It was snowing slowly and persistently, as it had done all day, when
Henry Alton of Somasco ranch stood struggling with a half-tamed Cayuse
pony in a British Columbian settlement. The Cayuse had laid its ears
back, and was describing a circle round him, scattering mud and snow,
while the man who gripped the bridle in a lean, brown hand watched it
without impatience, admiringly.

"Game!" he said. "I like them that way. Still, it isn't every man
could seize a pack on him, and you'll have to let up three dollars on
the price you asked me."

Now three dollars is a considerable proportion of the value of an
Indian pony fresh from the northern grass lands, with the devil that
lurks in most of his race still unsubdued within him, but the rancher
who owned him did not immediately reject the offer. Possibly he was
not especially anxious to keep the beast.

"Oh, yes," said a bystander. "He's game enough, and I'd ask the boys
to my funeral if I meant to drive him at night over the lake trail.
After being most kicked into wood-pulp Carter hasn't any more use for
him, and I'll lay you a dollar, Alton, you and your partner can't put
the pack on him."

Perhaps the Cayuse was tired, or desirous of watching for an
opportunity, for it came to a standstill, snorting, with its wicked
eyes upon the man, who laughed a little and shoved back the broad hat
from his forehead as he straightened himself. The laugh rang
pleasantly, and the faint twinkle in Alton's eyes was in keeping with
it. They were grey, and steady when the light sank out of them, and
the rest of the bronzed face was shrewd and quietly masterful. He wore