d and seized his, squeezing it with a gentle pressure
that set his blood throbbing through his veins afresh.

Then the agony passed, and left him cold. The warm hand was withdrawn,
and the girl turned back to her husband. Peter relinquished his ward.
The big man's end had been accomplished. As husband and wife walked
away, and the crowd dispersed, he turned to Jim, who stood gazing
straight in front of him. He looked into his face, and the smile in
his eyes disappeared. The expression of Jim's face had changed, and
where before storm had raged in every pulse, now there was a growing
peace.

"Jim," he said gently, "about those horses----"

"Guess you won't need them now?"

Thorpe looked up into the grizzled face with a half ironical smile,
but without displeasure.

"Peter, you had me beat from the start."

But Peter shook his head.

"It's you who've won to-day, boy. Guess you've beat the devil in you
to a hash. Yes; I need those horses, an' you can get 'em for me from
McLagan."

CHAPTER XII

THE QUEST OF PETER BLUNT

The crisp air of summer early morning, so fragrant, so invigorating,
eddied across the plains, wafting new life to the lungs, and increased
vigor to jaded muscles. The sun was lifting above the horizon,
bringing with it that expansion to the mind which only those whose
lives are passed in the open, and whose waking hours are such as
Nature intended, may know.

The rustling grass, long, lean at the waving tops, but rich and
succulent in its undergrowth, spoke of awakening life, obeying that
law which man, in his superiority, sets aside to suit his own
artificial pleasures. The sparkling morning haze shrouding the
foot-hills was lifting, yielding a vision of natural beauty
unsurpassed at any other time of the day. The earth was good--it was
clean, wholesome, purified by the long restful hours of night, and
ready to yield, as ever, those benefits to animal life which Nature so
generously showers upon an ungrateful world.

Peter Blunt straightened up from his camp-fire which he had just set
going. He stretched his great frame and drank in the nectar of the air
in deep gulps. The impish figure of Elia sat on a box to windward of
the fire, watching his companion with calm eyes. He was enjoying
himself as he had rarely ever enjoyed himself. He was free from the
trammels of his sister's loving, guiding hand--trammels which were
ever irksome to him, and which, somewhere inside him, he despise