th her music. And that's the story, boys, except that
they come up here into the mountains, every summer, to spend a month or so
in the old home place."

The Ranger rose to go.

"But do you think it is safe for those women to stay up there alone?"
asked Aaron King.

Brian Oakley laughed. "Safe! You don't know Myra Willard! Sibyl, herself,
can pick a squirrel out of the tallest pine in the mountains with her
six-shooter. Will and I taught her all we knew, as she grew up. Besides,
you see, I drop in every day or so, to see that they're all right." He
laughed meaningly as he added,--to Conrad Lagrange for the artist's
benefit,--"I'm going to tell them, though, that Sibyl must be careful how
she goes dancing around these hills--now that she has such distinguished
but irresponsible neighbors."

He whistled--and the chestnut horse was at his side before the echo of
their laughter died away.

With a "so-long," the Ranger rode away into the night.

Chapter XVI

When the Canyon Gates Are Shut

If Aaron King had questioned what it was that had held him in the cedar
thicket until Brian Oakley's heavy hand broke the spell, he would probably
have answered that it was his artistic appreciation of the beautiful
scene. But--deep down in the man's inner consciousness--there was a still,
small voice--declaring, with an insistency not to be denied, that--for
him--there was a something in that picture that was not to be put into the
vernacular of his profession.

Had he acted without his habitual self-control, the day following the
Ranger's visit, he would, again, have gone fishing--up Clear Creek--at
least, to the pool where that master trout had broken his leader. But he
did not. Instead, he roamed aimlessly about the vicinity of the
camp--explored the sycamore grove; climbed a little way up the mountain
spur, and down again; circled the cienaga; and so came, finally, to the
ruins of the house and barn on the creek side of the orchard.

Not far from the lonely fireplace with its naked chimney, a little, old
gate of split palings, in an ancient tumble-down fence, under a great
mistletoe-hung oak, at the top of a bank--attracted his careless
attention. From the gate, he saw what once had been a path leading down
the bank to a spring, where the tiny streamlet that crossed the road a
hundred yards away, on its course to Clear Creek, began. Pushing open the
gate that sagged dejectedly from its leaning post, the artist we