"Mr. Bethune is rich." She started. The thought flashed upon her brain, vivid as whispered words. Involuntarily, she shuddered at the memory of his burning eyes, the hot touch of his lips upon her hand--her arm. She remembered the short, curt answers of the hard-eyed Pierce. And the thinly veiled distrust of Bethune, voiced by Vil Holland, Thompson, and the preacher whom he had affectionately referred to as "The Bishop of All Outdoors." Could it be possible--was it reasonable, that these were all so mean and contemptible of soul that their words were actuated by jealousy of Bethune's success? Patty thought not. Somehow, the characters did not fit the role. "If he'd have explained their dislike upon the grounds of his Indian blood, it might have carried the ring of truth--at least, it would have been reasonable. But, jealousy--as Mr. Vil Holland would say, 'I don't grab it.'" She recalled the wolfish gleam that flashed into Bethune's eyes, and the malicious hatred expressed in his insinuations and accusations against these men. Could it be possible that her distrust of Vil Holland was unfounded? But no, there was the repeated searching of her cabin--and had not Lord Clendenning caught him in the act? There was the trampled grass of the notch in the hills from which he was accustomed to spy upon her. And the cut pack sack--somehow, she was not so sure about that cut pack sack. But, anyway--there is the jug! "I don't trust him!" she exclaimed, "and I don't trust Monk Bethune, now. I'm glad I found him out before it was--too late. He's bad--I could see the evil glitter in his eyes. And, how do I know that he told the truth about Lord Clendenning and Vil Holland?" Darkness settled upon the valley and Patty sought her bunk where, for a restless hour, she tossed about thinking. The following morning the girl paused, coffee pot in hand, in the act of preparing breakfast, and listened. Distinct and clear above the sound of sizzling bacon, floated the words of an old ballad: Oh, ye'll tak' the high road, and I'll tak' the low road, An' I'll be in Sco'lan' afore ye; But, oh, my true love I'll never meet again, On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomon'. Hastening to the open door she peered down the valley. The song ceased, and presently from the cottonwood thicket emerged a horse and rider. The rider wore a roll-brimmed hat and brilliant yellow chaps, and he was mounted upon a fantastically spotted pinto. "It's--'The Bishop of All Outdoors'," she smiled, as she returned to the stove. "He certainly has a voice. I don't blame Mr. Thompson for being crazy about him. Anybody that can sing like that! And he loves it, too." A hearty "Good morning" brought her once more to the door. "Just in time for breakfast," she smiled up into the eyes of the man on the pinto. "Breakfast! Bless you, I didn't stop for breakfast. I figured on breakfasting with my friend, The Villain, over across the ridge." "The Villain?"