“Yes,” said Alton grimly.  “That’s just what I figure on doing.”

“But,” and Seaforth’s horror was evident, “he may try again.  There are more than the Somasco ranchers who would be sorry if—­he was successful—­Harry.”

Alton laughed, but the grating cachination sent a shiver through his companion.  “Yes,” he said, “I think he will, and that’s why I’m waiting.  He may give himself away the third time, and then it will be either him or me.”

Seaforth stood silent for almost a minute.  “If you would only listen to me—­but of course you will not.  Can’t you see that you are in the way of somebody who stands behind that man?”

“Yes,” and Alton’s smile was now quietly grim.  “It don’t take much genius to figure out that.  Before I’m through I’ll know just who he is, and all about him.”

Once more Seaforth was silent a space.  Then he spoke very slowly.  “Are you sure you’re wise?”

Alton gripped his comrade’s arm so that he winced with pain.  “It’s the second time you’ve asked me that,” he said.  “There will not be room for you and me in this province if you ask it me again.”

Seaforth shook his grasp off.  “You are my partner, Harry, and the only friend I have.  God send you safe through with it.  Now, is there any use in looking for the fellow with the lariat?”

“No,” said Alton in his usual voice.  “There isn’t.  He would have been waiting up there ready to whip the thing away, and by this time he has doubled back down the trail.  If you met a man riding along quietly what could you do to him?”

“It’s devilish,” said Seaforth, as a fit of impotent anger shook him.

“Oh, yes,” said Alton languidly.  “Still, there isn’t much use in slinging names, and I’m kind of tired.  Help me up into your saddle, and lead the beast by the bridle.  We’ll head for Gordon’s.”

CHAPTER XXV

ALTON IS SILENT

There is a ridge of rising ground on the outskirts of Vancouver City where a few years ago a pretty wooden house stood beneath the pines.  They rose sombrely behind it, but the axe had let in the sunlight between the rise and the water, and one could look out from the trim garden across the blue inlet towards the ranges’ snow.  To-day one would in all probability look for that dwelling in vain, and find only stores or great stone buildings, for as the silent men with the axes push the lonely clearings farther back into the forest the Western cities grow, and those who dwell in them increase in riches, which is not usually the case with the axeman who goes on farther into the bush again.