Topping a rise, his head barely showed against the sky-line when he dropped as if shot. The horseman making for the house might be Jean; his glance had been too hasty for recognition. Flat against the earth, Pickles pushed himself backward until he felt it safe to turn and gallop clumsily down grade on hands and feet. Far enough, he sat and thought. He could gain the barn unseen and if he ran, would have time to dash into the house, grab some chuck, and get away again before the horseman got there. He sprang to his feet and ran like a long-horn steer, gazed upon by the stock in pasture with interest: they were not accustomed to this style of locomotion in trousers. Pickles made excellent time on the level but when he turned to breast the slope it was harder going; and Pickles was tired; he had been at work since sun-up with a short rest at breakfast. He gained the barn winded but went through and crossed to the house without pausing. Back of the house he stopped to listen. He had cut it too fine. The horse was coming up to the door. "Darn it!" said Pickles, with bitter emphasis. The snap of the catch on the front door and Rose’s voice told him she had gone outside. Maybe the rider was n’t coming in; they could n’t see the end window if they did and if he were quick—he squirmed over the ledge, dropped noiselessly to the floor, sped through the doorway—and almost dislocated his spine with the ferret-like turn he made in trying to get back into the room the same instant he left it: he had barely escaped the other’s entry; if Rose came to the bedroom she would be certain to exclaim at sight of him. Pickles breathed a short—a very short—prayer. He put his hands to the window ledge—and stiffened. "No, I can’t stay. Rose, I ’m pullin’ my freight. How soon can you come along?" It was Dave—he was going away—and he wanted Rose to go, too. Pickles knelt silently by the bunk and muffled his rapid breathing in the blankets, while he listened. "Where?" asked Rose. "Anywhere you say. I ’m a-goin’ to clean up a gold mine in a few hours an’ yo ’re goin’ to help me spend it. We ’ll get married first stop." "A gold mine?" "More money than you ever saw." "And you want—me—to go with you?" "Not with me. I got to get th’ money first. I ’ll get th’ train to Helena to-night. You get on at Jackson. You can make it easy on Swaller." "I must know more. Perhaps you tell true. Perhaps you run away. Tell me." "Got a good opinion o’ yore future husband, ain’t you? Quit foolin’, Rose. Have I got to show you the cards afore you take a hand?" "Yes," was the decisive answer.