little fellow had
run up against, why he was hiding out at a place like the Poison Hole
shack, how he had gotten the letter to the range cabin, and, if he had
brought it himself, why he had not made himself known last night.

He gave his few, succinct orders for the day, made his hurried meal,
and went to the corral for his horse. And all that day he rode hard out
in the broken country where the eastern end of the range ran up and back
into the gorges of the mountains, shifting herd, collecting stragglers,
bringing them down into the meadow lands where the feed was abundant now
that he had sold the cattle he had had ranging there in order that he
might raise the money to make up the five thousand dollars for Henry
Pollard.

As he rode he spoke seldom to the horse running under him or to the boys
with whom he worked, his thoughts flying now to another horse, lamed
from a knife cut, now to a girl whose spur rowel he carried in his vest
pocket, now to a man whose appealing letter he carried in another
pocket. And he was glad when the day was done and the boys raced away
through the dusk to their supper.

Not infrequently did he ride on after he had told the others to "knock
off," working himself harder than he could ask them to work, riding late
to look at the water holes or find a new pasture in some of the little
mountain valleys or to bring in a fresh string of saddle horses for the
morrow's riding. So now, as darkness gathered, he watched the boys
scamper away to their food and smoke and bunks, and rode on slowly
toward the north.

He chose this time, the thickening darkness before moonrise, for he had
caught the insistent plea for secrecy running through the lines of the
letter. And so, though he was not a little impatient and curious, he let
his tired horse choose its own loitering gait, willing that the night
draw down blacker about him.

He crossed the Big Flat, rich grassy land watered by the Big Little
River, and struck off into the hills that closed in about it, following
the river trail. It was very still, with no sound save the swish of the
water against the willows drooping downward from its banks, no light
save the dim glimmer of the early stars. For two miles he followed the
stream, then left it for a short cut over the ridge, to pick it up again
upon the farther side. Now he was in a tiny valley with the mountains
close to the spot which gave its name to the range.

Big Little River writhed in from