YES, there was a letter from Stella Rain. Roderick took it eagerly from the hands of the clerk at the general delivery window. A good number of people were already crowding into the post office from the fair grounds. But he was too hungry for news to wait for quieter surroundings. So he turned to a vacant corner in the waiting room and ripped open the envelope. The letter was as follows:

“Roderick:—

“I am sure that what I am about to tell you will be for your good as well as my own. It seems so long ago since we were betrothed. At that time you were only a boy and I freely confess I liked you very, very much. I had known you during your four years in college and you were always just splendid. But Roderick, a real love affair has come into my life—something different from all other experiences, and when you receive this letter I shall be Mrs. Vance Albertrum Carter.

“Mr. Carter, financially, is able to give me a splendid home. He is a fine fellow and I know you would like him. Let me be to you the same as to the other boys of old Knox—your friend, the ‘college widow.’

“Very sincerely,

“Stella Rain.”

Not a muscle of his face quivered as he read the letter, but at its close he dropped both hands to his side in an attitude of utter dejection. The blow had fallen so unexpectedly; he felt crushed and grieved, and at the same time humiliated. But in an instant he had recovered his outward composure. He thrust the letter into his pocket, and shouldered his way through the throng at the doorway. He had left Badger in a stall at the fair grounds. Thither he bent his steps, taking a side street to avoid the crowd streaming into the town. The grandstand and surrounding buildings were already deserted. He quickly adjusted saddle and bridle, and threw himself on the pony’s back.

“‘She knows I would like him,’”he muttered, as he gained the race track, the scene of his recent triumphs, its turf torn and dented with the hoofs of struggling steers and horses, thronged but an hour before with a wildly excited multitude but now silent and void. “‘Like him’.” he reiterated bitterly. “Yes—like hell.”

And with the words he set his steed at the farther rail. Badger skimmed over it like a deer and Roderick galloped on across country, making for the hills.

That night he did not return to the bunk house.

It was high noon next day when he showed up at the ranch. He went straight to Mr. Shields’ office, gave in his resignation, and took his pay check. No explanations were required—Mr. Shields had known for a considerable time that Roderick was leaving. He thanked him cordially for his past services, congratulated him on his championship honors at the frontier celebration, and bade him come to the ranch home at any time as a welcome guest. Roderick excused himself from saying good-by for the present to the ladies; he was going to stay for a while in Encampment with his friend Grant Jones, and would ride out for an evening visit before very long. Then he packed his belongings at the bunk house, left word with one of the helpers for trunk and valise to be carted into town, and rode away. Badger was Roderick’s own personal property; he had purchased the pony some months before from Mr. Shields, and as he leaped on its back after closing the last boundary gate he patted the animal’s neck fondly and proudly. Badger alone was well worth many months of hard and oftentimes distasteful work, a horse at all events could be faithful, he and his good little pony would never part—such was the burden of his thoughts as he left the Shields ranch and the cowboy life behind him.

Grant Jones was in Encampment, and jumped up from his writing table when Roderick threw open the door of the shack and walked in.

“Hello, old man, this is indeed a welcome visit. Where in the wide world have you been?”

He turned Roderick around so the light would fall upon his face as he extended his hand in warmest welcome, and noticed he was haggard and pale.

“Oh,” said Roderick, “I have been up in the hills fighting it out alone, sleeping under the stars and thinking matters over.”

“What does this all mean, anyway, old man? I don’t understand you,” said Grant with much solicitude.

“Well, guess you better forget it then,” said Roderick half abruptly. “But I owe you an apology for going away so unceremoniously from the frontier gathering. I know we had arranged to dine together last night But I just cleared out—that’s all. Please do not ask me any questions, Grant, as to why and wherefore. If in the future I should take you into my confidence that will be time enough.”

“All right, old man,” said Grant, “here is my hand. And know now and for all time it don’t make a derned bit of difference what has happened, I am on your side to the finish, whether it is a desperate case of petty larceny or only plain murder.”

Grant laughed and tried to rouse his friend into hilarity.

“It is neither,” replied Roderick laconically. “All the same I’ve got some news for you. I have quit my job.”

“At the Shields ranch?” cried Grant in astonishment. “Surely there’s been no trouble there?”

“Oh, no, we are all the best of friends. I am just tired of cow-punching, and have other plans in view. Besides, remember the letter we got pushed under the door here on the occasion of my last visit. Perhaps I may be a bit skeered about having my hide shot full of holes, eh, old man?” Roderick was now laughing.

But Grant looked grave. He eyed his comrade tentatively.

“Stuff and nonsense. The lunatic who wrote that letter was barking up the wrong tree. He mistook you for the other fellow. You were never seriously smitten in that quarter, now were you, Rod, old man?”

“Certainly not. Barbara Shields is a fine girl, but I never even dreamed of making love to her. I didn’t come to Wyoming to chase after a millionaire’s daughter,” he added bitterly.

“Oh, that’s Barbara’s misfortune not her fault,” laughed Grant. “But I was afraid you had fallen in love with her, just as I fell head over heels in love with Dorothy—for her own sake, dear boy, and not for anything that may ever come to her from her father.”

“You were afraid, do you say?” quizzed Roderick. “Have you Mormonistic tendencies then? Do you grudge a twin to the man you always call your best friend?”

“Oh, you know there’s no thought like that in my mind,” protested Grant. “But you came on to the field too late. You see Ben Bragdon was already almost half engaged.”

