For a moment Ross was stunned. His hands fell nervelessly at his side, and he stared up at the stranger with expressionless eyes. Then, as the situation dawned on him, his eyes suddenly narrowed and into them leaped a light that caused the other to move the gun suggestively and say warningly:

"No monkeying allowed, understand. Swallow a bite right now and climb up here on this other horse."

Ross looked over his shoulder speculatively. From his position he could see the mouth of the tunnel on the mountainside behind the cabin. The mouth showed up black and empty and from its depth came the muffled sound of the hand drills wielded by Weimer and Leslie. The trail leading over the mountain to Miners’ Camp was screened from the mouth of the tunnel by hemlocks. It could be seen only from the end of the dump. Ross thought fast.

"All right," he said finally. "I’ll go with you now–and quietly. There’s no objection, I suppose, to my leaving a note for–Weimer?"

No doubt existed in his mind as to the legality of the warrant and the seriousness of purpose in the man before him; therefore, he asked no further questions. Moreover, he wished above all things to avoid question and get off before Leslie appeared on the scene.

"Leave a note, yes, or see ’im," assented the sheriff. "I’m willin’. Where is he?"

"At work," hastily. "I’ll just leave a note."

The sheriff dismounted, dropped his bridle reins beside his horse’s head, hitched the second animal’s rope about the pommel of his saddle, and followed Ross into the shack, repeating, "Where at work?"

"In the tunnel," mumbled Ross. "I would rather write a line than call him."

He picked up some cold biscuits left over from breakfast and stuffed them into his pockets. Then, drawing a box up to the table, he sat down with paper and pencil to write a note. To his confusion, the sheriff stood over him looking on. He moistened the point of his pencil slowly. What on earth could he say that would make Leslie understand and yet not give the situation away to the sheriff? To gain time he gnawed on one of Weimer’s hard biscuits."Where is my–father?" he asked finally, stumbling guiltily over the word.

The sheriff spat out of the doorway and twirled his gun impatiently. "You’ll see ’im before I leave you, all right," was his ambiguous reply. "And the sooner that is the better it’ll suit me. Git busy, young man, with that pencil. I don’t aim to go int’ winter quarters here. We’ve got to go on to Cody."

Ross bit his lips and laid the biscuit aside. His eyes narrowed until they were mere slits. Grasping his pencil with a firmness he was far from feeling he began to write without preface.

"The sheriff is here arresting me for stealing money from my father in Omaha. He is taking me to him in Cody now. I don’t know when I can get back. Keep the work going sure, and don’t worry. I think I will be able––"

He paused and moistened the pencil again, then crossed out the last sentence and substituted:

"I shall try to reason with him and make him see that he had better let me keep on doing what I am doing and earn the money to pay him back."

Another instant Ross paused and thought. Then he added the singular explanation which he believed would make the foregoing more lucid to Leslie:

"As I write the sheriff is standing over me," and then bethought himself just in time to avoid signing his name.

"Huh!" grunted the sheriff reading the last sentence. "So he is; and now hustle!"

Ross hustled most willingly. Seizing his top-coat and cap he was ready in a few moments for the perilous journey over the Crosby trail. Silently he mounted the brown and white horse, all the time glancing anxiously at the mouth of the tunnel. He rode in front of the sheriff and slyly urged his horse forward until the intervening trees hid the mouth of the tunnel from which still issued the steady grind and thud of the drills.

It was not until the two horses were cautiously feeling their way down the perilous trail, and Ross saw far below him the shacks of Miners’ Camp that some of the difficulties of his sudden venture began to present themselves to him. His decision had been made so hurriedly that he had had no time to think all around the subject of the arrest and his own action. It had seemed to him outrageous that a father should arrest his own son even though that boy had done wrong. Ross revolted at the idea.

"I don’t wonder," he thought, "that Less is afraid of his father. But his fear wouldn’t sit so hard on his temper but what there’d be no end of explosions, and then where would they both get to?"

It was the thought of this state of affairs that had led Ross to the impulsive determination to go to that father and ask for a few months of grace for the son. In this, as he acknowledged to himself, he had a mixed motive and part of the mixture was not unselfish.

"If he’ll only let Leslie stay and help me through the winter and earn the money," was his thought, "if I can make him see that Leslie’s no quitter, and that he knows he has made a big mistake and is willing to bone down and undo it–if I can only make him see!"

It was here that Ross’s misgivings began. He knew he was no talker and evidently, as Leslie said, the father was a man of violent temper.

