FOR a moment Ross was stunned. His hands fell nervelessly at his side, and he stared up at the stranger with expressionless eyes. Then, as the situation dawned on him, his eyes suddenly narrowed and into them leaped a light that caused the other to move the gun suggestively and say warningly: "No monkeying allowed, understand. Swallow a bite right now and climb up here on this other horse." Ross looked over his shoulder speculatively. From his position he could see the mouth of the tunnel on the mountainside behind the cabin. The mouth showed up black and empty and from its depth came the muffled sound of the hand drills wielded by Weimer and Leslie. The trail leading over the mountain to Miners' Camp was screened from the mouth of the tunnel by hemlocks. It could be seen only from the end of the dump. Ross thought fast. "All right," he said finally. "I'll go with you now--and quietly. There's no objection, I suppose, to my leaving a note for--Weimer?" No doubt existed in his mind as to the legality of the warrant and the seriousness of purpose in the man before him; therefore, he asked no further questions. Moreover, he wished above all things to avoid question and get off before Leslie appeared on the scene. "Leave a note, yes, or see 'im," assented the sheriff. "I'm willin'. Where is he?" "At work," hastily. "I'll just leave a note." The sheriff dismounted, dropped his bridle reins beside his horse's head, hitched the second animal's rope about the pommel of his saddle, and followed Ross into the shack, repeating, "Where at work?" "In the tunnel," mumbled Ross. "I would rather write a line than call him." He picked up some cold biscuits left over from breakfast and stuffed them into his pockets. Then, drawing a box up to the table, he sat down with paper and pencil to write a note. To his confusion, the sheriff stood over him looking on. He moistened the point of his pencil slowly. What on earth could he say that would make Leslie understand and yet not give the situation away to the sheriff? To gain time he gnawed on one of Weimer's hard biscuits. "Where is my--father?" he asked finally, stumbling guiltily over the word. The sheriff spat out of the doorway and twirled his gun impatiently. "You'll see 'im before I leave you, all right," was his ambiguous reply. "And the sooner that is the better it'll suit me. Git busy, young man, with that pencil. I don't aim to go int' winter quarters here. We've got to go on to Cody." Ross bit his lips and laid the biscuit aside. His eyes narrowed until they were mere slits. Grasping his pencil with a firmness he was far from feeling he began to write without preface. "The sheriff is here arresting me for stealing money from my father in Omaha. He is taking me to him in Cody now. I don't know when I can get back. Keep the work going sure, and don't worry. I think I will be able----" He paused and moistened the pencil again, then crossed out the last sentence and substituted: