His way lay along the plain, paralleling the long westward range, just far enough out to dodge the jutting foothills; through bare white levels where Grasshopper's hoofs left but a faint trace on the hard-glazed earth. At intervals, tempting cross-roads branched away to mountain springs. The cottonwood at Independent Springs came into view round the granite shoulder of Strawberry, six miles to the right of him. He roused himself from prolonged pondering of the marvelous silhouette, where San Andres unflung in broken masses against the sky, to remark in a hushed whisper: "I wonder if she'd be glad to see me?" Several miles later he quoted musingly: "For Ellinor--her Christian name was Ellinor-- Had twenty-seven different kinds of hell in her!" After all, there are problems which Pythagoras never solved. The longest road must have an end. Ritch's Ranch was passed far to the right, lying low in the long shadow of Kaylor; then the mouth of Hembrillo Canyon; far ahead, a shifting flicker of Baird's windmill topped the brush. It grew taller; the upper tower took shape. He dipped into the low, mirage-haunted basin, where the age-old Texas Trail crosses the narrow western corner of the White Sands. When he emerged the windmill was tall and silver-shining; the low iron roofs of the house gloomed sullen in the sun. Dust rose from the corral. Now Jeff's ostensible errand to the West Side had been the search for strays; three days before he had prudently been three days' ride farther to the north. The reluctance with which he had turned back southward was justified by the fact that this critical afternoon found him within striking distance of Arcadia--striking distance, that is, should he care for a bit of hard riding. This was exactly what Jeff had fought against all along. So, when he saw the dust, he loped up. It was as he had feared. A band of horses was in the waterpen; among them a red-roan head he knew--Copperhead, of Pringle's mount; confirmed runaway. Jeff shut the gate. For the first time that day, he permitted himself a discreet glance eastward to Arcadia. "Three days," he said bitterly, while Grasshopper thrust his eager muzzle into the water-trough--"three days I have braced back my feet and slid, like a yearlin' at a brandin' bee--and look at me now! Oh, Copperhead, you darned old fool, see what you done now!" In this morose mood he went to the house. There was no one at home. A note was tacked on the door. Gone to Plomo. Back in two or three days. Beef hangs under platform on windmill tower. When you get it, oil the mill. Books and deck of cards in box under bed. Don't leave fire in stove when you go. GENE BAIRD. N. B.--Feed the cat.