Dismounting before her cabin, Patty dropped her reins, pushed open the door, and entered. Her eyes flew to the little dressing table. The packet was gone! With a thrill of exultation she carefully inspected the room. Everything was exactly as she had left it. No blundering Microby had been here during her absence, for well she knew that Microby could no more have invaded the cabin without leaving traces of her visit than she could have flown to the moon. It was midday. She had intended to rest when she reached the cabin, but her impatience to establish once for all the identity of the cunning prowler dispelled her weariness, and after a hurried luncheon, she was once more in the saddle. "We've both earned a good rest, old fellow," she confided to her horse, as he threaded the coulee she had marked 1 NW, "but it's only six or seven miles, and we simply must know who it is that has been calling on us so persistently. And when I find daddy's mine and have just oodles of money, I'm going to make it up to you for working you so hard. You're going to have a nice, big, light, roomy box stall, and a great big grassy pasture with a creek running through it, and you're going to have oats three times a day, and you're never going to have to work any more, and every day I'll saddle you myself and we'll take a ride just for fun."

Having disposed of her horse's future in this eminently satisfactory manner, the girl fell to planning her own. She would build a big house and live in Middleton, and fairly flaunt her gold in the faces of those who had scoffed at her father—no, she hated Middleton! She would go there once in a while, to visit Aunt Rebecca, but mainly to show the narrow, hide-bound natives what they had missed by not backing her father with a few of their miserable dollars. She would live in New York—in Washington—in Los Angeles. No, she would live right here in the hills—the hills, that daddy had loved, and whose secret he had wrested from their silent embrace. And when she tired of the hills she would travel. Not the slightest doubt as to her ability to locate her father's claim assailed her, now that she had learned to read his map.

It was wonderfully good to be alive. Her glance traveled from the tiny creek whose shallow waters purled and burbled about her horse's feet, to the high-flung peaks of the mountains, their loftier reaches rearing naked and craggy above the dark green girdle of pines. Slowly and majestically, hardly more than a speck against the blue, an eagle soared. It was a good world—courage and perseverance made things work out right. It was cowardly to despair—to become disheartened. She would find her father's mine—but, first she would prove that Bethune was a scoundrel of the deepest dye. And she would prove, she admitted to herself she wanted to prove, that Vil Holland was all his friends believed him to be. But, she blushed with shame—what must he think of her? Of her defense of Bethune, of her deliberate rudeness, and worst of all, of her night ride with the horse-thieves? He knew she had suspected him—had even accused him. Would he ever regard her as other than a silly fool? Vividly she pictured him as he had looked lashing his way to her through the wildly crowding horse herd, determined, capable, masterful—and wondered vaguely what her answer would have been had he made love to her as Bethune had done? She smiled at the thought of Vil Holland, the unsmiling, the outspoken, the self-sufficient Vil Holland making love!

Upon the summit of a high ridge she paused and gazed down into the little valley where she had located the false claim. A few moments more and she would know to a certainty the identity of the prowler who had repeatedly searched her cabin. Certain as she was whose stakes she would find marking the claim, it was with a rapidly beating heart that she urged her horse into the valley and across the creek toward the rock wall. Yes, there was a stake! And another! And there was the plot of ground she had laboriously broken at the foot of the wall. She swung from the saddle and examined the spot. The rock fragments she had selected from her father's samples were gone! And now to find the notice! As she turned to search for the other stakes, her glance rested upon an object that held her rooted in her tracks. For a moment her heart stopped beating as she stared at the little patch of gray buckskin that lay limp and neglected where it had fallen. Slowly she walked to it, stooped, and recovered it from the ground. It was a gauntleted riding glove—Vil Holland's. She could not be mistaken, she had seen that glove upon the hand of its owner too many times, with its deep buckskin fringe, and the horseshoe embroidered in red and green silk upon its back.

