distant lights of the Timmons House. As they followed the road, which
paralleled a whispering stream, the girl began to draw him out
skilfully, and was amazed to find that for all of his rough appearance
he was excellently educated and a gentleman of taste. Finally the
reason came out.

"I'm a college man," he explained proudly. "So was my partner--same
class. But one can't always remain in the admirable East, and three
years ago he and I came here prospecting. Actually struck some
pay-dirt in the hills yonder, too, but it sort of petered out on us."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Miss Donovan's condolence was genuine.

"We lost the ore streak. It was broken in two by some upheaval of
nature. We were still trying to find it when my partner's father died
and he went East to claim the fortune that was left. I couldn't work
alone, so I drifted away, and didn't come back until about four months
ago, when I restaked the claim and went to work again."

"You had persistence, Mr. Westcott," the girl laughed.

"It was rewarded. I struck the vein again--when my last dollar was
gone. That was a month ago, I wired my old partner for help, but----"
He stopped, listening intently.

They were nearing a small bridge over Bear Creek, the sounds of
Haskell's revellers growing nearer and louder. Suddenly they heard an
oath and a shot, and the next moment a wild rider, lashing a foaming
horse with a stinging quirt, was upon them. Westcott barely had time
to swing the girl to safety as the tornado flew past.