into Pale Face
Harry's face. The other's countenance was gray, the eyes full of a
shrinking, terrified light.

"Doc, for God's sake, Doc, what's it mean?" whispered Pale Face Harry
shakily, moistening his dry lips with his tongue. "Doc, this ain't no
bunk--there's something in it."

The words seemed to rouse Madison--to leadership. He stared at Pale Face
Harry for a moment, then a grim smile flickered across his face.

"Something in it!" he repeated with an ironic laugh--and suddenly
grabbed Pale Face Harry's arm and shook him. "There's so much in it that
I'm drunk with it, crazy with it--but I'm trying to make myself believe
it isn't too good to be true. Get that? Get a grip on that, and hang on.
Don't lose your nerve, Harry!"

"I guess I ain't much worse than you," mumbled Pale Face Harry. "You're
whiter than a sheet."

"You're right," admitted Madison frankly. "I'm queer, but I'm coming
around. Helena seems to be the only one who never lost her grip--she's
got the Patriarch and the Flopper out of the way and under cover. Brace
up, Harry--what I thought we'd get in the Roost that night is
counterfeit money to what'll come from this." His eyes fastened on a
figure that, separating itself from the group around young Holmes, now
dashed frantically, hatless, and with dishevelled hair to Mr. and Mrs.
Thornton. "Who's that, Harry? He came down on the train with you--know
him?"

"He's only some newspaper guy or other," answered Pale Face Harry
mechanically, his eyes still roving wildly over the scene around him.

"Oh, is that _all_!" ejaculated Madison with a little gasp. "I've
already exhausted my thanks to Santa Claus and here he comes with
another package done up in dinky pink paper tied with baby ribbon--and
the gold platter it's on goes with it!"

"What d'ye mean?" asked Pale Face Harry heavily.

The newspaper man, the instinct of his calling now rising paramount to
all else, had left the Thorntons and was tearing for the wagon track on
his way to the station and the telegraph office like one possessed.

"By to-morrow morning," said Madison softly, "the missionaries will be
explaining this to the Esquimaux at Oo-lou-lou, the near-invalids in
California will be packing their trunks, likewise those in the languid
shade of the Florida palms; they'll be listing it on the stock exchange
in New York, and the breath of Eden will waft itself o'er plain and
valley until--" he stopped suddenly, as Mrs. Thornton's voi