"I have a very clear idea: it was this man Hathaway you speak of--a big
ranchman named Griggs told me his name. He came across in the Pullman
with me from Omaha; middle-aged, tall, and slim, with a hatchet face and
owlish eyes. Before I learned his name we had talked a bit--killing time
in the smoking-room. He said he was interested in mines and timber.
Along toward the last he got the notion into his head that I was a
special agent of some kind, on a mission for the Bureau of Forestry, and
I was foolish enough to let him escape with the impression uncorrected."

"That was Pete Hathaway, all right," was the senator's comment. "His
company has been cutting timber in the Lost River watershed reserves,
and he probably thought you were aiming to get him. You say he sent
Barto after you?"

"I'm only guessing at that part of it. When I rode away from Twin Buttes
he was standing on the porch of the tavern, talking to Barto and two
others; and I'm pretty sure he pointed me out to them. An hour or so
later, three horsemen passed me on the mesa, one after another. I
couldn't see them, but I heard them. It might have been another hour or
more past that when they potted me."

"You gave them your name?"

"Yes; and that seemed to tangle them a little. Barto said he believed I
was lying, but, anyway, he'd give me a chance to 'prove up.' Then they
brought me here, and your--er--Mrs. Blount kindly stepped into the
breach for me."

"You didn't know Honoria when you saw her?" queried the father.

"No; I wasn't in the least expecting--that is, I--you may remember that
I had never met her," stammered the young man, who had risen on his
elbow among the pillows.

The older man walked to the window and stood looking out upon the
distant mountains for a full minute before he faced about to say: "We
might as well run the boundary lines on this thing one time as another,
son. You don't like Honoria; you've made up your mind you're not going
to let yourself like her. I don't mean to make it hard for either of you
if I can dodge it. This is her home; but it is also yours, my boy. Do
you reckon you could--"

Evan Blount made affectionate haste to stop the half-pathetic appeal.

"Don't let that trouble you for a minute," he interposed. "I--Mrs.
Blount is a very different person from the woman I have been picturing
her to be; and if she were not, I should still try to believe that we
are both sufficiently civilized not to quarrel." Then: "Ha