"That's why," he continued, "I know it ain't just a flash in the pan--this love of mine ain't. All summer I've watched you, an' the hardest thing I ever had to do was to set back an' let you play a lone hand against the worst devil that ever showed his face in the hills. But the way things stacked up, I had to. You had me sized up for the one that was campin' on your trail, an' anything I'd have done would have played into Bethune's hand. I know I ain't fit for you--no man is. But, I'll always do the best I know how by you--an' I'll always love you. As for the rest of it, I never saved any money. I know there's gold here in the hills, an' I've spent years huntin' it. I'll find it, too--sometime. But, I ain't exactly a pauper, either. I've got my two hands, an' I've got a contract with Old Man Samuelson to winter his cattle. I didn't want to do it first, but the figure he named was about twice what I thought the job was worth. I told him so right out, an' he kind of laughed an' said maybe I'd need it all, an' anyhow, them cattle was all grade Herefords, an' was worth more to winter than common dogies. So, you see, we could winter through, all right, an' next summer, we could prospect together. The gold's here, somewhere--your dad knew it--an' I know it." Receiving no answering pat, the buckskin left off his nuzzling of the man's sleeve, and turned from the doorway. As he did so the brown leather jug scraped lightly against the jamb. The girl's eyes flew to the jug, and swiftly back to the man who stood framed in the doorway. She loved him! For days and days she had known that she loved him, and for days and nights her thoughts had been mostly of him--this unsmiling knight of the saddle--her "guardian devil of the hills." Without exception, the people whose regard was worth having respected him, and liked him, even though they deplored his refusal to accept steady work. They're just like the people back home, she thought. They have no imagination. To their minds the cowpuncher who draws his forty dollars a month, year in and year out, is in some manner more dependable than the man whose imagination and love of the boundless open lead him to stake his time against millions. What do they know of the joys and the despairs of uncertainty? In a measure they, too, love the plains and the hills--but their love of the open is inextricably interwoven with their preconceived ideas of conduct. But, Vil Holland is bound by no such convention; his "outfit," a pack horse to carry it, and his home--all outdoors! Her father had imagination, and year after year, in the face of the taunts and jibes of his small town neighbors, he had steadfastly allowed his imagination full sway, and at last--he had won. She had adored her father from whom she had inherited her love of the wild. But--there was the jug! Always her thoughts of Vil Holland had led up to that brown leather jug until she had come to hate it with an unreasoning hatred.