many plans for the future, and every one in its inception had
given her the greatest delight. Now--now this hideous skeleton had
stepped from its cupboard and robbed her of every joy. No, she would
not stand it. She would steel her heart to these stupid, girlish
superstitions. She would--

Her gloomy reflections were abruptly cut short. There was a rush and
clatter. In a perfect whirlwind of haste a horseman dashed up, dragged
his horse back on to its haunches as he pulled up, and flung out of
the saddle.

It was the boy, Montana Ike. He grabbed his disreputable hat from his
ginger head, and stared agape at the vision of loveliness he had come
in search of.

"Good--good-morning," Joan said, hardly knowing how to greet this
strange apparition.

The boy nodded, and moistened his lips as though consumed by a sudden
thirst.

For a moment they stared stupidly at each other. Then Joan, feeling
the awkwardness of the situation, endeavored to relieve it.

"Daylight?" she exclaimed interrogatively, "and you not yet out at
the--where the gold is?"

Ike shook his head and grinned the harder. Then his tongue loosened,
and his words came with a sudden rush that left the girl wondering.

"Y' see the folks is eatin' breakfast," he said. "Y' see I jest cut it
right out, an' come along. I heard Pete--you know Blue Grass
Pete--he's a low-down Kentuckian--he said he tho't some un orter git
around hyar case you was queer after last night. Sed he guessed he
would. Guess I'll git back 'fore they're busy. It'll take 'em all
hustlin' to git ahead o' me."

"That's very kind," Joan replied mechanically. But the encouragement
was scarcely needed. The boy rushed on, like a river in flood time.

"Oh, it ain't zac'ly kind!" he said. "Y' see they're mostly a low-down
lot, an' Pete's the low-downest. He's bad, is Pete, an' ain't no
bizness around a leddy. Then Beasley Melford. He's jest a durned skunk
anyways. Don't guess Curly Saunders ain't much account neither. He
makes you sick to death around a whisky bottle. Abe Allinson, he's
sort o' mean, too. Y' see Abe's Slaney Dick's pardner, an' they bin
workin' gold so long they ain't got a tho't in their gray heads 'cept
gold an' rot-gut rye. Still, they're better'n the Kid. The Kid's soft,
so we call him Soapy. Guess you orter know 'em all right away. Y' see
it's easy a gal misbelievin' the rights o' folks."

Joan smiled. Something of the man's object was becoming plain.

She studied his