At night you're just goin' to stop right home--in case you lose yourself. The third is, if you kick any or try to get away--well, I don't guess you'll try much else on this earth. The room over this is your sleep-room, an' I guess you can tote your baggage right there now.

So long."

Without waiting for a reply the man beat a retreat out through the front door, which he locked behind him with considerable display.

Once outside, the man hurried away round to the back of the house, where, to his surprise, he found Hazel waiting for him.

She addressed him by name in a sharp whisper.

"Bud!" she commanded. "Come right here!"

Then, as the man obeyed her, she led him silently away from the house in the direction of the corrals. Once well out of earshot of the house she turned on him.

"Now see here, Bud," she cried. "I've had all I'm yearning for of you for the next twenty-four years. Now you're going to light right out back to the ranch right away, and don't you ever dare to come near here again--ever. My! but your language has been a disgrace to any New York tough. I've never, never heard such a variety of curse words ever. If I'd thought you could have talked that way I'd have had you go to Sunday school every Sunday since you've been one of our foremen."

"'Tain't just nothin', Miss Hazel," the man deprecated. "I ken do better than that on a round-up when the boys get gay. Say, it just did me good talkin' to a multi-millionaire that way. I don't guess I'll ever get such a chance again."

"That you won't," cried Hazel, smiling in the darkness, in spite of her outraged feelings.

"But I acted right, Miss," protested the man. "I don't guess he'd have located me fer anything but a 'hold-up.' Say, we'd got it all fixed.

We just acted it over. I was plumb scared he'd shoot, though. You never can tell with these millionaires. I was scared he wouldn't know enough to push his hands up. Say, we'd have had to rush him if he hadn't, an' maybe there'd have been damage done."

Hazel sighed.

"There's enough of that done already. Say, you're sure you didn't hurt his poor ankles. You see," she explained, "he's Mr. Gordon's father."

The man began to laugh.

"Say, don't it beat all, Miss Hazel, stealin' your own father? How 'ud you fancy stealin' Mr. Mallinsbee? Gee! Mr. Gordon's a dandy. He sure is. He's a real bright feller, and I like him. What's the next play, Miss?"

"Goodness only knows," cried Hazel. Then she began to laugh. "Some harebrained, mad scheme, or it wouldn't be Gordon's. Anyway, you made it plain I'm to look after the--prisoner?"

"Sure. I also told him it would cost him a hundred thousand dollars before he gets out of here."

Hazel nodded and laughed.

"It'll do that." Then she sighed. "It'll take me all my wits keeping him from guessing I'm concerned in it. I don't know. Well, good-night, Bud. You're going back to the ranch now. You've only one of the boys here? That's right. Which is it? Sid Blake?"

"Yes, Miss. I left Sid. You see, he's bright, and up to any play you need. I'll get around once each day. Good-night, Miss."

CHAPTER XX

THE BOOM IN EARNEST

It was late in the evening. The lonely house at Buffalo Point stood out in dim relief against the purpling shades of dusk. At that hour of the evening the distant outline of Snake's Fall was lost in the gray to the eastwards. South, there were only the low grass hillocks, now blended into one definite skyline. To the westward, the sharp outline of the mountains was still silhouetted against the momentarily dulling afterglow of sunset. The evening was still, with that wonderful silence which ever prevails at such an hour upon the open prairie.

A light shone in the window of the hitherto closed office at Buffalo Point, and, furthermore, a rig stood at the door with a team of horses attached thereto, which latter did not belong to Mike Callahan.

An atmosphere not, perhaps, so much of secrecy as of portent seemed to hang about the place. The solitary light in the surroundings of gathering night seemed significant. Then the team, too, waiting ready to depart at a moment's notice. But above all, perhaps, this was the first time a sign of life had been visible in the house since the closing down at the moment when Slosson's sudden plunge into the real estate world of Snake's Fall had apparently swept all rivalry from his triumphant path.

Of a truth, a portentous moment had arrived in the affairs of those interested in Buffalo Point. And the significance of it was displayed in the earnest faces of the four men gathered together in the office.

Silas Mallinsbee sat smoking in his own armchair, and with a profound furrow of concentration upon his broad forehead. His usually thrusting chin-beard rested upon the front of his shirt by reason of the intent inclination of his great head. Mike Callahan was seated on a small chair his elbows resting upon his parted knees, and his chin supported upon the knuckles of his locked fingers. His eyes were intently fixed upon the desk, behind which Gordon was frowning over a sheet of paper, upon which the scratching of his pen made itself distinctly audible in the silence. Peter McSwain, the fourth conspirator, was still suffering from a fictitious heat, and was comfortably, but wakefully, snoring under its influence, with a sort of nasal ticking noise which harmoniously blended with the scratching of Gordon's pen.

It was fairly obvious that the work Gordon was engaged upon was the central interest of all present, for every eye was steadily, almost anxiously, riveted upon the movement of his pen.

After a long time Gordon looked up, and a half smile shone in his blue eyes.

