To Baldy it was a period of perfect joy—­to be with Ben Edwards and Moose Jones in the glorious freedom of the open country in the far hills.  Here the dogs did what their fancies dictated.  They swam, unmolested, in the ditch; ran for miles with their chum, the dappled gray horse; gave chase to saucy, chattering squirrels, and even fished so successfully that they were the admiration of all the camps about.

Irish and Baldy would stand in the riffles of a stream, and Rover, leaping into the pools and quiet waters, would drive the fish up into the shallows, where they were seized by his two companions, taken ashore and dropped on the bank.  Then they returned for more, keeping up the sport till a bird in flight or some other fascinating moving creature lured them away in a spirited pursuit through thick willows and across green marsh-lands.

At night they slept, if they chose, in the Bunk House; and ate without restriction such mysterious delicacies as cake and pastries.

No longer was Baldy ignored by the men, nor did it now take the threats of Moose Jones to prevent the petty annoyances to which he had been subjected formerly; for in winning the Solomon Derby he had proved his worth and they were glad to give him well-earned praise.

Occasionally there would be a dissenter from the general admiration of the dog.  Black Mart, who sometimes came over from the Midas, never failed to belittle the record he had made.  “It’s no test, that short mush t’ Solomon, an’ it don’t prove nothin’.  Why, I’ve seen teams that could do wonders in that there run that couldn’t git as fur as Council in the Big Race without goin’ t’ pieces.  It takes somethin’ more’n a slinkin’ half-breed like him t’ lead a winnin’ team in the Sweepstakes.”

And Moose would retort sarcastically, “Mart, ef you was as good a judge o’ dogs as dogs is o’ you—­stop growlin’ at him, Baldy—­you’d have a winnin’ team in yourself, instead o’ just jawin’ about it.”

One man’s enmity mattered but little, however, in the general friendliness Baldy experienced; and there were so many glorious things to offset those infrequent encounters with the one person he instinctively regarded with aversion.

Encouraging news had come from Dime Creek, and Golconda was proving rich beyond the highest expectations of Jones; and many happy hours did he and Ben spend in plans for the boy’s future; a future that now seemed near and bright.

“Even without Golconda, Ben,” Moose would exclaim confidently, “I’ve got enough salted away from them other deals to put you through all the book learnin’ you’ll need t’ make a reg’lar spell-bindin’ lawyer o’ you like Fink, er a way up Judge, mebbe in Washington.  An’ with Golconda,—­well, Sonny, that there Arabian Nights chap that she was tellin’ you about wouldn’t have nothin’ on us fer adventure, an’ doin’ good turns to folks unbeknownst, an’ all that kind o’ stuff,” and Moose Jones would pat the boy’s shoulder affectionately.