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Title: The Forfeit


Author: Ridgwell Cullum



Release Date: September 25, 2006  [eBook #19371]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)


***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FORFEIT***


E-text prepared by Al Haines



THE FORFEIT

by

RIDGWELL CULLUM

Author of
"The Night Riders," "The Way of The Strong," "The Trail of The Axe,"
Etc.







A. L. Burt Company
Publishers ------ New York
Published by arrangement with George W. Jacobs & Company
Copyright, 1917, by
George W. Jacobs & Company
All rights reserved




CONTENTS


     I.  AT RAINBOW HILL VALLEY
    II.  CONFLICTING CURRENTS
   III.  TRAILING THE "BLACK TAIL"
    IV.  THE WEAKER VESSEL
     V.  THE HANGING BEE
    VI.  THE RAIDERS RAIDED
   VII.  OUTLAND JUSTICE
  VIII.  JEFF CLOSES THE BOOK
    IX.  FOUR YEARS LATER
     X.  THE POLO CLUB RACES
    XI.  ELVINE VAN BLOOREN
   XII.  THE TEMPERING
  XIII.  THE NEWS
   XIV.  THE KNOCKING ON THE DOOR
    XV.  THE HOME-COMING
   XVI.  THE RANCHMAN
  XVII.  THE CALL TO ORRVILLE
 XVIII.  DUG MCFARLANE
   XIX.  THE RETURN HOME
    XX.  AT BUD'S
   XXI.  THE BARRIER
  XXII.  THREATENINGS
 XXIII.  THE HEARTS OF TWO WOMEN
  XXIV.  TO SPRUCE CROSSING
   XXV.  AN EPIC BATTLE
  XXVI.  UNDER THE VEIL
 XXVII.  THE ROUND-UP




THE FORFEIT


CHAPTER I

AT RAINBOW HILL VALLEY

A companionable silence prevailed in the room.  At intervals it was
broken, but only by the rustle of paper or the striking of a match.
The heavy breathing, almost amounting to a snore, of one of the two
men, and the inarticulate protests of a laboring "rocker" chair--these
things were only a part of it.

The man at the table was deeply immersed in a miniature sea of
calculations.  His fair brows were drawn in deep concentration.
Frequently he was at great pains to relight a pipe which contained
nothing but charred remnants of tobacco and a moist, unsmokable mixture
which afforded only a somewhat offensive taste and aroma.

The partner in this companionship overflowed an undersized "rocker,"
which withstood, with supreme heroism, the overwhelming forces of its
invader.  But its sufferings, under the rhythmic rise and fall imposed
upon it, found expression at intervals, although they failed to inspire
the least sympathy.  The heedless giant's whole attention seemed to be
absorbed in the personality and effort of his friend.

Finally the latter raised a pair of deep blue eyes.  Following upon a
sigh, he thrust his papers aside with a brusque movement of relief.
Then he raised a hand to his broad forehead and smoothed his disheveled
fair hair, which seemed to have undergone some upheaval as a result of
the mental disturbance his efforts had inspired in the brain beneath.
The handsome eyes smiled a reassuring smile into the rugged face of his
friend.

"Well?" he enquired, without seeming to desire a reply.

"Wal?" echoed the gruff voice of the man in the rocker.

"It's done."

"So--I guessed."

The patient amusement in the twinkling eyes of the man in the rocker
was good to see.  There was confidence, too, in his regard of the
younger man.

"Can we do it--sure?" he enquired, as the other remained silent.

"Without a worry."

"Then dope it out, boy.  The easiest thing in the world is handin' out
dollars on a right enterprise.  I don't know nothin' better--except it
is takin' 'em in on the same sort o' play."

Jeffrey Masters smiled more broadly into his friend's good-humored face.

"Five years back, handing out twenty thousand dollars would have given
us a nightmare, even on a right proposition," he said.  "It isn't that
way now.  Guess we'll sleep on this thing like new-born babes with our
tanks filled right.  Nat Williams is out to sell quick, and if we're
bright, it's up to us to buy quick.  For twenty thousand dollars," he
proceeded, referring to his figures, "we get his house, barns, corrals,
and all his rolling stock.  His growing crops and machinery.  The bunch
of old cows and calves he's pleased to call his 'herds.'  Also three
teams of Shire-bred heavy draft horses, and six hundred and forty acres
of first-class wheat land and grazing that only needs capital and
hustle to set right on top.  I don't guess it'll worry us any to hand
it all it needs that way.  This buy will join up my 'O----' territory
with your 'T.T.' grazing, and will turn the combination into one of the
finest ranching propositions west of Calthorpe, and one which even
Montana needs to be proud of."

He leaned back in his chair with a certain air of satisfaction.  But
there was just a shade of anxiety, too, in the glance with which he
favored his friend.  However, he need have felt no misgivings.  Bud
Tristram had none.  He understood the keen business brain underlying
his friend's tumbled fair hair.  Moreover, Jeff, who was only half the
older man's age, was regarded with something like parental affection.

They had fought their way up together from obscure beginnings to their
present affluence, as the owners of the "T.T." ranch and the "O----"
ranch respectively.  They had been partners in all but name.  Now they
contemplated a definite deed of that nature.  It was a consummation
which the older man had looked forward to ever since he first lent a
hand to his new and youthful neighbor.  It was a consummation which
Jeffrey, with acute foresight and honest purpose, had set himself to
achieve.  If the older man regarded him with almost parental affection,
that regard was fully reciprocated.  The business conference between
them had for its purpose their mutual advantage, and both men were
perfectly aware of the fact.

But the thought that slightly worried the younger man was the ease, the
unconcern of his future partner's attitude.  It disquieted him because
it increased his responsibility.  But long ago he had learned the
generous nature of the Great Bud.  Long ago he had realized his
trusting simplicity.  Now he would have preferred a keen
cross-examination of his statement.  But none was forthcoming, and he
was forced to continue in face of the silent acceptance.

"Bud, old friend, I wish I could get you interested in--figures.  And I
guess they surely are interesting, when you apply them to our own
concerns."

But Bud remained unmoved.  He stretched himself in an ecstasy of ease,
raising his great arms above his grizzled head in profound enjoyment of
his bodily comfort.

He shook his head.

"Guess I know a steer.  Guess I know grass when I see it.  I wouldn't
say there's a brand in Montana I ain't familiar with.  But
figgers--sums--they're hell.  An' I don't guess I'm yearning for hell
anyway.  Figgers is a sort o' paradise to you.  You're built that way.
Say, I don't calc'late to rob you of a thing--not even paradise.  We'll
take your figgers as they stand."

Jeffrey Masters shook his head.

"They're right, sure.  But it's no sort of way to talk business."

"Business talk always makes me sweat."

It was quite impossible.  Jeffrey was growing impatient.  A frown
settled upon his broad brow, and the man in the rocker watched it with
amused eyes.

Quite suddenly the younger man's impatience broke forth into verbal
protest.

"Say, you make me mad.  Was there ever such a feller looking for sharps
to play him?  How do you know I'm not out to beat you?  Why, I could
roll you for every dollar you possess without lying awake five minutes
at night.  It's not fair, Bud.  It's not fair to me--to you--to your
little Nan----"

"What's not fair to Nan?"

Bud's twinkling eyes shot round upon the open French window with an
alertness scarcely to be expected in a man of such apparent mental
indolence.  Jeffrey's eyes cleared of their hot impatience as they
sought a similar direction.  The gaze of both men encountered the
picture of a brown-eyed, brown-haired girl of exquisite proportions,
standing framed in the open window.  She was clad in a riding suit of
light material, with a long-skirted coat which obviously concealed the
divided skirt beneath.  Her long, brown top boots were white with dust
of the trail, and her vicious-looking Mexican spurs hung loosely upon
her heels.  Her eyes were bright with intelligence and good humor, and
her pretty oval face smiled out from under the wide brim of an ample
prairie hat.

Jeff began to laugh.

"It's your crazy old father, Nan," he cried.  "Say, just look at him.
Feast your eyes on him.  Can you beat it?  Here we are right up to our
necks in an epoch-making business proposition and he don't concern
himself two whoops.  Was there ever such a bunch of simple trusting
folly as is rolled up in that six feet three of good-hearted honesty?
_That's_ what's not fair to--Nan."

The girl came and laid a protecting hand upon the flannel-clad
shoulders of her father.  Just for a moment her laughing eyes gazed
affectionately down upon the recumbent form of the only parent she
possessed, and whom she idolized.  He was stretched out luxuriously,
his great be-chapped legs reaching to the table leg as a support to
hold the rocker at a comfortable poise.  His shirt sleeves were rolled
up displaying a pair of arms like legs of mutton.  The beadwork
wristlets were held fixed in their position by the distended muscles
beneath them.  She was proud of him, this father who went through the
world trusting human nature, and handling cattle as only an artist in
his profession can handle them.

Then her dancing eyes sought the face of Jeffrey Masters.  Her smile
remained, but a subtle something crept into their depths as she
surveyed it.  It was the handsome, clean-cut face of a purposeful man.
There was a straight-forward directness in the gaze of his blue eyes.
It was the face of a man who has no fear, physical or moral.  It was
almost too uncompromising in its fearlessness.

Nan knew its every line by heart.  She had thought of it, dreamed of
it, since the time when she had first realized that a woman's life is
wholly incomplete without the care of a man upon her hands.  Sometimes
she had felt that Jeffrey Masters possessed depths which could never be
fathomed.  Depths of strength, of resource, and all those qualities
which make for success.  Sometimes she even went further, when her
analytical faculties--which she possessed in an unusual degree--were
most active.  She felt that the possession of all these firm qualities
had rather smothered, to an extent, the gentler emotions of the human
nature in him.  He was strong, passionate, with a conscience of an
almost puritanical order, and somehow she felt that a little softening,
a little leavening of human weakness would have been all to the good.
But this understanding made no difference to her woman's regard, unless
it were to strengthen it to a sort of gentle worship such as woman is
always ready to yield to strength.  It required no effort upon her part
to picture this man in the heroic mould of a Spartan warrior.

"'_That_,'" she replied, with a whimsical smile, "is a man, who most
generally seems to fancy his own way of doing things."  Then she shook
her head as her arm slipped protectingly around the big man's bronzed
neck.  "I don't guess a woman's argument ever made a man see things
different yet.  What's he done, Jeff?"

Jeff laughed without humor.

"Done?" he exclaimed.  Then, with a shake of the head: "It's not what
he's done.  Guess it's what he hasn't done, and what he don't seem to
figure to do.  I'd kind of raised a hope when I saw you in the window.
But--well, it was only her father's daughter that came in, I guess."

Then he drew his papers toward him again, and glanced seriously at the
figures.

"It's Nat's farm," he explained.  "And it's the thing we've been
waiting on years.  We're getting it fixed right, and your Bud's just
about as much help as a deaf mute at a talking bee.  I hand him
figgers, and--and he smiles, just smiles.  I hand him facts, and--he
keeps on smiling.  It's the kind of smile you most generally see on a
dog-tired feller's face when you hand him a funny story.  He don't care
a cuss anyway.  He's figuring to hand Nat ten thousand dollars with no
more kick than a government spending public money.  He don't kick
reasonably or unreasonably, and I'd gamble you a new hat he hasn't a
notion what he's getting for it.  It makes me feel like a 'hold-up,'
and I say it's not fair to me--nor to himself--nor to--you."

Jeff was serious enough.  In such affairs it would have been difficult
to find him otherwise.  Nan understood.  These two men had long been
her profound study.  Her smiling regard remained unchanging while the
man was talking.  When he ceased she bent over her father in a
caressing fashion.

"He'd lose his bet.  He surely would, daddy dear, wouldn't he?  But we
really need to answer, don't we?  He'd think we were both fools, else.
He wouldn't like it either.  Say, daddy, shall--shall I talk?"

Bud chuckled comfortably.

"I'd hate to stop you, Nan."

Nan smiled contentedly, and raised a pair of challenging eyes in the
direction of the table.

"My daddy thinks I talk too much," she said.  "But I s'pose that's my
way--most girls talk when they get the chance--just the same as it's
his way talking too little.  But neither ways suggest a fool, Jeff.
And anyway the only sort of fool you need to worry with is the fool who
don't see and act in a way of his own.  My daddy's acting in his own
way, and I guess it isn't his way, working overtime with the band
playing.  If you're dead fixed on having a gamble, it's a new hat to a
new and less smelly pipe than you're smoking now, that he knows the
inside of this deal to the last cent's worth.  But what's more, Jeff,
he knows you, and knows you couldn't 'hold-up' a Sunday-school kiddie
without going and telling its teacher first.  And now the mail."

She left her father's side and moved to the table, a very picture of
gentle decision and practice.

"Three for you, my daddy," she cried, dropping three letters on his
chest, where his shirt gaped just below his neck.  Then she turned
about.  "Only one for you, honest Jeff.  Just one, and I've guessed at
the writing till I'm sick."

Jeff was smiling up with frank amusement.

"Say, that's great.  It's got you beat.  Well," he added, as he picked
up the letter, "I'll just keep you right on guessing.  Where's yours?"

The girl laughed merrily.

"Had mine.  I don't guess any right-acting girl would sit easy in the
saddle twelve miles without reading her mail.  Say----" she paused.
The smile had died out of her eyes.  Jeff's expression had abruptly
changed.  He was regarding the address on his envelope with startled
seriousness.  Then she went on quickly: "Guess I'll wait till you're
both through.  I'll get right out an' off-saddle.  Then for supper."

In the parlor the silence remained unbroken.  It became unduly
prolonged.  Bud finished his mail.  Jeff was still reading his.  It was
not a long letter.  He had already read it twice through.  Now he again
turned back to its beginning.

Bud observed him closely.  He saw the knitted brows.  The curious set
of the man's lips.  His absorbed interest.  Nor did he interrupt.  He
contented himself with that patient waiting which betrayed much of the
solid strength of his character.

Presently Jeff looked up.  But his eyes did not seek his friend.  They
were turned upon the open window, his gaze wandering out toward the
distant hills, which marked the confines of Rainbow Hill Valley.

Still the other refrained from speech.  Finally it was Jeff, himself,
who broke the silence.

"Bud," he began, without withdrawing his gaze from the scene beyond the
window, "it's a letter from Ronald.  It's the second word I've had of
him in--five years."

Bud nodded.

"The twin."

Jeff's gaze came slowly, thoughtfully back to Bud's face.

"Sure.  We're twins."

An unusual softness crept into the eyes of the man at the table.

"I'm kind of wondering, Bud," he went on presently, "wondering if you
get all that means--means to me.  I don't know."  He passed a hand
slowly across his brow, as though to brush aside growing perplexities.
"I don't seem to get all it means myself.  No, I don't.  The whole
thing's so queer," he went on, with a nervous, restless movement in his
chair.  "It sort of seems crazy, too."  He laughed meaninglessly.  Then
he suddenly leaned forward with flushed cheeks and hot eyes.  "Bud,
don't think me crazy, but--well, say, I'm only part of me without Ronny
near.  Oh, I don't guess that explains.  But it's what I feel--and I
can't just talk it right.  You don't get it?  No, of course you don't.
I can see it in your eyes.  You think I'm right for the foolish-house.
Listen.  Is it possible--is it ordinary reason that when twins are
born, the nature of one normal child can be divided between the two,
one having what the other feller lacks?  There, that's how I feel about
it.  It's the way it is with Ronny and me.  All that he is not, I am.
I haven't one of his better features.  Say, Bud, I'm a pretty cold sort
of man.  I'd have made a fair sort of Puritan if I'd been on earth a
century or so ago.  I've little enough humor.  I don't care for play.
I don't care for half the fun most folks see in life.  I'd sooner work
than eat.  And Ronny--well, Ronny isn't just any of those things.  He's
just a boy, full of every sort of human notion that's opposite to mine.
And I'm crazy for him.  Say, Bud, I love him better than anything in
life.  If anything happened to that boy, why, I guess all that's worth
while in me would die plumb out."

He paused.  Bud's shrewd eyes remained studying the emotion-lit
features of this usually unemotional man.  He felt he was being
admitted to a peep at a soul that was rarely, if ever, bared, and he
wondered at the reason.  Was it a calculated display, or was it the
outlet for an emotion altogether too strong for the man's restraint?
He inclined to the former belief.

"Nothin' _has_ happened?" he enquired presently, in his direct fashion.

Jeff laughed without any visible sign of lightness.

"No," he said.  Then with a deep sigh.  "Thank God nothing has
happened.  But----"

"Then the trouble----?"

"The trouble?  Say, Bud, try to get it all as I see it.  It's
difficult.  The boy's away up trapping and shooting--for a
living--somewhere in the Cathills.  He's away there living on hard pan,
while I'm here steadily traipsing on with you to a big pile.  Remember
he's my other--half.  Do you know how I feel?  No, you can't.  Say,
he's as merry as I am--dour.  He's as fond of life, and play, and the
good things of the world as I'm indifferent to 'em.  He's
reckless--he's _weak_."  Suddenly Jeff's eyes lit.  A great passion
seemed to surge through his whole body.  "Bud, I want him here.  I want
to be always around to help him when he gets bumping into potholes.
It's that weakness that sets me crazy when I think.  He ain't made for
the dreary grind of the life we live.  That's why he cut it out when I
came here.  Well there's no grind for him now, and I want to have him
come along and share in with me.  That's why I'm talking now.  From
this moment on we're a great proposition in the ranching world, and I
want Ronny to share in with me."

Bud nodded.

"I get it," he said.  Then he added: "You're a great feller."

"Great!  Cut it out, Bud," Jeff cried sharply.  "It's my love for that
other half of me that's talking.  That merry bit of a--twin."

"An' you're sendin' for him?"

Jeff shrugged, and depression seemed suddenly to descend upon him.

"If I could fix it that way I don't guess I'd have opened my face to
hand you all this.  But I can't.  He's in the Cathills, away a hundred
and more miles northwest of us.  That's all he says.  He don't give a
mail address.  No, Bud, I'm going to hunt him out.  I'm going to find
him, and bring him back.  I'll find him sure.  We're just one mind an'
one body, an'," he added thoughtfully, "I don't guess I'll need a
detective bureau to locate him.  If he was chasin' around the other end
of the world I'd find him--sure.  You see, he's the other half of me."

Bud nodded in sympathy, but made no verbal reply.

"See, Bud," Jeff went on, a moment later.  "The spring round-up's
through.  We're going to fix this deed right away.  When the attorneys
have robbed us all they need, and Nat's handed over, there'll be a good
month to haying.  That month I'm going to spend in the Cathills.  I'll
be back for the hay."

The other eased himself in his rocker.  Then for some moments no sound
broke the silence of the room.

"It's been a heavy spring," Bud said at last.

Jeff nodded.  His thoughts were away in the Cathills.

"Seems to me," Bud went on.  "Work kind o' worries me some these
times."  He smiled.  "Guess the wheels need the dope of leisure.  Mebbe
I ain't as young as you."

"No."

Jeff's attention was still wandering.

"Guess the Cathills is an a'mighty big piece o' country gropin' around
in," Bud went on.

"Sure.  A hell of a piece.  But--it don't signify."

"No-o," Bud meditated.  Then he added: "I was kind o' thinkin'."

"How?"

"Why, mebbe two folks chasin' up a pin in a bunch o' grass is li'ble to
halve most o' the chances agin either of 'em jabbin' their hands on the
business end of it."

"Two?  You mean you're goin' to come along an' help find--Ronny?"

Jeff's eyes were expressing the thanks his lips withheld.

Bud excused himself.

"Them Cathills is plumb full of fur an' things.  Say, I ain't handled a
gun in weeks."

"Bud, you're----"

The door of the room was abruptly flung open and Jeff's words remained
unspoken.

"Supper, folks!"

Nan's smiling eyes glanced from one to the other.  She stood in the
doorway compelling them.  Besides, the memory of Jeff's letter was
still with her, and she was anxious to observe its later effect.  That
which she now beheld was obviously satisfactory, and her smile deepened
contentedly.




CHAPTER II

CONFLICTING CURRENTS

They were busy days in Orrville.  But business rarely yielded outward
display in its citizens.  Men talked more.  They perhaps moved about
more--in their customary leisurely fashion.  But any approach to bustle
was as foreign to the rule of the township as it would be to a colony
of aged snails in a cyclone.

It was the custom of Orrville to rise early and go to bed late.  But
this by no means implies any excessive activity.  On the contrary.
These spells of activity lasted just as long as their accomplishment
required.  In the interim its citizens returned to a slumber little
less profound than that which supervened at night after the last
roysterer had been ejected, by force, or persuasion, from the
salubrious precincts of Ju Penrose's saloon.

Orrville was a ranching township in the northwestern corner of Montana
lying roughly some twenty miles west of the foothills of the Cathill
Mountains, which, in turn, formed a projecting spur of the main range
of the Rockies.

Orrville was the township and Ju Penrose was the pioneer of its
commerce.  He was a man of keen instincts for commerce of his own
especial brand, and rejoiced in a disreputable past.  He possessed a
thin, hooked nose of some dimensions, which never failed to cut a way
for its owner into the shady secrets of his neighbors.  He possessed a
temper as amiable and mild as a spring lamb when the stream of
prosperity and profit flowed his way, and as vitriolic as a she-wolf in
winter, when that stream chanced to become diverted into a neighbor's
direction.

He was considered a man of some importance in the place.  But this was
probably the result of the nature of his trade, which, in the eyes of
the denizens of the neighborhood, certainly possessed an advantage over
such stodgy callings as "dry goods."  But besides the all-important
thirst-quenching purpose of his establishment, it had become a sort of
bureau for large and small transactions of a ranching nature, and a
resort where every sort of card game could be freely indulged in,
without regard for the limit of the stakes, and had thus gained for
itself the subsidiary title amongst its clientele of "Ju's Poker Joint."

At the moment Ju's usually busy tongue was taking a well-earned rest,
and his hawk-like visage was shrouded in a deep, contemplative repose.
His always bloodshot eyes were speculative as he surveyed the
smoke-laden scene from behind his shabby bar.  The place was full of
drinkers and gamblers.  The hour was past midnight.  And he was
estimating silently the further spending possibilities of his
customers, and consequently considering the advisability of closing
down.

A group of three ranch hands leaned against the centre of the bar.
Their glasses were empty and none of them seemed anxious to command
their refilling.  They were talking earnestly.  And their voices were
unusually modulated.  Just beyond these a slight, good-looking man in
chapps, with a face of particularly refined but somewhat debauched
appearance, was obviously interested in their talk, although he took no
part in it.  On the other side of them, away at the far end of the bar,
leaned a solitary, tough-looking drinker, who seemed to take no
interest whatever in his surroundings.  Every man in the place, the
dozen or so occupying the card tables included, was fully armed in the
customary fashion prevailing in this distant corner of the ranching
world, and it would have needed no second thought to realize that these
heavy, loaded weapons were not by any means intended for decorative
purposes.

"Wal, anyways they're a long time fixin' things," observed one of the
three at the centre of the bar, with a yawn that displayed a double row
of gleaming white teeth.  "The boss guessed I'd best wait around, so it
ain't a heap o' use kickin'.  I'll hev to wait till the durned
committee's through, if it takes 'em sittin' as long us a hide-bound
hen."

"It's allus that-a-way when folks gets on a committee racket, Curly,"
replied one of his friends with a sympathetic grin.

"That's just how, Dan," agreed the third.  "Hot air.  That's what it
is.  This tarnation Vigilance stunt sets folk whisperin' among
'emselves 'bout the hell goin' to be ladled out to all cattle thieves
in general.  Gives 'em visions of hangin'-bees, an' a sort o' firework
display with guns an' things, an' when they hatched out, what's the
result?  Why, a waste o' hot air, an'--no checkens."

"'T'so, Dan," agreed Curly, with easy decision.  "The boss is too near
relative of a fancy gentleman for to hand out the sort o' dope rustlers
need.  If us boys had the job we'd fix things quick.  You'd see this
bum gang kicking air at the end of a rope 'fore Ju, here, had time to
dope out four fingers of rotgut at the expense of the house."

He leered across at the unsmiling face of the saloon-keeper.  Ju
permitted himself to be drawn.

"Nothin' doin', Curly."  A solemn shake of the head set his walrus
moustache flapping.  Then he drew a cigar from a top vest pocket and
bit the end through, brushing his moustache aside to discover a place
in which to deposit it in his mouth.  "I'd sure hate to dope out any
rotgut on you boys.  Y'see, I sure got your health at heart.  I kind o'
love you fellers to death.  I'd hate to see you sufferin' at my hands.
Guess I was raised Christian."

"Was you?"

Curly's sarcasm achieved the laugh intended, and, as a result of his
satisfaction, he flung his last half-dollar on the dingy bar.

"Make that into three drops of liver souse, an' hand us a smile, Ju.
Your face is sure killin' trade."

Ju rolled his cigar across his mouth under the curtain of moustache,
lit it, and proceeded to push an uncorked bottle across to his
customers.

"Guess it ain't a bad proposition handin' you boys a smile.  Smiles
allus happen easy on foolish faces.  Seein' I ain't deaf I been
listenin' to your talk, an' I ain't made up my mind if you're as bright
as you're guessin', or if you're the suckers your talk makes you out.
Seein' I don't usual take chances, I'll put my dollars on the sucker
business.  I've stood behind this darned old bar fer ten years, an' I
guess for five of 'em I've listened to talk like yours--from fellers
like you."  He removed the bottle from which the three men had helped
themselves to liberal "four fingers," and eyed their glasses askance.
"Now, you're worritin' over this lousy Lightfoot gang.  So was the
others.  So's everybody bin fer five years.  An' fer five years this
same lousy Lightfoot gang has just been helpin' 'emselves to the cattle
on the ranches around here--liberal.  Same as youse fellers have helped
yourselves out o' this bottle.  An', durin' that time, I ain't heard
tell of one o' them boys who's been spoilin' to hang 'em all doin' a
thing.  Not a thing, 'cep' it's lap up whisky to keep up a supply o'
hot air.

"Wal," he proceeded, in his biting fashion, as he thrust the bottle on
the shelf and began wiping glasses with a towel that looked to be
decomposing for want of soap, "them lousy rustlers is still running
their play in the district jest wher', when, an' how they darn please.
See?  You, Curly, are kickin' because your boss Dug McFarlane is too
much of a gentleman.  Wal, if I know a man from a seam-squirrel, I'd
sure say Dug's got more savee in his whiskers than you got dirt--which
is some.  If I got things right, this night's sittin's goin' to put
paid to the Lightfoot gang's account.  I'd be glad to say the same of
one or two scores three bums have lately run up right here."

The offensiveness of his manner left the men quite undisturbed.  The
place would have been strange to them without it.  They accepted it as
part of the evening's entertainment.  But the allusion to the Vigilance
Committee's efforts brought them into attitudes of close attention.  It
drew the attention, too, of the cattleman with the refined features,
and, equally, that of the tough-looking individual at the far end of
the bar.

"What are they goin' to do?" demanded Dan urgently.

Ju puffed aggravatingly at his cigar.

"Do?" he echoed at last, gazing distantly at the card players across
the room.  "Why, what any bunch of savee should ha' done five years
ago.  Put out a great reward."

Curly snorted in disdain.

"See, I tho't it was to be a big play."

"You allus was bright," sneered Dan.  "How's that goin' to fix the
Lightfoot crowd?"

"How?"  Ju's contempt always found an outlet in the echo of an
opponent's interrogation.  "Say, Dan, how old are you?  Twenty?"

"That ain't nuthin' to you," the cowpuncher retorted, with a gesture of
hot impatience.

"Ain't it?  Wal, mebbe it ain't," Ju agreed imperturbably.  "But y'see
it takes years an' years gettin' the value o' dollars right.  I allow
ther's folks guesses dollars talks.  Wal, I'm guessin' they just
_holler_.  Make the wad big enough and ther' ain't nuthin' you can't
buy from a wheat binder to a royal princess with a crown o' jools.  The
only thing you're li'ble to have trouble over is the things Natur'
fancies handin' you fer--nix.  That an' hoss sense.  That's pretty well
the world to-day, no matter what the sky-pilots an' Sunday-school
ma'ams dope out in their fancy literature.  I know.  You offer ten
thousand dollars for the hangin' of Lightfoot's gang, an', I say right
here, there ain't a feller in it from Lightfoot--if there is sech a
feller--down, who wouldn't make a grab at that wad by givin' the rest
of the crowd away.  Makes you think, don't it?  Sort o' worries them
empty think tanks o' yours."

But Ju's satisfaction received an unexpected shaking.

"Some wind," observed the slim, lonely drinker, in the blandest fashion.

Ju was round on him in a flash, his walrus moustache bristling.

"I'm listening," he said, with a calmness which belied his attitude.

The other set his glass down on the counter with a bump.

"If you're listening," he said, "you have probably understood what I
said.  You're talking through a fog of cynicism which seems to obscure
an otherwise fairly competent intellect.  You've plundered so many
innocents in your time by purveying an excessive quantity of bluestone
disguised under the name of alcohol that your overweening conceit has
entirely distorted your perspective till you fancy that your own dregs
of human nature constitute the human nature of all the rest of the
world, who would entirely resent being classed as your fellows.  In a
word you need physic, Ju."

The speaker laughed amiably, and his smile revealed the weakness which
was pointed by the signs of debauchery in his good-looking face.  Ju
eyed him steadily.  The offense of his words was mitigated by his
manner, but Ju resented the laugh which went round the entire room at
his expense.

"See here, Bob Whitstone," he began, abandoning his glass wiping and
supporting himself on his counter, with his face offensively thrust in
his opponent's direction, "I ain't got the langwidge you seem to have
lapped up with your mother's milk.  I don't guess any sucker paid a
thousand dollars a year for my college eddication so I could come out
here and grow a couple of old beeves and spend my leisure picklin' my
food depot in a low down prairie saloon.  Therefor' I'll ask you to
excuse me if I talk in a kind o' langwidge the folks about here most
gener'ly understan'.  Guess you think you know some.  Maybe you figger
to know it all.  Wal, get this.  When you get back home jest stand in
front of a fi' cent mirror, if you got one in your bum shanty, an' get
a peek at your map, an' ask yourself--when you studied it well--if I
couldn't buy you, body an' soul, fer two thousand dollars--cash.  I'd
sure hate slingin' mud at any feller's features, much less yours,
who're a good customer to me, but you're comin' the highbrow, an' you
got notions of honor still floatin' around in your flabby thinkin'
department sech as was handed you by the guys who ran that thousand
dollar college.  Wal, ef you'll look at yourself honest, an' argue with
yourself honest, you'll find them things is sure a shadder of the past
which happened somew'eres before you tasted that first dose o' prairie
poison which has since become a kind o' habit.  It ain't no use in
getting riled, Bob, it ain't no use in workin' overtime on that college
dictionary o' yours to set me crawlin' around among the spit boxes.
Fac's is fac's.  Ken you hand me a list o' the things you--you who
ain't got two spare cents to push into the mission box, an' who'd
willingly sleep in a hog pen if it weren't for a dandy wife who'd got
no more sense than to marry you--wouldn't do if I was to hand you out a
roll of ten thousand dollars right now--cash?  Tcha!  You think.  I
know."

He turned away in a wave of contemptuous disgust.  And as he did so a
harsh voice from the other end of the bar held him up.

"What about me, Ju?"

The tough-looking prairie man made his demand with a laugh only a shade
less harsh than his speaking voice.

Ju stood.  His desperate, keen face was coldly still as he regarded the
powerful frame of his challenger.  Then his retort came swift and
poignant.

"You, Sikkem?  You'd allus _give_ yourself away.  Get me?"

The frigidity of the saloon-keeper's manner was over-powering.  The man
called Sikkem was unequal in words to such a challenge.  A flush slowly
dyed his lean cheeks, and an angry depression of the brows suggested
something passionate and forceful.  Just for a moment many eyes glanced
in his direction.  The saloon-keeper was steadily regarding him.  There
was no suggestion of anger in his attitude, merely cat-like
watchfulness.  Their eyes met.  Then the cloud abruptly lifted from
Sikkem's brow, and he laughed with unsmiling, black eyes.  The
saloon-keeper rinsed a glass and unconcernedly began to wipe it.

The incident was allowed to pass.  But it was the termination of the
discussion, a termination which left Ju victor, not because of the
rightness of his views, but because there was no man in Orrville
capable of joining issue with him in debate with any hope of success.
Action rather than words was the prevailing feature with these people,
and, in his way, Ju Penrose was equal, if not superior, not only in
debate, but in the very method these people best understood.

A moment later Sikkem took his departure.

      *      *      *      *      *      *

It was well past midnight when the last man turned out of Ju's bar.
But the crowd had not yet scattered to their various homes.  They were
gathered in a small, excited cluster gaping up at a big notice pasted
on the weather-boarding of the saloon-keeper's shack.  Ju himself was
standing in their midst, right in front of the notice, which had been
indited in ink, evidently executed with a piece of flat wood.  He was
holding up a lantern, and every eye was carefully, and in many
instances laboriously, studying the text inscribed.

It was a notice of reward.  A reward of ten thousand dollars for
information leading to the capture of the gang of cattle thieves known
as the "Lightfoot gang."  And it was signed by Dug McFarlane on behalf
of the Orrville Rancher's Vigilance Committee.

"Guess Ju knowed after all," somebody observed, in a confidential tone
to his neighbor.

But Ju's ears were as long and sharp as his tongue.  He flashed round
on the instant, his lantern lowered from the level of the notice board.
There was a sort of cold triumph in his manner as his eyes fell upon
the speaker.

"Know'd?" he cried sharply.  "Ain't 'knowin'' my business?  Psha!"  His
contempt was withering.  Then his manner changed back to the triumph
which the notice had inspired.  "Say, it's a great piece of money.  It
surely is some bunch.  Ten thousand dollars!  Gee!  His game's up.
Lightfoot's as good as kickin' his heels agin the breezes.  He's played
his hand, an'--lost."

And somehow no one seemed inclined to add to his statement.  Nor, which
was much more remarkable, contradict it.  Now that these men had seen
the notice with their own eyes the force of all Ju had so recently
contended came home to them.  There was not one amongst that little
gathering who did not realize the extent of the odds militating against
the rustlers.  Ten thousand dollars!  There was not a man present who
did not feel the tremendous power of such a reward.

The gathering melted away slowly, and finally Bob Whitstone was left
alone before the gleaming sheet of paper, with Ju standing in his
doorway.  The lantern was at his feet upon the sill.  His hands were
thrust in the tops of his shabby trousers.  He was regarding the
"gentleman" rancher meditatively, and his half burnt cigar glowed under
the deep intake of his powerful lungs.

"It's a dandy bunch, Bob, eh?" he demanded presently, in an ironical
tone.  "Guess I'd come nigh sellin' my own father fer--ten thousand
dollars.  An' I don't calc'late I'd get nightmare neither."  Then he
drew a deep breath which suggested regret.  "But--it ain't comin' my
way.  No.  Not by a sight."  Then, after a watchful pause, he
continued: "I'm kind o' figgerin' whose way.  Not mine, or--yours.  Eh,
Bob?  We could do with it.  Pity, ain't it?"

Bob turned.  His eyes sought the face in the shadow of the doorway.

"I'm no descendant of Judas," he said coldly.

"No.  But--Judas didn't sell a gang of murdering cattle rustlers.  That
ain't Judas money."

"Maybe.  But it's blood money all the same."

"Mighty bad blood that oughter be spilt."

Bob turned away.  His gaze wandered out westward.  Then his eyes came
slowly back to the man in the door-way.

"You thought I was talking hot air just now--about a man's price.  You
didn't like it.  Well, when I find myself with a price I hope I shan't
live to be paid it.  That's all."

The man in the doorway shook his head.  Then he spoke slowly,
deliberately.  And somehow much of the sharpness had gone out of his
tone, and the hard glitter of his steely eyes had somehow become less
pronounced.

"Oh, I guess I got your meanin' right, fer all yer thousand dollar
langwidge.  Sure, I took you right away.  But--it don't signify a cuss
anyways.  Guess you was born a gentleman, Bob, which I wa'an't.  An'
because you was born an' raised that-a-way you'd surely like to kep
right hold o' the notion that folks ken still act as though they'd been
weaned on talk of honor an' sichlike.  I sez kep a holt on that notion.
Grip it tight, an' don't never let go on it.  Grab it same as you would
the feller that's yearnin' fer your scalp.  If you lose your grip that
tow-colored scalp of yours'll be raised sure, an' every penicious
breeze that blows 'll get into your think depot and hand you every sort
of mental disease ther' ain't physic enough in the world to cure.
Guess that's plumb right.  It don't cut no ice what I think.  A feller
like me jest thinks the way life happens to boost him.  Y'see, I ain't
had no thousand dollar eddication to make me see things any other ways.
Life's a mighty tough proposition an' it can't be run on no schedule,
an' each feller's got to travel the way he sees with his own two eyes.
If he's got the spectacles of a thousand dollar eddication he's an
a'mighty lucky feller, an' I'm guessin' they'll help him dodge a whole
heap o' muck holes he'd otherwise bury his silly head in.  So hang on,
boy.  Grip them darn fool notions so they ain't got a chance.  If you
let go--wal, you'll get a full-sized peek into a pretty fancy sort o'
hell wher' ther' ain't any sort o' chance o' dopin' your visions out o'
sight with Ju Penrose's belly wash.  So long."

Ju picked up his lantern and turned back into his bar, closing and
securing his door behind him.  Then, with keen anticipation and
enjoyment, he approached his till and proceeded to count his day's
takings.

      *      *      *      *      *      *

Bob Whitstone unhitched his horse from Ju's tying post.  He swung
himself into the saddle and rode away,--away toward his outland home
under the starlit roof of the plains.  It was an almost nightly journey
with him now, for the saloon habit had caught him in its toils, and was
already holding him firmly.

His mood was not easy.  He resented Ju Penrose.  He resented all men of
his type.  He knew him for a crook.  He believed he possessed no more
conscience than any other habitual criminal.  But his resentment was
the weak echo of an upbringing which had never intended him for such
association, and, in spite of it, the man's personality held him, and
its strength dominated him.

His way took him out across an almost trackless waste of rich
grass-land.  Somewhere out there, hidden away at the foot of the
Cathills, lay his homestead, and the wife for whom he had abandoned all
that his birth had entitled him to.  During the past two years he had
learned truly all that he had sacrificed for the greatest of all dreams
of youth.

But these things, for the moment, were not in his mind.  Only Penrose.
Ju Penrose, whom he had learned to detest and despise out of the
educated mind that was his.  The man's final homily was entirely lost
upon Bob.  Such was his temper that only the gross outrages against the
precepts of his youth remained.  He only heard the hateful, detestable
cynicism, brutally expressed.  It was something curious how he only
took note of these things, and missed the rough solicitude of Ju's
final admonishment.  But he was young and weak, and a shadow of
bitterness had entered his life, which, at his age, should have found
no place in it.

The miles swept away under his horse's hoofs.  Already the township,
that sparse little oasis of shelter in a desert of grass-land, lay lost
behind him in the depths of some hidden trough in the waves of the
prairie ocean, The great yellow disc of the moon had cut the horizon
and lit his tracks, but its light was still unrevealing and only added
charm to the blaze of summer jewels which adorned the soft velvet of
the heavens.

He glanced back.  But almost instantly his eyes were turned again
ahead.  The night scene of these plains was too familiar to him to
excite interest.  To him there were simply miles intervening between
him and the slumbers he was seeking.  The prairie, for all its
beauties, spelt toilful days and bitter disappointment for him.
Wherein then should be discovered its charms?

Again his mind settled itself upon the events of the evening.  Price?
Price?  Every man, he had been told, had his price.  Every man and
woman.  He uttered a sound.  It might have been a laugh, but it lacked
mirth.  It startled his alert horse.  It almost seemed to startle the
quiet night itself.  What was his price?  All he knew about price was
its payment.  He had only been called upon to pay.  And he had paid!
My God, he had paid!  All that had been his.  All the wealth, the
comfort, the luxury and prospects which had been his in his wealthy
father's home, had been the price he had paid for the right, which was
the right of every man, to choose for himself, and to take to himself
and to wife, the woman who seemed to him to be the one creature in the
world who could yield him the happiness which alone was worth while.

This talk of a man's price only enraged him the more.  He viciously
detested Ju Penrose, and all such creatures who walked the world.

Well, the reward was out.  Time would show.  If it failed to find the
Judas he would remind Ju.  Oh, yes, he would remind him.  He would wait
his time for the reminder.  He would wait till the saloon was full, and
then--then he would open out his batteries.  Men were of----

What was that?

He had pulled his horse up with a swift tightening of his hand.  Now
the beast stood with head erect, and pricked ears firmly thrust
forward.  Its head was turned southward, and the gush of its distended
nostrils warned its rider that his question was shared by a creature
whose instincts were even more acute, here, on the prairie, than those
of its human master.

Bob bent down in the saddle the better to obtain the silhouette of the
sky-line.  The sound which had held him came up on the southern night
breeze.  It was a low murmur, or rumble, and, to his accustomed ears,
it suggested the speeding of hoofs over the green clad earth.  He
waited for many moments, but the sound only increased.  There was no
doubt left in his mind now.  None at all.

He sat up again and glanced swiftly about him.  The moonlight had
increased, and a silver sheen threw up the surrounding scene into
indistinct relief.  Beyond, to his right, he detected a small patch of
scrub and spruce, and, without a second thought, he made for it.

A minute later he was out of the saddle beside his horse, screened from
view of the plains by a belt of bush.  He secured his horse and moved
to the fringe of his shelter.  Here he took up a position facing south,
and his view of the plains beyond became uninterrupted.

He knew what was coming.  Instinct warned him.  Perhaps even it was the
wish fathering his belief.  He felt it was a certainty that the
rustlers were out pursuing their depredations with their customary
unchallenged daring.  Who, he wondered, was the present victim, and
what was the extent of the raid?

He had not long to wait.  The sound grew.  It lost its distant
continuity and became broken into the distinct hoof beats of large
numbers.  Furthermore, by the sound of it, they would pass right across
his front.  He had been wise in seeking cover.  Had he remained----

But speculation gave way before the interest of movement.  Now the
silhouette of the sky-line was dancing before his eyes.  In the
moonlight he could clearly make out the passing of a driven herd.  It
came on, losing itself in the shadows of a distant trough.  Again it
appeared.  More distinct now.  He whistled under his breath.  They were
coming from the direction of Dug McFarlane's and it was a large herd.
They were traveling northwest, which would cut into the hills away to
the north of his homestead.  They----

But they were almost abreast of him now, and he heard the voices of men
urging and cursing.  Lower he dropped toward the earth the better to
ascertain the numbers.  But his estimate was uncertain.  There were
moments when the herd looked very large.  There were moments when it
looked less.  He felt that a conservative estimate would be one hundred
perhaps, and some eight or ten men driving them.

They were gone as they had come, lumbering rapidly, and as they passed
northward the southern breeze carried the sound away.  It died out
quickly, and for minutes longer than was needed he stood listening,
listening.  Then, at last, he turned back to his horse.

In the two years of his sojourn on the land it was the first time he
had witnessed the operation of the Lightfoot gang, and it left a deep
impression upon his mind.  A great resentment rose up in him.  It was
the natural temper of a man who is concerned, in however small a
degree, in the cattle industry.  And his anger urged him to a greater
speed for home, and a greater sympathy for the man who was prepared to
accept the Judas money offered for the lives of this gang of criminals.




CHAPTER III

TRAILING THE "BLACK TAIL"

The woman started.  She threw up her head.  Her wide eyes, wonderful
and dark, searched the deep aisles of the shaded pine woods about her.
Her hair hung loosely in a knot at the nape of her neck, and its
intensely dark masses made an exquisite framing for the oval of the
handsome face beneath the loose brim of wide prairie hat.

The stillness of these wooded slopes of the Cathills was profound.
They possessed something of the solemnity belonging to the parent range
of the Rockies beyond.  For they were almost primeval.  The woman might
have belonged to them, her dark beauty so harmonized with its
surroundings.  Yet for all her coloring, for all the buckskin she wore
for upper garment, there was nothing in her nature of the outlands
which now claimed her.  She was of the cities.  She was bred and
nurtured in the civilized places.  The life about her was another life.
It was crude and foreign to her.  It claimed her by force of
circumstance against every instinct and emotion.

Her searching ceased, and her eyes fixed their steady regard upon a
gray-brown object moving amongst the myriad of black stanchions which
supported the tousled roof of melancholy green foliage above her.  With
an almost imperceptible movement one buckskin clad arm reached slowly
out toward the small sporting rifle which leaned against an adjacent
tree-trunk.  Her whole poise was tense and steady.  There was in her
attitude that hard decision which one associates only with the
experienced hunter.  There was almost too much decision in a woman so
obviously young.

The weapon was drawn toward her.  For one brief moment it was laid
across her lap upon the paper-covered book she had been reading.  Then
its butt found its way to a resting place against her soft shoulder.
Not for an instant had her gaze been diverted from the moving object.
Now, however, her head inclined forward, and her warm cheek was laid
against the cool butt.  The sights of the weapon were brought up into
line.  The pressure of her forefinger was increased upon the trigger.
There was a sharp report followed by a swift rush of scampering hoofs
amongst the brittle pine cones and needles which carpeted the twilit
woods.  Then, in a flash, all the tense poise gave way to considered
but rapid activity.

The woman sprang to her feet.  She was tall and straight as a willow.
Her rough canvas skirt was divided.  Her buckskin shirt was fringed and
beaded.  She made a picture of active purpose that belied her
femininity.  In a moment she was in the saddle of the pony which had
been dozing a few yards away.  Her rifle was slung upon one shoulder,
and her paper-covered book was thrust within the fastenings of her
shirt.  She was hot in pursuit of the small black-tailed deer which her
shot had wounded.

Effie bent low in the saddle which she rode astride.  Her
well-accustomed pony twisted and turned, threading its way almost
miraculously through the labyrinth of bald tree-trunks.  These
pot-hunts, which were of such frequent occurrence, were the recreation
which alone made life tolerable to its mistress.

The woman saw only her quarry.  For the rest she left the road to her
pony.  With slack reins she leaned forward, carrying her featherweight
over the horn of the saddle.  The woods meant nothing to her.  The maze
of tree-trunks as they sped by conveyed no threat of danger.  She was
concerned only with the obviously limping beast which was to provide
venison for the pot for the next two weeks to come.

Her pony gained nothing upon the wounded deer.  But it lost no distance
either.  The scene changed and changed again.  The woods yielded to
open grass, and again they merged into scattered scrub, through which
it was difficult to track their quarry.  Up hill, down dale, over
hummock, through hollow.  Once more through the dark aisles of aged
pine woods.  And always northward.

Time had no place in the woman's mind.  Excitement, hope, doubt.  These
occupied her to the full.  And above all purpose reigned.

Twice she drew up to within shot.  But she refrained.  She was herself
as breathless as her quarry, and the shot would probably have been
wasted.  Besides, those pauses of the poor hunted beast carried their
own significance to her practised mind.  Its limping was sore, and now
its stumblings were becoming more and more frequent.

They had passed an open stretch, a mere cup surrounded by sharp-rising,
pine-clad hills.  They entered woods on the northernmost slope, and
began a climb so severe that pursuer and pursued were brought to a
sheer scramble.  The toil was terrific, but Effie's pony, bred of the
tough prairie fibre, clawed up with indomitable courage and endurance.
The deer kept its lead by desperate, agonizing effort, and the woman
knew that the summit would have exhausted its resources.

On they went, on and up, the pace of both ever slackening.  One hundred
yards only separated them now, and, with almost every stride, the
distance was lessening.  The summit was in sight.  The pony was blowing
hard.  Effie urged him, and the vicious Mexican spurs found his flanks.
There was no thought of sparing in the girl's mind.  If the broncho
failed her, then she must finish the chase on foot.

Another fifty yards or so and the deer would have reached the summit.
Could she permit it?  Dared she risk what lay beyond?  If the open pine
woods continued she might, but--what lay beyond?

Without further speculation she suddenly flung out of the saddle.  Her
decision was taken.  She dared not risk that summit with her pony now
rapidly failing.  She must chance her own unsteadiness.  The pursuit
had been hard and breathless.  Well, she must trust to her nerve.

She left her steaming pony and dropped on one knee.  With all her mind
and will concentrated she drew a deep breath as the rifle was raised to
her shoulder.  With a stern deliberation she leveled her sights and
fired.  The spent deer stood, and shook, and then gazed round.  There
was something dreadful in the appeal of its wistful attitude.  For one
second the woman closed her eyes.  Then they opened, and their beauty
was full of resolve.  Again the rifle was at her shoulder.  Again the
sights were leveled.  Again the weapon spat out its vicious pellet.
This time the weapon was lowered for good, and the movement was
inspired by the sight of the deer.  It quietly dropped upon its knees
and rolled over on its side.

Ten minutes later the body of the deer was securely lashed to the back
of the saddle.  There was no regret in the heart of the woman as her
practised fingers secured the warm body.  It was game.  Fair game,
brought down in open chase, and it would provide welcome change in the
monotonous diet of her home.  Besides, the spirit of the hunter gripped
her soul.  It was the only thing which made life endurable in these
drab outlands.

At the summit of the hill she breathed a sigh of relief.  Her judgment
and decision were amply proved.  Nor in any uncertain fashion.  The
woods ceased in a clean cut, such as is so frequently the case where
the pine world reigns.  And rearing blankly before her gaze stood a
dense barrier of low and heavy green bush.  It needed small enough
imagination to realize the security which lay in its depths for so
small a creature as a wounded deer.

For some thoughtful moments Effie gazed upon the barrier.  Then she
turned and surveyed her dejected pony.  Again her decision was taken
without hesitation.  She stooped and set a pair of hobbles about the
tired creature's pasterns, and, leaving him to his own devices, set off
to ascertain her whereabouts.

      *      *      *      *      *      *

But her movements were not without feminine curiosity, added to which
was the businesslike desire to familiarize herself with every foot of
the country within reach of her home.  This was a break into new
territory.  Time was small enough object to her, and, besides, her pony
needed time to recuperate from its leg weariness.

It required less than ten minutes, however, to banish every other
thought from her mind and absorb it in amazement at her discovery.  A
brief battle with a dense and obstinate scrub found her standing in the
centre of a wide sort of bridle path, scored with a dozen or so cattle
tracks crowded with the spurs of driven cattle.

She stood gazing down at the signs everywhere about her in the loose
sand, dumbfounded at the sight.  She knew there was no homestead or
ranch within miles of this region.  Was she not bitterly aware that her
own home marked the fringe of the cattle world in this direction?

Slowly there grew in the depths of her heart a feeling of apprehension.
The stillness, the remoteness, the tremendous solitude, and yet--those
tracks.

She stood intent and listening.  Her ears were straining for a sound.
But only there came to her the whispering breezes rustling the mournful
foliage of the pine woods behind her.  Her eyes were raised to the
walls of scrub lining the roadway.  They searched vainly for a sign.
There was none.  Simply the riot of nature about her, and, at her feet,
those tracks.

She moved.  Then swiftly she passed across to the western side of the
roadway where the westering sun threw ample shadow.  All unconsciously
it seemed her movements became almost furtive, furtive and rapid.  She
passed down the bush-lined way, hugging the grassy edges to avoid
leaving trace of her footsteps in the sand.  Understanding was with
her, and that understanding warned her of the jeopardy in which she
stood should her presence be advertised.

Thought, speculation and imagination were a-riot in her now.  She was
proceeding in the direction the broad cloven hoof marks indicated.
What--lay beyond?

Many minutes passed.  Breathless minutes of pulsing excitement for the
woman who knew only monotony and the drudgery of an outland life.  No
womanish fears could deter her.  She believed and hoped she was on the
eve of a great discovery, and such was her reckless desire that nothing
could deter her.

The aspect of the scrub changed.  It became dotted with taller trees.
The paler foliage of spruce reared itself, and, here and there,
isolated clumps of towering pines threw shadows across her path.  Then
gaps broke up the continuity, but, even so, the view beyond to her left
was cut off by remoter growths.  Once or twice she hazarded her way
into them in her search for information, but always she returned to the
broad track of the footprints of driven cattle.

The pathway rose at a steep incline.  It bent away to the right, and,
in the distance, it seemed that it must converge upon the sharp cut
edge of the great pine woods she had so recently left.  With this
conclusion came another.  The track must terminate abruptly or it must
pass back into the great pine bluff.

The end, however, was neither of these things.  And it was far nearer
than she had suspected.  The path twisted back into the huge reverse of
an S, and finished abruptly at the sharp edge of a wide deep valley.

It came upon her almost with a shock.  The tracks had abruptly swung
westward.  She rounded the bend, and, in a moment, found herself gazing
out over a wide valley from a dizzy height.

Her first feeling was that the drop was sheer, precipitate.  Then
realization superseded, and she flung herself full length upon the
ground and pressed her way into the shelter of an adjacent bush.  The
path had not ended.  It passed over the brink and continued its way
zigzagging down the terrific slope to the valley below.  It was this,
and the sight of a distant spiral of smoke rising from below, which had
flung her into the shelter of the friendly bush.  Her risk had only
been momentary, but even in that moment she had been silhouetted in
full view of any chance gaze below.

She drew herself toward the edge of the drop.  Just where she had flung
herself it was clean and sheer, and the bush overhung.  Thus she was
left with a full view of the depths below.  Her dark eyes dwelt upon
the zigzagging path.  She followed its downward course to the green
plain.  She tracked it across to the far side of the valley.  Then she
drew a sharp breath, and her eyes widened.

The telltale smoke rose from the heart of a woodland bluff, and near by
a large herd of cattle was grazing, watched over by three mounted men
whose horses were moving slowly over the bright green carpet of grass.

She lay quite still, regardless of all but those moving figures, and
the dark green bluff.  She was watching and waiting for she knew not
what.  Her heart was thumping in her bosom, and her breath came
rapidly.  There was no question in her mind.  In a moment her whole
life seemed to have changed.  The day had dawned to a contemplation of
the monotonous round of drudging routine, only to close with a thrill
such as she had never dreamed could be hers.

The moments passed; rapid, poignant moments.  The sun dipped lower
toward the alabaster crests of distant mountain peaks.  The peace of
the scene suggested nothing of the turbulent thought a-riot behind her
wide, dark eyes.  What must be done?  What could she do--a woman?  She
felt helpless--so helpless.  And yet----

She raised herself upon her elbow and propped her soft cheek upon the
palm of her hand.  She must think--think.  The chance of it all.  It
was so strange.  There lay the secret revealed--the secret which every
rancher in the district for years had sought to discover.  There was
the camp of the Lightfoot gang.  She had discovered it, had discovered
its approach.  Everything--she, a woman.

What could she do with the secret?  How could she----  She thought of
her husband.  But somehow her enthusiasm lessened with the thought.
But she needed him.  Yes.  There was no room for any doubt on that
score.  He must be roused, and convinced.  He most be made to see the
importance and significance of her discovery, and they must turn it
to----

The crack of a rifle startled her.  Almost on the instant the
whistling, tearing of a bullet sounded in the bush to the left of her.
Her glance was terrified as it turned in the direction.  Then, in a
moment, she was crouching lower as she searched the valley away over by
the bluff.

In an instant her nerves strung tight.  A group of men were standing
just within its shadow, and the three horsemen, who had been riding
round the cattle, were racing directly toward the foot of the pathway
leading out of the valley.  She must have been seen when she had stood
at the opening.  And now----

But there was not a second to lose.  She sprang to a crouching position
under the bush.  Another shot rang viciously upon the still air.  The
bullet tore its way through the bush.  This time it was still wider of
her hiding place.  But already she had begun her retreat--swiftly, and
crouching low.

She reached the shelter of the barrier just as another bullet whistled
overhead.  Then she set off at a run.

And as she ran she calculated the chances.  She had a big start, and
the horsemen had to face the zigzag climb.  If she made no mistakes
there was little chance of their discovering her.  They could never
make that climb before she reached her pony.

