At the first faint glow of dawn the girl caught up her horse and headed for the false claim. It was but the work of a moment to locate the stake to which the notice was attached by means of a bit of twine. Removing the paper, she thrust it into her pocket and returned to the cabin where she ate breakfast before starting for the Samuelson ranch. Hurriedly washing the dishes, she picked up the glove and thrust it into the bosom of her shirt, and drawing the crumpled notice from her pocket, smoothed it out upon the table. Her glance traveled rapidly over the penciled words to the signature, and she stared like one in a dream. The blood left her face. She closed her eyes and passed her hand slowly over the lids. She opened them, and with a nerveless finger, touched the paper as if to make sure that it was real. Then, very slowly, she rose from her chair and crossing the room, stood in the doorway and gazed toward the notch in the hills until hot tears welled into her eyes and blurred the distant skyline. The next moment she was upon her bunk, where she lay shaken between fits of sobbing and hysterical laughter. She drew the glove, with its fringed gauntlet and its gaudily embroidered horseshoe from her shirt front and ran her fingers along its velvety softness. Impulsively, passionately, she pressed the horseshoe to her lips, and leaping to her feet, thrust the glove inside her shirt and stepping lightly to the table reread the penciled lines upon the crumpled paper, and over and over again she read the signature; RAOUL BETHUNE, known also as MONK BETHUNE.