n I will, Jim. What's the matter with me going on instead
of you? I can follow this trail good as you can. I announce right here
that I'm not going back. I've got first call on this job. Keller went
into the fire after me. I'm going to follow this trail to hell if I have
to."

Yeager tried persuasion, argument, appeal. The lad was as fixed as
Gibraltar.

"I'm not going to go buttin' in where I'm not wanted any more than you
would, Jim. I'll play this hand out with a cool head, but I'm going to
play it my ownself."

"All right. It's your say-so. I'll admit you've got a claim. But you
want to remember one thing--if anything happens to you I cayn't square
it with Phyl. Go slow, boy!"

Without more words they parted, Jim to ride swiftly back for help, and
young Sanderson to push on up the trail with his eyes glued to it. Ever
since he could swing himself to a saddle he had been a vaquero in the
cow country.

He was therefore an expert at reading the signs left by travellers. What
would have been invisible to a tenderfoot offered evidence to him as
plain as the print on a primer. Mile after mile he covered with a minute
scrutiny that never wavered.

CHAPTER XXV

LARRY TELLS A BEAR STORY

Keller rode blithely down the piney trail while the sun flung its
brilliant good-bye over the crotch of the mountains behind which it was
slipping. The western sky was a Turner sublimated to the _nth_ degree, a
thing magnificent and indescribable. The young man rode with his crisp
curls bared to the light, grateful breeze that came like healing from
the great peaks. From the joyous, unquenchable youth in him bubbled
snatches of song and friendly smiles scattered broadcast over a world
that pleased him mightily.

He was going to see his girl, going down to the Frying Pan to take her
in his arms and whirl her into the land of romance to the rhythm of the
waltz. He wanted to shout it out to the chipmunks and the quails. Ever
and again he broke out with a line or two of a melody he had heard once
from a phonograph. No matter if he did not get the words exactly. He was
sure of the sentiment. So the hills flung back his lusty:

"I love a lassie,
A bonnie Hieland lassie,
She's as pure as the lily of the dell."

Disaster fell upon him like a bolt out of a June sky. His pony
stumbled, went down heavily with its weight on his leg. From the
darkness men surged upon him. Rough hands dragged at him. The butt of a
weap