She increased her pace.  Her nerves were steadying.  Strangely her
control was wonderful.  There was no real fear in her--only tension.
Now as she ran down the open way her eyes were alert for every
landmark, and her woodcraft was sufficiently practised to stand her in
good stead.  She recognized each feature in the path until she came to
the point where she had first entered it In a moment she was battling
her way through the thick bush, and the tension she was laboring under
took her through it in a fraction of the time her first traversing had
been made.  Her pony was standing within ten yards of the spot at which
she had left him.

She breathed a great relief.  In a moment she had unbuckled the hobbles
on his forelegs.  Then, with the habit of her life on the plains, she
tightened the cinchas of the saddle.  Then she replaced the bit in its
mouth.

As she swung herself into the saddle the distant plod of hoofs pounding
the cattle tracks reached her.  For one instant she sat in doubt.
Then, with a half-thought fear lest her hard pursuit of the wounded
deer had left her tough broncho spent, she swung him about and vanished
like a ghost into the gloomy depths of the woods.




CHAPTER IV

THE WEAKER VESSEL

The homestead rested upon the southern slope of a wood-crowned hill,
which was merely one of a swarm of hills of lesser or greater
magnitude.  Westward, away in the distance, the silver sheen of the
main mountain range still continued to reflect the rainbow tints of a
radiant sunset.

It was a homestead to associate with hands less than 'prentice.  There
was neither imagination nor very definite purpose in its planning.  It
rather gave the impression of the driving of sheer necessity than the
enthusiasm of effort toward the achievement of a heartily conceived
purpose.  Furthermore, it bore evident signs of a desire to escape as
far as possible the burdens of the life it represented.

The squalid two-roomed house was sunk into the backing to the sloping
hill.  Its front and sides were of green logs and a mud plaster.  Its
roof was of a primitive thatch, held secure from winter storms by
sapling logs lashed fast across it.  The central doorway was filled by
a rough-boarded door, and the apertures left for added light were
covered with thin cotton material.  They were left wide open in summer,
and in winter only served to shut out the worst of the driven snows and
most of the daylight.

The adjacent barn was of far greater extent, but of considerably less
degree.  Still, it was sufficiently weather-proof, which was all that
could be reasonably hoped for by the toughened creatures, who found
shelter beneath its crazy roof.  Higher up the slope stood a couple of
corrals of sorts.  Their position was at the southern extremity of the
woodland crown, their placing probably inspired by the adjacency of the
material required for their construction.

Below the house stretched a sloping patch of growing wheat, perhaps
about thirty acres in extent.  This was the real business of the
homestead, and, in spite of the crazy fencing of barbed wire about it,
it looked to be richly flourishing.

For all the general ineffectiveness of the place, however, it was not
without significance.  For it gave that human touch which at once
breaks up the overpowering sensation which never fails to depress in
the silent heart of Nature's immensity.  It spoke of courage, too.  The
reckless courage of early youth, plunging for the first time into
independence.  Furthermore, it suggested something of the first great
sacrifice which the hot tide of love, surging through youthful veins,
is prepared to make for the object of its passionate regard.  In any
case it symbolized the irresistible progress of man's effort when
pitted against the passive resistance of Nature's most fiercely rugged
frontiers.

A wonderful harmonious peace reigned over the scene which was bathed in
the light of a drooping sun.  It was the chastened pastoral peace, than
which there is no more perfect in the world.  Cattle were grazing their
way homeward; the cows bearing their burden of laden udders to yield it
for the benefit and prosperity of the community; the steers lingering
at the banks of the murmuring mountain stream, or standing knee-deep in
its waters, their sleek sides sheathed in rolls of fat, only waiting to
yield up their humble lives as their contribution to the insatiable
demands of the dominant race.

Two or three horses stood adjacent to the doorway of the humble barn,
patiently flickering their long, unkempt tails in a vain effort to ward
off the attacks of swarming flies.  A few chickens moved about
drowsily, just outside the hutch which had been contrived for their
nightly shelter.  While stretched upon the dusty earth, side by side,
lay two great rough-coated dogs slumbering their hours of watch and
ward away in the shade, with the indifference of creatures whose vain
hopes of battle have been all too long deferred.

All of a sudden there came a partial awakening.

Out of the west, down the slope of a neighboring hill came a figure on
horseback.  It was moving at a rapid gallop.  The horses at the barn
turned about and raised their heads watchfully.  They whinnied at the
approach.  The two dogs were on their feet startled into alertness,
vain hope rising once more in their fierce hearts.  The hens cackled
fussily at the prospect of their deferred evening meal.  The last of
the cattle ambled heavily from the water's edge.  It was rather like
the obscure movement of a mainspring, setting into motion even the
remotest wheel of a mechanism.

Effie galloped up to the house.  Nothing of the gentle waking her
coming had inspired attracted her observation.  Her handsome eyes were
preoccupied, and their gaze wandered back over the way she had come,
searching the distance with the minutest care.  Finally she dismounted
and off-saddled, turning her pony loose to follow the promptings of its
own particular requirements.  Then she set about releasing the carcase
of the deer upon her saddle, and bore it away to a lean-to shed at the
side of the house.  Emerging therefrom she picked up her saddle and
bridle and took them into the house.  Then she took up her stand within
the doorway and, once more, narrowly searched the surrounding hills
with eyes as eager and doubtful as they were beautiful.

The calm of evening had settled once more upon the place.  The peace of
it all was superlative.  It was peace to which Effie was something more
than averse.  She dreaded it.  For all her two years of life in the
meagre home her husband had provided her with, it required all her
courage and fortitude to endure it.  The hills haunted and oppressed
her, and her only hope lay in the active prosecution of her work.

She breathed a profound sigh.  There was relief in the expression of
her face.  The drooping corners of her mouth and the tight compression
of her well-formed lips told their own story of her emotions.  She had
passed through an anxious time, and only now was she beginning to feel
reassured.

Yes.  All was well, she believed.  She had lost her pursuers, thanks to
the staunchness of her pony, and her knowledge of the country about
her.  With another sigh, but this time one of weariness, she left her
doorway and moved over to the barn.  There was still the dreary round
of "chores" to which her life seemed dedicated.

      *      *      *      *      *      *

A solitary horseman sat gazing out through a leafy barrier across the
narrow valley of the little mountain stream.  His eyes were fixed upon
the dejected homestead on the slope of the hill beyond.  He was
be-chapped, and carried the usual complement of weapons at his waist.
His horse was an unusually fine creature, and well up to the burden it
was called upon to bear.  Nor was that burden a light one, for the man
was both massive and muscular.

The watchful eyes were deep set in a mahogany-hued setting.  It was a
hard face, brutal, and the eyes were narrow and cruel.

For a long time he sat there regarding the homestead.  He beheld the
graceful form of the woman as she moved swiftly about her work.
Judging from his expression, which was by no means pleasant, two
emotions were struggling for dominance.  For some time doubt held chief
place, but slowly it yielded to some more animal emotion.  Furthermore
temptation was urging him, and more than once he lifted his reins,
which became a sign of yielding.

But all these emotions finally passed.  It was evident that some even
stronger force was really governing him.  For, with a sharp ejaculation
that conveyed every feeling suggested by disappointment, he swung his
horse about and galloped off in a southeasterly direction--toward
Orrville.

      *      *      *      *      *      *

It was past midnight.  Effie, flushed with an unusual excitement, was
gazing up into her husband's face.  She was listening almost
breathlessly to the story he was telling her.  The little living-room,
more than half kitchen, was bathed in the yellow light of a small tin
kerosene lamp.  For the time at least her surroundings, the poverty and
drudgery of her life, were forgotten in the absorbing feelings
consuming her.

"I tell you, Effie, I was scared--plumb scared when I saw what it was,"
Bob Whitstone ended up.  "Guess we've known long enough the whole
blamed countryside is haunted by cattle rustlers, but--that's the first
time I've seen 'em, and I guess it's the first time any one's seen 'em
at work.  Say, I'm not yearning for the experience again."

But Effie had no interest beyond his story.  His feelings on the matter
of his experience were of no concern whatever at the moment.  There
were other things in her mind, things of far greater import.  She
returned to the rocker chair, which was the luxury of their home, and
sat down.  There was one thing only in Bob's story which mattered to
her just now.

"Ten thousand dollars," she murmured.  "_Ten thousand_!  It's
a--fortune."

Bob moved across to a rough shelf nailed upon the wall and picked up a
pipe.

"A bit limited," he observed contemptuously, as poured some tobacco
dust into the bowl.

"I was thinking of--ourselves."

The man ceased his operation to gaze swiftly down upon the gently
swaying figure in the chair.

"What d'you mean, Effie?" he demanded sharply.

The girl's steady eyes were slowly raised in answer to the challenging
tone.  They met her husband's without a shadow of hesitation.

"It sounds like a fortune to me, who have not handled a dollar that I
could spend without careful thought--for two years," she declared with
warmth.

Bob completed the filling of his pipe.  He did not answer for a few
moments, but occupied himself by lighting it with a reeking sulphur
match.

"That's a pretty hard remark," he said at last, emitting heavy clouds
of smoke between his words.

"Is it?  But--it's just plain facts."

"I s'pose it is."

The girl had permitted her gaze to wander.  It passed from her
husband's face to the deplorable surroundings which she had almost
grown accustomed to, but which now stood out in her mind with an added
sense of hopelessness.  The lime-wash over the cracked and broken
plaster which filled the gaps between the logs of the walls.  The
miserable furnishing, much of it of purely home manufacture, thrown up
into hideous relief by the few tasteful knickknacks which had been
wedding presents from her intimate friends and relatives in the east.
The earthen floor, beaten hard and kept scrupulously swept by her own
hands.  The cook-stove in the corner, with its ill-set stovepipe
passing out of a hole in the wall which had been crudely covered with
tin to keep out the draughts in winter.  The drooping ceiling of cotton
material, which sagged in great billows under the thatch of the roof.
It was all deplorable to a woman who had known the comfort of an almost
luxurious girlhood.  Into her eyes crept a curious light.  It was half
resentful, half triumphant.  It was wholly absorbed.

"Suppose?  There's no supposition," she cried bitterly.  "I have had
the experience of it all, the grind.  Maybe you don't know what it is
to a woman, a girl, to find herself cut off suddenly from all the
little luxuries she has always been used to.  I don't mean
extravagances.  Just the trifling refinements which count for so much
in a young woman's life.  The position is possible, so long as the hope
remains of their return later, perhaps fourfold.  But when that hope no
longer exists--I guess there's nothing much else that's worth while."

The man continued to smoke on for some silent moments.  Then, as the
girl, too, remained silent, he glanced at her out of the corners of his
eyes.

"You gave up a good deal for me--for this," he said in gentle protest.
"But you did it with your eyes open--I mean, to the true facts of my
position.  Say, Effie, I didn't hold you up for this thing.  I laid
every card on the table.  My father threatened us both, to our faces,
if we persisted in marrying.  Well, I guess we persisted, and he--why,
he just handed us what he promised--the dollars that bought us
this--farm.  That was all.  It was the last cent he figured to pass our
way.  You know all that, and you never squealed--then.  You knew what
was in store.  I mean--this."  He flung out one arm in a comprehensive
gesture.  "You guessed you'd grit enough to face it--with me.  We hoped
to win out."  Then he smiled.  "Say, I guess I haven't given up a
thing--for you, eh?  I haven't quit the home of millionaire father
where my year's pocket money was more than the income of seventy per
cent. of other folks!  I, too, did it for this--and you.  Won't you
stick it for me?"

The man's appeal was spoken in low earnest tones His eyes were gentle.
But the girl kept hers studiously turned from his direction, and it was
impossible for him to read that which lay behind them.

Again some silent moments passed.  The girl was gently rocking herself.
At last, however, she drew in her feet in a nervous, purposeful
movement, and sat forward.

"Bob," she exclaimed, and now there were earnestness and kindness in
the eyes that gazed up at the man, "it's no use for us to talk this
way," she cried.  "I began it, and I ought to be sorry--real sorry.
But I'm not.  I wouldn't have acted that way under ordinary
circumstances.  But it's different now, and it was your own talk made
me.  You sneered at that ten thousand dollars, which seems to be a
fortune to me.  Ten thousand dollars!" she breathed.  "And we haven't
ten dollars between us in this--house.  Bob, it makes me mad when I
think of it.  You don't care.  You don't worry.  All yon care for is to
get away from it all--from me--and spend your time among the boys in
Orrville.  You've been away ever since dinner to-day, and now it's past
midnight.  Why?  Why, when there's a hundred and one things to do
around this wretched shanty?  No--you undertake this thing, and
then--spend every moment you can steal--yes, that's the word--steal,
hanging around Ju Penrose's saloon.  I'm left to fix things right
here--to do the work which you have undertaken.  Then you sneer when I
see a fortune in that ten thousand dollars reward."

The girl's swift heat was not without effect.  She had not intended to
accuse in so straight a fashion.  It was the result of long pent-up
bitterness, which never needs more than a careless word to hurl into
active expression.  Bob's mild expression of contempt looked to be
about to cost him dear.

A moody look not untouched with some sort of fear had crept into the
man's eyes.  Now he tried to smooth the threat of storm he saw looming.
Furthermore, an uncomfortable feeling of his own guilt was possessing
him.

"But what if it can be called a fortune, Effie?" he demanded swiftly.
"It don't concern us.  I don't guess it's liable to come our way."

"Why not?"

The girl's challenge came short and sharp, and her beautiful eyes were
turned upon him full of cold regard.

The man was startled.  He was even shocked.

"How?" he demanded.  "I don't get you."

The girl sprang from her chair in a movement of sup-pressed excitement.
She came toward him, her eyes shining.  A glorious ruddy tint shone
through the tanning of her fair cheeks.  She was good to look at, and
Bob felt the influence of her beauty at that moment just as he had felt
it when, for her, he had first flung every worldly consideration to the
four winds.

"Will you listen, Bob?  Will you listen to me while I tell you all
that's been churning around in my head ever since you told me of that
reward?  You must.  You shall.  I have lived through a sort of
purgatory in these hills for too long not to make my voice heard
now--now when there's a chance of making our lives more tolerable.  Oh,
I've had a day while you've been away.  It's been a day such as in my
craziest moments I've never even dreamed of.  Bob, I've discovered what
they've all been trying to discover for years.  I've found Lightfoot's
camp!"

"And then?"

The girl's enthusiasm left her husband caught in a wave of
apprehension.  He saw with a growing sense of horror the meaning of
that sudden revolt.  This was displayed in his manner.  Nor was Effie
unobservant of it.  Nor unresentful.

She shrugged her perfect shoulders with assumed unconcern.

"That reward--those ten thousand dollars are mine--ours--if I choose.
And--I do choose."

There was no mistaking the firmness, the decision in her final words.
They came deliberate and hard, and they roused the man to prompt and
sharp denial.

"You--do--not."

He was no longer propped against the table.  He was no longer gentle.
He stood erect and angry, and their regard was eye to eye.  But even so
there was no disputing the woman's dominance of personality.  The man's
eyes, for all their anger, conveyed not a tithe of the other's
decision.  His whole attitude was subjective to the poise of the
woman's beautiful head, her erect, sculptured shoulders.  Her measuring
eyes were full of a fine revolt.  There was nothing comparable between
them--except their anger.

"Who can stop me?  You?"

The scornful challenge rang sharply through the little room.  Then a
silence fraught with intense moment followed upon its heels.

The man nodded.  His movement was followed by Effie's mocking laugh.

Perhaps Bob realized the uselessness, the danger of retaining such an
attitude.  Perhaps his peculiar nature was unequal to the continuous
effort the position called for.  In a moment he seemed to shrink before
those straight gazing eyes, and the light of purpose behind them.  When
he finally spoke a curious, almost pleading tone blended with the
genuine horror in his words.

"No, no, Effie, you can't--you daren't!" he cried passionately.  "Do
you know what you're doing?  Do you know what that reward means to
you--to us?  Look at your hands.  They're clean, and soft, and white.
Say, girl, that's blood money, blood money that'll surely stain them
with a crimson you'll never wash off 'em all your life.  It's blood
money.  Man's blood.  Human blood.  Just the same as runs through our
veins.  Oh, say, girl, I've no sort of use for rustlers.  They're
crooks, and maybe murderers.  Guess they're everything you can think
of, and a sight more.  But they're men, and their blood's hot, warm
blood the same as yours and mine.  And you reckon to chaffer that blood
for a price.  You're going to sell it--for a price.  You're going to do
more.  Yes.  You're going to wreck a woman's conscience for life for
those filthy, blood-soaked dollars.  The price?  Effie, things are
mighty hard with us.  Maybe they're harder with you than me.  But I
just can't believe we've dropped so low we can sell the life blood of
even a--murderer.  I can't believe it.  I just can't.  That's all.
Tell 'em, Effie.  Tell 'em all you know and have discovered if you
will.  Tell 'em in the cause of justice.  But barter your soul and
conscience for filthy blood money--I--bah!  It makes me turn sick to
think that way."

But Effie was in no mood to listen to the dictates of squeamish
principles from a man who lacked the spirit and power--the will to
raise her out of the mire of penury into which he had helped to plunge
her.  The hours of dreary, hopeless labor; the weeks and months of
dismal and grinding poverty had sunk deeply into her soul.  No price
was too high to pay to escape these things.  In a moment her reply was
pouring forth in a passionate torrent.

"Blood money?" she cried.  "Bob, you're crazier than I'd have thought.
Where's the difference?  I mean between handin' these folks over to
justice for justice sake, and taking the reward the folks who're most
to benefit by it are ready to hand out to me?  Say, you can't talk that
way, Bob.  You can't just do it.  Aren't the folks who carry out the
justice in the land paid for it--from the biggest judge to the fellow
who handles the levers of the electric chair?  Doesn't the country hand
out thousands of dollars every year for the punishment of offenders,
whether it's for the shedding of their life blood, or merely their
heart's blood in the cruel horrors of a penitentiary?  Do you think I'm
going to hand out my secret to a bunch of cattlemen for their benefit
and profit, and reap no comfort from it for myself in the miserable
life I'm condemned to endure?  Your scruples are just crazy.  They're
worse.  They're selfish.  You'd rather see me drudging all the best
moments of my life away, so you can lounge around Ju Penrose's saloon
spending dollars you've no right to, than risk your peace of mind on an
honest--yes, _honest_--transaction that's going to give me a little of
the comfort that you haven't the grit to help me to yourself."

The girl was carried away with the force of her own purpose and
craving.  Every word she said was meant from the bottom of her soul.
There was not a shadow of yielding.  She had no illusions.  For two
years her heart had been hardening to its present condition, and she
would not give up one tittle of the chance that now opened out before
her hungry eyes.

Bob was clay in her hands.  He was clay in any hands sufficiently
dominating.  He knew from the moment he had delivered his appeal, and
he had heard only the tones of her reply, that it was he who must yield
or complete irrevocably the barrier which had been steadily growing up
between them.  Just for a moment the weakly, obstinate thought had
occurred of flinging everything to the winds and of denying her once
more with all the force at his command.  But the moment passed.  It
fled before the charm of her presence, and the memory of the loved
which he was incapable of shutting out of his heart.  He knew he was
right, and she was utterly wrong.  But he knew, equally well, from her
words and attitude, that it was he who must give way, or----

He shook his head with a negative movement which Effie was quick enough
to realize meant yielding.  She wanted him to yield.  It would simplify
all her purpose.  She desired that he should participate in the
transaction.

"You'll regret it, Effie," he said, in his usual easy tones.  "You'll
regret it so you'll hate to think of this moment all the rest of your
life.  It's not you talking, my dear, it's just--the experience you've
had to go through.  Can't you see?  You've never been like this before.
And it isn't you.  Say, I'd give my right hand it you'd quit the whole
thing."

But the girl's resolution was unwavering.

"You--still refuse--to countenance it?" she demanded.

Again Bob shook his head.  But now he moved away and struck a match to
relight his pipe.

"No," he said.  Then he slowly puffed out great clouds of smoke.  "No,
my dear, if you're bent on it."  Then he moved to the cook-stove and
supported one foot upon it.

"Say--you guess I'm selfish.  You guess I haven't acted as I ought to
help push our boat along.  You reckon I've become a sort of
saloon-loafing bum.  Guess you sort of think I'm just about the limit.
Well, maybe I'm nothing to shriek about.  However, I've told you all I
feel.  I've told you what you're going to feel--later.  Meanwhile it's
up to me to help you all I know.  Tell me the whole thing, and I'll do
the business for you.  I'll see Dug McFarlane for you, and fix things.
But it's on one condition."

"What is it?"

Something of the coldness had passed from the girl's eyes.  She was
smiling because she had achieved her purpose.

"Why--just this.  That I don't touch one single dollar of the price
you're to receive for those poor devils' blood.  That's all."

Just for a moment a dull flush surged up under the tan of the girl's
cheeks, and her eyes sparkled ominously.  Then she returned to her
rocker with great deliberation.

"You're crazy, Bob," she said frigidly, but without any other display.
"Still--just sit around, and--I'll tell you it all."

And while the man listened to the story of his wife's adventures his
mind went back to the scene in Ju Penrose's saloon, and the denial he
had flung so heatedly at that philosophic cynic.




CHAPTER V

THE HANGING BEE

Dug McFarlane was a picturesque creature.  He was big in height and
girth.  He was also big in mind.  And, which was much more important to
the people of the Orrville ranching world, big in purse.  He was
grizzled and gray, and his eyes beamed out of a setting which was
surely made for such beaming; a setting which possessed no sharp angles
or disfiguring hollows, but only the healthy tissue of a well-nourished
and wholesome-living man in middle life.

As he sat his horse, beside his station foreman, gazing out at the
broken line of foothills which marked the approach to the barrier of
mountains cutting against the blue, he seemed to display in his bearing
something of that dominating personality which few successful men are
entirely without.  All about them lay the heavy-railed corrals of a
distant out-station.  Just behind stood the rough shanty, which was the
bunkhouse for the cowhands employed in this region.  The doctor was
still within, tending the grievously injured man who had been so badly
wounded in the previous night's raid by the rustlers.

For the time Dug's beaming eyes were shadowed with a concern that was
half angry and wholly depressed.  They searched the rolling grass-land
until the distance was swallowed up by the barrier of hills.  He was
seeking one reassuring glimpse of the black, hornless herd whose
pastures these were.  But only disappointment met him on every side.
The beautiful, sleek, Aberdeen-Angus herd, which was his joy and pride,
had vanished.  They had gone, he knew.  They had gone the same way
that, during the last five years, hundreds of head of his stock had
gone.  It was the last straw.

"Say, Lew Hank," he said, in a voice of something approaching an
emotion he possessed no other means of displaying, "it's beat me bad.
It's beat me so bad I don't seem able to think right.  We'd a hundred
head running on this station.  As fine a bunch as ever were bred from
the old country's strain.  I just feel that mad I could set right in to
break things."

Then, after a long pause during which the station foreman waited silent:

"And only last night, while these guys was raising the mischief right
here, I was setting around doping out big talk, and raising a mighty
big wad for the round-up of the whole darnation gang.  Can you beat it?
I'm sore.  Sore as hell.  Say, tell it me again.  I don't seem to have
it clear."

He passed one great muscular hand across his moist forehead, and the
gesture was rather one of helplessness.

Lew Hank regarded him with measuring eyes.  He knew him so well.  In
the ten years and more he had worked for him he had studied his every
mood.  This phase in the great cattleman's character was something new,
something rather startling.  Dug's way was usually volcanic.  It was
hot and fierce for a while, generally to hollowed by a hearty laugh,
rather like the passing of a summer storm.  But this, in Lew's opinion,
was a display of weakness.  A sign he neither liked nor respected.  The
truth was Dug McFarlane had been hit in a direction of which his
subordinate had no understanding.  That herd of Aberdeen-Angus cattle
had been his plaything.  His hobby.  He had been devoted to it in a way
that would have been absurd to any one but a cattleman.  Hank decided
this unaccustomed weakness must be nipped in the bud.

"Say, boss, it ain't no use in squealin'," he grumbled, in the hard
tones of a man who yields to no feelings of sympathy.  His
weather-stained face was set and ugly in its expression.  "Wher's the
use in it anyway?" he demanded.  "Get a look around.  There's miles of
territory, an' all of it runs into them blamed hills.  I got three boys
with me.  They're right boys, too.  I don't guess there's a thing you
or me could tell 'em 'bout their work.  Not a thing.  Day and night one
of 'em's on grazin' guard.  Them beasties ain't never left to trail off
into the hills.  Wal, I guess that's all we ken do--sure.  Say, you
can't hold up a gang of ten an' more toughs with a single gun in the
dead, o' night, 'specially with a hole in your guts same as young
Syme's had bored into his.  I ain't ast once, nor twice, to hev them
beasties run into the corrals o' nights, and fed hay, same as in
winter.  I've ast it fifty times.  It's bin up to you, boss.  So I say
it's no use in squealin'."

Hank spat over his horse's shoulder, and his thin lips closed with a
snap.  He was a lean forceful prairieman who possessed, as he would
himself have said, no parlor tricks.  Dug McFarlane, for all his
wealth, for all he had been elected president of the Western Union
Cattle Breeders' Association three years in succession, was no more to
him than any other employer who paid wages for work loyally performed.

Dug regarded his foreman with close attention.  He ignored the man's
rough manner.  But, nevertheless, it was not without effect.

"And the other boys?"

"Was dead asleep in the bunkhouse--same as me.  What 'ud you have?
They ain't sheep dogs."

Dug took no umbrage.

"And they're out on the trail--right now?"

"Sure.  Same as we should be, 'stead o' wastin' hot air around here.
Say, I guess you're feelin' sore.  But I don't guess your feelin's is a
circumstance to mine, boss.  You ain't bin beat to your face by this
lousy gang.  I have.  An' say, I'm yearnin'--jest gaspin'--to wipe out
the score.  I don't sort o' care a bit for your loss.  That ain't my
funeral.  But they've beat me plumb out--same as if I was some sucker
who ain't never roped an' branded a three-year-old steer since I was
pupped.  Are you comin' along?  They struck out northwest.  We got
that, an' the boys is follerin' hard on their trail.  It'll be better'n
squealin' around here."

There could be no doubt about the man's feelings.  They were displayed
in every word he spoke.  In every glance of his fierce eyes.  Dug
approved him.  His manners were nothing.  Lew was probably the most
capable cattleman in his service.

He was about to follow his foreman who had swung his horse about to set
off northward, when he abruptly flung out an arm, pointing.

"That one of your boys--coming in?  Maybe----"

Lew screwed up his eyes in the sunlight.  His rep came in a moment.

"Maybe--nuthin'.  That ain't one of my boys."  Then, after a brief,
considering pause, in which he narrowly examined the distant horseman's
outfit: "Sort o' rec'nize him, too.  Likely he's that bum guy with the
dandy wife way up on Butte Creek.  Whitstone, ain't it?  Feller with
swell folks way down east, an' who guesses the on'y sort o' farmin'
worth a cuss is done in Ju Penrose's saloon.  That's him sure," he
added, as the man drew nearer.  Then he went on musingly.  "I guess
he's got a lot to dope out.  Say, them guys must have passed near by
his shanty."

Bob Whitstone reined his pony up with a jerk.  He was on a mission that
inspired no other emotion than that of repulsion and self-loathing.
And these things found reflection in his good-looking face.

He glanced swiftly from one to the other as he confronted the burly
rancher and his station foreman.  The latter he did not know, nor was
he interested in him.  The man he had come to see was Dug McFarlane,
who claimed from him, as he did from every man in the district,
something in the nature of respect.

"Guess you'll remember me, sir," he began, in his easy, refined tones.
"My name is Whitstone--Bob Whitstone.  You granted me certain grazing
rights awhile back.  It was some two years ago.  Maybe you'll remember.
You did it to help me out.  Anyway, I came over to see you this morning
because--I must.  If you can spare half an hour I want to see you
privately.  It's--important.  You've been robbed last night, and--it's
about them.  The gang, I mean."

His pony was still blowing.  Bob had ridden hard.  He had first ridden
into Orrville, and then followed the rancher out here.  He was leaning
over in the saddle lounging upon the horn of it.  His eyes were gazing
curiously, speculatively at the figure of the man who ruled the local
cattle industry.  He was calculating in his own way what might be the
effect of the news he had to impart.  What estimate this big man--and
Bob knew him to be a big man--would have of him when he had told his
news and claimed the--blood money?  With each moment he shrank smaller
and smaller in his own estimation.

Dug regarded him steadily.

"You've got news of them?"

Bob nodded, and glanced meaningly in the direction of Lew Hank.

"I've seen 'em.  But--it's more than that."

The rancher turned quickly upon his foreman.

"Say, just get along into the shack there, and see how the Doc's making
with young Syme.  I need a talk with Whitstone."

It was not without obvious and resentful reluctance that Lew Hank
withdrew.  Even his hardihood, however, was unequal to resisting so
direct an order from his chief.

The two men watched him out of earshot.  Then Dug, with almost
precipitate haste, turned back to his visitor.

"Now, sir, I'm ready to hear anything you need to tell me."

But Bob was thinking of Ju Penrose as he had thought of him many times
since he had listened and yielded to Effie's appeal.  Every man has his
price.  Bob knew now that he, like the rest, had his price.  That price
a woman had set for him.  Ju was right--hatefully right.  Well, he
would now refuse to be robbed of one cent of it.

He looked up sharply as the other made his demand.

"You're offering ten thousand dollars reward for the| capture of the
Lightfoot gang, Mr. McFarlane?"

"That's so."

The rancher's regard had deepened.  There was a curious light shining
in his blue eyes.  It was half speculative, half suggestive of growing
excitement.  It was wholly full of a burning interest.

"Say, I'd just like to know how I stand."  Bob laughed that short hard
laugh which bears no trace of mirth.  "You see, I can put you wise.  I
can lead you right on to their camp so you can get 'em--while they're
sleeping, or any other old way.  Oh, yes, I'm ready to play my part
right up to the limit.  It don't matter a thing.  I'm not just here to
tell you about things.  I'm here to lead you to that camp, and take a
hand in the hanging when you get busy.  You see, I'm a whole hogger.
But I want to know how things stand about that ten thousand dollar
reward.  Do I get it?  If I get shot up does my wife get it?  And when
it's paid, do you shout about it?  Does the gang down Orrville way need
to know who it was they forgot to hand the name of Judas to when he was
christened?  I don't care a cuss on my own account.  It's----"

But Dug McFarlane broke in upon the bitter raillery.  He had no thought
for the man or his feelings, just for one moment it seemed to him that
some sort of miracle had happened.  And his every thought and feeling
was absorbed in it.  Here, after five years of vain effort, here, after
five years of depredations which had almost threatened the cattle
industry in the district with complete crippling, here was a man who
could lead them to the raiders' hiding-place, could show them how the
hanging they all so cordially desired could be brought about.  It was
stupendous.  It was--yes, it was miraculous.

His first impulse had been to give way to the excitement which stirred
him, but he restrained himself.

"Ten thousand dollars will be paid by me to the man, or his nominee,
privately, if his information leads to the hanging of this gang.  Say,
boy, we ain't goin' to split hairs or play any low games on this lay
out.  I'm a rich man, an' ten thousand dollars ain't a circumstance so
we break up this gang.  If we only get one of 'em or part of 'em, the
man who shows me their hiding-place, and leads me to it, that man--or
his wife--gets my ten thousand dollars.  You can have it in writing.
But my word goes any old time.  Now you can get busy and hand me the
proposition."

The steady eyes, the emphatic tones of this big, straight-dealing
rancher silenced the last doubt in Bob's lesser mind.  He was out to do
this dirty work with all his might in the interest of the woman who had
inspired it.  But he had scarcely been prepared for such simple methods
as this man displayed.  He had felt that it was for him to barter, to
scheme, to secure the dollars Effie coveted.  A deep sigh escaped him.
It may have been relief.  It may have been of regret that he must stand
before so straight-dealing a personality claiming his thirty pieces of
silver.

He passed one hand across his perspiring brow and thrust his prairie
hat farther back upon his head.  He would have preferred, however, to
have drawn it down over his eyes to escape the searching gaze from the
honest depths of the other's.  Suddenly, with a gesture of impatience,
he began to talk rapidly.

"It's no use, Mr. McFarlane, I hate this rotten work," he cried out.
"I--I hate it so bad I could just rather bite my tongue out than tell
you the things I've got to.  It's rotten.  I don't know----  Say, you
don't know me, and I don't guess you care a curse anyway.  But I was
brought up in a city and taught to believe things were a deal better
than I've lately come to think they are.  Psha!  These fellers have got
to be hanged when and where we get them.  But it hurts me bad to think
that I've got to take dollars for handing you their lives.  Oh, that
don't tell you a thing either.  You'd say I don't need to take 'em.
But I do.  I got to take those dollars, if they blister my hands and
burn the bones inside 'em.  I've got to have 'em, and I'd like to burn
'em, every blazing one.  But I've got to have 'em.  Say, I'll be paid
on the nail when the job's done?  If I get shot up the money'll be paid
to my wife?  Will you give me your word, sir?  Your word of honor?"

"My word of honor."

"Say, then come right back with me to my shanty no, best not.  We'll
ride back to Orrville, and I'll hand you all I know as we go.  I can
quit you before we reach the township.  Then you can hustle the crowd
together and I'll be waiting ready at my shack to play my part--the
dirty rotten Judas racket."

"Judas betrayed his--Master and Friend.  Are these people your friends?
Is Lightfoot your master?"

"Heavens!  What d'you take me for--a rustler?"

"Then quit your crazy talk of Judas.  Your duty's plumb clear.  Your
duty's to hand these folks, these bandits, into our hands.  The money's
a matter of--choice.  I'll just hand my man a word or two, and we'll
get back Orrville way."

      *      *      *      *      *      *

It was past midnight when Bob took up a position squatting on the sill
of his own doorway.  Standing close behind him, leaning against the
rough casing, Effie looked down upon his huddled figure.  Her eyes were
alight with a power of suppressed excitement.  The blood was surging
through her young veins, and every nerve was tense with the strain of
waiting, of anticipation.

But her emotions were by no means shared by her husband.  For all her
beauty and woman's charm she was different, utterly different from him.
She had been brought up to the understanding that she would have to
make her own way in the world.  All her parents had been able to do for
her was to see that she was as fully equipped for the adventure of life
as their limited means would permit.  Those means would die when her
chief parent died, and the style in which they had lived left no margin
for saving.

So, with cool calculation, Effie had set about her life's effort.  Nor
had she considered herself unsuccessful in the first spreading of her
maiden wings.  A millionaire's son!  It was a splendid match.  It had
met with the entire approval of her family.

Then had come disillusionment.  A determined opposition from Bob's
father.  She had been urged to break off the engagement.  She even
intended to do so.  But some how she had miscalculated the nature which
her education had been powerless to eradicate.  She realized at last
when the demands of her campaign made themselves heard, that there was
something she had hitherto completely ignored.  There was the woman's
heart of her.  She had most absurdly fallen in love with this first
stepping-stone toward the goal of her ambition.  It was the absurd
uncalculating love of extreme youth.  But it was sufficiently impetuous
to flout all the reason which her training and upbringing had been
calculated to inspire her with.

The rest followed in natural sequence, and now, after two years of
married penury, she was ready to seize any straw which chance flung in
her way as a means of salving that ambition which she now saw, with
more perfectly clear vision, was completely upon the rocks.

Now, in her mind, there were only three matters of concern.  Would Dug
McFarlane come?  Would they succeed in capturing this Lightfoot gang?
Would she get those ten thousand dollars, which appeared so vast a sum
to eyes only accustomed to dwelling upon cents?

Bob was silent.  His whole aspect seemed to have undergone a complete
changes.  He had returned to her with the story of his interview with
Dug McFarlane.  He had returned to her with the assurance that he had
sold his conscience, his honor, at her bidding, and he hoped she was
satisfied.  Since then he had wrapped himself in a moody silence which
had defied her utmost effort to break down.

The horses stood ready saddled in the barn.  Effie was clad in her
riding suit.  As yet the moon had not risen to reduce the starlit
magnificence of the velvet summer night sky.  Nor was there any sound
to warn them that the hours of suspense were nearly over.

Finally, Effie could endure the silence no longer.  Her dark eyes were
intently gazing down upon the bowed figure of the man.  They were hard
with every bitter woman's emotion.  She was full of a fierce, hot
resentment against the man who could so obstinately resist the spirit
of her longing.

"Bob," she cried at last, all restraint completely giving way, "do you
know what I could do just now more willingly than anything else in the
world?  I could thrust out my foot and spurn you with it as you might
any surly cur which barred your way.  I tell you I'm hot with every
feeling of contempt for your crazy attitude.  You dare to set yourself
and your moral scruples between my welfare and the miserable life
you've condemned me to.  Your moral scruples.  Were there ever such
things?  Morals?  Ju Penrose's saloon day and night--for you.  The
sluttish drudgery of this wretched place for me.  Then you dare to
place your conscience before my--comfort."

"Do I?"

The man did not look up.  His brooding eyes were on the sky-line to the
southeast.

"I've done as you needed.  I've arranged everything with the--hangman.
You're going to touch those pleasant dollars.  What more are you asking
me?"

"What more?  Yes, you've done these things because I've driven you to
them.  You?  You'd rather see me sitting around here starving, a worn
wreck of a woman, than lend a willing hand to bettering our lot.  Oh,
yes, you've done these things, and--I hate you for the way you've done
them."

The man sat up.  He shifted his position so that he could gaze up at
the splendid creature standing over him.

"You don't hate me worse than I hate myself, Effie," he said with an
exasperating lack of emotion.  "Say, you feel like kicking me.  You
feel like treating me like a surly cur.  Well, I guess you're welcome.
I don't guess there's a thing you can do that way can hurt me worse
than you've done already."  Then he smiled.  And his smile was more
maddening to the woman than his words.  "Don't worry a thing.  You're
going to get your dollars if there's anything I can do to help you, and
when you've got 'em--why, if the merciful God we've both been brought
up to believe in is all we believe Him, I shan't be around to watch you
dirtying your hands with them."

Then with a swift, alert movement he raised a warning hand.

"H'sh!"

For some seconds they remained listening.  Far away to the southeast a
low murmuring note came over the low hills.  The girl remained with
eyes straining to pierce the starlit monotone.  The man rose slowly
from his seat.  Finally he turned about and faced her, and his eyes
smiled into hers.

"The hanging bee," he said.




CHAPTER VI

THE RAIDERS RAIDED

It was the gap where the screen of bush broke off, leaving the barren
shoulder overlooking the valley.  It was where the hard-beaten,
converging cattle-paths hurled themselves over the brink to the wide
depths below.

The stillness that prevailed was unbroken by a single night sound.
Even the insect life seemed wrapped in a deep hush of somnolence.  As
yet the night scavengers had not emerged from their hidings to bay the
silvery radiance of a moonlit night.  The deep hush beneath the myriad
of eyes of night was as beautiful as it was treacherous, for it only
cloaked hot, stirring passions ready in a moment to break out into
warring chaos.

Crouching low under the shelter of the screening bush three figures
huddled closely.  They were peering across the wide gulf, searching
with eyes that only half read what lay before them in the starlight.
Their gaze rested upon one definite spot whose shadowy outline was
indicated by the outstretched arm of one of the party.  It was a deep
woodland bluff, leaning, as it seemed, for support against the far wall
of the valley's western slope.

After some tense moments the straining eyes beheld the faintest glimmer
of artificial light flickering in the depths of its silent heart.  So
faint was it, at the distance, that, for a while, doubt prevailed.
Then conviction supervened as each of the watchers recorded his
observation and a sigh of certitude made itself heard.  The point of
light was held by all.  It was dwelt upon.  It was the verification
needed to convey absolute faith in the woman's tale miraculous.

Perhaps it was the light in some window of a secret abode.  Perhaps it
was the steady flicker of an unscreened camp-fire.  Perhaps, even, it
was the beam of some lantern carelessly set down and left alight.
Whatever it was it was certainly of human agency, and human agency in
these regions had only one interpretation for the minds of those who
were watching from the high eastern wall of the valley.

Presently a woman's voice spoke in the hush of suppressed excitement.
Her tone was full of an eagerness that hurled her words swiftly upon
the still night air.

"That's where I marked them down," she whispered.  "There--just there.
Right where that light's shining.  Somewhere in the heart of that
bluff.  There was a herd grazing out in front, with three mounted men
guarding it.  There's no mistake.  It's a bee-line right across.  And
the men who fired up this way came out of those trees.  It's steep down
these paths.  They sort of zigzag their way, but it's a path any horse
can make without danger.  It just needs care.  Once in the valley it's
a stretch of sweet-grass without a bluff or a break of any sort.
There's no slough either.  It's just grass.  One big flat of
sweet-grass."

There was no reply from her companions.  They were engrossed with the
object of their straining scrutiny.  Presently the woman went on again.

"This is where my work quits," she said.  Then she withdrew her gaze
and looked up at the dim outline of the big man nearest her.  There was
just a shade of eagerness in her manner now.  "That's Lightfoot's camp,
Mr. McFarlane," she assured.  "I've done all that's needed.  You see,
I'm a woman, and I don't guess you need anything more from me.  Shall I
stop right here, or--get back to home?"

Bob Whitstone was watching his wife closely as she addressed herself to
the rancher.  He noted her tone, her evident anxiety now, and he
understood.  A curious repulsion surged through him.  In the brief two
years of his married life no such sensation had ever possessed him.
But he recognized it.  It was the breaking point.  Effie no longer held
place in his affections.  He glanced up at McFarlane as his deep tones
whispered in the silence.

"Yes, ma'am, get right back to home.  There's no need for you to get
mussed up with what's goin' to happen.  It's man's work, not a woman's.
Your husband's got my word.  You'll find we aren't forgetful."

Then he drew back under cover, and moved away to where, scattered along
the path, well sheltered from view, a large party of dismounted
horsemen were awaiting his orders.

Effie turned to her husband.

"You're coming back with me, Bob?" she said, almost pleadingly.  "It's
a long way to home."

Bob's eyes gazed straight into hers.  Even in the darkness Effie felt
something of the coldness of his regard.

"Are you scared?" he demanded.

Effie shook her head.

"There's nothing to be scared at.  But you've nothing to do with--the
rest of it."

"Haven't I?"

"You're not going down there with them?"

There was a curious sharpness in the woman's whispering voice.  Bob's
cold regard remained unwavering.

"I'm leaving nothing to chance.  You've got to get your wages.  I'm
going to see you get them.  Yes, I'm going--down there."

A sudden fierce passion swept through the woman's heart.  Hot words in
retort surged to her lips.  But they remained unuttered.  A strong
effort of restraint checked them.  She turned away coldly, her eyes
focussing once more upon the tiny point of light across the hollow.

"Guess you must do as you think," she said, with a shrug.  And she
remained with her back turned upon the man she was destined never to
address again.

Bob moved away and joined the rest of the Vigilantes.  They were
already in the saddle.  Dug McFarlane had given his final orders.  In a
moment Bob surveyed the scene in the dim light.  Then he turned away to
his own horse and sprang into the saddle.

McFarlane saw him and rode up.

"You coming along?" he enquired curiously.

"Sure."

"Good boy."  Then he drew a deep breath.  "Maybe there'll be an empty
saddle or two before we've done.  But I don't guess that'll need to
worry us any.  The man who 'passes in' to-night won't have any kick
comin'.  It's better that way--with your duty done."

"Yes."

The simple monosyllable was strangely expressive, but Dug McFarlane had
no understanding of the thought that prompted it.  It would have been
difficult indeed, even with understanding, to have probed the depths of
feeling prompting it.  But Whitstone was incapable of seeing the
broader aspect of anything pertaining to himself.  He saw only as his
feelings dictated, without logic or reason of any sort.  He was of that
nature which leans for support upon prejudices absorbed in early youth.
Principles inculcated through early environment and teaching.  He was
incapable of testing or questioning their verity.  Robbed of them he
was left floundering.  And Effie, the woman whom he had married only
out of hot, youthful human regard, had so robbed him.

Effie drew back.  She pressed herself close into the bush as the
cavalcade sought the path at the edge of the valley.  She watched the
burly leader vanish over the brink.  Then, one by one, twenty-five
others passed her in review, and were swallowed up by the depths below.
She knew none of them personally, but she knew they were all ranchers
and ranchmen of varying degree.  She knew that each individual had at
some time suffered at the hands of the rustlers.  That deep in each
heart was the craving for a vengeance which possessed small enough
thought of justice in it.  These men were Vigilantes.  They were so
called not from any desire to enforce law and order, but purely for
their own self-defense, the defending of self-interests.

They impressed her not from any justice of motive, but from the
merciless purpose upon which they were bent.

The last to pass over the brink was her husband, a slight figure,
almost puny, amongst these hard prairie folk.  Just for one weak moment
she was on the point of raising a protesting voice.  Just for one
moment a womanly softening held her yielding.  He was her husband, and
memories crowded.  But almost as they were born they died.  Their place
was once more taken by the recollection of the life she had been forced
to endure for the sake of her first youthful passion.  Her heart
hardened.  No impulse had driven her to her present actions.  They were
the result of a craving she was powerless to resist.  Her husband must
go his way.  He must act as he saw fit.  For herself she would not
forego one tithe of the reward which she believed would help her to
that comfort in life for which her soul yearned.

With the passing of the Vigilantes she moved clear of the bush.  She
would see this out.  Home?  She had no desire for her home.  The night
had no terrors for her.  Nothing had terror for her, except the failure
of these men.

She flung herself upon the ground and lay with wide eyes searching the
remoteness of the valley beyond.  Her impatience had developed into
something almost feverish.  She wanted a sign.  She wanted assurance.
But the world seemed so still, so entirely peaceful.

The moments pursued for her a sluggish course.  The jeweled sky was an
added regret.  She desired light, light that she might witness the
whole drama she hoped--yes, hoped--would be played out down there in
the valley.  A sort of dementia had taken possession of her.  She had
no thought of the blood to be poured out at her bidding.  She thought
nothing of the strong lives to be given up in sacrifice for her
well-being.  She thought only of herself, and all that the success of
that night's affairs would mean to her.

But the dragging minutes extending upward of half an hour wore her
fever down.  And slowly depression replaced her more tense emotions.
It all seemed so long in happening that failure began to loom, and to
become a certainty.

It was too good to hope.  Ten thousand dollars!  The amount bulked in
her mind.  It grew greater and greater in its significance as delay
thrust hope further and further from her thought.  Again impatience
grew, hot, angry impatience, and drove depression out.  What were they
doing down there?  Why did they not surround the bluff?  There were
enough of them.  Look!  The light was still shining.  It was the camp.
Where that light shone the men lay in hiding.  Well--it was simple.  To
her mind there was no need for----

The sound of a rifle shot split the air with significant abruptness.
The sound banished the last of her half-angry causing.  The moment had
come.  She raised herself up for no other reason than tense drawn
suspense.

A second shot.  Then a rattle of musketry which suggested general
conflict.  She drew a deep breath.  Far away in the distance it seemed
she heard a sharp cry.  It was the final shriek of a human creature in
the agony of a mortal wound.  Then followed the sound of hoarse voices
shouting.

For some moments nothing in the scene changed.  The speck of light
shone out twinkling and gleaming like some evil eye.  For the
rest--there remained the deep twilight marked by the myriads of summer
stars.

But the cries of men, the trampling of speeding hoofs held her.  The
breathlessness of the whole thing was upon her now, making it
impossible to detach her regard from the main features.

The rattle of rifles had become almost incessant.  And a few moments
later a blaze of light shot up from the far side of the bluff.  It
grew, licking up the great, sun-dried, resinous pine wood with
paralyzing rapidity.  Another great sheet of flame soared upward
further away to the right.  Then another to the south.  A fire trap had
been set at the far side of the great bluff, and only the hither side
remained open to those seeking shelter within it.

Effie's gaze was fascinated beyond her control.  The Vigilantes had
planned their coup deliberately and well.  The air she was breathing
began to reek with the pungent smell of burning.  A light smoke haze
began to flood the picture.  Now she beheld moving figures in the lurid
glow which backed the scene.  They were horsemen.  But whether or not
they were the Vigilantes she could not be certain.  They were racing
across the open, and the crack of their rifles mingled with the
spluttering crackle of the conflagration beyond.

Never for one moment did the woman withdraw her gaze.  The spell of it
all was almost painful.  She knew that life and death were at grips
down there in that cauldron of conflict.  And though at moments
shudders passed through her body, they were neither shudders of
weakness nor womanish horror.  Her only emotion was excitement, and her
nerves were ready to respond in physical expression to every vision her
eyes communicated to them.

An hour passed thus.  The bluff was a furnace, roaring, booming.  It
lit the valley seemingly from end to end.  The night shadows had been
swept aside, and the scene lay spread out before her eyes.  She saw
dismounted riders moving about.  She beheld one group; a number of men
huddled together, held as though they were prisoners.

At last firing altogether ceased and the straggling horsemen began to
reassemble in the vicinity of the chief group.  Then, as the raging
fire ate its way through to the hither side of the bluff, and turned
the final barrier into a wall of fire, the whole party moved away down
the valley with obvious signs of haste.

Effie gazed after them with widening eyes while the hot breath of the
conflagration fanned her cheeks.  She was wondering, speculating, and
slowly the significance of their movements began to take hold of her.

At first she had thought that the movement was inspired by the
overpowering heat of the forest fire.  She had warned herself of the
danger.  The grass down there.  The flying sparks.  But almost in the
same breath she realized that there was more, far more in that
movement.  The grass was far too green in the valley to form any real
danger and the bluff was sufficiently isolated.  No, there was more in
it than the danger of fire.

She shivered, although the night air now possessed something of the
temperature of a summer noon.  All her excitement had passed.  She had
even forgotten for the time all that the doings of that night meant to
her.  She was thinking of the deliberate administration of justice as
these men understood it.  It was crude, deadly, and full of a painful
horror, and now, now, in saner moments, she beheld the dawn of emotions
which had come all too late.  Whither were those men riding?  Whither?
And then?  Ah--she shuddered, and her shudder was full of realization.
For well she knew that the men she had seen grouped were living
prisoners.  Living prisoners.  How long would they remain so?  What
would be their end?




CHAPTER VII

OUTLAND JUSTICE

The noon sun sweltered down through the rank vegetation of the narrow
defile.  The heat was almost too burdensome to endure.  It was moist;
it was dank with the reek of decaying matter.  The way was a seemingly
endless battle against odds.  But the travelers were buoyed with the
knowledge that it was a short cut, calculated to save them many hours
and many miles.

Bud Tristram had pointed the way.  Furthermore, he had urged Jeff to
accept and endure the tortures and shortcomings which he knew they must
face in the heart of this remote gulch.

Nor were his warnings unneeded, for Nature had set up no inconsiderable
defenses.  Here were swarms of over-grown mosquitoes of a peculiarly
vicious type, which covered their horses' flanks in a gray horde,
almost obliterating their original colors; and a bleeding mass resulted
every time either man raised a hand to the back of his own neck to
soothe the fierce irritation of the vicious attacks.  Then the way
itself.  It was a narrow gorge almost completely occupied by the muddy
bed and boggy shores of a drying mountain creek.

It was, in Jeff's own words, a "fierce journey."  The heat left them
drenched in perspiration, and wiltering.  The two packhorses fought for
their very lives, often hock deep in a sucking mire.  While the beasts,
who bore the burden of their exacting masters, were driven to battle
every inch of the way against a fiercely obstinate rampart of dense
grown bush.

Mercifully the gorge was less than three miles in length.  A greater
distance must have left the nervous equine mind staggered, and
helpless, and beaten.  As it was nearly three hours of incessant
struggle only served to pass the final barrier.

"Phew!"

Jeff Masters drew off his hat as they emerged upon the wide opening of
a great valley.  Then he flung himself out of the saddle and began to
sweep the blood-inflated mosquitoes from his horse's flanks.  Bud, with
less haste, proceeded to do the same.  Finally, both men walked round
the weary beasts and examined the security of the packs on the led
horses.

Bud pointed down the valley with one outstretched arm.

"We'll make that way," he said, his deep eyes dwelling almost
affectionately upon the wide stretch of blue-tinted grass.  "Guess
we'll take the high land an' camp fer food."

Then he turned back to his horse and remounted.  Jeff silently followed
his example and they rode on.

For many minutes no word passed between them.  Each was busy with his
own particular thoughts.  The deep look of friendly affection was still
in Bud's eyes.  Jeff was far less concerned with the wonderful scene
slowly unfolding itself as they proceeded than with the purpose of his
journey.  He knew they had reached the central point from which they
were to radiate their search of the labyrinth of hills.  His mind was
upon the wealth of possibility before them.  The difficulties.  Bud,
for the time at least, was concerned only with that which his eyes
beheld, and the memories of other days far, far back when he had
possessed no greater responsibility than the quest of adventure, and
his own safe delivery from the fruits of his unwisdom.

It was he who first broke the silence between them.

"Gee!" he exclaimed, with that curious note of appreciation which that
ejaculation can assume.  "It's big.  Say, Jeff, it's big an' good to
look on.  Sort of makes you think, too, don't it?  Jest get a peek that
way.  Them slopes."  He indicated the western boundary of the valley
rising up, up to great pine-crested heights.  "A thousand--two thousand
feet.  And hills beyond.  Big hills, with snows you couldn't melt
anyhow.  Over there, too."  One great hand waved in the direction of
the east.  "Lesser hills.  Lesser woods.  But--man, it's fine!  Then
ahead.  Miles an' miles of this queer blue grass which sets fat on
cattle inches deep."

His words ceased, but his eyes continued to feast, flooding the simple
brain behind them with a joy which no words could describe.  Presently
he went on:

"Makes you feel A'mighty God's a pretty big feller, don't it?  Guess He
jest tumbles things around, an' sets up, an' levels down in a way that
wouldn't mean a thing to brains like ours--till He's finished it all,
and sort of swep' up tidy.  Look at them colors, way up there to the
west.  Queer?  Sure.  Every sort o' blamed color in a tangle no earthly
painter could set out.  Ain't it a pictur'?  It's jest a sort o'
pictur' a painter feller's li'ble to spend most of his wholesome nights
dreamin' about.  An' when he wakes up, why, I don't guess he kin even
think like it, an' he sure ain't a hell of a chance to paint that way
anyhow.  Say, d'you make it these things are, or is it jest something
He sets in us makes us see 'em that way?  He's big--He surely is.  I'm
glad I come along with you, Jeff, boy.  Y' see, a feller sort o' sits
around home, an' sees the same grass, an' brands the same steers, an'
thinks the same thinks.  Ther' ain't nothin' he don't know around home.
He gets so life don't seem a thing, an' he jest feels he's running
things so as he pleases.  He sort o' fergets he's jest a part o' the
scenery around.  He fergets he's set in that scenery by an A'mighty big
Hand, same as them all-fired m'squitters we just found, an' kind o'
guesses he is that A'mighty Hand."  He turned his deeply smiling eyes
on his companion.  "I don't often take on like this, Jeff," he
apologized, "but the sight o' this place makes me want to shout an' get
right out an' thank the good God He's seen fit to let me sit around an'
live."

But Jeff had no means of simple expression such as Bud.  He could never
give verbal expression to the emotions locked away in his heart.  Those
who knew him regarded it as reserve, even hardness.  Perhaps it was
only that shyness which the strongest characters are often most prone
to.

He ignored the older man's quaintly expressed feelings, and fastened
upon the opening he had at last received, and which he had been seeking
ever since it had become obvious that Bud's knowledge of the great
Cathill range was almost phenomenal.

"You know these parts a heap," he observed.