For a long time she stared at the green and red horseshoe. So it was Vil Holland, after all, and not Monk Bethune, who had systematically searched her cabin. Vil Holland, who had watched continually from his notch in the hills. She had been right in the first place, and the others had been wrong. Everybody disliked Bethune, and disliking him, had attributed to him all the crookedness of the hill country, and all the time, under their very noses, Vil Holland was the real plotter—and they liked him! She could see it all, now—how, with Bethune for the scapegoat, he was enabled, unsuspected, to plan and carry out his various schemes, and with no possible chance of detection—for he himself was the confidential employee of the ranchmen—the man whose business it was to put an end to the lawlessness of the hill country.

Patty was surprised that she was not angry. Indeed, she was not conscious of any emotion. She realized, as she stood there holding the gaily embroidered glove in her hand, that the rapture, the gladness of mere existence had left her, and that where only a few minutes before, her heart had throbbed with the very joy of living, it now seemed like a thing of weight, whose heaviness oppressed her. She felt strangely alone and helpless. She glanced about her. The sun still shone on the green pines and the sparkling waters of the creek, and above the high-tossed crags the eagle still circled, but the thrill of joy in these things was gone. Slowly she turned and, still holding the glove, mounted, and headed for the cabin on Monte's Creek.

At the door she unsaddled her horse, hobbled him, and turned him loose. She realized that she was very tired, and threw herself down upon the bunk. When she awoke the cabin was in darkness. The door stood wide open as she had left it. For a moment she lay trying to collect her bewildered senses. Through the open door, dimly silhouetted against the starry sky, she made out the notch in the valley rim. Her sense rallied with a rush, and she started nervously as a pack rat scurried across the floor and paused upon the door sill to peer inquisitively at her with his beady eyes. Crossing the room, she closed and barred the door, and lighted the lamp. It was twelve o'clock. She peered at herself in the glass and with an exclamation of anger, dampened her wash-cloth and scrubbed furiously at her cheek where, in deep tracery appeared the perfect shape of a horseshoe.

She was very hungry, and rummaging in the cupboard set out a cold lunch which she devoured to the last crumb. Then she blew out the lamp and, removing her riding boots, threw herself down upon the bunk to think. She was angry now, and the longer she thought the angrier she got. "I can see it all as plain as day," she muttered. "There isn't anything he wouldn't do! He did cut that pack sack, and he ran the sheep man out of the hills because he knew it would be dangerous for him to have a neighbor that might talk. And the Samuelson horse raid! Of all the diabolical plotting! With his outlaw friends holding trusted positions on the ranch, and old Mr. Samuelson sick in bed! Oh, it was cleverly planned! And that Pierce was right in with them. No wonder he wanted to lock me in his cellar!

"Who, then, was the man that lay sprawled by the side of the trail?" The girl shuddered at the memory of the cheap cotton shirt torn open at the throat, and the moonlight shining whitely upon the bare leg. "Some loyal rancher, probably, who dared to oppose the outlaws. It's murder!" she cried aloud. "And yesterday I thought he was watching up there in the hills to see that no harm came to me!" She laughed—a hard, bitter laugh that held as much of mirth as the gurgle of a tide rip. "But he's come to the end of his rope! I'll expose him! I'm not afraid of his lawless crew! He'll find out it will take more than rescuing me from that herd of wild horses to buy my silence! I'll ride straight to Samuelson's ranch in the morning, and from there to Thompson's, and I'll tell them about his part in the raid, and about his watching like a vulture from his notch in the hills, and about his stealing what he thought was daddy's map, and about his filing the claim. And did show 'em the glove and—" She paused abruptly: "What a fool I was to come away without the notice! That would have proved it beyond any doubt, even if he hasn't recorded the claim!" For a long time she lay in the darkness planning her course for the day. All thought of sleep had vanished, and her eyes continually sought the window for signs of approaching light.

