Good Indian took the envelope, thinking it must be a telegram, though he could not imagine who would be sending him one. His name was written plainly upon the outside, and within was a short note scrawled upon a telegraph form: “Come up as soon as you possibly can. I've something to tell you.” That was what she had written. He read it twice before he looked up. “What time you ketchum this?” he asked, tapping the message with his finger. “Mebbyso one hour.” The buck pulled a brass watch ostentatiously from under his blanket, held it to his ear a moment, as if he needed auricular assurance that it was running properly, and pointed to the hour of three. “Ketchum one dolla, mebbyso pikeway quick. No stoppum,” he said virtuously. “You see Peaceful in Hartley?” Good Indian asked the question from an idle impulse; in reality, he was wondering what it was that Miss Georgie had to tell him. “Peacefu', him go far off. On train. All same heap fat man go 'long. Mebbyso Shoshone, mebbyso Pocatello.” Good Indian looked down at the note, and frowned; that, probably, was what she had meant to tell him, though he could not see where the knowledge was going to help him any. If Peaceful had gone to Shoshone, he was gone, and that settled it. Undoubtedly he would return the next day--perhaps that night, even. He was beginning to feel the need of a quiet hour in which to study the tangle, but he had a suspicion that Baumberger had some reason other than a desire for peace in wanting the jumpers left to themselves, and he started toward the orchard, as he had at first intended. “Mebbyso ketchum one dolla, yo',” hinted Charlie, the buck. But Good Indian went on without paying any attention to him. At the road he met Jack and Wally, just returning from the orchard. “No use going down there,” Jack informed him sulkily. “They're just laying in the shade with their guns handy, doing nothing. They won't let anybody cross their line, and they won't say anything--not even when you cuss 'em. Wally and I got black in the face trying to make them come alive. Baumberger got back yet? Wally and I have got a scheme--” “He and your dad took the train for Shoshone. Say, does anyone know what that bunch over in the meadow is up to?” Good Indian leaned his back against a tree, and eyed the two morosely. “Clark and Gene are over there,” said Wally. “But I'd gamble they aren't doing any more than these fellows are. They haven't started to pan out any dirt--they haven't done a thing, it looks like, but lay around in the shade. I must say I don't sabe their play. And the worst of it is,” he added desperately, “a fellow can't do anything.” “I'm going to break out pretty darned sudden,” Jack observed calmly. “I feel it coming on.” He smiled, but there was a look of steel in his eyes. Good Indian glanced at him sharply.