the mountain girl who
was so naturally unafraid, feared this man who, in his own world, was an
acknowledged authority upon matters of the highest spiritual and moral
significance.

That night, she slept but little. With the morning, every nerve demanded
action, action. She felt as though if she could not spend herself in
physical exertion she would go mad. Taking her lunch, and telling her
companion that she was going for a good, full day with the trout; she was
starting off, when the woman called her back.

"You have forgotten Mr. Oakley's warning, dear. You are not to go unarmed,
you know."

"Oh, bother that old convict, Brian Oakley is so worried about," cried the
girl. "I don't like to carry a gun when I am fishing. It's only an extra
load." But, never-the-less, as she spoke, she went back to the porch;
where Myra Willard handed her a belt of cartridges, with a serviceable
Colt revolver in the holster. There was no hint of awkwardness when the
girl buckled the belt about her waist and settled the holster in its place
at her hip.

"You will be careful, won't you, dear," said the woman, earnestly.

Lifting her face for another good-by kiss, the girl answered, "Of course,
dear mother heart." Then, with a laugh--"I'll agree to shoot the first man
I meet, and identify him afterwards--if it will make you easier in your
mind. You won't worry, will you?"

Myra Willard smiled. "Not a bit, child. I know how Brian Oakley loves you,
and he says that he has no fear for you if you are armed. He takes great
chances himself, that man, but he would send us back to Fairlands, in a
minute, if he thought you were in any danger in your rambles."

Beside the roaring Clear Creek, Sibyl seated self upon a great
boulder--her rod and flies neglected--apparently unmindful of the purpose
that had brought her to the stream. Her eyes were not upon the swirling
pool at her feet, but were lifted to a spot, a thousand feet up on Oak
Knoll, where she knew the pipe-line trail lay, and where Croesus had made
the momentous decision that had resulted in her comradeship with Aaron
King. Following the canyon wall with her eyes--as though in her mind she
walked the thread-like path--from Oak Knoll to the fire-break a mile from
the reservoir; her gaze then traced the crest of the Galenas, resting
finally upon that clump of pines high up on the point that was so clearly
marked against the sky. Once, she laid aside her rod, and slipped the
creel from