"Where would they be? He had a couple of pair. All his stuff is in there. He always traveled light." "Did you leave my father's war-bag, as you call it, at Watts's?" "Yeh, he was in somethin' of a hurry and didn't want to go around by the trail, so he left his outfit here and struck straight through the hills." "Why was he in a hurry?" The man placed the dishes in a pan and poured water over them. "I've got my good guess," he answered, thoughtfully. "Which may mean anything, and tells me nothing." Holland nodded, as he carefully wiped his tin plate. "Yeh, that's about the size of it." His attitude angered the girl. "And I have heard he was not the only one in the hills that was in a hurry that day, and I suppose I can have my 'good guess' at that, and I can have my 'good guess' as to who cut daddy's pack sack, too." "Yeh, an' you can change your guess as often as you want to." "And every time I change it, I'd get farther from the truth." "You might, an' you might get nearer." The cowpuncher was looking at her squarely, now. "You ain't left-handed, are you?" he asked, abruptly. "No, of course not! Why?" "Because, if you ain't, you better change that belt around so the holster'll carry on yer right side--or else leave it to home." The coldly impersonal tone angered the girl. "Much better leave it home," she said, "so if anyone wanted to get my map and photographs, he could do it without risk." "If you had any sense you'd shut up about maps an' photos." "At least I've got sense enough not to tell whether I carry them with me, or keep them hidden in a safe place." "You carry 'em on you!" commanded the man, gruffly. "It's a good deal safer'n _cachin_' 'em." He laid his dishes aside, poured the water from the pan, wiped it, hung it in its place, and picking up his saddle blanket, examined it carefully. "I wonder why my father entrusted his pack sack to you?" said Patty, eyeing him resentfully. "Were you and he such great friends?" "Knew one another tolerable well," answered Holland, dryly. "You weren't, by any chance--partners, were you?" He glanced up quickly. "Didn't I tell you once that yer dad played a lone hand?" "You knew he made a strike?" "That's what folks think. But I suppose he told Monk Bethune all about it." The thinly veiled sneer goaded the girl to anger. "Yes, he did," she answered, hotly, "and he told me, too!" "Told Monk all about it, did he--location an' all, I suppose?" "He intended to, yes," answered the girl, defiantly. "The day he made his strike, Mr. Bethune happened to be away up in British Columbia, and daddy told Lord Clendenning that he had made his strike, and he drew a map and sent it to Mr. Bethune by Lord Clendenning." Holland smoothed the blanket into place upon the back of the buckskin, and reached for his saddle. "An' of course, Monk, he wouldn't file till you come, so you'd be sure an' get a square deal----"