"Tell me," asked Patty, abruptly. "Has Vil Holland imagination?"
"Imagination! My dear lady, Vil Holland is the veriest clod! Too lazy to do the honest work for which he is fitted, he roams the hills under pretense of prospecting."
"But, how does he make a living?"
Bethune shrugged. "Who can tell? I know for a certainty that he has never made a cent out of his alleged prospecting. It is true he rides the round-up for a couple of months in the spring and fall, but four months' work at forty dollars a month will hardly suffice for a man's yearly needs." He unconsciously lowered his voice, and continued: "Several ranchers have complained of losing horses and only a few days ago, up near the line, my good friend Corporal Downey, of the Mounted, told me that a number of American horses, with brands skillfully doctored, had been regularly making their appearance in Canada. It is an ugly suspicion, and I am making no open accusation, but—one may wonder."
The man finished his sandwich, dipped his fingers into the creek, wiped them upon his handkerchief, and proceeded to roll a cigarette. "Speaking of Vil Holland, why did you ask whether he had—imagination?"
"Oh, I don't know," replied the girl, lightly. "I just wondered."
Bethune regarded her steadily. "Has he been,—er, interfering in any way with your attempt to locate your father's strike?"
"Hardly interfering, I should say."
"You believe he still follows you?"
"Yes."