beds, a stove, cooking-utensils, and the
hardware and provisions incidental to the maintenance of a home in the
wilderness.

The writer and his daughter rode up from Jason with the final load of
supplies. Excitement and fatigue had so overtaxed the girl's slender
store of strength that she had to stay in bed for several days.
Meanwhile, her father put things in order. The two saddle-horses,
purchased under the critical eye of Bud Shoop, showed an inclination to
stray back to Jason, so the writer turned them into Lorry's corral each
evening, as his own lease was not entirely fenced.

Riding in from his long journey one night, Lorry passed close to the new
cabin. It loomed strangely raw and white in the moonlight. He had
forgotten that there was to be a camp near his. The surprise rather
irritated him. Heretofore he had considered the Blue Mesa was his by a
kind of natural right. He wondered how he would like the city folks.
They had evidently made themselves at home. Their horses were in his
corral.

As he unsaddled Gray Leg, a light flared up in the strange camp. The
door opened, and a man came toward him.

"Good-evening," said the writer. "I hope my horses are not in your way."

"Sure not," said Lorry as he loosened a pack-rope.

He took off the packs and lugged them to the veranda. The tired horses
rolled, shook themselves, and meandered toward the spring.

"I'm Bronson. My daughter is with me. We are up here for the summer."

"My name is Adams," said Lorry, shaking hands.

"The ranger up here. Yes. Well, I'm glad to meet you, Adams. My daughter
and I get along wonderfully, but it will be rather nice to have a
neighbor. I heard you ride by, and wanted to explain about my horses."

"That's all right, Mr. Bronson. Just help yourself."

"Thank you. Dorothy--my daughter--has been under the weather for a few
days. She'll be up to-morrow, I think. She has been worrying about our
using your corral. I told her you would not mind."

"Sure not. She's sick, did you say?"

"Well, over-tired. She is not very strong."

"Lungs?" queried Lorry, and immediately he could have kicked himself for
saying it.

"I'm afraid so, Adams. I thought this high country might do her good."

"It's right high for some. Folks got to take it easy at first;
'specially wimmin-folk. I'm right sorry your girl ain't well."

"Thank you. I shouldn't have mentioned it. She is really curious to know
how you live, what you do, and, in fact, wh