"I’ll probably have my little trip under arrest for nothing," Ross told himself as they reached the foot of Crosby. "Mr. Jones will blow my head off and send back for Leslie. Queer father not to come himself instead of sending a sheriff and a warrant and so disgrace his own son!"

As to who was responsible for notifying the father of the whereabouts of his son, Ross did not for a moment doubt. Sandy’s trip to Cody and the departure a few days before of both brothers answered that question to his satisfaction.At the foot of Crosby the trail of horsemen turned into the wagon trail leading past Gale’s Ridge. On foot approaching them was a man whom Ross had met often in Steele’s shack, and the sight of him awoke the boy with a shock to another phase of the situation that he had not, so far, had time to consider. Of course, it would not be possible for him to reach Cody and Mr. Jones without betraying his identity to the sheriff! There were the men of Gale’s Ridge, the hotel at Meeteetse, and above all, there was Sagehen Roost and Hank. He turned in his saddle. It was a waste of time to go on. He might as well own up and let the sheriff go back after Leslie.

"I was foolish to think of coming!" he muttered aloud and reined in his horse.

The sheriff, coming on behind with his head bent, looked up questioningly and rode alongside. The two had not exchanged a word since leaving the Creek, the sheriff being silent by nature and Ross by choice. At that instant, the footman passed them. On the sheriff he bestowed an unrecognizing nod, on Ross a broad and cordial grin.

"Hello, there, Doc!" he greeted and passed on.

The sheriff glanced in surprise from the man to Ross. The latter drew a deep breath, and squaring about on his saddle shook the bridle reins. "That’s a nickname they’ve given me," he muttered and rode on.

The sheriff nodded and fell back, leaving Ross determined to play the game as far as he was able. He had forgotten that he was known from Cody to Meeteetse as "Doc Tenderfoot." In a few moments they had passed through camp and, rounding the shoulder of old Dundee, settled down to the eighteen mile ride to the half-way house between Miners’ Camp and Meeteetse. This house, as Ross knew, had changed hands since his arrival in the mountains, and the change would lessen the chances that he would be recognized there. As it turned out, the sheriff was not recognized either, the family being newcomers in Wyoming, and the two ate in silence, the sheriff introducing neither himself nor Ross.

"Luck is with me so far," Ross thought as they saddled and rode away from the ranch, "but how can I ever get past Meeteetse and Sagehen Roost?"

The moon shone brilliantly, and they pushed ahead rapidly, Ross exulting over the sheriff’s determination to get on to Meeteetse that night. They rode as silently as before, Ross in advance. The black hills met the trail on either side, and beside the trail flowed the shallow waters of Wood River until it merged into the Grey Bull. Half-way to Meeteetse, the sheriff’s horse stumbled and limped thereafter, necessitating a slower pace, so that it was nearly midnight before they drew rein in front of the "Weller House."

To Ross’s relief, the place was dark with the exception of a single lamp in the office. Even the barroom was deserted. Ross left the sheriff to register for both, and then followed the sleepy clerk down to a lunch of cold "come-backs" which that individual "rustled" from the kitchen himself.

"If fortune will favor me as well to-morrow as it did to-day," Ross thought as he listened to the sheriff’s first snores, "I’ll be next to Jones by this time to-morrow night and try to do some talking for Leslie!"

He knew that his roommate was no wiser concerning him than when they started from Meadow Creek, and he most heartily desired a continuation of that ignorance.

In the morning the two were up early and down to breakfast. Ross looked about apprehensively for some one who had seen him on his way into the mountains. He slunk into the dining-room in the wake of the bulkier sheriff and pushing himself unobtrusively into a corner seat bent low over his plate as befitted a young man under arrest. But no sooner was he seated than the proprietor of the house spied him from the other end of the dining-room, and with never a suspicion that he was talking to the sheriff’s prisoner, strode across the room. He slapped the sheriff familiarly on the shoulder:

"What the dickens are you doing up this way? Why don’t ye stay in Basin where ye belong?"

Then he grasped Ross’s hand cordially:

"Bless us if here ain’t Doc back again. Got them claims cleaned up yet, Doc?"

Ross, encountering the puzzled eyes of the sheriff, quaked. "No, we haven’t yet," he muttered and glancing toward the dining-room door, exclaimed in sudden inspiration, "Wonder if that man is motioning to you?"

