"Dave, are you fit for a little ride this morning?" asked Mr. Bellmore, about two weeks after the prairie fire.

"Why, sure," was the answer. "What's on?"

"I want to go over to the stone valley, and make some calculations of the flow of water there. It isn't much of a stream, to be sure, but if we're going into this irrigation scheme, we can't neglect even a small flow of water. We might want it in dry weather. I need some one to help me make the measurements."

"Why sure I'll go. Be with you in a little while. There's a little matter I want to see dad about, and then I'll come."

Though Dave spoke thus lightly of a "little matter," it was one that meant a great deal to him. For it was nothing less than an attempt he had made, or, rather, started, to solve the mystery of his ident.i.ty.

All along, ever since Dave had been told the truth of his rescue from the Missouri flood, he had sought some means of finding out who he was. Mr.

Carson had said there was no means of knowing, since he had made inquiries at the time in the vicinity of the flood, and no one had laid claim to the then small baby.

"Which led me to believe, Dave," the ranchman said, "that your parents and all your relations were drowned."

The young cowboy was silent after this, and a look of sadness came over his face.

"But there is a bare chance that some--even distant relatives--might have been saved," he said. "And on that supposition, if I had some little clew on which to start it might put me on the right track.

"How was I dressed when you found me? Wasn't there any distinguishing mark?"

"Huh! Well, now I come to think of it, perhaps there might have been," Mr.

Carson had said. This conversation had taken place some time previously.

"What was it?" asked Dave eagerly. "Was there a note pinned to my dress? I suppose I must have worn dresses, if I was so little at the time?"

"Yes, you wore dresses," the ranchman said, with a far-off look in his eyes. He was struggling to recall the dim and distant past. "Yes, you had on a dress. I think it must have been white at the start, but the muddy water had stained it a dark brown. But there was no note or anything like that pinned to it. I looked for that. But you did have on something that perhaps might prove a clew."

"What was it?" asked Dave eagerly.

"It was a sort of life-preserver," said the cattle man. "At least I took it to be that.

"A life-preserver!" echoed Dave.

"Well, maybe I'm wrong about it, for I never had much to do with water or the sea," admitted Mr. Carson. "But it was some sort of a cork jacket. It was made from a lot of bottle corks, all strung together, and wound around in a sort of belt."

"They don't make life-preservers that way," said Dave, who had been on a trip East, and had seen the life-saving apparatus on a steamer. "A life-preserver is made from broad sheets of cork, sometimes granulated, and pressed together. I never heard of one being made of corks from bottles strung together."

"Well, that's what you had on," said the ranchman. "Maybe it was a home-made one. Come to think of it, that's probably what it was. I reckon it saved your life, too, for though you were on a pretty big piece of wreckage, you looked as though the waves had washed up over you a number of times. Yes, that home-made cork life-preserver undoubtedly saved you."

"What became of it?" asked Dave. "I suppose you threw it away. You must have had your hands full, looking after a small baby."

"Why, no, I didn't throw it away," said Mr. Carson slowly. "I sort of had an idea it might prove a relic, so I kept it."

"Where is it now?" asked Dave, eagerly.

"Well, I didn't take it all over with me," went on the owner of the Bar U ranch. "I left it in Denver with a lot of other things of mine. It's there yet I reckon, in storage."

"Could you get it?" exclaimed the youth, his eyes shining with eagerness.

"Yes, I reckon so. But what good would it do, Dave?"

"It might--it might prove my ident.i.ty."

Mr. Carson shook his head.

"I'm afraid not," he said. "There wasn't anything to it but a lot of corks strung together. They were wound around you like a belt."

"But could you send for it? I should like to see it. And it might--it might, after all, be a clew."

"Well, I'll get it, of course. I suppose you aren't satisfied to be just what you are. You know I'll look after you all your life. You know that, don't you, Dave?" asked the ranchman softly.

"Yes--Dad--I know that," and the youth's voice faltered. "But I want--I just want to know who I am. I don't intend to leave you. I guess you know that. I haven't any other place to go. But I would like to know who I am.

Maybe--maybe," and Dave's voice was husky, "I might have a--a sister somewhere in this world. Oh, what I'd give if I had!" and unshed tears shone in his eyes.

"Well, Dave, I never thought of it in just that way," said the ranchman.

"Yes, what you say may be true. I'll send for this life belt of bottle corks, and let you look at it. Mind, I don't believe it will be of any use as a clew, but I'll send for it."

And so the matter had ended for the time being. There had been so much to do, what with the fire and the trouble over the water rights, that there had been a delay in sending for the old relic of the flood.

But finally Mr. Carson had written for it, together with some of his other goods in storage in Denver, and they had arrived that day. He had promised Dave to unpack them, and show him the belt, and it was this matter that the young cowboy wished to see about before going over to the stone valley with Mr. Bellmore.

"Well, Dave, there it is," said Mr. Carson, as he opened a trunk, and took out several articles. "Here's the little dress and the other things you wore when I hauled you from the water."

He held up a white garment, clean, but yellow with age, and smelling faintly of some perfume.

"It doesn't look as though it had been through a flood," said Dave.

"No, I had it washed and ironed, and then a lady I knew packed it away in rose leaves for me. She said that's how she kept the baby clothes of her own little ones. Those are the shoes you wore," the ranchman went on, as something fell to the floor, when Dave unrolled the dress.

The shoes, too, had once been white, but were soiled now, not having responded to the cleansing process as had the dress. They were stuffed out with wads of paper.

"It would be some job to get in them now," Dave remarked with a smile as he glanced down at his booted and spurred feet. "Some job!"

"Yes," a.s.sented Mr. Carson. "And here's your petticoat, Dave. I reckon that's what you call it," and he held up some other garments. "I saved 'em all," he said, "thinking they might be a clew, but they never turned out so."

"But where is the cork belt?" Dave asked. He was impatient to see that. He realized that baby dresses must be more or less alike, with seldom a distinguishing mark. But the cork belt impressed him with the possibility of being different.

"Here it is," said Mr. Carson.

From amid the contents of the trunk he pulled out a queer object

Dave held it up to get a better view of it. As Mr. Carson had said it was a belt, composed of a number of corks strung together on a strong cord, there being many rows of them, one above the other. The corks were of all sizes, the cord pa.s.sing through them on the short axis. There were two holes for the arms, and a sort of tape by which the belt could be tied around one.

It was small, clearly made for a child, though for a larger one than Dave could have been at the time he was picked up in the flood.

"I must have rattled around in that?" he said, with a questioning look.