"’Old man Quinn!’" Ross cried aloud. "’Old man Quinn’ and the sheep war. And Leslie is his son!"

It all came back, the story he had almost forgotten in the stress of events on Meadow Creek, the conversation on the train, old Sheepy’s tale and, at last, his suspicions concerning Lon Weston with his dyed hair. And when his memory brought Lon into mental view, Ross’s face lit up with a sudden flash of intelligence.

"It was Weston that I saw in the tent, and it was Weston that went into the barroom ahead of me!"

He laid the note on the dresser and, bending under the electric light, studied it. There was nothing to show who had written it except the caution at the end. That might have emanated from Waymart, but the language was better than he would have used. Ross felt that it was Lon Weston who had written that message. Of course, if such was the case, and Lon was the fourth whom old man Quinn was looking for, that warning not to give the unsigned writer away would be accounted for. It might, in some way, be the clew that would lead to Lon’s detection. Ross now recalled how Lon had lain with one arm over his face all the time that Wilson and Leslie had been at the stage camp. He could not now recall whether or not the injured man’s name had been spoken in Leslie’s presence. But he did remember that Leslie had said of the McKenzies that perhaps they were men at some time in his father’s employ, in which case he might not know them, but that they would probably recognize him.

"Then if he had heard Weston’s name it might not mean anything to Leslie," Ross concluded.

He wondered why Lon had not made himself known that evening and wondered how he came to know the McKenzies. In fact, he sat on the side of his bed wondering about a dozen things until midnight, and then went to bed undecided what to do now that he had Quinn’s address in his possession. His resentment kindled against Leslie whenever he thought of the latter’s deception about his name. And the probabilities were that a letter from him, Ross, would not move the father to clemency.

In this undecided state of mind, Ross strolled into the lobby the following morning, considering how he could best kill time until the stage started for Meeteetse that evening. As he was standing in front of a window, his hands deep in his pockets, the sheriff and Sandy rode past, followed by Waymart. Neither the sheriff nor Waymart looked his way. But Sandy did, and, grinning, raised his hand in a graceful salute. Ross, nodding, felt his anger at Sandy dying. Distrust him as he must, Ross could not dislike him. In this strange state of mind, however, the boy was by no means alone throughout the length and breadth of Big Horn County.

"They’re going now after the right chap," thought Ross, and a wave of sympathy for Leslie began to wash away his resentment.

In the end, he spent the greater part of the day composing a letter to old man Quinn, wherein he set forth Leslie’s position, prospects and altered feelings in bald statements containing but few adjectives. In explaining who the writer was he gave a brief account of his connection with the sheriff. Between the acts of composing, tearing up, and rewriting the composition, he searched Cody for Lon Weston, but could not find him.

When, that evening, he climbed into the stage behind Andy, he had sent the letter to Leslie’s father and had not caught a glimpse of Weston.

At the stage camp he was the butt of much congratulation and derision from the hilarious Hank. "Say, you made the sheriff mad as a hornet, but he had t’ own up ye cheated ’im out of a year’s growth. Sandy set the hull thing out in good shape. But why didn’t ye stick t’ yer job instid of layin’ down ’n’ kickin’ up yer heels before the time?"

"Because I’m no good, Hank, this side of the Mississippi River," returned Ross in humility of spirit. "Don’t knock me–you can’t get ahead of me in that respect! I’ve kicked myself all over Cody to-day."

The following morning, at Meeteetse, he joined Bill Travers and the Miners’ Camp stage and started on the all day’s journey into the mountains. At noon, he began looking for the sheriff and Leslie. He had calculated that they would meet the stage at the half-way ranch and there he would tell Leslie what he had written his father. But no Leslie appeared. All the afternoon during the stage’s progress into the mountains, Ross looked for the sheriff and his prisoner, but he looked in vain.

