a set and began "dancing Tucker." When the quadrille was over Mrs. Sparks announced to the miners that she did not come there to be a "wall flower" and that she expected every miner in the place to dance with her before the ball was over, also intimating that if any of them should forget their social duties to her they stood a good chance of being dropped off the pay roll. It took until half-past three in the morning for all of the miners to dance with the Governor's wife, and although her fine gown was "placed on the retired list" by midnight, she said she really enjoyed herself more than she did at the inaugural ball, which took place at Carson a couple of weeks before. Since that time the miners of Nevada never allude to Mrs. Sparks without mentioning her in the vernacular of the sage brush as a "perfect little brick."

T

HE irregular patch of creamy white snow on the mountain gave birth to a goodly rill that bawled down the steeper declivities, sang through a rifled canyon, then purled between banks of sand and gravel and clay. Where the snow-born creek droned a murmuring farewell to the mountain canyon, a huge cotton-wood tree spread aloft its billows of emerald leaves, and there floated down from the green masses little flurries of seeds-fuzzy with white cotton-and the creek's bosom became white; the sage brush was beautified by the fleecy driftings and the ground within a radius of a hundred yards wavered with a coating of mock snow.

Beneath the grand old tree a tent was pitched, and its canvas looked dingy in comparison with the cottonwood's wealth of white-flecked seeds. A pick, two shovels and a clutter of pans and drills lay by the open flap of the tent, and Turner, the prospector, was frying bacon over glowing coals.

The sun shot a slanting beam down from the western sky; it shone on the patch of mountain snow and painted it a glistening vermilion; it touched the feathery cotton flakes, but coaxed no responding glitter from the dead white of the sham snow.

Turner filled a tin plate with bacon, beans and bread, poured out a cup of coffee and carried them to a box without the tent, where he ate in silence his evening meal. The Sierras loomed up in rigid forms behind him, and a broken series of hills furnished an unvarying landscape clear to the eastern horizon. Off to the right a spring oozed out of the mountain side and a little oasis of grass and marsh plants thrived in fresh love

liness. There Turner's horse was picketed, and man and beast were alone at Cottonwood mine, the latest find of Turner, the prospector.

Supper finished, Turner filled his pipe and enjoyed, as a solitary man can, the fragrant tobacco fumes.

The vermilion tints faded from yon high-plastered snow bank and the purple twilight began to deepen. The picketed horse whinnied; an answering neigh sounded from a-down the creek. Turner sprang to his feet as he caught this dumb. conversation and beheld a magnificent black horse picking its way up the faint trail along the brook. Nor was the animal riderless; he who sat the black horse stared in astonishment at Turner. "Hello, stranger! Where'd you drop from?"

"Hello," came the low response, as the man halted his mount within a few yards of the cottonwood.

"Reckon you're lost, ain't you?" "N-no; well, yes, guess I am, too. Mining?"

"That's right. Your horse looks tired, better stop and rest him a spell."

"This trail, does it lead through the pass in the mountains ?"

"It ends right here, stranger. There's no pass over the mountains that you could make tonight, anyway. What's your rush ?"

A deep flush darkened the horseman's cheek and a suspicion of mistrust flashed in his eyes as Turner put this last query; but, by an effort his next words betrayed no inkling of these fleeting signs.

"Believe I will call a halt. Could you take me, as well as my horse, in for the night?"

"Sure; you're right welcome to the

comforts of Turner's camp. Picket your animal out, shall I ?"

"That would be a good scheme. Haven't got an extra rope, have you?"

"By George, I haven't! The only rope in camp is on my critter over there. But hold on, that rope's long enough for two ordinary horses. I'll cut it in two."

"You're too good; yet I'm a genius at splicing, and if there's no other way and you cut your rope I promise to make it good as new before I leave."

"Agreed. Nothing like knowing a thing or two. I couldn't splice a rope if my life depended on it."

"Well, if the case came down to saving my life by simply splicing a rope I guess I am booked for several years yet." A grim little laugh accompanied this last speech, and nothing more was said by either man until Turner came back from staking out the satin-skinned, intelligent horse of the new comer.

