Who was she? Where was she from? Did she have any money? Was she old or young? Delicacy forbade them to go outside and look straight at a strange lady but a dozen questions rose in every mind. Then simultaneously the same thought came to each. Moved by a common impulse they turned and stared suspiciously at Uncle Bill. Could it be--was it possible that he had been advertising for a wife? Luring some trusting female from her home by representing himself as a mining man forced to reside in this mountain solitude near his valuable properties? Ore City knew of cases like it; and he was just about the age to begin writing to matrimonial bureaus. Speculation ended abruptly. A sharp intake of breath--a startled gasp ran through the tense group as a pair of nimble, yellow legs flashed from beneath the robes and the citizens of Ore City saw the smiling face of Wilbur Dill! They turned to each other for confirmation lest their own eyes deceive them. Mr. Dill stamped the snow from his feet, flung open the door and beamed around impartially. "Well, boys--" he threw off his opulent, fur-lined coat--"it's good to be back." For the space of a second Ore City stood uncertainly. Then Pa Snow disentangled his feet from the quilt and stepped forth briskly. "Welcome home!" said the fire-eater cordially. Dill's return could have but one meaning. He had returned with a "Live One" to take up the options. Hope smouldering to the point of extinction sprang to life and burned like a fire in a cane-brake. Imaginations were loosed on the instant. Once more Ore City began to think in six figures. Yankee Sam, who had called upon his friends and High Heaven to "watch his smoke," was the next to wring Dill's hand, and Lannigan followed, while the Judge forgot the priceless year of which he had been robbed and elbowed Porcupine Jim aside to greet him. Only Uncle Bill stood aloof turning his jack-knife over and over nonchalantly in the pocket of his Levi Strauss's. Ore City scowled. Couldn't he be diplomatic for once--the stubborn old burro'--and act glad even if he wasn't? Why didn't he at least step up like a man and say howdy to the woman he had lured from a good home? Where was he raised, anyhow?--drug up in the brush, most like, in Missoury. Dill looked about inquiringly. "Ah-h! Mr. Griswold." He strode across the floor. "_How_ are you?" Ore City's hand flew to its heart, figuratively speaking, and clutched it. No man ever called another "Mister" in that tone unless he had something he wanted. And no man ever answered "tolable" with Uncle Bill's serenity unless _he knew_ he had something the other fellow wanted. Had he really got hold of something on his prospecting trip this summer? Had he sold? Was he selling? Did this account for Dill's presence and not the options? The chill at their hearts shot to their feet.