“So that’s the other fellow, is it?” laughed Roderick. “Oh, now I begin to understand. Then things have come to a crisis between Barbara and Bragdon.”

“Well, this is in strict confidence, Rod. But it is true. That’s why I was a bit nervous just now on your account—I kind of felt I had to break bad news.”

“Oh, don’t you worry on my account. Understand once and for all that I’m not a marrying man.”

“Well, we’ll see about that later on,” replied Grant, smiling. “But I should have been real glad had you been the man to win Barbara Shields. How jolly happy we would have been, all four together.”

“Things are best just as they are,” said Roderick sternly. “I wouldn’t exchange Badger, my horse out there, for any woman in the world. Which reminds me, Grant, that I’ve come here to stay with you for a while. Guess I can put Badger in the barn.”

“Sure—you are always welcome; I don’t have to say that. But remember that Barbara-Bragdon matter is a dead secret. Dorothy just whispered it to me in strictest confidence. Hard lines that, for the editor of such an enterprising newspaper as the Dillon Doublejack. But the engagement is not to be announced until the Republican nomination for state senator is put through. You know, of course, that Ben Bragdon has consented to run against Carlisle and the smelter interests.”

“I’m glad to hear it And now we have an additional reason to put our shoulders to the wheel. We’ve got to send Ben Bragdon to Cheyenne for Barbara’s sake. Count me in politics from this day on, old man. You see I am out of a job. This will be something worth while—to help down that blood-sucker Grady, and at the same time secure Bragdon’s election.”

“Ben Bragdon is the best man for Wyoming.”

“I know it. Put me on his committee right away.”

“You’ll be a tower of strength,” exclaimed Grant enthusiastically. “The champion broncho-buster of the world—just think of that.”

Roderick laughed loud and long. This special qualification for political work mightily amused him.

“Oh, don’t laugh,” Grant remonstrated, in all seriousness. “You are a man of note now in the community, make no mistake. You can swing the vote of every cow-puncher in the land. You are their hero—their local Teddy Roosevelt.”

Again Roderick was convulsed.

“And by the way,” continued Grant, “I never had the chance to congratulate you on that magnificent piece of work on Gin Fizz. It was the greatest ever.”

“Oh, we’ll let all that slide.”

“No, siree. Wait till you read my column description of the immortal combat in the Doublejack.” He turned to his writing desk, and picked up a kodak print. “Here’s your photograph—snapped by Gail Holden on the morning of the event, riding your favorite pony Badger. Oh, I’ve got all the details; the half-tone has already been made. The Encampment Herald boys have been chasing around all day for a picture, but I’m glad you were in hiding. The Doublejack will scoop them proper this time.”

But Roderick was no longer listening. The name of Gail Holden had sent his thoughts far away.

“How’s Scotty Meisch?” he asked—rather inconsequentially as the enthusiastic editor thought.

“Oh, Scotty Meisch? He’s all right. Slight concussion of the brain—will be out of the hospital in about two weeks. But Miss Holden, as it turned out, did the lad a mighty good turn in rushing him to the hospital He was unconscious when they got there. She knew more than Doc Burke—or saw more; or else the Doc could not deny himself the excitement of seeing you tackle Gin Fizz. But there’s no selfishness in Grail Holden’s make-up—not one little streak.”

In a flash Roderick Warfield saw everything under a new light, and a great glow of happiness stole into his heart. It was not indifference for him that had made Gail Holden miss the outlaw contest. What a fool he had been to get such a notion into his head.

“Guess I’ll go and feed Badger,” he said, as he turned away abruptly and left the room.

“When you come back I’ve a lot more to talk about,” shouted Grant, resuming his seat and making a grab for his lead-pencil.

But it was several hours before Roderick returned. He had baited the pony, watched him feed, and just drowsed away the afternoon among the fragrant bales of hay—drowsing without sleeping, chewing a straw and thinking all the time.

At last he strolled in upon the still busy scribe. Grant threw down his pencil.

“Thought you had slipped away again to the hills and the starlight and all that sort of thing. I’m as hungry as a hunter. Let’s go down town and eat.”

“I’m with you,” assented Roderick. “But after dinner I want to see Major Buell Hampton. Is he likely to be at home?”

“It was about Buell Hampton I was going to speak to you. Oh, you don’t know the news.” Grant was hopping around in great excitement, changing his jacket, whisking the new coat vigorously. “But there, I am pledged again to secrecy—Good God, what a life for a newspaper man to lead, bottled up all the time!”

“Then when am I to be enlightened?”

“He sent for me this morning and I spent an hour with him. He also wanted you, but you were not to be found. He wants to see you immediately. Tonight will be the very time, for he said he would be at home.”

“That’s all right, Grant. But, say, old fellow, I want half an hour first with the Major—all alone.”

“Mystery after mystery,” fairly shouted the distracted editor. “Can’t you give me at least this last news item for publication? I’m losing scoops all the time.”

“I’m afraid you must go scoopless once again,” grinned Roderick. “But after dinner you can do a little news-hunting on your own account around the saloons, then join me later on at the Major’s. That suit you?”

“Oh, I suppose I’ve got to submit,” replied Grant, as he drew on his now well-brushed coat. “But all through dinner, I’ll have you guessing, old man. You cannot imagine the story Buell Hampton’s going to tell you. Oh, you needn’t question me. I’m ironclad—bomb-proof—as silent as a clam.”

Roderick laughed at the mixed metaphors, and arm in arm the friends started for their favorite restaurant.