The proprietor looked around. Several men were in the hall outside the dining-room. "I’ll go and see," he exclaimed.

The sheriff continued to look at Ross. "Bluff!" he announced briefly and understandingly.

The blood flooded Ross’s face guiltily. "It was," he confessed, adding quickly, "Say, don’t give my arrest away where I’m known, will you?"

His request and confusion satisfied the sheriff. The puzzled expression died out of his face. "All right," he assented and fell on his breakfast.

The proprietor did not see Ross again until he was riding away. Then he ran out of the barroom bareheaded and called, "Steele’s in Cody, Doc. He said you was pannin’ out more like an old prospector than a tenderfoot."

The sheriff rode up beside his prisoner with a quick inquiry: "How long have ye worked for Weimer?"

"Long enough to be sick of it and want to quit," returned Ross gruffly, giving his horse a quick slap that set the animal to loping. It was no part of his plan to hold any unnecessary conversation with the sheriff that day.

"I guess," the latter called as he came galloping after, "that you’ll quit now all right, all right!"

Ross made no reply, but took care to keep well in advance of his captor. Although his plan had, so far, succeeded, he was far from feeling triumphant because of a distressing sense of guilt at the deception he was obliged to practice. Nor was he able to dispel this sense by the knowledge that he was acting for the good of all concerned.

"I may be only messing things up more than they are already," he thought dejectedly as they approached Sagehen Roost. "What under the sun led me to think I was equal to such a job, anyway?"

Then, suddenly, his eyes narrowed, his chin raised itself determinedly and he turned his attention to the half-way house and the loquacious Hank. How could he ever get past Hank and remain Leslie Jones in the sheriff’s eyes? If only he could get a moment’s speech with Hank alone. But the sheriff was ever at his elbow. They had made good time from Meeteetse, and so approached Dry Creek and Sagehen Roost a full hour ahead of the stage from Cody. This fact gave Ross courage. With the stage-driver eliminated he had only Hank to deal with.

"Hello, Hank!" shouted the sheriff as they dismounted in front of the corral. "Shake us up some grub right away, will ye?"

Hank appeared at the door. Ross dodged behind the sheriff’s horse, and stooping over noted the approach of Hank’s legs. When they had borne their owner to the corral gate he straightened up and saying loudly: "Hello, Hank!" scratched the flank of the horse sharply with a pin he had found under the lapel of his coat.

"Wall, if there ain’t Doc Tenderfoot!" shouted Hank, but got no further.

The horse leaped forward, and, as the sheriff sprang for its head, Ross managed to get Hank’s ear for an instant:

"Don’t give me away, Hank. Talk to him and let me alone–understand–no names called. Don’t talk to me nor about me."Hank stared his amazement, helped the sheriff catch his mount, scratched his head until Ross’s words had soaked in, and then obeyed them so literally that when, half an hour later, Ross leaped to his horse’s back, he was still Leslie Jones to the taciturn sheriff, and Hank, tongue-tied for once, was left standing beside the corral gate with a multitude of questions unasked.

Ross’s spirits arose. They were on the home stretch now to Cody. There was not a house on the way and only the stage to meet. Ross, forgetting his rÔle as a shamefaced prisoner, began to whistle and plan what he should say to Leslie’s father. His buoyancy was checked only when he chanced to look over his shoulder and discovered the sheriff looking at him not only with the puzzled air which he had worn at Meeteetse, but, Ross thought, with suspicion also.

"I never seen a sober man arrested that took arrest as you do," the sheriff declared riding to Ross’s side. "Think this is a little picnic, don’t ye?"

"I’m trying to think just how it will turn out," answered the boy seriously. "There’s the Cody stage, isn’t it?"

The sheriff reined his horse back, and, with a flourish, the four horses swept past with Andy’s foot jammed hard on the brake and Andy’s whip cracking over the wheelers’ heads. Just in the nick of time he recognized Ross.

"Hi, there!" he shouted. "Doc, where’s yer patient? And how is he?"

Then, before any answer could be returned, the stage was beyond reach of Ross’s voice, disappearing in a cloud of dust.

"What patient does he mean?" asked the sheriff.

"It’s a fellow I helped when I first came out here," answered Ross frankly. He was afraid of the sheriff’s suspicions. "He was hurt in front of Sagehen Roost, and as I know something about surgery I–helped–to fix him up."

The sheriff studied his horse’s ears. A look of perplexity overspread his face. "I heard of that down in Basin. But it seems to me that was before you come." He looked hard at Ross. "The McKenzies said––" He stopped suddenly, and bit his lips.

