Donoghue’s mount was walking sedately enough, but all the lean body of it had an evil look. Apache stood to watch his partner mount to the saddle. Donoghue flung the reins over the horse’s neck and came to its left. He seemed to remember its nature, despite his condition then, for he ran his hand over the saddle and gave a tug to the cloth to see that it was firm. Then with a quick jerk, before the horse was well aware, he had yanked the cinch up another hole or two. At this, taken by surprise, the beast put its ears back and hung its head and its tail between its legs. Donoghue pulled his hat down on his head, caught the check-rein with his left and clapped his right hand to the high, round pommel. There was a moment’s pause; he cast a quick glance to the horse’s head; thrust his foot into the huge stirrup, and with a grunt and a mighty swing was into the saddle. And then the beast gathered itself together and with an angry squeal leapt from the ground. Half a dozen times it went up and down, as you have perhaps seen a cat or a ferret do—with stiff legs and humped back. But Donoghue seemed part of the heavy, creaking saddle, and after these lurchings and another half-dozen wheelings the brute calmed. Apache Kid swung himself up to his horse and we struck on to the stage road in the light of the stars. And just then there came a clinking of horse’s hoofs to our ears and there, on the road coming up from Camp Kettle, and bound toward Baker City, was an old, grey-bearded man leading a pack-horse and spluttering and coughing as he trudged ahead in the dust. "It’s a good night, gentlemen," he said, stopping and eyeing us—Donoghue across the road, in the lead, and already a few paces up the hillside, Apache Kid with the led horse, I blocking his passage way. "Yes; it’s a fair night," said Apache Kid, civilly enough, but I thought him vexed at this encounter. "It’s a cough I take at times," said the old man, wheezing again. "I ’m getting up in years. Yes, you ’re better to camp out in the hills instead of going into Camp Kettle to-night. I ’ve seen some camps in my day—I ’m gettin’ an old man. No; I could n’t stop in that place to-night." His pack-horse stood meekly behind him, laden up with blankets, pans, picks, and the inevitable Winchester. "Yes, siree, you ’re better in the hills, a fine starry night o’ summer, instead of down there. It’s a cough I have," he wheezed. "I ’m gettin’ an old man. Any startling news to relate?" "Nothing startling," said Apache Kid. "What you think o’ the rush to Spokane way? Anything in it, think you?" said the old man in his slow, weary voice. "O, I think——" began Apache Kid, but the old man seemed to forget he had put a question.