hes she felt that he felt some slight
remorse over his action.

For a time she forgot to think about Dakota, becoming lost in
contemplation of the beauty of the country. Sweeping away from the crest
of the ridge on which she was riding, it lay before her, basking in the
warm sunlight of the morning, wild and picturesque, motionless, silent--as
quiet and peaceful as might have been that morning on which, his work
finished, the Creator had surveyed the new world with a satisfied eye.

She had reached a point about a mile from Doubler's cabin, still drinking
in the beauty that met her eyes on every hand, when an odd sound broke the
perfect quiet.

Suddenly alert, she halted her pony and listened.

The sound had been strangely like a pistol shot, though louder, she
decided, as she listened to its echo reverberating in the adjacent hills.
It became fainter, and finally died away, and she sat for a long time
motionless in the saddle, listening, but no other sound disturbed the
solemn quiet that surrounded her.

It seemed to her that the sound had come from the direction of Doubler's
cabin, but she was not quite certain, knowing how difficult it was to
determine the direction of sound in so vast a stretch of country.

She ceased to speculate, and once more gave her attention to the country,
urging her pony forward, riding down the slope of the ridge to the level
of the river trail.

Fifteen minutes later, still holding the river trail, she saw a horseman
approaching, and long before he came near enough for her to distinguish
his features she knew the rider for Dakota. He was sitting carelessly in
the saddle, one leg thrown over the pommel, smoking a cigarette, and when
he saw her he threw the latter away, doffed his broad hat, and smiled
gravely at her.

"Were you shooting?" she questioned, aware that this was an odd greeting,
but eager to have the mystery of that lone shot cleared up.

"I reckon I ain't been shooting--lately," he returned. "It must have been
Doubler. I heard it myself. I've just left Doubler, and he was cleaning
his rifle. He must have been trying it. I do that myself, often, after
I've cleaned mine, just to make sure it's right." He narrowed his eyes
whimsically at her. "So you're riding the fiver trail again?" he said. "I
thought you'd be doing it."

"Why?" she questioned, defiantly.

"Well, for one thing, there's a certain fascination about a place where
one has been close to cashing in--I exp