"Give us a light, some one," he demanded, as he turned his sheet of paper over on the blotting-pad, and drew his code book from an inner pocket and laid it beside it.

Mike Callahan produced and struck the required match. He held it while Gordon re-lit his half-burned cigar, which had gone out under the pressure of thought its owner had been putting forth.

"Good," the latter exclaimed, as the tobacco glowed under the draught of his powerful lungs. Then he turned the paper over again. "Guess I got it fixed. I haven't coded it yet, but I'll read it out. It's to Spenser Harker, my father's chief man."

"Cancel all previous arrangements made through Slosson for Snake's Fall. Take following instructions. Have bought heavily at Buffalo Point, which is right on the coal-fields. Depot to be built at once at Buffalo Point. Make all arrangements for dispatch of engineers and surveyors at once. There must be no delay in starting a boom. My son, Gordon, is here to represent our interests. Put this to the general manager of the Union Grayling and Ukataw, and yourself see no delay.

Am going on to coast on urgent affairs. Gordon has the matter well in hand and will control at this end. This should be a big coup for us.

"JAMES CARBHOY."

As Gordon finished reading he glanced round at his companions' faces through the smoke of his cigar. Mike was audibly sniggering.

Mallinsbee's eyes were smiling in that twinkling fashion which deep-set eyes seem so capable of. As for Peter McSwain, from sheer force of habit he drew forth a colored handkerchief and mopped his grinning eyes.

"You ain't going to send that?" he said incredulously.

"Why not?"

"But--that piece about yourself?" grinned Mike. "You darsen't to do it."

"I think I get his point," nodded Mallinsbee, his broad face beaming admiration. "Sort of local color, I guess."

Gordon twisted his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other.

His blue eyes were shining with a sort of earnest amusement. His sharp white teeth were gripping the mangled end of his cigar firmly.

"Say, fellows," he said, after a moment's thought, "I'm kind of wondering if you get just what this thing means to me. It just needs a sum in dollars to get its meaning to you. But for me it's different.

I need to make dollars, too. But still it's different. You see, some day I've got to sit right in my father's chair, and run things with a capital of millions of dollars. But before I do that I've got to get right up and convince my father I can handle the work right. He doesn't figure I can act that way--yet. So it's up to me to show him I can. Well, I've started in, and I'm going to see the game through to the end. I've backed my wits to push this boat right into harbor safe.

And in doin' that I've got to squeeze the biggest financier in the country. When I've done it right, that financier will know he can hand over his particular craft to my steering without fear of my running it on the rocks. The dollars I need to make out of this are just a circumstance. They are the outward sign of my fitness for my father's edification. That piece about my representing my father isn't just local color either. I actually intend to assume that character, and, from now on, I intend to work direct with headquarters, ordering the whole transaction for the railroad myself in _my own name_. Do you get me? From now on I _am_ my father's representative. If Spenser Harker chooses to come right along here, if the general manager of the Union Grayling chooses to come along, I shall meet them, and insist that the work goes through. You see, I am my father's son, I am still his secretary, and they have word in private code _from my father_ that I represent him. There can be no debate. All they know of me is that I left New York on confidential work for my father. Well, this, I guess, is the confidential work. Gentlemen, we've simply got to sit right back and help ourselves to our profits. And while we're doing that, why, I guess the dear old dad is taking his well-earned vacation in the hills, while David Slosson is feeling a nasty draught through the chinks in an old adobe and log shack which I hope will blow the foul odors out of his fouler mind. You can leave the after part of this play safely in my hands. Meanwhile, if you'll just give me five minutes I'll code this message. Then we'll drive right into town and send it over the wire."

Sunday in an obscure country hotel on the western plains is usually the dullest thing on earth. The habit of years is a whitewash of respectability and a moderation of tone, both assumed through the medium of a complete change of attire from that worn during the week.

There is nothing on earth but the loss by fire, or the definite destruction of them, which will stop the citizen, who possesses such things, from arraying himself in a "best suit." It is the outward sign of an attempted cleansing of the soul. There can be no doubt of it.

That suit is not adjusted for the purpose of holiday enjoyment. That is quite plain. For each man is as careful not to do anything that can destroy the crease down his trousers, as he is not to sit on the tails of his well-brushed Prince Albert coat.

The day is spent in just "sitting around." The citizen will talk.

That is not calculated to spoil his suit. He will even write his mail after a careful adjustment of the knees of his trousers. He will sneak into the bar by a back door to obtain an "eye-opener." This, again, will involve no great risk to his suit. Then he will dine liberally off roast turkey and pie of some sort. If the hotel is fairly well priced he will even get an ice-cream with his midday dinner. In the afternoon he will again sit around and talk. He may even venture a walk. Then comes the evening supper. It is the worst function of a dreary day--a meal made up of cakes, preserves, tea or coffee, and any cold meats left over during the week.

After that the "best suits" somehow seem to fade out of sight, and a generally looser tone prevails.