CHAPTER X
The gathering dusk that had fallen upon Uncle Alf questing the mysterious rider infolded also Zang Whistler and the girl Hilma riding toward the Spout. Their way was long; they had not departed from the cabin where Original Bill lay unconscious until mid-afternoon; there was no call to push their horses, particularly since the somnolent Christian Hilma rode refused utterly to break from a stiff-kneed trot long custom under his dead master had established as a maximum requirement of speed.
A capricious genius of the Big Country, delighting ever to mingle leaven of doubt and hint of insecurity with whatever joys she grudgingly permits her creatures, must have taken a teasing pleasure from Zang's state of mind during that long ride. For it was unstable as a weather vane, volatile as mercury under a clutching finger. When first Hilma
