.
Hurriedly washing the dishes, she picked up the glove and thrust it
into the bosom of her shirt, and drawing the crumpled notice from her
pocket, smoothed it out upon the table. Her glance traveled rapidly
over the penciled words to the signature, and she stared like one in a
dream. The blood left her face. She closed her eyes and passed her
hand slowly over the lids. She opened them, and with a nerveless
finger, touched the paper as if to make sure that it was real. Then,
very slowly, she rose from her chair and crossing the room, stood in
the doorway and gazed toward the notch in the hills until hot tears
welled into her eyes and blurred the distant skyline. The next moment
she was upon her bunk, where she lay shaken between fits of sobbing
and hysterical laughter. She drew the glove, with its fringed gauntlet
and its gaudily embroidered horseshoe from her shirt front and ran her
fingers along its velvety softness. Impulsively, passionately, she
pressed the horseshoe to her lips, and leaping to her feet, thrust the
glove inside her shirt and stepping lightly to the table reread the
penciled lines upon the crumpled paper, and over and over again she
read the signature; RAOUL BETHUNE, known also as MONK BETHUNE.

The atmosphere of the little cabin seemed stifling. Crumpling the
paper into her pocket, she stepped out the door. She must do
something--go some place--talk to someone! Her horse stood saddled
where she had left him, and catching up the reins she mounted and
headed him at a gallop for the ravine that led to the trampled notch
in the hills. During the long upward climb the girl managed to collect
her scattered wits. Where should she go? She breathed deeply of the
pine-laden air. It was still early morning. A pair of magpies flitted
in short flights from tree to tree along the trail, scolding
incessantly as they waited to be frightened on to the next tree.
Patches of sunlight flashed vivid contrasts in their black and white
plumage, and set off in a splendor of changing color the green and
purple and bronze of their iridescent feathering. A deer bounded away
in a blur of tan and white, and a little farther on, a porcupine
lumbered lazily into the scrub. It was good to be alive! What
difference did it make which direction she chose? All she wanted this
morning was to ride, and ride, and ride! She had her father's map with
her but was in no mood to study out its intricacies, nor to ride
slowly up and down littl