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came to him, in the high, strident voice of Lute Perkins. He took

a deep breath of fresh, clean air, and looked about him. After

the hot, dusty room, the grove, with its green foliage, through

which the moonlight filtered, looked invitingly cool. He

sauntered forward, climbed the hill up which the wooded patch

straggled, and sat down, with his back to a pine.

Behind the valley rampart, he could see the dim, saw-toothed

Teton peaks, looking like ghostly shapes in the moonlight. The

night was peaceful. Faint and mellow came the sound of jovial

romping from the house; otherwise, beneath the distant stars, a

perfect stillness held.

How long he sat there, letting thoughts happen dreamily rather

than producing them of gray matter, he did not know. A slight

sound, the snapping of a twig, brought his mind to alertness

without causing the slightest movement of his body.