"Know 'em?"  Bud laughed in his deep-throated way, which was only
another indication of his buoyant mood.  "You'd know 'em, boy, if you'd
had a father build up a big pelt trading post right in this valley, an'
fer sixteen years o' your life you'd ridden, an' shot, an' hunted over
this blue grass, and these hills, for nigh a range of fifty mile.
Guess I know this territory same as you know the playgrounds o' the
college that handed you your knowledge o' figgers.  Know it?  Say, you
could dump me right down anywhere around here for fifty miles an' more,
an' I'd travel straight here same as the birds fly."  He laughed again.
"When you said you'd the notion of huntin' out your brother, who was
huntin' these hills, you give me the excuse I'd been yearnin' to find
in years.  I wanted to see these hills again.  I wanted it bad.  Guess
I was jest crazy fer it.  It didn't get me figgerin' long, either, to
locate wher' we'd likely find that boy you're lookin' fer.  Ther' ain't
no better huntin' ground than around this valley.  It's sort of
untouched since my father died, an' I had to quit it and take to
punchin' cattle.  Then ther's that post he built.  A dandy place, with
nigh everything a pelt hunter needs fer his comfort.  We're making for
that post right now, an' when we make it I'm guessin' we ain't goin' to
chase much farther to locate that twin brother of yours."

"But you never----"

Bud shook his great head, and stretched his ungainly legs with his
stirrups thrust out wide.

"Sure I didn't tell you these things," he nodded, in simple, almost
childlike enjoyment.

"I never----  Say, does Nan know you were--raised here?"

"Surely."  Then Bud went on with an amused twinkle in his eyes.  "But I
guess Nan's like me.  It ain't our way worryin' other folks with our
troubles.  You see, most folks ain't a heap o' time to listen to other
folks' troubles.  Most everybody's jest yearnin' to tell their own."

"Troubles?"  Jeff smiled in his own peculiarly shadowy fashion.  "You
don't seem to figure this valley's any sort of trouble, nor its
associations.  But maybe there's a bone or two hidden around you don't
figure to show me."

Bud remained silent for some moments.  Then he gave way to another of
his joyous, deep-throated laughs.

"No, sirree!  Ther' ain't no troubles to this valley fer me.  None.  I
got memories I wouldn't sell fer a farm.  Them wer' days you didn't
find trouble in nothin'.  No.  It's later on you see things diff'rent.
Make good, an' you see troubles wher' there shouldn't be none.  You an'
me we're guessin' to make a pile o' dollars, so we could set up a
palace on 5th Av'noo, New York, if we was yearnin' that-a-way.  I don't
reckon there's many fellers 'ud find trouble in such a play as that.
Wal, I'd be willing enough to turn it all down, an' pitch camp right
here among these hills, an' chase pelts for the few dollars needed to
keep the wind from rattling my bones--'cep' fer Nan."

"Ah yes--Nan.  There's Nan to think of.  And Nan's more to you, Bud,
than anything else in life.  Say, your little girl's a bright jewel.  I
don't need to say a word about her value, eh?  But some day you're
going to lose her.  And then?"

Bud's eyes came round upon him and for some moments encountered Jeff's
steady regard.  Then he looked away, and slowly all its simple delight
dropped from the strong weather-tanned face, to be replaced by an
almost painful dejection.  Presently he turned again, and, in a moment,
Jeff found an added interest in the wonderful scene that lay ahead of
him.

"Nan's a fine, good gal," Bud declared, with simple earnestness.
"Guess she's her mother over again--only she's jest Nan.  Nan's more to
me than all the dollars in creation, boy.  Guess you're right.  Oh,
yes, you're right--sure."  The man brushed aside the beads of sweat
from his broad forehead.  "An' Nan's goin' to do jest as she notions.
She's goin' to live around her home as long as she feels that way.
When she don't feel that way she's goin' to quit.  When she feels like
choosin' a man fer herself--why, I'm goin' to do all I know helpin' her
that way.  But it's goin' to be her choice, boy.  An' when that time
comes, why, I'll get right down on my knees an' pray A'mighty God he's
the feller for her, an' the man I'm hopin' she'll choose, an' that he
wants her, same as she wants him."

Then he shook his head and a deep sigh escaped him.

"But I don't know.  It don't seem to me reasonable.  Y' see, the luck's
run all my way so far, an' I don't guess you can keep on dealin' the
cards without 'em gettin' right up an' handin' it you plenty--some
time."

Jeff had no reply.  Something warned him to keep silent.  The older man
in his earnest simplicity had opened out to him a vista which he felt
he had no right to gaze upon.

As they jogged steadily along over the blue-green carpet, and the
kaleidoscopic coloring of the distant slopes fell away behind them, his
whole mental vision became occupied by the sweet picture of a
brown-eyed, brown-haired girl.  But he was regarding it without any
lover's emotions.  Rather was he regarding it as one who calmly
appraises a beautiful jewel he does not covet.  He was thinking of Nan
as he had known her for some five years.  From the days of her
schoolgirlhood he had watched her develop into a grown woman full of
all that was wholesome and winsome.  She was her father over again,
trustful, simple, fearless, and she was possessed of a whimsical
philosophy quite beyond her years.  Her beauty was undeniable, her
gentle kindliness was no less.  But the memory of these things made no
stirring within him.  Nan was just a loyal little friend whom he loved
and was ready to serve as he might love and help a sister, but regard
of her broke off at that.  So, as he rode, the pictures of her failed
to hold him, and, finally, his roving gaze became caught and held by a
sudden and striking anachronism in the scene about him.

He claimed Bud's attention with a gesture which roused him from his
engrossing thought.

"Fire," he observed.

Bud's gaze became rivetted on the spot.

"Yes, it's fire--sure," he admitted.

It was a long way ahead.  Only the trained eyes of prairiemen could
have read the sign aright at such a distance.  It was a break in the
wonderful sea of varying shades of restful green.  It was, to them, an
ominous dead black patch which broke the sky-line with unmistakable
skeleton arms.

It was the only remark upon the subject which passed between them, but
as they rode on it occupied something more than a passing attention.

With Jeff his interest was mere curiosity.  With Bud it was deeper and
more significant.  Had the younger man observed him he might have
discovered a curious expression almost amounting to pain in the deep
eyes which contemplated the blackened limbs where the fire had wrought
its havoc.

As they drew nearer it became apparent that the havoc was even greater
than they had first supposed.  A wide patch of woodland, hundreds of
acres in extent, whose upper limits were confined only by the summit of
the valley's slope, where it cut the sky-line, had been completely
burnt out.  Nor was it possible to tell if even that limit was the
extent of the disaster.

Bud suddenly reined in his horse as they came abreast of it, and his
voice broke with painful sharpness upon the deathly stillness of the
world about them.

"It's gone," he cried, with a note of deep distress and grievous
disappointment.  "It's burnt right out to a shell.  Say----"

"What's gone?"

The older man glanced round.  Then his troubled eyes sought the charred
remains of the splendid pines once more.

"Why--the post."  Then he pointed amongst the charred skeletons.  "Get
a peek right in ther'.  See, Jeff.  Them walls; them fallen logs.
Burnt.  Burnt right through to the heart of 'em.  That's all that's
left of the home that sheltered me for the first sixteen years of my
life.  Say, I'm sick--sick to death."

Jeff left his packhorse and moved forward amongst the blackened limbs.
The reek of burnt wood hung heavily upon the air.  He threaded his way
carefully toward the charred remains of an extensive abode, now plainly
visible amongst the black tree trunks.

It was a wide rambling structure, and, though burnt to cinders, much of
its general shape, and the great logs which had formed its walls, still
remained to testify to all it had been under the hands of those who had
originally wrought there.

Jeff glanced back at the man he had left behind.  He had not stirred.
He sat in the saddle just gazing at the destruction.  That was all.  So
he turned again to the ruins, and, dismounting, he proceeded on foot to
explore.

      *      *      *      *      *      *

They were eyes wide with repulsion and a certain horror that gazed down
upon the object at Jeff's feet.  It was the rotting, charred remains of
a human figure.  It was beyond recognition, except in so far as its
human identity was concerned.  The clothes were gone.  The flesh was
seared and shriveled.  The process of incineration was almost complete.

After a few fascinated moments his eyes searched further along the
remains of the old post wall.  Another figure lay sprawling on the
ground.  Near by it a heavy pistol had fallen wide.  A rifle, too, lay
across the second body.

Every detail was swiftly absorbed by the man's keenly active brain.  He
stood back from the gutted precincts and gazed speculatively upon the
picture.  His imagination reconstructed something of what he believed
must have occurred in the deep heart of these wrecked woodlands.

What of the fire?  How had it been started?  Was it the work of an
incendiary?  Had the heat of the summer sun wrought the mischief?  Had
the hut itself supplied the trouble?  None of these questions offered
real enlightenment through the answers he could supply.  No.  He saw
the superheated furnace of the woods blazing, and he saw men struggling
with all their might to save themselves, and some of their more
precious belongings.  The reckless daring of those two, perhaps at the
last moment, returning to their shelter on one final journey to save
some detail of their home.  Then the awful penalty for their temerity.
Perhaps overwhelmed by smoke.  Death--hideous, appalling death.  Death,
a thousand times worse than that which, in the routine of their lives,
it was their work to mete out to the valuable fur bearers which yielded
them a means of existence.

A sudden question, not unaccompanied by fear, swept through his brain.
It was a question inspired by the belief that these men were fur
hunters.  Who--who were they?  He drew close up to each body in turn,
seeking identity where none was discoverable.  A sweat broke upon his
temples.  There was no sign in them.  There was no human semblance
except for outline.

"God!  If it should be----"

His sentence remained incompleted.  A dreadful fear had broken it off.
He was gazing down upon the second body, in earnest, horrified
contemplation.  Then to his amazement he was answered by Bud's familiar
voice.

"It ain't the boy we're chasin' up, Jeff," he said, with a deep
assurance.

"How d'you know that?"

The demand was incisive, almost rough.

"These folks weren't pelt hunters.  Not by a sight.  I bin around."

Jeff had turned to the speaker, and a great relief shone in his eyes.

"What--who were they--then?" he asked sharply.

"Maybe it was a ranch--of sorts."

"Of sorts?  You mean----?"

"Rustlers.  Come right on out of here, an' I'll show you."

With gentle insistence he drew his friend away from the painfully
fascinating spectacle which held so difficult a riddle.  And presently
they were again with their horses, which were grazing unconcernedly
upon the sweet blue grass which the valley yielded so generously.

"Well?"  There was almost impatience in Jeff's monosyllable.

For answer Bud pointed at a number of rough fences, uneven, crude,
makeshift, some distance away.

"See them?  Oh, yes, I guess they're corrals sure.  But it don't take a
feller who's lived all his life among cattle more'n five seconds to
locate their meanin'.  They're corrals set up in an a'mighty hurry by
folks who hate work o' that sort anyway.  An' I'd say, Jeff,
cattlemen--real cattlemen--don't dump a range down in the heart of the
Cathills, not even fer this sweet-grass you can see around, when ther's
the prairie jest outside.  That is cattlemen who got no sort o' reason
fer keepin' quit of the--open plains.  Then ther's bin a big drive away
north from here.  Mebbe they wer' gettin' clear of this fire."

Under the influence of Bud's clear convictions all Jeff's fears
vanished.  He accepted the other's admittedly better understanding of
these things all the more readily that he desired earnestly to dispel
the last shadows of his momentary doubt.

"That's so," he agreed.  Then he added: "But anyway, our camp's gone."

"Yes.  We'll make camp some'ere else.  Meanwhiles----"

"Yes?"

"We must follow up the trail."

There was irrevocable decision in the older cattleman's tone.  And his
words had the effect of startling the other.

"But--I don't see----"

"They're rustlers.  Ther's their tracks clear as day.  This is their
hiding.  Wal, I guess there's jest one thing to be done.  It's our duty
to track 'em down.  Our duty to the cattle world, Jeff, boy."

"But what about--Ronald?"

Bud looked him squarely in the eyes.

"We're cattlemen first, Jeff.  The other'll come later."

Jeff nodded, but there was a certain reluctance in his manner.  His
whole heart was set upon the search for his twin brother.  He felt that
his duty as a cattleman scarcely had the right to claim him at such a
time.  But the older man's manner made it difficult to protest, and, in
deference to him, he felt it would be ungenerous to refuse.  After all
it only meant perhaps the delay of a day for his own projects.

"Then we'll feed and water right here, Bud," he said resignedly.  "We
can leave our pack ponies, and ride light.  There's five hours of
daylight yet."

"Yes, five hours good.  Thanks, boy.  Don't you worry a thing.  We'll
make this time good.  We're goin' to find your Ronald--if he's
anywheres around these Cathills."

      *      *      *      *      *      *

The more concentrated the character, the more sure its power of moral
endurance, so the more acute its suffering under adversity.  Such
penalties lie ambushed for the strong, as though in delight at the
immensity of the suffering which can thereby be inflicted.

Such an ambush was awaiting Jeffrey Masters.  It came with terrifying
suddenness.  Bud was on the lead.  The great sea of blue grass had been
beaten and crushed by the hoofs of a considerable herd.  There was no
difficulty, and the pace he made was rapid.  But, even so, Bud's keen
eyes never left the well-defined trail.  He was reading it with an
understanding which might well have seemed almost superhuman.  And as
he rode he communicated odd fragments of his reading to the man behind
him.

"It's queer," he observed once, when they had covered nearly two miles
of the track.  "Ther's a great bunch of horsemen been over this.  Kind
o' seems to me as if ther' was as many horses as steers.  They're
headin' northeast, too."

Jeff's eyes were as close upon the trail as Bud's, only he read with
less understanding.

"They seem leading out of the valley," he said.  "Maybe there's another
camp way up further."

Suddenly Bud drew rein, his great body lurching forward in the saddle
as his horse "propped" itself to a standstill.  Jeff's horse followed
suit of its own accord.

"What's doing?"

Jeff's demand was accompanied by a keen look into the other's face.

Bud's eyes were wide with speculation.

"They've broke up--hereabouts," he cried.  "More'n half the horses have
cut out.  Say, ther'," he went on pointing away to the right.  "That's
the way they've took, clear across ther' to the east.  The herd's gone
on with jest a few boys to handle it.  Say----"

"Look!"

A curious suppressed force rang in Jeff's exclamation.  He was pointing
at a bluff of wide-spreading sturdy trees that grew hard in against the
eastern slope of the valley.

Bud followed the direction indicated, and that which he beheld robbed
him of all inclination for further speech.

Long silent moments passed.  Moments fraught with poignant, stirring
emotions.  Something painful was slowly creeping into the eyes of both
men as they continued to regard this stout cluster of trees.

"Oaks."

The word was muttered.

Jeff vouchsafed no reply, but led the way toward them at a gallop.

They drew up almost in the shadow of the trees, at a point where three
hideous things were hanging suspended by rawhide ropes.  They were
swaying gently, stirred almost imperceptibly under the pressure of the
light breeze.

Bud sat stock still upon his horse.  For a moment Jeff remained at his
side.  Then the latter stirred.  He pressed his horse forward, urging
it closer under the overhanging boughs.  The animal moved willingly
enough for a few yards.  Then panic suddenly beset it.  It shied.  It
reared and plunged.  The fierce reminder of the spur was powerless to
affect it beyond driving it to even more strenuous rebellion.  The
terror-stricken creature would not approach another step in the
direction of those ominous swinging bodies.

Jeff finally leaped from the saddle and released his horse.  It turned
to bolt, but Bud reached its hanging reins and secured it.  Then he sat
still, observing the movements of his companion with strained, intent
gaze.

Jeff passed under the great limbs of the tree.  He cautiously
approached the first of the hanging bodies.  It was hideous.  There was
a bandage drawn tightly over the dead eyes, but its folds were
powerless to disguise the rest of the contorted features.  The head was
tilted over on one side.  Its flesh was ghastly, and deep
discolorations blotched it from the neck up.  The body was clad in the
ordinary garb of the prairieman, with the loose waistcoat hanging open
over a discolored cotton shirt, and the nether part of it sheathed in
dirty moleskin trousers.  The ankles were lashed securely together, and
the arms firmly pinioned.

For some moments Jeff stared up at the dead man.  His blue eyes were
quite unsoftening.  There was no real pity in him for the fate of a
cattle thief.  He understood only the justice of it from the point of
view of the cattle grower.  So his cold eyes gazed up at the horrid
spectacle unflinchingly.

After some moments he passed on to the second body.  The same
conditions prevailed.  A colored handkerchief concealed the glazed
eyes, and the dropping jaw displayed the blackened cavity beyond the
lips.

He moved away to the third.  Its back was turned to him, and the bared
head displayed a close mass of fair curling hair.  In this instance the
bandage over the eyes had fallen from its place, and lay lodged against
the raw hide rope about the dead man's neck.  He moved round quickly.
In a moment he was facing the dreadful dead features.

He stood there without a sound.  But his eyes had changed from their
cold regard to a horror unspeakable.  Once his lips parted, and there
was an automatic effort to moisten them with a parching tongue.  He
swallowed with a visible effort.  But no other movement came from him.

The moments passed.  Hideous, dreadful moments of an agony that was
displayed in the drawn lines which had suddenly taken possession of his
strong features.  It was the face of a man whose soul is seared with
the blasting fury of a hell from the sight of which he is powerless to
withdraw his terrified gaze.  He knew nothing but the agony which smote
through his every sense.  The world about him, the place, even the
hideous swaying remains of a once joyous life that confronted him.  He
was blind, blind to it all, crushed beneath a burden of agony which
left him stupefied.  His twin brother Ronald was there before him, a
dreadful, dead thing, hanged for a--cattle thief.

      *      *      *      *      *      *

Bud gazed from the dead to the living.  His deep eyes were full of an
understanding which required no words.  There was that about the dead,
distorted face which was unmistakable.  One look into the dreadful eyes
of the living had told him all he needed.

He, too, stood silently contemplating the swaying figure.  But it was
only for a moment.  Then he moved swiftly, actively.  As he moved he
drew a sheath knife from his belt.

He reached up.  The steel of the knife gleamed.  The next moment the
dead thing was in his arms.

A low fierce cry suddenly broke the silence of those dreadful shades.

"Leave him!  Don't dare, or--I'll kill you!"

Bud's head turned, and the muzzle of a gun touched his cheek.  The
blazing eyes behind it shone like coals of fire as they glared into his.

But the great Bud's purpose was stronger than the madness of the
other's agony.

"Put up your gun, Jeff," he said, in a deep gentle voice.  "We're jest
goin' to hide this poor boy wher' the eyes o' men an' beasts can't see
him.  We're jest goin' to hide him away wher' mebbe the good God'll
watch over him, an' help him, an' surely will forgive him.  You ken
jest help me, boy, to locate the place, an' when we find it we'll sort
o' seal it up, an' you ken hide the key away in your heart so no one'll
ever find it.  Are you goin' to help, Jeff?"

For answer the gun was abruptly withdrawn.  Then Bud saw the stricken
man's hand dash across his eyes, and, as it passed, he realized the
moisture of tears upon the back of it.




CHAPTER VIII

JEFF CLOSES THE BOOK

Ju Penrose was a mild sort of sun-worshipper.  But he confined his
regard to the single blessings of light and warmth.  Some of his
deity's idiosyncrasies were by no means blessings in his estimation.
He blamed the sun for the flies.  He blamed it that it made necessary
the adoption of light cotton shirts, which required frequent washing.
He, furthermore, blamed it for the temperature of drinks in summer
time, in a place where no ice was procurable.  This he regarded as
wholly unfair.  Then, too, possessing something of an artistic eye, he
failed to appreciate the necessity for changing the delicate hues of
nature in spring to a monotonous summer tone by the overbearing process
of continuing its spring blessing _ad nauseam_.  And as for winter, it
was perfectly ridiculous to turn off its "hot" tap when it was most
needed.  Yes, there were moments when he certainly felt that he could
order matters far more pleasantly if he were given a free hand.

Still, just now winter was a long way off.  So that did not trouble him
greatly as he lounged in his doorway, and reposefully contemplated the
ruddy noonday light which was endeavoring to lend picturesqueness to a
scene which, he assured himself, was an "everlastin' disgrace an' stain
on the lousy pretensions of a museum of bum human intellec's."  He was
referring to the rest of the buildings which comprised the township, as
apart from his own "hotel."  The word "saloon" had been struck out of
his vocabulary, except for use in scornful depreciation of all other
enterprises of a character similar to his own.

Just now he was chewing the cud, and, incidentally, a wad of tobacco,
of a partial peace.  He felt that the recent break up of the Lightfoot
gang, so successfully achieved through the agency of hangings and
shootings, should certainly contribute to his advantage.  He argued
that the long-endured threat against Orrville removed, money should
automatically become easier, and, consequently, a considerable vista of
his own personal prosperity opened out before his practical imagination.

Yes, Ju was undoubtedly experiencing a certain mild satisfaction.  But
somehow his ointment was not without taint.  He detected a fly in it.
And he hated flies--even in ointment.

To understand Ju's feelings clearly one must appreciate the fact that
he loved dollars better than anything else in the world.  And something
he hated with equal fervor was to see their flow diverted into any
other channel than that of his own pocket.  Ten thousand of these
delectable pieces of highly engraved treasure had definitely flowed
into some pocket unknown, as a result of the Lightfoot gang episode.
The whole transaction he felt was wicked, absolutely wicked.  What
right had any ten thousand dollars to drift into any unknown pocket?
Known, yes.  That was legitimate.  It always left an enterprising
individual the sporting chance of dipping a hand into it.  But the
other was an outrage against commercialism.  Why, if that sort of thing
became the general practice, "how," he asked himself, "was an honest
trader to live?"

The enquiry was the result of extreme nervous irritation, and he
scratched at the roots of his beard in a genuine physical trouble of
that nature.

He was so engrossed upon his meditations that he entirely failed to
observe some mounted strangers debouch upon the market-place from the
western end of the township.  Nor was it until they obstructed his view
that he awoke to their presence.  Then he became aware of two men on
two horses, leading two pack ponies.

He scrutinized them narrowly without shifting his position, and, long
before they reached him, he decided they were strangers.

They dismounted in silence and without haste.  They went round their
horses and loosened cinchas.  Then they tied the four beasts to the
tie-posts in front of the saloon.

They approached the saloon-keeper.  The larger of the two surveyed the
unmoved Ju with steady eyes.  Then he greeted him in deep, easy tones.

"Howdy," he said.  "You run this shanty?"

The reflection upon his business house was not lost upon its proprietor.

"Guess I'm boss of this--hotel."

"Ah--hotel."  Bud's gaze wandered over the simple structure.  It
settled for a moment upon a certain display of debris, bottles, cases,
kegs, lying tumbled at an angle of the building.  Then it came back to
Ju's hard face, and, in passing, it swept over the weather-boarding of
the structure which was plastered thick with paint to rescue it from
the ravages of drip from the shingle roof to which there was no
guttering.  "Then I guess we'll get a drink."

By a curious movement Ju seemed to fall back from his position and
become swallowed up by the cavity behind him.  And Bud and his
companion moved forward in his wake.

The place was entirely empty of all but the reek of stale tobacco, and
the curious, pungent odor of alcohol.  The two customers lounged
against the shabby bar in that attitude which bespoke saddle weariness.
Ju stood ready to carry out their orders, his busy, enquiring mind
searching for an indication of the strangers' identity.

"Rye?" he suggested amiably, testing, in his own fashion, their quality.

But these men displayed no enthusiasm.

"Got any lager?" demanded Bud.  "A long lager, right off the ice."

"Ice?"  There was every sort of emotion in the echo of the word as the
saloon-keeper glanced vengefully across at a window through which the
sun was pouring.  "Guess we don't grow ice around these parts, 'cep'
when we don't need it, an' I don't guess the railroad's discovered they
hatched Orrville out yet.  We got lager in soak, an' lager by the keg,
down in a cool celler.  Ef these things ain't to your notion I don't
guess you need the lager I kep."

"We'll have the bottled stuff in soak.  Long."

"Ther's jest one size.  Ef that don't suit, guess you best duplicate."

There was no offense in Ju's manner.  It was just his cold way of
placing facts before his customers, when they were strangers.

He uncorked the bottles and set them beside the long glasses, and
waited while Bud poured his out.  Then he accepted the price and made
change.  Jeff silently poured out his and raised it to his lips.

"How, Bud."

"How."

The two men drank and set down their half-emptied glasses.

The sharp ears of the saloon-keeper had caught the name "Bud," and he
now stood racking his fertile brains to place it.  But the stranger's
identity entirely escaped him.

"Been times around here, ain't ther'?" Bud remarked casually.

And Ju promptly seized the opportunity.

"Times?  Sure.  Say, I guess you don't belong around.  Jest passin'
thro'?"

Bud nodded.  Jeff had moved off toward the window, where he stood
gazing out.  The saloon-keeper's gaze followed him.

"Why, yes.  We're passin' through," returned Bud, without hesitation.
"You see, we belong down south in the 'T.T.' an' 'O----' country."

"That so?"  Ju reached a box of cigars and thrust them at the new
customer.  "Smoke?" he enquired.  His generosity was by no means
uncalculated.

Bud helped himself, and in response to Ju's "Your friend?" he called
across to Jeff at the window.  But Jeff shook his head, and the
saloon-keeper was given an opportunity of studying his set features,
and the premature lines he saw graven upon them.  He withdrew the box
and turned his attention to the more amenable Bud.

"It's a swell country down your ways," he observed cordially.  Then he
added, "You ain't been cussed with a gang o' toughs raidin' stock,
neither, same as we have fer the last fi' years.  But they're out.  Oh,
yes, they're sure out.  Yes, siree, you guessed right.  Ther's sure
been some play around here.  As neat a hangin' as I've see in
thirty-five year tryin' to figger out the sort o' sense stewin' in the
think tanks o' the crazy guys who live in cities an' make up po'try
about grass.  Mebbe you've heard all the play?"

Bud shook his head.  He drank up his lager, and took the opportunity of
glancing over his glass at Jeff's back.  Then he set his glass down and
ordered another bottle for both of them.

"No," he observed.  "I ain't heard much.  I heard there's been some
hangin'.  The Lightfoot gang, eh?  Seems to me I've heard talk of 'em
down our way.  So you boys here got in on 'em?"

Ju set the two fresh bottles on the counter while Bud lit his cigar.

"That's so," he said with appreciation, and propped his folded arms
upon the bar.  "It sort o' come sudden, too."  He smiled faintly.  "It
come as I said it would right here in this bar.  The boys was settin'
around sousing, an' pushin' round the cyards, an' the Vigilante
Committee was settin' on a pow-wow.  I was tellin' 'em ef the folks had
the sense of a blind louse they'd dope out a reward, an' make it big.
I guessed they'd get the gang quick that way.  Y'see, it don't matter
who it is, folks is all after dollars--if there's only enough of 'em.
Life's jest made up of two sorts o' guys, the fellers with dollars an'
them without.  Wal, I guess it's a sort o' play goes right on all the
time.  You just raise hell around till you get 'em, the other fellers
raise hell till you ain't.  It's a sort o' give and take, though I
reckon the taking seems to be the general scheme adopted.  That's how
it comes Lightfoot an' his gang got a nasty kink in most o' their
necks.  It's them dollars.  Some wise guy around here jest took himself
by the neck and squeezed out a present of ten thousand dollars to the
feller who'd sell up Lightfoot's good-will an' business.  What
happened?  Why, it took jest about twenty-four hours for the
transaction to be put through.  Say, ever hear tell of a time when
ther' wa'an't some feller waiting ready to grab on to ten thousand
dollars?  No, sir.  You never did.  No, nor no one else, 'cep' he spent
the whole of his life in the foolish house."

"Some one betrayed 'em--for ten thousand dollars?"

Bud's question came with a sharp edge to it.

"Don't guess 'betray's' the word, mister.  It was jest a commercial
transaction.  You jest need to get a right understanding of them
things.  When I got something to sell, an' you're yearnin' to dope out
the dollars for it--say ten thousand of 'em--why, I don't guess there's
anything else to it but a straight business proposition."

"So you netted the ten thousand?" enquired Bud, in his simplest fashion.

"Me?  Gee!  Say, if them ten thousand dollars had wafted my way I'd
have set this city crazy drunk fer a week.  No, sir," he added, with a
coldly gloomy shake of the head.  "That's jest about the pain I'm
sufferin' right now.  Some mighty slick aleck's helped hisself to them
dollars, an' I don't know who--nor does anybody else, 'cep' him who
paid 'em."

Bud realized the man's shameless earnestness, but passed it by.  He was
seeking information.  It was what he and Jeff had come for.  The manner
of this man was coldly callous, and he knew that every word he uttered
was a lash applied to the bruised soul of the man by the window.
Irresistible sympathy made him turn about.

"Here's your lager, Jeff," he said, in his easiest fashion.  He had no
desire that Ju should be made aware of the trouble that Jeff was
laboring under.

Jeff replied at once.  His readiness and even cheerfulness of manner
surprised Bud.  But it relieved him as well.

"Bully!" he cried, as he came back to the bar.  "I was just gettin' a
look around at the--city."  He turned to Ju with his shadowy smile
which almost broke Bud's heart.  "Quite a place, eh?"

"Place?  Wal, it's got points I allow.  So's hell ef you kin look at it
right."  Ju lit a cigar and hid nearly half of it in his capacious
mouth.  "I'd say," he went on, with a certain satisfaction, "ther's
more mush-headed souses in this lay out to the square yard than I've
ever heard tell of in any other city.  Ef it wa'an't that way I
couldn't see myself wastin' a valuable life lookin' at grass, hearin'
talk of grass, smellin' grass, an' durned nigh eatin' grass.  I tell
you right here it takes me countin' my legs twice a day to keep me from
the delusion I got four, an' every time I got to shake my head at some
haf soused bum who's needin' credit I'm scared to death my blamed
ears'll start right in flappin'.  Why, yes, I guess it's some place--if
you don't know no other."

Bud was eager to get to the end of the task he had assumed for his
friend.  He wanted the facts, all the facts as far as they were
available, of the terrible enactments in that valley of his early youth.

"An' who antied the price?" he demanded.

"Who?  Why, the President of the Western Union Cattle Breeders'
Association--Dug McFarlane."

"And you don't know who--accepted it?"

It was Jeff who put the question, and Bud, looking on, saw the steely
gleam that lit the man's eyes as he spoke.

But Ju's amiability was passing.  He was getting tired of a subject
which dealt with another man's profit.  He rolled his cigar across his
mouth.

"Here.  Guess I best tell you the yarn as we know it.  Y'see," he added
regretfully, "we ain't learned a heap 'cep' jest the racket of it.  Dug
set up the reward overnight.  Next night twenty-five of the boys rode
out with him to the hills.  Ther' was some guy with 'em leadin'.  But
none of the boys come up with him.  He rode with Dug.  We've all
guessed, but I don't reckon we know, or'll ever know.  You see, he got
shot up they say by Lightfoot himself.  However, it don't signify.  I
got my notions 'bout it, an' anyway I guess they're jest my own.  The
boys guess it was one of the gang itself.  Mebbe it was.  Can't rightly
say.  After they'd located the camp they set out to surround it.  It
was in a bluff.  The scrap started right away, an' there was a deal o'
shootin'.  One or two o' the boys got shot up bad.  Then some one fired
the bluff, an' burned 'em right out like a crowd of gophers.  After
that the scrap came good an' plenty, an' it seems to've lasted nigh an
hour.  Anyways, they got three of 'em.  They shot up several others,
an' not more than three got clear away."

"An' what about Lightfoot?"  It was Bud who spoke.  His voice was
changed from its usual deep tone.  It was sharp, and almost impatient.

"They got him," said Ju, with a delight so evident that Bud felt like
killing him for it.  "Oh, yes, they got him, sure.  A dandy gent with
his blue eyes an' curly, tow hair.  They don't guess that's his right
name tho'.  But it don't signify.  He was the boss all right, all
right, an' they took him, an' hanged him with the other two, right out
of hand.  Gee, I'd have give a deal to have seen----"

"We'll have to be pushing on now, Bud."

Jeff spoke with his head bent, examining the face of his gold
timepiece.  Bud glanced at him.  He could see the ghastly hue of the
averted features, and his answer came on the instant.

"You git the ponies cinched up, Jeff," he said quickly.  "I'll be right
with you."

Ju watched Jeff hurry out of the bar.  Then his eyes came searchingly
back to Bud's grimly set face.

"Kind o' seems in a hurry, don't he?" he demanded, with a curious look
in his hard eyes.  "Looks sick, too.  Say, I didn't git his name right.
Mebbe he's traveling around incog.--ain't that the word?"

There was no mistaking the suggestion in the man's half-smiling,
half-sneering manner.  The ranchman understood it only too well.  He
understood most of the ways and expressions of the men of the prairie.
The hot blood surged under his calm exterior.  His gray eyes, so
accustomed to smiling, snapped dangerously.  But his reply came with
the same ease which he had displayed most of the time.

"Wal, I don't guess ther's no myst'ry 'bout either of us, which you
kind o' seem you'd like to think.  Jeff Masters of the 'O----'s' is
well enough known to most folks, who got any sort o' knowledge of these
parts.  An' ther's quite a few folks around here, including Dug
McFarlane, li'ble to remember the name of Bud Tristram, of the
'T.T.'s.'  But you're sure right in guessin' he's in a hurry to quit.
Ther's some places, an' some folks, it ain't good to see a heap of.
Ther's fellers with minds like sinks, an' others with natures like
rattlers.  Neither of them things is as wholesome as a Sunday-school, I
allow.  Jeff ain't yearnin' to explore no sinks, human or any other.
An' I've generally noticed his favorite pastime is killin' rattlers.
So it's jest about the only thing to do--quit this saloon, same as I'm
goin' to do.  But say, 'fore I go I'd jest like to hand you this.
Justice is justice, an' we all need to take our dope when it comes our
way.  But ther' ain't no right on this blamed earth fer any feller to
whoop it up at another feller's misdoin's, an' his ultimate undoin'.
An' you kin take it how you fancy when I say only the heart of a louse
could feel that-a-way--an' that's about the lowest I know how to hand
you."

Bud's eyes were shining dangerously.  They were squarely looking into
the hard face of the saloon-keeper.  Not the movement of an eyelid
escaped him.  He literally seemed to devour the unwholesome picture
confronting him.  The aggressive chin beard, the continual mastication
of the cigar which protruded from the corner of the mouth.  There was
deadly fury lurking behind Ju's cruel eyes.  But the looked-for
physical display was withheld, and Bud finally turned and walked slowly
out of the bar.

      *      *      *      *      *      *

It was some minutes since a word had passed between the two men.  Jeff
had nothing to say, and Bud's sympathy was too deep for words.  He was
waiting for the younger man to fight his battle to its logical end.  He
knew, only too well, all that Jeff had suffered since the moment of
that gruesome discovery in the Cathills valley.  It had been no figure
of speech when Jeff had described his twin brother as part of himself.
The shock the man had received was, to Bud's mind, as though his heart
had been torn asunder.  Hanged as a cattle thief!  Was there anything
more dire, more terrible in the imagination of man than to suddenly
find that his well-loved brother, twin body of his own, was a cattle
thief, possibly a murderer, and had been hanged by his fellow-men?  It
was a thought to leave the simple Bud staggered.  And for the victim of
the shock it might well mean the mental breaking point.

Jeff was fighting out his battle with an almost super-human courage.
Bud knew that.  It was written in every detail of his attitude.  In the
straining of his blue eyes, in the deep knitting of his fair strong
brows, in the painful lines ploughing deeper and deeper about his
mouth, and the set of his strong jaws.

No.  There was no thought of breaking in upon the boy's black moments
of suffering.  He must fight his own battle now, once and for all.
When victory had been achieved, then perhaps his sympathy might become
helpful.  But till then nothing but the necessities of their journey
must be allowed to intrude between them.

So they rode over the southern trail.  The noontide sun scorched the
parching earth with a blistering heat, drinking up the last moisture
which the tall prairie grass sought to secrete at its attenuated roots.
The world about them was unchanged.  Every scene was similar in its
characteristics to all that which had become their lives.  Yet Bud knew
that for one of them, at least, the whole of life, and everything
pertaining to it, had been completely and terribly distorted.

But the character of Jeffrey Masters was stronger and fiercer than Bud
knew.  For all his suffering there was no yielding in him.  There had
been moments when his soul had cried out in agony.  There had been
moments when the hideousness of his weak brother's fall had driven him
to the verge of madness.  But with each yielding to suffering had come
a rally of passionate force that would not be overborne, and gradually
mastery supervened.

Ten miles out of Orrville on the homeward journey Bud received his
first intimation that the battle was waning.  It came almost as a
shock.  They had passed a long stretch of flat grass-land, and were
breasting an incline.  Jeff, on the lead, had reined his horse down to
a walk.  In a moment they were riding abreast, with Bud's pack pony in
between them.  Jeff turned his bloodshot eyes upon his friend, then
they turned again to the trail.

"There's nothing now, Bud, but to get ahead with all our plans and
schemes," he said.  "We must drive ahead without any looking back.
There's still things in life, I guess, that's worth while, and I'd say
not the least of 'em is--work."

He paused.  He had been gazing straight ahead to disguise his effort.
Now he turned and looked into the face of his friend, and thrust his
hat back on his head.

"It's been tough, Bud.  So tough I don't know how I got through.  Guess
I shouldn't have without you.  You see, Bud, you never said a thing,
and--and that saved me.  Guess I'm sort of tired now.  Tired of
thinking, tired of--everything.  But it's over, and now I sort of feel
I've got to get busy, or I'll forget how to play the man.  I don't
guess I'll ever hope to forget.  No, I don't want to forget.  I
couldn't, just as I couldn't forget that there's some one in the world
took ten thousand dollars as the price of Ronny's poor foolish life.
Oh, it's pretty bad," he sighed wearily.  "But--I've closed the book,
Bud, and please God I'll never open it again."




CHAPTER IX

FOUR YEARS LATER

Nan Tristram smiled to herself as she sat in the comfortable rocker
before the open French window which gave on to the wide wooden balcony
beyond.  The view she had was one of considerable charm, for Aston's
Hotel was situated facing one end of Maple Avenue, looking straight
down its length, which was at once the principal and most beautiful
thoroughfare in the picturesque western city of Calthorpe.

But her smile had nothing to do with anything the prospect yielded her.
Its beauties were undeniable; she had admitted them to herself many
times.  But she knew them with that intimacy which robs things of their
first absorbing charm.  The wide-spreading maple trees, which so
softened down the cold beauty of the large stone-fronted residences
lining the avenue, were always a source of soothing influence in the
excited delight of a visit to this busy and flourishing city.  Then the
vista of lofty hills beyond the far limits of the town, with their
purpling tints, their broken facets, their dimly defined woodland
belts, they made such a wonderful backing to the civilized foreground.

Nan Tristram loved the place.  For her, full of the dreams of youth,
Calthorpe was the hub of all that suggested life and gaiety.  It was
the one city she knew.  It was the holiday resort of the girl born and
bred to the arduous, and sometimes monotonous life of the plains.

But it was, in reality, a place of even greater significance.  Nan saw
it only as it appealed to her ardent fancy.  But Calthorpe was a
flourishing and buoyant city of "live" people, who were fully aware of
its favorable possibilities as the centre of the richest agricultural
region in the whole of the State of Montana.

It was overflowing with prosperity.  The ranching community, and the
rich grain growers for miles around, poured their wealth into it, and
sought its light-hearted life for the amusement of their families and
themselves.  Its social life was the life of the country, and to take
part in it needed the qualification of many acres, or much stock, a
bank balance that required no careful scrutiny, and a temperament
calculated to absorb readily the joy of living.

It was something of this joy of living which was stirring now, lighting
the girl's soft brown eyes with that tender whimsical smile which was
never very far from them.  She was resting after the early excitements
of the day.  It was her twenty-second birthday, and, in consequence,
with so devoted a father, a day of no small importance.  She had been
warned by that solicitous parent to "go--an' have a sleep, so you don't
peter right out when the fun gets good an' plenty."  But Nan had no use
for sleep just now.  She had no use for anything that might rob her of
one moment of the delight and excitement of the Calthorpe Cattle Week,
as it was called.  Therefore she undutifully abandoned herself to a
pleasurable review of events whilst waiting for the next act in the
day's play to begin.

And what a review it made in her understanding of the life about her.
It was four years since her father and Jeff Masters had signed their
partnership, and she knew that to-day, on the second day of _the_ week,
the triumph of the great "Obar" Ranch, which her father and Jeffrey
Masters had so laboriously and patiently built up, was to be completed.
Now, even while she sat there gazing from her window at the panorama of
life passing up and down the broad expanse of Maple Avenue, the Council
of the Western Union Cattle Breeders' Association was sitting for its
annual conference and election of officers.  And had she not already
been confidentially warned that Jeff was to be the forthcoming year's
president?

It was the crowning event in the long dreamed dreams of the two men
whom she frankly admitted to herself were nearest and dearest to her.
Why should she not admit it?  Her father?  Ah, yes, her father was the
most perfect, kindly, sympathetic father that ever lived.  And Jeff?  A
warm thrill swept through her heart and set it beating tumultuously.
Jeff was her whole sum and substance of life itself.

Well enough she knew that no other bond than that of friendship existed
between them; that no word had ever passed between them which might not
have passed in the daily intercourse between brother and sister.  But
this did not cause her to shrink from the admission.  Jeff was her
whole horizon in life.  There was no detail of her focus which was not
occupied by the image of the man whom she regarded as the genius of
their fortunes.

There were moments enough when she realized with something akin to
dismay that Jeff and she _were_ friends.  But her gentle humor always
served her at such moments.  And there was always the lukewarm
consolation that there was no other woman who had even a similar claim.
Therefore she hugged her secret to herself, and only gazed upon it in
such moments of happy dreaming as the present.

And just now they were happy moments.  How could it be otherwise in a
girl so healthy, and with such a depth of human feeling and with such a
capacity for sheer enjoyment of the simple pleasures which came her
way?  What an evening yet confronted her in this brief week of holiday
from the claims of the green-brown plains of summer.  She must be ready
at seven o'clock for the reception at the City Hall.  She had a new
gown for that particular event, which had, amongst others, been bought
in New York.  It had cost one hundred and thirty dollars, an
unthinkable price it had seemed, but dismissed as something too paltry
to be considered by the open-handed ranchman whom she claimed as father.

She was to assist Jeff and her father in receiving the guests, who
would represent all the heads of their cattle world, and their friends,
and their wives, and their daughters.  And after that the banquet,
which, since the inauguration of the Association, had always taken
place, here at Aston's Hotel.

There would be speeches.  Jeff would speak, and her father--no, she
hoped he wouldn't speak.  Her smile deepened.  He had such a way of
saying just what came into his funny, simple old head, and such a
curious vocabulary.  Then, after the banquet, the--Ball!

The girl emitted a deep ecstatic sigh.  The ball!  It was the crowning
glory, and--she had a beautiful new gown for each event.  It was a
ravishing thought.  Perhaps a mere man may be forgiven his lack of
imagination in his appreciation of such perfect, unutterable delight.
But Nan had no cloud to obscure her sun.  The labor of dressing afresh,
three times in one evening without a maid, except the questionable
assistance of a hotel chambermaid, had no terrors for her--none
whatever.

Her day-dreaming was interrupted by an immoderate thump on the door.
She turned her head at once, her pretty dancing eyes alight with
expectancy.

"That you, Dad?" she called.

"Sure, Nan."  Then came a fumbling at the door handle.

"You can come right in," the girl cried, without moving from her chair.

The door was thrust open, and the sunburnt face with its shock of
curling iron gray hair and whiskers appeared round it.  The deep-set
eyes surveyed the room, and took on a look of deep concern.

"Say, Nan," he cried, "you'll never git fixed in time.  I jest give you
the limit of time before I got around.  You see, I didn't fancy you not
gettin' a good slep."

The girl shook her pretty head and smiled as she observed the careful
toilet she felt sure her father had spent the whole afternoon upon.
She sprang from her chair and surveyed him critically, with her head
judicially poised on one side, and her pretty ripe lips slightly pursed.

"Everything's bully but that bow tie," she declared, after a
considering pause.  "Just come right here and I'll fix it.  Say, Dad, I
envy you men.  Was there ever a nicer looking suit for men than evening
clothes?  I'm--kind of proud of my Daddy, with his wide chest and good
figure.  And that white waistcoat.  My, but you don't look as if you'd
ever branded a calf in your life.  It's only your dear handsome face
gives you away, and--and the backs of your hands."

Nan laughed as she retied the tie to her satisfaction, the fashion in
which a girl loves to see a bow tied.  The man submitted meekly, but
with concern for her final remark.

"But I scrubbed 'em both--sore," he declared anxiously.

"I don't mean they're dirty, Daddy," the girl laughed.  "Was there ever
such a simple, simple soul?  It's the wholesome mahogany tan which the
wind and the sun have dyed them.  Say, there, get a peek at yourself in
that glass."  She thrust him toward a wall mirror.  "It's not girls
only who need a mirror, when a man is good to look at, Daddy, is it?
Honest?  It doesn't make you hate yourself, nor feel foolish.  I guess
there's men folks who'd have you think that way, but if I know anything
they'd hate to be without a mirror when they're fixing themselves for a
party where there's to be some nice looking women, and where they're to
be something better than just a 'stray' blown in."

Bud laughed at the rapid flow of the girl's banter.  But he had by no
means forgotten his own concern.

"But, say, Nan, you hain't got time for foolin' around.  You surely
hain't.  It's haf after five, an' we're due at the City Hall seven,
sharp.  Y'see, you ain't like us fellers who don't need no fixin' to
speak of.  An' you're helpin' us to receive the folks----"

Nan's delighted laugh rippled through the pleasant room.

"Oh, my Daddy," she cried, with wide, accusing eyes, "you're the best
laugh in a month."  Then she held up one admonishing finger before her
dancing eyes.  "Now the truth.  What was the minute you started to make
yourself--pretty?"

She sat herself upon a table before him with the evident purpose of
enjoying to the full the delighted feelings of the moment.

Bud eyed her steadily.  He knew he was to be cornered.  Nor would it be
for the first time.  The relation between these two was that of a
delightful companionship in which the frequent measuring of wit held no
inconsiderable place amidst a deep abiding affection.

"Say--a touch of the north wind around, Nan, eh?" he smiled.

"Never mind the north wind, Daddy," Nan laughed.  "Just when?  That's
what I need to know now."

The man's fingers sought his crisply curling hair.

"No, no," cried Nan, in pretended alarm, "Guess you're going to undo an
hour's work that way."

Bud dropped his hand in real dismay.

"Guess I plumb forgot.  Wal, say, since you got to know, I'd say it
must ha' bin right after din--I mean luncheon.  You see, I'd----"

"Ah, say three o'clock."  Nan leaned forward, her pretty face supported
on the knuckles of her clasped hands, her elbows resting upon her
knees.  "Oh, Daddy--and you aren't due at the party till seven.  Four
hours.  Four valuable hours sitting around in your dandy new suit of
evening clothes.  Vanity.  Pure vanity.  We're all the same, men who
_don't_ need--fixing, and women who _do_.  Only you men won't admit it.
Women do.  They surely do.  Any woman's ready to admit she'd rather
look nicer than any other woman than be all sorts of a girl other ways.
And though they don't ever reckon to admit it, men just feel that way,
too.  Oh, I guess I know.  The boys are just yearning for the girls to
think there's nothing but big 'thinks' moving around in their
well-greased heads.  And they'd hate a girl who got the notion they had
time to stand around gawking in a mirror to see their clothes set
right, or study the look they're going to pour into the china blue eyes
of some tow-headed bundle who knows his bank wad down to the last cent."

She sighed heavily, but her eyes were literally dancing.

"But it's kind of nice that boys act that way," she went on.  "It does
give a girl a chance to think him all sorts of a god for--a while.
Say, if she knew things just as they are, where'd she find that scrap
of romance which makes life all sunshine and storm clouds, instead of
the monotonous gray it really is?"

She pointed at the snowy bed laden with the precious costumes she must
use before the night was out.

"Say, wouldn't it be just awful if every girl knew that the man
she'd--marked down for her own, worried around with things like that
before every party he was to take her to, same as she does?  I guess
she'll learn it all later when she marries him, and has two folks to
worry for instead of one.  But, meanwhile, she just dreams that he's
dreaming those 'big thinks' that's going, some time, to set a dreaming
world wide awake to the mighty 'thinks' she dreams into her beau's
head."

Then she began to laugh, and the infection of it caught her father, who
gurgled heavily in chorus.

"Say, wouldn't it be a real circus if a big, strong man had to act the
same as us poor women?  I mean when we're scheming to stir up a
sensation in the hearts of men, and in the envy depot of other girls,
when we enter the portals of a swell social gathering.  Now Jeff.  Say,
my Daddy, can you see him sort of mincing across the floor," she cried,
springing from her seat and pantomiming across the room, "smiling, and
smirking and bowing, this way and that, all done up in fancy bows, and
sheeny satins, and--and with combs in his sleek hair to hold it in
place, and with a jeweled tiara set on top of it?  And then--yes, just
a teeny tiny touch of powder on his nose?  My word!"

A happy chorus of laughter rang through the room as she returned to her
seat, Bud's coming in great unrestrained gusts.  They were like two
irresponsible children rather than father and daughter.

"Oh, dear.  And you, too," laughed Nan.  "We can't leave you out of the
picture.  Being of more mature years I guess you'd sweep in--that's the
way--sweep in gowned--at your age you don't dance around in
'frocks'--in something swell, and rich, and of sober hue.  Oh, dear,
oh, dear.  Guess we'd have to match your mahogany face.  Wine color,
eh?  No 'cute little bows for you.  Just beads and bugles, whatever
they are.  But we'd let you play around with some tinted mixing of
powder for your nose, or--or we'd sure spoil the picture to death.  My,
I'd die laughing."

Bud's amusement threatened to burst the white bonds which held his vast
neck.

"Oh, quit it, Nan," he cried, with his beaming face rapidly purpling.
Then he struggled for seriousness.  "I didn't get around to listen to
your foolin', child."  Then he bestirred himself to a great display of
parental admonishment.  "Now, see right here, Nan, I'll get back in an
hour.  Maybe Jeff's fixin' himself the way you said.  I can't jest say.
But anyways he's the big feller to-night, an' it's up to you to worry
out so you can be a credit to him, an' me, an' the 'Obar.'"  Then he
came across to her and took her affectionately by the shoulders, and
gazed down into her face with twinkling, kindly eyes.  "Say, you got
more to work on than most gals.  You sure have, Nan.  Yep.  Your poor
ma was a pictur', an' you're a pictur'.  An' I ain't goin' to say which
of you had claim for the best framing.  Anyway, what you have in your
pretty face you owe to the dear woman who never had a chance of the
framing you can have.  So jest remember it, Nan--and thank her."

Nan's eyes had completely sobered at the mention of her dead mother,
whom she scarcely remembered, and earnestness and affection replaced
all her mirth.

"Maybe I owe it her," she said, suddenly releasing herself from the
heavy hands, and rising from her seat.  Then she reached up and slipped
her soft arms about the man's neck.  "And what do I owe to you?
Nothing?  Ah, my Daddy, I guess you can shake your funny head till you
muss up its contents to an addle.  I'll not forget what I owe my momma,
and just thank her all I know, but I'm thanking you too--just as hard."

She tiptoed until she was able to kiss him on the cheek.  Then her
ready smile broke out afresh, and she gently pushed him toward the door.

"Who is it wasting my time?  There," she cried, as she opened the door,
and her father vanished through it, "get right out, and don't you dare
come back for an hour."

The ranchman's laugh echoed down the corridor as he moved away.  Then
Nan, practical and sober once more, closed the door and rang for the
chambermaid.

      *      *      *      *      *      *

Whatever success could be claimed for the men who had founded and built
up the "Obar" Ranch, and it was more than considerable, the triumph of
that night was in no small measure to the credit of Nan Tristram.

But when it was all over, when the last of the three beautiful gowns
had been tucked tenderly away in the drawers which were their temporary
home, and Nan was left to the night solitude in which to go over once
more in her secret thoughts each keenly vivid detail of the
kaleidoscopic play of events as they had swept past her during the
evening, they found her soberly wondering if, after all, the
anticipated delight had been realized.  Was it possible in all that
unquestioned success there had been no delight, no real enjoyment at
all?  It seemed impossible.  It was impossible, and she tried to put
the thought out of her mind.  But it refused to be banished.  It
returned again--and again, and, in desperation, not untouched with
panic, she assured herself that she was tired--very tired, and this
silly feeling was the result.  Then, too, her humor was summoned, and
it warned her of the quantity of ice cream she had devoured at the
ball.  It told her her digestion had suffered in consequence.  And this
she thought was a pity, because she loved ice cream.

But humor was swept aside by a far keener emotion.  She scorned the
idea of indigestion.  She had no pain _there_.  But there was pain, a
silly ache about her heart which robbed her of all desire for sleep.

She tried to console herself by recalling her father's quaintly
expressed admiration of her, when he first beheld her in her new and
costly gown.  What was it?

"Why, say, Nan, when I look at you I sort o' feel as if two fellers had
bin at work fixin' you, a po't an' a painter, Seems as if they'd set
their mushy heads together, an' each had doped out what the other
couldn't, till ther' ain't a thing left fer the fancy of plain
mule-headed sort o' bussocks like me."

Curious as his method of expression had been she had understood and
thrilled with delight.  But almost at once her thoughts flew on to much
later when she was gliding through the dancing crowd at the ball.  His
eyes had followed her everywhere.  But there was a change in their
expression.  To her it was a complete change.  To her the simple
approval had been replaced by a gleam of sympathetic concern.  But this
was after--after the first cloud had settled upon her hope of unalloyed
enjoyment.  Perhaps the look had not been there at all.  Perhaps it was
simply her own feelings finding reflection for her where none existed.

She became impatient with herself and grasped at the memory of Jeff's
greeting when she had first appeared in the hotel parlor, equipped for
the reception.

He had not said much.  But that was always Jeff's way.  But there had
been his quick smile of unusual satisfaction.  And the words of
greeting had sprung quite spontaneously to his lips.

"Say, Nan, you're--you're just great."

The hesitation in the middle of it had told her even more than his
smiling admiration.  It was almost like--and she thrilled as she
thought it--a gasp for breath.

She strove hard to support herself with these memories, out even as she
considered them her mind passed on to the reception, and that stupid
ache supervened once more.  Instantly her focus narrowed down.  There
were only two figures in it.  The rest merely provided a setting for
these two.  All the lights, the decorations, the beautiful costumes and
smiling faces, these became an indistinct blurr, leaving the image of
Mrs. Elvine van Blooren and a man standing vividly out.

What a wonderful, wonderful picture of radiant womanhood Mrs. Van
Blooren had made!  Even in her trouble Nan was generous.  The woman was
beautiful in a way that poor Nan had only dreamed of.  The Madonna-like
features, calm, perfect.  The dark hair, superb in the simplicity of
its dressing.  She remembered that at the first glance it had suggested
to her the sheen of a cloudless summer night.  And her gown, and her
figure.  The gown must have cost--ah, Nan could not appraise its cost.
She had had insufficient experience.  Her own maximum had been reached
only now, and the sum seemed to her as paltry as her father had made it
appear.  The one certainty that remained with her, however, was that
the taste displayed in Mrs. Van Blooren's gown had placed it beyond
such a thing as mere material value.

And then her heart had seemed to stand still.  It appeared that Jeff,
who was talking to some other people, and she had become aware of Mrs.
Van Blooren's presence at the same moment.  For when Nan glanced in his
direction he was gazing fixedly at the newcomer with a look in his
steady blue eyes which she had never beheld in them before.  Oh, yes,
there had been no mistaking that look.  She knew she was not clever,
but she was a woman, and no woman could ever mistake such a look in the
eyes of a man.

But worse was to follow.  There was a respite for her in the activities
of the reception.  For Jeff was as busily occupied as she was.  Then,
too, at the banquet she had ample time to recover from the shock.  But
the ball came, and they were both released from their duties, and
everybody was left free to dance as only the western people love to
dance.

It was then that her bitter cup was filled to overflowing.  Jeff danced
six times with Mrs. Van Blooren.  Six times, and one supper extra,
while she had to content herself with a miserable two dances with the
one man who, to her stood out foremost among all men.

It was during the long hours of that dreary ball that she had
encountered her father's curious regard, and now she wondered if he had
seen what she had seen.  If he had understood as she understood.