At six o’clock, Bill Travers dropped his one passenger in front of Steele’s shack, and Ross, climbing Gale’s Ridge, opened the door on the superintendent in the act of sitting down to supper."Hello, there!" cried Steele grasping the boy’s chilled hand. "Here’s the best elk steak you ever planted your teeth in. Draw up and tell me what you’ve been up to, skylarking off to Cody with the sheriff."

Ross followed directions, and soon was giving Steele the entire story of his capture and failure.

Steele, forgetting to eat, alternated between amusement and amazement. "By George, I don’t wonder that sheriff was mad! You see, Doc, he’s new to the business of being sheriff. You were his first arrest."

"Probably if he were not so new he wouldn’t have been so easily fooled."

"I can’t say," retorted Steele, "that he was easily fooled. Strikes me you were about as slow with him as greased lightning."

Ross flushed at the praise. It was balm to his wounds in his self-esteem.

Early the following morning, he started for Meadow Creek, and at the upper camp learned something for which he was unprepared and which was a source of temporary satisfaction to him.

Leslie had disappeared.

Until noon Ross lingered in camp watching the sheriff and Sandy pass and repass in their search for the runaway. Finally, just before noon, he saw them on snow-shoes striking out up Wood River caÑon into the uninhabited wilderness beyond. Then he slowly mounted the dizzy trail leading to Weimer’s shack and the interrupted work.

"It must have been my note that warned him," Ross thought as he watched the figures toiling up Wood River caÑon. "I hope they have the chase of their lives," he said aloud, "and then I can patronize Sandy and stroke him down as he did me at ’The Irma’–provided I dare!"

He found Weimer sitting beside the fire smoking and growling over the absence of both his assistants.

"Dot poy," he explained, "read dot paper you wrote and den vat does he do, hein? He says notings, aber he takes some tings and out he goes und leaves me mit der vork und mit mine eyes, und dey so pad!"

This was the extent of the information he was able to give Ross concerning Leslie. Many grievances he had against the sheriff and "dem McKenzies" that had ransacked the premises and had ridden to and fro, over to Wilson’s and round the mountains searching for traces of Leslie.

As it turned out, they might have found a trace of him had they searched more thoroughly, for the following day, Ross, diving into the pocket of his slicker for some nails that he carried there, came on a folded note pinned in the bottom of the pocket.

"All I understand from your letter," ran the note, "is that it has given me a chance to make my getaway. It was a mighty white thing of you to do, and I appreciate it, though I know I haven’t acted that way. You’ve probably found out what my name is by this time. I didn’t tell you, because I was so dead ashamed about the whole matter that I hated to face myself and disgrace the name. But I never thought father would do such a thing as he has, and so I shall clear out and stay cleared until he has stopped hunting. I know where I’m going, and you’ll see me in Meadow Creek after father goes back and has given me up.–Leslie Jones Quinn."

Ross, standing on the dump beside the dynamite box, a hammer in one hand, read the letter. At once all his remaining resentment against Leslie disappeared. "I guess I would have done the same about the name in his place," he concluded.

Pinning the note in his pocket again for safe keeping he repaired the dynamite box. Then he entered the tunnel, where Weimer was once more at work drilling for a blast.

"Uncle Jake," he asked, "when did Leslie leave, what time in the day?"

"It vas not day, it vas night," growled Weimer wrestling with the drill. "He vent avay mit darkness."

"That accounts," said Ross, "for his not having been seen in camp."

He felt certain that Leslie would take refuge in the shack up Wood River caÑon where Wilson had stored some of the supplies in preparation for the winter’s work on the coal claims. In this case he would be discovered, for it was in that direction that the sheriff and Sandy had gone as Ross was climbing the Crosby trail. Therefore, it was with anxiety that the boy looked for the return of the McKenzies.

Darkness had fallen when he left the tunnel that night, and as he emerged from the trees that clustered about the dump, he saw a light in the McKenzie cabin. Without waiting for his supper, he crossed the little valley and rapped on the door.

"Hello, Doc," came Sandy’s voice from within. "Haul up the latch-string and show yerself. Comin’ to crow over us, ain’t ye?" he continued as Ross entered. "Well, that ye can, fer we can’t find hide ner hair of Leslie, and the sheriff has hit the trail to Basin about as mad as they make ’em over the whole thing!"

