"It's mine," I cut him off. "My own paper. Those are my pencil marks."
I do not think that a microscope could have discerned a change in his face. "Oh," he commented, holding the paper, and fixing it with a critical eye. "You mean this is the one you lent Steve, and he wanted to give me to give back to you. And so them are your own marks." For a moment more he held it judicially, as I have seen men hold a contract upon whose terms they were finally passing. "Well, you have got it back now, anyway." And he handed it to me.
"Only a piece of it!" I exclaimed, always lightly. And as I took it from him his hand chanced to touch mine. It was cold as ice.
"They ain't through readin' the rest," he explained easily. "Don't you throw it away! After they've taken such trouble."
"That's true," I answered. "I wonder if it's Pounds or Ounces I'm indebted to."
Thus we made further merriment as we rode down into the great basin. Before us, the horse and boot tracks showed plain in the soft slough where melted snow ran half the day.
"If it's a paper chase," said the Virginian, "they'll drop no more along here."
"Unless it gets dark," said I.
"We'll camp before that. Maybe we'll see their fire."
We did not see their fire. We descended in the chill silence, while the mushroom rocks grew far and the sombre woods approached. By a stream we got off where two banks sheltered us; for a bleak wind cut down over the crags now
