cast;
this was the spot. Within ten minutes his ax was ringing in the grove of
spruce trees close by, and the following night he fried mountain trout
under the shelter of his own temporary roof.

It was the next summer when Y.D. had another encounter with Wilson. The
Upper Forks turned out to be less secluded than he had supposed; it was
on the trail of trappers and prospectors working into the mountains.
Traders, too, in mysterious commodities, moved mysteriously back and
forth, and the log cabin at The Forks became something of a centre of
interest. Strange companies forgathered within its rude walls.

It was at such a gathering, in which Y.D. and three companions sat about
the little square table, that one of the visitors facetiously inquired
of the rancher how his herd was progressing.

"Not so bad, not so bad," said Y.D., casually. "Some winter losses, of
course; snow's too deep this far up. Why?"

"Oh, some of your neighbors down the valley say your cows are uncommon
prolific."

"They do?" said Y.D., laying down his cards. "Who says that?"

"Well, Wilson, for instance--"

Y.D. sprang to his feet. "I've had one run-in with that ----," he
shouted, "an' I let him talk to me like a Sunday School super'ntendent.
Here's where I talk to him!"

"Well, finish the game first," the others protested. "The night's
young."

Y.D. was sufficiently drunk to be supersensitive about his honor, and
the inference from Wilson's remark was that he was too handy with his
branding-iron.

"No, boys, no!" he protested. "I'll make that Englishman eat his words
or choke on them."

"That's right," the company agreed. "The only thing to do. We'll all go
down with you."

"An' you won't do that, neither," Y.D. answered. "Think I need a
body-guard for a little chore like that? Huh!" There was immeasurable
contempt in that monosyllable.

But a fresh bottle was produced, and Y.D. was persuaded that his honor
would suffer no serious damage until the morning. Before that time his
company, with many demonstrations of affection and admonitions to "make
a good job of it," left for the mountains.

Y.D. saddled his horse early, buckled his gun on his hip, hung a lariat
from his saddle, and took the trail for the Wilson ranch. During the
drinking and gambling of the night he had been able to keep the insult
in the background, but, alone under the morning sun, it swept over him
and stung him to fury. There was just enough truth in the rep