him, and kissed the straggling grey hairs.

"Yes, Gid," he said. "It's me, sure; come back to the old shack and
the old man--back like a wild coyote to its lair among the rocks."

"And it was you, then, as came gallopin' along the trail this mornin',
time the Injuns crept up to the corral? It was you as fired all them
shots from behind the willows? You that raced like mad inter One Tree
Gulch an' dropped your lariat over Broken Feather? Oh, Kiddie, Kiddie,
I might ha' known--I might ha' known. But I never thought, never
guessed it c'd be you. My! how you've growed! how you've--improved!
And you ain't wearin' your earl's coronet, nor your robe trimmed round
with ermine skins? You've come just like one of ourselves."

"Yes," Kiddie laughed--"in the uniform of the plains, like a simple
frontier scout, leaving all the useless fashionable fixings behind me
in England."

"Didn't yer like it, then?" Gideon questioned. "Didn't yer cotton to
it, bein' a English nobleman with a pile o' dollars an' vast estates?
Didn't yer find that seat in the House of Lords altogether comfortable?"

Kiddie sipped at the cup of coffee.

"I never even entered the House of Lords," he explained. "It wasn't
really necessary. As to my being an English nobleman--well, that was
all right; nobody ever objected; everybody was tremendously kind and
considerate. But somehow I didn't exactly cotton to it, Gid. I was
never at my ease, except when out riding, or shooting, or yachting.
You see, the blood of the wilds is in my veins. I didn't like the
whirl and gaiety and excitement of London. It seemed somehow hollow
and insincere. I yearned for the freedom and simplicity of life on the
prairies; couldn't put myself on a level with men who had been to
public schools and universities, or talk with elegant ladies who were
maybe criticizing the way I ate and spoke and moved. I even felt
myself inferior to my own valet, who addressed me as 'your lordship'
while teaching me the proper way to wear my fine clothes."

"Ah!" sighed Gideon. "In them circumstances nat'rally you occasion'lly
thought of the old trail here, an' of me an' the boys, eh?"

"Always," Kiddie answered him. "Always in the social rush of London I
heard the dear old tune of the Sweetwater River, the musical murmur of
the pine trees, and all the familiar voices of the wilds, and they for
ever called to me, 'Kiddie, Kiddie, come back, come back! This is the
life for you, no