Immediately after breakfast she saddled her horse and returning to the cabin, picked up the little oiled silk packet that contained photograph and map. Where should she hide it? Her glance traveled from the locked trunks to the loose board in the floor. Each had been searched time and again. "Whoever he is, he'd think it was funny that I decided all at once to hide the map, when I've been carrying it with me so persistently," she muttered. Her eyes rested upon the little dressing table. "The very thing!" she cried. "I'll leave it right out in plain sight, and he'll think I forgot it." Her first impulse was to remove the thin gold chain but she shook her head: "No, it will look more as if I'd just slipped it off for the night if I leave the chain on. And besides," she smiled, "he ought to get some gold for his pains." With a last glance of approval at the little packet lying as if forgotten upon the dressing table, she closed the door and headed down the creek. It was evident to Patty, upon reaching the Watts ranch that Microby Dandeline had not carried out her threat to "tell ma" about the shaking. For the mountain woman was loquaciously cordial as usual: "Decla'r ef hit hain't yo', up an' a-ridin' fo' sun-up! Yo' shore favor yo' pa. He wus the gittin'est man--Yo'd a-thought he wus ridin' fer wages, 'stead o' jest prospectin'. Goin' down the crick, to-day, eh? Well, I don't reckon yo' pa's claim's down the crick, but yo' cain't never tell. He wus that clost-mouthed--I've heard him an' Watts set a hour, an' nary word between the two of 'em. 'Pears like they's jest satisfied to be a-lightin' matches an' a-puffin' they pipes. Wimmin folks hain't like thet. They jest nachelly got to let out a word now an' then, 'er bust--one." "Microby Dandeline!" there was a sudden rush of bare feet upon the wooden floor, and Patty caught a flick of calico and a flash of bare legs as the girl disappeared around the corner of the barn. "Land sakes! Thet gal acts like she's p'ssessed! She tellin' whut a nice time she had to yo' place las' evenin', an' then a-runnin' away like she's wild as a hawrk. Seems like she's a-gittin' mo' triflin' every day----" "Sence Monk Bethune's tuk to ha'ntin' this yere crick so reg'lar," interrupted Watts, who stood leaning against the door jamb. "'T'aint nothin' agin Mr. Bethune, 'cause he's nice to Microby," retorted the woman; "I s'pose 'cordin' to yo' idee, he'd ort to cuss her an' kick her aroun'." "Might be better in the long run, an' he did," opined the man, gloomily. "Where's yo' manners at? Not sayin' 'howdy'?" reminded his wife.