gallons of moonshine from a friend in Tennessee, and it began toward the end of the evening to circulate freely. Lisette and Scott were together all the time; they danced well and the spirit of mischief was in the air. When the night was far spent they went out on the grass in front of the house. The snow had gone; it was damp under foot, but they wandered back and forth under the cottonwoods. The path led to the bridge across the river, and there they halted. "Ah, Lisette," said Scott, "such happiness as I have had tonight. Under your assumed gayety I saw love sparkling in your eyes. Do not keep it back. Let me hear your own sweet voice speak for your heart," and then grasping her hands in his they stood face to face, and he asked her for a kiss—one moment of delight. Lisette was hesitating; the die was almost cast, when there was a low rumble from the creek. They both started just as if a ghost had risen up before them. Scott seized her around the waist and she fell into his arms trembling with fear; perchance her conscience spoke to her. There was a crash and the ice, long bound up, had given way to the mighty flood that the melting snow was rushing from every hillside into the stream. When they saw the cause of this alarm Lisette said, "Let us go back," and she added in her own mind, "the good Lord has saved me once again from sin and the sorrow that would follow." She sought out her husband and asked to be taken back to the Two Bar, where they were to stay, but a fairly constant contact with the moonshine bottle made him surly and cantankerous. "Scott brought you, why not let him take you back?" was his ungracious reply to her appeal, and thus again the devil was at work building another trap for little Lisette. So the buggy was brought to the door and a start was made up the creek. It was evident some of the boys were in for an all night session. They waved adieu at the door, across the bridge flew the team, the ice grinding through its solitary arch, made of pitch-pine logs. Southward they went; it was dark but the horses kept fairly well to the road. They were a pair of eastern horses and had not the knowledge or instinct of the

native broncho. What took place on that drive no man can tell. Amos Sarbaugh, the ranchman at the Two Bar, waking up from his first sleep, thought he heard a wild shriek. He looked out, and it was echoed back from Squaw Mountain, the silent sentinel of the Sybille. Then all was still save the sighing of the breeze as it wandered over the Rainsford ranch, across the divides, over the valley of the Chug, and was lost in the breaks of Box Elder.

Early the next morning Duncan Grant was haying his cattle on his ranch about two miles below Two Bar. There is an elbow of the stream where the ice had gorged. As he threw out the hay his eye caught something strange among the piles of ice. It was the top of a buggy. His suspicions were aroused. He jumped onto his saddle horse and galloped up to the ranch, but he reached it not, for the ice had carried the bridge out. There were footprints of the horses, the wheelmarks of the buggy. In the darkening hour before dawn Scott and Lisette had plunged into the wild stream and their lives had been ground out in the turbid, ice-charged waters of the wild Sybille. Nothing was ever heard of them. Perchance in some sandbar of the Platte their bodies found a resting-place, and to this day the tragedy is always mentioned with bated breath as "The Silence of the Sybille."

The central building was burned down some years ago. An office building and garage now occupy the space between the house and the barn

CHAPTER XXXV

The previous story, “The Silence of the Sybille" was pure fiction. The accompanying story, while partly fiction, is really founded on facts that occurred in the "nineties" on the Swan range. It was first published in booklet form in 1910 and republished in the Live Stock Report in May, 1911, but it is part of the story of "My Life on the Range."-J. C.

A

L BOWIE was sitting in front of the store at Chugwater. Tom Horn was standing not far from him. Something of deep import was engaging their attention. The former was the superintendent of the Swan Ranch, the latter a detective whose duty it was to keep in check the stealing of cattle that was prevalent there as in other parts of Wyoming. Strange it is that in the human breast there is ever the plant of pilfering. It is a plant that flourishes amid strange scenes, in the crowded city and on wind-swept plains. The thief catcher of today is just as busy as of old. As love is perennial, so crime is constant, and there is a steady battle betwixt the honest and the dishonest. The big ranchman was an easy prey for the thief. His property was scattered over a wide area; his cattle wandered to remote places, beef was always salable, and unfortunately there were people who were ever ready to take advantage of the low price at which they could buy such an article. When I began ranching in Wyoming, more than thirty years ago, it was almost impossible to convict a cattle rustler, and even today the courts are tardy, long-suffering and uncertain.

To combat and stop the leakage of the company's property was ever before the minds of the above parties. They were remarkable men in their way. In their weather beaten features were marks of strong character; deep lines furrowed their faces and long years on the plains had made them quick, observant and reticent. Bowie, who had served an apprenticeship in the Chicago Stock Yards, had seen all kinds of days in the ranching business. He had watched the boom of