Here Sandy threw his head back and laughed as amusedly as though the entire affair were a joke of his own manufacture. He did not seem to harbor the least resentment against Ross for having blocked the wheels of his game. Rather, he applauded the blocking frankly, while Waymart smoked stolidly beside the table and said nothing.

"That little note that you left for Less is what done the business," Sandy went on cheerfully reviewing the situation. "The sheriff had forgot that note ’til we got up here and the bird wa’n’t t’ be found in the hand ner the bush neither. That was a neat little trick, Doc, almost as neat as the way ye come it over the sheriff on the trail to Cody. Guess he’ll not fergit ye fer a spell! Mart, don’t be s’ stingy with that weed. Hand over some. My pipe is about as empty as the sheriff’s head."

"Why did you do it, Sandy?" Ross burst out. "What made you send word to Leslie’s father that he was here?"

Sandy composedly filled his pipe and lighted it. "It was cruelty t’ little children not t’, Doc. The very idee of Leslie Jones leavin’ his pa and––"

"His name isn’t Jones, and you know it, and I know it!" interrupted Ross. He could not keep the ring of triumph from his tone. "He is Leslie Quinn."

Sandy’s hand traveled slowly to his pipe. "Is he? How’d you find out?" he asked quickly."Easily enough," said Ross carelessly, "when you know how."

Both Waymart and Sandy regarded the boy intently. "Been back here then, has he?" they asked in one breath.

Ross arose. "’It would be cruelty to little children’ to tell you!" he quoted boldly and opened the door.

Waymart gave an exclamation and sprang to his feet. His hands were clenched. But Sandy, kicking him under the table, guffawed.

"Give and take, Mart," he exclaimed. "I’m willin’ t’ chew my own words, and if I am willin’ there ain’t no kick comin’ from you!"

The following day Ross wrote another letter to Leslie’s father and enclosed the note he had found pinned in his pocket. This letter he entrusted to Wilson to mail in Cody, for Wilson was going to Butte for a few weeks before beginning his winter’s work on his coal claims. He stopped at noon to bid Weimer and Ross good-bye.

"Nothin’ would hire me t’ stay over here all winter," were his last words to Ross.

Although the latter had seen but little of the prospector, his departure made the valley seem lonelier than ever, and caused Ross to cling desperately to the idea of the McKenzies remaining. As the days passed, and more snow fell, the brothers began to get decidedly uneasy. They accounted for their uneasiness to Ross by telling him they were in need of supplies and saw no way of getting any over from Miners’ Camp. Sandy was the informant, as usual, while Waymart’s eyebrows were lifted in momentary surprise. By that time every horse in Miners’ Camp had been sent "below." There was but little grass on the mountains during the brief summer; and through the winter, which occupied nine months of the year, every ounce of fodder must be packed over the difficult road from the ranches.

"I don’t see," quoth Sandy unconvincingly, "but what we’ll have to strike the trail. Hain’t no way, as I can see, to pack grub over except on our backs, and that’s too slow."

For a moment there was silence in Weimer’s cabin. The wind moaned and wailed among the hemlocks, and whistled savagely past the cabin. In his bunk Weimer snored. Above them came the cry of the coyotes, like a child’s long-drawn scream of pain and fear. The terror of loneliness among those overhanging mountains gripped at the boy’s throat. For a moment he could not speak.

Then, "If you could get provisions over easily, would you stay longer?"

Sandy crossed his legs restfully. "Sure," he answered readily.That week, therefore, Ross used his spare time–and some time which he ought not to have spared–in making a sled. It was, when finished, a crude but efficient affair, the runners being surmounted by a double-decked box. This vehicle he exhibited one day to the McKenzies as the prospective conveyor of their supplies over the mountains.

Sandy stood in front of the shack, his hands in his pockets, his cap pushed well back on his head and the front lock of hair falling over his forehead.