At the first faint glow of dawn the girl caught up her horse and headed for the false claim. It was but the work of a moment to locate the stake to which the notice was attached by means of a bit of twine. Removing the paper, she thrust it into her pocket and returned to the cabin where she ate breakfast before starting for the Samuelson ranch. Hurriedly washing the dishes, she picked up the glove and thrust it into the bosom of her shirt, and drawing the crumpled notice from her pocket, smoothed it out upon the table. Her glance traveled rapidly over the penciled words to the signature, and she stared like one in a dream. The blood left her face. She closed her eyes and passed her hand slowly over the lids. She opened them, and with a nerveless finger, touched the paper as if to make sure that it was real. Then, very slowly, she rose from her chair and crossing the room, stood in the doorway and gazed toward the notch in the hills until hot tears welled into her eyes and blurred the distant skyline. The next moment she was upon her bunk, where she lay shaken between fits of sobbing and hysterical laughter. She drew the glove, with its fringed gauntlet and its gaudily embroidered horseshoe from her shirt front and ran her fingers along its velvety softness. Impulsively, passionately, she pressed the horseshoe to her lips, and leaping to her feet, thrust the glove inside her shirt and stepping lightly to the table reread the penciled lines upon the crumpled paper, and over and over again she read the signature; Raoul Bethune, known also as Monk Bethune.

The atmosphere of the little cabin seemed stifling. Crumpling the paper into her pocket, she stepped out the door. She must do something—go some place—talk to someone! Her horse stood saddled where she had left him, and catching up the reins she mounted and headed him at a gallop for the ravine that led to the trampled notch in the hills. During the long upward climb the girl managed to collect her scattered wits. Where should she go? She breathed deeply of the pine-laden air. It was still early morning. A pair of magpies flitted in short flights from tree to tree along the trail, scolding incessantly as they waited to be frightened on to the next tree. Patches of sunlight flashed vivid contrasts in their black and white plumage, and set off in a splendor of changing color the green and purple and bronze of their iridescent feathering. A deer bounded away in a blur of tan and white, and a little farther on, a porcupine lumbered lazily into the scrub. It was good to be alive! What difference did it make which direction she chose? All she wanted this morning was to ride, and ride, and ride! She had her father's map with her but was in no mood to study out its intricacies, nor to ride slowly up and down little valleys, scrutinizing rock ledges. She would visit the Samuelson ranch, and find out about the horse raid, and inquire after Mr. Samuelson, and then—well, there would be plenty of time to decide what to do then. But first, she would swing around by the little tent beside the creek and see if Vil Holland had returned. Surely, he must have returned by this time, and she must tell him how it was she had been riding with the horses—and, she must give him back his glove. She blushed as she felt the pressure of its soft bulk where it rested just below her heart. Surely, he would need his glove—and maybe, if she were nice to him, he would tell her how it came to be there—and maybe he would explain—this. Her horse had stopped voluntarily after his steep climb, and she glanced down at the trampled grass, and from that to her own little cabin far below on Monte's Creek.

She wondered, as she rode through the timber how it was she had been so quick to doubt this grave, unsmiling hillman upon such a mere triviality as the finding of a glove. And then she wondered at her changed attitude toward him. She had feared him at first, then despised him. And now—she recalled with a thrill, the lean ruggedness of him, the unwavering eyes and the unsmiling lips—now, at least, she respected him, and she no longer wondered why the people of the hills and the people of the town held him in regard. She knew that he had never sought to curry her favor—had never deviated a hair's breadth from the even tenor of his way in order to win her regard and, in their chance conversations, he had been blunt even to rudeness. And, yet, against her will, her opinion of him had changed. And this change had nothing whatever to do with her timely rescue from the horse herd—it had been gradual, so gradual that it had been an accomplished fact even before she suspected that any change was taking place.

The huge rock behind which nestled the little tent loomed before her, and hastily removing the glove from its hiding place, she came suddenly upon his camp. A blackened coffee pot was nestled close against a tiny fire upon which a pair of trout and some strips of bacon sizzled in a frying pan. She glanced toward the creek, at the same moment that Vil Holland turned at the sound of her horse's footsteps, and for several seconds they faced each other in silence. The man was the first to speak:

"Good mornin'. If you'll step back around that rock for a minute, I'll slip into my shirt."

And suddenly Patty realized that he was stripped to the waist, but her eyes never left the point high on his upper arm, almost against the shoulder, where a blood-stained bandage dangled untidily.

"You're hurt!" she cried, swinging from the saddle and running toward him.

