r?"

Bob looked up astonished.

"You're the Orde interested in Granite County timber, aren't you?"

"I'm employed by Welton, that's all," said Bob. "He owns the timber. But
how did you know I am with Welton?" he asked.

"With Welton!" echoed Oldham. "Oh, yes--well, I heard from Michigan
business acquaintances you were with him. Welton's lands are in Granite
County?"

"Yes," said Bob.

"Well," said Oldham vaguely, "I hope you have enjoyed your little
outing." He turned away.

"Now, how the deuce should anybody know about me, or that I am with
Welton, or take the trouble to write about it?"

He mulled over this for some time. For lack of a better reason, he
ascribed to his former football prominence the fact that Oldham's
Michigan correspondent had thought him worth mention. Yet that seemed
absurdly inadequate.

PART THREE

I

Two weeks later a light buckboard bearing Welton and Bob dashed in the
early morning across the plains, wormed its way ingeniously through gaps
in the foothills, and slowed to a walk as it felt the grades of the
first long low slopes. The air was warm with the sun imprisoned in the
pockets of the hills. High chaparral, scrub oaks, and scattered, unkempt
digger pines threw their thicket up to the very right of way. It was in
general dense, almost impenetrable, yet it had a way of breaking
unexpectedly into spacious parks, into broad natural pastures, into
bold, rocky points prophetic of the mountains yet to come. Every once in
a while the road drew one side to pause at a cabin nestling among fruit
trees, bowered beneath vines, bright with the most vivid of the commoner
flowers. They were crazily picturesque with their rough stone chimneys,
their roofs of shakes, their broad low verandahs, and their split-picket
fences. On these verandahs sat patriarchal-looking men with sweeping
white beards, who smoked pipes and gazed across with dim eyes toward the
distant blue mountains. When Welton, casually and by the way, mentioned
topographical names, Bob realized to what placid and contented
retirement these men had turned, and who they were. Nugget Creek, Flour
Gold, Bear Gulch--these spoke of the strong, red-shirted Argonauts of
the El Dorado. Among these scarred but peaceful foothills had been
played and applauded the great, wonderful, sordid, inspired drama of the
early days, the traces of which had almost vanished from the land.

Occasionally also the buckboard paused for wa