red at the
row of packs, the blanket roll, and the neat tarpaulin-covered
bundles that were ranged along the base of the rock.

"He has gone," she murmured, as if trying to grasp the fact and then,
again: "He has gone." Slowly, her eyes raised to the high-flung peaks
that reared their snowy heads against the blue. And as she looked, the
words of Vil Holland formed themselves in her brain. "If there ain't
any 'we,' there won't be any cabin--so there's nothing to worry
about." "Nothing to worry about," she repeated bitterly, and touching
her horse with a spur, rode out across the plateau toward the head of
a coulee that led to the trail for town. "Where has he gone?" she
wondered, and pulled up sharply as her horse entered the coulee.
Riding slowly down the trail ahead, mounted on the meditative Gee Dot,
was Microby Dandeline. Urging her horse forward Patty gained her side,
and realizing that escape was hopeless, the girl stared sullenly
without speaking.

"Why, Microby!" she smiled, ignoring the sullen stare, "you're miles
from home, and it's hardly daylight! Where in the world are you
going?"

"Hain't a-goin' nowher'. I'm prospectin'."

"Where's Vil Holland, have you seen him?"

The girl nodded: "He's done gone to town. He's mad, an' he roden fas'
as Buck kin run, an' he says, 'I'm gonna file one more claim, an' to
hell with the hill country, tell yo' dad good-by!'"

Patty sat for an instant as one stunned. "Gone to town! Mad! File one
more claim!" What did it mean? Why was Vil Holland riding to town as
fast as his horse could run? And what claim was he going to file? He
had mentioned no claim--and if he had just made a strike, surely he
would have mentioned it--last night. She knew that he already had a
claim, and that he considered it worthless. He told her once that he
hadn't even bothered to work out the assessments--it was no good. Was
it possible that he was riding to file _her claim_? Was he no better
than Bethune--only shrewder, more patient, richer in imagination?

With a swish the quirt descended upon her horse's flanks. The animal
shot forward and, leaving Microby Dandeline staring open-mouthed,
horse and rider dashed headlong down the coulee. Into the long white
trail they swept, through the canyon, and out among the foothills
toward Thompsons'. "Why did I show him the map, and the pictures? Why
did I trust him? Why did I trust anybody? I see it all, now! His
continual spying, and his plausible expl