nothing in the world to hide. Why then should he suddenly find himself actively concerned with this atmosphere of mystery which had suddenly closed about him?

But Bill had not done with the mistakes of the evening. He made another one now—in leaving the trail.

Within five minutes of leaving the two police officers he found himself blindly floundering his way through an inky forest. The sky was jet black. The moon had long since switched off her light. The last star had concealed its twinkle behind the banking clouds of the summer storm. Now great warm splashes of rain had begun to fall.