came slowly through the sliding whiteness in his direction. Then there
was another shout, and when somebody dragged the pony clear of the
boulder he held on by the bridle and went floundering waist-deep up
stream. The water, however, now sank rapidly, and soon he was clear of
it to the knee. Then there was a clatter of hoofs on slippery rock,
and he lurched dripping and gasping into the partial shelter of the
pines. Somebody smote him on the shoulder, and he heard Alton's voice,
"Get hold and hustle. We'll fetch Townshead's in an hour or so."




CHAPTER II

AT TOWNSHEAD'S RANCH

It was chilly and damp in the log-walled living-room of the Townshead
homestead, which stood far up in a lonely valley amidst the scattered
pines. The room was also bare and somewhat comfortless, for the land
was too poor to furnish its possessor with more than necessities, and
Townshead not the man to improve it much. He lay in an old leather
chair beside the stove, a slender, grey-haired man with the worn look
of one whose burden had been too heavy for him. His face was thin and
somewhat haggard, his long, slender hand rather that of an artist than
a bush rancher, and his threadbare attire was curiously neat. He wore
among other somewhat unusual things an old red velvet jacket, and there
was a little cup of black coffee and a single cigar of exceptional
quality on the table beside him.

Townshead was, in fact, somewhat of an anachronism in a country whose