Nan wanted to cry.  As she lay there on her snowy bed, restless, and
wakeful, and troubled, there were certainly moments when her tired eyes
filled with tears.  But she did not, would not cry.  She smiled to
herself, and even laughed.  She ridiculed herself and made jest of her
absurd pretensions.  She told herself a hundred times she had no claim
upon Jeff.  He was free to do as he chose, to dance all night with any
Mrs. Van Blooren.

But when, at last, the first beam of daylight penetrated the light
material of the window blinds, and slowly flooded the room, it found
Nan in a troubled sleep with two great unshed tears slowly welling in
the corners of her eyes, and ready to fall heavily and sadly down the
perfect moulding of her softly rounded cheeks.




CHAPTER X

THE POLO CLUB RACES

The race-track at Calthorpe was a matter of no small pride to its
citizens.  Any western city could possess broad and beautiful avenues.
Any city might well boast hotels of six, eight, or even ten floors, and
express elevators, and things of that sort.  A cathedral was not
unknown even, and electric surface cars.  But a race-track--a
recognized race-track--which was included in the official western
circuit of race meetings, was certainly a matter for more than ordinary
pride.

Such regard was undoubtedly meted out to it, and as a corollary there
were prophets in the city who foresaw the later development of a
Country Club, with a golf course, and the provision for every other
outdoor sport under its luxurious administration.  Those who could
afford such luxuries pretended to look upon these things as
indispensable, and those who couldn't regarded them with simple pride,
and lived in the glamour of their reflected glory, and told each other
how such things should be administered.

Such developments, however, were for the future.  The race-track
existed, and, amongst its many other delights, it supplied the cranks
with a text for frequent sermons.

It was set in a luxurious woodland dip, well beyond the town limits,
and occupied a small flat of rich grass through which a mountain creek
wound its ridiculously tortuous course.  Thus it was provided with the
natural resources demanded by a steeplechase course as well as the
"flat."

It was a toy which the wealth of the neighborhood had been poured out
upon with no niggard hand, till it found itself possessed of a
miniature grand stand, a paddock and loose boxes, for the use of many a
pony whose normal days were spent roaming wild upon the plains.  Then
there was the Polo Club House and ground, where many of the city's
social functions were held.  The whole thing was as pretentious as
money could make it, and in due proportion it was attractive to the
minds of those who believed themselves leaders in their social world.

Nan Tristram understood all this and smiled at it, just as she
understood that to absent oneself from the Polo Club Races in Cattle
Week would be to send in one's resignation from the exclusive social
circles to which she belonged, a position quite unthinkable for one who
sought only the mild excitements which pertain to early youth.

The noon following the ball, and all the disturbed moments which it
inspired, found Nan on the way to the Polo Club Races.  Her party was
riding, and it was an extensive party.  There were some twenty and more
saddles.  Luncheon had been sent on ahead, catered for by Aston's Hotel
at Jeffrey Masters' expense, one of the many social duties which his
election to the Presidency of the Western Union Cattle Breeders'
Association entitled him to undertake during the Cattle Week.

It was a gay party, mostly made up of young and prosperous ranchmen,
and the girls belonging to their little world.  Nor among them could
have been found any one more brightly debonair and attractive than Nan
Tristram.

There was never a sign about her of the disquieting thoughts of
overnight.  Such things might never have been.  Her eyes, so soft and
brown, were sparkling with that joy of life which never fails in its
attraction even for the most serious mind.  She sat her brown mare
astride with the easy grace of a born horsewoman.  Her equipment lacked
no detail in its comparison with that of the other women.  Bud's
warning on this point had fallen upon willing and attentive ears when
he had handed the girl a signed blank check.  And the old man had found
ample reward for his generosity in the rivalry amongst the men for his
"gal's" escort.

The only shadow which fell across his enjoyment had occurred when he
beheld Jeff leading the cavalcade at the side of Mrs. Van Blooren.  But
in Nan's case it seemed to give not the smallest qualm.  Her one single
purpose seemed to be to obtain a maximum of enjoyment at the side of
young Bill Dugdale, a college-bred youth of more than ordinary repute
as a prosperous cattleman.

The day was fresh for midsummer.  The sky was ruffled with great
billowing white summer clouds, and a cool northwest breeze was coming
off the mountain tops.  The whole world about them was assuming that
tawny green of the ripening season, and the trail was sufficiently
dusty for its abandonment in favor of the bordering grass.  But if
midsummer reigned over Nature, Spring, fresh, radiant Spring was in the
hearts of those seeking the mild excitement of Calthorpe's race-track.

Nan and young Dugdale laughed and chattered their way in the wake of
the several couples ahead.  Dugdale's desire to please was more than
evident.  And Nan was at no time difficult.  Just now she seemed to
enter into the spirit of everything with a zest which sent the man's
hopes soaring skyward.

Once only during the brief ride did the girl give the least sign that
her interest lay on anything but her good-looking escort.  It was at a
moment when Dugdale was pointing out to her the humorous inspiration of
his own registered cattle brand.

"You see, 'B.B.' don't sound much of a scream, Miss Tristram," he said,
in great seriousness.  "I don't guess it's likely to set you falling
out of your saddle in one wild hysterical whoop of unrestrained mirth.
Course I'm known by it, same as you're known by the 'Obar,' but some of
the language the boys fix to my brand 'ud set a Baptist minister
hollerin' help.  Say, I can't hand you it all.  I just can't, that's
all.  'Bill's Bughouse' is sort of skimmed milk to pea soup.  Then
there's 'Bill's Boneyard.'  That wouldn't offend any one but my
foreman.  'Busy Bee' kind of hands me a credit I don't guess I'm
entitled to.  But there's others smack of the intelligence of badly
raised hogs."  Then he laughed.  "The truth is, when I first pitched
camp on Lime Creek I wasn't as wise to things ranching as a
Sunday-school committee.  I lived mostly on beans an' bacon, and when
the boys fell in at night, why, I don't guess there was much beside
beans and bacon to keep 'em from falling into a state of coma on my
blankets.  It generally fixed them right, and I'm bound to say they
never seemed to find they couldn't sit a saddle after it.  Yes, and hit
the trail for fifty miles, if there was fresh meat at the end of it.  I
sort of got known around as 'Beans and Bacon.'  Then it was abbreviated
to B.B.  And so when I registered my brand it just seemed natural to
set down B.B."

Nan's laugh was very genuine.  Dugdale's ingenuous manner always
pleased her.

"You hadn't learned prairie hospitality," she said.  "You surely were
committing a grave offense."

The man was full of pretended penitence.

"I don't guess that needed _learning_!" he said, with a wry smile.
"The boys just handed it to me same as a parson hands a heart-to-heart
talk on things you're hatin' to hear about.  Oh, I was put wise quick.
But when you've got just about ten thousand dollars that's telling you
you're all sorts of a fool, and you're yearning for 'em to believe
you're a twin brother to Pierpont Morgan, why, you don't feel your
hide's made of gossamer, and don't care a cuss if folks start right in
to hammer tacks into it for shoe leather."

"And the dollars?  You convinced them?"  Nan's eyes were full of humor.

"Convinced 'em?"  The man's eyes opened wide.  "Say, Miss Tristram, it
was a mighty big argument.  Oh, yes, and I guess there were times when
we come near bein' such bad friends that I wanted to hand 'em right on
to the nearest saloon-keeper I could find.  But in the end I won.  Oh,
I won.  I just told 'em right out what I thought of 'em, and their
parents, and their ancestors, and their forthcoming progeny, and--that,
seemed to fix things.  They got civil then.  Sort of raised their hats,
and--got busy.  You'd be astonished if you saw the way they hatched
out--after that.  You see," he added whimsically, "there's just about
only one way of makin' life act the way you need it.  Set your back
teeth into the seat of things, and--hang on."

But Nan's reply was slow in coming, and her usually ready laugh was not
in evidence.  His final remark had brought very near the surface all
those feelings and thoughts she had striven so hard to bury where they
could no longer offend.  It seemed to the man that her eyes had grown
unnecessarily serious.  But then he did not know that there was any
unusual interest for her in the fact that Jeff Masters was escorting
Mrs. Van Blooren.

When she did speak it was with her gaze fixed upon the couple ahead.

"Yes, that's it," she said.  "Hang on.  Hang on with every ounce of
courage and strength you've got.  And if you've got to go under, why, I
guess it's best done with a smile, eh?"  Quite abruptly she indicated
the woman in front.  "I do think she's real beautiful, don't you?"

"Who?"  The man had no concern for anybody at that moment but the girl
at his side.

"Who?  Say, aren't you just foolish.  I was thinking of Mrs. Van
Blooren."

The man laughed.

"I surely am," he declared.  "And I've won prizes for thought-reading
at parlor games, too."

They both laughed.  Then Nan went on with a persistence which was quite
lost upon the thought-reader.

"Who is she?  Mrs. Van Blooren?" she demanded.

"Why, you met her, sure?"  Then the man added with some significance:
"She's riding with Jeff Masters."

"Oh, yes.  I've met her.  I met her last night, and I've seen her many
times before."  Then she added with a shadow of coldness in her manner:
"But she doesn't belong to the cattle folk."

The man's eyes were following the direction of Nan's.

"No-o," he said seriously.  "Guess I'm not wise.  They say her husband
was a rancher--before he acted foolish an' died."

Nan's laugh came readily.

"That's bright.  I don't guess he started running cattle--after."

Dugdale chuckled explosively.

"Who's to say?" he cried.  Then he went on with enthusiasm: "Say,
wouldn't it be bully to think of?  Just get a thought of it.  Flapping
around with elegant store wings, rounding up golden steers trimmed with
fancy halos, and with jeweled eyes.  Branding calves of silver with
flaming irons and turning 'em out to feed on a pasture of purple grass
with emeralds and sapphires for blossoms all growing around.  And
then----"

"Think again.  Say, your taste's just--cheap.  But we're talking of
Mrs. Van Blooren."

"I'm sorry.  Why, I guess she's daughter to the Carruthers's.  John D.
Carruthers.  He was principal at St. Bude's College.  Pensioned.  Guess
it's five years since she handed us boys the G. B. and hooked up with a
white-gilled hoodlum from down East.  He got around here with a wad
he'd raised from his father.  Can't say who his father was.  Folks
guessed he was some millionaire.  I don't just know the rights of it.
Anyway, he left her well enough fixed.  Gee!  Fancy a feller acting
that way--dying, with a wife like that.  Wonder what sort of mush he
kept in his thinking depot?  I'd say folks with sense have to live on
the chances fools can't just kick to death.  Anyway, seeing she's
started right in to set her wings rustling again I guess some feller
with hoss sense'll be getting busy.  They'd make a swell couple," he
added with a grin.  "Jeff's a good-looker."

Nan nodded.

But she made no answer.  Had the man been less concerned with his
match-making suggestions he must have observed the effect of his
careless words.  Nan had paled under the pretty tanning of her rounded
cheeks.  She was hurt, hurt beyond words, and though she could
willingly have cried out she was forced to smother her feelings.  The
panic of the moment passed, however, and, with a great effort, she was
able to give her suggestion its proper value.  But somehow, for the
rest of the ride, it seemed to her that the sun was less bright, the
wind even had become chilly, and altogether there was a curious,
enervating world-weariness hanging over everything.

By the time they reached the race-track she felt in her simple heart
she ought to apologize for having spoiled her escort's ride.  But the
inclination was only the result of her depression.  She even told
herself, with a gleam of humor, that if she attempted it she would have
to burst into tears.

However, the later excitement of the racing helped to revive Nan's
drooping spirits.  The scene was irresistible.  The atmosphere.  The
happy buoyant enjoyment on every side could not long be denied whatever
the troubles awaiting more sober moments.  There were the sleek and
glossy horses.  There were the brilliant colors of the jockey's silks.
There was the babel of excited voices, the shouting as the horses
rushed down the picturesque "straight."  Then the betting.  The
lunching.  The sun.  The blessed sun and gracious woodland slopes
shutting in this happy playground of men and women become children
again at the touch of pleasure's magic wand.  No, for all her anxiety,
Nan had no power to withstand the charm and delirium of it all.  And,
for a while, she flung herself into it with an abandon which matched
the most reckless.

Twice she found herself in financial difficulties through reckless
betting, and twice the open-handed Bud had to come to her assistance.
Each time his comment was characteristic, and Nan laughed at him with
the irresponsibility of a child who tastes the delight of gambling for
the first time.

"Say, little gal," Bud admonished her, the second time he unrolled his
"wad" of bills.  "Makin' dollars on a race-track's jest about as easy
as makin' ice-cream.  Ther's jest one way of doing it.  Ast yourself
which hoss you're craziest to dope out your money on, an' when you're
plumb sure then get right along an' bet on the other feller.
Meanwhiles think in dollars an' play in cents."

And Nan's answer reflected her feelings of the moment.

"You can't play in cents, my Daddy, when it's time to play in dollars.
You never know when the time's coming along when even cents are denied
you."

Then before the worshipping parent could add to his advice the girl
darted off with her hands full of outspread bills seeking the pool
rooms.

She had seen the horses cantering over to the post for the half-mile
dash.  It was a race for legitimate cow-ponies and she knew Jeff's
"Sassafras" was running in it.  She meant to bet on Jeff's horse.  It
mattered nothing to her what other horses were running.  She knew
little enough of their claims.  She had one thought in life.  Anything
to do with Jeff Masters, anything of his was good enough for her to
gamble on--even with her life.  This was the real, all unconscious Nan.
It was not in her to give half measure.  She had no idea of what she
was doing.  She had no subtlety or calculation of anything where her
love was concerned.  She would back Jeff to the limit, and stand or
fall by it.  It was the simple loyalty and devotion which only a woman
can yield.

On her way to the pool room she encountered Jeff himself, and, in the
excitement of the moment, clasping her money in both hands, she thrust
them out toward him.

"Say, Jeff," she cried, "I'm just crazy.  The horses have gone right
out to the start now, and--and I'm gasping to put my dollars on
Sassafras."

The man's quiet smile was good to see.  And Nan warmed under its
influence.  This was the Jeff she had known so long and loved so well.
There was no other woman near to have provoked that smile.  It was
hers.  She felt it was all hers, and her eyes shone up into the depths
of blue she so loved.

"Why, Nan, I just hate to disappoint you," he said, in a gentle
fashion.  "But you'll surely be crazy to back my plug with Tommy
Cleveden's 'Jack Rabbit' in the race.  It's a cinch for him.  It is so."

Nan laughed a glad buoyant laugh.

"Jack Rabbit?" she echoed scornfully.  "Why, he points the toe.  Guess
he'd outrun Sassafras if he kept his feet, but he'll never do it.
He'll peck.  Then he'll change his stride.  No, Jeff.  Sassafras goes
with me."

The smile in the man's eyes faded out.  He hated the thought of Nan
losing her money on what he considered a foolish bet.  His practical
mind could not see under her purpose.

"Say, Nan, just don't you do it," he said persuasively.  "We aren't.
We're backing Jack Rabbit for a big roll."

"We?"

"Mrs. Van Blooren and me."

Jeff's manner was quite unconcerned.  At that instant he had no thought
of anything but to dissuade Nan from throwing her money away uselessly.
And Nan.  Her eyes never wavered for an instant in their regard.  Their
warmth of expression remained.  Yet it was a cruel blow.  Perhaps the
cruelest that could have been inflicted at such a moment.  Jeff had
inflicted it--Jeff of all men.

She smiled up at him.  Oh, how she smiled.  Her eyes shone like two
superb brown diamonds as she forced her money upon him with even
greater determination.

"Take it, Jeff.  Take it," she cried urgently.  "Say, if you never,
never do another thing for me--ever.  Take it, and, why, I guess every
cent of it says Sassafras wins.  Sassafras is your pony, Jeff, and I'd
back him if he'd only three legs and a fence post."  Then just the
smallest gleam of the woman peeped through.  "Maybe Mrs. Van Blooren's
a pretty bright woman.  But I guess I'm wise to horses."

Jeff hurried away.  There was no time to waste.  The horses had already
assembled at the start.  Nan watched him go with eyes that had lost
their last gleam of sunshine.  The mask she had set up before the man
had completely fallen.  Jeff was--was betting for Mrs. Van Blooren!  He
was betting with her!  Maybe even they were pooling their bets!  Oh!

For some moments she stood alone where Jeff had left her.  Everybody
had rushed to the fence of the enclosure, crowding to witness the race.
Nan seemed to have forgotten it.  It was Bud's voice that finally
claimed her, and she tried to pull her scattered faculties together.

She reached Bud's side amongst the crowd, and the old man's shrewd eyes
searched her troubled face.

"What's amiss, Nan?" he demanded, in a tone almost brusque.

And the girl responded with a wistful smile.

"Why, Daddy, I've bet all your money on Jeff's Sassafras, and--and I
want him to win more than anything--anything in the world."

Bud's reply was lost in the sudden shout that went up.  It was the
start.  Some one made way for Nan, and gently pushed her to a place
against the railings.  The winning-post was directly in front of her.
The full breadth of the track was in her view.  She gazed out with eyes
that were very near tears.  She saw a vista of green and many figures
moving beyond the track.  She heard the hoarse cries of men, whose
desires exceeded their veracity as they shouted the progress of the
race.  But nothing of what she heard or beheld conveyed anything to
her.  Her heart was aching once more, and her thoughts were heavily
oppressed, and all the joy of the day had suddenly been banished.

Then of a sudden came that greatest of all tonics.  That irresistible
sensation so powerfully stimulating that no trouble can resist it.  The
racing horses leaped into her view, and the disjointed shouts welded
into one steady roar.  Nan was caught in the tide of it all.  The blood
seemed to rush to her head like full rich wine.  She added her light
cries to the general tumult.

"Sassafras!  Sassafras!" she cried, with eyes blind to all but the
indistinct cluster of the straining horses.

Then in her ears rang a cry:

"A hundred dollars Jack Rabbit!  A thousand!  Jack Rabbit!  Jack
Rabbit!"

It was like a douche of cold water.  The girl's heart sank.  She felt,
she knew that Jack Rabbit had won.  Then into her ears poured a babel
of voices.  The roar had died out, and the crowd were waiting for the
numbers to go up.

Nan had no further interest.  She turned to seek her father.  He was
there, not far behind her, and she pushed her way toward him.  She
smiled bravely as she came up, but the pathos of it was lost on Bud.
He was craning, and his eyes were on the number board.  He did not even
see her.

"I'm--I'm sort of tired, Daddy," she began.

But Bud held up his hand.  There was a rattle at the number board.  Nan
understood.  She waited.  Then it seemed as if the crowd had timed
itself for one unanimous shout.

"Sassafras!"

It came with a sort of electric thrill for the girl.  In one wild
moment all her shadows seemed to clear.

"Sassafras!" she cried.

And her father's deep gray eyes beamed down upon her

"You've sure guessed right, little gal," he said.  "An' I--hope it was
dollar time."

At that instant Jeff thrust his way through the crowd, and the warmth
of his smile flooded the girl's heart with happiness.

"Say, Nan," he cried, holding out his hand with an enthusiasm that was
hardly to be expected in one who has lost, "you got us all beat a mile.
You surely have.  Sassafras.  My old Sassafras.  Say, who'd 'a' thought
it?"  Nan's hand remained clasped in his, and she seemed to have no
desire to withdraw it.  Jeff looked round into Bud's face.  "Do you
know what she's won?  Do you, Nan?" he went on to the girl again.

Nan laughed.  It was all she wanted to do.

"Not a notion, Jeff.  I handed you all Daddy gave me.  How much was it,
Daddy?"

"Five hundred."

Nan's eyes widened in alarm.

"Five hundred?  And I bet it all on--Sassafras!"

"And you've won nearly five thousand," cried Jeff, stirred completely
out of himself at the girl's success.

"I--I must have been--crazy," she declared, in an awed voice.

Bud laughed, but his eyes were full of a sympathy that had no meaning
for the others.

"Not crazy, little Nan.  Jest good grit.  Guess Jeff didn't see the
pool waitin' around for him to pick up.  Wal, guess ther's a heap o'
folk like him.  You played right out for a win, an' you won--by a head."




CHAPTER XI

ELVINE VAN BLOOREN

It was the last day of the Cattle Week.  A week which, for at least
three people, was fraught with something in the nature of epoch-making
events.  All that the simple heart of Nan Tristram had looked forward
to, yearned for, had been denied her from the first moment she had
beheld that unmistakable lightening up of Jeff's eyes on his meeting
with Elvine van Blooren.  It had been a revelation of dread.  Her own
secret hopes had been set shaking to their very foundations.  And from
that moment on, during the rest of the week, brick by brick the whole
edifice of them had been set tumbling.  By the last day nothing but a
pile of debris remained.

Holiday!  It had been a good deal less than holiday.  She had looked
forward to one all too brief succession of days of delight.  Jeff, who
had been honored by his fellows in the world which was theirs.  Jeff,
the leader in the great industry which absorbed them all.  Jeff, the
man by his very temperament marked out for a worldly success only
bounded by the limitations of his personal ambitions.  She had been so
proud of him.  She had been so thankful to be allowed to share in his
triumphs.  She had shared in them, too--up till that meeting with
Elvine van Blooren at the reception.  After that--ah, well, there had
been very little after for Nan.

And the man himself.  Four days had sufficed to reduce Jeff's feelings
to a condition of love-sickness such as is best associated with extreme
youth.  Furthermore its hold upon him was deeper, more lasting by
reason of the innate strength of his character.

As for Elvine van Blooren it would be less easy to say.  Her beauty was
of a darkly reticent order.  Hers was the face, the eyes, the manner
yielding up few secrets.  She rarely imparted confidence even to her
mother.  And a woman who denies her mother rarely yields confidence to
any other human creature.

Perhaps in her case, however, she had good reason.  Mrs. John D.
Carruthers, who possessed a simple erudite professor for a husband, a
man who possessed no worldly ambitions of any sort, and who readily
accepted his pension from the trustees of St. Bude's College at the
earliest date, so that he might devote all his riper years to the
prosecution of his passion for classical research, was a painful
example of worldliness, and a woman who regarded position and wealth
before all things.  There was little enough sympathy between mother and
daughter.  Mrs. John D. Carruthers only saw in Elvine's unusual beauty
an asset in her schemes of advancement.  While Elvine displayed a cold
disregard for the older woman's efforts, and went her own way.

Elvine was strong, even as Jeffrey Masters was strong.  But while the
man's strength lay in the single purpose of achievement, Elvine looked
for the ease and luxury which life could legitimately afford her.
Elvine and her mother possessed far too much in common ever to have
sympathy for one another.

It was this very attitude which inspired an acrimonious half hour in
the somewhat pretentious parlor on Maple Avenue just before Jeff was to
pay his farewell call at the close of the Cattle Week.

Elvine was occupied with a small note-book on the| pages of which there
were many figures.  With a small gold pencil she was working out sums,
which, apparently, were solely for her own edification.  She
communicated nothing to her mother, who covertly glanced over at her
from the fancy work she was engaged upon at the far side of the room.

The room was such as might be found in any of the better middle-class
houses in a western city.  Its furnishing was a trifle ornate.
Comfortable chairs predominated, and their woodwork shone with an
extreme lustre, or were equally aggressive in their modern fictitious
Mission House style.  The carpet and rugs were broadly floral and
bright.  There was altogether a modernity about the character of it
which decidedly belonged to the gray-haired showiness of the wife of
John Carruthers.  For all that, there was nothing absolutely untasteful
about Elvine's surroundings.  The daughter would never have permitted
such a thing.  It was only modern, extremely modern.  That type of
modern which belongs to those homes where money is a careful
consideration.

At last Elvine closed her note-book and returned it to the rather large
pocketbook which was lying in her lap.  Her fine eyes were half
smiling, and a faint tinge of color deepened her perfect cheeks.  She
sighed.

"We didn't do so badly at the races, Momma," she said, more for her own
satisfaction than her mother's information.  "Guess I've got most all
of it in and--I'm satisfied."

"Maybe you are, my dear," came the ungracious response.

Her mother was bending over her work, nor did she trouble to raise her
eyes in her daughter's direction.

"That sounds as if somebody else wasn't."

Elvine raised a pair of beautifully rounded arms above her head and
rested the back of her neck upon her clasped hands.

The gray head was lifted sharply.  A pair of brilliant black eyes shot
a disapproving glance across the room.  Then the mother continued her
work, shaking her head emphatically.

"What's the use of a few dollars?  He's going back to his ranch
to-morrow, and--nothing's happened."

There was something crude, almost brutal in the manner of it.  There
was something which on a woman's lips might well have revolted any man.
But it was an attitude to which the daughter was used.  Besides, it
saved her any qualms she might otherwise have had in pursuing her own
way under the shelter of her mother's roof.

"I really can't see what you've to complain of, Momma," Elvine laughed,
without any display of mirth.  "I guess if you wanted to marry a man
you'd leave him about as much chance as he'd have with a wildcat."
Then her smile died out.  "Anyway it doesn't seem to be a matter for
other folk to concern themselves with.  I'm not a child."

"No.  But you're going to throw away the chance of a lifetime if you
don't act right now.  Why, girl, Jeff Masters is the pick of the whole
bunch of cattlemen around this district.  He's going to be one of the
cattle kings of the country, or I don't guess I know a thing.  He's
right here to your hand, and as tame as a lap-dog.  To-morrow he's off
again to the ranch, and that girl of his partner's will have him to
herself for a year.  Why, you're crazy to let him go.  Four years
you've lived here since--since----"

"I wish you'd stop worrying, Momma--and," the girl added with
unconcealed resentment, "get on with your knitting."

Elvine had risen to her feet.  She moved swiftly over to the window
which gave on to a wide stoop, the roof of which was supported on
well-built rag stone columns.  She was more angry than her words
admitted.  Her fine eyes were sparkling, her delicately penciled brows
were slightly knitted.

She made a handsome picture.  Her wealth of dark hair was carefully
dressed, but with the usual consummate simplicity.  Her figure was
superb, with all the ripeness of maturity, but without the smallest
inclination toward any gross development.  She was statuesque, with all
the perfect cunning of Nature's art.  She was a woman to find favor in
any eyes, man's or woman's, and to perform that dual feat was a test
which few women could hope to survive.

The mother's reply came sharply and without yielding.

"It's just four years since you came back to home.  Five or more since
you first married.  Anyway, you've sat around here for four years
having a good time without a thought of the future.  You're spending
your money, which didn't amount to----"

The girl flashed round.

"I won't tolerate it.  I just won't, Momma," she cried, with an energy
which brought the other's eyes swiftly to her face.  "You've talked of
four years wasted, but you don't say a word of the other year, the
fifth.  It's taken me all that time to--forget what your judgment might
have saved me from.  Oh, yes.  You know it just as well as I do.  Don't
blind yourself.  I was foolish then, I thought I was in love, and it
was the moment when the advice of a woman worth having might have
helped me.  You urged me in my folly to marry then, the same as you're
urging me now.  You saw everything you hoped for in that marriage, and
you let me plunge myself into a living hell without a single qualm.
The result.  Oh, I've tried to forget.  But I can't I haven't
forgotten.  I never shall forget.  But I've learned.  I certainly have.
I've learned to think wholly for myself--of myself.  I don't need
advice now.  I don't need a thing.  You'll never see things my way, and
I don't fancy to see them yours.  I shall marry.  And when I marry
again I promise you I'll marry right, and," she laughed bitterly, "I
guess I'll hand you the rake off which you're looking for.  But," she
went on, with a swift, ruthless candor which stung even the worldly
heart of the older woman, "I'll make no experimental practice.  I'll
marry the man I want to, first because I like him, and second, because
he's a right man, and can hand me the life I need.  Maybe that's pretty
hard sounding, but I tell you, Momma, it's nothing to the hardness that
makes you talk the way you do.  Anyway, I want you to get it fixed in
your mind right now I'm no priceless gem in a jewelry store that you're
going to sell at the price you figure.  I'll dispose of myself when,
and to whom, I choose, and my motives will be my own.  Now we'll quit
it, once for all.  Jeffrey Masters is coming right along down the
sidewalk."

The mother's black eyes snapped angrily.

"Very well," she exclaimed sharply.  "See to it you make good.  Your
father's pension isn't even sufficient for two, and your own money is
limited.  Meanwhile, don't forget the Tristram girl's just as pretty as
a picture."

But Elvine's exasperation had passed.  There was a slight softening in
her eyes as they surveyed the handsome, elaborately dressed gray head
and the careful toilet of her unlovely mother.  She understood the
bitter carping of this disappointed woman.  Her spirit soared far
beyond the lot of the wife of a pensioned school-teacher.  She knew,
too, that somewhere, lost in some dim recess of a coldly calculating
nature, there was a tiny, glowing spot which burned wholly for her.

There was an unusual softness in her tone when she replied.

"But she needs framing, Momma," she said lightly.  "And anyway, a girl
who lives more or less on the premises with a man for five years or so,
and hasn't married him--well, I guess she never will."

      *      *      *      *      *      *

The whole method of Jeff's life was rapidity of thought and swift
execution supported by a perfect genius for clear thinking.  It was
these characteristics which had lifted him so rapidly in the world of
cattle he had made his own.  It was these which had shown him the
possibilities of the now great Obar Ranch.

It might have been claimed for him that he lacked many of the lovable
weaknesses of human nature.  It might have been said that he was hard,
cold.  Yet such was his passionate ambition beneath a cool, deliberate
exterior that it would have been foolish to believe that his outward
display was the real man.  He was perhaps a powerfully controlled fire,
but the hot tide ran strong within him, and the right torch at the
right moment might easily stir the depths of him and bring their fiery
display to the surface.

Bud knew him.  Bud understood something of the deep human tide flowing
through his strong veins.  Once he had seen that tide at the surface,
and it had left an impression not easily forgettable.  Nan, too, was
not without understanding of him.  But hers was the understanding of
her sex for an idol she had set up in her heart.  Her knowledge of his
shortcomings and his best characteristics was perhaps the reflection of
her feelings for him, feelings which make it possible for a woman to
endow any object of her profound regard with the virtues she would have
it possess.  To her there was nothing of the iron, relentless,
purposeful soul about him.  He was just "Honest Jeff," as she loved to
call him.  A creature full of kindly thought for others as well as
strong in his own personal attitude toward life.

For himself Jeff knew nothing of the emotions lying dormant within him
until some chance happening stirred them from their slumbers and sent
them pulsating through his senses.  He accepted the tide of life as he
found it, and only on his journey, swimming down its many currents, he
endeavored by skilful pilotship to avoid the shoals, and seek the
beneficent backwaters so that his muscles and courage might be
strengthened for the completion of the task he had still before him.

Elvine van Blooren had held the right torch at their first meeting
during the Cattle Week.  One look into her beautiful eyes had set his
soul aflame, as all the years of his life spent in association with Nan
Tristram had failed to do.  Did she only know it, the first waltz with
him at the subsequent ball had completely made her mistress of his
destiny.

Again with his rapid, clear-thinking mind he had not only promptly
admitted this truth to himself, but he reveled in the enchantment of
the thought it inspired.  He desired it.  He regretted only that
fortune had so long denied him the contemplation of such delights.  He
felt he had never before lived.  He had merely existed, something more
than a physical and mental machine, something less than a man.

Something of all this stimulated his sensations during that ostensible
farewell call upon the woman who had inspired the change.  And, as his
hungry eyes dwelt upon her great beauty, he became a prey to an impulse
that was irresistible.  Why should this be a farewell?  Why should
there ever be a farewell between them?  There could be none.  Then, to
his support came that steady determination which never failed him in
crises.  There should be no farewell.

He was clad in sober conventional garb.  There was only the bronzing
upon his fair brow and firm cheeks to suggest the open air life that
was his.  His slim, powerful figure was full of an ease which caught
and held, and pleased Elvine van Blooren's fancy, and awoke in her more
material mind something of the dreams which had driven her almost
unthinkingly into the arms of her first husband.  His fine blue eyes
were alight with possibilities which came near to overbalancing the
calculations of her mature mind.  But, even so, she felt that the
ground was so safe under her feet that, even with the background of the
past ever in her memory, she could safely indulge her warmth of fancy
to its full.

They were alone in the little modern parlor.  At another time Jeff must
have observed its atmosphere without enthusiasm, just now he welcomed
it.  It represented the intimate background of a beautiful woman's
life.  This was the shrine of the goddess whom he had set up for his
own worship.  Again there was no half measure.

They were talking in that intimate fashion which belongs to the period
when a man and a woman have made up their minds that there remains no
obstacle to the admission of mutual regard.

"It's just wonderful to have done it all in so short a time," Elvine
said in her low even tones.

Jeff had been talking of the Obar Ranch which was more precious to him
than a schoolboy's first big achievement in the playing fields.  He had
been talking of it, not in the spirit of vain glory, but out of the
deep affection of a strong heart for the child of his own creation.

"Oh, I guess it would have been wonderful with any other feller for a
partner than Bud Tristram," Jeff responded promptly.  "As an
enterprise, why, I guess it's my thought.  As a success, it's Bud's
genius for setting cattle prospering.  Say, you can't handle a wide
proposition right by reckoning up figures and fixing deeds of sale and
partnership.  I allow you need to do some thinking that way.  But when
it's all figgered right, why, the real practical man needs to get busy
or the figgers aren't worth the ink an' paper you've used to make 'em.
Bud's the feller of the Obars.  I just sit around and talk wise when he
needs talk, which I don't guess is frequent."

Jeff's smile was genuine.  There was no false modesty that made him
place the credit of the Obar's success at Bud's door.  The credit was
Bud's.  He knew it.  And, with frank honesty, was only too ready to
admit it, and even advertise it.

Elvine nodded.  Her dark eyes were warmly returning his smile.

"I like that," she said simply.  And she meant it.

The blood mounted to the man's brow.  He felt that he had forced her to
make the admission, and regarded his act with some shame.

"Say, don't feel you've got to say that," he said earnestly.  "You
mustn't just think I'm asking your applause.  These are simple facts
which I can't deny.  I'd like to feel the sun just rises and sets
around my work, but if I did I'd be the same sort of fool as those
Pharisee fellers in the Bible.  Bud's a bully feller, and I'll owe him
more than I can ever hand him back just as long as I live."

Elvine was comparing this man's big generosity with her understanding
of most of the men she had ever known.  She was thinking, too, of days
long since passed, and events which even a wide distance of time had
not succeeded in rendering mellow.

She sighed.  Somehow "Honest Jeff" was hurting her in a way she would
never have believed any man could hurt her--now.

"This Bud Tristram's daughter--Nan.  She's a pretty creature," Elvine
went on, feeling their topic needed changing.

Jeff's smile deepened.

"She's pretty--right through to her soul," came his prompt and earnest
response.

Elvine's eyes observed him closely.  She laughed in a challenging
fashion.

"And she is still her father's daughter?"

Jeff flushed.  Her meaning could not be mistaken.  His impulse was to
speak out of the depth of a strong abiding regard for his friend's
"little gal."  But he rejected the impulse.  Time and his own desires
were pressing.

"Oh, I guess she'll marry some fellow some day.  Maybe he'll be good
enough----"

"And more than likely he won't."  Elvine's reply was emphatic.  She
suddenly sat forward in the deep rocker, and a great earnestness shone
in her eyes.  "I tell you no woman in this life has a right to be as
'pretty' as you believe her to be," she said with intense bitterness.
"If I had my way every girl would be taught to reason for herself on
those things in life which make for her well-being.  I'd make her think
that way before everything else.  To me it is the direst cruelty of
Providence that we should be left to become the prey of our own
emotions, and at the mercy of any man of whatever quality who can
sufficiently stir them.  Maybe you do not agree to that.  But just
think of the awful position that every wretched, physically feeble
woman stands in in the life about her.  I tell you no girl on her own
resources has much better than a dog's chance of getting through life
without disaster.  Our emotions are the most absurdly foolish type it
is possible to think of.  I guess we can do things with our normal
reason which would shame a whole asylum of crazy folk who can't be let
run around free.  Oh, I'd like to know her better, to tell her, to warn
her.  I don't guess I've ever done good in the world, but I'd like to.
If I could save one of my sex from some of the pitfalls lying around,
maybe I'd feel I'd been some use."

"Why not know her better?  Say, Nan's no end of a good sort.  She'd be
real glad."

Jeff's invitation sounded lame, even to himself.  But he was struggling
under an emotion that made words difficult.

Elvine laughed.

"Would she?  I wonder."

Then she hurried on lest her observation should be interpreted.

"And you're going to quit our city to-morrow for your wonderful ranch.
I guess the Cattle Week's liable to bore folks who've real work in the
world--like you.  It's just a week of show, and glitter, and ceremony,
all those things which have no real place in the world of things that
matter.  But there, after all, I wonder what are the things that
matter.  And do they matter anyway?  We have no guide.  We're just left
to grope around and search for ourselves, and every folk's ideas are
different from every other folk's.  I'm restless.  I sort of feel
there's so much to be done in the world--if we only knew how, and what."

The half-bantering manner of the woman did not disguise her
earnestness.  Jeff shook his head.

"Guess I can't say.  Guess none of us can--rightly.  But why not come
around to the ranch and see things?  See if you can worry out an
answer.  See if you think the work we're doing matters.  It certainly
does matter to me, to us.  But in the world.  I don't know.  Just now I
sort of feel it don't.  Just now I'm wondering whether I'll go back
there to-morrow.  What do you say?"

"I?  How can I say?"

Jeff laughed.

"I don't guess there's a thing easier."  His eyes were shining as he
took in the girl's dark beauty.  "Seems to me I'm beginning to wonder
about the things that matter myself.  It's been a bully week.  The sort
of week some folks would write about in their secret diary.  Guess I
don't keep a secret diary--except somewhere right in here."  He tapped
his breast.  "I don't seem to feel I've ever had such a time, or ever
will again, unless----"

"Unless?"  Elvine was caught in the mood of the moment.  This man was
exercising a fascination over her which had nothing to do with the
calculations she had laid down for the guidance of her sex.

"Why, unless I add another week to it."

"D'you think you could duplicate it then?"

"That just depends on--you."

Elvine rose from her chair and moved toward the window.  Jeff, too,
left his chair.  He stood tall and straight--waiting.

Her back was turned to him.

"It is not for me to say," she replied without turning.

"Why not?"

"Your work--in the world."

"Can wait.  There's always--Bud Tristram."

Suddenly Elvine turned about.  Her eyes were smiling, and full of a
light which had not lived in them for several years.  There was not a
shadow of calculation in them now.

She held out her hand in token of dismissal.

"We had some fine rides--together," she said.

"My horses are still here."

"And--the dances.  They were--very pleasant."

"Maybe they can be danced--again."

"Good-bye," she said, her beautiful hand lingering in his for a moment.

"For the present," Jeff added with decision.

Then he mechanically glanced at his timepiece.  His "farewell" call had
lasted over two hours.  But even so it had been all too short for him.




CHAPTER XII

THE TEMPERING

Bud was packing in his rooms at Aston's Hotel.  It was late at night.
Late as it was, however, he had only left Nan, engaged at a similar
occupation, less than half an hour ago.  He had sat talking to her, and
watching her with eyes of deep concern while, with infinite care, she
bestowed those beautiful gowns which mean so much in a woman's life.

His visit to her had not been one of mere companionship.  It had been
inspired by a sympathy he had no other means of displaying.  He had
talked to her; by every means in his power he had endeavored to
interest her in reminiscence of the week's doings.  She listened
patiently, almost submissively, for she understood the promptings of
his endeavor.  But she was too deeply plunged in her own discouragement
to display real interest, and it had required every ounce of courage
she possessed to prevent herself falling to weeping.

Nor was Bud at fault for a moment.  He recognized the trouble lurking
in the sweet brown eyes.  And with all his might he pretended not to
see.  So, when his last effort to cheer had proved unavailing, he took
his departure under the excuse of his own packing.

He knew.  Of course he knew.  Had he not watched the progress of events
throughout the week?  Had he not seen for himself how Jeff's fancy had
been caught?  And she was very beautiful, this town-bred woman,
beautiful with that healthy, downy complexion which Bud found did not
fit with his idea of city "raised" women.  He almost felt he hated her,
yet he knew he had no right to his antagonism.  Jeff was unpledged, he
was free.  No woman had any claim on him.  Not even Nan.  Poor Nan.  He
had hoped to give her seven long days of unalloyed delight.  He had
only given her seven days of bitter disappointment and disillusion.

He set about his packing with furious zest.  In a moment, it seemed,
his room was in a state of chaos.  And all the while, as he bundled
garments together and flung them into his grips, his busy thought went
on in the only direction in which it seemed capable of moving just now.

His mind had gone back to the days before their visit to Calthorpe.  He
remembered the delighted anticipation which Nan had displayed.  Her
displays of happy affection for himself in the midst of her own great
looking forward.  The ravishing hours she had spent in choosing
patterns of material, and styles of gown.  He remembered the bright
sparkling eyes shining, it seemed to him, at all times.  That wonderful
looking forward.  Oh, the holiday of it had been nothing.  There was
only one thing, one thought, which had inspired the child.  It was
Jeff.  It was a week that was to see honor done him, and she--she was
to join in honoring him.  Jeff was the whole hub about which her
happiness revolved.

He was pained.  He was angry.  And the vision of Elvine van Blooren's
dark beauty haunted him.  He admitted it--her beauty.  And for all his
disquiet, his bitter feeling, he found it impossible to blame the man.

Yes, for all his exasperation.  For all he regarded Jeff as a "fool
man," he was just enough to remember that Nan was his own little
daughter, a pretty prairie girl, with nothing of the showy attraction
of this city woman.  Then Jeff's attitude toward her.  It had never
been more than the sheerest friendliness.  He reflected bitterly, even,
that they might have been simply brother and sister.  While the dream
of his life was some day to be able to pour out the wealth he was
storing up into the out-stretched palms of their children.

Well, it was a dream.  And now it had come tumbling about his feet, and
it almost looked to him as if poor little Nan's heart was to be buried
beneath the debris.

He flung his evening suit, which Nan had so much admired, into the
gaping jaws of a large leather grip, with a disregard that more than
illustrated his feelings.  Then he strove to close the grip tucking in
the projecting oddments of silk-lined cloth without the least
consideration for their well-being.  He felt he never wanted to wear
such things again, never wanted even to see them.  He and Nan belonged
to the prairie, not to a city.  That was good enough for them.  What
was the use----?

But his reflections were interrupted by the abrupt appearance of Jeff
himself.  Bud looked up as the door was unceremoniously thrust open,
and his regard was quite unshaken by the depths of his feelings.  It
displayed a mute question, however.

Jeff began at once.

"I saw the light through your transom, Bud, so I just came right in."

Jeff was a shade paler than usual.  There was a look of some doubt in
his blue eyes.  And his manner hinted at a decision taken.  A decision
that had not been arrived at without some considerable exercise of mind.

Slowly, as he regarded him, all Bud's bitterness subsided.  If Nan were
his daughter, this man was almost a son to him.

"Say, old friend, I'm--I'm not going back home with you to-morrow,"
Jeff went on.  He stirred with a suggestion of nervousness, and then
flung himself upon the old man's littered-up bed.  "I just can't, an'
that's a fact.  I want to stop around here for a while.  I got to."

He paused as though awaiting an answer, but none was forthcoming.  Only
was there that steady regard from the man beyond the still open grip.

Bud was not thinking of the announcement.  Jeff was certainly a
"good-looker," and he was beginning to understand something of the
attraction he must have for a woman like Elvine van Blooren.  He was
slim and muscular, with a keen face of decision and strength.  Then,
was he not on the rising wave which must ever appeal to the maturer
mind of a widow, however young?  His disappointment rose again and
threatened to find expression.  But he thrust it aside and struggled to
remember only his regard for the man.

"D'you mind?"  Jeff's question came nervously.

Did he mind?  It was a weak question.  Coming from Jeff it sounded
foolish.  Bud smiled, and his quiet sense of humor saved him from
himself.

"Why, if you feel that way I don't guess you need worry a thing, Jeff."
Then he added: "Guess Nan an' me'll get right along home.  But it don't
need to cut no ice.  I take it you're askin' me to fix things right at
the Obars till you get around.  That so?"

Jeff nodded.  He was feeling that he was doing something mean, even
brutal.  He knew that what he contemplated must result in the bitterest
disappointment to his old friend.  He had well enough known throughout
their partnership Bud's yearning desire that he should marry Nan.
Well, such a course was unthinkable now.  Somehow it had never seemed
really possible.  He was troubled, grievously troubled, but he was
determined now to act in the only honest way.  He was determined that
Bud should know the truth--at all costs.

"I'd be thankful to you, Bud."

"You don't need to say a word.  It's fixed."

For some moments no other word was spoken.  There was awkwardness.  But
it was with Jeff alone.  He feared the result of what he must tell.

"You're--packing?" he said presently.

Bud sat himself heavily into a rocker.

"Yep.  Lestways I don't guess Nan 'ud call it that way."  He raked his
curly iron-gray hair with his strong fingers, and gazed ruefully at the
chaos.

"Maybe I can help some."

Bud shook his head, and his smile was good.

"Guess one darn fool's enough playin' this game.  When're you coming
along to--home?"

"Maybe a week."

The reply was prompt.

"An'--you'll bring her along with you?"

The eyes of the two men met.  Each was reading the other like an open
book.

Jeff shook his head.  Somehow there was nothing absurd to him in Bud's
suggestion.  There was nothing startling even in the probing of his
secret with so much directness.

"I haven't asked her--yet."

Then it was that the big heart of the friend, who was almost a father,
made itself apparent.

"But you're goin' to, Jeff.  An' she's goin' to take you.  Say, Jeff,
she's one lucky woman."

In a moment the tide of the younger man's feelings was set flowing.  In
a moment the egoism of the lover made a generous nature forget all else
but the passion that absorbed him.  In a moment the thought that this
man was Nan's father, and that the dearest wish of his life was that
he, Jeff, should marry his daughter, was forgotten.

"Lucky?  But you got it wrong, Bud," Jeff cried, sitting erect, his
face flushed with the passionate stirring of Ills strong heart.  "It's
I who'll be lucky, if she don't turn me down.  Man, I'm not worth the
dust on her shoes.  I'm not fit to lackey for her.  Nor--nor is any
other feller.  Say, Bud," he went on, leaning impressively forward, his
eyes shining with his passion, "I'm just crazy to death for her.
And--and I can't just help it.  I'd go through hell's flames for her,
man, I'd----"

"Say, boy, don't worry that-a-way.  Jest marry her instead," Bud broke
in with his gentlest smile.  "You're all sorts of a boy, Jeff, and I
don't figger you got call to talk about the dust of any woman's shoes.
But I guess ther's times when it's good fer a man to feel he ain't as
big as he's told.  Anyways, you get right ahead, and leave me to the
Obars.  I ain't goin' to fail you now, any more than any other time."
Then he rumpled his stubbly hair again, and it was an action that
suggested heavy thought.  "Say," he went on, a moment later, his eyes
looking squarely into the face of the other, "we're hittin' the trail
good an' early to-morrow.  Guess you best let me say 'good-bye' to Nan
for you.  That so?"

Jeff nodded.  He understood.  And somehow the bigness of this man made
him almost despise himself.

"Then I guess I'll get right on with my--packin'."

      *      *      *      *      *      *

They were standing on the stoop of Aston's Hotel.  In front of them the
broad Avenue opened out with its central walk, between an aisle of
wide-spreading maple trees bathed in the early morning sun.  A spring
wagon was already moving away, piled up with baggage.  The saddle
horses were ready, held by one of the hotel servants.  Nan, in her
riding costume, was waiting while her father exchanged a few parting
words with the hotel manager.

"Guess you're right.  It's been a darn good week this year.  The best
in my memory.  I'd say the Conference was a heap better attended, an'
the weather's been just great.  We got through a deal o' legislation,
too.  Guess things are goin' to hum, with the Obars at the head of 'em
this year.  Our big play is to be dealin' with rustlers.  We got a hell
of a piece o' leeway to make up.  Four years ago we guessed we'd got
'em fixed where we wanted 'em.  But they hatched out since like a brood
o' wolf cubs.  So long."

"Mr. Masters is stopping on for a while," the manager observed, with
that intimate touch which he always practiced with his more influential
customers of the cattle world.

"Why, yes."  Bud's eyes were watching Nan as she mounted her pony,
carefully held by a solicitous barn-hand.  Under other circumstances
the man's attention would have afforded him amusement.  Just now he was
regretting the manager's remark.  "Y'see, ther's a deal to fix.  Seein'
he's president this year, why, I guess it's up to him to kep his ladle
busy in the soup."

He moved off the stoop and took his horse from the waiting man.  He
swung himself into the saddle with an agility which belied his years.

He waved one great hand in response to the manager's deferential bow,
and turned his horse away.  In a moment Bud and Nan were riding side by
side down the wide Avenue.

It was a long time before either attempted to break the silence between
them.  They had even reached the outskirts of the city before Nan
broached the subject from which her father admittedly shrank.

"I'm glad Jeff didn't get up to see us off," she said imply.  Then she
laughed softly.  "Y'see, Daddy, there's times for most things; and
'good-byes' in the early morning are a bit like cold baths in winter."

Bud eyed his daughter with a quick sidelong glance, and then continued
his survey of the trail ahead as it lifted over a gentle grassy slope.
They were passing the last houses of the town, and ahead lay the tawny
fields which made the country one of the greatest pastures in the world.

"Ther'd been no sort o' sense his turning out around sun-up to see us
folks off.  It ain't goin' to be weeks before he gets back home."

"No."

Nan's smile remained, and Bud, for all his avoidance of it, was aware
that was so.  It was a smile that cut him to the heart, and yet he was
simple man enough to find relief in it.

"There'll be a deal for him to fix before he gets back home," Nan went
on.

She spoke in the earnest fashion of deep consideration.  Bud glanced
round at her again, steadying his powerful horse to permit her pony to
push its nose ahead.  Her manner had startled him.  But he refrained
from the folly of replying.  He had that in his mind to impart the
thought of which nearly broke his heart.  But it must be told, and by
him.  And a passionate desire to lighten the blow made him watch
desperately for the best opportunity.

But he was dealing with a nature stronger, deeper, more honest and
clear-sighted than he knew.  He was dealing with a woman who could
sacrifice all to the well-being and happiness of those she loved.  With
Nan self held a particularly subservient place to every other emotion.
And when it did manage to obtrude itself it was her way to fight her
battle alone, at a time when no prying eyes were there to witness her
sufferings.  To the daylight she presented a pair of sweet brown
smiling eyes, and lips as full, and ripe, and firm as though no shadow
of doubt and unhappiness had ever crossed her path.

She went on rapidly, speaking as though the matter under consideration
were fully accepted between them.

"It's queer how things fix themselves the way you don't guess," she
said reflectively.  "Just one week, and they're changed around in a way
that makes you wonder if you aren't dreaming.  It's sort of like the
Indian summer, isn't it?  There's the beautiful light of the full sun
on colors that set you 'most crazy with delight.  Pictures that make
you feel Providence is just the biggest painter ever set brush to
canvas.  Then, with a shiver of wind from the north, down the leaves
tumble, and right on top of 'em comes the snow, and then you're moving
around in a sort of crystal fairy web, and wonder when you'll wake up.
A week ago Jeff didn't even know her; she wasn't in the world so far as
he knew.  Now he's going to marry her."

Nan stated the fact without a tremor of voice, without a shadow of
hesitation.  The sunny smile was entirely without a cloud.  Her father
stared down at her from his superior height with eyes wide with
astonishment and something of alarm.

"Say, did Jeff tell you?" he asked sharply.

Nan shook her head.

"Then how in hell d'you know it all?  Say----"

"How d'you know anything that affects you here, Daddy?" the girl
retorted, gently indicating her soft rounded bosom with one gauntleted
hand.

Then her smile broke out again, and the man's trouble was further
increased.

"Y'see, I don't mind saying things to you.  You're my Daddy and Momma
all rolled into one.  And there's sure a heap of you for two," she
smiled up at him.  "Maybe you don't always say all the things you feel,
but it don't keep me guessing long.  You'd a heap of terr'ble, terr'ble
things on your mind to say to me on this ride.  Oh, and they weighed
heavy.  Your poor worried face had lost all its smile, and your eyes
just looked as if you'd been lying awake nights an' nights, an' you'd
seen every sort of nightmare ever thought of in the world of dreams.
It made me kind of sorry, and I just couldn't wait for you to make that
big talk you figgered on."

Bud was gazing far out ahead at the brilliant sky-line where the crests
of grass-land cut the line in perfect undulations.  Nan's gently drawn
sigh was like the stab of a knife in his heart.  His feelings at that
moment were too deep for words.  And so the girl went on in a voice
that struck fresh chords of sympathy in the soul of the man who
idolized her.

"It seems to me, my Daddy, that we often think things that a great big
Someone don't guess are good for us to think.  We sort of set up hopes
we've no right to.  An' when we do, why, we've got to be handed our
lessons.  Sometimes the lesson is pretty tough, sometimes I don't guess
it's a deal worse than a pin-prick.  Anyway, lessons aren't joyous
things at best, not even pin-pricks.  Well, if folks are right they'll
just learn their lessons all they can without kicking, and if they get
a hunch on, why, I don't figger it's likely to make 'em harder.  I've
been learning my lesson a whole week now, and, yes, I've got it right.
Oh, I've had to work.  It hasn't been easy.  And somehow, my Daddy, all
these lovely, lovely gowns, and the thought of the generous hands that
gave them to me, have helped me to learn quicker, and--better."

She paused again.  Their horses were ambling leisurely along over the
sandy trail.  They moved together, side by side, in a closeness of
companionship which perhaps symbolized that of their riders.

"I jest don't know what to say, Nan.  I surely don't," Bud lumbered at
last with a half-bewildered drawing together of his heavy brows.  "It
don't seem I ken even think right--about it."

Nan gazed up into his big troubled face with the frank eyes that looked
wholly untroubled.

"Don't try, my Daddy.  Guess I've done all that's necessary that way.
Maybe I know just how you're feeling, because I know how I'm feeling.
God's been good to me all my years.  He's given me a Daddy who's the
best in the world.  A Daddy who's taught me by his own example how to
be strong and fight the little battles I guess it's meant for us to
fight.  Oh, I won't say it hasn't hurt," she went on, with a catch in
her voice.  "You see, I loved Jeff.  I love him now, and I'll go right
on loving him to the end.  And it's because I love him I want to help
him now--and always.  You won't think me a fool girl, my Daddy, will
you, but--but--I won't hate Elvine van Blooren.  I'm--I'm going to try
so hard to like her, and--and anyway, with all my might, I'm going to
help them both.  D'you guess Jeff would let me get his house ready
for--his wife?"

The father's reply came with a violence which he calculated should
conceal an emotion which his manhood forbade, but which only helped to
reveal it the more surely to the clear eyes of the girl at his side.

"Hell take the bunch--the whole of 'em!" he cried fiercely.  Then he
added weakly: "You're nigh breakin' my heart all to pieces."

But Nan's smile suddenly became radiant, as she turned her brown eyes
away from the spectacle of her father's trouble to the distant horizon
ahead.

She shook her head.

"No, my Daddy.  I allow it feels that way just now.  I've felt that
way, too.  But it's just God's tempering.  And when it's through, why I
guess our hearts'll be made of good metal, strong and steady to do the
work He'd have us do.  And that's just all we can ask, isn't it?"




CHAPTER XIII

THE NEWS

Nan rode up to the veranda of the ranch house and sprang lightly from
the saddle.  Her pony's flanks were caked with sweat.  The days now, as
they approached July, were blistering, and the work of the great ranch
was heavy for everybody.  Nan had constituted herself Jeff's substitute
during his absence, and performed his share of the labor with a skill
and efficiency which astonished even her father.

She was a little weary just now.  The heat was trying.  Four weeks of
continuous effort, four weeks of day-long saddle work, superintending
the distant out-stations, the pasture fencing, the re-branding, which
never seemed to come to an end, the hundred and one little duties which
always cropped up unexpectedly; these things, in conjunction with the
intense heat and the constant trouble which she held safely screened
behind her smiling eyes, were not without effect upon her, although
display was only permitted when no other eyes were present to witness
her weakness.