"Rode pretty hard, didn't you?"
The man nodded assent.

"Hungry? There's plenty of miner's grub in stock; no trouble to warm up a bite."

This time Turner's guest looked him square in the face. His voice was somewhat husky, and a speck of moisture softened the big, brown eyes.

"You give a fellow a square deal, pardThis hospitality kind of goes to the right spot."

ner.

If Turner was surprised at this sudden outbreak he failed to show it. He busied himself with the cooking utensils, and when the meal was prepared, even drank a cup of coffee with the man to keep him company.

Stars began to peep out in the high vault of heaven's blue; a breath of cool air puffed down the canyon, set the crisp cottonwood's leaves adancing, and shook out a fanciful snow storm from the myriad branches above the tent.

Turner had relighted his pipe and the stranger rolled a cigarette.

"That's a pretty sight, pardner-looks like a snowstorm in June."

"Yes, it's pretty enough, but a big nuisance. Everything about here is thick with the sticky stuff. But man's got no business kicking agin nature way up here in these mountains."

"Second nature to kick, though; let's see, you said your name was Turner?"

"Martin Turner, prospector-my name and calling."

"Lawrence, Jack Lawrence, that's me; and I am just knocking around the country now. Do most anything, although I did study law once-to please my folks."

"I never had no show to learn much," mused Turner, "except what I've picked up kicking around these hills, and that kind of knowledge don't come in fancy packages."

The men sat up for an hour or more, smoking and talking. Turner was eager to hear the latest news from the civilized world, and Lawrence, listening to his host's flow of good-hearted comments and easy going questions, opened his heart to the prospector, and when the two rolled up in blankets spread on a bed of cedar boughs-each had formed a liking for the other.

*

*

*

Down by the babbling creek Turner was panning out some gravel. The sun shone clear and warm, the bright air seemed a-quiver with elixir and robins sang ecstatically among the cottonwood branches.

"Do you get a color, Turner?" asked Lawrence, who lay on the bank, an interested observer.

"A trace, Jack; and that's always encouragin'.'

"This is a lonesome life, Turner; but it's a clean, wholesome existence this being out under God's blue sky all day long and breathing pure air amongst the beauties of nature."

"Yes, young fellow, that's right-then the hope of striking it rich some day counts for a good deal, you know. Sort o' keeps up your spirits."

"Turner, I've never told you about my life, have I?" queried Jack Lawrence, whose third day with the prospector had brought the men on familiar grounds.

"I'm not quizzing you, Jack, but fire away if you want to tell me."

"Well, there's not much to tell, onlyonly if anything should ever happen to me, Turner, and you are somewhere in the neighborhood, will you do me a favor?"

"Why sure, lad; if any one can favor you, Martin Turner's the man.”

"See this picture," said Jack, producing a small photograph of a sweet-faced girl. "That's the truest girl in the world.

She is my sweetheart, Turner, and well, if anything should turn up, just send the picture to the address on the back and tell her what good you know of me, not the bad you might possibly hear."

"Jack, what's up? You ain't thinking of doing anything foolish, lad?"

"No; not that, only you will promise to send this picture, with one good word, won't you?"

"My hand on it, Jack."

And a muddy, toil-worn hand grasped with a firm hold the lad's slender, wellkept one. Their eyes met, but no other reference was made in regard to the compact.

"I'm going to strike out this afternoon, so I'll bring up the horses and splice that rope as I promised," said Lawrence a few moments later.

"Must go, eh? You're welcome to stay here as long as you want, Jack."

But Jack was restless, and Turner did not urge him to remain. Lawrence led the horses to the cottonwood, slipped the bridle on his beautiful black, put a short halter on Turner's horse, and tied the pair to a scrub cedar. Then he picked up the sections of the severed picket rope and carried them to the creek where the prospector still rocked his pan. Turner laid down the pan when Jack came up, saving:

"Guess I'll take a few pointers on this splicing trick; might come in handy for me some day."

