could settle down while his herds grew up, and, perhaps, forget some
things that were better forgotten.

With sudden decision the cattle man threw himself from his horse,
unstrapped the little kit of supplies which he carried by the saddle;
drew off saddle and bridle and turned the animal free. The die was cast;
this was the spot. Within ten minutes his ax was ringing in the grove of
spruce trees close by, and the following night he fried mountain trout
under the shelter of his own temporary roof.

It was the next summer when Y.D. had another encounter with Wilson. The
Upper Forks turned out to be less secluded than he had supposed; it was
on the trail of trappers and prospectors working into the mountains.
Traders, too, in mysterious commodities, moved mysteriously back and
forth, and the log cabin at The Forks became something of a centre of
interest. Strange companies forgathered within its rude walls.

It was at such a gathering, in which Y.D. and three companions sat about
the little square table, that one of the visitors facetiously inquired
of the rancher how his herd was progressing.

"Not so bad, not so bad," said Y.D., casually. "Some winter losses, of
course; snow's too deep this far up. Why?"

"Oh, some of your neighbors down the valley say your cows are uncommon
prolific."

"They do?" said Y.D., laying down his cards. "Who says that?"

"Well, Wilson, for instance--"