"

"Because they all take a crack at me!" said Bethune in an injured
tone. "You just saw how Pierce answered a civil question. They all
hate me because I have made money. They never made any, and they never
will, and they're jealous of my success. They never lose a chance to
malign and injure me in every way possible--but I'll show them! Damn
them! I'll show them all!" They rode for a short distance in silence,
then Bethune laughed. It was the ringing boyish laugh that held no
hint of bitterness or sneer. "I hope you will pardon my outburst. I
have my moments of irascibility, for which I am heartily ashamed.
But--poof! Like a summer cloud, they are gone as quickly as they come.
Why should I care what they say of me. They betray their own meanness
of soul in their envy of my success. We part here for the time. I must
ride over onto the east slope--a little matter of some horses." Again
he laughed: "In a few days I shall return--I give you fair
warning--return to win your love. And I will win--I am Monk Bethune--I
always win!" Without waiting for a reply, the man drove his spurs
into his horse's sides and, swerving abruptly from the trail,
disappeared down a narrow rock chasm that led directly into the heart
of the hills.

CHAPTER XIII

PATTY DRAWS A MAP

That evening after supper, Patty sat upon her doorstep and watched the
slowly fading opalescent glow in which the daylight surrendered to
encroaching darkness. "How wonderful it all is, and how beautiful!"
she breathed. "The indomitable ruggedness of the hills--rough and
forbidding, but never ugly. Always beckoning, always challenging, yet
always repulsing. Guarding their secrets well. Their rock walls and
mighty precipices frowning displeasure at the presumptuous meddling of
the intruder, and their valleys gaping in sardonic grins at the puny
attempts to wrest their secret from them. Always, the mountains mock,
even as they stimulate to greater effort with their wonderful air, and
soothe bitter disappointment with the soft caress of twilight's
after-glow. I love it--and yet, how I hate it all! I can't hold out
much longer. I'm like a general who has to withdraw his forces, not
because he is beaten, but because he has run short of ammunition. It
is August, and by the end of September I'll be done." She clenched her
fists until the nails dug into her palms. "But I'll come back," she
cried, defiantly. "I'll work--I'll find some way to earn some money,
and I'l