w hair, a dark blue flannel shirt, against
which flamed a scarf of brilliant crimson caught together by means of
a vivid green scarab. He wore a roll brimmed Stetson, and carried a
six-gun at his belt. A pair of high-heeled boots added a couple of
inches to the six feet two that nature had provided him with, and he
shook hands as though he enjoyed shaking hands. "I've heard of you,
Miss Sinclair, back in town and have looked forward to meeting you on
my first trip into the hills. How are my friends, the Wattses, these
days? And that reprobate, Vil Holland?" He did not mention that it was
Vil Holland who had spoken of her presence in the hills, nor that the
cowboy had also specified that she utterly despised the ground he rode
on.

To her surprise Patty noticed that there was affection rather than
disapprobation in the word reprobate, and she answered a trifle
stiffly: "The Wattses are all well, I think: but, as for Mr. Holland,
I really cannot answer."

The parson appeared not to notice the constraint but turned to
Thompson: "By the way, Tom, why isn't Vil riding the round-up this
year? Has he made his strike?"

Thompson grinned: "Naw, Vil ain't made no strike. Facts is, they's
be'n some considerable horse liftin' goin' on lately, an' the
stockmen's payin' Vil wages fer to keep his eye peeled. He's out in
the hills all the time anyhow with his prospectin', an' they figger
the thieves won't pay no 'tention to him, like if a stranger was to
begin kihootin' 'round out there."

"Have they got a line on 'em at all?"

"Well," considered Thompson. "Not as I know of--exactly. Monk Bethune
an' that there Lord Clendennin' is hangin' 'round the hills--that's
about all I know."

The parson nodded: "I saw Bethune in town the other day. Do you know,
Tom, I believe there's a bad Injun."

"Indian!" cried the girl. "Mr. Bethune is not an Indian!"

Thompson laughed: "Yup, that is, he's a breed. They say his
gran'mother was a Cree squaw--daughter of a chief, or somethin'.
Anyways, this here Monk, he's a pretty slick article, I guess."

"They're apt to be worse than either the whites or the Indians,"
Christie explained. "And this Monk Bethune is an educated man, which
should make him doubly dangerous. Well, I must be going. I've got to
ride clear over onto Big Porcupine. I heard that old man Samuelson's
very sick. There's a good man--old Samuelson. Hope he'll pull
through."

"You bet he's a good man!" assented Thompson, warml