But the horse needed rest if the man didn’t, and there was, of course, no real hurry. He could go in the morning. Meanwhile it would be good to get to his own fireside and attend to a few letters that should be written.

He was invited to the fort that night for dinner, honoring some visitors from the East. He’d promised to come if he reached home in time, and he probably would. He’d rather read and go to sleep early, and in his present mood the festivities at the fort didn’t appeal to him. But such opportunities were infrequent in this lonely land. It meant a ride of ten miles farther, but of course he’d go.

He mused over the whip again and in due time arrived at his own home, a one-room shanty with a chimney at the back and four large windows. At the extreme end of the fenced enclosure about the structure stood a shed for Billy, and all about was the vast plain dotted with bushes and weeds, with its panorama of mountain and hill, valley and gorge. It was beautiful, but desolate. His few neighbors lived at great distances.

“We should have a dog to welcome us home, Billy,” said Brownleigh, slapping the horse’s neck affectionately as he dismounted. “But then a dog would go along with us, wouldn’t he? So there’d be three of us to come home instead of two, and that wouldn’t do any good. How about chickens? But the coyotes would steal them. I guess we’ll have to get along with each other, old fellow.”

The horse, relieved of his saddle, shook himself, as a man might stretch after a weary journey, and trotted off into his shed. Brownleigh made him comfortable and turned to go to the house.

As he walked along by the fence he caught sight of a small dark object hanging on a sagebrush not far from the front of his house. It moved slightly, and he stopped to watch, thinking an animal might be hiding in the bush. It seemed to stir again as watched objects often will. Brownleigh climbed over the rail fence to investigate. Nothing in that country was left to uncertainty. Men liked to know what was around them.

As he neared the bush, however, the object took on form and color. Coming closer he picked it up and turned it over clumsily in his hand. It was a velvet riding cap, with the name of a famous New York costumer worked in silk letters in the lining. It doubtless belonged to a woman, for a long golden hair still clung to the velvet. His face flushed with embarrassment, as though he were handling someone else’s property too intimately. Then he raised his hand to shade his eyes and search the landscape, in case the owner might be near. But even as he did so, he knew the velvet cap belonged to the owner of the whip which he still held in his other hand. H.R. Where was H.R., and who could she be?

For some minutes he stood thinking, locating the exact spot in his memory where he found the whip. It wasn’t on any regular trail. That was strange. He stooped to see if there were any further evidences of passersby, but the breeze had stirred the sand over any definite marks.