n he began to walk more slowly. A
touch of reflectiveness came upon his own face.

"Still," said he to himself after a time--speaking aloud as men of the
wilderness sometimes learn to do--"I don't know!"

He turned into his own gate, approached his own cabin, its exterior
much like that of the one which but now he had left. He paused for a
moment at the door as he looked in, regarding its somewhat neater
appearance.

"Well, and even so," said he. "I don't know. Still and after all,
now, a woman----"

CHAPTER II

WANTED: A WIFE

"I couldn't have ate at Sim's place if he would of asked me to,"
grumbled Wid Gardner aloud to himself as he busied himself about his
own household duties in his bachelor cabin. "He's too damn dirty, like
I said, and that's a fact."

Wid's cabin itself was in general appearance no better, if no worse,
than the average in the Two Forks Valley. There was a bed on a rude
pole frame--little more than a heap of blankets as they had been thrown
aside that morning. The table still held the dishes which had been
used, but at least these had been washed, and there was thrown across
them what had served as a dish-towel, a washed and dried, fairly clean
flour sack which had been ripped out and turned into a towel. There
was a box nailed up behind the stove which served as a sort of store
room for the scant supplies, and this had a flap at the top, so that it
was partly curtained off. Another box nailed against the wall behind
the table served as book case and paper rack, holding, among a scant
array of ancient standard volumes, a few dog-eared paper-backed books
of cheap and dreadful sort, some illustrated journals showing pictures
of actresses and film celebrities--precisely the sort of literature
which may be found in most wilderness bachelor homes.

At one end of the up-turned box which served as a sort of reading table
lay a pile of similar magazines, not of abundant folios, but apparently
valued, for they showed more care than any other of the owner's
treasures. It was, curiously enough, to this little heap of literature
that Wid Gardner presently turned.

Forgetful of the hour and of his waiting cows, he sat down, a copy in
his hands, his face taking on a new sort of light as he read. At
times, as lone men will, he broke out into audible soliloquy. Now and
again his hand slapped his knee, his eye kindled, he grinned. The
pages were ill-printed, showing many paragraphs, a