WHEN Buell Hampton left the assayer’s office he felt a chilliness in the air that caused him to cast his eyes upwards. There had been bright sunshine early that morning, but now the whole sky was overcast with a dull monotonous gray pall. Not a breath of wind was stirring; there was just a cold stillness in the air that told its own tale to those experienced in the weather signs of the mountains.

“Snow,” muttered the Major, emphatically. “It has been long in coming this winter, but we’ll have a big fall by night.”

The season indeed had been exceptionally mild. There had been one or two flurries of snow, but each had been followed by warm days and the light fall had speedily melted, at least in the open valley. High up, the mountains had their white garb of winter, but even at these elevations there had been no violent storms.

Buell Hampton, however, realized that the lingering autumn was now gone, and that soon the whole region would be in the rigorous grip of the Snow King. Henceforth for some months to come would be chill winds, protracted and frequently recurring downfalls of snow, great high-banked snowdrifts in the canyons, and later on the mighty snowslides that sheared timber-clad mountain slopes as if with a giant’s knife and occasionally brought death and destruction to some remote mining camp. For the present the Major’s hunting expeditions were at an end. But as he glanced at the heavy canopy of snow-laden cloud he also knew that days must elapse, weeks perhaps, before he could revisit the hidden valley high up in the mountains. For yet another winter tide Nature would hold her treasure safe from despoiling hands.

Buell Hampton faced the situation with characteristic philosophy. All through the afternoon he mused on his good fortune. He was glad to have brought down even only a thousand dollars from the golden storehouse, for this money would ensure comfort during the inclement season for a good few humble homes. Meanwhile, like a banker with reserves of bullion safely locked up in his vault, he could plan out the future and see how the treasure was to be placed to best advantage. In Buell Hampton’s case the field of investment was among the poor and struggling, and the only dividends he cared for were increased percentages of human happiness. The coming of winter only delayed the good work he had in mind, but even now the consciousness of power to perform brought great joy to his heart. Alone in his home he paced the big room, only pausing at times to throw another log on the fire or gaze awhile into the glowing embers, day-dreaming, unspeakably happy in his day-dreams.

Meanwhile, in anticipation of the coming snowstorm, young Warfield was riding the range and gathering cattle and yearlings that had strayed away from the herd. As he was surmounting a rather steep foothill across the valleys to the westward between the two Encampment rivers, he was startled at hearing the patter of a horse’s hoofs. Quickly looking up he saw a young woman on horseback dashing swiftly along and swinging a lariat. She wore a divided brown skirt, wide sombrero, fringed gauntlets, and sat her horse with graceful ease and confidence. She was coming down the mountainside at right angles to his course.

Bringing his pony quickly to a standstill Roderick watched the spirited horse-woman as she let go her lariat at an escaping yearling that evidently had broken out of some corral The lariat went straight to its mark, and almost at the same moment he heard her voice as she spoke to her steed, quickly but in soft melodious tones: “That will do, Fleetfoot. Whoa!” Instantly the well-trained horse threw himself well back on his haunches and veered to the left. The fleeing yearling was caught around one of its front feet and thrown as neatly as the most expert cowboy on the range could have done it.

“By George,” said Roderick to himself, “what a fine piece of work.” He watched with admiring eyes as the young lady sat her horse in an attitude of waiting. Presently a cowboy rode up, and relieving her of the catch started the yearling back, evidently toward the corral. Turning about, the horsewoman started her horse at a canter directly toward him, and Roderick fell to wondering what sort of a discovery he had made.

A moment later she brought her horse to a standstill and acknowledged his salutation as he lifted his sombrero. He saw the red blood glowing under the soft tan of her cheeks, and as their eyes met he was fairly dazzled by her beauty. He recognized at a glance the western type of girl, frank and fearless, accustomed to the full and health-giving freedom of life in the open, yet accomplished and domesticated, equally at home in the most tastefully adorned drawing room as here on horseback among the mountains.

“I beg pardon,” he said in a stammering way, “but can I be of any service?”

At his words she pulled her pony to a standstill and said: “In what way, pray?”—and there was a mischievous smile at Roderick’s obvious embarrassment.

“Why, I saw you lariating a yearling.”

“Oh,” she said, throwing back her head and laughing softly, “that was a long time ago. It is doubtless in the corral by now.”

As she spoke, Roderick dismounted. He was capable now of assimilating details, and noted the silken dark Egyptian locks that fell in fluffy waves over her temples in a most bewitching manner, and the eyes that shone with the deep dark blue of the sapphire. His gaze must have betrayed his admiration, for, courteously waving her hand, she touched with her spurs the flanks of her mount and bounded away across the hills. Roderick was left standing in wonderment.

“Who the dickens can she be?” he soliloquized. “I’ve been riding the range for a good many weeks, but this is the first time I’ve spotted this mountain beauty.”

Throwing himself onto his horse, he started down toward the south fork of the Encampment river and on to the westward the Shields ranch, wondering as he rode along who this strange girl of the hills could be. Once or twice he thought of Stella Rain and he manfully endeavored to keep his mind concentrated on the one to whom he was betrothed, running over in memory her last letter, reckoning the time that must elapse before the next one would arrive, recalling the tender incidents of their parting now two months ago. But his efforts were in vain. Always there kept recurring the vision of loveliness he had encountered on the range, and the mystery that surrounded the fair rider’s identity. Once again since Major Buell Hampton’s long diatribe on love and matrimony, he was vaguely conscious that his impetuous love-making on that memorable evening at Galesburg might have been a mistake, and that the little “college widow” in her unselfishness had spoken words of wisdom when she had counselled him to wait awhile—until he really did know his own mind—until he had really tried out his own heart, yes, until—Great heavens, he found himself recalling her very words, spoken with tears in her soft pretty eyes: “That’s just the trouble, Roderick. You do not know—you cannot make a comparison, nor you won’t know until the other girl comes along.”

Had the other girl at last come? But at the disloyal thought he spurred his horse to a gallop, and as he did so the first snowflakes of the coming storm fluttered cold and damp against his flushed cheeks. At last he thought of other things; he was wondering now, as he glanced around into the thickening atmosphere, whether all the stray mavericks were at last safe in the winter pastures and corrals.