mountain sheep he had bagged, and which he readily sold for several
ounces of gold. When not hunting, he would spend his time either
exploring some creek or lying on the hillside studying the scenery
around him, and imbibing impressions for the masterpieces he planned to
produce.

But it was not always the beauties of nature which occupied his mind.
No matter where he went Glen was ever with him. In some mysterious
manner she seemed to be near, and he wondered if he should ever see her
again. He often looked away to the east, for there Frontier Samson had
told him she lived. How far off was the place? he asked himself, and
if he did find her what would her lion of a father do? He was tempted
to make the try, anyway, and find out for himself if Jim Weston was as
desperate a character as he had been painted. He could do no more than
kill him, and he did not fear death. Had he not often faced it on the
field of battle, and why should he shrink now?

The more Reynolds thought about this, the more inclined he became to
make the effort. It would be another grand adventure to once again go
over the top. He might fail, but he would have the satisfaction of
making the attempt and showing Glen that he was not a coward. He had
been longing for some wild undertaking, and here was the opportunity
right at hand. It would be far more preferable than spending his time
around camp, or even hunting mountain sheep.

He was thinking seriously of this one beautiful afternoon as he lay on
the side of a deep ravine beneath a big weather-beaten fir tree.
Below, a brook gurgled, now very small owing to the dryness of the
season, but at times swollen by floods into a raging torrent. Across
this ravine the mountain rose steep and rugged. Along its side a