Then the mad horseman gave her the idea.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "I forgot I hadn't mentioned it. I'm assigned by
_Scribbler's Magazine_ to do an article on 'The Old West, Is It Really
Gone?' and, Mr. Westcott, I think I have a lovely start."
A few moments later she thanked Providence for her precaution, for her
companion resumed the story of his mining claim.
"It's mighty funny I haven't heard from that partner. It isn't like
him not to answer my wire. That's why I've waited every night at the
depot. No, it's not like 'Pep,' even if he does take his leisure at
the College Club."
Miss Donovan's spine tingled at the mention of the name: "Pep," she
murmured, trying to be calm. "What was his other name?"
"Cavendish," Westcott replied. "Frederick Cavendish."
A gasp almost escaped the girl's lips. Here, within an hour, she had
linked the many Eastern dues of the Cavendish affair with one in the
West. Was ever a girl so lucky? And immediately her brain began to
work furiously as she walked along.
A sudden turn about the base of a large cliff brought them to Haskell,
a single street running up the broadening valley, lined mostly with
shacks, although a few more pretentious buildings were scattered here
and there, while an occasional tent flapped its discoloured canvas in
the night wind.
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