Roy had been a keen and enthusiastic automobile racer along with Mason, and had just gone in for aviation. He had several bad spills in learning, but was keener for flying than he ever had been for automobile racing. He had laughingly made the remark to Mason that he might expect a birdman to visit him in his chosen god-forsaken country. “Just the thing,” he said aloud to Sport, who was so startled that he broke into a swift run. “Steady, old boy,” he called softly, slowing him down. “When I get to Trader’s Post I will telegraph for Roy to come on, and send in a hurry order for my car at the same time.” It was an ideal day with a gentle wind blowing, and Mason drank in deep breaths of the pure air for his brain was still whirling with the adventures of the past hour. He could not connect his father’s past with Ricker’s life, try as he would. Then he remembered his father never had taken him into his confidence to any great extent, for he was a man of few words. Mason knew that he held vast holdings in coal, and in the iron industry, besides holding the controlling interest in his New York bank. As for himself, he never had questioned his father on business affairs, being content to follow his own usual mad pursuits. Now, he wished he had taken more interest in his father’s affairs, as he was getting old. The two weeks he had been away from home had given him time to think over some of his own mad enterprises of the past, and he mentally resolved he would square himself with his father and prove he was a chip of the old block. The Masons came of good fighting stock, his father was born in Virginia and served through the Civil War. Mason’s eyes were taking in the surrounding country with keen delight as his thoughts ran in this channel. Like most rich Americans, he had toured the principal cities of Europe and seen little of his own country. “America for mine,” he said aloud, his eyes aglow with health. He was but a few miles from Trader’s Post now, and he wondered if he would meet any of the boys from the ranch there. A few minutes later he entered the town and was giving his horse over to the care of a hostler with instructions to feed him well, along with a generous tip, when he heard a woman scream. Running out into the hotel inclosure he beheld a sight that made his blood boil. It was a girl struggling in the arms of Pete Carlo, the halfbreed. With a bound, Mason was by her side and tearing the Mexican away from her, he promptly knocked him down. “Great work,” called a voice from the hotel porch. Mason turned and saw Bud and Scotty grinning at him. In the same instant, Bud’s hand flashed from his hip, followed by a sharp report. He heard a cry of pain behind him, and bewildered, he turned again to see the halfbreed nursing a pair of bleeding knuckles. Bud and Scotty strode toward them with burning wrath in their eyes.