soon, and he smiled at the idea of a terrible father keeping him away
from her. What did he care for desperate men? Had he not faced them
over and over again as they lay entrenched behind blazing rifles and
deadly machine-guns? He had carried his life in his hand on numerous
occasions on behalf of King and country, and he was not afraid to do it
again for his own personal satisfaction. Just how he was to accomplish
his object he had no definite idea. It was enough for him as he lay
there to think of Glen's voice, the charm of her face, and the glory of
her kindling eyes.

When he had finished his smoke he arose, and hoisting the sheep once
again upon his back he carried it down to the roadhouse, where he sold
it to Shorty, who had bargained with him the evening before for his
game of the day. It was much easier than toting it around to the
various tents and shacks, and selling it by the piece to the miners.
He made less, to be sure, but he was satisfied. In fact, he was
becoming tired of this business, and longed for something else,
especially since he had met Glen in the hills.

Several men had arrived at Big Draw that day, and had brought a number
of letters. One was for Reynolds, from his old friend, the editor. It
was a fatherly letter, full of interest for his welfare, and the hope
that he would soon return and enter upon the quest to find the missing
Henry Redmond.


"I cannot get this notion out of my mind," he wrote in conclusion. "It
is with me night and day since I talked it over with you. I believe
you are the person best fitted for the undertaking. Give up your
present wild-goose chase, and come home."