nd now saw a lone horseman speeding like the wind toward him. In
another moment he passed. His head was uncovered, but that was not
unnatural. It was all right; he knew him not. This lone horseman turned
in his saddle and glanced at Wade when he had got past him, never a
moment allowing his steed to slacken his pace. That was also all right.
They did not know each other. Wade hurried on, finally reaching the
burning building, where he found not a living thing, human nor beast,
nothing saving the dying embers of a burning home. The light from the
burning barn was brighter, and as he glanced that way he discovered a
poor horse lying by the gate in the agonies of death.

"Poor fellow," he thought, as he watched him breathe his last, "your
useful days are over; nothing can save you now."

Wade looked farther. On all sides he saw nothing but charred ruins, dark
devastation, no sign of human nor animal life--not even a sign of
vegetable life. No noise, not even the deep bay or the low whine of the
farmhouse dog greeted his ears. Again he turned back into the darkness
of the night and made his way to his cabin, none the wiser for having
taken the trip.

CHAPTER III

Jack Wade was neither physically nor mentally afflicted. His great body
was physically strong, his mind was symmetrically powerful. His college
training prepared him to face the many difficult problems of life, his
elect wisdom led him carefully at all times, and his athletic ability
stood him well in hand on many occasions. As he sat pondering, he
wondered over the peculiar fact that not a soul in the entire valley
with whom he had talked had been willing to breathe one word concerning
the great conflagration of a few nights previous. No one ever spoke of
it, as though nothing so important had ever happened. Yet one man had
lost, in little more time than an hour, what it had taken a lifetime to
accumulate.

Things down in the valley were mysteriously strange. Wade had been in
the community for some time, with an avowed purpose, but had not learned
a single thing that would lead him to any knowledge of what he most
desired to know. He was not yet even fully acquainted with his nearest
neighbors, and, feeling this to be necessary, he placed a book under his
arm and strode up the hot dusty road toward the cabin nearest the
mountain, knowing but little what kind of reception would be accorded
him. However, the reception was a secondary matter,--the sort d