ging with pathetic intentness above the handling of great iron beams
or pile drivers.

Work came to be a wonderful thing to possess. To put hand to a beam or a
shovel seemed now a most desirable favor, for it meant not only warm
food and security and shelter, but in his case it promised a return to
the mountains which came each hour to seem the one desirable and
splendid country in the world--so secure, so joyous, so shining, his
heart ached with wistful love of it.

Each night he walked over to the Lake shore, past the college and up the
viaduct, till he could look out over the mysterious, dim expanse of
water. It reminded him of the plains, and helped him with its lonely
sweep and its serene majesty of reflected stars. At night he dreamed of
the cattle and of his old companions on the trail; once he was riding
with Talfeather and his band in the West Elk Mountains; once he was
riding up the looping, splendid incline of the Trout Lake Trail, seeing
the clouds gather around old Lizard Head. At other times he was back at
the Reynolds ranch taking supper while the cattle bawled, and through
the open door the light of the setting sun fell.

He had written to Reynolds, asking him to buy his saddle and bridle (he
couldn't bring himself to sell Kintuck) and each day he hoped for a
reply. He had not stated his urgent need of money, but Reynolds would
know. One by one every little trinket which he possessed went to pay his
landlord for his room. He had a small nugget, which he had carried as a
good-luck pocket-piece for many months; this he sold, and at last his
revolvers went, and then he seemed helpless.

No word from Reynolds came, and the worst of it was, if the money did
come it would not now be enough to carry him back. If he had been able
to put it with the money from his nugget and revolvers it would at least
have taken him to Denver. But now it was too late.

At last there came a day when he was at his last resource. He could find
no work to do in the streets, and so, setting his teeth on his pride, he
once more sought the stockyards and "Mr. White." It was a cold, rainy
day, and he walked the entire distance. Weak as he was from insufficient
food, bad air, and his depression, he could not afford to spend one cent
for car fare.

White turned out to be a very decent fellow, who knew nothing whatever
of Harold's encounter with the other man. He had no work for him,
however. He seemed genuinely regretful, and said: