een
used to patch shirts, or even the well-worn bedclothes.

It was a squalid hovel, and reeked of the earth out of which it was
dug. Beyond the bedding, the red blankets, and the few plates and pots
in the packing-case cupboard, there was not a sign of the owner, and
Tresler found himself wondering as to what manner of man it was who
could have endured such meanness. It did not occur to him that
probably the very trapper he had thought of had left his eyrie in
peace and taken his belongings with him, leaving behind him only those
things which were worthless.

A few minutes satisfied his curiosity. Probably his ride, and a
natural desire to return to the ranch as quickly as possible, had
dulled the keenness of his faculties of observation. Certain it is
that, squalid as the place was, there was an air of recent habitation
about it that he missed. He took it for a deserted shack merely, and
gave it no second thought.

He passed out into the daylight with an air of relief; he had seen
quite enough. The Lady Jezebel welcomed him with an agitated snort;
she too seemed anxious to get away. He led her down the shelving trail
again. The descent was as laborious as the ascent had been, and much
more dangerous. But it was accomplished at last, and at the foot of
the hill he mounted the now docile animal, who cantered off as amiably
as though she had never done anything wrong in her life.

And as he rode away his thoughts reverted to the incidents of that
morning; he went again over the scenes in which he had taken part, the
scenes he had witnessed. He thought of his brief battle with Jake, of
Diane and Joe, of his interview with Fyles. All these things were of
such vital import to him that he had no thought for anything else;
even the log bridge spanning the river could not draw from him any
kind of interest. Had his mind been less occupied, he might have
paused to ask himself a question about the things he had just seen. He
might even have wondered how the logs of that dugout had been hauled
to the shelf on which it stood. Certain it was that they must have
been carried there, for there was not a single tree upon the hillside,
only a low bush. And the bridge; surely it was the work of many hands.
And why was it there on a disused trail?

But he had no thought for such questions just then. He bustled the
mare and hurried on.

CHAPTER XI

THE TRAIL OF THE NIGHT-RIDERS

A week passed before Tresler was again bro