emed to see so
little of Mary Thorne. Probably, also, the very friendly manner of Stella
Manning had something to do with Jessup's blindness. But his eyes were
opened now, thoroughly and effectually, and for a space, how long or short
he never knew, he fought out his silent battle.

It ended in a victory. Down in his heart he knew that he had never really
had any hope of winning Mary Thorne himself. He had cherished
aspirations, of course, and dreamed wonderful dreams; but when it came
down to hard actualities, romance did not blind him to the fact that she
looked on him merely as a friend and nothing more. Indeed, though they
were virtually of the same age, he had been aware at times of an oddly
maternal note in her attitude toward him which was discouraging. Still, it
was not easy definitely to relinquish all hope and bring himself to write
"finis" to the end of the chapter. Indeed, he did not reach that state of
mind until, glancing sidewise at his friend, there came to him a sudden,
faintly bitter realization of the wide contrast between them, and of how
much more Buck had to offer than himself.

Stratton's erect, broad shoulders, the lean length of him, the way he held
his head, gave Jessup a curious, unexpected impression of strength and
ability and power. Buck's eyes were set straight ahead and his clean-cut
profile, clearly visible in the luminous starlight, had a look of
sensitiveness and refinement, despite the strength of his jaw and chin and
the somberness of his eyes. Bud turned away with a little sigh.

"I never had no chance at all," he thought. "Someway he don't look like a
cow-puncher, nor talk quite like one. I wonder why?"

Half a mile further on Buck suddenly broke the prolonged silence.

"I've been thinking it over," he said briefly. "The man on the horse was
probably Lynch. He could easily have started off with the rest and then
made a circuit around below the ranch-house. If he picked his ground, we'd
never notice where he left the others, especially as we weren't looking
for anything of the sort."

"Who do you s'pose hid over the harness-room?"

"It might have been Slim, or Kreeger, or even Pedro. The whole thing was
certainly a put-up job--damn them!" His voice shook with sudden passion.
"Well, we'll soon know," he finished, and his mouth clamped shut.

Already the row of cottonwoods that lined the creek was faintly visible
ahead, a low, vague mass, darker a little than the background of