It was the ranch house dinner time.  Bud was due, as was the return of
the men who belonged to the home station.

Nan released the cinchas of her saddle and removed her pony's bridle.
Then, with a sharp pat upon the creature's quarters, she sent it
strolling off toward the open pasture, in which the windmill pump kept
the string of watering tubs ready for the thirsty world about it.

She watched the animal as it flung itself down for a roll.  Its
ungainly, thrusting legs held her interest.  Then, as it scrambled to
its feet and shook itself, and headed for the water, she seated herself
in a low wicker chair and wiped the dust from her long riding boots
with the silk handkerchief she wore loosely tied about her neck.  A few
moments later her brown eyes were gazing fixedly out at the shimmer of
heat which hovered low over the distant horizon.

She was meditating deeply, her tired body yielding to the greater
activity of her thought.  The scene was lost to her.  Her gaze sped
beyond the maze of corrals, and the more distant patchwork of fenced
pastures to the western boundary of her beloved Rainbow Hill Valley.
There was nothing but grass, endless grass, until the purple line of
the wood-clad mountains was reached.  And here it was that her regard
found a resting place.  But even so she was unaware of it, for her
thoughts were miles away in another direction.

Her courage had reaped its natural harvest.  Her labors had yielded her
a peace of mind which at one time had seemed impossible.  She could
reflect calmly now, if not without a world of regret and sadness.  Just
now, in the brief interval of waiting for her father for their midday
meal, her relaxed body permitted her thoughts to wander toward the city
where Jeff was still held captive by toils she herself had been unable
to weave about him.

She had had her desire.  She had pressed her less willing father into
her service, and through him she had obtained the right to see that
Jeff's house was made ready.  It had been a labor of love in its
highest sense, for not one single detail of her efforts but had been a
fresh laceration of her loyal soul.  In her mind it was never possible
to shut out the memory that everything that was for Jeff was also for a
woman who had plucked the only fruit she had ever coveted with her
whole heart.  There had been moments of reward, however, a reward which
perhaps a lesser spirit might never have known.  It was the passionate
satisfaction that her hands, her love, were able to minister to the
well-being of the man she loved, for all that another woman occupied
her place in his heart.

Feelings such as these filled her heart now.  They had so filled it
that morning during her hour of superintending the work of the builders
engaged upon the reconstruction of Jeff's house.  This was nearly
completed, and somehow she felt when all the preparations were finished
the last support must be banished forever.  Then there would be nothing
left her but to watch, perhaps from afar, the happiness of the other
woman basking in the love for which she would willingly have given her
life.

There were moments when her spirit furiously rebelled, when she felt
that the sacrifice was too great, when the limits of human endurance
forbade submission to her lot.  They were moments when mad jealousy
rose up and threatened her bulwark of spiritual resistance.  And at
such time her battle was furious and hard, and she emerged therefrom
scarred and suffering, but with a spirit unbroken and even strengthened.

Then her pride, a small gentle thing, added its quota to her support.
No one should pity her, no one should ever, ever know anything of the
sufferings she endured.  No, not even her beloved father.  So her
smile, even her ready laughter, was enlisted in her support, and the
manner of her discussion of the work on Jeff's house was an education
in courageous acting.

But her father remained wholly undeceived.  He saw with a vision
rendered doubly acute by perfect sympathy.  He read through every smile
to the tears lying behind it.  He noted the change in the tone of the
laugh.  He missed nothing of the painful abstraction at odd moments
when Nan believed she was wholly unobserved.  Nor did he misinterpret
the language these things expressed.  But for all his heart bled for
the girl--and in his moments of solitude he bitterly cursed the woman
who had robbed him of a son, and heaped every scathing epithet of his
rough vocabulary upon the head of the man himself--he gave no sign that
the fair world about them concealed shadowed corners, or that the life
which was theirs was not one triumph of eternal delight.  Thus was Nan
helped, all unconscious of the help so given.  So she was able to play
the part her courage and gentleness of spirit had assigned to her.

Presently a horseman came within sight, out of the northwest.  It was
the direction of Jeff's ranch house.  A moment of deliberate scrutiny
revealed the man's identity.  It was Lal Hobhouse, second foreman of
the Obar, the man who, before the amalgamation, was Jeff's foreman.

Nan wondered what was bringing him in at this hour.  Usually his visits
to their headquarters were made in the evening when the work of the day
was completed.

The man rode up and found Nan interestedly waiting to receive him.
There was a touch of anxiety in her tone as she greeted him.

"No trouble, Lal?" she demanded, as the man reined up his pony.  The
direct manner of the girl was largely the result of her new
responsibilities.

Lal Hobhouse was a lean-faced specimen of sun-dried manhood.  His
appearance suggested all wires and indifference to the nicenesses of
life.  His long moustache drooped mournfully below his square chin.
And his fierce black eyes were full of a violent heat, rendered more
savage for its bottling up during his long ride.

"Trouble?"  Then he exploded with a furious oath, and his volcanic
temper drowned the sunburn of his cheek under a living heat.  "Them
rustlers.  Them lousy bums," he cried almost choking.  "That bunch o'
yearlings--Shorthorn yearlings, Miss.  Thirty of 'em--picked right out
of the bush corrals where we'd got 'em for re-brandin'.  Say, Bud--your
father, Miss," he corrected himself.  "He ain't around?"

But Nan's interest was in the work of the rustlers.  Not in his final
inquiry.  Her pretty eyes were wide and hard with the anger his news
had inspired.

"The Shorthorn yearlings, Lal?" she demanded.  "Our prize stock?"

"Sure, Miss.  Them.  That's them.  God blister their filthy carkises!
May they stew in hell!"

He spat over his horse's shoulder as though to emphasize his furious
disgust  But his forcefulness was displeasing.

"Guess you best off-saddle," Nan said coolly.  "Father'll be along
right now.  You'll need food.  Say, what boys you got out there?" she
inquired as the man slipped out of the saddle and began to unfasten the
cinchas.

"Why, just the same four damn fools, an'--Sikkem."

"And they're following up the trail?"

"Sure."  The man flung off the saddle and his horse mouched away.

"Psha!" he cried, turning his fierce eyes upon Nan.  "What's the use
anyway?"  His gesture was one of helpless disgust.  "They're out.  Bin
out since daylight.  An' I guess they've as much chance roundin' that
crowd up as they would huntin' bugs in a hundred acre pasture.
Sikkem's about the brightest.  But he ain't no sort o' good after a
bunch of rustlers.  I wouldn't trust him with a dead mule o' mine
anyway.  The boss hangs to him as if he was the on'y blamed cowpuncher
east o' the mountains because he's handy.  I don't like him, Miss,
an'----  Say, how did them rustlers know 'bout them calves?  Ther's two
hundred head o' beeves out there, an' they passed 'em right over fer
the Shorthorns."

The man's argument and distrust of the man Sikkem made a deep
impression on Nan.  She had listened to some of the latter before.  But
Jeff's predilection for the dark-faced half Greaser had left her
sceptical of Lal's opinion.  Now, however, she was seriously impressed.

At that moment Bud himself rode up at a gallop, and behind him rode
four of the home station boys.  The pace at which he came was unusual,
and Nan's troubled eyes promptly sought his face.

Instantly her greeting died upon her lips, which tightened ominously.
His usually steady gray eyes were hot and fierce, and his face was set.
The comfortable lines about his mouth were drawn hard and deep.  She
needed no word to tell her that further trouble was abroad.

He scarcely waited for his horse to come to a halt.  He was out of the
saddle in a moment, and his great figure towered before the foreman,
whom he took in with an angry stare.

"What's brought you in?" he demanded, with a dangerous calm.  Then the
calm broke before his storm of feeling.  "Don't tell me ther's trouble
around your layout, too," he cried, without waiting for reply.  Then he
turned on Nan, who was still on the veranda.  "Say, Nan, they done it.
The rotten swines have done it.  They shot 'Jock' up!"

"The Highland bull?" Nan gasped.

"Yes.  That's it."  Bud laughed furiously.  "That bull I imported last
fall for three thousand dollars," he went on, turning back to the
foreman.  "They shot him up and drove off his twenty-five cows from the
Coyote Bluff pastures.  Dirty spite an' meanness.  The white-livered
scum!"  Then with a fierce oath the usually even-tempered Bud hurled
his wrath upon the waiting man.  "Gorl darn it, you're standin' around
like a barbed wire fence post.  What in hell's brought you around now?
What they done your way?"

His manner roused the foreman to a soreness he wasn't slow in showing.

"Jest thirty Shorthorn yearlings," he said without any attempt to
soften the blow.  "Jest thirty--prize stock."

The announcement had an unlooked-for effect.  Where Nan expected
another furious display Bud remained silent.  His eyes were wide as
they stared into the foreman's.  But no word came.  Then, after a few
moments, he began to laugh and Nan understood.  She felt it was either
that, or--her father would break something.

"Well, I go plumb to hell!" he cried at last.  And Nan felt relieved at
the sound of his voice.

The next moment Lal Hobhouse was pouring out his story with a redundant
selection from his choicest vocabulary of abusive epithet, which was
impartially divided between the rustlers and the cowhands under his
charge.  Nan waited patiently, her eyes studying her father's face.
But whatever his feelings he permitted them no further display, and, at
the conclusion of the story, instead of offering comment, or reverting
to his own discoveries, he turned to his daughter with a smile.

"Food on, Nan?" he inquired, in his easy way.  "Guess I'm needin'
food--pretty bad.  Maybe we'll feel better after."

Then he turned to the men who stood around.

"Git on down to the bunkhouse an' feed, boys.  One o' you grab my plug.
After, we'll get around out with Lal here.  I----"

He broke off as Nan darted away down the veranda.  The mail man had
just clattered up to the front of the house, and she had gone to meet
him.

Bud passed his horse on to one of the men, and, with heavy strides,
clanking with the rattle of his heavy Mexican spurs, his leather chapps
creaking as he moved, he mounted the veranda and made his way into the
house.

      *      *      *      *      *      *

Nan entered the parlor with her hands full of mail.  The meal was laid
ready, and a colored girl was setting the chairs in their places.

"I'll jest get a clean up, Nan," her father said, without a single
trace of his recent display.  "Guess I'm full of dust."

He passed through the little room like some overwhelming mammoth.  He
seemed altogether too vast for the small home, which had never grown
with his other worldly possessions.  Nan watched him go.  Then she laid
the mail down on a side table and began to sort it out.

There were a number of letters for Jeff.  These she set carefully aside
in a pile by themselves for redirection.  There were several addressed
in girlish hands to herself.  For Bud there were only a few.  She
glanced over the superscription of each.  One or two were easily
recognized business letters.  There was a paper, however, addressed in
Jeff's hand, and a letter of considerable bulk.  These were what she
had been looking for.  She pushed the bunkhouse mail aside, and
regarded reflectively the outer covering of Jeff's letter to her father.

It was not the first he had received from Jeff during the four weeks
since their return home.  But its bulk this time was out of the
ordinary, and the carefully folded news sheet was more than
interesting.  It awakened every doubt, every fear to which she had been
a prey.

The rapid beating of her heart left her with a choking sensation.
Vivid imagination was at work, and she was reading in fancy under those
covers that which, sooner or later, she knew she must read in fact.

These were bad moments for the girl, moments which found her again
struggling with that self which left her little enough peace.  Perhaps
the struggle lasted five minutes.  Perhaps less.  At any rate it seemed
an eternity to Nan before the hired girl announced the meal.

Nan sighed as she moved from the side table on which the mail was
spread out.

"Give father a call," she said, and took up a position at the open
French window.

Her back was turned when Bud responded to the summons.  The cold sluice
he had just indulged in seemed to have entirely restored his
equanimity.  His voice came cheerily.

"Guess we best set in, little gal," he said, moving to his place at the
table.  "We'll need to get busy after."

Nan turned.  She watched Maimie deposit the hot dishes.  Then, when the
girl had withdrawn, she took her place opposite her father.

"There's a deal of mail for Jeff," she said, as she sat down.  "There's
some for you, too, Daddy.  There's a letter and--a newspaper.  Maybe
you'd feel like reading them right away.  Guess there won't be time
after."

With all her might she struggled for indifference.  With all her might
she desired that her father should miss the fears which prompted her.
But she only succeeded in telling him of them in every word she spoke.

Bud agreed readily.  He rose and fetched his letter--and the newspaper
which Nan so feared.

Nan went on with her food.  Her father tore open the covering of the
letter.  She was watching him covertly and silently whilst he read page
after page.  She was searching for confirmation of her worst fears.
She was torturing herself.

Bud's dissimulation was never great.  Nan watched the play of his
expression.  There was no smile.  As the silent moments passed his brow
became heavier.  The furrow deepened between his eyes, and once there
came that rather helpless raising of his hand to his forehead.  Then,
too, she observed the compression of his lips, and the occasional
dilation of his nostrils.  Each observation carried conviction, and the
weight upon her heart grew almost insupportable.

Finally he laid the letter down and went on with his meal.  But he did
not even glance at the wrappered newspaper.

In self-defense Nan was forced to break the silence.  If it had
remained she felt she must scream.  Instead she smiled over at him, and
indicated the newspaper.

"The _Calthorpe Times_, isn't it?" she said without a tremor.

"Can't say."

The harsh tone was intended to convey indifference.

"Won't you open it?" she asked.  "Maybe Jeff's marked a piece."

Then Bud gave a display such as Nan had never witnessed in him before.

"Say, ain't we never to get food a feller ken eat?" he cried.  "That
nigger slut needs firin' right away.  Guess she couldn't cook a dry
hash on a round-up.  I'm quittin'.  This stew 'ud choke a she-wolf."

His eyes were hot.  He thrust his plate away from him and pushed back
his chair.  But Nan's calmness defeated his almost childlike subterfuge.

"Say, my Daddy, you don't need to quit.  Sure," she added, a pathetic
smile lighting her brown eyes, "I guess the stew's pretty good to any
hungry folks, and Maimie's just the dandiest cook anywhere around."

She paused.  Bud stood yearning for five minutes of unrestrained
blasphemy as he read the understanding lying behind her words.

"I don't guess it's the food worrying, or Maimie's cooking," Nan went
on, almost at once.  "It's your letter.  Maybe there's a heap of things
in it you aren't yearning to hand over to me."  A sigh escaped her.
"Will I tell you of them?  Maybe one'll be sufficient.  It's the one
worrying you most.  It's--it's his marriage.  It's fixed.  The date--I
mean."

Then she pointed at the unopened paper.

"Likely it's in that.  And that's why he's sent it.  Shall I see?"

She reached out and picked up the offending packet, and, with a swift
movement, ripped the fastening open with one finger.  Without a word
she unfolded the sheet, seeking a marked passage.  It was there, as she
knew it would be.  It was found in a twinkling.  No one could have
missed it.  Heavy ink outlined it in the column of "City Chatter," and
she read the paragraph aloud without a tremor of voice.  Her
deliberateness nearly drove the ranchman to distraction.


"The friends of Mrs. John D. Carruthers will be interested to learn
that the marriage of her daughter, Mrs. Elvine van Blooren, widow of
the late Robert van Blooren, to Jeffrey Masters, of the celebrated
'Obar' Ranch, and this year's President of the Western Union Cattle
Breeders' Association, is to be solemnized at the Church of St. Mary in
this city on August 4th next.  The Rev. Claude I. Carston, M. A.,
will----"


There was more of it, much more, referring in the usual local
journalistic fashion to the "happy event," and dwelling upon the
important "social standing" of the bride and bridegroom.  But Nan read
no further then.  There was no need to.  Was not the completeness of
her disaster contained in those lines?  The courage of the front she
displayed before the sympathetic eyes of her father was superlative.

There was just a pause.  It was the tragic pause under a staggering
blow.  Then she forced a smile into the brave eyes, which never for a
moment fell before the other's regard.

"There!  There, my Daddy," she said, with a studied calm which did not
conceal the dry-throated swallow which accompanied the words.  "I guess
it was how I thought.  You were scared.  Scared to tell me."  She shook
her head.  "It's--it's not very brave, is it?  I wonder why you were
scared?  You needn't have been.  Folks don't need to be scared
of--anything.  What you need most is just to--to grit your teeth
and--die hard."

Her manner was becoming abstracted.  It seemed as if she were
addressing herself, warning herself, and fighting down a weakness which
was threatening to overwhelm her.

Presently she went on, while the man stood by utterly robbed of the
power to comfort her:

"August the fourth," she murmured.  "August--that's six weeks from now.
Six weeks of--sunshine and--and warmth.  When the harvest's ripening,
and all the world's just--glad.  And he'll be glad, and--and happy,
too.  Yes, Jeff will be very, very happy because--she's going to make
him happy."

Quite suddenly she started up from her chair.  A dreadful panic had
leaped to her eyes.  The delicious, healthy color had been swept from
her pretty downy cheeks.  The corners of her sweet mouth were drooping,
and her hands were held out in a gesture of despairing appeal.

"Daddy, Daddy, he will--he will be happy, won't he?" she cried.  "I--I
just need him to be happy, more--yes, more than anything in the world.
Sure, sure, she'll make him happy?  Oh, if she doesn't!"

Still the man looked on, a helpless spectator of the girl's suffering.
Nor did it seem that his own was any less.  But Nan seemed to realize
the weakness in her momentary display.  Her hands dropped to her side.
There was even a visible effort in the manner in which she strove for
self-mastery.  Her smooth brow puckered in an intense frown, and, to
Bud, it almost seemed that she was literally clenching her teeth to
hold back the passionate distress which was seeking to find expression.

After a moment something of full self-possession seemed to return to
her.  She smiled.  But it was a smile that lacked conviction.  A smile
that almost broke her father's heart.

"Tell me, Daddy," she pleaded.  "Do you think--he'd--he'd have me be
a--a bridesmaid?  Would it sort of help him any?" she hurried on.  "You
see, I--I want him to be real happy.  I want him to feel that we just
love him, and that--that--we're just glad for him, and--and nothing in
the world else matters--to anybody.  I'm so----"

There was a little catch of breath.  The words she would have spoken
died upon her lips.  She reeled.  Every vestige of color left her
pretty face, and her eyes half closed.  Just for one weak instant her
hands groped behind her for the chair.  Then, the next, Bud was at her
side, and one strong arm was supporting her.

"Don't, Nan!" he cried, in his heavy cumbersome way.  And the sound of
his deep voice alone served to ward off the encroachment of that final
weakness which, in spite of all her courage, the girl was at last
compelled to yield to.

Bud drew her to him, and one hand smoothed her pretty brown hair with
rough tenderness.  For a moment her head rested against his broad
bosom.  Then a deep sigh came, and Nan looked up, smiling into the
steady gray eyes gazing down at her, through a mist of welling tears.

"My dear--dear old Daddy," she murmured, as the tears finally
overflowed and slowly rolled down her cheeks.




CHAPTER XIV

THE KNOCKING ON THE DOOR

It seemed like the hand of Destiny that Elvine van Blooren should
wander across the path of Jeffrey Masters at a moment when all the
fruits of his ambition seemed to be falling into his outspread-hands.
It was surely the work of Fate that instant recognition of her
desirability leaped in his heart, so that some six weeks later they
should set out on their life's journey together on the eastward bound
mail train, which bore, in its foremost van, the mails for the world
outside, gathered in from every district in the region of Calthorpe.

Their happiness was perfect.  In six weeks' time the metamorphosis in
the woman had been as complete as it was in the case of the man.

For the man it seemed that life had opened out an entirely new vista.
He had warmed under the influence of his new passion.  The angles in
his character seemed to have softened.  Achievement had receded into
its due proportion in his focus.  The world had become peopled with
warm living creatures whose strivings were now a source of sympathy to
him.  Life no longer moved about him detached, unappealing.

So with the woman.  Elvine van Blooren's past was her own.  Whatever it
was she hugged it to herself, and the very process of doing so had
helped to harden her.

But she possessed fires she had wilfully hidden, even from herself.
For four years she had lived a life of desperate calculation against
all those things she most dreaded, till she felt she had converted
herself into a machine free from all trammeling emotions, equipped
solely to execute the purpose she had set her mind on.

These fires were awakened early.  Their awakening had been all unknown
to her.  Yet she had admitted them when she had warned her mother that
she intended to "like" the man she ultimately married.  All
subconsciously she had "liked" Jeffrey Masters from their first formal
meeting.  Further acquaintance had deepened her liking.  The keen eyes
possessed strong qualities of appeal.  The decision of his clean-cut
face suggested all that strength which appealed to her.

The culmination was reached long before the appointed day of their
wedding.  It came at the moment he definitely asked her to become his
wife.  It had been a moment to her than which she had dreamed of
nothing more sublime.  The flood-gates had been literally forced open
before a tide of sudden passion, which left her gasping, and something
incredulous.  Where was all the result of her years of hard
calculation?  Where was that machine upon which she had gazed with so
much confident pride?  It had only served her just so long as was
required to realize that Jeffrey Masters was sufficiently desirable to
fulfil the purposes of the life she had marked out for herself.  Then,
the primitive woman in her had abandoned herself to the glowing fires
burning deep within her young heart.

Thus the bond held them both through delicious days, which so little
time before had seemed impossible to either.  Thus the time drew on
toward the golden day of consummation.  And with each passing day
firmer and firmer, more and more irresistible, grew the ties under
which they were held.

As the local press had foreshadowed, the event of their marriage proved
of primary social importance.  All Calthorpe speeded them upon their
life's journey, and the east-bound mail bore them away with the echo of
cheery farewells, and every other form of speeding, dying pleasantly
away behind them.  So, too, the snake-like string of coaches bore the
burden of Destiny in the great uninteresting, padlocked baskets and
bags which contained the mail.

The days of the honeymoon had been carefully thought out by Elvine.
Her wishes had been supreme.  Toronto was their first destination.  A
city whose bright, pleasant life appealed to her more, perhaps, even
than any of the great cities of the greater world.

Perfect happiness was theirs from the moment of their departure
eastward.  No cloud drifted in sight during their first day in the
great hotel from which they intended to view the life of Toronto.  Then
came the second morning, and the--mail.

They occupied a suite of rooms upon the first floor of the hotel.  It
overlooked the wide portico which supported a deep balcony devoted to
their sole use.  Jeff was alone in the luxurious sitting-room when the
mail was brought in by a waiter.  He was glancing down the morning
paper while he waited for Elvine, who was preparing for a morning round
of the stores.

His attention for the news he read was less than scant.  It is doubtful
if he read more than the head-lines, and these only with partial
understanding.  His mind was upon the beautiful woman in the adjacent
apartment arraying herself with all the arts of a woman in love for the
benefit of the man whose regard is alone worth while.

His eyes were smiling unconsciously; something of the keenness of his
whole expression had become lost under their new expression.  Dressed
in the simple garb of civilization he had little about him, beyond the
intense sunburn of his face, to remind one of the urgent young ranchman
who had first planned the combination which was to develop into the
famous Obar Ranch.

At the arrival of the mail he flung his paper aside.  Then he picked up
each letter in turn, examined the address, and set aside, in a separate
pile, those addressed to his wife.  Of his own there were only four,
and, of these, only the one addressed in Bud's cumbersome handwriting
interested him seriously.

Before opening it he pierced and lit a cigar.  He felt that from its
bulk the letter must contain important reports from the ranch, and,
coming at such a time, would need the steadying influence of a cigar to
enable him to give them the consideration necessary.

He lounged back in the big chair and leisurely tore open the envelope.

      *      *      *      *      *      *

The door communicating with the principal bedroom opened noiselessly.
Elvine entered the sitting-room, accompanied by that delightful rustle
of silk which is quite irresistible to male ears.  At all times a
beautiful woman, just now she was incomparable.

A joy of life lit every feature, endowing her with an animation of
expression unrecognizable in her a few short weeks ago.  There was a
melting lustre in her dark eyes, a gentleness in the smiling corners of
her irresistible mouth.  Her cheeks, even, seemed to have gained an
added softness of contour.  While the masses of dark hair revealed
beneath her hat shone with the burnish of the raven's wing.

Her husband had turned on the instant.  His cigar was flung aside.  A
moment later he was on his feet, and his arms, full of vital impulse,
came near to destroying the perfection of her toilet.

The woman made no protest under the embrace.  It told her so many
things she wanted to know.  It told her of the love she now so frankly
desired.  It told her, too, that the efforts on her toilet had not been
ill-spent.

Presently Jeff stood back, holding her at arm's length, while his
hungry eyes devoured every feature of the face that had taught him so
much of the real meaning of life.

"Splendid--just splendid!" he exclaimed.

"My--gown?"

The smile was enticing.  The man laughed out of the buoyancy of his
heart.

"No--you!" he cried, leaning forward for the embrace she had invited.

A moment later he stood back again, and Elvine's eyes fell upon the
mail lying upon the table.

"Some for me?" she inquired, moving toward it.

Jeff nodded.  Then his smile died out.  His gaze had fallen upon his
own open letter.  It was lying upon the table near the pile set aside
for his wife, just where he had flung it down at the moment of her
entrance.

"Quite a few," he said.

The unsmiling nature of his response had caught Elvine's attention.
But she picked up her letters and glanced hastily through them.

A moment later her eyes came back to his face.

"Aren't you going to finish yours?" she inquired.

She was seeking the meaning of that suddenly banished smile.

It was almost with eagerness that the man caught at the opportunity.

"It's from Bud, and--I guess it's important.  I've only two or three
pages more."

He picked the letter up and sorted the sheets into order.  Elvine
watched him.  She wanted to ask a dozen questions.  But she put none of
them.

"He's your partner," was all she said.

"Yep," he nodded, with his eyes on the pages.

Then Elvine voiced something of her real feelings of the moment.

"I just hate mail," she said, with what seemed unnecessary force, as
she began to draw on her gloves.  "It always worries me to death.  I
think it scares me.  Makes me think of death, or disaster, or--or bills
and things."  She laughed.  "Maybe it's my pessimistic nature makes me
feel that way.  When things are all sunshiny and fine, why, it kind of
feels to me there are clouds around.  Nasty, mean, hateful shadows
lurking, full of----"

"Hell for some one, eh?"

There was a wry twist to the man's lips as he smiled his reply.

"Guess that's how it is with mine," he went on.  "I'll just read these
pages, and then we'll get going.  Eh?"

The woman's watchful eye smiled assent and she continued to draw her
gloves on.  But her observation of him seemed to gather intensity the
moment he became absorbed in the clumsy, unskilled handwriting.

The last vestige of his smile had gone.  His fair brows had knitted in
a troubled frown.  He seemed to read eagerly but intently, absorbed to
an unusual degree.

She realized the seriousness of that letter.  And for some curious
reason alarm supervened.  He had spoken of it easily, but his manner of
reading denied his spoken word.

The silent moments irked her.  The rustle of the paper in his hands.  A
feeling of foreboding grew, a feeling she knew was foolish, but which
at the same time was irresistible.  She found herself speculating as to
the contents of the letter.  She strove to review all the possibilities
which the great Obar Ranch could offer for disaster.  And her mind
drifted back over years to a memory that gave her not a shadow of
comfort.

The last button of her gloves had been secured when the refolding of
the letter came.  Jeff deliberately, but abstractedly, returned it to
its cover.  His smile was scarcely a happy one when he finally looked
up.

"I'm through, sweetheart," he said.  "Shall we----?"

But Elvine's feelings would no longer be denied.

"Serious as all that?" she demanded.  The next moment she would have
given worlds to have been able to recall the words.

"I'm afraid it is--in a way."

Elvine had no option but to continue the subject.  She spoke with real
feeling.

"May I know, dear?" she appealed.  "You see, Jeff, things often read
worse than they are.  Maybe I can help.  I've a clearer head than you'd
guess."

The man's cheeks flushed.  He had distressed her, frightened her, and
the thought of it annoyed him.  He stepped toward her, his hands
outheld.  She responded, and her hands were caught in his firm warm
clasp.

"Say, I'm just sorry.  I surely am.  Guess I've no sort of right
scaring you.  Anyway, there's nothing to be scared about.  Just a bunch
of rustlers----"

"Cattle thieves?"

The woman's whole expression had become transformed.  The announcement
had shocked her out of her self-possession.  Her smile had fled.  Her
eyes were wide, and their dark depths were full of a horror that seemed
quite uncalled for.  Even her cheeks had lost their delicate bloom.
Her gaze was held fast by the man's steady regard.  It was almost a
fascinated stare held under some powerful hypnotic influence.

The man was at a loss.  But he promptly claimed the fault to himself.

"Don't just worry a thing, Evie," he cried, in real distress.  "It
don't amount to anything.  And anyway you don't need to worry.  We can
deal with it.  I best tell you right away.  You see, it's their second
play since I've been from home.  Bud's feeling sore.  First it was a
great imported bull they shot up while they ran off his cows, and a
dandy bunch of yearling prize stock.  Now--now it's a swell bunch of
fifty beeves that had been fattening for the buyers.  The loss don't
hurt.  Oh, no, it's not that."

He paused.  Somehow their hands fell apart, and, to the woman, now
recovering herself, it was as though some shadow had thrust itself
between them.  She waited, vaguely troubled.  Somehow speech for the
moment had become impossible to her.  She was thinking, thinking far
back amidst scenes she had no desire to recall.

Her husband went on.  His manner had lost all the contrition he had
displayed at alarming her.  It was abstracted.  He too seemed to be
thinking deeply, far away amidst scenes which afforded him only the
deepest pain.

"I've just thought," he said.  Then he raised one strong hand and
passed it across his broad forehead.  He drew a profound sigh.  "Say, I
wonder," he went on reflectively.  "It's things Bud's said in his yarn.
Suspicions.  They brought up all sorts of queer things to my mind."

The smile he essayed was a hopeless failure.  Then, in a moment, all
doubt seemed to pass away and he spoke with quick, keen decision.

"I'll have to tell you, Evie.  You'd sort of made me forget.  These
days have been the happiest I've ever known, and you've made 'em so.
That's how I forgot to tell you of things I guess you ought to know."

But the woman before him had no desire for his present mood.  She
smilingly shook her head in a decided negative.  The last thing she
desired was anything in the nature of a confidence.

"Is there any need--now?" she asked.  Then she smiled.  "The stores are
waiting."

But she had yet to learn the real character of the man whom she had
married.  She had yet to understand the meaning of the simple sobriquet
"Honest Jeff," which Nan Tristram had long since bestowed upon him.  He
was not the man to be turned from a decision once taken.  The decision
on this occasion was arrived at through the depth of the passionate
devotion which controlled his every thought.  His love for Elvine made
his purpose only the more irrevocable.

"I think they had best wait a shade longer," he said with a shadowy
smile.  "You see, Evie, I kind of figure there's things that matter
more than just gathering in the fancy goods money'll buy--even for you.
Guess I owe you most everything a man can give, the same as you feel
toward me.  That's how marriage--marriage like ours--seems to me.  As
far as I can make it there's not going to be a thing on my conscience
toward you.  I'd have told you this before, only--only you just drove
it right out of my head with the sight of your beautiful face, the
sound of your voice, which I just love, and the thought that you--you
were to be my wife.  You see," he went on simply, "I hadn't room in my
head for anything else."

His manner was so firmly gentle that Elvine's protest melted before it.
After all it was very sweet, and--and----  She drew a chair forward and
sat down.  But her smile hid her real feelings.  Confidences,
confessions, even from a husband, were repugnant to her.

Jeff remained standing.  He gazed for a few silent moments in the
direction of the open window.  The expression of his blue eyes
suggested a deep, searching introspection.  He might have been
searching for an opening.  Again, he might simply have been reviewing
scenes which stirred his innermost soul with their horror and pain.

At last, however, Elvine made a half impatient movement.  Instantly the
blue eyes turned in her direction, and their expression startled her.
They were full of a stony, passionless regard.  Not for her, but
inspired by the thought behind them.  She shivered under their gaze and
their impression upon her was never afterward obliterated.

"It's four years past now," he began, in a voice she scarcely
recognized.  "These rustlers brought it all back to me.  Say, Evie, I
had a twin brother, Ronald.  Maybe that won't convey much.  I sort of
loved him--better than myself.  That's all.  He was a bit queer.  I
mean he just didn't care a heap for running along the main trail of
things.  He was apt to get all mussed up running around byways.  Well,
when Bud and I fixed up the Obar partnership, I was just crazy to hunt
Ronny down, and hand him a share.  Bud's a great feller, and I told
him.  I knew whereabouts the boy had staked out, and, figuring we'd
earned a vacation, Bud and I set out to round him up, and hand him a
piece which I guessed would keep him with me the rest of his life."

He paused.  He drew a deep breath, and his eyes, hard as marble, had
turned again in the direction of the window.

Elvine was held even against herself.  The expression of his eyes, even
more than the curious sharpness of his voice, troubled her, alarmed her.

"I'm not going to yarn more than necessary," he went on after a moment.
"There isn't any need.  I just want to give you the deadly facts.  As I
said, I knew his layout, where he was--supposed to be trapping pelts.
Supposed.  Bud had been raised in the district, so he acted scout.  He
made the location and found him.  D'you know how?"

There was a restrained fierceness in the sharp demand.

The woman shook her head.  Any word would have seemed out of place.

"Hanging by the neck to the bough of a tree."

"Jeff, don't!" the woman gasped.

But now there was a smile in the man's eyes.  It was a terrible smile
which drove every vestige of color from his wife's cheeks.

"I had to tell you," he cried harshly.  "They hanged him for a cattle
thief.  He was one.  Oh, yes.  He was one.  That's why I had to tell
you."

The woman's eyes were wide with a sudden terror to which the man
remained oblivious.

"But you said----"

"I said he was pelt hunting.  So he'd told me.  So I believed.  But he
wasn't.  Say, he was a cattle rustler running a big gang who'd played
hell with the district.  He'd been running it for nigh five years.
He'd beaten 'em to a mush, all that time, till a reward was offered.  A
reward of ten thousand dollars.  That fixed him.  There was some one
knew wanted that reward, and--got it."

There was a sudden movement in the room.  Elvine had abruptly risen
from her chair.  She moved away.  She crossed to the window, and stood
with her back turned, and so had thrust herself into her husband's
focus.

"It's--it's a terrible--dreadful story," came her faltering comment.

"Terrible?  Dreadful?"  The man emitted a sound that might have been a
laugh.  A shudder passed down the woman's back as it fell upon her
ears.  "But it's nothing to the reality, Evie.  Oh, I've no sympathy
for his crimes.  I hate rustlers like the poison they are.  But he was
twin to me, and I loved him.  It made no difference to me.  You see, he
was part of me.  Now--now I only hope the good God'll let me come up
with the man who took the price of his blood.  For four years I've
dreamed that way, and I guess it don't matter if it's fifty more.  I'll
never change.  There's some one, somewhere, who's lower down than the
worst cattle rustler ever lived."

There was no response as the man ceased speaking.  Elvine had not
stirred from her place at the window.  The moments passed.  Swift,
poignant moments, in which two people were enduring an agony of
recollection.

The man's relentless expression never changed.  His eyes were gazing
straight ahead.  And though his vision was obstructed by the perfect
contours of his wife's figure, he was gazing through her, and beyond
her, upon a scene which had for its central interest the suspended
figure of a man with his head lolling forward and sideways, and his
dead eyes bulging from their sockets.

Elvine never stirred.  Her gaze was upon the crowded thoroughfare
beyond.  But like her husband, she was gazing through and beyond.  She
was watching the tongues of flame as they licked up the resinous trunks
and foliage of a great pine bluff.

At length it was the woman's voice broke the silence.

"Where--where did this all happen?"

The question was the verbal expression of a despairing hope.  The
voice, however, was steady.

"In the Cathills."

"The Lightfoot gang?"

"Yes.  That's what he called it.  You knew of them?"

There was a slight movement of the woman's shoulders.  It was the
faintest possible shrug.

"Everybody in Calthorpe heard of them."

Then she turned and faced him.  The mask with which she confronted him
was perfect.  Her dark beauty was unimpaired by a sign of emotion.
Even her cheeks had returned to their customary delicate bloom.  Her
eyes shone with a world of sympathy as she came toward him.

"Jeff, don't think of it all--now, dear.  It's too, too dreadful.
Guess I was wrong to let you tell me.  I certainly was.  It's past.
It's done with.  Nothing can ever bring him back to you.  To dwell upon
it, to think and feel that way, will only serve to embitter your life.
Say, try, Jeff.  I'll help you, dear.  I will.  Sure.  Sure.  Won't you
try, for--my sake?"

The man took her hands in his.  He drew her toward him.  The strained
expression of his eyes melted before her perfect beauty.

"I'll try, Evie," he said, without conviction.  Then he kissed her.

After a while she looked up.

"And the stores, Jeff?"

The man smiled down in response.

"Sure--the stores."




CHAPTER XV

THE HOME-COMING

Six weeks of all she had ever hoped for, dreamed of, in the lean years
of heart starvation.  The complete devotion of a strong man, a man who
held a place in the world she knew.  Every luxury wealth could purchase
at her disposal, even to satiation.  Her every whim ministered to, and
even anticipated.  This was something of the ripe fruit literally
heaped into Elvine's lap.  She had longed for it, schemed for it, and
Providence had permitted all her efforts complete success.

Now, with those six weeks behind her, she gazed upon the balance-sheet.
She looked for the balance of happiness.  To her horror it was blotted
out, smudged out of all recognition.  Oh, yes, the figures had been
entered, but now they were completely obscured.

It was the last stage of her journey to her new home.  It was a journey
being made in the saddle.  Their baggage, a large number of trunks
loaded with the precious gleanings from the great stores during the
honeymoon, had been sent on ahead by wagon.  There was nothing, so far
as could be seen, to rob the home-coming of its proper sense of
delight.  Yet delight was more than far off.  Elvine was a prey to a
hopelessness which nothing seemed able to relieve.

Summer was not yet over, although the signs of the coming fall were by
no means lacking.  The hard trail, like some carefully set out
terra-cotta ribbon upon a field of tawny green, took them through a
region of busy harvesting.  The tractors and threshers were busily
engaged in many directions.  Great stacks of straw testified to the
ample harvest in progress.  Fall ploughing had already begun, and
high-wheeled wagons bore their burden of produce toward the distant
elevators.  Then, too, human freight passed them, happy, smiling
freight of old and young, whose sun-scorched faces reflected something
of the joy of life and general prosperity prevailing.

A radiant sun looked down upon the scenes through which they passed.
It was the wonderful ripening God almost worshipped of these people who
lived by the fruits of the earth.  Jeffrey Masters understood it all,
and reveled in the pleasant senses it stirred.  For he, too, lived by
the fruits of the earth, although his harvest was garnered in the flesh
of creature kind.

Elvine looked on with eyes that beheld but saw nothing of that which
inspired her husband.  Remembrance claimed her.  Too well she
remembered.  And gladly would she have shut out such sights altogether,
for more and more surely they crushed her already depressed spirits to
a depth from which it seemed impossible to raise them.

Nor was her beautiful face without some reflection of this.  Her smile
was ready for the man at her side.  She laughed and talked in a manner
so care-free that he could never have suspected.  But in repose, when
no eyes were upon her, a lurking, hunted dread peered furtively out of
her dark eyes, and the fine-drawn lines gathered about her shapely
lips, and seriously marred the serenity of their youthful contours.

She had one purpose now, one only.  It was to ward off the blow which
she knew might fall at any moment when she reached her new home.  The
threat of it was with her always.  It drove her to panic in the dark of
night.  It left her watchful and fearful in the light of day.  At all
times the memory of her husband's words dinned through her brain like
the haunt of some sickening melody.

"Now I only hope the good God'll let me come up with the man who took
the price of his blood."

It had been spoken coldly.  It had been spoken with an intensity of
bitterness that left an impression as hard as flint.  The tone had set
her shuddering.  Then the look in those cold blue eyes when at last she
had turned confronting them.  No, there had been no mercy in them.  No
mercy, she told herself, for--anybody.

At that moment she had known that the earth could hold no future peace
for her.  She felt that Fate had passed sentence on her, and she was
powerless to stay its execution.  Her husband demanded vengeance upon
the man who had accepted the price of his brother's blood.

For the moment she had been stunned.  Then had risen up in her a
desperate courage.  She would fight.  She would fight for herself, she
would fight for the love which all unbidden, all undesired, had come to
her.  Then, in the end, if defeat should overtake her, she would, yes,
she could, submit to the punishment his hand should mete out to her.

Strangely, from that moment her love for this man seemed to increase a
thousandfold.  He grew in her heart a towering colossus of worship.
The primitive in her bowed down before his image ready to yield to his
lightest word, while, by every art, she was ready to cajole and foster
his love.

It was all she knew, understood.  It was the woman in her who possessed
no other weapons of defense.  She loved him, she desired him, then
nothing was too small to cling to with the wild hope of the drowning.
When the day came that he should turn and rend her soul she could
submit.  But until that day she would cling to every straw that offered.

While the scenes through which they were passing preoccupied the man,
the silence of the wide plains left Elvine to her fears.  The great
breadth of the world about her added to her hopelessness.  And after a
silence which had become unduly protracted, she took refuge in talk for
which she had no real desire.

"It's beautiful, but--oppressive," she said, and the words were the
inspiration of genuine thought.

But the man was like one who has spent a world of love and devotion
upon carving a beautiful setting and is now about to complete his work
by securing in place the crowning jewel.  He had no room for any
feeling of oppression.  He shook his head.

"Say, Evie," he cried, "I just can't allow you the word 'oppressive.'
I just can't.  Look--look right out there toward the hills we're
making.  Take the colors as they heap up to the distance.  Every shade,
I guess, from green to purple.  It makes me feel good.  It gives me
room to stretch myself.  It sort o' sweeps away a whole heap of fusty
city smells, and gives us something a deal more worth breathing.  It's
a man's place.  And it's full of man's work.  Guess Providence got busy
an' set it all out for us.  Providence guessed we'd have to use it.
But Providence didn't just guess how far crazy human nature really was.
She didn't foresee we'd gather around in the musty dump-holes we call
cities.  She didn't figure on our tastes for the flesh-pots, and the
indulgence of the senses she'd handed us.  But then Providence knows
her power to fix us right when she feels that way."  Then he spread out
his arms with an inexpressible suggestion of longing.  "Say, I'm
crazy--plumb crazy to get the first peek at that dandy home I've had
fixed for you."

The woman's eyes sought her husband's with a smile that was a caress.

"You're good to me, Jeff," she said.  Then she added: "So good."  Her
smile deepened.  "You'd hand me the world with--with a fence around it,
if I asked.  Why?  Why are you like that?"

It was the love in her seeking reassurance.  Nor was she disappointed.

"Why?"  The man laughed.  And the sound of it was good to hear.  It was
deep, and seemed to come from the depths of his soul.  His blue eyes
shone with a world of devotion.  "Guess I love you--just that," he
said.  Then he pointed at the distant hills.  "I can't tell you all I
feel, Elvie," he said, "but get those hills.  See them.  There, that
peak, sitting right up over its fellows, with a cap of snow on it I
don't guess the sun could ever melt.  That's thousands of feet up.  I'd
say man's foot was never set there, nor bird's, nor animal's either.
Well, if that peak was a throne it 'ud give you pleasure to occupy,
why, I guess I'd just go the limit to have you sit there."

Elvine was gazing at the mountain crest, but she was not thinking of
it.  She was thinking of the love which the extravagant words
expressed, and she was wondering at the bigness of it.  She was caught
in its power, and it thrilled her with an even greater appreciation of
her danger.  What would be the result upon such a nature as this man's
when--he knew?

"I believe you would," she said, her eyes coming back to the strong,
flushed face.  Then she added: "Now."

"Now?"

There was a quick lifting in the man's fair brows.  There was
incredulity in his tone.  To him it seemed impossible, the implied
doubt in her final word.

"I don't change easy, Elvie," he protested.  "I kind of get things
hard.  It's my way, and it's no doing of mine.  Life's a full-sized
proposition, and I don't guess we can see far through it.  But I can't
imagine a thing that could come before you in my thoughts."

"I'd like to think that.  I'd like to feel that," Elvine returned.  She
was smiling up into his eyes.  "You see, Jeff, I was kind of thinking.
We're young now.  We've been together just six weeks.  Maybe you'll get
used to me later.  Men do get used to women till they become sort of
part of the furniture.  Oh, I guess their love goes right on, but--but
they wouldn't feel like starting in to fence in the North Pole, or--or
hitch up Niagara to their wife's buggy just because she fancied that
way.  Say, Jeff, when I lose your love I just lose everything in the
world.  You--you won't ever let me lose it, will you?"

Jeff shook his head, and smiled in the confidence of feelings.

"Don't ever talk that way.  Don't ever think like that," he urged her.
Then, as their horses ambled side by side up the last gentle incline
before they dropped down to the great plain of the Rainbow Hill Valley,
which was the setting of the Obar Ranch, he drew nearer and reached out
one arm and gently encircled her waist.  "Guess you're feeling like me
just now, Evie.  Do you know what I mean?  We're getting home.
Home--yours and mine.  Well, say, that home is in my mind now, and it's
full to the brim of thoughts of you.  You're in it--everywhere.  You're
part of it.  You're just part of me.  I can't see any future without
you.  It don't seem to me there could be any.  I don't doubt.  I guess
the thought of it don't scare me a thing.  Maybe with you it's
different.  Maybe you're scared such happiness can't last.  But I tell
you it can--it will.  You're with me now and always, and I can't see a
shadow that could come between us."

"None?  No, none, none!"

The woman forced conviction into her final denial, and, for a moment,
she permitted herself to yield to the reassuring embrace.  Then she
started up and released herself.

"Oh, Jeff!" she cried.  "I just pray all the time that nothing shall
ever rob me of your love.  Night and day I pray that way.  If I were to
lose you, I--I think nothing else would much matter."

The man smiled with supreme confidence.  They had reached the top of
the hill, and he set his horse into a canter.

"You're just going to live right on--for me, sweetheart," he cried.
"Be yourself.  Just yourself.  The frank, honest woman I know and love.
If ever the shadows you fear come to worry us, they'll have to be of
your own creating.  We have nothing to fear from the future, nothing at
all.  We'll just drive right on down the clear trail of life.  It's
only in the byways there's any ugly dumps.  Look!"  He suddenly flung
out one arm, pointing ahead where the great Obar plains rolled away
toward the hills below them.  "That's the ranch.  There.  That one
there is Bud's homestead, and the other to the right's your--our home.
Say, it's good to see--mighty good!"

      *      *      *      *      *      *

Nan gazed upon the result of her labors and decided that it was good.
Bud was observing her in his unobtrusive way.  They were together in
the new parlor of the home which Jeff had had reconstructed under Nan's
most careful supervision.

The girl had put forth her greatest effort, greater even than she
herself realized, for it had been inspired by a desire that Jeff and
his wife should never realize the pain and bitter disappointment she
had endured.

Now, as she surveyed each detail in her final tour of inspection, she
convinced herself that nothing, nothing she could think of had been
forgotten.  Even the city-bred Elvine could find no fault with any
detail of it.

She and Bud were standing side by side rather like two children gazing
in awed wonder at some undreamed of splendor suddenly discovered in a
familiar playground, every square foot of which they had believed
themselves familiar with.

"I--don't think I've forgotten a thing," Nan said, in a tone subdued by
her weight of responsibility.

"Not a thing," agreed Bud, with a perfect disregard for any
consequences his statement might have.

He was utterly unchanged.  He had made no preparation to receive the
bride and bridegroom in their home.  He was just the cattleman nothing
could change him from.  His gray flannel shirt was agape over his
sunburned chest.  His leather chapps creaked as he moved, his vicious
spurs clanked.  Then, too, the curling iron-gray hair of his bared head
was innocent of all extra combing.  With Nan it was different.  She had
striven to rid herself of every sign of the prairie to which she
belonged.  She was dressed with consummate care.  Every jealous feeling
of the woman in her had cried out for her rights, and those rights were
that her successful rival should be unable to sneer at or pity her.

The result was a delightful picture that filled Bud's heart with
admiration.  And for perhaps the thousandth time he silently
anathematized the blind folly of the man who had wilfully cast his eyes
in another direction.

Nan seated herself in one of the luxuriously inviting armchairs, while
Bud insinuated his huge form on to the polished surface of a large
central table.

"You know, Daddy, I sort of feel like a feller who's guessed the right
answer to a question he hadn't a notion of.  Maybe you won't get just
how I mean."  The smile in her pretty eyes changed to a deep
seriousness.  "You know when I was a little teeny girl all mud and
overall, that never could keep me within measurable distance of being
clean, you used to talk to me just as if you were speaking your
thoughts aloud.  Guess it was about the time poor Momma died, or maybe
soon after.  I kind of remember you were squatting Indian fashion on
the veranda of our shack, I'd been busy in the hopes of drowning myself
in a half dry mud hole, and had mostly succeeded in absorbing more of
the dirt than seemed good for a single meal.  Guess I must have started
to cry, and you'd reached out and grabbed me, and fetched me up on your
lap, and were handing me a few words you reckoned to cheer me up with.
Do you remember them, my Daddy?  I don't guess you do.  I didn't till a
while later, and then I didn't figure out their meaning till I went to
school.  You said, 'Tears is only for kiddies an' grown women.  Kiddies
mostly cry because they don't understand, an' grown women because they
do.  Anyway, neither of 'em need to cry, if they only get busy an'
think a while.  Ther' ain't a thing in this life calls for a tear from
a living soul, not even a stomachful of moist mud, 'cos, you see,
ther's Someone who fixes everything the way it should go, an' it's the
right way.  So we'll jest give you a dose of physic to help boost the
show along.'"  She glanced round her with smiling eyes at the
tastefully arrayed furnishings of the parlor.  "This has been the dose
of physic I gave myself, and--and I feel better for it.  I had the mud,
and, why, the tears came just as they did before.  Maybe if I'd been
able to think right I wouldn't have shed them.  But I just couldn't
think right then.  But I've thought since, and the physic's helped me.
Do--do you think he'll like it all?"

The contemplative gaze of her father was full of gentle amusement.

"Sure he will--if he ain't changed any."

Nan shook her head.

"Jeff couldn't change.  Even marriage couldn't change Jeff.  You see,
Jeff's got notions of life which are just part of him.  Maybe he'll
soften some in ways and things, but his notions'll remain, and they'll
stand right out in all he does."

But Bud remained without conviction.

"A good woman can set a big man hunting a halo," he said.  "An' I allow
he's li'ble to find it, if she don't weaken in her play.  But a bad
woman--why, I guess a bad woman can send him down quicker than most
things in life, once she tucks herself into a corner of his life depot."

"But Jeff would never fall in love with a bad woman." Nan protested
swiftly, an odd little pucker of anxiety gathering between her brows.
"I--I'm sure his wife's a good woman."

"An' I ain't any sort o' reason to think diff'rent."

"But you do think--that way."

Nan's understanding of her father was wide.  It could scarcely have
been otherwise, since he had been her sole companion for so many years.

But Bud was to be drawn no further.

"Ther' ain't no accounting fer how folks think when they ain't out on a
joy trip," he grumbled, as he moved across to the open window, and
stood gazing out over the trail from the northeast.  Then all further
discussion was abandoned in a small wave of excitement.  He was
pointing down the trail.

"Say, they're coming right along now.  An'----"

But Nan was at his side.  Something of the color had faded out of her
cheeks, and she clung to her father's arm as she gazed along the narrow
winding road.  Her breath was coming rapidly.  For all her courage, now
that the moment of great trial had arrived, she felt very weak, very
helpless.

Bud understood.  He released his arm from her nervous clasp, and placed
it gently about her shoulders.  "It's Jeff setting the gait," he said.
"I'd say he's crazy to get home."  Then he added as though to himself:
"Guess I'd as lief seen her on the lead."

But Nan gave no heed to his words.  The soul of the girl was in her
eyes, which were full of a deep terror and yearning.  She had schooled
herself for this meeting How she had schooled herself!  And now it
seemed beyond her powers to live up to that schooling.

Never for a moment did she withdraw her gaze.  It was held fascinated,
perhaps against her will.  They came on, riding at an almost racing
gallop, and finally drew up with their horses fighting against the
restraining bits.

Bud and Nan were on the veranda.  Bud's attitude was one of almost shy
reserve.  Nan was smiling a welcome such as a moment before would have
seemed quite impossible.  But her schooling had finally triumphed in
the crisis, and her loyalty to her generous love had vanquished every
baser feeling.  It was her hands which clasped those of the city woman
before she sprang lightly from the saddle.  It was her steady voice
spoke the first words of welcome.

"Say, you sure must be tired with your journey," she said.  "Come right
in to--your new home."

Bud had averted his eyes the moment she began to speak.  He could not
witness that greeting.  His courage was unequal to it.  Instead he
greeted Jeff in his own fashion, as though nothing unusual had occurred.

"Nan's got everything through for you same as you asked.  After you've
eaten, why, I guess we'll need to make some talk.  Things have been
moving, boy.  Guess we'll need to get busy."

Nan had taken Elvine into the house, and one of the barn-hands was
waiting to take the horses.  Jeff leaped from the saddle.  Once in the
company of his partner, with all the atmosphere of the world to which
he belonged about him, all the excitement of his home-coming seemed to
drop from him.  He even seemed to have forgotten that this was the
final great event of his new life--the bringing of his bride to the
home he had prepared for her.  But Nan's estimate of him was right.
Jeff's was a nature that could not be changed, even by his marriage.
His love, his marriage, Elvine; these things were, in reality, merely
episodes.  Delightful episodes.  Before all things his work claimed him.

"You mean the--rustlers?"

The two men were facing each other on the wide veranda.  The trailing
wild cucumber vines tempered the blaze of sunlight and left the
atmosphere of the veranda cool.  Jeff mopped the beads of perspiration
from his forehead under his wide hat, which had been thrust back on his
head.

"That's so."  Bud's eyes were following the horses as they moved away
in the wake of the barn-hand.

"It's pretty bad?"

"An' gettin' worse."

Bud's eyes came back to his partner's face.  They gazed steadily into
it.

"Can't you tell me--now?  Evie's in there with Nan," he added
significantly.

Bud shook his head.

"It's a big yarn, an' needs time.  But----"  He paused, searching the
other's face.

"Go right on."

Jeff read through the pause.  He waited, his lips firmly set.

Bud cleared his throat.

"I've got to say these things later if I don't say 'em now, Jeff, boy.
What I need to tell 'll make you sore, an' I don't guess it's the best
sort o' welcome making you sore at your home-comin'.  It's the worst of
the yarn anyway, an' I kind o' feel it's best spitting out the worst
right away.  We're up against a gang, a slick gang, organized right,
same as----"

He hesitated.  But the younger man seemed to have no similar scruples.

"The gang my brother ran."

Bud nodded.

"Some of 'em got clear away--that time."

"And you figure after giving things time to get forgotten they've
gathered up a crowd of toughs and started in on this district?"

"It seems that way."

"How?"

"System," Bud declared sharply.  "They're takin' a steady toll of us,
an' other folks in the district.  We trailed 'em to the hills,
an'--lost 'em.  Say, if we don't handle 'em it means----"

"Something like ruin for the--Obar."

Jeff's manner was shorn of any equivocation.  He spoke with almost
ruthless force, but the coldness of tone was incomparable with the
steely light in his blue eyes.

After a moment's silence he turned away.  He stood looking back over
the trail he had just left, and Bud regarded his keen profile, waiting.
He felt there was nothing more for him to say at the moment.

At last the other turned in his quick, decided fashion as the sound of
the women's voices reached them from within the parlor.

"Will you stop and eat with us?" he asked bluntly.

Bud shook his head.

"Not now, Jeff, boy.  This is your home-coming."

"Yes.  Well, I'll get around your place to-morrow morning, Bud.  We can
make big talk then."




CHAPTER XVI

THE RANCHMAN

The cool night breeze died out under the increasing heat of the early
sun.  Away to the west gossamer melted upon the hillsides.  The
mountain tops stood out under their eternal snows, above the lower
cloud belts.  The summer dews on thirsty foliage dried up before their
mission was completed.  But the wide prairie world stood up refreshed
to withstand the day's heat yet to come.

