recent arrival from some old, teeming Pennsylvania mining town.
"Aha! Lonely. And safe," replied Tom, lighting his cigarette and sending a thick plume of smoke straight up into the still air. "No trouble here in the hills. I used to swear by the range. Still do. But I guess old Truex is right. The hills are all right, too, There is no meanness here, no cheating, no swindling, no. . ." And then, looking intently through puckered eyes, "say, if there isn't somebody coming! Down yonder! Along the old road!" and, following Tom's outstretched finger, Gamble saw a tiny, brown spot moving along rapidly between the rock ridges.
"Can't see his face," went on Tom, who had fetched a pair of field-glasses from the cabin, "but traveling in considerable style, whoever he is."
Gamble took the glasses.
"You bet," he replied; "some style!"
For the tiny, brown spot was a low buckboard driven by one man, side by side with another, and was filled to overflowing with pieces of luggage—two Gladstone bags, a plaid roll, a canvas roll, a linen-covered trunk, three guns in pigskin cases, a large creel and fishing rod and a camera,
"Where do you think they are going?" asked Tom.
"Must be coming here. The road leads to Goat Peak. That's the end of it, and there's a pretty smooth ascent from there up to this cabin."
"I guess so. Wonder who it is, though," replied Tom and, half an hour later, while Gamble had walked over to the Yankee Doodle Glory, his wonder grew into surprise and his surprise into dull, unreasoning anger.
