In the deepening shadows of the evening Hope and the breed boy rode rapidly toward the camp, hungry for the long-delayed supper.

"Dan staked me to his share of the coyotes, so you may have them," said the girl.

"Seven pups an' the old one!" exclaimed Dave; "that's better'n huntin' chickens."

"And supper just now is better than anything," sighed Hope to herself. The boy heard, but did not reply, his mind being busy with a mathematical problem.

"How much is eight times four dollars, an' seventy-five cents for the hide?" he asked.

"That's a little example I'll let you work out for yourself," replied his teacher. "You're awfully stupid in arithmetic, Dave, and it's too bad, for in cases of coyotes' bounty and so forth it would be a pretty good thing for you to know. You hurry up and figure that out, for to-morrow you're going to get a hard one. It's this: If a Gatling gun fires two thousand shots a minute how many can it fire in half an hour?"

"Whew! you don't expect anybody to answer that, do you?" exclaimed the boy.

"Oh, that's easy," she laughed. "If you can't figure it out yourself you might ask old Peter or Long Bill, maybe they'd know."

The boy rode along, his thoughts absorbed in a brown study. At length he sighed and looked up.

"Well, anyway, it'll be enough to buy a horse or a new saddle with." Then as though struck with a sudden thought he asked: "Say, what made Dan give you his share of them coyotes?" She suppressed a faint inclination to smile.

"Perhaps he gave up as I did, and thought there was nothing there. Old Peter said he knew there wasn't. But it's just possible Dan wanted to be generous. Don't you think so?"

"Not Dan!" exclaimed the boy. "There ain't one chance in a million he'd ever give such snap as that away! I reckon," he concluded after some studying, "he must 'a' thought that den was empty an' was goin' to pay me back. Ain't I got it on him now, though!"

"And instead of being paid back you are getting both shares of the coyote bounty, and you know you don't deserve it. What are you going to do about it?"

"You bet he ain't a-goin' to get none of it!" was the emphatic reply; to which the girl had nothing to say.

In a few moments they came in sight of Sydney's camp. From out of the small stove-pipe of the first of the two tents rolled a volume of smoke, and across the narrow brush-covered valley came the delicious odor of cooking food. Simultaneously the two riders urged on their horses to a faster gait, for Hope at least was hungry. It is safe to say that the breed boy was in the same condition, and this invitation out to supper pleased him mightily. He was a large, stolidly built lad of fourteen years, and like all boys of that age, whether stolidly built or slender as a sapling, was always hungry.

"I'll bet I can eat the whole shootin' match," he declared, actually believing that he spoke the truth.

"I think the meal is prepared for hungry people," replied Hope, heartily agreeing with the boy's sentiments. "And I hope they have waited for us. But for goodness' sake be careful not to make yourself sick, Dave!"

The camp was pitched in an open flat beside a small sparkling mountain stream. Upon one side of the creek was brush-covered bottom land, through which the riders followed a winding trail, dim in the semi-darkness. Then they splashed across the creek, and rode up its steep bank into the clear, grass-covered government dooryard of the campers.

"Well, at last!" called a voice from the tent. "The posse was just getting ready to go in search of you. Thought the chickens must have lured you away. Come right in, the feast is prepared!"

"All right, Syd," called the girl happily, dismounting almost in the arms of old Jim McCullen, her dear "father Jim," to whom she gave the heartiest handshake he had ever received.

"Oh, I'm so glad you're back!" she exclaimed as he led her horse away to stake it out. "How's everything at home—the dogs and horses, and everything? Never mind the people! I don't want to hear a single thing about them! We're late, Syd," she apologized, as her cousin held open the tent flap for her to enter, "but oh, we've had such a stack of fun!"

She greeted the little English cook, an old acquaintance, who beamed with smiles as she entered. Then she cast her dark eyes about the tent and encountered those of Livingston.

"We were beginning to fear for your safety, Miss Hathaway," he said to her, then wondered why she should laugh. And she did laugh loudly, with a clear, sweet, reverberant ring that echoed through the little valley. Before it had died away her face settled back into its natural quiet. She threw her cowboy's hat into a far corner, and seated herself on a case of canned goods opposite Livingston, to whom she immediately devoted herself.

She was not bold, this slender, well-built girl of the prairies,—no one who knew her could conceive such an idea,—but she moved with a forwardness, a certain freedom of manner that was her own divine right. Whatever she did, whatever she said, appeared right in her—in another less graceful, less charming, less magnetic, it would in many instances seem gross boldness. But with her wonderful, forceful personality whatever she did or said was the embodiment of grace and right.

Many of her acquaintances aped her ways and little peculiarities of speech, to the utter ruination of any originality or fascination they may have themselves possessed, for such originality cannot be imitated.

She leaned nearer to Livingston.

"You should have been with us—we've had a great time! Just think, we got eight coyotes! Isn't that fine for one evening?"

"Indeed," he exclaimed, "I think that remarkable! Your cousin said that something of the kind was keeping you. I take it that you are passionately fond of hunting."

