Again the mountaineer shook his head.  “Colonel Dewey would be a mighty old man now, Dad, even if he were livin.’  ’Tain’t likely he’ll ever come back, nor tain’t likely the mine will ever be found without him.  I studied all that out on the way home.”

As he finished speaking, he rose to go, and the dog, springing up, dashed out of the cabin and across the clearing toward the bluff by the corral, barking furiously.

The two men looked at each other.  “A rabbit,” said Mr. Howitt.  But they both knew that the well trained shepherd dog never tracked a rabbit, and Old Matt’s face was white when he mounted to ride away up the trail.

Long the shepherd stood in the doorway looking out into the night, listening to the voices of the wilderness.  In his life in the hills he had found a little brightness, while in the old mountaineer’s words that evening, he had glimpsed a future happiness, of which he had scarcely dared to dream.  With the single exception of that one wild night, his life had been an unbroken calm.  Now he was to leave it all.  And for what?

He seemed to hear the rush and roar of the world beyond the ridges, as one in a quiet harbor hears outside the thunder of the stormy sea.  He shuddered.  The gloom and mystery of it all crept into his heart.  He was so alone.  But it was not the wilderness that made him shudder.  It was the thought of the great, mad, cruel world that raged beyond the hills; that, and something else.

The dog growled again and faced threateningly toward the cliff.  “What is it, Brave?” The only answer was an uneasy whine as the animal crouched close to the man’s feet.  The shepherd peered into the darkness in the direction of the ruined cabin.  “God,” he whispered, “how can I leave this place?”

He turned back into the house, closed and barred the door.  With the manner of one making a resolution after a hard struggle, he took writing material from the top shelf of the cupboard, and, seating himself at the table, began to write.  The hours slipped by, and page after page, closely written, came from the shepherd’s pen, while, as he wrote, the man’s face grew worn and haggard.  It was as though he lifted again the burden he had learned to lay aside.  At last it was finished.  Placing the sheets in an envelope, he wrote the address with trembling hand.

While Mr. Howitt was writing his letter at the ranch, and Old Matt was tossing sleeplessly on his bed in the big log house, a horseman rode slowly down from the Compton Ridge road.  Stopping at the creek to water, he pushed on up the mountain toward the Lane cabin.  The horse walked with low hung head and lagging feet; the man slouched half asleep in the saddle.  It was Jim Lane.

CHAPTER XXI.

God’s gold.

The troubled night passed.  The shepherd arose to see the sky above the eastern rim of the Hollow glowing with the first soft light of a new day.  Away over Compton Ridge one last, pale star hung, caught in the upper branches of a dead pine.  Not a leaf of the forest stirred.  In awe the man watched the miracle of the morning, as the glowing colors touched cloud after cloud, until the whole sky was aflame, and the star was gone.