"Doc, you’re the stuff!" he cried warmly. "There’s an idee or two floatin’ around in yer tenderfoot brain, ain’t there?"

Tied to both front and rear of the sled were ropes, two in front, one behind. Those in front differed in length.

"See?" explained Ross. "Two can’t walk abreast on the trail, but still it’s easier for each one to pull on his own rope. That’s the reason I made ’em of different lengths. Then one of us behind can hold the sled from slipping off the trail with the rear rope. In this way we can bring up a big load of supplies."

Sandy removed his cap, and pushed back his hair.

"Doc, where was you raised? Guess I’ll go back t’ the same place, and be raised over agin. It might pay." His tone expressed an admiration that was almost genuine.

Waymart said nothing. He scarcely glanced at the sled, but turned away scowling up toward the tunnel where, as he had informed himself, Ross and Weimer were doing an amazingly good piece of work.

As they started back toward their own shack, Ross heard Waymart say angrily to Sandy, "Are you goin’ to take the use of that sled?"

And Sandy’s answer, "For sure, now! What’s eatin’ you, Mart? Doc’s got a good head on ’im."

"Entirely too good fer us, mebby!" growled Waymart; and Ross smiled in satisfaction, thinking they referred to his work in the tunnel.

Just before supper, the door of Weimer’s shack unceremoniously opened, and Waymart’s arm was thrust in. "Here," his voice said roughly, "take this here elk steak."

Ross relieved the arm of its burden, and the door closed sharply. It was a sirloin steak, the juiciest and most tender in the animal which the brothers had brought into the valley the day before. Sandy had often brought them venison before, but never Waymart; and Ross was pleased.

"While Sandy is entertaining," Ross had told Steele, "and Waymart seldom says two sentences at one sitting, and next to never meets my eye, yet, if it came right down to a choice, I believe I’d rather travel along with Waymart than with Sandy."

"Your choice is all right," Steele had replied. "If Waymart would cut loose from Sandy, he’d earn an honest living. It’s Sandy that’s the head, though. It’s Sandy that plans; Waymart furnishes the feet and arms. Sandy’s good company, but I wouldn’t trust him with my pocketbook around the corner. Not," Steele added, "that he’d steal it in such a way that the law could touch him. No, he’d have the pocketbook, but it ’ud leave him free to look any jury in the eye and to shake hands with me afterward."

The new sled made its first journey down into Miners’ Camp one Sunday in December two weeks after Ross had ridden down with the sheriff. Waymart went ahead with one of the leading-ropes over his shoulder, and Sandy behind, steadying the empty vehicle around the shoulder of Crosby. Waymart led because he was the heaviest, and there was a deep fall of snow to contend against except around the shoulder, where, fortunately, the wind had swept the mountain clean.

As the trail broadened beyond, Waymart paused to survey the low-hanging clouds. Ross, in the rear, stopped and studied the mountains which Nature had in ages past taken in her gigantic hands and flung into the caÑon between Dundee and Crosby, compelling Wood River to crawl and worm and wind and cut its way deep and narrow down into Miners’ Camp.

"I wonder," exclaimed Ross suddenly to Sandy, "what is beyond that conglomeration of peaks."

"Wood River caÑon still, clean over on top of the Divide, and you can follow it on horseback right through. Part of the time up there," waving his hand toward the jumble of mountains which seemingly ended the caÑon, "it’s pretty rocky trailin’, especially in winter, but it can be done."

Sandy rested one foot on the edge of the sled. Waymart glued his eyes on the Camp far below. From various projecting stovepipes volumes of smoke were curling straight up in the windless air. From the tunnel of the Mountain Company almost opposite them came a succession of blasts which stirred the echoes between Dundee and Crosby. The Mountain Company were no respecters of Sunday. They were also working day and night in view of the near shut-down of the works.

But Ross’s gaze was seeking to penetrate further toward the source of Wood River. "Any one living beyond there?" he asked.

Sandy grinned. "Elk, mountain-sheep, coyotes, bears, and timber wolves.""But no people?"

