on their northern slopes hung a beard of
scrub timber; sharp gulleys cut into their fastnesses to bring down the
turbulent waters of their snows.

Some miles to the left of the trail lay the bed of the Y.D., fringed
with poplar and cottonwood and occasional dark green splashes of spruce.
Beyond the bed of the Y.D., beyond the foothills that looked down upon
it, hung the mountains themselves, their giant crests pitched like
mighty tents drowsing placidly between earth and heaven. Now their four
o'clock veil of blue-purple mist lay filmed about their shoulders, but
later they would stand out in bold silhouette cutting into the twilight
sky. Everywhere was the soft smell of new-mown hay; everywhere the
silences of the eternal, broken only by the muffled noises of Transley's
outfit trailing down to the Y.D.

Linder, foreman and head teamster, cushioned his shoulders against his
half load of hay and contemplated the scene with amiable satisfaction.
The hay fields of the foothills had been a pleasant change from the
railway grades of the plains below. Men and horses had fattened and
grown content, and the foreman had reason to know that Transley's bank
account had profited by the sudden shift in his operations. Linder felt
in his pocket for pipe and matches; then, with a frown, withdrew his
fingers. He himself had laid down the law that there must be no smoking
in the hay fields. A carelessly dropped match might in an hour nullify
all their labor.

Linder's frown had scarce vanished when hoof-beats pounded by the side
of his wagon, and a rider, throwing himself lightly from his horse,
dropped beside him in the hay.

"Thought I'd ride with you a spell, Lin. That Pete-horse acts like he
was goin' sore on the off front foot. Chuck at the Y.D. to-night?"

"That's what Transley says, George, and he knows."

"Ever et at the Y.D?"

"Nope."

"Know old Y.D?"

"Only to know his name is good on a cheque, and they say he still throws
a good rope."

George wriggled to a more comfortable position in the hay. He had a
feeling that he was approaching a delicate subject with consummate
skill. After a considerable silence he continued--

"They say that's quite a girl old Y.D.'s got."

"Oh," said Linder, slowly. The occasion of the soreness in that
Pete-horse's off front foot was becoming apparent.

"You better stick to Pete," Linder continued. "Women is most uncertain
critters."

"Don't I know it?" chuckled George, poking th