e excitement
of new sights effaced from his mind the first romance his life had
known.

But for nearly a week Moya added a codicil silently to her prayer. "And,
God, pleathe bless Jack."

CHAPTER I

THE CAMPERS

Inside the cabin a man was baking biscuits and singing joyously, "It's a
Long, Long Way to Tipperary." Outside, another whistled softly to
himself while he arranged his fishing tackle. From his book he had
selected three flies and was attaching them to the leader. Nearest the
rod he put a royal coachman, next to it a blue quill, and at the end a
ginger quill.

The cook, having put his biscuits in the oven, filled the doorway. He
was a big, strong-set man, with a face of leather. Rolled-up sleeves
showed knotted brown arms white to the wrists with flour. His eyes were
hard and steady, but from the corners of them innumerable little
wrinkles fell away and crinkled at times to mirth.

"First call to dinner in the dining-car," he boomed out in a heavy bass.

Two men lounging under a cottonwood beside the river showed signs of
life. One of them was scarcely more than a boy, perhaps twenty, a
pleasant amiable youth with a weak chin and eyes that held no steel.
His companion was nearer forty than thirty, a hard-faced citizen who
chewed tobacco and said little.

"Where you going to fish to-night, Crumbs?" the cook asked of the man
busy with the tackle.

"Think I'll try up the river, Colter--start in above the Narrows and
work down, mebbe. Where you going?"

"Me for the Meadows. I'm after the big fellows. Going to hang the Indian
sign on them with a silver doctor and a Jock Scott. The kid here got his
three-pounder on a Jock Scott."

The man who had been called Crumbs put his rod against the side of the
house and washed his hands in a tin pan resting on a stump. He was a
slender young fellow with lean, muscular shoulders and the bloom of many
desert suns on his cheeks and neck.

"Going to try a Jock Scott myself after it gets dark."

The boy who had come up from the river's bank grinned. "Now I've shown
you lads how to do it you'll all be catching whales."

"Once is a happenstance, twice makes a habit. Do it again, Curly, and
we'll hail you king of the river," Colter promised, bringing to the
table around which they were seating themselves a frying pan full of
trout done to a crisp brown. "Get the coffee, Mosby. There's beer in the
icebox, kid."

They ate in their shirtsleeves, camp fashion,