it with Phyl. Go slow, boy!"

Without more words they parted, Jim to ride swiftly back for help, and
young Sanderson to push on up the trail with his eyes glued to it. Ever
since he could swing himself to a saddle he had been a vaquero in the
cow country.

He was therefore an expert at reading the signs left by travellers. What
would have been invisible to a tenderfoot offered evidence to him as
plain as the print on a primer. Mile after mile he covered with a minute
scrutiny that never wavered.




CHAPTER XXV

LARRY TELLS A BEAR STORY


Keller rode blithely down the piney trail while the sun flung its
brilliant good-bye over the crotch of the mountains behind which it was
slipping. The western sky was a Turner sublimated to the _nth_ degree, a
thing magnificent and indescribable. The young man rode with his crisp
curls bared to the light, grateful breeze that came like healing from
the great peaks. From the joyous, unquenchable youth in him bubbled
snatches of song and friendly smiles scattered broadcast over a world
that pleased him mightily.

He was going to see his girl, going down to the Frying Pan to take her