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"That's near enough, Mr. Fraser from Texas," said the old man, in

a slow voice that carried the Southern intonation. "This old gun

is loaded with buckshot, and she scatters like hell. Speak yore

little piece. How came yo' here, right now?"

"I got lost in the Wind River bad lands this mo'ning, and I been

playing hide and go seek with myself ever since."

"Where yo' haided for?"

"Gimlet Butte."

"Huh! That's right funny, too."

"Why?"

"Because all yo' got to do to reach the butte is to follow this

road and yore nose for about three miles."

A bullet flung up a spurt of sand beside the horse.

The young fellow behind the dead horse broke in, with impatient

alarm: "He's all right, dad. Can't you tell by his way of talking

that he's from the South? Make him lie down."

Something sweet and vibrant in the voice lingered afterward in

the Texan's mind almost like a caress, but at the time he was too

busy to think of this. He dropped behind a cottonwood, and drew

his revolver.