It was in the warm days of late April—­the days which bring the birds and the tender, young grass, when the air is soft and all outdoors beckons one to come out and revel.  On such a day Billy, stirred to an indefinable elation because the world as he saw it then was altogether good, crooned his pet song while he waited at the porch with Flora’s horse and his own.  They were going to ride together because it was Sunday and because, if the weather held to its past and present mood of sweet serenity, he might feel impelled to start the wagons out before the week was done; so that this might be their last Sunday ride for nobody knew how long.

“Let’s ride up the creek,” she suggested when she was in the saddle.  “We haven’t been up that way this spring.  There’s a trail, isn’t there?”

“Sure, there’s a trail—­but I don’t know what shape it’s in.  I haven’t been over it myself for a month or so.  We’ll try it, but yuh won’t find much to see; it’s all level creek-bottom for miles and kinda monotonous to look at.”

“Well, we’ll go, anyway,” she decided, and they turned their horses’ heads toward the west.

They had gone perhaps five or six miles and were thinking of turning back, when Billy found cause to revise his statement that there was nothing to see.  There had been nothing when he rode this way before, but now, when they turned to follow a bend in the creek and in the trail, they came upon a camp which looked more permanent than was usual in that country.  A few men were lounging around in the sun, and there were scrapers of the wheeled variety, and wagons, and plows, and divers other implements of toil that were strange to the place.  Also there was a long, reddish-yellow ridge branching out from the creek; Billy knew it for a ditch—­but a ditch larger than he had seen for many a day.  He did not say anything, even when Flora exclaimed over the surprise of finding a camp there, but headed straight for the camp.

When they came within speaking distance, a man showed in the opening of one of the tents, looked at them a moment, and came forward.

“Why, that’s Fred Walland!” cried Flora, and then caught herself suddenly.  “I didn’t know he was back,” she added, in a tone much less eager.

Billy gave her a quick look that might have told her much had she seen it.  He did not much like the color which had flared into her cheeks at sight of the Pilgrim, and he liked still less the tone in which she spoke his name.  It was not much, and he had the sense to push the little devil of jealousy out of sight behind him, but it had come and changed something in the heart of Billy.

“Why, hello!” greeted the Pilgrim, and Billy remembered keenly that the Pilgrim had spoken in just that way when he had opened the door of the line-camp upon them, that night.  “I was going to ride over to the ranch, after a while.  How are yuh, anyhow?” He came and held up his hand to Flora, and she put her own into it.  Billy, with eyebrows pinched close, thought that they sure took their own time about letting go again, and that the smile which she gave the Pilgrim was quite superfluous to the occasion.