He had returned to the Whitney home, which he supposed was miles away, and this was his old friend Fred, who came smilingly forward and said, as he recognized him: 

“I am glad, indeed, to see you, Mont; we heard the sound of the firing and feared that something had happened to you.”

“Nothing at all, thank you, and nothing to Queenie—­but that reminds me,” he added, slipping out of the saddle; “she acted once as though she had been hit, though it wasn’t bad enough to show itself in her gait.”

The two made a hasty examination but discovered nothing; proof that, as her owner said, the wound, if any, was too slight to trouble her.

“Fred, what do you think of my coming back to you in this fashion?” abruptly asked Sterry, with a laugh, looking around in his friend’s face.

“The most sensible thing you could have done; it redeems your foolishness in leaving us as you did.”

“But my return was involuntary.”

“How was that?”

“I thought I was miles distant, and had no idea of my location until I caught the outlines of your house; I assure you I contemplated no such performance as this.”

“Well, you’re here, so what’s the use of talking unless you mean to mount your mare and try it again.”

“Hardly that; I have too much mercy on her.”

The couple walked past the dwelling to the rude but roomy shelter at the rear where the horses were sometimes placed when not in use, or when the severity of the weather made the protection necessary.  There the saddle, bridle and trappings were removed from the mare, and she was made comfortable.  Then the two returned to their seats at the front of the building, to smoke and chat a few minutes before retiring for the night.

CHAPTER XIII.

A consultation.

That mysterious warm-air current known as the Chinook wind steals through the depressions of the Rocky Mountains, at certain seasons of the year, from the mild surface of the Pacific, and tempers the severity of the winters in some portions of Montana, Wyoming, and the great West to a degree that renders them milder than many places farther south.

It was early in the month of May, when even in the Middle States it is not often comfortable to remain seated out of doors after the close of day, but Sterry and Whitney found it pleasant to occupy their chairs in front of the building, with no other protection then their own warm garments.

Whitney’s wound was doing so well that he expressed himself ashamed to wear his arm in a sling.  He freed it from the support, moved it readily about, and declared that after the next morning he would no longer shirk duty.

In one sense, Monteith Sterry was disappointed.  He hoped they would be joined by Jennie, from whom he parted earlier in the evening, but he reflected that the hour was late, and she probably felt that her duty was with her sorrowing mother.