she had just ascended. The trees on this
side of the divide were larger and the hillside gradually flattened
into a broad, tilted plateau. She gave her horse his head and breathed
deeply of the pine-laden air as the animal swung in beside a tiny
creek that flowed smooth and black through the dusky silence of the
pines whose interlacing branches, high above, admitted the sunlight in
irregular splashes of gold. There was little under-brush and the horse
followed easily along the creek, where here and there, in the softer
soil of damp places, the girl could see the hoof marks of the rider
who had crossed the divide. "I wonder whether it was he who watched me
last night? There was someone, I could feel it."

The creek sheered sharply around an out-cropping shoulder of rock, and
the next instant Patty pulled up short, and sat staring at a little
white tent that nestled close against the side of the huge monolith
which stood at the edge of a broad, grassed opening in the woods. The
flaps were thrown wide and the walls caught up to allow free passage
of air. Blankets that had evidently covered a pile of boughs in one
corner, were thrown over the ridgepole from which hung a black leather
binocular case, and several canvas bags formed an orderly row along
one side. A kettle hung suspended over a small fire in front of the
tent, and a row of blackened cooking utensils hung from a wooden bar
suspended between two crotched stakes. Out in the clearing, a man was
bridling a tall buckskin horse. The man was Vil Holland. Curbing a
desire to retreat unobserved into the timber, the girl advanced boldly
across the creek and pulled up beside the fire. At the sound the man
whirled, and Patty noticed that a lean, brown hand dropped swiftly to
the butt of the revolver.

"Don't shoot!" she called, in a tone that was meant to be sarcastic,
"I won't hurt you." Somehow, the sarcasm fell flat.

The man buckled the throat-latch of his bridle and picking up the
reins, advanced hat in hand, leading the horse. "I beg your pardon,"
he said, gravely, "I didn't know who it was, when your horse splashed
through the creek."

"You have enemies in the hills? Those you would shoot, or who would
shoot you?"

He dropped the bridle reins, allowing them to trail on the ground. "If
some kinds of folks wasn't a man's enemy he wouldn't be fit to have
any friends," he said, simply. "And here in the hills it's just as
well to be forehanded with your gun. Won't y