They were nearing a small bridge over Bear Creek, the sounds of Haskell’s revellers growing nearer and louder.  Suddenly they heard an oath and a shot, and the next moment a wild rider, lashing a foaming horse with a stinging quirt, was upon them.  Westcott barely had time to swing the girl to safety as the tornado flew past.

“The drunken fool!” he muttered quietly.  “A puncher riding for camp.  There will be more up ahead probably.”

His little act of heroism drew the man strangely near to Miss Donovan, and as they hurried along in the silent night she felt that above all he was dependable, as if, too, she had known him months, aye years, instead of a scant hour.  And in this strange country she needed a friend.

“Now that I’ve laid bare my past,” he was saying, “don’t you think you might tell me why you are here?”

The girl stiffened.  To say that she was from the New York Star would close many avenues of information to her.  No, the thing to do was to adopt some “stall” that would enable her to idle about as much as she chose.  Then the mad horseman gave her the idea.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, “I forgot I hadn’t mentioned it.  I’m assigned by Scribbler’s Magazine to do an article on ’The Old West, Is It Really Gone?’ and, Mr. Westcott, I think I have a lovely start.”

A few moments later she thanked Providence for her precaution, for her companion resumed the story of his mining claim.

“It’s mighty funny I haven’t heard from that partner.  It isn’t like him not to answer my wire.  That’s why I’ve waited every night at the depot.  No, it’s not like ‘Pep,’ even if he does take his leisure at the College Club.”

Miss Donovan’s spine tingled at the mention of the name:  “Pep,” she murmured, trying to be calm.  “What was his other name?”

“Cavendish,” Westcott replied.  “Frederick Cavendish.”

A gasp almost escaped the girl’s lips.  Here, within an hour, she had linked the many Eastern dues of the Cavendish affair with one in the West.  Was ever a girl so lucky?  And immediately her brain began to work furiously as she walked along.

A sudden turn about the base of a large cliff brought them to Haskell, a single street running up the broadening valley, lined mostly with shacks, although a few more pretentious buildings were scattered here and there, while an occasional tent flapped its discoloured canvas in the night wind.  There were no street lamps, and only a short stretch of wooden sidewalk, but lights blazed in various windows, shedding illumination without, and revealing an animated scene.