BARON HORST VON GÖTZ-WREDE
41
at things there. My bank account is running up so fast that I'm afraid at times it's all a dream. . ."
And so, the next morning, Tom Graves left town, and two days later found him facing Gamble in the latter's cabin, a long, low building of dovetailed logs, dirt-roofed and chinked with mud, most of its four-paned windows built in to "keep the air out," its tall stove pipe wired and braced, trying to lead an upright life in spite of the furious wind that sometimes boomed from the higher Hoodoo peaks and roared through the draw at the rate of forty and fifty miles an hour.
But Tom was quite happy. This wasn't the range, the Killicott. Yet at least it was the free, the open. It was the untrammeled West; his own!
