Two weeks later, Robert Fairchild sat in the smoking compartment of the Overland Limited, looking at the Rocky Mountains in the distance.

In his pocket were a few hundred dollars; in the bank in Indianapolis a few thousand, representing the final proceeds of the sale of everything that had connected him with a rather dreary past.

Out before him-- The train had left Limon Junction on its last, clattering, rushing leg of the journey across the plains, tearing on through a barren country of tumbleweed, of sagebrush, of prairie-dog villages and jagged arroyos toward the great, crumpled hills in the distance,--hills which meant everything to Robert Fairchild.

Two weeks had created a metamorphosis in what had been a plodding, matter-of-fact man with dreams which did not extend beyond his ledgers and his gloomy home--but now a man leaning his head against the window of a rushing train, staring ahead toward the Rockies and the rainbow they held for him.

Back to the place where his father had gone with dreams aglow was the son traveling now,--back into the rumpled mountains where the blue haze hung low and protecting as though over mysteries and treasures which awaited one man and one alone.