“And you wear rather heavy boots too,” said the artist suggestively.  Then, more at ease, he joined in the laugh at himself.

“Catch any fish?” asked the Ranger—­lifting the cover of the creel.  “Whee!” as he saw the contents.  “That’s bully!  And I’m hungry as a she wolf too!  Been in the saddle since sunup without a bite.  What do you say if I make that long deferred social call upon you and Lagrange this evening?”

“I say, good!  Mr. Oakley,” returned the artist, heartily.  “I guess you know what Lagrange will say.”

“You bet I do.”  He whistled—­a low, birdlike note.  In answer, a beautiful, chestnut saddle-horse came out of the chaparral, where it had not been seen by the painter.  “We’re going, Max,” said the officer, in a matter-of-fact way.  And, as the two men set out, the horse followed, with a business-like air that brought a word of admiring comment from the artist.

That Aaron King had won the approval of the Ranger was evidenced by the mountaineer’s inviting himself to supper the camp in the sycamores.  The fact that the officer considerately told Conrad Lagrange only that he had met the artist with his creel full of trout, and so had been tempted to accompany him, won the enduring gratitude of the young man.  Thus the circumstances of their meeting introduced each to the other, with recommendations of peculiar value, and marked the beginning of a genuine and lasting friendship.  But, while, out of delicate regard for the artist’s feelings, he refrained from relating the—­to the young man—­embarrassing incident, Brian Oakley could not resist making, at every opportunity, sly references to their meeting—­for the painter’s benefit and his own amusement.  Thus it happened that, after supper, as they sat with their pipes, the talk turned upon Sibyl Andres and the woman with the disfigured face.

The Ranger, to tease the artist, had remarked casually,—­after complimenting them upon the location of their camp,—­“And you’ve got some mighty nice neighbors, less than a mile above too.”

“Neighbors!” ejaculated Conrad Lagrange—­in a tone that left no doubt as to his sentiment in the matter.

The others laughed; while the officer said, “Oh, I know how you feel!  You think you don’t want anybody poaching on your preserves.  You’re up here in the hills to get away from people, and all that.  But you don’t need to be uneasy.  You won’t even see these folks—­unless you sneak up on them.”  He stole a look at the artist, and chuckled maliciously as the painter covertly shook his fist at him.  “You may hear them though.”

“Which would probably be as bad,” retorted the novelist, gruffly.

“Oh, I don’t know!” returned the other.  “You might be able to stand it.  I don’t reckon you would object to a little music now and then, would you?—­real music, I mean.”

“So our neighbors are musical, are they?” The novelist seemed slightly interested.