ome down to spend the clean-up of the seventh fortune wrung
from the frozen Arctic gravel. A notorious spender, his latest pile
was already on the fair road to follow the previous six. He it was, in
the first year of Dawson, who had cracked an ocean of champagne at
fifty dollars a quart; who, with the bottom of his gold-sack in sight,
had cornered the egg-market, at twenty-four dollars per dozen, to the
tune of one hundred and ten dozen, in order to pique the lady-love who
had jilted him; and he it was, paying like a prince for speed, who had
chartered special trains and broken all records between San Francisco
and New York. And here he was once more, the "luck-pup of hell," as
Daylight called him, throwing his latest fortune away with the same
old-time facility.

It was a merry party, and they had made a merry day of it, circling the
bay from San Francisco around by San Jose and up to Oakland, having
been thrice arrested for speeding, the third time, however, on the
Haywards stretch, running away with their captor. Fearing that a
telephone message to arrest them had been flashed ahead, they had
turned into the back-road through the hills, and now, rushing in upon
Oakland by a new route, were boisterously discussing what disposition
they should make of the constable.

"We'll come out at Blair Park in ten minutes," one of the men
announced. "Look here, Swiftwater, there's a crossroads right ahead,
with lots of gates, but it'll take us backcountry clear into Berkeley.
Then we can come back into Oakland from the other side, sneak across on
the ferry, and send the machine back around to-night with the
chauffeur."

But Swiftwater Bill failed to see why he should not go into Oakland by
way of Blair Park, and so decided.

The next moment, flying around a bend, the back-road they were not
going to take appeared. Inside the gate leaning out from her saddle
and just closing it, was a young woman on a chestnut sorrel. With his
first glimpse, Daylight felt there was something strangely familiar
about her. The next moment, straightening up in the saddle with a
movement he could not fail to identify, she put the horse into a
gallop, riding away with her back toward them. It was Dede Mason--he
remembered what Morrison had told him about her keeping a riding horse,
and he was glad she had not seen him in this riotous company.
Swiftwater Bill stood up, clinging with one hand to the back of the
front seat and waving the oth