While Brian Oakley had been searching for signs in the little path, and the artist, with the others, was waiting, Aaron King’s mind went back to that day when he and Conrad Lagrange had sat there under the oaks and, in a spirit of irresponsible fun, had committed themselves to the leadership of Croesus.  To the young man, now, that day, with its care-free leisure, seemed long ago.  Remembering the novelist’s fanciful oration to the burro, he thought grimly how unconscious they had been, in their merriment, of the great issues that did actually rest upon the seemingly trivial incident.  He recalled, too, with startling vividness, the times that he had climbed to that spot with Sibyl, or, reaching it from either way on the pipe-line, had gone with her down the zigzag path to the road in the canyon below.  Had she, last night, alone, or with some unwelcome companions, paused a moment under those oaks?  Had she remembered the hours that she had spent there with him?

As he followed the Ranger over the ground that he had walked with her, that day of their last climb together, it seemed to him that every step of the way was haunted by her sweet personality.  The objects along the trail—­a point of rock, a pine, the barrel where they had filled their canteen, a broken section of the concrete pipe left by the workmen, the very rocks and cliffs, the flowers—­dry and withered now—­that grew along the little path—­a thousand things that met his eyes—­recalled her to his mind until he felt her presence so vividly that he almost expected to find her waiting, with smiling, winsome face, just around the next turn.  The officer, who, moving ahead, scanned with careful eyes every foot of the way, seemed to the artist, now, to be playing some fantastic game.  He could not, for the moment, believe that the girl he loved was—­God! where was she?  Why did Brian Oakley move so slowly, on foot, while his horse, leisurely cropping the grass, followed?  He should be in the saddle!  They should be riding, riding riding—­as he had ridden last night.  Last night!  Was it only last night?

Where the Government trail crosses the fire-break on the crest of the Galenas, Brian Oakley paused.  “I don’t think there’s been anything over this way,” he said.  “We’ll follow the fire-break to that point up there, for a look around.”

At noon, they stood by the big rock, under the clump of pines, where Aaron King and Sibyl Andres had eaten their lunch.

“We’ll be here some time,” said the Ranger.  “Make yourself comfortable.  I want to see if there’s anything stirring down yonder.”

With his back to the rock, he searched the Galena Valley side of the range, through his powerful glass; commenting, now and then, when some object came in the field of his vision, to his companion who sat beside him.

They had risen to go and the officer was returning his glass to its case on his saddle, when Aaron King—­pointing toward Fairlands, lying dim and hazy in the distant valley—­said, “Look there!”