The Highgrader. William MacLeod Raine

of young willows or ducked beneath the top strand of a neglected wire fence.

      Beyond the trees lay a clearing. At the back of this, facing the river, was a large fishing lodge built of logs and finished artistically in rustic style. It was a two-story building spread over a good deal of ground space. A wide porch ran round the front and both sides. Upon the porch were a man in an armchair and a girl seated on the top step with her head against the corner post.

      A voice hailed Kilmeny. "I say, my man."

      The fisherman turned, discovered that he was the party addressed, and waited.

      "Come here, you!" The man in the armchair had taken the cigar from his mouth and was beckoning to him.

      "Meaning me?" inquired Kilmeny.

      "Of course I mean you. Who else could I mean?"

      The fisherman drew near. In his eyes sparkled a light that belied his acquiescence.

      "Do you belong to the party camped below?" inquired he of the rocking chair, one eyeglass fixed in the complacent face.

      The guilty man confessed.

      "Then I want to know what the deuce you meant by kicking up such an infernal row last night. I couldn't sleep a wink for hours—not for hours, dash it. It's an outrage—a beastly outrage. What!"

      The man with the monocle was smug with the self-satisfaction of his tribe. His thin hair was parted in the middle and a faint straw-colored mustache decorated his upper lip. Altogether, he might measure five feet five in his boots. The miner looked at him gravely. No faintest hint of humor came into the sea-blue eyes. They took in the dapper Britisher as if he had been a natural history specimen.

      "So kindly tell them not to do it again," Dobyans Verinder ordered in conclusion.

      "If you please, sir," added the young woman quietly.

      Kilmeny's steady gaze passed for the first time to her. He saw a slight dark girl with amazingly live eyes and a lift to the piquant chin that was arresting. His hat came off promptly.

      "We didn't know anybody was at the Lodge," he explained.

      "You wouldn't, of course," she nodded, and by way of explanation: "Lady Farquhar is rather nervous. Of course we don't want to interfere with your fun, but——"

      "There will be no more fireworks at night. One of the boys had a birthday and we were ventilating our enthusiasm. If we had known——"

      "Kindly make sure it doesn't happen again, my good fellow," cut in Verinder.

      Kilmeny looked at him, then back at the girl. The dapper little man had been weighed and found wanting. Henceforth, Verinder was not on the map.

      "Did you think we were wild Utes broke loose from the reservation? I reckon we were some noisy. When the boys get to going good they don't quite know when to stop."

      The eyes of the young woman sparkled. The fisherman thought he had never seen a face more vivid. Such charm as it held was too irregular for beauty, but the spirit that broke through interested by reason of its hint of freedom. She might be a caged bird, but her wings beat for the open spaces.

      "Were they going good last night?" she mocked prettily.

      "Not real good, ma'am. You see, we had no town to shoot up, so we just punctured the scenery. If we had known you were here——"

      "You would have come and shot us up," she charged gayly.

      Kilmeny laughed. "You're a good one, neighbor. But you don't need to worry." He let his eyes admire her lazily. "Young ladies are too seldom in this neck of the woods for the boys to hurt any. Give them a chance and they would be real good to you, ma'am."

      His audacity delighted Moya Dwight. "Do you think they would?"

      "In our own barbaric way, of course."

      "Do you ever scalp people?" she asked with innocent impudence.

      "It's a young country," he explained genially.

      "It has that reputation."

      "You've been reading stories about us," he charged. "Now we'll be on our good behavior just to show you."

      "Thank you—if it isn't too hard."

      "They're good boys, though they do forget it sometimes."

      "I'm glad they do. They wouldn't interest me if they were too good. What's the use of coming to Colorado if it is going to be as civilized as England?"

      Verinder, properly scandalized at this free give and take with a haphazard savage of the wilds, interrupted in the interest of propriety. "I'll not detain you any longer, my man. You may get at your fishing."

      The Westerner paid not the least attention to him. "My gracious, ma'am, we think we're a heap more civilized than England. We ain't got any militant suffragettes in this country—at least, I've never met up with any."

      "They're a sign of civilization," the young woman laughed. "They prove we're still alive, even if we are asleep."

      "We've got you beat there, then. All the women vote here. What's the matter with you staying and running for governor?"

      "Could I—really?" she beamed.

      "Really and truly. Trouble with us is that we're so civilized we bend over backward with it. You're going to find us mighty tame. The melodramatic romance of the West is mostly in storybooks. What there was of it has gone out with the cowpuncher."

      "What's a cowpuncher?"

      "He rides the range after cattle."

      "Oh—a cowboy. But aren't there any cowboys?"

      "They're getting seldom. The barb wire fence has put them out of business. Mostly they're working for the moving picture companies now," he smiled.

      Mr. Verinder prefaced with a formal little cough a second attempt to drive away this very assured native. "As I was saying, Miss Dwight, I wouldn't mind going into Parliament, you know, if it weren't for the bally labor members. I'm rather strong on speaking—that sort of thing, you know. Used to be a dab at it. But I couldn't stand the bounders that get in nowadays. Really, I couldn't."

      "And I had so counted on the cowboys. I'm going to be disappointed, I think," Miss Dwight said to the Westerner quietly.

      Verinder had sense enough to know that he was being punished. He had tried to put the Westerner out of the picture and found himself eliminated instead. An angry flush rose to his cheeks.

      "That's the mistake you all make," Kilmeny told her. "The true romance of the West isn't in its clothes and its trappings."

      "Where is it?" she asked.

      "In its spirit—in the hope and the courage born of the wide plains and the clean hills—in its big democracy and its freedom from convention. The West is a condition of mind."

      Miss Dwight was surprised. She had not expected a philosophy of this nature from her chance barbarian. He had the hands of a working man, brown and sinewy but untorn; yet there was the mark of distinction in the lean head set so royally on splendid shoulders. His body, spare of flesh and narrow of flank, had the lithe grace of a panther. She had seen before that look of competence, of easy self-reliance. Some of the men of her class had it—Ned Kilmeny, for instance. But Ned was an officer in a fighting regiment which had seen much service. Where had this tanned fisherman won the manner that inheres only in a leader of men?

      "And how long does it take to belong to your West?" asked the young woman, with the inflection of derision.

      But her mockery was a fraud. In both voice and face was a vivid eagerness not to be missed.

      "Time hasn't a thing to do with it. Men live all their lives here and are never Westerners. Others are of us in a day. I think you would qualify early."

      She knew that she ought