"Yes, it is the greatest sport there is in this country, and where the hunting is good, as it is at home along the Missouri River, there is nothing like it. But up here there is really no game to speak of, though the mountains at one time abounded with it. Even chickens are as hard to find as a needle in a haystack. We found a den of coyotes, seven little ones, and one of the old ones we got with the help of the dogs. You know," she said confidentially, "I shouldn't have delayed this supper for anything less than a den of coyotes."

"There won't be the sign of any kind of game left up here by the time she leaves," remarked Sydney, taking a seat on the ground beside her.

"I heard tell as how she was tryin' to make a clearance," said old Jim McCullen from the entrance.

She flashed him a quick look of surprise. He answered it with a barely perceptible squint, which she understood from years of comradeship to mean that he shared her secret. It meant more than that. He not only shared her secret, but his right hand—his life—was at her disposal, if necessary. Then, in acknowledgment of his silent message she gave him one of her rare, glorious smiles.

"You did make a pretty lively clearing," said her cousin. "Eight coyotes isn't so bad. That means numerous calves saved, young colts, a hundred or so sheep, not to mention innumerable wild birds and barnyard fowl."

"Truly, it makes us feel like conquerors, doesn't it, Dave? But we're famished, Syd!" Then placing her seat beside the table she motioned the others to join her, and soon they were enjoying a remarkably good camp supper.

The cook bustled about the tent, pouring out coffee, apologizing, praising this dish or that, and urging them to partake of more, all in one breath.

Sydney and his friend Livingston kept up the conversation, to which Hope listened, too contented and happy with the meal, the hour, and the company to enter it herself. She finally pushed back her plate, congratulated the cook upon the success of his supper, and gave the twin a warning look, which he completely ignored.

"Here, take another piece o' this pie," said the cook, who had intercepted the girl's glance. At this invitation the boy helped himself with alacrity, and with a broad smile the cook continued: "I never knowed a boy yet to kill himself eatin'. You can fill 'em plumb full to the brim, an' in a 'alf hour they're lookin' fer more. All the same, dog er Injun, halways hungry; an' a boy's just the same."

"Eat all you want, youngster, you're not in school now," said Carter. "I have a slight recollection myself of a time when I had an appetite."

"I failed to notice anything wrong with it to-night, Sydney," remarked the girl.

"There's nothin' like a happetite," observed the cook. "Did you's ever hear the meaning hoff the word? This is how hit was told to me." He stood before them emphasizing each word with a forward shake of his first finger. "H-a-p-p-y,—happy,—t-i-t-e, tight,—happy—tite—that's right, ain't hit? When you're heatin' hall you want you're tight, an' then you're happy, ain't you? An' that's what hit means,—happy-tight."

Whether this observation of the small English cook's was original or not those present had no way of ascertaining. But since this was but a sample of the many observations he aired each day, it is reasonable to suppose that it originated in his fertile brain.

"I think there's no doubt about that being the true derivation of the word," said Hope. "In fact, I am sure it is. Isn't it, Dave?"

"I don't know nothin' about it," said the boy, looking up from his last bite of pie; then giving a deep sigh he reluctantly moved away from the table.

"Well, I can guarantee that you're happy," said Hope, "and that is a positive demonstration of the truth of William's observation. But now we must go," she said, rising abruptly and picking up her hat from the corner of the tent.

"You haven't been here a half hour yet, Hopie, but I suppose I must be thankful for small favors," deplored Carter.

"I've had my supper,—a nice one, too,—and that's what I came for, Syd, dear," said the girl. "And if I may, I will come again, until you and dear old Jim both get tired of me."

"Get tired—fiddlesticks!" exclaimed McCullen, while Sydney laughed a little, and left the tent to saddle her horse. The breed boy followed him; then Livingston, too, was about to leave when McCullen stopped him.

"Just stay in here by the fire and talk to Hopie till we get your horses," he said, abruptly leaving them together.

The girl drew nearer the stove.

"It's quite chilly out this evening," she remarked.

"That is the beauty of the nights in this northern country," he replied, coming near to her.

"Why, we're alone," she observed. "I wonder where William went!"

"I didn't notice his disappearance," he replied. "But we are alone—together. Are you not frightened?"

"Frightened? No!" she said softly. "Why?"

"A senseless remark. Do not notice it—or anything, I beg of you. I am quite too happy to weigh my words."

"Then you have proved the cook's theory correct; providing you have eaten—sufficiently," she replied. They both smiled, and darts of light from the stove played about their faces.

"Will you allow me—this night—to ride home with you?" he asked, watching the fantastic shadows upon her face and catching gleams of her deep eyes as they occasionally sought his own.

She hesitated a moment before replying.

"You think me a strange girl," she said. "I wonder what you will think of me now if I refuse this."

"I think nothing except that you are the sweetest girl I have ever known—and the noblest. I thank my Maker for having met you, and spoken with you, and sat here in the firelight beside you! Your ways are your own. I shall not—cannot question you, or impose myself upon you. Our lives, it seems, lie far apart. But I cannot help it—the words burn themselves out—I love you, Hope—I love you! Forgive me!" He raised her hand to his lips and left her standing alone in the firelight.

"He loves me," she thought, far into the quiet hours of the night. "He loves me, and yet he ran away from me!"