Elvine Masters was on the veranda of her new home gazing after the
receding figure of her husband, who had just left her to discuss with
his partner those vital things which they had touched upon at the
moment of his arrival yesterday.

Everywhere about her the busy life of the ranch was stirring.  Inside
the house the maids were at work garnishing the home which Nan had
already left spotless.  The corrals, which stood out from the shelter
of a wood bluff, were claiming attention from several cow-hands.
Sounds reached her from the region of the bunkhouse, away to the right.
Then at the barns, and other ranch buildings, the voices of men implied
the work that was going forward in their region.  Away in the distance
isolated horsemen were moving about in the apparently aimless fashion
of all fence riders, while, dotted about, small bands of cattle
proceeded leisurely with the endless task of endeavoring to satisfy the
craving of insatiable appetites.

The woman's farewell smile had left her eyes cold as she surveyed the
scene.  There was no sign of the expressed delight with which she had
followed Nan at her first inspection of her new home.  The recollection
of it had even left her.  Only a certain sense of the irony of it all
occupied her.  That, and a painful wonder as to when the dread under
which she labored would materialize into the shattering of every hope
within her heart.

Presently a "hand" appeared leading a saddle horse.  He was a
youngster, a "barn-hand" who only worked around cattle in times of
pressure.  But he possessed all the air of a cowpuncher, which he
ultimately purposed to become.  Elvine watched his leisurely approach,
and remembered the days when she would have saddled her own pony.

The boy displayed no sign of deference.  He stood before her chewing a
straw with all the unconcern of his kind, his arm linked through the
reins, and his hands thrust into the tops of his trousers.  He was
probably not more than thirteen years of age, but he possessed all the
independence bred in the calling of the cattle world.

Elvine broke in upon his meditative curiosity as he surveyed the new
mistress of the ranch.

"What's your name, boy?" she demanded, in a tone of authority.

But the youngster was not to be startled out of his leisurely regard.
An amiable smile upon his unclean face was the preliminary result of
the question.

"Pete, ma'am," he replied after a moment.  "An' around this bum lay-out
I mostly reckon to have to do the stunts other folks don't notion."

"Chore boy?"

"Wal, mebbe that's how I figger on the pay roll.  I allow I ain't allus
called that way."

The smile had left his eyes.  He was talking with the frank candor of
one unused to being taken notice of.  There was a deep curiosity in the
look with which he surveyed her.  He had already been told that the
boss's wife was a "swell piece," and his youthful mind was eager to
verify the opinion.

"How do they call you then?"  Elvine took the reins and threw them back
over the horse's head, and examined the cinching of the saddle with the
touch of experience.

"Mostly a 'mule-headed bussock,' ma'am.  Sometimes I allow they change
it to 'slap-sided hoboe,' or somethin' more fancy.  But that's jest the
ignorant bums that ain't got no more learnin' than'll let 'em lose
their cents reg'lar at 'draw.'  Ther's others who don't jest use
langwidge--only their feet.  Then ther's the foreman, Lal Hobhouse.
Mebbe you ain't acquainted yet--you bein' new around these parts.  He's
a fine bully feller till he gits mad.  Then he's mean, ma'am.  Guess
he's most as mean as a skunk.  He needs watching if you want to get on
a racket.  I don't guess he ever laffed in his life.  Not even at a
cirkis.  Yep.  He's a holy terror when he's mad.  He cowhided me
t'other day so I ain't sat right in a week.  If he was to start in to
fix you that way, why----"

"I don't guess he'll cowhide me," said Elvine quickly, as she swung
herself into the saddle.  "I'm not likely go on a racket."  Then she
leaned forward over the horn of the saddle, and smiled down into the
unclean face gawking up at her.  "How'd you fancy looking after my
horses and saddle and things?  I mean just look after them for me, and
nothing else?"

The boy's eyes lit.

"Bully!" he cried eagerly.  "That way I wouldn't have to wash lousy
clothes for the bunkhouse.  Would I?  Then they wouldn't be able to
fire rocks at me when I sassed 'em.  Bully!"

"I'll speak to Lal Hobhouse about it."

The hope died out of the boy's eyes.

"You won't tell him wot I said, ma'am?" he pleaded.  "You see, I was
jest settin' you wise, you bein' new around here.  It ain't friendly
not to put folks wise, is it?  He's a bully feller sure, ma'am, an' I
ain't got a word agin him.  I hain't reely.  I wouldn't 'a' sed a word
if I'd tho't----"

"Don't you worry, boy," Elvine cried, as she turned her horse about.
"I wouldn't give you away.  I wouldn't give anybody away--now.  You
see, you never know how things of that sort can come back on you."

The obvious relief in the boy's dirty face was more than sufficient to
bring back the smile to Elvine's eyes, which, for the moment, had
become almost painfully serious.  But as she rode away leaving the boy
gawking after her she quickly returned to the mood which had only been
broken by the interlude.

It was an interlude not easily forgotten, however.  It had brought home
to her a fresh revelation.  And it had come in the boy's final appeal
not to give him away.  A fierce sense of shame surged through her
heart.  It communicated itself to her eyes, and displayed itself
further in the deep flush on her beautiful cheeks.  Yet its reason must
have remained obscure to any observer.

She rode on urging her pony to a gait which set him reaching at his
bit.  She sat her saddle in a fashion which belonged solely to the
prairie.  The long stirrups and straight limb.  The lightness, and that
indescribable something which suggests the single personality of horse
and rider.

She had no intention of returning to the ranch house until the noonday
meal, and meanwhile it was her purpose to explore something of the vast
domain which her husband controlled.

It was curious that her purpose should lead her thus.  For somehow all
sense of delight in these possessions had passed from her.  At one time
the thought of his thousands upon thousands of acres had filled her
with a world of desire, and pride that she was to share in them.  But
not now.  With every furlong she covered her mood depressed, and her
sense of dread increased.  She felt as though she were surveying from a
great distance the details of the prize she had coveted, but the
possession of which was denied her.  This--this was the wealth her
husband had bestowed upon her, she told herself bitterly, and some
greater power, some fatalistic power, purposed to snatch it from her
before it reached her hands.

She rode straight for the rising land of the foothills.  It almost
seemed as though she were drawn thither by some magnetic influence.
She had formed no definite decision to travel that way.  Perhaps it was
the result of a subconscious realization of the monotony of the rolling
tawny grass-land on the flat.  The distant view of grazing cattle
failed to break it.  The occasional station shack and corral.  The
hills rose up in sharp contrast and great variety.  There were the
woodland bluffs.  There were little trickling streams.  There was that
sense of the wild beyond.  Perhaps it was all this.  Or perhaps it was
the call of a memory, which drew her beyond her power of resistance.

She had long since left all beaten trails, and her way took her over
the wiry growth of seeding grass.  She had arrived at the bank of a
narrow reed-grown creek, which meandered placidly in the deeps of a
trough between two waves of grass-land.  It had been her intention to
cross it, but the marshy nature of its bed deterred her.  So she rode
on until the rising ground abruptly mounted and merged into the two
great hills which formed the portals through which the stream had found
an outlet from its mountain prison to the freedom of the plains beyond.

For a moment she paused at the edge of a woodland bluff which mounted
the slope to her right, and crowned the hillock with a thatch of dark
green pine foliage.  She gazed up with questioning eyes.  And the
familiarity of the tattered foliage left her without enthusiasm for its
beauty.  Then she gazed ahead along the course of the stream.  And it
was obvious that she was in some doubt as to whether she should still
proceed.

After a moment of deep consideration she lifted her reins and her horse
moved forward.  Then, suddenly, he was still again, held with a
tightened rein.  The soft but rapid plod of galloping hoofs came out of
the distance.  It was coming toward her from the hills, and an
unaccountable but overwhelming desire to beat a hasty retreat took
possession of her.

But the action never matured.  She was still facing the hills when a
horseman emerged from a narrow pathway which split up converging
bluffs.  He was riding at a great pace, and was heading straight for
the bank of the river where she had paused.

Elvine remained where she was.  She made no effort either to proceed or
retreat.  Somehow curiosity had caught her up and left her with no
other emotion.  She regarded the stranger with searching eyes.  At the
moment his features were too indistinct to obtain an impression.  But
his general appearance left nothing to question.  He was a cow-hand
without a doubt.  His open shirt and loose waistcoat, his chapps, and
the plaited rawhide rope which hung from the horn of his saddle.  These
were sufficient evidence.  But for the rest, the wide flapping brim of
his hat left her no estimate of the face beneath it.

He came on.  He even swerved his horse on one side as though to pass
her without pausing.  Elvine's pony stirred restlessly in a desire to
join the stranger.  Then, in a flash, the whole position was changed.
The man reined up his horse with a heavy "yank" which almost flung it
on its haunches, and a pair of fierce black eyes were staring into the
woman's face with a light of startled recognition shining in their
depths.

"You!" he cried, without any other form of greeting.  And into the word
he flung a world of harsh meaning.

Elvine's reply was a blank stare, which had in it not a fraction of the
recognition he displayed.  Not for an instant did her regard waver.  It
was full of a haughty displeasure at the nature of the greeting.  Nor
did she deign reply.

The man sat for a moment as though incredulous.  Then he thrust his hat
back from his head, displaying the brutal ugliness of his face.  Elvine
observed the coarse moustache, the lean cheeks, the low forehead and
vicious eyes.  The lips were hidden behind their curtain of hair.

"Say, kind o' fergotten--ain't yer?" he demanded.  Then the woman's
perfectly fitting riding suit seemed to attract his attention.  "Gee,"
he exclaimed, "wher' you get that dandy rig?"  But even as he spoke a
change in his expression came when he recognized the horse Elvine was
riding.  Suddenly he raised one hand and smoothed the tangle of
moustache with a downward gesture.  It was a gesture implying complete
lack of comprehension.  "Well, I'm darned!"

"You'll be more than that if you don't pass on to your work, whatever
that may be."

The coldness of the woman's tone matched the light in her dark eyes.
Every ounce of her courage had been summoned to meet the situation.

But the man displayed not the slightest regard for the threat.  The
incredulity of his expression changed.  And the change was subtle.  It
was perfectly apparent, however, to the woman.  And she nerved herself
for what was to come.  An evil smile grew in the piercing black eyes,
as the man regarded the beauty which, with him, was a long stored up
memory.

"Say, when d'you quit Orrville way?" he cried derisively.  "Maybe you
hadn't a heap o' use for it when your man, Bob, got shot up.  Maybe you
didn't need to stop around after you got your hands on the dollars I
guess he left lying around.  Say, it beats hell meetin' you this way."

But Elvine was no longer laboring under the shock of the encounter.
She had no longer any thought of the remoteness of the spot, or the
obviously brutish man with whom she was confronted.  She set about
dealing with the situation with a desperate courage.  "I don't know if
you're mad, or only--drunk," she said, with icy sharpness.  "But you're
on my husband's land, and I suppose you work for him.  What's your
name?  I need to know it so I can tell him of your insolence.  Jeffrey
Masters is not the man to allow his wife to be insulted with impunity
by one of his cattlemen.  It will be my business to see to it that he
is told--everything.  You were riding that way."  She pointed the way
she had come.  "I s'pose toward the ranch house.  Let me pass!"

She moved her horse as though to proceed.  There was no sign of fear in
her.  No haste.  At that moment her dignity was superb.  Every word she
had spoken had been calculated, and the sting she had conveyed with her
information had not been overdone.  She looked for its effect, which
came with a dramatic change in the man's whole demeanor.  His evil face
lost its smile, and, in a moment, he had bared his bristling head.  But
even as Elvine beheld these things she understood the curious
expression which he seemed powerless to banish from his ferretty eyes.

"You're Mrs. Masters, ma'am?" the fellow cried.  "Say, ma'am, I'm just
kind o' knocked all of a mush.  I hadn't a notion.  I truly hadn't.
Guess I took you for a leddy I kind o' remember up Orrville way.  An'
the likeness is jest that o' two beans.  I'm beat, ma'am, beat sore.  I
wouldn't have offered you insult for a farm.  I'm sorry.  I'd heerd the
boss's wife was around, but I didn't figger I----"  Then he replaced
his hat, and made as though to pass on.  But he remained where he was.
"Y'see, I was ridin' in about last night.  We lost another bunch.  On'y
ten cows and their calves, but I had to make a report."

"Another raid?"

In a moment the woman caught him up.  And her attitude had taken on a
calculated change.

The man observed her interest, and took prompt advantage of it.

"Yep.  An' things are lookin' pretty bad.  This gang's jest workin'
how, an' when, an' wher' they fancy.  If the boss 'ud on'y listen to me
he'd leave no stock around the outstations.  It's devilish luck, ma'am,
that's what it is--devilish."

Elvine remained lost in thought, and the man's narrow eyes never left
the profile she presented to him.  When she turned to him again,
however, his whole attitude was one of bland humility.

"You can ride back to your station," she declared, with perfect
authority.  "I'll convey your report.  What's your name?  You didn't
give it me."

"Sikkem.  Sikkem Bruce.  I'm out at Spruce Crossing, back ther' in the
hills.  It's jest a piece.  Mebbe three miles, wher' this stream makes
a joining with the Gophir Creek.  Say----"

"Well?" Elvine inquired as he paused.

"You ain't makin' no complaint to the boss, ma'am?  It was jest a darn
fool mistake of mine.  It surely was.  I ken see it was.  I can't
figger how I mistook you fer the lady I was thinkin' of.  Y'see, she
was no account anyway.  She was jest one o' them vampire sorts who'd
sell her soul fer a price, yep, and sell any man's life that way, too.
Y'see, that's how I come to know her.  She handed over a bunch o' guys,
scallawags, sure, who didn't need nothin' better, fer the price o' ten
thousand dollars.  She corralled the information, an' drove her
weak-livered man to do the lousy work.  I tell you, ma'am, a woman who
gits that low is pretty mean.  You was sure right to figger on an
insult when I guessed you was that 'piece.'  But I didn't mean it that
way, I sure didn't."

The marble coldness of Elvine's face as she listened to the man's words
gave no indication of any feeling behind it.  At the end, however, she
forced a smile to her lips.

"You can forget it," she said.  Then she added deliberately: "I shall
not inform my husband."

"Thank you, ma'am.  Then I guess I'll get right on back--if you'll
carry in the report.  Y'see, we're huntin' the trail.  That-a-way I'll
be able to join up with the boys."

"Yes."

The man hesitated as though waiting for her to depart first, but as she
made no movement, and offered no further word, he was forced to the
initiative.  With an astonishing deference, which, perhaps, was even
too elaborate, he wheeled his horse about and rode off.

Elvine watched him until he was swallowed up by the narrow pathway
between the bluffs, then she turned back and rode slowly homeward.

But the face which was now turned down the river was no longer the face
which had confronted Sikkem Bruce.  It was ghastly.  It was the face of
a soul-tortured woman.

"She was jest one of them vampire sorts who'd sell her soul fer a
price, yes, an' sell any man's life that way, too."

The words, even the tones of the man's voice dinned in her brain, and
she knew that the legions of Fate had appeared upon a fresh horizon.




CHAPTER XVII

THE CALL TO ORRVILLE

The windows were wide open.  Voices from within the parlor reached Nan.
She was waiting on the veranda.  Waiting for the long council of
men-folk to reach its conclusion.  She had elected to remain outside.
She knew that the future well-being of the Obar Ranch was being
considered by men whose sole regard that well-being was.  And somehow
the woman in her demanded that in all the vital affairs of life it was
the will of the men-folk which should rule.

But her self-denial was strained to breaking as the interminable
minutes grew, and, at last, she abandoned her principles to her woman's
curiosity, and slipped into the room.  She knew well enough that none
of those present would resent her intrusion.  And, anyway, it was hard
to stand by when her whole interest was absorbed in the decisions to be
arrived at.

She passed round the room and took up a position on the arm of her
father's chair.  No one spoke to her.  Scarcely an eye turned in her
direction.  And something of the impressiveness of it all caught the
girl's imagination.

There was the dear familiar room with its simple furnishing, and its
poignant associations.  It was part of her life.  It was certainly part
of her father's and Jeff's.  Then there was the warm sunlight pouring
in through the open windows.  It lit the tanned, strong faces of the
men, and searched the weak spots in their toil-worn equipment.  There
was not a weak face among them.  And Nan felt comfort in the thought
that theirs was the decision.

The face of Jay Pendick, their own headman, with its small, alert dark
eyes reflected the intentness of his mind.  His capacity had been tried
over and over again in his long years of service.  Then Lal Hobhouse,
the best-hated man on the countryside for his ruthless genius in
obtaining work from those under him, and the driving force of Jeff's
side of the partnership.  Her father, wise and silent, except for his
heavy breathing.  And lastly Jeff, full of a hard determination to beat
the game in which he was engaged.

So keen was the interest of the gathering that Bud alone was smoking.
But then Bud regarded tobacco as a necessary adjunct to soundness of
judgment.

He slipped an arm about Nan's waist as she took up her position at his
side.

Jeff was seated at the centre table, a position strongly reminiscent to
the girl of a smaller gathering some four years back, when he had
occupied the position of leadership in the enterprise which had had
such successful results for them all.  Jay was poised upon the edge of
a small chair which suggested immediate peril under his forceful and
scarcely elegant methods when discussing the doings of rustlers, and
imparting his opinion upon all and sundry of their class.  Lal
disdained all parlor attitude.  He was squatting against the edge of
the table without the least consideration for its somewhat trifling
powers of endurance.  But Jeff was talking, and Nan's whole attention
was swiftly caught and held by the man whose words and actions were at
all times irresistible to her.

He was talking slowly and clearly with that shadow of a drawl which was
his way when his decision was arrived at.

"Say, it's as clear as don't matter we're up against an experienced and
organized proposition," he said.  "I don't guess this is any kind of
scallawag outfit of toughs which just get around and duff a bunch, and
hit the trail for safety till the froth they've raised dies down again.
It's Orrville repeating itself."  He paused thoughtfully.  His eyes
were regarding the table before him.  When he raised them again they
were full of a peculiar light which shone in Bud's direction.  "Ther's
features in the game carry a parallel to that play, and I guess they
point the fact that the fellers of that gang who got away at their
round-up have got around this region now, and figure to carry on the
same play right here.  You'll get that, Bud--sure."  Bud nodded.
"Well, it's up to us," Jeff went on, as though the other's agreement
had left his course of action clear.  "Maybe ther's States Marshalls
around, and a pretty bunch of deputies lying behind Sheriff Hank
Killick, but there never was an official gang these folk couldn't beat
a mile.  Guess they're not duffing the private property of Hank
Killick, or any of his boys.  We best get busy our own way, which is
the way Dug McFarlane took nearly five years to dream out."

His blue eyes had grown colder and harder while he talked.  There was a
bite, too, in the manner in which he referred to the doings in Orrville
of four years ago.  There was a curious curl to his firm lips, which,
to Nan's mind, suggested a painful smile.  And she disliked it.  She
disliked his whole manner, which, just now, was none of the Jeff she
had always known.  Bud read deeper.  And that which he read carried him
back to an unforgettable scene in the Cathills, when a twin stood
gazing upon its other half, hanging by the neck dead under the shade of
a wide-spreading tree.

"It's up to us to set up a reward, Bud," Jeff went on, in the same
passionless fashion.  "A big reward.  We've got to make it so some
amateur Judas is ready to sell his friends.  It'll cost us a piece, but
it's the way to fix things.  And anyway it's going to be worth it,
sure.  I allow we'll need to hand out the story of reward good.  It's
got to reach this gang itself.  An' if I guess right, and there's
toughs from Orrville way running this lay-out, why, they aren't li'ble
to have forgotten what happened that time.  We'll break the gang,
or--we'll get 'em."

There was something unrelenting, and even vicious, in the manner in
which he gripped the pencil in his hand and dug the pointed lead and
crushed it against the surface of the table.  Nan drew a deep sigh of
relief as he finished speaking, and turned gladly as her father removed
his pipe and cleared his throat.

"An' the reward.  How much?" he questioned.

The answer flashed back at him like the slash of a knife.

"Ten thousand dollars!"

In that answer Jeff's voice was unrecognizable to Nan.  His whole
expression, too, seemed to have undergone some subtle change.  She sat
groping for the meaning of it all, and somehow regretted she had not
remained out on the veranda.

Bud inclined his head and replaced his pipe in corner of his mouth.

"It goes," he declared.  Then he lumbered out of his chair.  "That
all?" he inquired.  And by his manner and tone Nan knew that he, too,
had been affected by the things which had troubled her.

"Not quite."

Jeff turned on his own foreman.  He had lost none his intensity.

"That reward goes," he said sharply.  "Get the exact amount.  Ten
thousand dollars.  Not a cent more or less.  Hand it out everywhere.
Meanwhile I'll see to it the notices are printed, and we'll have 'em
set up wherever the eyes of these scum are likely to get peeking
around."  Then he emitted a sound like a laugh, but there was no mirth
in his eyes.  Nor in his manner.  "We'll locate the best trees for a
hanging, and we'll set 'em up there."

Nan moved over to an open window as the two headmen took their
departure.  Bud had taken up a position against the cold iron stove.
Jeff alone retained his seat, during the few silent moments which
followed.

With the departure of the men, however, he looked up from a letter he
had withdrawn from his pocket.

"Say, Bud," he said without emotion, "guess the Presidency of the
Western Union's going to claim me right away.  I'll need to make
Orrville right off."

"Orrville?"  Bud's eyes were sharply scrutinizing.

"Sure."  Jeff's indifference was obviously assumed.  Nan's questioning
eyes passed uncertainly from Jeff to her father.  There was something
between these two she did not understand.  Orrville?  It was when he
had been speaking of Orrville all that intensity of bitterness had been
so apparent in Jeff.  She received no enlightenment, however.

"What's the play at--Orrville?"

Bud's question had a suggestion of anxiety in it.

Jeff rose from his chair.  He passed one hand wearily across his brow
and smoothed back his lank fair hair.

"Oh, it's just arbitration," he said.  "The parties agree to take my
decision in some grazing rights instead of handing good dollars over to
the law.  It's Dug.  Dug McFarlane, and a feller called Peters.  Peters
figgers he's got rights on Dug's land, and--well, Dug just guesses he
hasn't."

"When are you starting?" Nan inquired, from her place at the window.

"I'll need to get off early to-morrow."  Jeff's eyes were on the girl.
The change in them had become pronounced.  Warmth had replaced
frigidity, and the smile in them was real now.  "It's tough on top of
my home-coming, eh, Nan?  Maybe Evie'll feel lonesome too--when I tell
her.  Still, these things are part of the game, and I can't weaken on
'em.  It's these toughs around I'm worrying 'll scare her.  I was kind
of wondering if you'd----"

"You don't need to worry a thing."  Nan's smile was full of a staunch
reassurance.  And her readiness came with a spontaneity which had
nothing to do with Jeff's wife.  It was the result of her delight and
pride in this man himself who was called upon, and looked to, for
leadership, in this little world of theirs.

"You'll----"

"I'll handle things here for you, Jeff."  Nan gave him no chance to
make his appeal.  "Elvine shall be as safe as we can make her.  She can
come right over here till you get back, or I'll sleep at your place.
It shall be just as she feels.  She shan't be lonesome, and I guess my
Daddy an' me we're equal to any crowd of rustlers."

The genuineness, even enthusiasm of the girl was quite transparent.
Nor was the man insensible to it.  For all his preoccupation he
realized something of his debt to these people, to Nan.  It was a debt
he had never attempted to pay, and now its rapid mounting made even
ultimate payment seem doubtful.

"You're pretty good to me, Nan," was all he trusted himself to say.

Nan shook her head in smiling denial.

"Women need to help each other in--these parts."

But Jeff did not accept her excuse.

"Maybe that's so," he said thoughtfully.  "But it don't alter things a
little bit.  I'd just like to feel I deserved it.  But I don't and
can't feel that way.  Some day----"  He laughed and made a helpless
gesture.  "But why talk?  It's too easy, and it's mighty cheap anyway.
I----"

But Nan was pointing out of the window.  She welcomed a sudden
diversion.

"It's Elvine coming right along over."  Then, as Jeff craned forward:
"Say, she's a dandy horsewoman.  Get a look at her.  Gracious, she
might have been born in the saddle."

But Jeff had not waited.  He was out on the veranda to greet his wife
as she came.  And just for one instant Nan caught a glimpse of the
light in his eyes which the sight of Elvine had conjured.  All the
coldness she had witnessed that morning, all the merciless purpose,
even the simple friendliness he had displayed toward her.  These were
gone.  Their place had been taken by a light of passionate regard for
the woman who had yielded herself to him.  For a moment it seemed as if
her own emotions must stifle her.  But the next she was within the room
again, her eyes merrily dancing, talking to the parent she adored.

"Say, you Daddy of mine," she said, almost boisterously, "haven't you
work to be done, the same as I have?  Shame on you for dallying.  Shame
on us both.  Come right along, sir.  Come right along at once."  Then,
as he moved toward the window, "No, no, you dear blundering Daddy, not
that way!  That's reserved.  The back door for us, sure.  Come along."

And the great Bud permitted himself to be hustled from the room through
the kitchen way.

Nan's effort was only partially successful.  In a few moments the
fugitives were urgently recalled to hear the news of the disaster at
Spruce Crossing, which Elvine had brought with her.  And during the
discussion which followed Nan was forced to stand by while the handsome
woman who had supplanted her occupied the centre of attention.

Somehow the news which held the others, drawing forth hot condemnation
from Bud, and the bitter comment of Jeff, for once left Nan cold.
Somehow it seemed so small a thing compared with that other disaster
which was always with her.  Her whole attention was held by Jeff and
his wife.  Not a detail of expression or emotion, as the swift words
flowed between them, was lost upon her.  And the exquisite pain of it
all was excruciating.

The great love of the man was so apparent.  There was a moment, even,
just as Jeff and Elvine were about to take their departure, when Nan
could have almost cried out.  It had followed upon an expression of
Elvine's dislike and fear of the man who conveyed the news to her.

Jeff took up her complaint in no half-hearted fashion, and, somehow,
the injustice of his attitude and his obvious thought for his wife
alone brought the girl's hot resentment very near the surface.

"Yes," he said.  "He's a tough, sure.  I've kept him on because he's
one of the brightest cow-hands east of the mountains.  But you're
right, Evie.  And I can't stand for you being scared by the 'hands' on
my ranch.  I'll have to get rid of him."  Then, as he sat in the saddle
with Elvine on her pony at his side, he had taken in Nan and her father
in a smiling, comprehensive glance.  "I guess Evie's some sport acting
the way she's done," he declared with a lover's pride.  "I allow we owe
her a heap of thanks, eh, Bud?"

Bud nodded.

"We're mighty grateful, ma'am," he declared, heartily in his formal
way.  "Guess we all thank you, sure."  Then he turned to Jeff more
directly.  "I'll get busy right away.  That'll leave you free to get
right on doping out that reward notice this afternoon, an' generally
fixing things before you make the trail to-morrow morning."

Then they had taken their departure.  And with their going Nan hastily
returned to the parlor.

Bud followed her almost on the instant.  He had moved with incredible
swiftness, which is often the way of heavy men under stress of feeling.
Already the tears were gathering in the girl's eyes when his words fell
upon her ears.

"Say, little gal," he said, with a deep note of sympathy in his
rumbling tones, "we're bein' hit up pretty bad since Jeff bro't her
back home.  Maybe we're feelin' 'bout as foolish as we're lookin'.  But
we're goin' to beat the game--sure, eh?  We're goin' to beat it because
we're built that way, an'--we got the grit to do it."

      *      *      *      *      *      *

The horses were walking leisurely over the summer grass.  The house was
less than two miles distant.  There was no immediate hurry.  Besides,
Elvine was reading the letter which Jeff had handed her in reply to her
inquiry as to the contemplated journey which Bud had mentioned.

Jeff was observing her closely as she read.  There were no doubts in
his mind.  He was not even seeking the effect of the letter.  He was
dwelling with a lover's delight upon the picture she made.

Nor was his approval extravagant.  Any one must have admitted the
justice of it.  Nan had admitted it when she beheld her in a prairie
saddle, on a prairie pony, with only the wide wealth of grass-land for
her setting.  Elvine in the saddle suggested a single identity between
horse and rider.  Her riding suit was expensively simple, and cut as
only such suits can be cut.  The figure beneath it was displayed to its
fullest advantage.  There was no studied pose.  Just the perfection of
horsemanship which demands an intimate freedom at all times.  Then her
dark head under her carefully adjusted prairie hat.  The shining masses
of hair, obvious in their wealth even under careful dressing.  The
softly healthy cheeks, and the perfect profile as she pored over the
letter in her hand.

Presently Elvine looked up.  She did not turn at once to the husband at
her side.  Her gaze was directed ahead.  It ignored the scene of
undulating plain, and the distant ramparts of wooded hills.  It saw
nothing but the images in her own brain, and the conjured thoughts of a
troubled heart and conscience.

"You see it's important," Jeff said, with a feeling that the news in
the letter had caused disappointment.

"I s'pose it is."

There was a curious lack of interest in the woman manner.  Her tone was
listless.

"I'm afraid I'll have to go."  The man felt he was apologizing, and it
seemed absurd that apology should be required.  Then he reminded her.
"You see, these things come with my work as President.  It's pretty
good if you think.  Guess I'll only be from home one night."

"You _must_ go--I s'pose?"

The man's eyes widened.

"Sure."

"But it seems unfair you should be put to all this for nothing."

Jeff shook his head.

"Why, I don't guess it's any worry.  Besides, it's an honor.  You see,
Evie, I'm out all I know to set up a big position for you.  And it's
these calls as President of the Western Union are going to fix things
the way I'd have them."

His eyes had somehow become serious.  There was even a lack of his
recent warmth in them.  He had not expected any protest from his wife.
A shade of disappointment at his going perhaps.  But that was all.

"You're at the call of anybody around to settle disputes?"

"Only where the interests of cattle-raising are affected."

Elvine handed him back the letter.  She did not turn to him.  A curious
set to her lips warned Jeff that in some way his contemplated journey
was adversely affecting her.  Nor was it merely the disappointment he
had been prepared for.  He felt there was need to say more, though the
need of it was obscure.  It had never been his way to appeal, but he
resigned himself to the reflection that his life had been entirely
changed by his marriage.  He was no longer responsible only to himself.
With an effort he flung aside an inclination to resentment.

"Say, Evie," he cried, "it's a bit tough on you having to leave you
even for a day just as we've got back to home.  It's that way with me,
too.  I just don't fancy going a small bit.  But I daren't refuse Dug
McFarlane.  He's one of the biggest men around, and I'll need all the
friends I can round up.  There's another thing.  I've got it back of my
mind later on to form a Trust amongst the growers, and Dug's a most
important concern in such a scheme.  I'd be crazy to refuse.  Why, I
just couldn't refuse anyway.  You're going to help me, dear, aren't
you?  I've talked to Bud and Nan, and fixed things so you won't be
lonesome.  Nan's promised to sleep in the house with you, so you shan't
feel that way.  Or you could go over to her.  It's just one night,
that's all."

It may have been his obvious sincerity, it may have been that the
woman's objections were really the result of disappointment only.  At
any rate a distinct change came over her, and she turned to him with a
smile.

"I'm just too selfish, Jeff," she cried.  "But--but it did seem
hard--at first.  Go?  Of course you must go.  And you're not to worry
about me.  Nor is Nan.  I wouldn't have her come over for me for
anything, and I'm not going to sleep out of my home, either.  You
needn't be scared I'll be lonesome.  I've got all this beautiful world
around me, and all your interests.  And rustlers?  Why, I'm not scared
of the worst rustlers living."

A delighted sense of gratitude replaced Jeff's every other feeling.

"Say," he cried, with a sudden vehemence, "you've good grit, Evie.
You're a bully soul.  You're the sort would set a man crazy to corral
the world, and set it at your feet.  I'll get right back quick.  I
won't wait an hour more than I need."

Elvine's decision had been forced upon her, but once having taken it
she threw something more into her words than the mere encouragement
that seemed necessary.

"No," she declared, her eyes shining.  "You're not even to hurry back.
Get right through with your work, or any schemes you have to arrange
while you're there, before you think of me."  Then her voice softened
to a great tenderness.  "I want you to win through in everything you
undertake, Jeff.  I don't care now for a thing else in the world.  You
do believe that, don't you?  Oh, Jeff, I want you always to believe
that.  Whatever may come in our life together, I want you always to
know I love you better--better than the whole world, and your--your
happiness is just my happiness.  Without your happiness I can never be
happy.  It was selfishness made me demur at first.  You believe that,
don't you?  I have always been very, very selfish.  It was nothing
else.  You don't think there was anything else, do you?  I sort of feel
I'd always have you in my sight, near me.  I'm happy then, because I
feel nothing can ever come between us.  When you're away, I don't know,
but it sort of seems as if shadows grow up threatening me.  I felt that
way this morning.  I felt that way when I read your letter.  But these
things just shan't be.  I love you with all that's in me, and--you love
me.  Nothing shall ever come between us.  Say that's so, Jeff.
Nothing.  Nothing."

The man responded with all a lover's impetuosity.  He gave her to the
full that reassurance of which she stood in need.  But for all his
sincerity it was as useless as if it had been left unspoken.

The letter from Dug McFarlane at Orrville, the recognition of her by
the man Sikkem Bruce, had warned Elvine that the sands of her time of
happiness were running out.  She felt she knew that a gape of despair
was already yawning at her feet.




CHAPTER XVIII

DUG MCFARLANE

The aroma of cigars blended delightfully with the fragrant evening air.
Through the cool green lacing of the creeper the sun poured the last of
its golden rays into the wide stoop.  The mists were already gathering
upon the lower slopes of the hills, and a deep purpling seemed to be
steadily embracing the whole of the great mountain range.

Two men were lounging comfortably in wide wicker chairs on the veranda.
They were resting bodies that rarely knew fatigue in the strenuous life
that was theirs.  But then the day was closing, and one of them had
come a long saddle journey.  Whisky stood on a table at the elbow of
Dug McFarlane.  Jeffrey Masters had coffee near by.

Outside the veranda a smudge fire in a bucket was doing battle with
attacking mosquitoes, while its thin spiral of smoke served as a screen
upon the still air to shut out the view of the disheveled township of
Orrville.

Dug McFarlane, opulent, of middle life and massive proportions, was in
strong contrast to his guest.  The American-Scot was something of a
product of the soil.  He was of the type which forces its way up from
the smallest of small beginnings, a type which decides early upon a
career in life, and which deviates not one step from the set course.
He was a man of one idea--cattle.

He knew nothing beyond--cattle.  Cattle was the sum and substance of
his celibate life.  He was an old type of ranchman whose waking hours
were devoted to a physical labor which left no room for anything else.
But Jeff knew that for all his roughness of manner and speech, a
roughness which left his own partner, Bud, a man of education and
refinement beside him, he counted his wealth, as he, Jeff, could only
hope to count his in the distant years to come.

Jeff was his guest for the night, and the dispute upon which he was to
arbitrate was to be settled upon the arrival of the man Peters.  And
while they waited they talked of the thing which was their mutual
interest.  The land and its produce, whether animal or vegetable, was
their beginning and end.  They discussed every prospect from the
overwhelming competition of the Argentine, to the rapid transformation
of grazing pastures into golden wheat fields.  Their interest seemed
endless, and it seemed only to require the non-appearance of Peters for
their talk to continue until sleep overtook them.

But the break came in the flow of their "shop" at the mention of the
name of Peters.  Jeff was curious to hear about him.

"Who is this Peters, anyway?" he demanded.  "He's not down in the stock
register, and nobody seems to have found him except you."

Dug's reply came with a great laugh.  His very bright gray eyes were
full of a good humor beneath his pronounced black brows.

"Peters?  Why, I guess Peters 'ud make a funeral procession laff.
You've never seen him?  You don't know him?  No.  Sure you wouldn't.
Nor you wouldn't find him registered.  Y'see, they don't register mixed
farm stock.  Anyways, he got me laffin' all the time.  But he's
bright--oh, yep, he's bright, sure.  He's a little feller.  To git him
right you need to think of a buck louse with a think-box developed
abnormal.  He's a great amusin' little cuss when you see him on his
patch of land.  You'd think he was runnin' a cirkis he's so busy fixin'
things wrong.  I'd like him fine if it wa'an't fer his habits.  I can't
stand the feller who eats the top of his fingers raw, an' sings hymns
o' Sunday in a voice that never oughter been handed out to anything
livin' that hadn't the sense to choke itself at birth."

"Is that the reason of the dispute?" Jeff asked with smile.

Dug grinned and shook his head.

"No, siree," he cried.  "It ain't a thing to do with it.  But I guess
we'll keep clear of the dispute till he gets around.  Y'see, this
arbitration game needs to be played good.  I'd hate to get ahead of the
little cuss by settin' out my case in private.  Nope.  I hain't got a
thing agin that grasshopper.  Not a thing, and I jest need to get this
thing straightened right, even if it goes agin me.  That's why we fixed
on appealin' to you rather than the law.  Y'see, I could buy up a
decision at law, which Peters knows, so we decided on the right
judgment of a straight feller.  Say, what in----!"

Dug sprang from his chair with a forcible oath.  Jeff, too, was on his
feet.  There was a frantic clatter beyond the screen of creeper.  A
string of hoarse invective in a human voice.  The hammering of horses'
hoofs and the sound of tin being battered in a wanton riot.  Dug broke
into a great laugh as he thrust his head out.

"Well, I be----!" he cried.

Jeff joined in his laugh.  An absurdly small man was clinging
desperately to the saddle of an absurdly large horse, which was rearing
and plunging in a wild effort to shed its rider and bolt from the
neighborhood of the overturned smudge-fire bucket.

What a wealth of terror reigned.  The gray-headed little man's face
matched the hue of his hair.  His short arms were grabbing frantically
at his horse's neck.  His eyes were full of a piteous appeal, and his
savage-looking spurs were firmly grappling his steed's flanks.  The
wretched horse was shaking in every limb.  Its eyes were bulging, and
the fierce snorts of his gushing nostrils had the force of escaping
steam.

Before any assistance could be offered by the onlookers the climax was
reached and passed.  Elias Peters rolled slowly out of the saddle and
reached the ground with a heavy flop.  Then, while its recent burden
gathered himself up, quite unhurt and smiling amiably in relief, the
horse contentedly mouched off toward a patch of inviting grass.

"Guess I'm kind o' late, Mr. McFarlane," Elias apologized.  "An' it
seems I've bust up your fire-bucket some," he added ruefully.  Then
with cheery optimism: "It was hustling to get here.  I didn't jest see
it.  Still, I got around."

"You sure have," grinned Dug.  Then he indicated his companion.  "This
is Mr. Jeffrey Masters, President of the Western Union.  If you'll come
right along in we ken get things fixed up.  Meanwhiles I'll jest have a
'hand' round-up your plug an' feed him hay."

      *      *      *      *      *      *

Another chair was brought from the house and Elias Peters was ensconced
therein.  He was a gray little man.  Gray from head to foot, it seemed.
His hair, his eyes, his skin, his whiskers, his shirt, his loose jacket
over it, his trousers.  Even the top-boots he wore, which, had
doubtless once been black.  Everything about him was gray.

Dug pressed whisky on him.

"Take your time," he had said, in his easy, cordial fashion.  "Ther'
ain't no sort o' hurry.  It's li'ble to shake a boy o' your years
foolin' around in the dust when you'd oughter be in the saddle."

"That's just it, Mr. McFarlane," came the prompt, distressed complaint.
"What in the nature o' blamed things made me act that way?"

"Jest the--nature o' things, I guess."

The little man's eyes twinkled.

"Guess you mean ther's folks who ain't in their right element in the
saddle, an'--I'm one of 'em."  Then he turned on Jeff, whose whole
interest had been quite absorbed in a personality which Dug had
described as being reminiscent of a "buck louse."  "Say, Mr. Masters,
guess you ain't never tried any stunt like raisin' kebbiges on a hog
ranch?  No, sure you ain't.  Ther's jest one feller runnin' loose on
this planet 'ud act that way, an' that's me.  Guess I bin doin' it all
my life," he added, thoughtfully chewing a forefinger.  "I was built
for, an' raised in a fifth rate city, an' I got the ideas an' ambitions
of the President of a Republic.  Ther' ain't a blamed thing I can't do
but I want to do.  An' the worst of it is ther's a sort o' restless
spirit in me jest sets me so crazy to do it I can't resist makin' the
jump.  That's how I come to buy up a bum homestead up toward the hills
here, an' got the notion I could make a pile runnin' a mixed farm that
way.  That's how I come to get outside a hoss when I'd be safer inside.
That's how I come to--'break' a deal more prairie land than I could
ever sow or harvest.  That's how I bought machinery for a thousand acre
farm when I'd only got a half a mile.  That's how I come to run a bunch
of cows without settin' up fencin' around my crops.  That's how I bo't
the whole blamed lay-out without verifyin' the darned law feller's
statement I'd got grazin' rights on Mr. McFarlane's grass--which is the
thing I came right here to yarn about when I got mixed up with that
unnatural hell, which I've learned since was only set up to amuse the
skitters.  Kind o' makes me feel if I was to set fer my pictur' I'd
sure come out a shipwreck at sea, or some other darn fool kind of
unpleasantness."

Jeff was forced to echo the laugh which Dug indulged in without
restraint.  It seemed cruel in face of the strange little man's serious
distress.  But its only effect upon him was to produce an inquiring
glance of profound but unresentful astonishment.

"Guess I must 'a' said something," he protested mildly.  "Seems to me I
most generly do, with Mr. McFarlane around."  Then he smiled in his
wintry fashion, which was quite powerless to add warmth to his curious
aspect of grayness.  "Guess he must ha' been born laffin'--p'raps," he
added thoughtfully.  "It's a dandy thing bein' born laffin'.  I don't
reckon I ever got that luck.  It's more likely my moma got lost in a
fog the day I was born.  Can't account noways fer things otherwise."

Dug pushed the whisky bottle at him as a set-off to his own
uncontrolled mirth, and in a few moments contrived to subdue his
paroxysms sufficiently to start the business in hand.

"Now, Masters," he said, as soon as the diminutive Elias had ministered
adequately to his glass, "we've got a curious proposition to set before
you.  It's jest one of them things which crops up in a country like
this, where a whole heap o' the laws happens along through custom.  An'
like all sech customs, ther's li'ble to be a tarnation lot of friction
lyin' around if we can't get a right settlement.  Now, if we go to the
courts it's goin' to be a mighty big scrap, eatin' up a hell of a pile
of dollars.  An' if you're wise to the ways of the law fellers you ken
just about figger the verdict is goin' to come along to the feller with
the biggest wad.  In this case I guess I'm the feller with the biggest
wad.  Now, ther's no sort o' bad blood between Peters an' me, 'cep' it
is he will sing hymns outrageous on a Sunday.  Still, I ain't goin' to
let that cut no ice.  I'm out for a square decision between us by a
feller that don't know the meanin' of graft.  I don't care a cuss who
gets it.  But I ain't goin' to be bluffed by any fancy legal readings
of a position by city lawyers who don't know the north end of a steer
goin' south from the cluckin' proposition of a blind hen motherin' a
litter o' dormice.  Peters here'll give you his case, seein' he's
plaintiff, in an elegant flow of warm air, an' when he's through I'll
sort of hand you a counterblast.  An' when we finished you'll hand out
your dope on the subject, that is if we ain't talked you into a home
for incurable arbitrators.  You'll get busy right away, Peters."

The rancher's manner was irresistible in its breezy frankness and
generosity.  Jeff wondered at him.  Any man of modern business methods,
he felt, would have jumped at the advantage which his wealth would have
given him in the law courts over so insignificant a person as Elias
Peters.  The whole situation inspired in him the feeling that he was in
the presence of a really big man.  A man who deserved every fraction of
his success.

Nor was there any doubt as to the little gray man's feelings as he took
a drink of whisky, and fixed his small eyes upon the weather and
years-lined features of his adversary.

"Guess you've made me feel 'bout as big as an under-fed skitter," he
complained.  "You make me sort o' feel I want to tell you to keep your
darn grazin' rights till I ken hand you a bunch of bills such as I'd
like to pass on to an honest man.  But I don't guess I'm goin' to do
it.  Y'see, I just can't afford it.  If I can't graze my stock on your
grass they got to starve, or I got to get out.  An', seein' I doped all
my wad into this lay-out, it 'ud well-nigh mean ruin to act that way."

Then he turned to Jeff, who was almost bewildered at the curious
attitude toward each other of these men.

"Now, I ain't got a fancy yarn to hand you," he went on, fumbling in
his pockets.  "I jest got my papers, here, as I got 'em from the law
fellers.  You best take 'em, an' after we done get a look into 'em."
He passed them across.  "Now these are the fac's of how I bo't, why I
bo't, an' who I bo't from.  The place is a haf section, an' they asked
five thousand odd dollars for it.  It was a bum sort o' homestead, an'
belonged to a widder woman who'd got her man shot up by some rustlers
workin' around this country.  They went by the name of Whitstone, but
their real name, by them papers, was Van Blooren----"

"What name?"  Jeff's voice broke sharply in upon the little man.

"Van Blooren."

"Go on."

Jeff's eyes were gazing out through the lacing of creeper.  He was no
longer regarding the man's unemotional gray features.

"Wal, the place wa'an't worth the five thousand, 'cep' fer one clause
in them papers.  This widder woman owned a right to graze up to two
hundred head o' stock on Mr. McFarlane's range.  There was no mention
o' lease, nor nothin' to talk of payin' fer it.  The right was in the
deed of sale, clear an' unquestioned.  You'll see it right there in
them papers.  Wal, I'm runnin' a hundred of stock, and the half section
is under cultivation.  Now, Mr. McFarlane comes on me with the news
that this widder woman had no such rights to sell, an' that she and her
man were only allowed to graze their stock on his grass to help them
out.  He's acted white over it so far, an' ain't taken no sort of
action.  He's jest let my fool cows an' their calves run around chewin'
till their jaws is tired, which is a white way of seein' things.  All
he's handed me is that I ain't got no right, an' the thing stands
pending your decision.  He says the whole proposition is jest business.
He's got to safeguard the values of his property.  Now, sir, I claim
them rights by right of that deed, an' if ther's any case it's between
that Van Blooren widder an' Mr. McFarlane.  You got my papers,
an'--wal, how d'you guess I stand?"

The little man's eyes were anxious as he made his final appeal.  But no
satisfaction was forthcoming at the moment.  Jeff's head was bent over
the papers he had been handed.  His eyes were hidden.  He seemed wholly
engrossed upon the various clauses in the deed.  Finally he spoke
without looking up.

"There's no deed granting grazing rights executed by Mr. McFarlane
here," he said.

Before Peters could reply, Dug broke in.

"Ther' never was one made," he said easily.  "I don't guess you'll find
it ther'--'less you use trick eyes.  Here--say, Peters has given you
his story right.  I ain't no kick comin' to a word of it.  But this
thing has more sides to it than you'd fancy.  Now, I don't just care a
cuss Peters' grazin' two hundred, or five hundred head of stock on my
pastures.  But if Peters bo't rights an' ken prove it, why, he's the
right to sell 'em on to any feller who comes along, which kind o' turns
my ranch into common land.  Nothin' doin'.  No, siree!"

Jeff had abandoned his search of the papers.  Nor was he regarding
either of the men.  His eyes were directed through the lacing of
creeper, his gaze concentrated upon the purple vista of the hills.  His
brows were depressed with profound thought.  Nor were the blue depths
of his eyes easy.  Peters' whole attention was upon the rancher.

"Now, see right here, Masters," Dug went on, after a deeply considering
pause.  "I got a story to tell you I'd have liked to hold up, an' the
reason I hate handin' it you is jest a sort o' fool sense of honor.
Howsum, when folks git gay I can't see you're right to hold your hand.
Now, them rights are sold by the law fellers of that widder woman, an',
I guess, actin' under her instructions.  Now, she knows she don't own
no rights to sell.  Wal, I allow she's on the crook."

"Crook?"  Jeff's interrogation came swiftly, in a harsh voice utterly
unlike his own.  Then his eyes came round to the face of the rancher.
There was something deadly in the steadiness of their regard.  "This
widow," he said.  "Her name is Van Blooren.  What is her first name,
and the first name of her--husband?"

Before Dug could reply Peters pointed at the deeds of sale.

"Guess her full name's writ ther'," he said.  "Elvine van Blooren.
Sort of queer name, ain't it?  It sort o' hit me that way when I first
see it.  Kind o' good name fer a--crook."

Jeff's eyes dropped to the papers again as Dug gave the other
information required.

"The man's name was Robert--Bob.  Called hisself when he was here.
Y'see, his paw was some swell guy who guessed his son had made some
darn fool marriage.  An' I allow he was wise.  Howbe, their names an'
sech don't cut no ice."

"No."

Jeff's monosyllable brought Dug's gaze swiftly in his direction.  The
next moment they were looking squarely into each other's eyes, and, as
far as Jeff was concerned, Peters was entirely forgotten.

"Will you tell me all you know of--this woman?" Jeff said, after a
moment.  "I guess it'll be necessary--before we're through."

"Sure.  That's how I figgered."  A momentary tension seemed to have
been relaxed.  Dug once more settled himself at his ease.

"'Tain't a pretty yarn, when you come to think," he said, his brows
contracting under his feelings.  "Men are jest men, an' I guess you
don't generly expect more'n a stink from a skunk.  But with women it's
diff'rent.  When a feller thinks of women, he thinks of his mother, or
sweetheart, or his wife.  An' when he thinks that way, why, I don't
guess he figgers to find bad wher' he reckoned ther' was only good.
Howsum, it kind o' seems to me human nature's as li'ble to set a feller
cryin' as laffin' most times.  This thing come over that Lightfoot
gang.  We got most of 'em, and those we got if they wa'an't pumped full
of lead out of hand they was hanged.  Sort o' queer, too, the way we
got 'em.  I'd set up a reward.  Ten thousand dollars.  It was right out
o' my own bank roll.  Wal, I set it up--the notice o' reward--one
night, an' next day got the news we was all yearnin' for.  Bob
Whitstone, as he called himself, brought it right along to me.  I
hadn't no use fer the feller up to then.  He was weak-kneed.  And, in a
way, had fallen fer Ju Penrose's rye.  He'd come to me once before on
the subject o' these all-fired grazin' rights.  Y'see, he'd been tryin'
to git ahead raisin' wheat in a country where ther' was only a market
fer cattle an' rye whisky.  Anyway, he cut most o' the wheat racket,
an' guessed he'd travel the same road as other folks, an' asked me for
permission to graze.  I was kind o' sorry about him, an' his
good-lookin' wife--both city-raised folk--an' I did as he ast.  I said
he could graze up to two hundred head.  Git a line on that.  Them
rights was verbal between him an' me to help him out.  Ther' wa'an't no
sort o' deed, an' he knew it wa'an't no saleable proposition.  Wal,
when he come along in with his news I set him right through it, an' I
allow, before I quit him, I got the notion that fer all his addled ways
there was a heap to him I hadn't guessed.  He started by sayin' he'd
located the rustlers, got their camp set in the hills, an' could hand
over the whole blamed bunch right away quick.  That was elegant.  But I
ast him how it come he'd on'y located 'em twelve hours after I'd set up
a ten thousand dollar reward.  Y'see, they'd been rustlin' around fi'
years.  Wal, to cut a long yarn, I got the whole thing out of him in
quick time--he was like a kid in my hands.  He hadn't located that
camp, he wasn't goin' to touch a cent of them ten thousand.  He called
it 'blood money,' an' cussed it good an' plenty with an elegant flow.
It was his wife.  Yes, siree, it was the woman driving the man.  She'd
located them rustlers by chance only the day before, while he was
around Ju's place sousin' rye.  When he got home an told her of the
reward, she was nigh crazy to git her hands on the dollars.  Seems to
me ther' must have been a mighty scrap-up.  I guess she told him of his
ways, an' what he'd brought her to--in a way some women-folk can.  I
didn't git it all clear.  Y'see, he did his best to screen her.
Anyways, she made him promise to fix things so she touched those
dollars.  An' that's why he come to me.  Ther's jest one thing stuck in
my head so I can't lose it.  It was his last words to me about it.  He
says, says he, see here, Mr. McFarlane, I need one favor out o' you.  I
want to go with you on this racket, an' if ther's any mercy in the God
of Heaven, he'll let me get my dose when the shootin' starts.
Effie--that's how he called his wife--wants them dollars, an' you'll
see she gets 'em.  But for me I just couldn't ever live around a woman
who'd handled that blood money!  He didn't use them words.  They're
mine.  But it's 'bout how he put it.  Wal, when the play was over he'd
had his wish.  He was dropped plumb in his tracks.  Then I handed his
widder the dollars.  She ain't around these parts now so it don't
matter handin' you the story of it.  Maybe she's married agin.  She was
some picture woman.  But anyway I'd say right here, the woman who could
take the price of men's lives would be low enough to bluff a boy like
Peters here out of his stock of dollars on a play like these rights.
An' that's why I reckon this thing's been done on the crook."

He reached round for his glass and took a deep drink in the silence
that followed his story.  Then, as neither the man who was to
arbitrate, nor Peters, attempted to break it, he went on:

"Guess a reward's jest a reward, an' you can't kick at the feller who
comes along an' grabs a holt on it.  But when a woman, young, a
good-looker, an' eddicated, an' refined, gits grabbin', why, it makes
you see sulphur an' brimstone, an' horns an' hoofs when your thoughts
are full o' buzzin' white wings an' harps, an' halos an' things.  Git
me?  I guess stealin' dollars out o' a citizen's pocket-book wouldn't
be a circumstance to a female of that nature.  Say, I ain't got rid o'
the stink of it yet, though it happened four years ago."

The man's contempt and loathing were intense.  He had offered the
reward, paid it, he had led the Vigilantes in the hanging.  But these
things were simply part of the justice of man as he saw it, and rightly
administered.

The silent moments slipped by.  Jeffrey Masters was sitting erect in
his chair.  A marble coldness seemed to have settled itself upon his
keen face.  Peters was waiting for that decision he desired.  Dug
McFarlane, with more understanding, realized that something was wrong.
He, too, remained silent, however.

At last Jeff stirred.  His gaze shifted.  It turned half vaguely upon
the little man Peters.  Then it seemed to drift unmeaningly toward the
rancher.  A moment later it fell upon the papers he was so tightly
gripping.  It was then that realization seemed to come upon him.  He
reached out and handed the deeds to their owner.  A moment later he was
on his feet, and had moved across to the front of the veranda, where he
stood, slim, erect, and with his back turned upon the others.

He cleared his throat and spoke in a steady voice.

"I can only hand you a decision on the intention as apart from the
legal aspect of the case," he said judicially.  "It's clear to me no
saleable rights were given.  There was no transaction over them.  The
widow of this man had no rights to sell.  If disinterested advice is
acceptable I should urge this.  It's in view, I guess, of McFarlane's
expressed indifference to Peters' cattle grazing on his land.  Let
Peters acknowledge he has no rights.  Then let McFarlane enter into an
agreement that Peters can run his stock on his land, the right being
non-transferable.  I should put the whole thing in writing."

"An' a darn good an' honest decision, too," cried Dug heartily.

The shadow of a beatific smile passed over Peters' small features.

"Bully!" he murmured.  Then he added: "But I sort o' feel we both
oughter set the law on that--she devil."

Jeff turned abruptly.  His movement was almost electrical.

"I shouldn't," he said sharply.

Dug caught a glimpse of the desperate light in his eyes.

"Why not?"  There was a dash of resentment in Peters' tone.

But Jeff was spared a reply.  Dug anticipated him with an oath.

"Gol darn you, because she's--a woman!" he cried, with a fierce warmth.
"Hell take it you ken have your rights.  That's enough, I guess.  I'll
have the papers wrote, an' have you sign 'em to-morrow.  Meanwhile I'm
sick to death of the whole blamed thing.  I quit right here."