"Nope. There ain’t a man livin’ ’twixt here and the Yellowstone Park–now. Last summer a few prospectors sort of strolled up Wood River a few dozen miles, but they hiked it out, I tell ye, when snow come."

"I wish," Ross said impulsively, "that I could go over there exploring."

Waymart lifted his eyes the fraction of a moment, and encountered Sandy’s. A peculiar expression passed between them. Then Waymart’s gaze fell again on the Camp, and Sandy replied carelessly to Ross:

"After you git the work done in your tunnel better strike some of these trails, but not in winter. They ain’t safe, especially for a tenderfoot."

"But in the summer," returned Ross absently, "I don’t expect to be here."

"Oh–that so?" and Sandy gave the sled a careless push.

Waymart drew the rope over his shoulder, and once more the trio descended the trail.

At the upper camp Ross left the brothers to purchase their supplies while he visited the post-office and Steele. At the former place he found a note to himself from Leslie’s father and a bulkier letter addressed to Leslie in his care. Mr. Quinn had received both of Ross’s letters, he wrote, the last with the enclosure from Leslie. He had taken the steps necessary to recall the warrant, which, he explained, had seemed to him the "surest and quickest way of fetching the boy home," and would allow Leslie to return to Ross as his note indicated that he desired. On his return Ross was to give up the letter put in his care. Mr. Quinn closed his communication with thanks to Ross for the trouble he had been to, also, for his assurance that Leslie was boning down to work!

Two weeks had elapsed since Leslie disappeared. Nothing had been seen of him nor heard of him in either the upper or lower camps, and Ross returned to Meadow Creek troubled in spirit.

"I’m afraid," he told himself as he helped the McKenzies haul their supplies up the trail, "that I’ve made even a bigger mess of it all the way around than I thought at first."

Steele, from his doorway, watched Ross out of sight that afternoon, with a pleased smile on his bearded lips. He was a tanned and freckled Ross now. Sun and wind and work in the open for two months had left their marks on the boy. He stood straighter, walked more firmly, and had laid on pounds of muscle.

"He’s put himself through good and plenty, as well as holding Uncle Jake’s nose to the grindstone," concluded Steele, turning back into the cabin. On the making of the sled he had commented but briefly to Ross, realizing how much the presence of the McKenzies meant to the boy. To himself he thought, however:

"That Sandy McKenzie! How he does manage to make other folks do his work!"

During the week which followed, a stranger passed through Miners’ Camp. He was seen by only one man, "Society Bill," who belonged to the Gale’s Ridge outfit.

"He asked the way to the Meader Creek trail," Society Bill told Steele. "Now, I wonder if he’s a new one of them McKenzies. I never set my two eyes on ’im before."

"Horseback?" asked Steele.

"Yep. Decent sort of bronc he rode. Told me to tell Bill Travers to drive it down below to-morrow if it got down this far."

"That looks as if he knew what he was about, and intended to stay," mused Steele.

Early the following morning the "decent sort of broncho," with its bridle reins tied to the pommel of the saddle, was discovered in front of Steele’s shack, pawing the snow in an ineffectual attempt to get a breakfast. Bill Travers, returning with the stage, according to request, drove the beast ahead of him down to the first ranch, and, taking off saddle and bridle, turned it into a large corral with dozens of other horses to winter. In the spring one by one the owners would straggle along, identify their horses and saddles, pay their bills, and depart for the mountains.

The owner of the ranch pitched the saddle under a shed, and thought no more about the transaction. Bill Travers, whirling his whip over the backs of his four stage horses, gave the stranger and his horse no more thought. Society Bill, having disseminated his news among the other miners, presently forgot it. But Amos Steele neither forgot nor ceased to speculate.

"Who is he, and what is he doing on the Creek?" Steele asked himself.

The first part of the question Ross answered the following Sunday. He could scarcely wait to open the door before announcing:

"Lon Weston is over on the Creek. He is cousin to the McKenzies!"