Then Reddy began to question Stephen, and after he had made himself familiar with the salient points in his career, he spoke of himself more freely than he had yet done, and incidentally told many strange tales of the West. But to Stephen the strangest of all was the story of his luck. He had gone to Colorado with a cattle dealer the year after Stephen left Benson; in short, he fulfilled his early promise, and ran away. He had helped the cattle dealer West with a load of registered stock, and had reached Denver with only the few dollars saved from his wages, in his pocket. From there, he had drifted into the Black Hills, where after years of varying fortune he struck it rich in a modest way, and had found himself possessed of the sum of ten thousand dollars. This he had put in cattle, and had prospered exceedingly. But this was not all—there was a girl; the same girl who had pointed out to him his duty in the case of his mother; her name was Margaret Rogers, and to her, Reddy had given his soul. “I wish you could know her, Landray,” he said. “Maybe you think it's against her that it's settled between us; that's about how I'd look at it, for I can't see what she finds in a proposition like me to tie up to. It ain't that I've made my little pile, for Colonel Rogers is worth a cool million.” It was plain to Stephen that Reddy had drunk deep of the spirit of the West. That night they sat in the smoker, under the dim lamps, and talked until it was almost day, and through the next day; and as nightfall came again, they rolled into Benson, with Reddy “dry tongued and plumb talked out.” Here they separated. Reddy was keen, as he expressed it, to hit the trial for the old lady's shack, and Stephen watched him disappear, tugging at the yellow satchel, heavy with his peace offering, the truck he was taking to her; then as the crowd thinned out from about him, he glanced around. He had more than half-expected that Benson would be there to welcome him. As he stared about him for a sight of the familiar figure, some one touched him on the arm. He turned, and saw a shabby old gentleman, with a red puffy face and a fringe of white hair showing beneath the rim of his dingy silk hat. “Steve”—the old man spoke in a husky tremor, as if his emotions were about to master him—“Steve, my dear boy, how are you?” Landray owned to a feeling of mystification, but since the stranger appeared on terms of such intimacy with him, he gave him his hand. “'You don't know me; well, it was hardly to be expected you would.” “Oh, yes, I do!” cried Stephen quickly, a light breaking in on him. “You are General Gibbs.” But he had pictured the general as erect, grizzled, of military aspect; hale and vigorous, with the righteous years he had lived. This grossly fat old man, was a distinct shock; the touch of his clammy hands, the pressure of his tremulous fingers, for Gibbs now held the hand he had given him in both his own, was almost repulsive.