new-fallen snow on Lizard Head,
and winter was coming. He had the animal's instinct to den up, to seek
winter quarters. Certain ties other than those of Mary's love combined
to draw him back to Marmion for the winter. If he could only shake off
his burdening notoriety and go back to see her--to ask her
advice--perhaps she could aid him. But to _sneak_ back again--to crawl
about in dark corners--that was impossible.

He was no longer the frank and boyish lover of adventure. Life troubled
him now, conduct was become less simple, actions each day less easily
determined. These women now made him ponder. Cora, who was accustomed to
the range and whose interests were his own in many ways, the princess,
whose money and influence could get him something to do in Wagon Wheel,
and Mary, whose very name made him shudder with remembered
adoration--each one now made him think. Mary, of all the group, was most
certainly unfitted to share his mode of life, and yet the thought of her
made the others impossible to him.

The marshal saw him ride up the street and throw himself from his horse
before the post office and hastened toward him with his hand extended.
"Hello! Mose, I've got a telegram for you from Sweetwater."

Mose took it without a word and opened it. It was from his father: "Wait
for me in Wagon Wheel. I am coming."

The marshal was grinning. "Did you see the write-up in yesterday's
Mother Lode?"

"Yes--I saw it, and cussed you for it."

"I knowd you would, but I couldn't help it. Billy, the editor, got hold
of me and pumped the whole story out of me before I knew it. I don't
think it does you any harm."

"It didn't do me any good," replied Mose shortly.

"Say, the princess wants to see you. She's on the street somewhere now,
looking for you."

"Where's the telegraph office?" he abruptly asked.

The telegram from his father had put the idea into his head to
communicate in that way with Mary and Jack.

The marshal led the way to a stage office wherein stood a counter and a
row of clicking machines.

"What is the cost of a telegram to Marmion, Iowa?" asked Mose.

"One dollar, ten words. Each ad----"

Mose thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out all his money, a
handful of small change. His face grew bitter, his last dollar was
broken into bits.

"Make it night rates for sixty," said the operator. "Be delivered
to-morrow morning."

"Go ahead," said Mose, and set to work to compose a message. The
mar