Ross seized this pause to mutter, "It’s not so long ago," and forged ahead on the trail, taking good care to keep ahead until the lights of Cody and the odor of the Shoshone River–"Stinking Water"–smote their senses together through the gathering darkness of the early December night. Then the sheriff, straightening in his saddle, said in a voice of authority:"Come back here. We’ll ride neck and neck now."

Ross fell back, and asked his first question, and no sooner was it out than he bit his lips savagely in vexation at his own thoughtlessness.

"Is Mr. Jones stopping at ’The Irma’?"

"Who?" exploded the sheriff.

"Mr. Jones," murmured Ross in confusion.

The sheriff looked the boy over silently but intently in the moonlight. The blood surged into Ross’s face, and, despite the chill of the night wind, the perspiration broke out on his forehead.

"Huh!" was the only response to his question. "Jones!"

Then, with their horses neck to neck the two rode over the bridge together and for the second time entered the town to which Buffalo Bill has given his name, Cody. On the other side of the bridge, near the dust-deep road, stood a tent. The flap was fastened back, and, within, seated about a rough table, sat four men playing cards. When the sound of horses’ hoofs reached the players, one of them arose and came to the tent’s opening.

It was Sandy McKenzie.

The sheriff, still regarding Ross, did not look toward the tent, while Ross, excited over the prospect of meeting Leslie’s father, and confused by his recent misspeech, scarcely bestowed a moment’s thought on Sandy, whom he had known was in Cody and believed to be the instigator of the arrest. He glanced, however, within the tent as they passed and recognized Waymart. The man sitting next, his back to the open flap, his face bent over the cards in his hand, one leg stretched out under the table, looked strangely familiar to the boy, but he was too preoccupied to give him any attention. The fourth man, his face turned toward the riders, was a stranger.

A moment later, a man took the horses in front of "The Irma," and the sheriff with his prisoner walked into the lobby and up to the desk. Picking up the pen, the sheriff thrust it into Ross’s hand.

"Register for yourself," he commanded briefly.

Ross hesitated, glanced at the waiting clerk, glanced at the suspicious face of the sheriff and then, with a shaking hand, wrote: "Ross Grant, Junior," and laid the pen down.

The sheriff drew the register toward him with a slowly purpling face.

"That’s my name," declared Ross. He spoke defensively, yet with a ring of exultation in his voice. "You haven’t asked me for it before."

The blood dropped out of the sheriff’s face. The shivers ran down Ross’s spine at the anger in his face."What does this mean, you cub!" the sheriff demanded furiously.

"It means that I want to talk to Leslie Jones’ father before he sees Leslie," announced Ross boldly, "so I came with you. There was nothing to prevent my coming."

A hand fell on the sheriff’s shoulder. Sandy McKenzie stood at Ross’s elbow. Sandy’s face wore a curiously baffled expression, but he nodded to Ross in much his usual nonchalant manner.

"Hello, Doc, you here? Didn’t expect to see you. How’d you leave Leslie Jones?"

There was an emphasis on the last name which Ross did not notice. Neither did he notice the shrewd observation in the questioner’s eyes.

"I left him busy," the boy returned glibly, "and so did the sheriff!"

Once more the blood rushed into the sheriff’s face, and in unselected language he had begun to tell Ross what he thought of him, when Sandy succeeded in drawing him aside and leading him into the barroom, followed by Waymart and a group that the conversation had attracted.

After they had disappeared, Ross turned to the clerk. "Is Mr. Jones stopping here?" he asked confidently.

"Nope," responded the clerk, leaning an elbow on the ledger. "What was it you put over the sheriff?"

"Not here!" Ross exclaimed, not hearing the question. "Did you understand the name? I want to see Mr. Jones." In his anxiety he raised his voice.

The clerk grinned. "There ain’t no man here by the name of Jones."

"But there must be," Ross insisted stupidly. "There’s got to be! This is the only hotel in town, isn’t it?"

"Yep," grinned the clerk. "It’s the original Waldorf-Astory all right. Where does this here Jones hail from?"

"Omaha." There was unlimited dismay in Ross’s tone.

"Hain’t got any one from Omaha here, and hain’t had this winter."

Ross pulled the register toward him and began to scan the names. Instantly he exclaimed, "Bully! Steele. I’d forgotten him. I’ll see––"

"Not this trip!" the clerk interrupted lazily. "Ye must ’a’ met Steele. He went back on the stage to-night."