"Nothin' but a scratch. I got nicked a little, night before last, an' I just now got time to do it up again. It don't amount to anything—don't even hurt, to speak of. I can let that go, if you'll just——"

"Well, I won't just go away—or just anything else, except just attend to that wound—so there!" She was at his side, examining the clumsy bandage. "Sit right down beside the creek, and I'll look at it. The first thing is to find out how badly you're hurt."

"It ain't bad. Looks a lot worse than it is. It was an unhandy place to tie up, left-handed."

Scooping up water in her hand Patty applied it to the bandage, and after repeating the process several times, began very gently to remove the cloth. "Why it's clear through!" she cried, as the bandage came away and exposed the wound.

"Just through the meat—it missed the bone. That cold water feels good. It was gettin' kind of stiff."

"What did you put on it?"

"Nothin'. Didn't have anything along, an' wouldn't have had time to fool with it if I'd been packin' a whole drug-store."

"Where's your whisky?"

"I ain't got any."

"Where's your jug? Surely there must be some in it—enough to wash out this wound."

The man shook his head. "No, the jug's plumb empty an' dry. I ain't be'n to town for 'most a week."

Patty was fumbling at her saddle for the little "first aid" kit that she faithfully carried, and until this moment, had never found use for. "Probably the only time in the world it would ever do you any good, you haven't got it!" she exclaimed, disgustedly, as she unrolled a strip of gauze from about a tiny box of salve.

"I'm sorry there ain't any whisky in the jug. I never thought of keepin' it for accident."

The girl smeared the wound full of salve and adjusted the bandage, "Now," she said, authoritatively, "you're going to eat your breakfast and then we're going to ride straight to Samuelson's ranch. The doctor will be there and he can dress this wound right."

"It's all right, just the way it is," said Holland. "I've seen fellows done up in bandages, one way an' another, but not any that was better 'tended to than that." He glanced approvingly at the neatly bandaged arm. "Anyhow, this is nothin' but a scratch an' it'll be all healed up, chances are, before we could get to Samuelson's."

"No, it won't be all healed up before you get to Samuelson's either! Run along, now, and I'll stay here while you finish dressing, and when you're through, you call me. I've had breakfast but I can drink a cup of coffee, if you'll ask me."

"You're asked," the man replied, gravely, "and while I go to the tent, you might take that outfit an' jerk a couple more trout out of the creek." He pointed to a light fishing pole with hook and line attached that leaned against a tree. "It ain't as fancy as the outfit Len Christie packs, but it works just as good, an' ain't any bother to take care of."

A few minutes later Vil Holland emerged from the tent. "Sorry I ain't got a table," he apologized, "but a fryin' pan outfit's always suited me best—makes a fellow feel kind of free to pull stakes an' drift when the notion hits him."

"But, you've camped here for a long time."

The man glanced about him: "Yes, a long time. I guess I know every place in the hills for a hundred miles round an' this is the pick of 'em all, accordin' to my notions. Plenty of natural pasture, plenty of timber, an' this little creek's the coldest, an' it always seems to me, its water is the sparklin'est of 'em all. An' then, away off there towards the big mountains, early in the mornin' an' late in the evenin', when it's all kind of dim down here, you can see the sunlight on the snow—purple, an' pink, an' sometimes it shines like silver an' gold. It lays fine for a ranch. Sometime, maybe, I'm goin' to homestead it. I'll build the cabin right there, close by the big rock, an' I'll build a porch on it so in the evenin's we could watch the lights way up there on the snow."

Patty smiled: "Who is 'we'?" she asked, mischievously.

The man regarded her gravely: "Things like that works themselves out. If there ain't any 'we', there won't be any cabin—so there's nothin' to worry about."

"Did you catch the horse-thieves?"

Vil Holland's face clouded. "Part of 'em. Not the main ones, though."

Patty shuddered. "I saw one of them lying back there by the trail. It was horrible."

"Yes, an' a couple of more went the same way, further on. We'd rather have got 'em alive, but they'd had their orders, an' they took their medicine. We got the horses, though."

"I suppose you're wondering how I came to be in among those horses?"