A huge branch of the tree spread its shadow and a sifting of woolly seeds over the twain as they sat on the gravelly bank. So intent upon teaching and learning were Lawrence and Turner that neither heard the approach of a squad of horsemen until a voice rang out:

"Hello, what's this?"

A pistol shot could not have startled the younger man more than that voice. He sprang to his feet, his face turned ashen gray, and a hunted expression distended the pupils of his dark eyes, as he saw the half-dozen men who had already ridden under the cottonwood's broad branches.

"Surprised ye, did we? You're pretty smart, my fine gentleman, but ye figured a bit shy in dealin' with G. W. Catlineain't that so, men?

"Every time, Catline; but here's your

23

horse and here's your horse thief. One's safe, t'other's cornered, what you going to do?"

"Surprisin' the number of fine gents that have been kitin' off with other people's horses lately. Time a stop was called. Examples do a powerful lot of good, ye know."

A hard-faced comrade of Catline. glanced up at the cottonwood's limbs, then at the rope which Lawrence was nervously fingering.

"Nice tree handy; long rope handier; horse thief stands before us. Must be ordained by the powers that be, that a hanging's the natural consequence."

"Good God, Catline, what does this mean, anyhow?" Turner spoke in a voice husky with emotion.

"Look here, Turner, you be a good doggie, now. This man is a notorious horse thief. This ain't his first crime, nor his second; and like as not he would have repaid your kindness by annexing that animal of yours when he took leave."

Turner looked at Lawrence, whose glazed eyes and pallid face needed no word to convince the prospector of their owner's guilt.

"There ain't no creepin' out of it one way or the other," added Catline, "for that's my horse, the black there, any of these men will swear to that; besides the thief don't say that he ain't a thief. A judge and jury couldn't prove much more than the facts we already know."

"Yes," spoke up one of Catline's men, "the man by your side, Turner, as goes by the name of Jack Lawrence, stands convicted of stealing a horse, and we're the committee that's goin' to put the quietus on that sort o' thing."

The men dismounted, threw the bridle reins over their horses' heads and surrounded Lawrence, who spoke not a word.

"What's the motto about, 'Finish what you begin," or something to that effect? I move Mr. Jack Lawrence take up his work where he left off. There'll be a kind of romance in the splicing of one's own hang rope."

The brutal attempt at making a laughing stock of him wrought a change in the condemned man. A rush of blood reddened his cheeks, and a dauntless light transformed the brown eyes' cowed expression. He snatched the rope from the hands of the calloused westerner: "Turner, I promised to splice this picket rope and splice it I will. I won't go back on my word, and you will remember your promise, Turner?" Turner seemed bereft of speech, for he merely nodded a quiet assent.

In the center of that rough circle stood Jack Lawrence, with never a glance at any of the men, but his fingers were steady as he deftly braided the strands of the picket rope. Somehow the romance of the thing was intensified too vividly by the tragic realism of the scene, and even he who suggested the idea felt a pang of pity for the horse thief whose courage caused his captors to forget for the nonce his record as a thief. No further comments were forthcoming, and the first to break the silence was Law

rence:

The robins twittered lovingly among the thick volumes of leaves; shadows crept far out from the base of the mountains, and the creamy patch of snow high on the peak glowed rosily in its afternoon splendor. Noiselessly the flakes of downy seeds floated from the whispering branches. A fluff of white lay thick on the ground, except on a mound of freshly turned earth; but even this unsightly spot began to lose its gloomy contour as the evening zephyr caressed the clusters of bursting pods, that loosened their fleece and mercifully veiled the damp grave in a shroud of purest white.

Turner fastened his last kettle on the horse's pack, picked up a rope and looked dubiously over its recently spliced portion: he brushed a hardened hand quickly over his eyes and threw the picket rope far across the brook.

Then shouldering a clay - daubed shovel, he led his horse, packed with all his belongings, away from Cottonwood camp, bound for fields where prospects were more pleasing.