depths. He was on his feet in an instant,
and his tall figure became alert and vibrant with the lithe activity
which was so wonderfully displayed in his whole poise. He, too, had
become aware of a disturbing element in the silent depths of the
woods.

He moved across to the trail, and, glancing down it, from out of the
silence reached him the distant, soft plod of hoofs in its heavy
covering of sand. His look of satisfaction deepened as he turned back
to his horses and tightened the cinchas of the saddles, and replaced
the bits in their mouths. Then he picked up the Winchester rifle
propped against a tree stump and turned again to the trail.

A moment later another horseman appeared from beyond the fringe of
pines and drew up with an exclamation.

"Why, Buck, I didn't reckon to find you around here!" he cried
cordially.

"No." The young man smiled quietly up into the horseman's face. The
welcome of his look was unmistakable. No words of his could have
expressed it better.

The Padre sprang from his saddle with the lightness of a man of half
his years, and his eyes rested on the pack-saddle on Buck's second
horse.

"For the--folks?" he inquired.

"Guess so. That's the last of the flour."

For a moment a shadow passed across the Padre's face. Then it as
suddenly brightened.

"How's things?" he demanded, in the stereotyped fashion of men who
greet when matters of importance must be discussed between them.

"So," responded Buck.

The Padre glanced quickly round, and his eyes fell on the log which
had provided the other with a seat.

"Guess there's no hurry. Let's sit," he said, indicating the log. "I'm
a bit saddle weary."

Buck nodded.

They left the horses to their own devices, and moved across to the
log.

"Quite a piece to Leeson Butte," observed Buck casually, as he dropped
upon the log beside his friend.

"It surely is," replied the Padre, taking the young man in with a
quick, sidelong glance.

Buck was good to look at, so strong, so calmly reliant. Every glance
of his big brown eyes suggested latent power. He was not strikingly
handsome, but the pronounced nose, the level, wide brows, the firm
mouth and clean-shaven chin, lifted him far out of the common. He was
clad simply. But his dress was perfectly suitable to the life of the
farmer-hunter which was his. His white moleskin trousers were tucked
into the tops of his Wellington boots, and a cartridge belt, from
which hung a revolver and hol