"I figured you'd got mixed up in it at Samuelson's, somehow. The boys didn't know nothin' about it—except Pierce—an' he guessed wrong."

Patty laughed. "He accused me of being one of the gang, and even threatened to lock me in his cellar."

"He won't again," announced the man, dryly.

"I rode down there to get him to go for the doctor. Mr. Samuelson was worse, and there was no one else to go. And when I started on for town, the horses swept down on me and carried me along with them."

"Was the doctor got?" asked Holland with sudden interest.

"Yes, I rode on down to Thompson's, and Mr. Thompson sent a man to town. He was provoked with you for not letting him in on the raid."

"He'll get over it. You see, I didn't want to call out the married men. I surmised there'd be gun-play an' there wasn't any use takin' chances with men that was needed, when there's plenty of us around the hills that it don't make any difference to anyone if we come back or not. I didn't figure on lettin' Pierce in."

When they had finished washing the dishes the girl glanced toward the buckskin that was snipping grass in the clearing: "It's time we were going. The doctor may start for town this morning and we'll meet him on the trail."

"This ain't a doctor's job," protested the man. "My arm feels fine."

"It's so stiff you can hardly use it. It must feel fine. But it doesn't make a particle of difference how fine it feels. It needs attention. And, surely you won't refuse to do this for me, after I bandaged it all up? Because, if anything should go wrong it would be my fault."

Without a word the man picked up his bridle and walking to the buckskin, slipped it over his head and led him in. He saddled the horse with one hand, and as he turned toward the girl she held out the glove.

"Isn't this yours? I found it last evening—out in the hills."

Holland thrust his hand into it: "Yes, it's mine. I'm sure obliged to you. I lost it a couple of days ago. I hate to break in new gloves. These have got a feel to 'em."

"Do you know where I found it?"

"No. Couldn't guess within twenty miles or so."

Patty looked him squarely in the eyes: "I found it over where Monk Bethune has just staked a claim. And he staked that particular claim because it was the spot I had indicated on a map that I prepared especially for the benefit of the man who has been searching my cabin all summer."

Holland nodded gravely, without showing the slightest trace of surprise. "Oh, that's where I dropped it, eh? I figured Monk thought he'd found somethin', the way he come out of your cabin the last time he searched it, so I followed him to the place you'd salted for him." He paused, and for the first time since she had known him, Patty thought she detected a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "He didn't waste much time there—just clawed around a few minutes where you'd pecked up the dirt, an' then sunk his stakes, an' wrote out his notice, an' high-tailed for the register's office. That was a pretty smart trick of yours but it wouldn't have fooled anyone that knows rock. Bethune's no prospector. He's a Canada crook—whisky runner, an' cattle rustler, an' gambler. Somehow, he'd got a suspicion that your father made a strike he'd never filed, an' he's been tryin' to get holt of it ever since. I looked your plant over after he'd hit for town to file, an' when I tumbled to the game, I let him go ahead."

"But, suppose the rock had been right? Suppose, it had really been daddy's claim?"

"Buck can run rings around that cayuse of his any old day. I expect, if the rock had be'n right, Monk Bethune would of met up with an adventure of some sort a long ways before he hit town."

"You knew he was searching my cabin all the time?"

"Yes, I knew that. But, I saw you was a match for 'em—him an' the fake Lord, too."

"Is that the reason you threw Lord Clendenning into the creek, that day?"

"Yes, that was the reason. I come along an' caught him at it. Comical, wasn't it? I 'most laughed. I saw you slip back into the brush, but I'd got so far along with it I couldn't help finishin'. You thought the wrong man got throw'd in."

"You knew I thought that of you—and you didn't hate me?"

"Yes, I knew what you thought. You thought it was me that was searchin' your cabin, too. An' of course I didn't hate you because you couldn't hardly help figurin' that way after you'd run onto the place in the rim-rocks where I watched from. If it wasn't for the trees I could have strung along in a different place each time, but that's the only spot that your cabin shows up from."

"And you knew that they always followed me through the hills?"

"Yes, an' they wasn't the only ones that followed. Clendenning ain't as bad as Bethune, for all he's throw'd in with him. The days Bethune followed you, I followed Bethune. An' when Clendenning followed you, I prospected, mostly."

