The mountaineer shook his head. “I’ve gone over it all again an’ again. Williams at the bank is the only man I know who had the money, an’ he’s done for now by this robbery. You see I can’t go to strangers, Dad; I ain’t got nothin’ left for security.” “But, could you not sell the sheep for enough to save the homestead?” “Who could buy? or who would buy, if they could, in this country, without a bit of feed? And then look at ’em, they’re so poor an’ weak, now, they couldn’t stand the drivin’ to the shippin’ place. They’d die all along the road. They’re just skin an’ bones, Dad; ain’t no butcher would pay freight on ’em, even.” Mr. Howitt sat with knitted brow, staring into the shadows. Then he said slowly, “There is that old mine. If this man Dewey were only here, do you suppose—?” Again the mountaineer shook his head. “Colonel Dewey would be a mighty old man now, Dad, even if he were livin.’ ’Tain’t likely he’ll ever come back, nor tain’t likely the mine will ever be found without him. I studied all that out on the way home.” As he finished speaking, he rose to go, and the dog, springing up, dashed out of the cabin and across the clearing toward the bluff by the corral, barking furiously. The two men looked at each other. “A rabbit,” said Mr. Howitt. But they both knew that the well trained shepherd dog never tracked a rabbit, and Old Matt’s face was white when he mounted to ride away up the trail. Long the shepherd stood in the doorway looking out into the night, listening to the voices of the wilderness. In his life in the hills he had found a little brightness, while in the old mountaineer’s words that evening, he had glimpsed a future happiness, of which he had scarcely dared to dream. With the single exception of that one wild night, his life had been an unbroken calm. Now he was to leave it all. And for what? He seemed to hear the rush and roar of the world beyond the ridges, as one in a quiet harbor hears outside the thunder of the stormy sea. He shuddered. The gloom and mystery of it all crept into his heart. He was so alone. But it was not the wilderness that made him shudder. It was the thought of the great, mad, cruel world that raged beyond the hills; that, and something else. The dog growled again and faced threateningly toward the cliff. “What is it, Brave?” The only answer was an uneasy whine as the animal crouched close to the man’s feet. The shepherd peered into the darkness in the direction of the ruined cabin. “God,” he whispered, “how can I leave this place?”