N CROSSING

A horseman riding from White River Homestead to Beacon Crossing will find
himself confronted with just eighty-two miles of dreary, flat trail; in
summer time, just eighty-two miles of blistering sun, dust and mosquitoes.
The trail runs parallel to, and about three miles north of the cool, shady
White River, which is a tantalizing invention of those who designed the
trail.

In the whole eighty-two miles there is but one wayside house; it is called
the "half-way." No one lives there. It, like the log hut of Nevil Steyne
on the bank of the White River, stands alone, a relic of the dim past. But
it serves a good purpose, for one can break the journey there, and sleep
the night in its cheerless shelter. Furthermore, within the ruins of its
old-time stockade is a well, a deep, wide-mouthed well full of cool spring
water, which is the very thing needed.

It is sunrise and a horseman has just ridden away from this shelter. He is
a man of considerable height, to judge by the length of his stirrups, and
he has that knack of a horseman in the saddle which comes only to those
who have learned to ride as soon as they have learned to run.

He wears fringed chapps over his moleskin trousers, which give him an
appearance of greater size than he possesses, for, though stout of frame,
he is lean and wiry. His face is wonderfully grave for a young man, which
may be accounted for by the fact that he has lived through several Indian
risings. And it is a strong face, too, with a decided look of what people
term self-reliance in it, also, probably, a product of those dreaded
Indian wars. He, like many men who live through strenuous times, is given
much to quick thought and slow speech, which, though excellent features in
character, do not help toward companionship in wild townships like Beacon
Crossing.

Seth is well thought of in that city--whither he is riding now--but he is
more respected than loved. The truth is he has a way of liking slowly, and
disliking thoroughly, and this is a disposition the reckless townsmen of
Beacon Crossing fail to understand, and, failing to understand, like most
people, fail to appreciate.

Just now he is more particularly grave than usual. He has ridden from
White River Farm to execute certain business in town for his
foster-parents, Rube Sampson and his wife; a trifling matter, and
certainly nothing to bring that look of doubt in his eyes, and the
thoughtful pucker between his clean-cut b