Although mining was not in his line, Reynolds realised that he must do something.  As he studied the life of the camp, and watched the men at their work, he thought of his friend, the editor.  What an article he might write for The Telegram that would make the editor’s eyes dance with joy.  And he could do it, too, he felt certain, if he could only get up sufficient energy.  He could add a number of sketches drawn from life, which would be of much value.  He thought of all this as he wandered aimlessly around, and as he lay at night in his little tent.

Several days thus passed without anything being done.  Frontier Samson had again disappeared, and no one had any idea where he had gone.  Reynolds soon grew tired with having nothing to do, so he accordingly turned his attention to the hills.  Fresh meat was urgently needed for the camp, as the miners would not spare the time to go after it themselves.  Wild sheep roamed the mountains, and Reynolds decided that he could make more money by supplying the camp with meat than digging for the uncertain gold.  It would also satisfy his desire to get away into the wilds, where he could explore to his heart’s content the mysteries of the foothills, the great valleys, and the vast expanses of wild meadows.

Reynolds at once put this plan into execution, and each morning he left camp for a day in the hills.  At night he returned, loaded down with a mountain sheep he had bagged, and which he readily sold for several ounces of gold.  When not hunting, he would spend his time either exploring some creek or lying on the hillside studying the scenery around him, and imbibing impressions for the masterpieces he planned to produce.

But it was not always the beauties of nature which occupied his mind.  No matter where he went Glen was ever with him.  In some mysterious manner she seemed to be near, and he wondered if he should ever see her again.  He often looked away to the east, for there Frontier Samson had told him she lived.  How far off was the place? he asked himself, and if he did find her what would her lion of a father do?  He was tempted to make the try, anyway, and find out for himself if Jim Weston was as desperate a character as he had been painted.  He could do no more than kill him, and he did not fear death.  Had he not often faced it on the field of battle, and why should he shrink now?

The more Reynolds thought about this, the more inclined he became to make the effort.  It would be another grand adventure to once again go over the top.  He might fail, but he would have the satisfaction of making the attempt and showing Glen that he was not a coward.  He had been longing for some wild undertaking, and here was the opportunity right at hand.  It would be far more preferable than spending his time around camp, or even hunting mountain sheep.