His intention was plain enough.  He meant there should be no
misunderstanding it.  And the little man, Peters, took his dismissal
without demur.

The moment Peters had safely negotiated the saddle and vanished in a
cloud of dust, Dug pressed the whisky bottle upon his guest.  Jeff
almost mechanically accepted it.  He gulped down a stiff drink of neat
spirit.  Dug watched him.

"Guess you're feelin' pretty darn saddle weary," he said kindly.

Jeff flung himself into his chair without replying.

Dug returned to his seat and gazed out at the yellow and purple
afterglow of sunset.

"Say, maybe you'd feel like handin' me the reason you wouldn't set the
law on to that--woman?" he went on presently.

The question was by no means idle.  It was inspired by the man's
genuinely kindly nature.  Somehow, he felt that he had been responsible
for that which he had seen, still saw, in this man's eyes.

But he was wholly unprepared for the reply forthcoming.  It came
promptly.  Each word came distinctly, deliberately, in a voice of
bitter coldness.  The tragedy of it left the rancher speechless.

"Because I married Elvine van Blooren just over six weeks ago."




CHAPTER XIX

THE RETURN HOME

A long day of anxiety and fevered apprehension merged into a night of
terror.  It was the outcome of a conviction that was irresistible.  The
shadow of disaster was marching hard upon her heels.  Nor had she the
power to avoid it.

As night came on Elvine remained alone in her twilit bedroom.  She had
no desire to come into contact with the servants, she had no desire for
human companionship of any sort.  So, with the fading light, she betook
herself to the bedroom.

But there was no relief.  It was haunted to-night, teeming with the
fancies of a dreading imagination.  It seemed to her like the cell of a
condemned prisoner.

The day had passed heavily, drearily.  Every moment of it had been
filled with the thought that Jeff was on his way to Orrville.  On his
way to meet Dug McFarlane.  On his way to meet the one man in whose
hands her whole fate lay.  He alone knew the source of the ten thousand
dollars which she had carried back to her paternal home as the net
result of her first marriage.  He alone knew it to be the price of the
blood of men, amongst whom was the twin brother of her present husband.

Memory was alive, and full of a poignant torture.  It brought back to
her the scene when she had driven her first husband to help her to the
money she had desired to possess.  He had spoken, in his horror and
anger, of "blood money," of "Judas," and she would not hear.  She had
derided him, she had lashed him with the scorn of an unbridled tongue,
she had turned upon him in her selfish craving, without a thought of
any principle.

Now she understood what she had done, but she only understood because
of the threat which overshadowed her.  It was no spiritual awakening.
It was again the self in her, threatened in its desires as a result of
her earlier wanton actions.  Her motives, even the picture of the
carnage in that hidden valley, which came back to her unbidden, had no
power to add to the hopelessness of her feelings.  Every emotion was
wrapped in the thought that she was about to be robbed of all the
fruits of the one great passion of her life.

She had one desire now, one motive in life only.  It was the man she
had married.  The man she had designed to marry for the station and
wealth he could offer her, and who had almost instantly become the
centre of her whole life.  Nothing of any worldly consideration counted
any longer.  There was nothing could interest her of which he did not
occupy the centre of the focus.  Self dominated still, but it was a
more human type of self, which had, perhaps, some rightful claim on
human sympathy.

The shadows grew, and the wide airy room was filled with a hundred
added terrors which claimed reality in the troubled brain.  The silence
of the world about her became a threat.  The darkening of the cloudless
sky beyond the open window.  She sat on, refusing to invoke the aid of
lamp-light to banish the gathering legions of her dread.  She knew it
was impossible to banish them.

Oh, she had no physical fear of the world about her.  What was there to
fear?  Did she not know it all?  Had she not lived it all before?  The
two wide open windows invited her.  She moved to one of them, and drew
a chair so that she could rest upon the sill and gaze out into the
space so perfectly jeweled.  And the cool night air fanned her cheeks,
and seemed to relieve the fever that was raging behind her hot eyes.

The morrow.  There was no other concern with her now but--the morrow.
To-morrow Jeff would return.  To-morrow she would know the worst, she
would know if the purpose of Fate were for or against her.  Oh, that
to-morrow!  And in the meantime there were interminable hours of
darkness to endure, when sleep was impossible.  And after that the
daylight, when she must fear every eye that was turned in her
direction, when every moment brought nearer the possibility of the end
for her of all things in the world which mattered.

The night wore on.  Midnight came and passed.  She had not moved again.
Her straining eyes had watched the starry groups as they set beyond the
horizon.  There was no moon to create shadows upon the wide, rolling
pasture before her.  Everything was in shadow, just as her every
thought was similarly enwrapped.  There was no relief anywhere.

Once she heard a sound that set her jarred nerves hammering.  It was a
distant sound, and, to her fancy, it was the rapid beat of horse's
hoofs sweeping across the wide valley.  But it died out.  She had been
caught by the thought of the possibility of her husband's return,
suddenly, in the night.  She pictured for one brief instant the
headlong race of the man to charge her with the crime of his brother's
life.

She saw that keen, stern face with its cold blue eyes and the grimly
tightened lips.  She had seen some such expression there before, and
she knew there were depths within his soul which she had never probed,
and hoped that she might never have to probe.

It was the mystery of these unknown depths which had inspired her
passion.  It was because of that cognizance of something unusual,
profound, in his personality that he had first become so completely
desirable.  Then as she grew to know him, so she found she knew him
less, and desired to know him more.  Her love and worship of him was of
the primitive.  It was such as is the love of all women when inspired
by an emotion not untouched by fear.

So, when the sounds of hoof-beats broke the night silence, she became
panic-stricken, because such a return, at such an hour, could have but
one meaning.

Then the sounds passed, and her nerves steadied, and presently a
stirring night breeze rustled the lank grass.  It came over the plain
toward her.  It reached her window and fanned her cheeks with its chill
breath.  Then it passed, sighing round an angle of the house.  Then, in
its wake, came the plaintive dole of a scavenging coyote.  The
combination, to her fancy, was an echo of her feelings.  It was the
sigh of despair, and the cry of a lost soul.

Presently the drowse of utter weariness descended upon her.  The dread
of thought remained heavily overshadowing, but a certain distortion
displayed the reaching of limits beyond which human power could not go,
even in suffering.  It was a merciful nature asserting itself.  Her
eyes closed, slowly, gently, with a drowsy helplessness.  Once her
elbow slipped from the sill of the window and awoke her.  A somnolent
thought that she would go to bed passed dully through her mind.  But
she did not act upon it.  She propped her head upon her hand once more,
and, in a moment, everything was forgotten.

She awoke with a start.  There was no drowse in her wakefulness now.
Her eyes were wide, and her thoughts alert.  The sensation of a blow, a
light, unforceful blow was still tingling through her nerves.  The
blow, it seemed, had fallen upon her forehead, and she thrust a hand up
mechanically to the spot.  But the action yielded her no enlightenment.
There was no pain, no sign.

She peered through the open window and realized that the moon had
risen.  She stared at it, and presently it occurred to her that she
must have slept, and, by the position of the moon above the horizon,
for at least an hour.

Then her thoughts returned to the blow which had awakened her, and the
conclusion followed that it must have been the result of the half-blind
flight of one of those great winged beetles.

She closed the window abruptly.  She closed the second one.  Then,
having drawn the curtains, she fumbled for the matches and lit the
candles upon her dressing bureau.  It was her intention to search for
the intruding beetle, and then retire.

But her search terminated abruptly.  It terminated even as it began.
That which had struck her was lying almost at her feet upon the soft
rug on which she stood, and within a yard of where she had been
sitting.  It was a piece of paper tied about a small ball of soil.

She stared down at it for some startled moments.  The effects of her
dread were still upon her, and they set up a sort of panic which made
her fearful of touching the missile.  But it could not remain there
uninspected.  There could be no thought of retiring without learning
the meaning of what lay there on the floor.

Gingerly she stooped with a candle in her hand.  She stooped lower, but
making no attempt to touch the thing which had disturbed her.  The
candle revealed a folded sheet of white paper.  A string bound it round
the rooted portion of a grass tuft.

After a few moments she reached out and picked it up.  The next moment
she was standing erect at her bureau, and with a pair of scissors she
severed the string and dropped the grass tuft to the floor.

The paper was folded and thumb-marked by dirty hands.  With shaking
fingers and tense nerves she deliberately unfolded it.

It was a note, and she read it eagerly.


"You sold the lives of men for a price.  You had it your way then.
We're goin' to have our way now.  You'll pay for that deal the only way
we know."

      *      *      *      *      *      *

Elvine sat watching the scenes of the work of the range.  The men were
returning from distant points making for the ranch house where their
evening meal was awaiting them at the bunkhouse.  Teams were moving
toward the barns, and barn-hands were watering those which had already
returned.  There was a general stir everywhere.  Certain stock was
being corralled and hayed for the night.  In the hay corral men were
busy cutting and hauling feed.  There was no loneliness, no solitude.
The business of so great an enterprise as the Obar Ranch involved many
hands, and seemingly endless work.

But Elvine watched these things without interest.  In her present state
of mind they meant nothing to her, they could mean nothing.  She was
waiting, waiting in a perfect fever for the home-coming of her husband.

Strangely, too, she was not without a glimmer of hope.  Somehow the
belief had taken possession of her that had Jeff learned anything of
her story he must have been home before this.  It seemed to her that he
must have flung every consideration to the winds, and rushed in fevered
haste to denounce her as the murderess of his twin brother.

The mysterious note which had been flung in through her open window had
left her sleepless for the rest of the night, but, even so, now, in the
broad light of day, it was only relatively alarming.  The other terror
overwhelmed it.

The sun was already tinting the hilltops with ruddy, golden hues.  The
frigid snow-caps no longer wore their sheen of alabaster.  There was a
golden radiance everywhere, a suggestion of a perfect peace, such as
the woman felt could never again find place in her heart.

She turned her eyes from the splendor of the scene in silent protest.
The green of the wide-spreading valley, even the dark purple shadows of
the lower mountain slopes were better in harmony with her mood.  But
even these she denied in her nervous irritation, and again, and yet
again, her searching gaze was flung out to the northwest along the
trail over which she knew her husband must come.

The waiting seemed endless.  And the woman's heart literally stood
still when at last she detected an infinitesimal flurry of dust away on
the far distance of the trail.  A mad desire surged through her to flee
for hiding to those vast purple solitudes she knew to lie in the heart
of the hills.

She remained where she was, however.  She stirred not a muscle.  She
was powerless to do so.  What, what had the coming of the man for her?
It was the one absorbing question which occupied her whole brain and
soul.

The dust flurry grew to a long trail in the wake of a horseman.  In
five minutes he stood out ahead of it, clear to the eye.  In ten his
identity was distinguishable.  And, presently he rode swiftly at a
gallop past the ranch buildings and drew up before the house.

The rack of that moment was superlative.  The woman's hands clenched
and her finger nails dug into the soft flesh of her palms.  There was
no greeting upon her lips.  She only had power to stare; her wide
beautiful eyes were searching the face of the man she loved, searching
it as the criminal in the dock might search the face of the judge about
to pass sentence.

Her tongue was ready for its release.  Pent words lay deep in her soul
for an outpouring at the lightest sign.  But these things were
dependent, dependent upon the reading she found in the man's eyes.

The horse stood drooping at the termination of its effort.  The man
sprang from the saddle.  A barn-hand took the beast away to its stable.
Elvine's tongue remained almost cleaving to the roof of her mouth.

The man's fair brows were depressed.  His eyes were sternly cold.  And
not once did they turn in her direction.  He spoke in his usual tone to
the barn-hand.  He issued his orders without a sign of emotion.

Elvine could stand no more.  She stirred.  Then slowly she passed
within the house.

Presently Jeff's step sounded on the veranda.  It was quick.  There was
nothing lagging in it.  The woman gripped the back of a chair in the
living-room in which she had taken refuge.  She was seeking support.

The man entered the room.  Nor did he remove his hat.  He stood just
within the window opening, and his eyes, cold as the gleam of the
mountain glaciers, regarded her steadily.

"I see you understand," he said.  "You realized what must happen when I
visited Dug McFarlane in the matter of Peters, who bought your dead
husband's farm.  You knew it when you read that letter I gave you.  And
so you protested.  So you assured me of--your regard."

He came a step nearer.  The movement was almost involuntary.

"I have prayed to God that some day he might bring me face to face with
the person who sold my brother's life.  He has granted me my prayer.
But it never entered my wildest dreams that it could be the woman I
married.  I never questioned your past.  To me it was sufficient that
you had taught me the meaning of love.  To me you must be all you
seemed.  No more, no less.  God help me, I had no imagination to tell
me that so fair a body could contain so foul a heart.  Were you not my
wife, were you a man, I should know how to deal with that which lies
between us.  As it is you must thank the difference in our sex for that
which nothing else could have done for you.  As yet I have not had the
time to arrange the details of our future.  To-morrow, perhaps, things
will have cleared in my mind.  I shall sleep to-night over at Bud's----"

"Oh, Jeff, Jeff, have mercy.  I----"

"Mercy?  Mercy?"  A sudden fire blazed up where only a frigid light had
shone.  The man's tones were alive with a fury of passion.  "Did you
have mercy?  Was there one merciful, womanly emotion in your cruel,
selfish heart when you sent those men, that man to his death for ten
thousand filthy dollars?  Pray to God for mercy, not to me."

A curious sullen light dawned in the woman's eyes.  But even as it
dawned it faded with the man's movement to depart.

"You--you won't leave me?" she pleaded.  "Oh, Jeff, I love you so.
What I did was in ignorance, in cruel, selfish longing.  I had been
reduced to the life of a drudge without hope, without even a house fit
for existence.  I believed I had honest right.  I believed even that my
act was a just one.  Jeff, Jeff, don't leave me, don't drive me out of
your life.  I cannot bear it.  Anything, anything but that.  My God, I
don't deserve it.  I don't--true.  Jeff--Jeff!"

Her final appeal came as the man, without a word, passed through the
open window.  She followed him in a desperate hope.  But the hope was
vain.  She saw him mount the fresh horse which had been brought round
and left at the tying post.

As he turned the beast about to depart, just for one instant he looked
in her direction.

"I will see you again in the morning.  By that time I shall have
decided what is best for us both."

He waited for no more.  There was nothing to wait for.  He lifted the
reins and his horse set off.  The dust rose up and screened him from
view.

Once more Elvine was standing on the veranda.  Once more her gaze was
following the trail of rising dust.  But there was no fever of suspense
in her beautiful eyes now.  There were not even tears.  The blow had
fallen.  Fate had caught up with her.  Its merciless onrush had
overwhelmed her.  She was crushed.  She was broken under its
sledge-hammer blow.  She stood drooping, utterly, utterly broken and
spiritless before the man's swift, brief indictment and action.

The end had come.  Nor had it anything of the end she had visualized in
her dread.  It was ten times more cruel than she had even dared to
dream.




CHAPTER XX

AT BUD'S

Supper was over when Jeff arrived.  He came straight into the room
where the colored girl had just finished clearing the table.  Nan was
returning a few odds and ends to their places.  Bud had already lit his
evening pipe preparatory to settling down for the brief interim before
turning in for the night.

There was no preamble.  There was no sign of emotion, even at the
moment of his arrival.  Jeff launched his request at father and
daughter in a voice such as he might have used in the most commonplace
of affairs.

It was a request to be put up for the night.

But both Bud and Nan were startled.  Nan's cheeks paled, and
imagination gripped her.  She said nothing.  With Bud to be startled
was to instantly resort to verbal expression.

"Wot's wrong?" he demanded.

Then the storm broke.  It broke almost immoderately before these two
who were the intimates of Jeff's life.  All that had been withheld
before Dug McFarlane, all which he had refused to display before the
wife he had set up for his worship, Jeff had no scruples in laying
before these two.  It was the sure token of the relations between them,
relations of perfect trust and sympathy.

Bud sat gazing at the outward sign of the passionate fires he had
always known to lie smouldering in the depths of this man's soul.  Nan
stood paralyzed before such violence.  Both knew that hell was raging
under the storm of emotion.  Both knew that the wounds inflicted upon
this man's strong heart were well-nigh mortal.

The whole story was told, broken, disjointed.  For the first time Nan
learned the result of the search for an erring twin brother, and her
horror was unbounded.  A heart full of tenderness bled for the man
whose sufferings she was witnessing.  The story of Elvine's own actions
filled her with revolting, yet with pity.  It was not in her to condemn
easily.  She felt that such acts were beyond her powers of judgment.

The man's grief, his bitter, passionate resentment smote her beyond any
sufferings she had ever known herself.  Elvine absorbed all the anger
she could bestow, but even so it was infinitesimal beside the harvest
of grief which the sight of this man's suffering yielded her.  That was
the paramount emotion of the moment with her.  That, and the injustice
she deemed to have been meted out to him.

It was not until the great crescendo of the man's storm of grief had
passed that Nan bethought herself of the need in which he stood.  Nor
was that need apparent until his whole note had changed to a moody
bitterness with which he regarded the future.  Then she understood the
demon that was knocking at the door of his soul.

Immediately her decision was taken.  She left the two men together and
went to make the necessary preparations for this refugee's
accommodation.  Curiously enough, these preparations were not complete
for nearly an hour, at the time, in fact, that it was her father's
habit to seek his bed.

When she returned to the parlor the place was full of the reek of Bud's
tobacco, but it was only from the one pipe.  Neither of the men were
talking when she entered the room, and her glance passed swiftly from
one to the other.

She moved over to where Jeff was sitting with his back turned to her,
and stood behind his chair.

"Everything's fixed for you, Jeff," she said.  "But--but maybe you
don't feel like turning in yet.  My Daddy usually goes at this time,
and--he's had a hard day."

Bud looked across at her.  His pipe was removed from his mouth for the
purpose of protest.  But the protest remained unspoken in face of the
meaning he beheld in the girl's brown eyes.  Instead he rose heavily
from his rocker.

"Say, jest take your time, Jeff, boy," he said.  "Guess you'll need to
think hard before mornin'.  I don't guess it's your way to jump at
things.  I ain't never see you jump yet.  Anyway, when you're thinkin',
boy, it'll be best to remember that a woman's jest a woman, an' her
notions ain't allus our notions."

Nan came over to him, and he rested one great arm about her shoulders,
and stooped and kissed her.

"Good-night, little gal," he said.  "Maybe Jeff'll excuse me.  An'
maybe you ken tell him some o' them things that don't come easy to me.
So long, Jeff.  I'll sure see you in the mornin' before you quit."

He stood uncertainly for a moment with his arm upon Nan's shoulders.
He seemed to want to say more, and was at a loss how to say it.
Finally he stuck his pipe back into his mouth with a savage thrust and
lumbered heavily from the room.

Nan understood.  She knew he was laboring under profound emotion, and a
feeling of self-disgust at his own inability to help his partner and
friend.

As the door closed she moved over to the table and leaned against it.
Jeff's back was toward her, and his face was turned in the direction of
the window, across which the curtains had not yet been drawn.

He was leaning forward, his gaze intent and straight ahead out into the
black night beyond.  His elbows were on his knees, and his hands were
clasped, and hanging between them.  To the sympathetic heart of Nan
there was despair in every line of his attitude.  She nerved herself to
carry out her decisions.

"Jeff!"

There was no movement in response.  But a reply came.  It was in the
tone of a man indifferent to everything but the thought teeming through
his brain.

"Well?"

"Why did you come around here--to-night?"

The question achieved its purpose.  The man abandoned his attitude in a
movement of fierce resentment.  He swung round on the questioner, his
eyes hot with feeling.

"Because I guess I need to sleep somewhere.  Because nothing on earth
could make me share roof with the woman who's my wife.  Gee, my wife!
Say, Nan, the thought of it nearly sets me crazy."

"Does it?  You didn't feel that way--two nights ago."

The man's eyes met the girl's incredulously.

"How can you talk that way?" he demanded roughly.  "I didn't know a
thing then.  I thought she was all she seemed.  Maybe I was just a
blind fool, crazy with love.  Anyway--I hadn't learned the hell lying
around her heart."

"I s'pose there is hell lying around her heart?"

Nan's words were provocative.  Yet they were spoke in such a tone of
simplicity as to rob them of all apparent intent.

Jeff was in no mood for patience.  Swift resentment followed upon his
incredulous stare.

"Do you need me to give it you all again?" he cried fiercely.  "It
don't need savvee to grip things."  Then his voice rose.  "And to think
those dollars have fed her, and clothed her, a body as fair as an
angel's, and a heart as foul as hell."  Then his tone dropped as if he
were afraid of the sound of his own voice.  "Say, thank God I kept my
hands off her.  If she'd been a man----"

He left his sentence unfinished.  In her mind Nan completed it.  But
aloud she gave it another ending.

"If she'd been a man I don't guess she'd have been there to have you
lay hands on her."

There was a new note in the girl's tones.  But it passed Jeff by.

"No," he said with almost foolish seriousness.

"Say, Jeff," the girl went on gently, a moment later, "aren't you
acting a teeny bit crazy over this?  I mean talking of souls foul as
hell.  And--an' not sharing the same roof with the woman you've sworn
to love, and--and cherish as long as you both live.  She hasn't done a
thing wrong by you since you said--an' meant that.  She hasn't done a
thing wrong anyway."

The denial was so gentle yet so decided.  Had there been heat in it it
must have been ineffective.  As it was Jeff stared incredulously and
speechless, and the girl went on:

"You think I'm wrong," she said.  "Maybe you think I'm crazy, same as I
guess this thing's made you feel."  She shook her head.  "I'm
not--sure.  Take us here.  Maybe I'm chasing around through the hills.
Chance runs me plumb into the camp of these rustlers who're cutting
into your profits on the Obar.  I come right in and hand you the story.
You and Bud round up a bunch of boys and I take you to where the camp's
hidden.  You hold 'em up, and you hang them.  Well, I guess the
pleasantest moment of that racket for you would be to get back to home
and hand me a bunch of dollars.  Say, I can see you doing it.  I can
see your smile.  I can hear you sayin': 'Take 'em, little Nan, an' buy
yourself some swell fixing.'  And say, Jeff, I wouldn't have done a
thing less than your Evie's done.  That's how I'd say now, acting as
you are, you aren't the 'Honest Jeff' I've always known.  You're not
fair to Evie, you aren't just--before God."

The man made a gesture of fierce impatience.  He seemed on the verge of
a furious outburst.  But the steady light of Nan's eyes was upon him.
For some moments he gazed into their sweet depths, and their courage,
their steadfastness, seemed to abash him.  He flung out his arms in a
helpless gesture of appeal.

"Nan, Nan!" he cried, in a voice of hopelessness.  "I can't argue it.
I just can't.  I can't see things right.  I sure nearly am crazed.  The
only thing I can see is the blood of poor Ronny on her--her hands.  The
hands I've held in mine.  The hands I've kissed.  Oh, was there ever so
foul----"

"Yes, Jeff, there was.  There is."

Nan's voice was low but thrilling with deep feeling.  She moved forward
from her place at the table with a little rush.  The rustle of her
skirts only ceased as she fell upon her knees at the man's side, and
her warm brown hands clasped themselves upon the strong arm propped
upon his knee.

"It's a far, far fouler thing, this thing you've got fixed in your mind
to do.  Oh, Jeff, dear, if I could speak the things as I feel them.
But I can't.  It's all inside me mussed up and maybe foolish.  But, oh,
I know I'm right I want to tell you something, and I don't just know
how."

Her eyes were gazing up into his, the soft brown eyes of the beautiful
soul within.  She strove to compel his gaze, but it moodily withheld
its regard.

"Jeff, you'll kill poor Evie.  You'll break her heart by robbing her of
all you've brought into her life through your love.  Say, can't you see
it all?  And you'll do it for a shadow.  Yes, it's a shadow, an ugly
shadow, this crazy thought of yours for a brother who was just a
low-down cattle rustler, same as these toughs you're making a bid of
ten thousand dollars to see hanged the same as he was.  Think of it,
Jeff.  She's just a woman, weak and helpless, and you're going to rob
her of all that makes her life worth while.  Would you act that way by
a mother, or--or a sister?  And she's your wife, Jeff, who's given you
all a loving woman has to give.  I could tell you of the things this
means to you, and the schemes and plans you've sort of set your heart
on, but I don't need to.  I just want you to see what you're doing by
her, and all the time she's done you no wrong.  Do you get that, dear?
Evie's never done you a wrong, and in return you're going to do all you
know to kill her heart dead."

"Done me no wrong?"  There was a desperate sort of sneer in the words.
They were the words of a man who is robbed of denial but still protests.

But Nan rejected even that.  She swiftly flung it back in her sense of
the injustice of it.

"It's as I said, Jeff.  Just as I said," she declared solemnly.  She
drew a deep breath.  She was about to take a plunge which might bear
her she knew not whither.  "Oh, I could get mad with you for that.  I
could so, Jeff.  I know the story of it.  You've told it yourself, and
I don't guess you've spared her any.  But you're blinding yourself
because you're crazy to do so.  You're blinding yourself to all sense
of justice to defend a wretched scallawag who happened to be your
brother.  Say, you're trying to fix on your wife, the woman who loves
you, and who you guess you love, all the dirt you should heap on the
worthless man who lived by theft, and maybe, even, was a murderer.
Say, don't speak.  Not just a single word.  Guess you can say all you
need when I'm through," she cried, as the man, with eyes ablaze, sought
to break in.  "When I'm through I'll listen.  Say, bring this right
home here.  We're being robbed by cattle thieves.  I don't guess
they're better or worse than your brother.  What if he'd been one of
this gang?  If you'd got this gang, with him in it?  Would you've let
him go and hanged the others?  Tell me.  Tell me right here and now."

The man sprang from his seat.  He moved away to the window.

"You're talking foolish," he flung over his shoulder.  "It's not the
position.  My brother's deserts aren't in question.  It's Evie's act.
My wife's act.  You're a woman and defend her.  How could you be
expected to see a man's point of view?"

"There can be no man's point of view in it," Nan cried warmly.  "I
guess there's just one point.  The point of right and justice.  In
justice she's not done a thing to make you act this way.  For your
sake, for hers, for the sake of justice you'll have to go back to her."

The man swung round.

"You'd have me go back to her?" he cried in fierce derision.  "Say,
you're crazy!  Go back to her feeling as I do?"

"Feeling as you've no right to feel," Nan retorted swiftly.  Then in a
flash her voice changed, dropping to a note of deep tenderness and
sympathy.  "Say, Jeff, won't you go back?  Won't you?" she pleaded.
"Think of all it means to her, to you.  Think of a poor woman driven to
the depths of despair for a shadow you've nursed in your brain these
years.  That's what it comes to.  I know.  Oh, Jeff, as sure as ther's
just a great big God above us you'll pay for it if you don't.  You
surely will."

The man shifted his gaze.  The lids of his eyes drooped and hid from
the waiting girl all that passionate feeling he had not hesitated to
display.  She wondered as she waited.  She was fearful, too.

In the man every sort of emotion was surging through him in a chaotic
tangle.  Nothing seemed clear; anger, revolting, even hatred, all
fought for place.  And through it all the pleading tones of the girl
would not be denied.

After a moment he suddenly flung out his arms.

"I--I just can't, Nan!" he cried desperately.

A wave of relief swept through Nan's heart.  He was yielding, and she
knew it.  His manner had completely and abruptly changed.  She drew
nearer to him.  Every honest art of persuasion was in her tender
manner.  All self was forgotten in that moment of spiritual purpose.

"But you can--if you will," she said, her brown eyes uplifted to his.
"There isn't a thing you can't do--and you will.  And this is so small,
Jeff.  So small.  Just think of that great big God somewhere up above
waiting, waiting to help you.  He's always waiting to help us--any of
us.  Ask Him.  Ask His help.  He'll give it you.  He surely will.  And
He can clear away all this dreadful feeling.  It'll pass right away
easy.  I know.  He's done things for me.  You just can't guess how
much.  Say, Jeff, and when He's fixed you right, feeling that way,
He'll show you, and tell you more.  He'll show you that Evie's act was
not hers, but--His.  It was just His way of bringing Ronny's punishment
back to you.  You see, Jeff, Ronny was part of you.  You said so.  And
oh, He's wiser than you an' me.  And He figures this thing is best so.
It's a little Cross, such a teeny one, He's set you to bear, and if
you're the man I know and believe in, why, you'll just carry it without
a squeal.  Then later you'll understand, and--you'll be real glad for
it.  Will you--will you go back to her--to-morrow, Jeff?"

Nan waited almost breathlessly.  She was watching him with a gaze that
searched every detail of his face.  She saw the strong veins at his
temples standing out, the usually clear eyes stained and bloodshot.
She saw him raise one hand wearily to his forehead, and pass it back
over his hair.  She knew the movement so well.  The sight of it
thrilled her.  There was little about him she did not know and
understand.

"You've made it seem I'll have to, Nan," he said with desperate
reluctance.

For a moment a strange feeling of weakness came over the girl.  But she
resolutely thrust it aside.

"It's not me, Jeff," she disclaimed.  "You know it's not me.  And
you'll--promise?"

He nodded.

"I'll go back to her, because--of you."

A curious look of fear crept into the girl's eyes.

"You'll go back, because--of her," she persisted.

The man shook his head.

"Anyway--I'll go back."

The words were roughly spoken.  But Nan accepted them.  It was all she
could hope for.  And--well, she had done her best.

She sighed deeply.  She glanced about her.  For a moment they dwelt
upon the man who was denied her.  The man in whom she saw all that
could ever make life worth while.

"Good-night, Jeff."

Her voice was very low and soft.

"Good-night, Nan."  Then with a sudden outburst, as forceful as it was
spontaneous: "God, if the world were only made up of women like you!"

But the door had closed.  And as Nan crept to her bedroom, unrestrained
tears coursed down her soft cheeks.  The full force of the irony of it
all was too great for her.  He was going back to Elvine, and--she had
sent him.




CHAPTER XXI

THE BARRIER

Jeff was abroad at daylight.  Even Bud, whose habit was sunrise, had not
yet wakened from his heavy slumbers.  But Nan was stirring.  She heard
Jeff moving, and she saw him beyond her window.  She saw him bring his
horse from the barn, saddled and bridled.  In a moment he had mounted and
ridden away.  Then she dressed, and, for the rest, wondered at the
possible outcome of it all.  Half an hour later the sun rose and the
day's work began.

When Jeff reached his home it was still wrapped in the habit of night.
There was no one and nothing stirring, for, as yet, only the golden glow
of the eastern sky promised the coming of day.

His mood was bitter.  But his purpose was calculated and deliberate.  He
had given his promise in answer to Nan's irresistible pleading.  But
otherwise the man was completely unchanged.  He moved away down to the
corrals, and leaned against the great lateral rails which closed the
entrance.  The beasts within were chewing the cud, and still picking at
the remains of their overnight feed.

They were a goodly sight to eyes that understood the meaning of such
things.  It was only one of a number of corrals similarly crowded with
beasts, that were, for various reasons, herded in shelter at night.
These were a few, a very few of the vast numbers which bore the familiar
"O----" brand.  There were the outlying stations which harbored their
hundreds.  There were the pastures with their complement of breeding
cows.  Then there were the herds of two- and three-year-olds roaming the
plains at their will, fattening for the buyers who came at intervals.

Thoughts of these things compelled Jeff now.  And he saw what Nan had
saved him from.  Wreck had been threatening in the course he had marked
out for himself at first.  How could prosperity have maintained under the
conditions he would have imposed?  Even now, under the modification which
Nan had appealed for, he failed to see the continuation of that success
he had striven so hard for.  The incentive was no longer in him, he told
himself.  Where lay the use, the purpose in it all?  The future?  That
dream future which had come to him could never mature now.  It was no
longer a dream.  It was nightmare.

He wondered why he had yielded to Nan's entreaty.  It all seemed so
purposeless now in the broad light of day.  He could force himself to
live with his wife--under the same roof.  Perhaps in time he could even
meet her in daily intercourse.  She might even become a factor in the
great work of the Obar.  But the joy of achievement had been snatched
from him.  All that he had foreseen might be achieved in the work, even.
But the process would have been completely robbed of its inspiration, and
was therefore not to be counted worth while.

The thought of the woman's regard for him left him cold.  He dwelt upon
it.  Suddenly he wondered.  Two days ago he could not have thought of it
without a thrill.  Now it meant--nothing.  He remembered Nan's appeal.
Why--why had it affected him last night?  It had not been because
of--Evie.

Nan had talked of justice--duty.  He could see no appeal in either now.
Why should he be forced to observance of the laws of justice, or--duty
toward a woman who----?

He stirred restlessly.  His attention was drawn to his horse.  He moved
over to it and off-saddled.  Then he returned to his place at the corral.
The sun was just breaking the horizon.  He heard sounds of life coming
from the bunkhouse.

Nan's appeal no longer convinced him--now that he was away from her.
But--he had pledged his word.  He could not break his word to Nan,
although he longed--madly longed to resaddle his horse and ride away, and
leave behind him forever this place which had suddenly become so full of
bitter memories.  No--he had pledged his word.

Soon he must once more confront his wife.  He reviewed the possibilities.
The night long he had spent in considering the position he intended to
place before her.  Would she accept it?  And--what then?  The long days
of work, unlit by any hope of the future.  The process of building,
building, which all men desire, without that spark of delight which
inspires the desire.  Just the drudgery of it.  The resulting wealth and
commercial power of it maybe, but not one moment of the joy with which
only two days before he had regarded the broad vista of the future.

Now the smell of cooking reached him from the bunkhouse.  Several men
were moving down toward the corrals.  He passed on toward the house.  A
moment or so later he stood on the veranda gazing out at the streaming
cattle as they moved toward the wide home pastures, under the practised
hands of the ranchmen.  It was a sight to inspire any cattleman, and, for
a moment, the brooding eyes of the master of it all lit with a flash of
their former appreciation.  But the change was fleeting.  The blue depths
clouded again.  The question once more flashed through his
brain--what--what was the use of it all?

None, none at all.  Every dream had been swept from his waking thoughts.
Every enchanting emotion was completely dead.  The woman who had inspired
the rose-tinted glasses through which he had gazed upon the future no
longer had power so to inspire him.  By her own action she had taken
herself out of his life.  She could never again become a part of it.  He
would live on with her, under the same roof, a mockery of the life which
their marriage imposed upon them.  He had pledged that to Nan, and he
would not break his word to--Nan.  But love?  His love was gone.  It was
dead.  And he knew that the ashes of that once passionate fire could
never be stirred into being again.

There was a rustle of skirts behind him.  He heard, but did not turn.  A
fierce passion was rising to his brain, and he dared not turn until he
had forced it under restraint.

"You have come back, Jeff?"

The voice was low and soft.  There was something tragically humble in its
tone.

The man turned.

"Yes, Evie."  Then he added: "I told you I would."

His voice was gentler than he knew.  The harshness of their previous
meeting had gone out of it.  Nor was he aware of the change, nor of the
reason, although in his mind was the memory of his promise to Nan.

"And you'll tell me your decision--now?"

The humility was heart-breaking.  Nor was the man unaffected by it.  He
looked into the beautiful face, for the dark eyes were averted.  Then his
gaze dropped to the charming figure daintily clad in a simple morning
frock of subtle attraction.  But his eyes came back to the face with its
crowning of beautiful dark hair, nor was there any change in their
expression as a result of their survey.

"As well now as later."

"What is it?"

For the first time Jeff found himself gazing into the wide dark eyes.
There was pain in them.  Apprehension.  There were the signs about them
of long sleepless nights.  He shut the sight of these things out by the
process of turning away to observe the general movement going on in the
near distance.

"Guess there's no use to say a deal," he said, a curiously moody note
taking possession of his voice.  "If I did, why, I'd likely say a whole
heap more than a man may say to his wife.  Guess the right an' wrong of
things had best lie in our hearts.  You know just what you did, and why
you did it.  I know what you did, an' can only guess why you did it.  I
don't figger any talk could convince either of us different to how we
think and feel.  Maybe there's Someone knows the rights of this thing
better than either of us.  That being so, I allow He'll ultimately fix
things as He intends.  Meanwhile it's for us to do as we feel, just so
far as our personal earthly concerns go."

The coldness in his voice had grown, and it left Evie with a complete
sense of hopelessness that was harder to bear than any fears which
violence of language might have inspired.

His pause was prolonged.  She made no effort to break it, she dared not
break it.  For the man, he was gathering the threads of what he had to
say so as to deliver it concretely.  He feared to prolong this interview.
In view of his decision he must not risk any violent outbreak such as his
feelings were even now striving to force upon him.

"Maybe you'll remember what I said to you about Ronny just after we
were--married.  I don't guess you'll have forgotten, seeing things are as
they are.  What I said then stands now.  If you'd been a man I'd have
shot you down in your tracks when I got to home last night.  That should
say all that need be said about how I'm feeling now.  You aren't a man,
and you're my wife.  Well--you're still my wife.  That means it's up to
me to keep you as though this thing hadn't broken things up.  I intend to
act as right as I can by you.  This is your home.  You must use it, if
you feel that way.  The Obar has to go on.  It's your means of living.
It's my means of living.  Then there are others concerned in it.  For
these reasons I shall carry on things, and your knowledge of this sort of
work should hand you a reasonable share in the running of this place.  If
you feel you can act this way, without remembering we're man and wife,
why, I guess we can agree to live our--separate--lives under the same
roof.  If you don't feel you can do this, why, you need to say so right
here an' now, an' state your wishes.  I'll do my best to carry them
through, provided you understand our lives are separate from now on.  Do
you get that?"

Did she get it?  Could there be any mistaking those cold tones, that
ruthless decision?

From slightly behind him Elvine had stood watching with straining eyes
the still figure, speaking with so obvious a repression of feeling, his
eyes steadily fixed upon the distant horizon.  Once or twice an ominous
flush had suddenly flamed up in her eyes.  A deep flush had stained her
cheeks.  But as he ceased speaking the same shrinking, the same humility
marked her attitude.  She knew instinctively she dared not say the things
she was yearning to pour out.  She knew instinctively that any such
course would at once break down that thin veneer of restraint he was
exercising.  And for perhaps the first time in her life she stood awed
and cowed by a man.

But this woman was the slave of her passions, and she knew it.  It was
this now that made a coward of her.  With all the power of self in her
she had abandoned herself to her love for her husband.  And, with slavish
submission, she was prepared to accept his words rather than banish
herself out of his presence altogether.  A mad, wild hope lay somewhere
deep down in her heart that some day he could be made to forget.  That
some day, through what looked to her like endless days of devotion and
help, she might win back something of what she had lost.  She knew her
own attraction.  She knew her own powers.  Might there not then be hope
in the dim future?

She had no pride where Jeff was concerned.  She wanted him.  His love was
all life to her now.  If she had followed the natural course which should
have been hers and refused his proposal, she would have been closing the
door, finally, upon all that made life possible.  If she submitted there
still remained to her the vaguest possible shadow of hope.  This was her
thought and motive in the crisis with which she was faced, and her
calculations were made out of her yearning, and without true
understanding of the man with whom she was dealing.

Jeff awaited her decision under an enforced calm.

"It's for you to say," she said, after some moments.  "Nor is the choice
mine.  I shall obey.  You've said I can help in the work.  Maybe it's my
right.  I'll claim that right anyway.  It's the only right I'll claim.
I've only one other thing to say, and maybe you'll let me speak it this
once."

"Go on."

"I didn't guess I was doing wrong.  I don't know now I did wrong.
Anyway, if what I did was wrong it's against God's laws and not man's.
Maybe you've a right to punish me.  I don't know.  Anyway, my life and
interests are bound to yours, and I want you to know every effort of mine
will be to further--your interests.  This has made no change in me--that
way.  You can trust me as you'd trust yourself.  I'm not here to squeal
for any mercy from you, Jeff.  And maybe some day you'll--understand.  I
guess your breakfast's ready.  I'll have mine later."

      *      *      *      *      *      *

Later in the day Elvine rode out from the ranch house.  Nor did she
concern herself with her object, nor her course, beyond a wild desire for
the solitude of the hills.  The full torture of the new life, on the
threshold of which she now stood, had not come upon her until after the
effects of her interview with her husband had had time to calm down.
Then to remain in the house, which had become a sort of prison to her,
was made impossible.  She must get out.  She must break into activity.
She felt that occupation alone could save her reason.

So she struck out for the hills.  Their claim of earlier days was upon
her.  The hills, and their wooded valleys.  Their brooding calm, their
dark shadows, their mysterious silence.  These things claimed her mood.

She rode recklessly across the wide spread of Rainbow-Hill Valley.  She
had no thought for the horse under her.  She would have welcomed the
pitfalls which mighty have robbed her of the dreadful consciousness of
the disaster which had overwhelmed her.  She was striving to flee from
thoughts from which she knew there was no escape.  She was striving to
lose herself in the activities of the moment.

The switchback of the plain rose and fell under her horse's busy hoofs.
It rose higher, and ever higher, as she approached the western slopes.
She left the fenced pastures behind her, and the last signs of the life
to which she was now committed.  Before her the woodlands rose up
shrouded in their dark foliage.  The mourning aspect of the pines suited
her temper; she felt as though their drooping boughs were in harmony with
the bereavement of her soul.

She plunged amidst the serried aisles of leafless trunks with something
like welcome for their shadows.  She rode on regardless of distance and
direction.

From the crest of a hill she looked down upon narrow mountain creek
surging between borders of pale green foliage.  The sound of the waters
came up to her, and the wilderness of it all appealed, as, at that
moment, nothing else could have appealed.  She pressed her blowing horse
forward, and rode down to the banks so densely overgrown.

She leaped from the saddle.  She relieved her horse of its saddle and
flung herself upon the mossy ground in the shelter of a cluster of
spruce.  The humid heat was oppressive.  The tumbling waters were unable
to stir the atmosphere.  But their music was soothing, and the sight of
their turbulent rush seemed to hold sympathy for her troubled heart.  And
so she lay there, her head propped upon a supporting hand, and yielded
herself to the sway of her emotions.

After a while tears dimmed her eyes.  They overflowed down her cheeks.
She had reached the end of endurance before yielding to her woman's
pitiful weakness.  Time had no meaning now.  Place had lost its
influence.  She saw nothing, knew nothing but the trouble which had
robbed her of all she lived for.

Then came the inevitable.  Her tears eventually relaxed the tension of
her nerves, and, after several ineffectual attempts to keep them open,
the weight of the atmosphere closed her eyes and yielded her the final
mercy of sleep.

      *      *      *      *      *      *

Elvine awoke with a start.  She awoke with the conviction of the presence
of the man she had met in the hill regions before.  She knew some one was
near her, but, for the moment----

Yes.  She sat up.  A pair of brown eyes were gazing down into hers.  Then
came the voice, and it was low, and gentle.  It had nothing startling in
it.

"Why, say, an' I've been hunting your trail this hour, taking you
for--some one else."

Nan had been standing with her arm linked through her horse's reins.  Now
she relinquished them, and flung herself upon the ground before the
startled woman.

Elvine stared at her with unease in her dark eyes.  Nor did she gain
reassurance from the pretty face with its soft brown hair, and the
graceful figure beneath its brown cloth riding suit.  Yet she was not
insensible to the companionship.  Her greater fears had been of the man,
Sikkem, who had been in her waking thoughts.

"You were following my tracks?" she demanded uncertainly.

Nan's eyes grew grave.

"I certainly was.  Though I didn't guess they were yours.  Say, you must
have crossed the tracks I was following," she added thoughtfully.  "Did
you see anybody?  Four fellers?  Mighty tough-looking citizens, an'
strangers?"

The frankness of the girl reestablished confidence.

Elvine sat up.

"No," she said.  Then the wonder of it possessed her.  "But you--you
alone were following on the tracks of four tough strangers?" she cried
incredulously.

Nan smiled.  Her smile was pretty.  It was a confident, wise little smile.

"Sure," she said.  "I saw them, and it was up to me.  You see, Evie, we
folks out here kind of need to think diff'rent.  A girl can't just help
being a girl, but when rustlers are around, raising small Cain with her
men-folks' goods, why, she's got to act the way they would when they
light on a suspicious trail.  I was guessing that track would lead me
somewhere.  But," she added with a grimace, "I wasn't as smart as I
figgered.  You must have crossed it, an' I lost 'em."

"But can't you get back to it?  Maybe I can help some.  I've followed a
trail before," Elvine added, in a tone which Nan understood better than
the other knew.

But the girl shook her head.

"My plug is tired, and there's the chase back to home.  I guess we'll
leave 'em, and just--report.  But there's something doing.  I mean
something queer.  These folk don't reckon to show themselves in daytime,
and I guess they were traveling from the direction of Spruce Crossing."

"That's where the man Sikkem's stationed," said Elvine.

"Sure.  But I don't guess they been near his shanty.  They wouldn't fancy
gettin' around Sikkem's lay-out in daytime.  You see, he's--sudden."

Nan's confidence was not without its effect.  But Elvine was less sure.

"This Sikkem.  I don't like him.  But----"

Nan dismissed the matter in her own way.

"Sikkem's been on the ranch nigh three years.  He's a cattleman first,
and hates rustlers worse than poison.  But he's tough.  Oh, he's tough,
all right.  I wouldn't gamble a pea-shuck he hasn't quite a dandy bunch
of notches on his gun.  But we're used to his sort."

Then she went on in a reflective fashion as though hollowing out a train
of thought inspired by the man under discussion:

"Sort o' seems queer the way we see things.  Right here on the prairie we
mostly take folks on trust, an' treat 'em as we find 'em.  Maybe they're
wanted for all sorts of crimes.  Maybe they done a turn in penitentiary.
Maybe they even shot up folk cold.  These things don't signify a cent
with us so they handle cattle right, and are ready to push lead into any
bunch of rustlers lyin' around.  Guess it's environment makes us that
way.  The prairie's so mighty wide it helps us folks to get wide."

Evie was watching the play of the girl's expressive eyes.

"I wonder--if you're right."

"Mostly, I guess."

"Mostly?"

Nan nodded.

"It isn't easy to condemn amongst folks on the prairie," she said with a
sigh.

Elvine shook her head.  Her eyes were turned from the girl.  They were
staring down into the turbulent stream.

"I don't think I've found it that way."

"How?"

The interrogation was natural.  But it brought Elvine's eyes sharply to
the girl's, and, for a moment, they gazed steadily into each other's.

Then the woman's graceful shoulders went up.

"I see you know."

"And--you aren't mad with me for knowing?  You aren't mad with Jeff for
me knowing?  I wanted you to know I knew.  I wanted to tell you I knew,
only I didn't just know how to tell you.  Then I wanted to tell
you--something else."

There was simple sincerity in every word the girl spoke.  The light in
her eyes was shining with truth.  Elvine saw it, and knew these things
were so, and, in her loneliness of heart, in her brokenness of spirit,
she welcomed the chance of leaning for support upon a soul so obviously
strong and sympathetic.  She yielded now as she would never have believed
it possible to yield.

Suddenly she raised her hands to her head and pressed her fingers to her
temples.

"Oh, I--I don't know what to do.  I sort of feel I just can't--can't stop
around.  And yet----  Oh, I love him so I can't, daren't leave him
altogether.  You can't understand, child, no one can.  You--oh, you've
never known what love is, my dear.  I'm mad--mad for him.  And--and I can
never come into his life again."

She dropped her hands from her head in a movement that to Nan seemed as
though she were wringing them.  Nan's own heart was thumping in her
bosom.  She, too, could have cried out.  But her eyes steadily, and
almost tenderly, regarded the woman who had taken Jeff from her.

"You must stop around," she said in a low, firm tone.  "Say, Evie, I
don't guess I'm bright, or clever, or anything like that.  I don't reckon
I know things different to other folk.  But just think how it would be if
you went away now.  You'd never see Jeff again, maybe, and he'd never
know just how you love him.  You see, men-folk are so queer, too.  Maybe
Jeff's right, and you and me are wrong.  Maybe we're right, and he's all
wrong.  I can't say.  But I tell you Jeff needs you now--more than ever.
He don't know it, maybe.  But he wants you, and if you love him you'll
just--stand by.  Oh, I could tell you of a thousand ways you can help
him.  A thousand ways you can show him your love without telling him.  It
means a hard fight for you.  I know.  And maybe you'll think he isn't
worth it.  But he is--to you.  You love him.  And any man a woman loves
is worth to her every sacrifice she can make.  I don't know.  Maybe you
got to be punished, not by us folk, not for what you done to Jeff.  But
Someone guesses you got to be punished, and this is the way He's fixed
it.  Say, Evie, you won't let go of things, will you?  Maybe you can't
see ahead just now.  But you will--later.  You love Jeff, and he just
loves you, though he's sort of blind to it now.  But he loves you, an' no
one else.  He wouldn't act the way he's doing if it weren't so.  I sort
of felt I must say all this to you.  I--I don't know why--just.  But I
won't ever talk like this again.  I haven't a right, I know.  But I don't
mean harm.  I don't sure.  And if you'll let me help you anyway I can
I'll--be real glad."




CHAPTER XXII

THREATENINGS

The offer of reward for the rustlers operating in Rainbow Hill Valley
was without the desired effect.  It was worse.  The men against whom it
was directed received it with deliberate but secretly expressed
contempt.  Nor did Chance serve the masters of the Obar, as four years
before She had served Dug McFarlane.

Nor was the failure due to lack of effort.  Bud left no stone unturned.
And Jeff--well, Jeff did all a man could.  The hills were scoured, and
the deeps and hidden hollows of the greater foothills.  The notices of
reward were sent broadcast, even penetrating to the Orrville country.
They were set up as Jeff had promised, on tree trunks in the remoter
hills where any chance eye might discover them.  Where undoubtedly the
men who constituted the gang must sooner or later discover them.

The only response was a continuation of the raids.

But a distinct change had taken place in the method of these.  Whereas,
originally, they had been directed against not only the Obar Ranch, but
wherever opportunity offered in the district, they now fastened their
vampire clutches upon the Obar only, and, finally, on only one section
of its territory: the land which belonged to Jeff's side of the
partnership.

So marked was this that it could not be missed.

The partners were out at a distant station where they had been urgently
summoned.  A young "hand" had been wounded, a nasty flesh wound in the
arm.  He had been bringing in a small bunch of steers which had strayed
to a distant hollow in the hills.  It had been overnight.  He was held
up, and shot by three outlaws, and his cattle run off.

It was Bud who voiced the thought of both partners immediately after a
close interrogation of the injured man.

"Looks like some low-bred son-of-a-hobo owes you a reckonin' he's
yearnin' to git quit of, Jeff," he said, the moment they were alone.
"They're workin' this way all the time.  They ain't so much as smelt
around the old 'T.T.' territory in days.  D'you make it that way?"

Jeff nodded.

"Sure."

But he made no attempt to throw enlightenment.

"Guess you signed the reward."

Bud watched the shadowed serious face of his friend.

"Maybe it's that."  There was something like indifference in the
younger man's manner.

Perhaps it was this manner which stirred Bud's impatience and drove him
to resentment.

"Say," he cried, in fiercely vibrant tones, "d'you know what it is I
got in my head?  It's the 'hands' on our range.  Sure.  Ther's some
lousy guy on the Obar working in with the gang.  Cowpunchers are a
mongrel lot anyway.  Ther' ain't one but 'ud souse the sacrament wine
ef the passon wa'an't lookin' on.  I guess we'll need to chase up the
penitentiary re-cord of every blamed thief on our pay-roll.  Maybe the
cinch we're lookin' fer lies that way."

"It's curious."

"Curious?  Gee, it's rotten!"

The old man's patience completely gave way.

"See right here, Jeff.  I ain't rattled.  Not a thing.  But ther's got
to be some guts put into this thing, an' you an' me's got to find 'em.
See?  I'm sick to death.  Right here an' now I tell you ther's goin' to
be a rotten piece of trouble around this lay-out, an' I'm goin' to be
in it--right up to my back teeth."

It was perhaps the first time Bud had displayed impatience with the man
who had always been the leading spirit of their enterprise.  The truth
was, something seemed to have gone out of Jeff.  He neglected nothing.
He spared himself no pains.  His physical efforts seemed even to have
become greater as the days passed.  Frequently, now, night as well as
day found him in the saddle watching over their interests.  He had
become a sort of restless spirit urging forward the work, and watching,
watching with the lynx eyes dreaded so much by the men who served him.
But for all that something had certainly gone out of him, and Bud knew
and feared its going.

If Bud knew and feared the change, he also knew the cause of it.
Neither he nor Nan were blind to the drama silently working out in the
other household.  It was bitterly plain and almost heart-breaking to
the onlookers.  The same roof sheltered husband and wife.  But no
unnecessary word was spoken between them.  Their meals were taken
apart.  They were as completely and coldly separate as though they
occupied opposite poles.  And the girl who recognized these things, and
the man who watched them, only wondered how long it must be before the
final disaster came upon them.

Jeff's moods had become extraordinarily variable.  There were moments
when his moroseness became threatening.  The canker at his heart was
communicating itself to his whole outlook, and herein lay the failure
in his work.

It was the realization of all this which stirred Bud's impatience.  He
knew that unless a radical change was quickly brought about, the
vaunted Obar had certainly reached and probably passed its zenith.

Finally, he opened his heart to the sure sympathy of Nan.  He had
purposely taken her with him on a boundary inspection amongst the
foothills.  They were riding through a silent hollow where quiet seemed
to lie on the top of everything.  Even their horses' hoofs failed to
make an impression upon it.  Peace was crowding the woodland slopes, a
peace profound and unbreakable.

"The Obar's struck a mighty bad patch, Nan," he said abruptly.  "Ef
things kep hittin' their present gait, why, I don't jest see wher'
we're to strike bottom.  The pinch ain't yet, but you can't never kick
out a prop without shakin' the whole darned buildin' mighty bad.  An'
that's how the Obar's fixed.  Ther's a mighty big punch gone plumb out
o' Jeff's fight, an', well, I guess we're needin' all our punch to fix
the things crowdin' around us."

"You mean the rustlers?"  Nan drove to the heart things without
hesitation.

"Sure.  Them an'--other things."

The girl nodded.  She knew the other things without asking.

"Jeff's in a heap of--trouble," she said with a sigh.

"An' looks like carryin' us along with him--ef we ain't watchin'
around."

"We've always kind of leaned on Jeff."

"Most folks are ready to lean, Nan.  It sort o' saves 'em a deal of
trouble."

"Yes.  Till you kick the prop away."

"Sure.  Our prop's been kicked away, an' we've jest got to git right up
on to our hind legs an'--git busy.  The leanin' racket's played out fer
us.  We got to hand Jeff a prop now, an' see it don't git kicked away.
See?"

For some moments the girl's gaze searched straight ahead of her down
the valley.  And into her eyes there grew a gentle light of enthusiasm.
Suddenly she turned upon the great figure on its horse beside her.

"We've stood up on our own years, Daddy--before Jeff came along.  We
can stand now, can't we?  I guess we're not going to fail Jeff now he's
in trouble.  Jeff's been all for us.  We're going to be all for him.
He needs us, Daddy, and--I'm glad in a way.  Say, my heart nigh breaks
every time I peek into his poor sad an' troubled face.  Jeff's just
beating his soul dead.  And if the Obar gets wrong, it'll sure be the
end of everything for him.  It mustn't, Daddy.  Things mustn't go
wrong.  'Deed they mustn't.  It's up to us.  You must show me how,
Daddy.  You're wise to it all.  You're strong.  You know.  Show me.
Put me wise, an' I'll--take Jeff's place."

The girl's words came full of a passionate sincerity.  There were no
half measures in this child of the prairie.  Her love was given, a
wealth of generous feeling and loyal self-sacrifice.  Her father read
with a rare understanding.  And in his big heart, so rough, so warm, he
cursed with every forceful epithet of his vocabulary the folly of the
man he had marked out for a son.

"We'll make good, or--bust," he said, with a warmth that almost matched
the girl's.

Then he pointed ahead where the hollow opened out, and a large clump of
trees marked dividing ways.

"I guessed you'd best see this.  It's one o' them notions o' Jeff's.
That play ain't worth a cent."

