course. Father Richards smiled, and rubbed his hair where it showed a white streak over the wound received when on their road out from the Missouri River, a year ago, to settle on the ranch, he had been knocked off his horse in fording Wildcat Creek, and had disappeared for months. Only by great good fortune had Terry found him, wandering in, through a blizzard, from the Pike's Peak gold fields; and had brought him home in time for a merry Christmas.

"Not 'again.' Don't know as I'd call it gold-fever, exactly. But I feel a bit like Terry does—I want to join the crowd. It was the same way, in coming to Kansas. We thought this was to be the West; and now there's another West. This ranch can be made to pay—I'm certain it can if we're able to hold on long enough and weather the droughts and grasshoppers and low prices. But——"

"Harry and Terry and I made it pay," reminded Mother Richards, with a flash of pride.

"Yes, you all did bravely. But you managed it by cutting and selling the timber. The timber won't last forever, and the grasshoppers may! This is rather a lonely life, for you, yet, up in here. Out at the mountains, though, they've founded those two towns, Denver and Auraria, and probably others; and I believe opportunities will be more there than here."

"Do you intend to sell the ranch?" asked Mrs. Richards, a little pale. She loved the ranch, which she had helped to make.

"We'll talk that over. I wouldn't sell unless you consented. It's your place; you and Terry and Harry've done most of the work."

"But you said I could go right away, Pa; didn't you?" enthused Terry. "Then I'll take the wagon and Buck and Spot, and Shep—and Harry; and——"

"Hold on," bade his father. "Not quite so fast. I said you're to find your own outfit. If we sell the ranch, you'll have to leave part of it as a sample to show to customers. Those oxen are valuable. Oxen'll be as good as gold, in this country. The rush across the plains will sweep up every kind of work critter. If you take Buck and Spot, how'll anybody on this ranch do the ploughing? And if you take the wagon, what'll become of the hauling?"

"And if you take Harry, who'll help your father and me?" chimed in his mother.

"Shucks!" bemoaned Terry. "There's the old mare, and the colt—and a cow—and——"

"And a half-buffalo, and a tame turkey, and a yellow mule twenty years of age if she's a day," completed his father. "Buck and Spot beat the lot of them put together. No, sir; I'll not spare those oxen, for any wild-goose chase across to the mountains. But I'll tell you what you can do. You can have Harry, and find the rest of your come-along."

"Hum!" murmured Harry, who had been scratching his nose and looking wise. "That sounds like a dare. Let's go outside, Terry."

He rose. Terry wonderingly followed him. Within, Mother Richards gazed dubiously upon Father Richards.

"Are you really in earnest, Ralph?"

"Yes; after a fashion. Terry can't make such a trip alone; he's too young; but he'd be safe with Harry. Enough cultivating's done on the ranch so I can manage for the next few months. That would give you and me a chance to dispose of the place when we were ready—and it will sell better with the crops showing. And besides, I agree with you that I'm not quite in shape yet to stand the trip. By the time we were free to go, those two boys would have the country yonder pretty well spied out, and they'd send us back reliable information. Harry has a level head."

"And maybe they'd be so disappointed they'd want to come back, themselves!" hopefully asserted Mrs. Richards. "Terry'd be cured of his gold-seeking fever. Anyway, they haven't gone, yet. They can't have the oxen, and they can't have my cow, and if they took the old mare how'd I ever visit my neighbors, and if they took the colt he's not heavy enough for hard work, and the yellow mule won't pull alone, and Duke won't pull at all, and you've refused them the wagon—and I sha'n't let them walk. So I don't believe I'll worry."

"Um—m!" muttered Father Richards, rubbing his hair. "I won't be positive about all that. What Terry doesn't cook up, Harry will. They're both of them too uncommon smart. I reckon they're into some scheme already."

And so they were. He resumed his reading of the papers. Mrs. Richards proceeded to finish the evening housework. Suddenly they were interrupted. Outside welled a frantic chorus of shouting and cheering and barking and clattering.

"For goodness' sake!" ejaculated Mrs. Richards; and they sprang to the door.

Harry, who walked with a slight limp because when a boy down in Virginia he had hurt his foot, had beckoned Terry on, around the hen-house, out of ear-shot of the cabin. Here he had paused, and scratched his long nose again—a sure sign of mischief. Slender and smooth-faced and young was Harry, but stronger than anybody'd think. The way he could ride bareback, and could fell timber—whew! And that long head of his was a mine in itself.

"Shall we go?" he queried.

"Will you, Harry? Do you want to go?"

"Yes, I reckon I do. I always knew I was cut out for a miner instead of a schoolmaster or a farmer."

"How'll we go, then?" demanded Terry. "Thunder! We've nothing to start with, 'cept our feet. Dad says we'll have to find our own outfit."

"And one of the feet's a bad one," commented Harry. "I suppose we could walk, and carry our stuff—or carry part of it and come back for the rest."

"Five hundred miles?" cried Terry. "Aw, jiminy! We'd be the last in, if we tried to carry stuff on our backs."

"And we'd be the first out, if we didn't carry stuff," returned Harry. "We'd be frozen out and starved out, both. Now, let's see." He scratched his nose, and was solemn—save that his pointed chin twitched, and his wide brown eyes laughed. "We can't have the oxen; and we mustn't take the old mare or the colt, because they're a part of the ranch; or the brindled cow, because she belongs to Mother Richards' butter and milk department; or Pete the turkey, because he can't swim; so that leaves us Jenny and Duke."

"That old yellow mule, and a half-buffalo!" yapped Terry. "But they're a part of the ranch stock, too, and besides——"

"No, they're ours," corrected Harry. "Jenny's mine, and I'm hers. I brought her in here—or, rather, she brought me in; in fact, we brought each other. And Duke is yours. You rescued him from a life among the wild buffalo—a rough, low life, the ungrateful brute!—and his mother's disowned him since he learned to eat grass and hay, and nobody else wants him. Jenny works for her keep, but he doesn't do a thing except bawl and eat and sleep and pick quarrels with his betters. He's only an idle good-for-nothing."

"What do you aim to do, then?" questioned Terry, staring open-mouthed. "Ride 'em? We can't have the wagon. You going to ride Jenny and make me ride Duke? We'd both of us be split in two! I'd rather walk. I'd make great time, wouldn't I, on that buffalo—and Jenny mostly moves up and down in one spot! Your saddle's falling to pieces. It's just tied with rope."

"Hum!" mused Harry. "We'll hitch them."

"What to?"

"A wagon. I know where there are two wheels and an axle."

"Where?"

"In an old mud-hole. The front end traveled on, but the hind end stayed."

"Jenny won't pull single, and Duke won't pull at all."

"Make 'em pull together, then."

"What'll we do for the rest of the wagon?"

"Make it."

"Huh!" reflected Terry, trying to be convinced. "That'll be a great outfit. Where'll we get our supplies?"

"Maybe somebody'll grub-stake us, on shares. But no matter about that. We'll learn not to eat when we haven't anything to eat. If," continued Harry, "a couple of fellows our size, with a yellow mule and a half-buffalo and two wagon-wheels, can't get through to the mountains, I'd like to know who can! So it's high time we started. Come on."

"What are you going to do first?" demanded Terry, bewildered by