ne was
stirring.

The sky was unshaded by a single cloud. Tresler was tired, stiff, and
consumed by a sponge-like thirst, for he was unused to long hours in
the saddle. And he had found a dreary monotony in riding over the
endless prairie lands of the West.

Now he found himself surrounded by an uncertain circle of wooden
houses. None of them suggested luxury, but after the heaving rollers
of grass-land they suggested companionship and life. And just now that
was all the horseman cared about.

He surveyed each house in turn, searching for a single human face. And
at last he beheld a window full of faces staring curiously at him from
the far side of the circle. It was enough. Touching his jaded horse's
flanks he rode over toward it.

Further life appeared now in the form of a small man who edged shyly
round the angle of the building and stood gazing at him. The stranger
was a queer figure. His face was as brown as the surface of a prairie
trail and just as scored with ruts. His long hair and flowing beard
were the color of matured hay. His dress was simple and in keeping
with his face; moleskin trousers, worn and soiled, a blue serge shirt,
a shabby black jacket, and a fiery handkerchief about his neck, while
a battered prairie hat adorned the back of his head.

Tresler pulled his horse up before this welcome vision and slid
stiffly to the ground, while the little man slanted his eyes over his
general outfit.

"Is this Forks Settlement?" the newcomer asked, with an ingratiating
smile. He was a manly looking fellow with black hair and steel-blue
eyes; he was dressed in a plain Norfolk jacket and riding kit. He was
not particularly handsome, but possessed a strong, reliant face.

The stranger closed his eyes in token of acquiescence.

"Ur-hum," he murmured.

"Will you point me out the hotel?"

The other's eyes had finally settled themselves on the magnificent
pair of balloon-shaped corduroy riding-breeches Tresler was wearing,
which had now resettled themselves into their natural voluminous
folds.

He made no audible reply. He was engrossed with the novel vision
before him. A backward jerk of the head was the only sign he permitted
himself.

Tresler looked at the house indicated. He felt in some doubt, and not
without reason. The place was a mere two-storied shanty, all askew and
generally unpromising.

"Can I--that is, does the proprietor take--er--guests?" he asked.

"Guess Carney takes most anythin',