oung he was, almost boyish; yet counterbalancing this was a
seriousness of expression that almost approached somberness as he stood
waiting until his machine should be made ready for the continuance of
his journey. The eyes were dark and lustrous with something that
closely approached sorrow, the lips had a tightness about them which
gave evidence of the pressure of suffering, all forming an expression
which seemed to come upon him unaware, a hidden thing ever waiting for
the chance to rise uppermost and assume command. But in a flash it was
gone, and boyish again, he had turned, laughing, to survey the gas
tender.

"Did you speak?" he asked, the dark eyes twinkling. The villager was
in front of the machine, staring at the plate of the radiator and
scratching his head.

"I was just sayin' I never seed that kind o' car before. Barry
Houston, huh? Must be a new make. I--"

"Camouflage," laughed the young man again. "That's my name."

"Oh, is it?" and the villager chuckled with him. "It shore had me
guessin' fer a minute. You've got th' plate right where th' name o' a
car is plastered usually, and it plum fooled me. That's your name,
huh? Live hereabouts--?"

The owner of the name did not answer. The thought suddenly had come to
him that once out of the village, that plate must be removed and tossed
to the bottom of the nearest stream. His mission, for a time at least,
would require secrecy. But the villager had repeated his question:

"Don't belong around here?"

"I? No, I'm--" then he hesitated.

"Thought maybe you did. Seein' you've got a Colorado license on."

Houston parried, with a smile.

"Well, this isn't all of Colorado, you know."

"Guess that's right. Only it seems in th' summer thet it's most o' it,
th' way th' machines pile through, goin' over th' Pass. Where you
headed for?"

"The same place."

"Over Hazard?" The villager squinted. "Over Hazard Pass? Ain't daft,
are you?"

"I hope not. Why?"

"Ever made it before?"

"No."

"And you're tacklin' it for the first time at this season o' th' year?"

"Yes. Why not? It's May, isn't it?"

The villager moved closer, as though to gain a better sight of Barry
Houston's features. He surveyed him carefully, from the tight-drawn
reversed cap with the motor goggles resting above the young, smooth
forehead, to the quiet elegance of the outing clothing and well-shod
feet. He spat, reflectively, and drew the back of a hand acr