WITHIN less than a year of his leaving Keokuk to play football with the world, as Uncle Allen Miller had phrased it, Roderick Warfield had established himself in a sound financial position. So far he had not been made the “pig-skin” in life’s game. While he was filled with grateful feeling toward Buell Hampton, and recognized the noble generosity of his friend, he had at the same time the satisfaction of feeling that he had done at least a little toward earning a share in the proceeds derived from the carload of rich ore. And once he found his own mine, his father’s mine, it would be his turn to follow the golden rule and share liberally with those around him.

When he had handed in the Denver check at the local bank, he had already found a new deposit to his credit there—a sum of money to which he had never given a thought from the moment it was won. This was the $450 coming to him as the World’s Championship prize in the rough-riding and outlaw-busting competition at the frontier celebration. It was with intense delight that Roderick decided to apply this windfall to finally clearing off his New York liabilities. He felt like walking even a bit more erect than ever now that he would owe not a dollar in the world. After luncheon he returned to the bank and secured eastern drafts.

But there was a balance remaining, and Roderick at once thought of the lad who had not only suffered defeat in the contest but injury as well. Major Hampton had already undertaken the provision of clothes and other outfit for Scotty Meisch. Roderick thought for a moment; then he walked across to the Savings Bank and started an account in the cowboy’s name with a credit of $100. He carried the little pass-book with him to the hospital.

He found Scotty reclining in a long chair on the veranda. The invalid was convalescent, although looking pale from the unwonted confinement. His face brightened with joy when Roderick, looking down with a pleasant smile, patted him on the shoulder and gripped his hand.

“Gee, but it’s good to see you again,” murmured the boy. “It seems like a hell of a time since you were here. But I got the postcard you sent me from Denver.”

“Yes, Scotty, as I wrote you, Grant Jones and I, also the Major, have all been to Denver. We were called away unexpectedly or would have paid you a parting visit. But I’ve come around at once, you see. Grant Jones and I got back only this afternoon. Mr. Jones is going to take you over to Dillon next week. Meanwhile I have brought you this little book, old fellow.”

Scotty glanced at the pass-book, wonderingly and uncomprehendingly. He turned it over and over.

“An’ what’s this piece o’ leather goods for?” he asked.

“That means you’ve got $100 to your credit in the Savings Bank, Scotty—the consolation prize, you remember, in the broncho-busting contest.”

“Consolation prize be damned. There was no consolation prize.”

“Oh, yes, there was.”

“Not by a danged sight You’ve gone an’ done this, Warfield.”

“Well, I got the big money, and hasn’t the winner the right to give off a bit of it as a consolation prize? Just stuff that book in your pocket, Scotty, and may the hundred dollars soon roll up to a thousand, old fellow.”

“Great guns, but you’re powerful kind to me—all of you,” murmured the cowboy. There were tears in his eyes.

“And by the way, Scotty,” continued Roderick, talking gaily, “that reminds me, I’ve got to go across to Englehart’s store and take over that grand championship saddle he was showing in his window—Banker Buck Henry’s special prize, you remember. I had almost forgotten about it. Why, it’s mine—stamped leather, solid silver mounts, and all the gewgaw trimmings. How will I look riding the ranges with that sort of outfit?”

“You’ll look just grand,” exclaimed Scotty admiringly. “But you won’t use that on the range. It will be your courtin’ outfit.”

Scotty smiled wanly, while Roderick laughed in spite of himself. The invalid felt emboldened.

“Oh, she’s been over here every day during your absence,” he continued. “Gee, but she’s pretty, and she’s kind! And let me tell you somethin’ else. Barbara’s been a-visitin’ me too. Just think o’ that.”

“Ah, all the girls are good, Scotty—and Wyoming girls the best of all,” he added enthusiastically. There was safety in the general proposition.

“Barbara an’ I has made it all up,” continued the lad, still smiling, wistfully yet happily. “She’s dead stuck on that lawyer chap, Bragdon, and we shook hands over it. I wished her luck, and promised to vote for Bragdon at the election for state senator. An’ what do you think she did when I told her that?” he asked, raising himself in his chair.

“She said ‘Bully for you,’ I bet,” replied Roderick. “She did more. She kissed me—fair and square, she kissed me,” Scotty put his finger-tips to his forehead. “Oh, only there,” he added, half regretfully. “But I’ll never forget the touch of her lips, her sweet breath in my face.” And he patted the spot on his brow in appreciative reminiscence.

“That’s politics, as Jim Rankin would say,” laughed Roderick, more to himself than to the cowboy.

“Wal, it’s the sort o’ politics I like,” replied Scotty. “If she’d even only cuff my ears every time I voted, I’d be a repeater for Bragdon at the polls.”

“Well, we’ll both vote the Bragdon ticket, Scotty. A girl like Barbara Shields is worth making happy, all the time. And later on, old fellow, the proper girl will be coming along for you.”

“Looks as if she was comin’ along for you right now,” grinned Scotty, glancing toward the steps of the veranda.

And a moment later Roderick was shaking hands with another hospital visitor, gazing into Gail Holden’s blue eyes, and receiving her warm words of greeting over his safe return.

“We heard something about a fight near Walcott, you know, Mr. Warfield—about a mysterious carload of ore. Two hold-up men were killed, and your name was mentioned in connection with the affair. I felt quite anxious until Mr. Meisch received his postcard from Denver. But you never thought of writing to me,” she added, reproachfully.

“I did not dare,” murmured Roderick in a low tone intended only for her ears.

But Scotty heard and Scotty saw.

“This is the very hour the nurse says I’ve got to sleep,” he said. “You’d better be clearin’ out, War-field.”

“And me too?” asked Gail, laughingly.

“The pair o’ you,” replied the invalid, as he lay back languorously and closed his eyes.

“I guess we’d better be going,” laughed Roderick.

“Perhaps Mr. Meisch is awake enough yet,” said Gail, “to hear that I brought over a chicken for his supper.”

“Tell the nurse I’ll have it fried, please,” yawned Scotty, as, without opening his eyes, he turned over his head in slumberous fashion.

“Come away then, Miss Holden,” said Roderick. “I suppose you rode over on Fleetfoot. I’ll saddle Badger, and we’ll have a gallop across country.”

“No doggoned politics there,” exclaimed the cowboy, awaking suddenly, as he watched the handsome couple disappear. “That’s the real thing, sure.”

The summer days glided past. The Major had returned from New York and had quietly resumed his old life of benevolence among the poor. But soon there seemed to be no more poverty in or around Encampment. Roderick, keeping the mining town as his headquarters, made a series of expeditions into the mountains, systematically searching every range and every known canyon. He would be absent for several days at a time, sometimes with Jim Rankin for a companion, Grant Jones once or twice accompanying him, but latterly with Boney Earnest as his fidus Achates. For Boney had severed his connection finally with the Smelter Company, after a quarrel with Grady that had ended in the blast furnace foreman knocking his employer down. Such is the wonderful independence that comes from a bank balance—even a secret bank balance that may not command the deference accorded to known financial prosperity.

Between his prospecting expeditions Roderick spent an occasional evening either at the Conchshell Ranch or at the Major’s, with a flying call now and then at the Shields home, especially when Grant was on one of his periodical visits to Encampment.

The month was now September. The rugged mountains still guarded their secret, and Roderick was beginning to fear that the quest for his father’s mine was indeed going to be a vain one. But there came an interlude to his range-riding and gold-dreaming. The state conventions were approaching. Even love became a minor matter to politics. The air was surcharged with electricity.