may get a five or ten extra, while your $40,000 claim goes to Mr.
Fat-Man at a couple of hundreds from Uncle Sam's timber limits; and the
_Smelter City Herald_ thunders about the citizen's right to homestead
free land, about the Federal Government putting up a fence to keep the
settler off. That fellow--that fellow in the first shack can't speak a
word of English. Smelter brought a train load of 'em in here; and
they've all homesteaded the big timbers, a thousand of 'em, foreigners,
given homesteads in the name of the free American citizen. Have you
seen anything about it in the newspaper? Well--I guess not. It isn't
a _news_ feature. We're all full up about the great migration to
Canada. We like to be given a gold brick and the glad hand. Of
course, they'll farm that land. One man couldn't clear that big timber
for a homestead in a hundred years. Of course, they are not
homesteading free timber for the big Smelter. Of course not! They
didn't loot the redwoods of California that way--two hundred thousand
acres of 'em--seventy-five millions of a steal. Hm!'" muttered
Wayland. "Calls himself Moyese--Moses! Senator Smelter! Senator
Thief! Senator Beef Steer--"

She laughed. "I like your rage! Look! What's that mountain behind
the cabin doing?"

"Shine on pale moon, don't mind me," laughed Wayland; but suddenly he
stopped storming.

The slant sunlight struck the Holy Cross Mountain turning the snow
gullies pure gold against the luminous peak. Just for a moment the
white cornice of snow forming the bar of the apparent cross flushed to
the Alpine glow, flushed blood-red and quivering like a cross poised in
mid-air. An invisible hand of silence touched them both. The sunset