"You thought Bethune might have—have attacked me?"

"I wasn't takin' any chances—not with him, I wasn't. One day, I thought for a minute he was goin' to try it. It was the day you an' him et lunch together—when he pretended to be so surprised at runnin' onto you. I laid behind a rock with a bead draw'd on him. He stopped just exactly one step this side of hell, that day."

Patty regarded the cowboy thoughtfully: "And Bethune told me he had to go over onto the east slope to see about some horses. It was after we had met Pierce, and Bethune asked about Mr. Samuelson and Pierce snubbed him. I believe Bethune planned that raid. And seeing us together that day, Pierce jumped to the conclusion that I was in with him."

"Yes, it was Monk's raid, all right, an' him an' Clendenning got away. He doped it all out that day. I followed him when he quit you there on the trail, an' watched him plan out the route they'd take with the horses. Then I done some plannin' of my own. That's why we was able to head 'em off so handy. We didn't get Bethune an' Clendenning but I'll get 'em yet."

They had mounted and were riding toward Samuelson's. "Maybe he's made his escape across the line," ventured the girl, after a long silence.

Holland shook his head: "No, he ain't across the line. He don't think we savvy he was in on the raid, an' he'll stick around the hills an' prob'ly put a crew to work on his claim." He relapsed into silence, and as they rode side by side, under the cover of her hat brim, Patty found opportunity to study the lean brown face.

"Where's your gun?" The man asked the question abruptly, without removing his eyes from the fore-trail.

"I left it home. I only carried it once or twice. It's heavy, and anyway it was silly to carry it, I don't even know how to fire it, let alone hit anything."

"If it's too heavy on your belt you can carry it on your saddle horn. I'll show you how to use it—an' how to shoot where you hold it, too. Mrs. Samuelson ain't as husky as you are, an' she can wipe a gnat's eye with a six-gun, either handed. Practice is all it takes, an'——"

"But, why should I carry it? Bethune would hardly dare harm me, and anyway, now that he thinks he has stolen my secret, he wouldn't have any object in doing so."

"You're goin' to keep on huntin' your dad's claim, ain't you?"

"Of course I am! And I'll find it, too."

"An', in the meantime, what if Bethune finds out he's been tricked? These French breeds go crazy when they're mad—an' he'll either lay for you just to get even, or he'll see that he gets the right dope next time—an' maybe you know what that means, an' maybe you don't—but I do."

The girl nodded, and as the horses scrambled up the steep slope of a low divide, her eyes sought the hundred and one hiding places among the loose rocks and scrub that might easily conceal a lurking enemy, and she shuddered. As they topped the divide, both reined in and sat gazing silently down the little valley before them. It was the place of their first meeting, when the girl, tired, and lost and discouraged, had dismounted upon that very spot and watched the unknown horseman with his six-shooter, and his brown leather jug slowly ascend the slope. She glanced at him now, as he sat, rugged and lean, with his eyes on the little valley. He was just the same, grave and unsmiling, as upon the occasion of their first meeting. She noticed that he held his Stetson in his hand, and that the wind rippled his hair. "Just the same," she thought—and yet—. She was aware that her heart was pounding strangely, and that instead of a fear of this man, she was conscious of a wild desire to throw herself into his arms and cry with her face against the bandage that bulged the shirt sleeve just below the shoulder.

"I call this Lost Creek," said Holland, without turning his head. "I come here often—" and added, confusedly, "It's a short cut from my camp to the trail."

Patty felt an overpowering desire to laugh. She tried to think of something to say: "I—I thought you were a desperado," she murmured, and giggled nervously.

"An' I thought you was a schoolma'am. I guess I was the first to change my mind, at that."

Patty felt herself blushing furiously for no reason at all: "But—I have changed my mind—or I wouldn't be here, now."

Vil Holland nodded: "I expect I'll ride to town from Samuelson's. My jug's empty, an' I guess I might's well file that homestead 'fore someone else beats me to it. I've got a hunch maybe I'll be rollin' up that cabin—before snow flies."