I just thought--" "There is no time like the minute," answered the Canadian quietly.
"To-night, you shall be Ba'teese, _oui_, yes.

Ba'teese shall be you." Pulling his knit cap on his head, he went out into the darkness and to the guardianship of the mill that belonged--to a man who looked like his Pierre.

As for Houston, the next morning found him on the uncomfortable red cushions of the smoking car as the puffing train pulled its weary, way through the snowsheds of Crestline Mountain, on the way over the range.

Evening brought him to Denver, and the three days which followed carried with them the sweaty smell of the employment offices and the gathering of a new crew.

Then, tired, anxious with an eagerness that he never before had known, he turned back to the hills.
Before, in the days agone, they had been only mountains, reminders of an eruptive time in the cooling of the earth,--so many bumpy places upon a topographical railroad map.