There’s no need to tell of our hunting, or of the games of Cœur d’Alène Solo which Scipio and I and the useful cook played at night. In twenty days the snow drove us out of the mountains and we came down to human habitations--and to rife rumors. I don’t recall what we heard at the first cabin--or the second or the others--but we heard something everywhere. The valley was agog over Jimsy and May. Amid the wealth of details, I shall never know precisely what did happen. Jimsy had left her and gone to Alaska. He hadn’t gone to Alaska, but to New York, with Mrs. Faxon, the alfalfa widow. May had gone to her mother in Iowa. She hadn’t gone to Iowa; she was under the protection of Mrs. Sedlaw. Jimsy and the widow were living in open shame at the ranch. The ranch was shut up and old man Birdsall had seen Jimsy in town, driving a companion who wore splendid feathers. There was more, much more, but the only certainty seemed to be that Jimsy had broken loose and gone somewhere--and over this somewhere hovered an episodic bigamy. But where was Jimsy now? And May? Had the explosion blown them asunder forever? Was their marriage lying in fragments? On our last night in camp we talked of this more than we played Cœur d’Alène Solo. If anybody could tell me the true state of things it would be Mrs. Sedlaw, and at her door I knocked as I passed the next morning. “Oh, howdy-do?” said I; and she sat looking at me for some moments. “What luck?” said she. “Get an elk?” “Yes,” said I. “How are things in general?” “Elegant,” said she. “Give my love to dear May.” “Thank you,” said I, not very appropriately. The lady followed me to my horse. “Seems like only yesterday you came by,” was her parting word. She had certainly squared our accounts. As we drew in sight of the Culloden Ranch you may imagine how I wondered what we should find there. A peaceful smoke rose from the kitchen chimney into the quiet air. Through the window I saw--yes, it was May!--most domestically preparing food. Outside by the pond a figure stood. It was Jimsy. He was feeding the ducks. I swung off my horse and hurried to Jimsy. Sir Francis was eating from his hand. “How!” said he in cheerful greeting. “How!” I returned. “Get an elk?” “Yes.” “Sheep?” “Yes.” “Good!” “You--you’re--you’re feeding the ducks.” “Sure thing!--Say, I’ve found out his game.” I pointed to Sir Francis. “His control, you mean?--how he keeps his hold?” “Sure thing!” Jimsy pointed to the ducks. “Has ’em competin’ for him. Keeps ’em a-guessing. That’s his game.” It stunned me for a second. Of course he didn’t know that the valley had talked to me. “Why, how do you do?” cried May, cheerfully, coming out of the house. Then I took it all in and I broke into scandalous, irredeemable laughter. A bright flash came into Jimsy’s eyes as _he_ took it all in--then he also gave way, but he blushed heavily.