“Too bad, old chap,” he remarked, as he looked down upon the brute.  “But, then, it served you right.  You attacked the innocent and defenseless, little thinking that such swift vengeance was so near.  You were little different, however, from certain two-legged brutes who tried the same game to their own sorrow.  You did me a great favor to-day, though, and it’s too bad I had to shoot you.  I would like to take your skin and keep it as a souvenir of this day.  Guess I’ll have to come back for it as I cannot carry it now.  And, besides, I shall need a shovel to dig you out of that heap.”

It was later than usual when Reynolds reached camp.  The way was long and the sheep he carried was heavy.  But his step was light and his heart happy.  He had met Glen, had talked with her, looked into her eyes, and felt the firm pressure of her hand.  Fate was kind to him, he reasoned, and it augured well for the future.

He was tired and hungry when he reached his little tent on the bank of the creek.  A supper of broiled lamb, sour-dough bread, stewed dried fruit, and tea greatly refreshed him.  He then lighted his pipe, and stretching himself out upon his blankets, meditated upon all that had taken place during the afternoon.  It was good to lie there and rest with deep silence all around, the vision of Glen before him, and the remembrance of her voice and the touch of her hand.  He wondered how and when he should see her again.  He was determined that it must be soon, and he smiled at the idea of a terrible father keeping him away from her.  What did he care for desperate men?  Had he not faced them over and over again as they lay entrenched behind blazing rifles and deadly machine-guns?  He had carried his life in his hand on numerous occasions on behalf of King and country, and he was not afraid to do it again for his own personal satisfaction.  Just how he was to accomplish his object he had no definite idea.  It was enough for him as he lay there to think of Glen’s voice, the charm of her face, and the glory of her kindling eyes.

When he had finished his smoke he arose, and hoisting the sheep once again upon his back he carried it down to the roadhouse, where he sold it to Shorty, who had bargained with him the evening before for his game of the day.  It was much easier than toting it around to the various tents and shacks, and selling it by the piece to the miners.  He made less, to be sure, but he was satisfied.  In fact, he was becoming tired of this business, and longed for something else, especially since he had met Glen in the hills.

Several men had arrived at Big Draw that day, and had brought a number of letters.  One was for Reynolds, from his old friend, the editor.  It was a fatherly letter, full of interest for his welfare, and the hope that he would soon return and enter upon the quest to find the missing Henry Redmond.

“I cannot get this notion out of my mind,” he wrote in conclusion.  “It is with me night and day since I talked it over with you.  I believe you are the person best fitted for the undertaking.  Give up your present wild-goose chase, and come home.”