"Leonard, then. He’s here, isn’t he?"

"Nope," replied the clerk nonchalantly. "He’s in Basin. Home’s there, ye know."

Baffled, perplexed, Ross turned again to the register. The clerk had told the truth. There had been no guest entered from Omaha or any place further away than Montana in weeks. "See here," he exclaimed finally, "do you know anything about Leslie Jones, that went over to Meadow Creek with a man named Wilson a few weeks ago?"

The clerk leisurely turned the pages until he arrived at the entry sought. "Here they be," he pushed the book across the counter. "Wilson and Jones. They stayed here most a week. Knew Wilson and remember Jones when he was here."

"And hasn’t his father been here?" asked Ross eagerly. "Not at any time?"

"Nope."

"Haven’t you–haven’t you heard from him at any time or–or known about him? I’ve got to see the father," Ross burst out in irrepressible confidence born of his distraction. "I’ve stopped work and come all the way down from the Shoshones to talk with Jones."

"Can’t help it. Don’t know anything about any Jones except this young one."

At this point the clerk was called into the dining-room. He left Ross standing beside the desk staring at the register, confused and helpless."And right here I got the big head over the way I had managed," he told himself in humiliation, "and at the very last minute gave the whole thing away!"

Why couldn’t he have had the sense to play the game far enough to see the end–and Leslie’s father, he asked himself miserably. Now he had simply made a fool of himself and angered the sheriff and had not benefited Leslie. The sheriff would probably turn about and go back after the right boy. With this thought Ross straightened his shoulders determinedly and turned toward the barroom. As there was nothing to be gained by silence he was going to ask questions. As he turned, a man slid into the hotel in advance of him–the man with the oddly familiar back.

The sheriff, Sandy and Waymart were standing together, and toward them Ross made his way through clouds of tobacco smoke and past groups of cowboys, railroad men and prospectors.

"Hi, Doc!" called Sandy gaily. "Hump along here and be sociable. What’ll you have? It’s on me. Anybody," admiringly, "that’s smart enough t’ fool the sheriff of Big Horn County can have anything on me they’ll take."

The sheriff turned his back on Sandy and scowled. He did not glance at his late prisoner.

"I don’t want anything," declared Ross shortly. He planted himself resolutely in front of Sandy. "But I’d like to know where Leslie Jones’ father is?"

Sandy smiled easily, while the scowl faded from the sheriff’s face.

"I ain’t no city directory, Doc," responded Sandy, "and what’s more, I ain’t knowin’ of any Leslie Jones! His end name ain’t any more Jones than yours is. He’s fooled ye mighty bad–see?"

The blood rushed to Ross’s face. "N-not Jones?" he stammered. "Not Jones! What is it then?"

"Why, Doc, if he don’t want ye t’ know I ain’t got a call t’ tell ye. Be reasonable." Sandy spoke with maddening pleasantry and condescension. "A feller’s name is his own, and if he wants t’ keep it kinda fresh and unused I ain’t the one t’ dig it up ’n’ let it get covered with dust. Better go back t’ Meadow Creek and have it out with Leslie."

Ten minutes later, Ross, with a hot and angry face, was back in the lobby. His indignation burned against Leslie, who had, unconsciously, helped to put him in the hole in which he found himself. The subdued laugh which had marked his retreat from the barroom rang long in his ears. The sheriff’s laugh was the loudest."Arrest will serve him right!" muttered Ross as he entered the dining-room. "There isn’t a reason on earth why he shouldn’t have told me his right name when he told me the rest."

Angrily Ross ate his supper, glowering down at his plate and not noticing the entrance of the McKenzies with the sheriff.

After supper he went up to his room. The door was unlocked, the key having been long since lost. A single electric bulb swinging over the dresser was alight. Under the bulb lay a sealed and soiled envelope. Ross picked it up and turning it over came on the direction, "Doc Tenderfoot," in a sprawling and carefully careless hand. Wonderingly he opened the envelope. Within was a note written with a lead pencil on the back of a yellow advertising sheet. It ran:

"Leslie’s name is Quinn, not Jones. His father is A. B. Quinn, North Bend, Okla., or 14 Castle Street, Omaha. He is in Omaha now waiting for Leslie. Sheriff is to send him there. Mum is the word about this note–to him or Leslie or the McKenzies. If I did not know you were on the square you would not get it to be mum about."