of the Wind River hills, awaiting nightfall before venturing down among the familiar scenes of the Greybull. At the upper end of the valley where it was narrowest he crossed to the foothills that flanked the other side and started down to the Bar T ranch.
When thirty miles from his destination, a point of light in a shallow foothill basin caught his eye. He drew near and partly circled the cabin, undecided whether to go on or not. He did not know this place. Moran had never taken him to Brent’s. The lighted window attracted him and he trotted close. Several horses stood saddled in the yard.
Flash slipped to the door and sniffed along the crack. The tobacco smoke drowned the individual scent of each man within but the general air of the place and the murmur of voices was not to his liking. There was something vaguely and unpleasantly familiar about it all; and suddenly the hair rose along his spine as he recalled the night at Two Ocean Pass when he had searched among the bald ridges and heavy spruce for the phantom camp which he never found—the voices and smells that had reminded him of Brent.
He reared to his great height, rested his fore-
