h it wasn't bad enough to show itself in her
gait."

The two made a hasty examination but discovered nothing; proof that,
as her owner said, the wound, if any, was too slight to trouble her.

"Fred, what do you think of my coming back to you in this fashion?"
abruptly asked Sterry, with a laugh, looking around in his friend's
face.

"The most sensible thing you could have done; it redeems your
foolishness in leaving us as you did."

"But my return was involuntary."

"How was that?"

"I thought I was miles distant, and had no idea of my location until I
caught the outlines of your house; I assure you I contemplated no such
performance as this."

"Well, you're here, so what's the use of talking unless you mean to
mount your mare and try it again."

"Hardly that; I have too much mercy on her."

The couple walked past the dwelling to the rude but roomy shelter at
the rear where the horses were sometimes placed when not in use, or
when the severity of the weather made the protection necessary. There
the saddle, bridle and trappings were removed from the mare, and she
was made comfortable. Then the two returned to their seats at the
front of the building, to smoke and chat a few minutes before retiring
for the night.

CHAPTER XIII.

A CONSULTATION.

That mysterious warm-air current known as the Chinook wind steals
through the depressions of the Rocky Mountains, at certain seasons
of the year, from the mild surface of the Pacific, and tempers the
severity of the winters in some portions of Montana, Wyoming, and
the great West to a degree that renders them milder than many places
farther south.

It was early in the month of May, when even in the Middle States it is
not often comfortable to remain seated out of doors after the close of
day, but Sterry and Whitney found it pleasant to occupy their chairs
in front of the building, with no other protection then their own warm
garments.

Whitney's wound was doing so well that he expressed himself ashamed
to wear his arm in a sling. He freed it from the support, moved it
readily about, and declared that after the next morning he would no
longer shirk duty.

In one sense, Monteith Sterry was disappointed. He hoped they would be
joined by Jennie, from whom he parted earlier in the evening, but he
reflected that the hour was late, and she probably felt that her duty
was with her sorrowing mother.

"She belongs there," he concluded, "and I respect her for