And the editors were beginning to watch for his white envelopes
and to seize them eagerly when they came, greedy for what was
within. Not every day can they look upon a few typewritten
pages and see the range-land spread, now frowning, now smiling,
before them.

"Gee! they say here they want a lot the same brand, and at any
old price yuh might name. I wouldn't mind writing stories
myself." Gene kicked a log back into the flame where it would
do the most good. His big, square-shouldered figure stood out
sharply against the glow.

Thurston, watching him meditatively, wanted to tell him that he
was the sort of whom good stories are made. But for men like
Gene--strong, purposeful, brave, the West would lose half its
charm. He was like Bob in many ways, and for that Thurston
liked him and, stayed with him in the line-camp when he might
have been taking his ease at the home ranch.

It was wild and lonely down there between the bare hills and the
frozen river, but the wildness and the loneliness appealed to
him. It was primitive and at times uncomfortable. He slept in
a bunk built against the wall, with hard boards under him and a
sod roof over his head. There were times when the wind blew its
fiercest and rattled dirt down into his face unless he covered
it with a blanket. And every other day he had to wash the
dishes and cook, and when it was Gene's turn to cook, Thurston
chopped great armloads of wood for the fireplace to eat o'
nights. Also he must fare forth, wrapped to the eyes, and help
Gene drive back the cattle which drifted into the river bottom,