olden
outlaw, her eye was suddenly caught, across the heads of the crowd, by
a figure that caused her to stiffen in the saddle.

"Seth!" she gasped.

He came striding rapidly from the direction of the blacksmith's, the
most distant of the group of buildings,--a large and heavy but
well-built man, whose black, short-cropped beard and bushy,
overhanging eyebrows gave him a somewhat truculent expression, which
was heightened by his rough and domineering demeanor. He was better
dressed, or more carefully at least, than any of the other men. He
wore a coat and trousers of dark-brown corduroy, a light-gray flannel
shirt with a flowing black tie, and a wide-brimmed Stetson hat. His
belt, under the unbuttoned coat, was of elaborately stamped leather,
with a pocket at one side from which a heavy, gold watch chain was
looped to a silver ring, and with an ornate holster at the other where
the black butt of a revolver was visible as he moved.

He shouldered his way through the crowd in the heedless manner of most
bulky men, who seldom realize how much space they take that properly
belongs to others. At six feet from the golden horse he halted, and
surveyed him with shining eyes.

"Sunnysides, eh?" he said, turning toward the nearest of the
strangers.

"The's only one," replied the cow-puncher.

"Who caught him this time?"

"Us three. That's Jim Raley, with the busted arm. That other is Jud
Smith, My name's Larkin. We belong to the X bar O outfit on Lost
Soldier Creek."

"Second outfit below Forty-Mile," said Huntington, familiarly.

"Right!"

"Sanders still foreman?"

"Yes."

"Then what are you doing with that horse up here?"

The cow-puncher grinned.

"I ketch your meanin'," he replied. "It's like this. Sanders chased
Sunnysides three seasons, an' thought he'd roped him. But all he gits
's a cracked leg, an' not a yeller hair of the slippery beast. Then us
three takes on the job--not presumin' to be better'n Sanders, but
hopin' for luck. It comes our way, an' there you are. We offer him to
Sanders--for a price, natch'rally--but he says he don't believe in
ghosts, an' we c'n go to hell with him."

"You must have missed the road. This is Paradise," said Huntington.

The crowd roared its appreciation.

"The' ain't much in names," observed Larkin testily.

The crowd laughed again, though, of course, less heartily.

"Well, Heaven or Hell," said Huntington, "is the horse for sale?"

"He is--if he ain't sold a