the creek was suspended, and the men flocked to the roadhouse to
receive their scanty dole of letters and papers. Shorty was the
custodian of the mail after its arrival, and he magnified his office.
With a quid of tobacco tucked away in his cheek, he would study each
address most carefully before calling forth the owner's name in a
stentorian voice.

Although mining was not in his line, Reynolds realised that he must do
something. As he studied the life of the camp, and watched the men at
their work, he thought of his friend, the editor. What an article he
might write for _The Telegram_ that would make the editor's eyes dance
with joy. And he could do it, too, he felt certain, if he could only
get up sufficient energy. He could add a number of sketches drawn from
life, which would be of much value. He thought of all this as he
wandered aimlessly around, and as he lay at night in his little tent.

Several days thus passed without anything being done. Frontier Samson
had again disappeared, and no one had any idea where he had gone.
Reynolds soon grew tired with having nothing to do, so he accordingly
turned his attention to the hills. Fresh meat was urgently needed for
the camp, as the miners would not spare the time to go after it
themselves. Wild sheep roamed the mountains, and Reynolds decided that
he could make more money by supplying the camp with meat than digging
for the uncertain gold. It would also satisfy his desire to get away
into the wilds, where he could explore to his heart's content the
mysteries of the foothills, the great valleys, and the vast expanses of
wild meadows.

Reynolds at once put this plan into execution, and each morning he left
camp for a day in the hills. At night he returned, loaded down with a