But to think of its
all being due to the bicycle!"

THE SPELLBINDER

Not long since the writer had occasion to pass through the scene of this
story. It would be hard to find anywhere a more pleasant and prosperous
land. Fertile fields and shady country roads and pastures where sleek
cattle are contentedly grazing; great stacks of green alfalfa;
farmhouses with flowers and vines, as well as thriving kitchen gardens;
windmills that pipe houses with water as well as fill the barn troughs;
automobiles and good roads--there could hardly be a greater contrast.
And it is pleasant to hear that the pioneers who suffered incredible
hardships during the lean years are now reaping the reward of their
toil, courage and versatile, indomitable ingenuity.

* * * * *

The frozen soil rattled under the horses' hoofs; the wagon wheels
rattled on their own account. A December wind was keen enough to make
the driver wrap his patched quilt closer and pull his battered straw hat
lower over his ears. He was a man of thirty, with high, tanned features
and eyes that would have been handsome but for their sullen frown.

"I should call it getting good and ready for a blizzard," observed the
other man on the board (seat the wagon had none); "maybe he won't come."

"He'll come fast enough," returned the driver; "you don't catch buzzards
staying in for weather!"

"I don't know. He's a pretty luxurious young scoundrel. Bixby says he
had a letter from him--very particular about a fire in his room, and
plenty of hot water and towels. Bixby is worried lest the boys make a
fuss with him in his hotel."

"Bixby is a coward from Wayback," was the driver's single comment or
reply. The other man eyed the dark profile at his shoulder, out of the
tail of his eye rubbing his hands up and down his wrists under his
frayed sleeves. He was a young man, shorter of stature than the driver.
He had a round, genial, tanned face, and a bad cold on him. His hands
were bare because he had lent his mittens to the driver; but he wore a
warm, if shabby greatcoat and a worn fur cap.

"I don't suppose," he said in a careless tone, "you fellows mean to do
more than scare the lad well."

"We scared the last man. Doc Russell got him fairly paralyzed; told him
'bout the Shylock that turned out the Kinneys, and Miss Kinney's dying
in the wagon, she was so weak; and Kin--somebody ('course he didn't
mention names) shooting that man; an