"Ah!"

They rode up to the bluff in silence.  And after a moment's search Bud
drew rein before a heavy tree trunk, to which was secured a printed
sheet.  He pointed at it, and, for a while, neither spoke.  Nan was
taking in the disfigurements with which it was covered, and she read
the words written across it in bold but illiterate characters:

"We're wise to her.  She don't git no second chanst."

The rest of the disfigurings were mischievous, and of almost indecent
character.

"Does Jeff know?"  Nan's question was almost a whisper.

"I ain't told him."

Bud's reply was one of doubt.

"He--he ought to be told."

Then Bud suddenly abandoned the restraint he had been exercising.

"Oh ----!  Ther' ain't no use.  He can't do a thing.  He wouldn't do a
thing.  I tell you we're jest suckin'-kids in this racket.  We got to
lie around crazy enough to fancy we're goin' to git the drop on these
bums.  What a country!  What a cuss of a lay-out wher' you got to set
around watching a darnation gang o' toughs whittlin' away your work
till they got you beat to a mush.  Here, I'm goin' to start right in.
I'm goin' to get around Calthorpe.  The sheriff's got to git busy, an'
earn his monthly pay check.  We'll hev to raise vigilantes.  I tell you
they'll break us else.  Ef Jeff can't see, why, he'll hev to be made
to.  Blast their louse-bound souls to hell!"

And Nan welcomed the outburst.  Rough, coarse, violent.  It did not
matter.  What mattered to her was the purpose.  The purpose which she
hoped and prayed would help Jeff.  She had no thought for themselves.
Their end of the enterprise never came into her considerations.  She
was thinking of Jeff.  Solely of Jeff--the man she loved better than
her life.

      *      *      *      *      *      *

The change in Elvine was no less marked than it was in Jeff.  But it
was a change in a wholly different direction.  She was deeply subdued,
even submissive in her attitude.  But now after the first crisis and
its accompanying pain, a general relief was apparent.  A relief which
anything but indicated the hopelessness which had at the first
overwhelmed her.  She was not hopeless.  Therein lay the key of the
matter.

From the time when she had passed through those moments of frenzied
despair, after Jeff's return from Orrville, her decision had been taken
with lightning celerity.  Her back was to the wall, and she meant to
fight for all she yearned, desired, by every art she possessed.  She
knew nothing of the reason which had made her husband return to her.
It was sufficient that he had done so.  It gave her the vague, wild
hope she needed, and with all her might she intended to set herself to
the task of winning back her position in his regard.

She was not logical.  Had she been, she must have accepted the
alternative of freedom offered her, and, on a liberal allowance,
betaken herself to some selfish, worldly life which might have appealed
to her.  No, she was not logical.  Had she been, she would never have
loved this man as she now knew better than ever she loved him.  She was
not logical, but she had courage.  It was the same courage which had
driven her to fight for that which she had desired years ago.  She was
going to fight now.  And again it was for selfish motives.  Only this
time they took the form of the love of the man she| had married.

She set to work from the very start.  Her attractions she knew were
great.  Jeff must be made to realize them.  He must be made to realize
all a woman could mean in this life which was theirs.  She would
unobtrusively study his interests to the last degree.  His position in
the ranching world would give her ample scope in this.  Then there was
the work of the ranch.  Here her earlier experiences would help her
materially.

So she laid for herself a deliberate campaign.  Always counting that
his lightest command was her law, and nothing must be permitted to
display her desire to break down the barrier he had set up between them.

Two days of deep consideration showed her her course.  And once having
marked it out she set about following it.

Her house was her first care.  It must be ordered as no other house of
its kind was ordered.  She thought of every expressed wish of his
during their brief engagement and honeymoon, and sorted it into its
place in scheme.

Then came her place in the work of the range.  This was more difficult
to take at once by reason of lack of precedent.  But by tactful
watchfulness she felt it could be accomplished.  Her first step must be
to impress on Lal Hobhouse her intention, and, in this, even sooner
than she had dared to hope, she managed to secure a footing.  Once her
mind was set to achieve a purpose her capacity was beyond all question,
and in these troublous times of rustlers the foreman was more than
content to welcome her aid.

Throughout these days she rarely obtruded herself upon the man she
desired most in the world.  He might almost have been non-existent.
The rare moments in which he spoke to her were met with a cool reserve
on her part, which left nothing to be desired, and gave no opportunity
for the reopening of those matters which had brought about the
position.  Indeed, Elvine had more than reason to be satisfied with her
work.

She felt at last that the worst was over, and now it remained for her
to win back, step by step, the lost ground, until she had restored
herself to her position.  It could be done.  It should be done, she
told herself.  She admitted no crime against him.  Then where was the
justice of it?  Anyway, that fierce dread was off her mind.  She knew
the worst now.  She no longer stood on the brink of an abyss of
doubt----

She was in her bedroom considering these things.  It was a golden
evening and the setting sun was shining athwart her windows.  Quite
suddenly the simple sewing in her fingers dropped upon her lap, and her
startled eyes turned upon the wide view of the valley bathed in the
perfect evening light.

Was she no longer standing upon that brink?  The question flashed
through her mind as she remembered an incident until then completely
lost in the greater issues.  It was the threat of that scrawled note
which had been flung in at that very window.  She even remembered the
sensation of the blow which had awakened her on the night of torture
during which she had waited for Jeff's return from Orrville.

She sprang to her feet.  Every other thought was swept from her mind.
And, for a moment, fresh panic stirred her veins.  The words of that
message.  They were unforgettable.


"You sold the lives of men for a price.  You had your way then.  We're
goin' to have our way now.  You'll pay for that deal the only way we
know."


The only way we know!  Her memory flew to the man Sikkem.  Oh, she knew
him.  She had recognized him on the instant of their meeting.  She knew
he came from Orrville.  She had seen him there.  But----  Was he one of
the original Orrville gang, all unsuspected, or, at least, if not
unsuspected, _unknown_ to be?

While she pondered the subject she heard her husband's arrival.  She
heard him cross the veranda and, pass into the house.

Then again she took up the thread of her thought.  This man Sikkem.  If
he were one of the Orrville gang, what was more likely than that he
should have sent that threat?  If he sent it, what more likely than
that he was one of the gang of rustlers operating here?  If he were one
of them, then what added significance did it give threat?

A wave of sudden excitement replaced the panic of a moment before.
"The only way we know."  Did that mean raiding her husband's stock and
endeavoring so to ruin the Obar?  It looked like it.  It would account
for what was being done.  But no.  That might be part of what was
contained in the threat.  But not all.  The only way we know!  The only
way this class of man understood paying off a score was different from
that.  With these men it was always a life for a life.  Whose?  Hers?
It might be.

The sun had sunk beyond the mountain peaks.  In the adjoining
living-room she heard the clatter of supper things.  Jeff was having
his meal in the solitude which had become their habit.

If it were her life they intended it would not much matter.  But was
it?  Would they punish her that way?  To her it did not suggest the
refinement of cruelty which would appeal to them.  No, there were other
signs.  Their purpose looked to be to ruin the Obar, and then--what
then?  Rob her of the man she loved?  It could be done.  It would be
easy, and surely the refinement of it would appeal to natures so
ruthless.

Her sewing had dropped to the floor.  Mechanically she picked it up.
Then and there she purposed to break in upon her husband's meal.  But
she hesitated, and the impulse passed.  Instead, she went to a drawer
in her bureau and withdrew the folded paper.  She read it over and
returned to her seat.  Decision was lacking.  Her interpretation of the
threat had taken strong hold upon her, but she could not decide what
best to do.  Her fine eyes were troubled as she gazed out into the
growing dusk.  Dared she go to him?  Would he listen?

But once more her thoughts were diverted.  The sound of a great clatter
of hoofs reached her from the other side of the house.  Some one had
ridden up to the veranda at a great pace.  Who?  And what could the
urgency be at such an hour?

She heard Jeff moving in the living-room.  She heard him pass out on to
the veranda.  Then curiosity, perhaps apprehension, urged her.  She
passed to the window beyond her bureau, which was near the angle of the
building, and leaned out of it.  Ordinary tones on the veranda would
reach her there.

She waited, breathing lightly lest her hearing should be impaired.  A
strange voice was talking.  She could not place it.  It was rough, and
the language was rough.  No doubt it was one of the "hands" from some
outlying point.

"They got him through the chest, an' I guess he's goin' to pass in.  He
sez to me, 'Ride like hell an' fetch the boss.  Tell him I got 'em
plumb wher' he wants 'em.  I located their lay-out.  I ain't got above
an hour or so to tell him in.  Just hike an' ride like ----!'"

Then came Jeff's voice cold and undisturbed.

"Where is he?"

"Why, by his shack at Spruce Crossing.  He jest got in, an' nigh fell
plumb in his tracks out o' the saddle.  I don't guess any feller but
Sikkem could ha' done it.  He's tough--mighty tough."

Sikkem!  Elvine moved from the window.  Sikkem!  Her heart was pounding
in her bosom, and, for a moment, her brain seemed in a whirl.  Sikkem
had discovered the raiders and was willing to give them away.  In a
flash she was back in Orrville, and her mind was searching amongst
shadowy memories that had suddenly become acute.  Sikkem!  Sikkem!  No.
She must see Jeff.  She must tell him of--Sikkem.  She must warn him,
and show him her note.  A sudden, crushing foreboding descended upon
her, and she hurried toward the door.

In a few seconds she was on the veranda confronting her husband.  For a
moment her courage well-nigh failed her.  Jeff was standing with his
back turned toward the sunset.  The ranchman was no longer there.  He
had gone to the barn to order a fresh saddle horse for the master of
the Obar.  Apparently Jeff had turned to repass into the house.

His fair strong face, serious and cold, was turned directly upon the
beautiful figure of his wife, and it was the coldness of it that
daunted her now.

"Well?"

The bitterness of that frigid, surprised inquiry was crushing.  Elvine
looked into his eyes for one single shadow of softening.  She could
find none.  It shocked the hope she had been steadily building in her
heart.

She had no words in which to answer.  She stood thus for one uncertain
moment.  Then she thrust out her hand.  It contained the threatening
message.

"Will you read that--at once?"

His cold regard dropped from her face.  The man noted the dirty paper
in her soft white hand.  Then he took it.  Nor did their hands come
into contact.

"Is it a matter of importance?"

Elvine could have cried out with the stab of the question.  Only some
matter of vital importance justified her action in his eyes.  Her gaze
was averted to hide her pain.

"I should not have come to you otherwise."

The man moved to the edge of the veranda to obtain more of the dying
light.  At that moment the ranchman approached with two saddle horses.
Elvine scrutinized him carefully.  He was a complete stranger to her.

Jeff had read the note.  He stood regarding the ranchman.  Suddenly his
voice broke sharply.

"Leave my horse at the tying post.  Wait for me at the barn."

He watched the man secure his horse.  Then he watched him return to the
barn.  Nor did he speak again till he was out of earshot.

At last he turned back to the waiting woman.

"Who sent this?  When did you get it?  How?"  The questions came
rapidly.

"It came the night you were at Orrville.  It was flung in through the
open window late at night.  I'd fallen asleep in my chair--waiting.  It
hit me on the face.  They'd made it fast around a grass-tuft."

"Who sent it?"

"It must have been the man, Sikkem, who's just sent in word to you
he's--shot up."

"Sikkem?  Why?"

Suddenly the restraint Elvine was exercising gave way.  Even her
husband's deliberate coldness was powerless to stem the tide of
conviction which had steadily mounted up within her.  The one thought
in her mind was that he stood in danger.  Her reason was slight enough,
but her love accentuated her intuition.  She saw in her mind the
claiming of the toll these men demanded, and to her swift imagination
the picture of her husband's murder was complete before her eyes.

"Sikkem comes from Orrville.  He was there--four years ago.  There was
more than suspicion attached to him.  My first day here I met him.
Maybe you'll remember.  He knew me at once.  I don't guess there was
any mistake.  And I knew him.  When he heard I was--married to you he
pretended he'd mistaken me for--some one else.  And when he explained
who, and his feelings against that woman--it was me he was
describing--I knew he was, as was suspected, one of the Lightfoot gang
at Orrville.  Sikkem wrote that note.  I could stake my life on it.
And--now he's sent for you.  He's asking you to go out to Spruce
Crossing--at night.  A distant, lonely point in the hills.  He says
he's mortally wounded.  He has found the rustlers hiding.  Of course he
has.  He's known all along.  Nor do I believe he's wounded.  He--and
the others--think the only way to get back on me is--through you.  They
mean to kill you.  Who's the boy who brought in word?"

"A new 'hand' we've taken on to replace the boy who was shot up two
days back."

"One of the gang."

The woman spoke with a decision she did not realize.  But her belief
had become conviction.  No shadow of doubt remained.

Jeff gazed thoughtfully down at the note.  When he raised his eyes his
regard had undergone a shadow of change.

There was less coldness in them.  He shrugged.

"Guess we'll leave that at present.  Why all this now?"

"Because your life's in danger.  That's how I figure."

There was a deep note of urgency in the woman's voice.  Her eyes were
alight with a sudden, unmistakable emotion.  But even if the man
realized these things he ignored them.

"My life?"  There was something cruelly biting in the reflection.  "And
all this time you knew--Sikkem.  You knew we were being raided."

"I----"  Elvine broke off.

She had no reply.  There could be no reply.  Why, she wondered in
sudden horror, had she not told of this thing before?

She stood with downcast eyes before the accusing glance of the man.
Then, after a moment's pause, a sound escaped his lips.  And in it was
every thinkable expression of condemnation and contempt.

"Tchah!"

He turned away and strode across to his horse.  The woman's voice came
to him low, despairing, appealing.

"For God's sake, Jeff, don't go!  You won't go!  They'll kill you!  Oh,
God!  Jeff!  Oh!"

The final exclamation came in a sort of moan as the man swung himself
into the saddle, and, without a word, turned his horse and rode away.




CHAPTER XXIII

THE HEARTS OF TWO WOMEN

The figure was silent, motionless upon the veranda.  The eyes were dull
and lifeless.  It was as though paralysis held the woman in its grip.

"Tchah!"

The echo of that fierce expletive remained.  It rang through heart and
brain.  Its sting was hot.  It seared its way through the life channels
and blasted all hope.

Was there ever such contempt, such scorn, such repulsion, concentrated
in one single ejaculation!  It told the woman everything.  It told of a
failure so complete that hope became an emotion driven forever from her
heart.  It told her that the usury of life was beyond all belief.  It
told her that the interest demanded for every pledged moment was
without pity, or mercy, or justice.  Now she knew how she had pawned,
and, oh God, the interest which was being torn from her!

Her gaze remained upon the angle of the barn around which her husband
had vanished.  She was waiting for him to reappear.  She was waiting to
see if he would ride off in spite of her warning.  But she was unaware
of the thought prompting her.  All she knew, all she felt, was the
contempt, the scorn, the distrust he had hurled at her.

The western sky had faded to a pallid yellow.  The distance was losing
itself in the rising purple shadows.  Already the dark patches of
woodlands were assuming that ghostly vagueness which belongs to
twilight.  The ranch was wrapped in a deep repose.  A sense of rest had
fallen upon the great valley.  All life seemed satisfied with its long
day's effort and desired only the peace of night.

But the quiet suddenly gave way before a fresh clatter of movement.
Hoofs once more beat on the sun-baked soil.  Two figures grew out of
the twilight from behind the barn, and the woman knew that her warning
had gone for naught.  She watched them until they were swallowed up by
the growing dusk.  The last dim outline blurred itself into the
pasture.  Then she stirred.

A deep sigh was heavily breathed.  Then, in a moment, the paralysis
fell from her.  The dullness of her eyes gave place to a sheen of
excitement, and her perfect cheeks assumed a faint, hectic flush.

For one brief moment she glanced back into the house.  Then she glanced
down at her own clothing.  She was still clad in the riding suit which
had become her daily wear.  The survey seemed to satisfy her, for she
left the veranda at a run, and made her way toward the barn.

Perhaps five minutes later she, too, became lost in the growing
twilight, and her horse's hoofs awoke anew the echoes of the place.
But her way did not lie in the track of the others.  Her horse was
racing headlong in the direction of Nan's home.

Bud and Nan were just finishing their supper when Elvine broke in upon
them.  She came with a rush and a clatter which brought Nan out on to
the veranda in hurry of anxious inquiry.  Bud was behind her, but his
movements lacked her impulse.

Elvine was out of the saddle.  She stood on the veranda, a figure of
wild-eyed appeal.

"Jeff!  Oh, he's gone.  Nan, they'll--they'll kill him!  I know it.
I'm certain.  And I warned him.  I warned him.  But--oh!"

She covered her face with her hands.  It was a movement inspired by the
memory of his scorn.

Nan's responsive heart was caught by the other's emotion.  But above it
leaped a fear which she was powerless to deny.  Jeff?  Jeff in danger?
She flung out an arm.  Her small hand gripped the other with a force
that was incredible.

"What d'you mean?" she cried, almost fiercely.  "Don't stand there like
a fool.  Who is going to harm Jeff?"

The sharp authority, so prompt, so unexpected, dragged the distraught
woman into some command of herself.  She raised her head.  Her eyes
were hot with unshed tears.  They looked into Nan's, so urgent, yet so
full of a steadfast sanity.

"It's Sikkem," she cried, steadying herself.  "He's sent in to say he's
badly shot up.  He says he's located the rustlers' camp and must hand
Jeff the news before--while he has time.  Jeff's gone out there,
and--Sikkem's one of the gang and escaped from Orrville four years ago."

"How d'you know?"  It was Bud's heavy voice put the question.  It was
full of stern command.

"I've seen him.  I know him, and--he knows me.  He--he wrote this and
sent it me."

Elvine thrust the crumpled note at Bud.  Her gesture was almost
desperate.

"When did he send it?"  Again came Bud's command.

"Days ago."

"An' Jeff--didn't know till--now?"

"I was afraid to tell him--then."

Bud and Nan read the note by the parlor lamplight.  A bitter
imprecation broke from the man's lips.

"Guess I don't get it--yet," he said.

But Nan was quicker.

"He's gone to Spruce Crossing--to Sikkem?" she cried, her eyes hot as
they dwelt on the shaking woman before her.  "Don't wait talking.  It
don't matter the right of things.  You, Daddy, get our horses fixed and
round up a bunch of boys from the bunkroom.  Jeff's in danger, an' it's
up to us.  Maybe Evie'll tell me while you go."

Something of the great Bud's feelings was displayed in the celerity of
his movements.  He was gone before Nan had finished speaking.

The two women were left facing each other.

Seconds passed without a word.  The gentle Nan no longer looked out of
the brown eyes.  They were hot, resentful.  Nor would any one have
recognized in the anxious-eyed woman before her the beautiful creature
who had first stirred Jeffrey Masters out of his years of celibate
thought.

Without a word Nan turned back to the parlor.  When she reappeared she
was buckling a revolver belt about her slim waist.  The two heavy
holsters it supported were almost incongruous on so slight a figure.

Elvine watched her.  The girl's deliberation was in deep contrast to
her own emotions.  Then, too, the sympathy which had fled from Nan's
brown eyes left them full of hard resolve.

"You--are not going?" Elvine said, pointing at the weapons.

Nan's surprise was genuine.

"Jeff's in danger."

"But you--a woman?  You can't help.  You might even----"

"Jeff's in danger."

Nan repeated the words with an emphasis there could be no mistaking.
And as the final syllable escaped her pretty lips became firmly
compressed.

Elvine regarded her for a silent moment or two.  A strange new
sensation was stirring within her.  Nan's attitude had brought it into
being.  Her earlier emotions receded before this new feeling.  And,
strangely enough, she remembered some words her mother had once spoken
to her.  It was at a time before she had engaged herself to her husband.

"But Jeff--is nothing to you," she said abruptly.

There was a new ring in the voice in which she spoke.

"Is he?"

Nan's eyes looked straight into the wife's.  There was no smile in
them.  There was no emotion lying behind them that Elvine could read.
They were steady, unflinching.  That was all.

Sounds came up from the ranch buildings.  Voices reached them plainly.
And among them Bud's dominating tones were raised above all.

Nan's eyes were drawn in the direction, but her gaze only encountered
the moonless night.

"What is he--to you?"  Elvine's demand was strident.  She was roused
from her sense of her own sufferings, her own misery.  The newly
awakened emotion had leaped to proportions which threatened to
overwhelm all others.

Nan's eyes came back to her face.  There was something almost reckless
in their regard.  There was even a suggestion of derision in them, a
suggestion of triumph.  But it was not the triumph over a rival.  It
was the triumph of one who realizes her conquest over self.

"Everything!" she cried.  Then she added almost to herself: "Everything
I can think of, have ever dreamed of in life."  Then suddenly her voice
rose to a ring of ecstasy.  It was the abundance, the purity of her
love, the certainty of victory over self which inspired it.  "Ah, Evie,
don't be rattled with what I'm telling you.  Ther' surely is no need.
You want to be mad with me.  Guess you needn't to be.  Jeff don't know
it.  He never will know it.  I've never had a hope of him since he met
you.  He's always been just yours.  I don't guess you need to worry a
thing that way.  The worrying's for me.  I've loved him since ever I
was a child: since ever he came here.  Well, you figure he's in
danger--so it's up to those who love him to do.  You see, I--well, I
just love him with my whole soul."

She turned away.  The reception of her confession seemed to concern her
not at all.

Out of the darkness loomed her father's great figure.  He was leading
Nan's horse as well as his own.  The girl leaped into the saddle, and
he passed his own reins up to her.

"I shan't be haf a minit," he said.  "I need my guns.  The boys are
waitin' by the barn."

He passed into the house.  Then Nan observed Elvine.  She, too, had
leaped into the saddle.  Nor could the girl help being struck by the
manner of her action.

"You're goin' back home?" she cried.

Elvine shook her head resolutely.

"How--then?"

The wife suddenly urged her horse.  It came right up to Nan's with an
almost spasmodic jump, driven by a vicious jab of the woman's spurred
heel.

The dark eyes were lit with an angry fire as she leaned forward in the
saddle.  Her words came in a voice of passionate jealousy.

"You love him, so you go to him, ready to face anything--for him.  Do
you think I don't love him?  Do you think I'm not ready to dare for
him--anything?  Your love gives you that right.  What of mine?  Does
mine give me no right?  Say, child, your fool conceit runs away with
you.  I tell you you don't know what love is.  You say you love him
with your whole soul.  And you are content to live without him.  Psha!
Your soul must be a poor enough thing.  I tell you life means nothing
to me without him.  I can't and won't live without him."

      *      *      *      *      *      *

The black earth sped under the horses' hoofs.  The stars shone like dew
on the velvet pall of night.  Bud led, as he always led in the things
practical which belonged to his life.

He needed no thought for guidance on that night journey.  Unerring
instinct served him across those wide plains.  Spruce Crossing might
have possessed a beacon light, so straight, so unerring was the lead he
offered those behind him.

Now, perhaps, more than ever, all his great skill was put forth.  For
he had listened to the complete, if halting, story of the man's wife,
and shared with her the conviction of treachery.  For the time, at
least, all consideration for the woman was thrust aside.  He offered no
words of blame.  His concern was simply the succor of his friend.

Nan was ready to follow him whithersoever he led.  She was ready to
obey his lightest command, for she understood his skill.  She had no
thought for anything but the man she loved.  No possibilities of
mischance, no threat to herself could find place in her thought.  For
her Jeff's well-being was her single concern.

Elvine rode beside her, step for step.  She had told her story as they
rode.  After that silence between them prevailed.  It was a silence
fraught with an emotion too deep for any words.  A fierce jealousy
mingled with her passionate longing.  Her world was empty of all but
two figures.  The man she loved, and the girl who had confessed her
love with all the strength of a great, simple courage.

Whatever the night might bring forth, whatever tragedy might be in
store, she scarcely had thought for anything but her own almost mad
resolve.  This girl, this child of the plains, should obtain no
advantage.  She was prepared to yield all for the succor of the husband
who had scorned her--even to life itself.




CHAPTER XXIV

TO SPRUCE CROSSING

The eyes of the night were there alone to see.  It was as well.  There
are moments in men's lives when it is best that it should be so.
Passions are not always sane.  They are not always human.

So it was with Jeffrey Masters.  The change in him had been rapid.  It
was almost magical.  Always one who lacked something of the softer
human qualities, he yet must have been counted a man of balance.  If
sympathy, sentiment, were never his strong points, he was by no means
lacking in loyalty, kindliness, rightness of purpose.  All his life,
achievement, achievement under the strictest canons of honesty, or
moral scruple, had been the motive urging him.  He had seen neither to
the right nor to the left of these things.

Then had come the woman into his life and the lighting of those natural
fires which belong to all human life.  He yielded to them, and the
suddenness of it all seemed to sweep away every cooler method which had
always governed him.  There had been no thought, no calculation in his
yielding, such as might have been expected.  He was the victim of his
own temperament.  His powerful restraint had been suddenly relaxed.
And, for the time, he had been completely overwhelmed by the intensity
of his passion.

But this passion for the woman who had so suddenly entered his life was
merely the opening of vials of emotion hitherto held sealed.  It was no
radical transformation.  All that had been his before still remained,
buried perhaps for the moment under the avalanche of feeling, but
nevertheless still occupying its place.  These things could not be
swept away.  They could not be destroyed.  They would remain when the
passionate fires had completely burned themselves out.

But the unlooked-for had happened.  These fires had not been permitted
to burn themselves out.  They had been extinguished, deluged out of
existence when the idol of his worship was flung headlong from its
pedestal by the complete revolt of his moral being.  His prejudices,
his instincts, matured through years of effort, were the stronger part
of him, and the conflict was decided before it began.  The shock of
discovery had brought a terrible reaction.  His love was killed under
the blow.  And though for a while the sense of overwhelming disaster
had been crushing, the measure of that disaster was taken swiftly.  It
left him disillusioned, it left him harder, colder.  But it left him
sane.

These things were not all, however.  On this night he had approached
far nearer the hell which only a woman can create for a man than his
first discovery had borne him.  The irony of it was perfect.  Out of
her great love for him, solely in his interest, in a great desire to
shield him from a danger she saw threatening him, she had contrived to
convince him that she had been as ready to sacrifice him, his
interests, the interests of his friends, as she had been to accept the
price offered for the blood of his twin brother.

So the eyes of the night looked down upon the haunting figure of a man
who knew neither mercy, nor pity, nor hope.  The world of human
happiness had closed its doors upon him, and his whole spirit and body
demanded a fierce retaliation.

That was the mood which looked out of his coldly shining eyes.  That
was the mood which drove the horse under him at a headlong gait, and
left his spurs blood-stained upon his heels.  That was the mood that
left him caring nothing for any danger that might lurk under cover of
the starlit dark of night.  The fierceness of his temper demanded
outlet.  Bodily outlet.  Active conflict.  Anything, so that a burning
lust for hurt should be satisfied.  He cared nothing at all for
himself.  No bodily suffering could compare with the anguish of mind he
had passed through, was still passing through.  And so he rode headlong
till the youth accompanying him was hard put to it to keep pace with
him.

The hammering of the horses' hoofs upon the sun-baked earth was a
fitting accompaniment to his mood.  The sigh of the night breezes
through the trees was no less desolate than his heart.  Nor was the
darkness one whit more dark than the stream of thought which flowed
through his hot brain.

Not one word did he exchange with the man behind him.  In truth the
youth who had brought the summons had no part in the thing that was
happening, at least not in Jeffrey Masters' mind.  There was no one
besides himself in this.  There was just himself and his goal--whatever
that might bring forth--with a wild, almost insane desire to act
fiercely and without mercy should opportunity offer.

The land rose and fell, from hill to valley, from valley to hill.  The
way lay through avenues of bluff-lined grass, or across hollows of
virgin pasture.  Trickling mountain streams barred the way, only to be
passed without a thought of their depth, or the dangers of their
treacherous, sodden banks.  The mountain barrier ahead, looming darkly
forbidding in the starlight, with its mazing hollows and woodland
crowns, was incapable of inspiration at the moment.  There are moments
when Nature's profoundest awe is powerless to affect the mind of man.
These were such moments.  The whole mind of Jeffrey Masters was
absorbed till there was no room for any influence which did not arise
out of the burden of his bitterness.

But if he were indifferent to his surroundings, the man riding hard
behind him moved with eyes and ears fully alert.  That which he was
seeking would have been impossible to tell.  Nevertheless every shadow
seemed to possess interest, every night sound to possess some quality
worth remarking.  Not for an instant, after the hills had been entered,
did his vigilance relax.

Spruce Crossing lay deep in the hills, a clearing to the south of the
junction of converging mountain streams.  It was a mere cattle station,
neither better nor worse than several others lying on the outskirts of
the Obar territory.  Yet it was important that it headed a valley
running north and south amongst the hills, where the grass was sweet,
and rich, and fattening, one of those surprise natural pastures which
the hills love to yield occasionally to those who seek out their wealth.

A glimmer of light, like some distant star fallen to earth from its
velvet setting above, marked the station, house.  It was visible at a
great distance down the flat stretch of the valley.  The ranchman's
horse was headed directly for it, and the animal moved readily, eagerly
now, nor were the spurs needed to urge him further.  The instinct of
its journey's end was sufficient to encourage its flagging spirits.

The distant light grew brighter.  It took on the rectangular form of a
window opening in a log-built hut.

Jeffrey Masters had fixed his gaze upon it, and so the shadowy scene
about him passed all unnoticed.  He saw nothing of the darker objects
lying on the ground adjacent to his way.  The slumbering kine which
bore his brand remained all unheeded.  He had no thought for them.  His
course took him over a track which passed down a land between two
fenced pastures.  These, too, were stocked with fattening steers, or
with the brood cows and their attendant calves.  At another time, under
other conditions, these things would have held for him an absorbing
interest.  Now they concerned him not at all.

The dark pastures gave place to a number of corrals, also lost in the
summer night.  A dog barked.  Then, in a moment, its sharp yelps became
silent, and the stillness became once more unbroken except for the hard
pounding hoofs of the two horsemen approaching.

A few moments later these sounds ceased as the dark outline of the
station house itself took shape.

For a few seconds Jeff gazed at the window opening where the light from
within was still shining.  A sound had caught and held his attention.
It came from within the hut, and there was no mistaking it.  It was the
sound inspired by physical suffering, and the voice that uttered it was
a man's.  He sprang out of the saddle and turned to hand his horse to
the man who had accompanied him.  But he found himself standing alone.

With a shrug of the shoulders he left his horse and turned at once to
the hut.  Just for an instant he hesitated once more.  It was his
thought to look in through the window.  The hesitation passed.  The
next moment he passed along the lateral log walls to the far end of the
building where he knew the door to be situated.

The door was closed.  He placed his hand on the heavy wooden latch.  A
second passed.  He glanced over his shoulder.  It had occurred to him
to wonder at the sudden going of the youth who had accompanied him.

But there was neither sight nor sound of the vanished youth.  He raised
the latch and swung the door open.




CHAPTER XXV

AN EPIC BATTLE

The station house was extensive.  It was a bunkhouse of lesser
dimensions.

Jeff's eyes moved swiftly over the dim interior.  The remoter corners
of the place were shadowed.  But the light was sufficient to yield him
a view of four squalid bunks on which the many-hued blankets were
tumbled.  The walls bore signs of personal effort at decoration.  There
were photographs over each bunk, tacked up and disfigured by flies.
There were odd prints pasted on the rough log walls, the seams of which
were more or less adequately filled with mud to keep the weather out.

There were two rough window openings, one in each side wall.  The only
entrance or exit was the door at the northern end, through which he had
approached.  At the other end, directly opposite this, an oil lamp was
shedding its feeble rays through a well-smoked chimney glass.  It was
standing on a small improvised table which divided two bunks set on
wooden trestles.  The whole interior was perhaps thirty feet in length
and twelve feet wide, a roomy, unkempt shanty, which served its simple
purpose as a shelter for men unused to any of the comforts of life.

The object which caught and held Jeff's instant attention was the
figure of the man seated on the side of one of the bunks, beside the
table on which the lamp stood.  It was the figure of Sikkem Bruce,
bearing no trace whatever of any mortal injury, and with a look of
wide-eyed surprise upon his evil countenance.

Jeff moved up the room.  He approached without haste.  His eyes were
steady, and his expression one of tight-lipped determination.  There
was something coldly commanding in his attitude.  His fair, bronzed
features, keen, set, displayed no weakening.  His body seemed poised
ready for everything that could possibly happen.  The latent power and
vigor of his movements were tremendous.  He carried no weapons of
defense in view, and his dress was a simple loose jacket over a cotton
shirt, and, for nether garments, a pair of loose riding breeches which
terminated in soft leather top-boots.

Sikkem's eyes were on him the whole time.  There was even some slight
apprehension in them at the sight of that swift, voiceless approach.
Jeff came to a halt before him, and it was the ranch hand who found
speech most necessary.

"Say, I didn't guess you was gettin' around to-night, boss," he said
with some show of ease.

"No?"

"I sure didn't."

Jeff's retort flashed out.

"Then what did you send that youngster in for with mouthful of durned
lies?"

Sikkem stared.  But his look was unconvincing.  Moments passed before
his reply came, and in those moments the keen eyes of his employer were
busy.  The man was still in the working kit of a cowpuncher.  Even to
the chapps, and the prairie hat crushed down on his ugly bullet head.
Then, too, his pair of guns were still strapped about his waist.  None
of these things escaped Jeff, any more than did the fellow's clumsy
regard.  He wondered how much truth--if any--lay behind that mask of
wicked eyes and brutish features.

"I'm waiting."

Jeff's demand came with a rasp.  The man's delay in reply had conveyed
all he wanted to know of the truth in him.

"Wot youngster?  I tell you I didn't send no one in."  There was
truculence in the denial.  "Wot's the lies?"

The ranchman was no match for the keen mind of his employer.  In brute
force he might have been more than his equal.  But even that was
doubtful.  While he was speaking Jeff moved.  Up to that moment he had
been facing the foreman with his back turned toward the distant door.
Now his movement placed him against the table with his back to the
other empty bunk, and his focus took in not only the man before him,
but the shadowy outline of the distant half-open door.

"It's the boy we took on the other day at--your recommendation.  Your
recommendation.  Get me?  Guess he came with the yarn you were shot to
death.  You'd located the rustlers' camp.  You needed to see me quick."
Jeff's words came swiftly.  Then after a pause he added: "You didn't
send him along?  Who did?"

As Jeff watched the man's deliberate shake of the head he became aware
of a muffled sound, somewhere away beyond the door.  It was faint, but,
to him, unmistakable.  He gave no sign.

"Where are the other boys?" he demanded.

"Out on cattle guard."

The movement beyond the door again penetrated the silence of the hut.
Now it was that the ranchman made his mistake.  Only for an instant did
he turn his head and eyes in the direction of the sound.  But it was
sufficient.

Jeff's voice rasped again.

"Stand up, darn you!  Stand up!"

Sikkem's gaze came back abruptly, and on the instant his right hand
flew to his waist for his guns.  But the muzzle of Jeff's revolver was
within a foot of his head, and behind it his coldly shining eyes.

Sikkem's hand dropped from his waist.  He stood up.  The law of the gun
was powerfully ingrained upon his mind.

"Loose those guns at your waist--quick!  Let 'em drop on the bunk!
Quick, or I'll pump you full of lead!"

The deadliness of Jeff's command was irresistible.  The power of that
leveled gun indisputable.  The buckle was loosened, and the weapons
fell on the blankets behind the ranchman.

"Now push your hands up!  Right up!"

The command was obeyed on the instant, but the look which accompanied
the movement was as deadly as human passion could make it.

"Back away!  Back to the far end!  Sharp!"

Sikkem moved.  But his movement was not rapid enough.  Jeff urged him.

In the pause Jeff's straining ears caught again the sound of movement,
and he wondered why development was not precipitated.  Perhaps----  But
Sikkem had nearly reached the distant wall, and, at that instant, a
whistle shrilled through the building.

Jeff knew he was trapped.  But, with a wonderful sense of detachment,
mind and body worked almost electrically.  His revolver spat out its
vicious report.  For the fraction of a second he held the smoking lamp
poised in his other hand.  Then, like a shooting star, it flew through
the adjacent window and fell extinguished amidst the crash of its own
glass.  It was at the complete fall of darkness that the door slammed
closed, and half a dozen shots rang out through the building, followed
by the "plonk" of the bullets embedding themselves in the solid logs
immediately behind where the rancher had been standing.

But Jeff was no longer there.  There had been a simultaneous clatter of
falling bunk boards.  There was the rustling of straw.  Then a sound of
scrambling, and, after that, a dead silence.  The darkness was complete
except for the faint silhouette of the windows against the dim
starlight beyond them.

Jeff had taken the big chance.  What remained now must be met as
circumstance permitted.  The blood in him was fired.  The savage
delight of battle.  He would sell the last breath in his body at the
highest price he could make his enemies pay.  He had walked into a trap
laid by the rustlers, headed, perhaps, by Sikkem Bruce, with his eyes
wide open, and some almost insane yearning made him glad.

Now he crouched down against the wall beside the table.  He had flung
up a barrier of straw palliasse before him.  It was not as a protection
against gun-fire, but to screen his movements should his opponents
produce a light.  Then, too, there was another thought in his mind.

The place became alive with sounds, voiceless, muffled sounds of
cautious movement.  It was the movement of men who know that death is
lurking at every turn.  Nor could they tell whence it was most likely
to come.  It was a moment of tense and straining nerves wherein the wit
of one man had discounted the elaborate plan to murder of those whose
indifference to death only shrank from the contemplation of their own.

Jeff's eyes strained against the darkness.  The windows stood out in
silhouette.  From these he had no fear.  He knew, and he knew that
these ruffians would know, the dangers attending themselves from any
attack upon him from such a direction.  The advantage would be entirely
his, since he had possessed himself of Sikkem's complete arsenal.  He
knew it was for him to await the fire of these men, every shot of which
would yield him a sure target.

A flash broke the blackness ahead of him.  The bullet sank into the
woodwork just above his head with a vicious splash.  But he refrained
from reply.  Another crack split the silence, and the wall to the left
of him flung back its response.  Still he offered no reply.

His eyes were searching, searching.  And a surge of excitement suddenly
thrilled him.

Two shots came on the same instant.  One slithered hotly in the flesh
of his shoulder, but the other struck wide of him.

The wound gave him no concern.  Every sense, every faculty was
concentrated on one thought, on one object.  A dim, fine-drawn but
uneven line of shadowy light had grown out of the darkness to his now
accustomed eyes.  It was vague, so vague that it required the greatest
concentration to detect.  But he recognized it for what it was, and a
savage delight possessed him as he observed that there were breaks in
its continuity.  The line was waist high, and lateral, and he
interpreted it to suit himself.

He raised his gun and took steady aim at one of the breaks.  His shot
was deliberate, careful, since the sight of his weapon, even the weapon
itself, remained invisible in the dark.  He fired, and dropped himself
prone behind his barrier.

A bitter curse followed by a groan of pain was the answer to his shot.
Then, where that break in the shadowy line of light had been, now the
line was unbroken.

A fierce glee permeated him.  The curse, the moan had been music to
him.  But it only required a second before he had the enemy's retort.

It came with a fusillade.  And every shot seemed to find practically
the same spot on the wall.  He knew that the flash of his gun had been
the target.  He knew he had only escaped by a fraction of time.

His shoulder stung him.  But his will, his savage yearning for the
continuance of the fight, left him disregarding.  There was more to
come, and he knew it.  Nor did he care how much.  The blood was hot in
his brain.  No pain, nothing mattered.  Again he searched along that
lateral line of light.

He was reaching out far beyond his retreat.  He had stealthily crawled
to the left of the table.  Again his weapon was raised against another
break in that telltale line of light, this time at a point where the
angle of the building must be.  A moment passed while he judged his
aim.  It was by no means easy.  Instinct was his only guide.  That
instinct which belongs to the man accustomed to the constant use of a
revolver.

His shot rang out.  Again came a cry, inarticulate, fierce.  Then
followed the sound of a falling body.  Then he let loose a second shot.
But even as it sped he had his answer.  Four tongues of flame leaped
out at him in the darkness, and four bullets smote viciously into the
wood behind him.

His second shot had cost him a sharp penalty.  The flesh of his forearm
had been ripped by one of those four bullets and he felt the trickle of
warm blood over the unscored flesh.

He crouched behind his barrier.  The joy of battle for the highest
stakes for which a man can play was undiminished in him.  The wounds he
had received left him all unconcerned.  In the thrill of the moment he
had no time for them.  The desire to kill was strong, and he knew he
could already count two victims.

But the general in him was foremost, even in the excitement of battle.
The number of his opponents, their next move.  These things concerned
him seriously.

He searched the line of light with eager eyes.  He listened to the
sound of movement.  These things were all he had to rely on, and on
their accurate reading depended his chances of victory or defeat, with
its certainty of swift death.

In two places there ware still definite breaks in the line.  He knew he
had accounted for two of the enemy.  Originally a volley of six shots
had come at him.  There were two unaccounted for.  Where were these?
They were not standing.

He looked for no depths of subtlety in the methods of these men.  He
understood their ruffianism too well.  Therefore the sound of movement
that reached him suggested the obvious result of their first failure.
It was the presage of an attack at close quarters.

He listened intently.  The sounds were of shuffling bodies, moving
uncertainly, possibly fearful of contact with obstruction which might
betray them.  And he calculated they were approaching low down along
the side walls, thus hoping to offer the least target possible.  If
they reached him the chances would be all against him.  They must not
reach him.  His decision was promptly taken.

He raised one of Sikkem's guns.  It was heavy, and a sense of pleasure
filled him as he felt the enormous bore of the muzzle with one finger.
Stealthily he raised himself to his full height behind his barrier.  He
leveled his gun at a spot just below the right hand window, where the
wall rose up out of the floor.  There was no obstacle intervening.

A moment later the crack of the gun burst through the silence.  Then,
on the instant, he flung himself prone across the table.  His answer
came like lightning.  Four shots.  And three of them harmlessly tore
their way into the bowels of the woodwork.  The fourth had come from
the direction in which he had aimed.

A fierce spasm of pain through his chest blinded him mentally and
physically for the moment.  But, by an almost superhuman effort, he
recovered himself.  He knew he was hit, and hit badly.  Something
seemed to have broken inside him, just under his left armpit.

He forced himself to an upright position and flung out his gun arm.
His eyes were again on the line of light.  A fury of recklessness was
urging him.  There were the breaks, and he blazed at each in turn,
carefully, deliberately.  A moment later two shots came from the right
and left of him, and he dropped down behind his barrier, but not before
he had heard the death-cries of fierce blasphemy at the far end of the
room.

He lay behind his shelter breathing hard and suffering an agony of
physical pain.  The sweat poured down his forehead.  It seemed to him
that everything was somehow receding from him, even the sense of his
own danger.  In these feelings he realized how near he was to defeat,
and with all his will he set himself to conquer his weakness.  A few
moments passed.  His pain eased.  Then, with all the recklessness of
the gambler, he prepared for his final throw.

He was certain he had accounted for four of the enemy.  Four.  He
calculated there were still two remaining.  He shifted his position,
moving himself clear of his shelter.  A hell of suffering was endured
in the process, and the sweat poured out afresh upon his forehead.  He
gritted his teeth with superlative determination and flung back the
dreadful faintness seeking to smother his powers.

He raised himself to a sitting posture.  He sought support from the
wall behind him.  Then, with unbroken nerve, he raised both Sikkem's
guns, one in each hand.  Without a tremor he held them, and his aim
took in the two points at which he felt the remaining foe were
advancing upon him.  Oh, for one moment of light wherein to assure
himself!  But the thought passed as it came, followed by a wild, simple
hope that one of his shots might find its billet.

He pressed the trigger in each hand.  He fired rapidly.  He fired until
both guns were empty.  Then he flung them to the ground with a clatter.
For an instant he thrilled at the sound of a cry of pain, and the
fierce accompanying blasphemy.  Then he flung himself down and crawled
to his retreat behind the palliasse, convinced that the cry was in the
voice of Sikkem Bruce.

His sufferings were well-nigh unendurable.  His very breathing caused
him an exquisite pain.  He even found himself wondering how much longer
he could endure.

But his work was not yet finished.  If he must die he would die
fighting.

Now, blending with fresh sounds of movement along the side walls,
another sound added its threat to the quiet of the room.  It came from
behind the straw palliasse.  There was heavy breathing, almost gasping.
There was a distinct gritting of teeth.  But there was also a sound of
the effort which caused these things in the wounded man.  There was a
sharp ripping and tearing, the rustle of straw and--something else.
The movements were hasty, desperately hasty.  Movements which suggested
the defender's realization of the narrow limits of time before his
powers would become completely exhausted.

These things lasted a matter of seconds only.  Then the threat broke.
The quiet was shocked into desperate action.  There was the shout of
human voices.  There was the rush and scramble of feet.  Then, in the
midst of the tumult, a great tongue of flame leaped up from the heart
of the straw palliasse.

Its fierce, ruddy light revealed the faces of two men leaping to the
attack of the wounded defender.  They were within a yard of their goal.
But even as they were closing upon him they reeled back before the new
terror whose dread was overwhelming even in face of their murderous
lust.

The flame shot up toward the roof.  Jeff staggered to his feet bearing
in his arms the blazing bundle.  Higher he raised it.  Higher and
higher, till the devouring flame licked at the parched thatch of grass
roof above.  It caught in a second.  The flames swept up along the
rough rafters till they reached the pitch of the roof.  In a moment
great billows of smoke were rolling out of the dry crevices.

Just for one instant, before the fog closed down upon the whole
interior, Jeff beheld the result of his work.  The men had fled toward
the closed door, and, on the ground, against the far wall, he had a
glimpse of five bodies lying crumpled up where his guns had laid them.

Suddenly a great shout reached him from without.

"Ho, Jeff!  Ho, boy!"

It was a deep-throated roar which drowned the hiss and crackle of the
blazing straw.

Jeff's answer rang through the burning structure with all the power of
his lungs.

"The door!  Bust it!  Quick, Bud!  Bust it, an' stand clear!"

For answer there was a crash on the woodwork outside.  He waited for no
more.  With a wild rush through the blinding, choking fog of smoke he
charged down the room.  With all his might he flung the blazing
palliasse from his scorched hands.  He had no idea of the direction in
which it went.  His one desire now was to reach the door as it gave
under the sledge-hammer attacks of the men outside.

He heard a crash and rending of woodwork.  He could see nothing.  He
was incapable of further effort.  The end had come all too soon.  He
staggered blindly, helplessly.  His tottering limbs gave under him.
Suffocation gripped him by the throat.  He was conscious of the rush of
a figure toward him.  The sound of his name shrieked in a woman's
voice.  Then there were shots fired.  He heard them.  And it seemed
there were many of them, and the sound was blurred, and vague, and
distant from his ears.  He fell.  He knew he fell.  For hours it seemed
to him he continued to fall in an abyss of blackness that was wholly
horrifying.  It was a blackness peopled with hideous invisible shadows.
So impenetrable was the inky void that even sound had no place in it.




CHAPTER XXVI

UNDER THE VEIL

There was no moon.  Only a starry sheen lit the night.  A wonderful
peace had descended upon the hills.  The quiet was the hush of the
still prairie night.  Teeming maybe with restless life; but it was a
life invisible, and rarely audible.  Nevertheless the hush was merely a
veil.  A veil which concealed, but had no power to sweep away the
garnered harvest of violent human passions.

The figure of a man lay stretched upon his back on the bank of the
river.  His head was carefully pillowed.  A covering had been spread
over the upper body, as though to hide that which lay beneath, rather
than yield warmth and comfort on the summer night.  The covering was a
coat, a woman's coat, and the owner of it sat crouching over her charge.

Nan stirred.  She reached out and tucked the long skirts of the coat
under the man's shoulders with that mother instinct at once so
solicitous, so tender.  She shifted her position which had become
cramped with her long vigil.  These were moments of darkness, literal
and mental.  Her anxiety and dread were almost overwhelming.  The
waiting seemed interminable.

She raised her eyes from her yearning regard of the still, bandaged
head with its pale features.  She sighed, as she turned them in another
direction, toward an object lying beneath the shadow of a great red
willow near by.  It was a dark object, huddled and, like the other,
quite still.  A curious sort of fascination held her for some moments,
then, almost reluctantly, as though impelled by the trend of her
feelings, her gaze wandered in the direction whence was wafted toward
her a pungent reek of burning.  It was the dimly outlined skeleton of
the station house, roofless and partly fallen, white-ashed and still
faintly smoking.

For long moments she regarded this sign of the destruction which had
been wrought.  Nor was the sigh which escaped her wholly of regret.  A
deep stirring was in her heart.  She was thinking of the heroic battle
which the station home had witnessed.  She was thinking of the
desperate odds one man had faced within those four walls.  She was
thinking, too, of the victory which ultimately had been his.  But the
cost.  She shuddered.  And her eyes came back to the white upturned
features of the man before her.

She started.  The man's eyes were open.  Tenderly she raised a hand and
smoothed the cold forehead with its soft palm.  Tears of emotion had
gathered in her eyes on the instant.  But they did not overflow down
her cheeks.

The eyes closed again.  The lids moved slowly, as though reluctant to
perform their office.  The girl literally held her breath.  Would they
open again?  Or----  Her question was answered almost on the instant.
They reopened.  This time even more widely.  They were staring straight
up at the starlit sky, quite unmoving.  There was no consciousness in
them, and barely life.

Nan waited for some long apprehensive moments.  Her heart was full of a
wild, new-born hope.  But fear held her, too.  At last she moved.  She
withdrew herself gently but swiftly.  Then she stood up, a picture of
dapper womanhood in the white shirt-waist and loose riding breeches
which the coat spread over the man's body should have held concealed.
A moment later the darkness swallowed her up as she sped down the trail
which passed near by.

With her going there crept into the man's vacant eyes the first real
sign of life.

Five minutes later the girl was back at his side.  But she had not
returned alone.  Bud was with her, and together they bent over the
prostrate form.  The girl was kneeling.  She had gently taken
possession of one of the bandaged hands lying inert at the man's side.
Tenderly enough she held it between her own soft palms and chafed it,
while her shining eyes, yielding all the secrets of her devoted heart,
gazed yearningly down into his.

"Jeff!" she murmured, in a low, eager tone.  "Jeff!"

There was no response.  The eyes were fixed and staring.

Bud had less scruples in his anxious impatience.

"Say, that ain't no sort o' way to wake him, Nan," he whispered
hoarsely.  Then in his deep gruff voice he displayed his better
understanding.  "Say, Jeff!  You ken hear me, boy.  You're jest
foolin'.  Say, hark to this.  You beat 'em.  You beat 'em
single-handed, an' shot 'em plumb down."

Curiously enough there was almost instant result, and Bud's
satisfaction became evident.  The staring eyes relaxed their regard of
the starry heavens.  The lids flickered, then the eyes themselves
turned in the direction whence came those sonorous tones.

"You ken hear?"

Bud's words came on the instant, and were full of triumph.  Then he
turned to the girl who had promptly relinquished Jeff's hand.

"We ain't got a thing to hand him, 'cep' it's water," he said
half-angrily.  "We can't jest move him, not nothin', till the boys git
along with the wagon, an' that blamed dope merchant gits around.  What
in hell ken we do?"

"Wait."

Nan's finality robbed her father of his complaint.

"Guess we'll hev to.  Say----"

"Yes?"

"Do you guess he ken talk if he feels that way?"

But Nan was no longer giving him any attention.  All her thoughts, all
her being was for the man before them.

A faint tinge of color was creeping under his skin, up to the soft
white wrapping fastened about his fire-scorched forehead.  Even in the
starlight it was plainly visible to the girl's eager eyes.  There was
something else, too.  The look in his eyes had completely changed.  To
Nan there was something approaching the shadow of a smile.

She moved close to his side so that she could reach out and give him
support.  Then she gave the father at her side his orders.

"Get water, Dad--quick!" she demanded.

Bud demurred.

"I only got my hat," he said helplessly.

"It'll do.  But get it."

Bud moved away, with the heavy haste of two hundred and ten pounds of
mental disturbance.

The moment he had gone a faint sigh escaped the injured man.  Nan held
her breath.  Would he--speak?  She would give worlds to hear the sound
of his voice, She had believed him dying.  Now a wild hope surged.  If
he would--could speak, it seemed to her simple logic that he must--live.

"Nan!"

The word was distinct, but, oh, the weakness of voice.  The girl
thrilled.

"Yes, Jeff.  I'm here.  I'm right beside you."

"Tell me--things."

The girl's heart sank.  In a flash she remembered all there was to
tell.  Why had his first thoughts on returning life been of
these--things?  Yet it was like him--so like him.  She drew a deep
breath and resorted to subterfuge.

"It's as Dad shouted at you just now, Jeff.  You beat them
all--lone-handed.  But you mustn't talk.  Don't worry about them.
Guess they're not worth it.  You've been shot up, Jeff, an' Dad an' I
we've just fixed you the best we know, an' the boys have gone right in
for a wagon, an' a doctor.  The doc's got to get in from Moose Creek,
twenty miles away.  That's what scares me."

The smile in the man's eyes had deepened.

"Don't--get--scared, Nan.  I'm--not dying."

The girl thrilled at the assurance in the tired voice.  But the thrill
passed as swiftly as it came.  She knew what would follow when Jeff had
gathered sufficient strength.

Sure enough he went on presently:

"I remember everything--till--I dropped," he said haltingly.  "What
happened--after--that?  Y'see--I--heard--firing."

Nan glanced helplessly about her.  If only her father would return with
the water!  It might help her.  She felt that she could not, could not
tell him the things he was demanding of her.

But again came his demand, and in the tone of it was a sound of peevish
impatience.

"What--happened--after--Nan?  I need--to know."

"It all came of a rush.  I can't just tell it right."

The man's eyes closed again.  He remained silent so long that Nan's
apprehensions reawakened.  She even forgot her panic at his persistence.

"Jeff!  Jeff!"

Her call to him was almost a whisper.  But the man heard.  His eyes
opened at once.

"Yes, Nan?"

The girl laughed a little hysterically.

"I--I--was----"

"You thought I----"

"Yes, yes.  But you are--better?  Sure?"

The man's head turned deliberately toward her.  There was astonishing
vigor in the movement.

"Ther's things broke inside me, Nan," he said, in a voice that was
growing stronger.  "A rib, I guess.  Maybe it's my shoulder.  The
others--guess they're just nothing.  Now tell me--the things I asked.
How did you happen to git around?  Start that way."

A sense of relief helped the girl.  He had given her an opportunity
which she seized upon.

"Oh, Jeff, it was just thanks to Evie.  I guess she saved your life."

"How?"

The girl's enthusiasm received a set-back in his tone.

"She came right along over to us, and told us--everything--the moment
you'd gone.  We followed you just as hard as the horses could lay foot
to the ground.  Dad an' me, and six of the boys."

"What did Evie do?"

"She came along--too."

"Wher' is she?"

Nan made no answer.  The question was repeated more sharply.

"Wher' is she?"

"She's under that red willow--yonder."

The girl's voice was low.  Her words were little more than a whisper.

"Is she--hurt?"

"She's--dead."

At that moment Bud reappeared bearing a hat full clear river water.

Nan looked up.

"How can we give it him?" she questioned.  Somehow the importance of
the water had lessened in her mind.

Jeff answered the question himself.

"I don't need it, Bud," he said.  Then he added as an afterthought:
"Thanks."

Nan looked up at her father who stood doubtfully by.

"Set it down, Daddy.  Then get right along an' look out for the doc,
an' the wagon.  Hustle 'em along."

Bud obeyed unquestioningly.  He felt that Nan's understanding of the
situation was better than any ideas of his.  He set the hat down for
the water to percolate through the soft felt at its leisure.  Then he
moved on.

The moment he was out of earshot Jeff's voice broke the silence once
more.

"Nan?"

"Yes, Jeff?"

"Wher's the red willow?  How far away?"

"A few yards."

"Can you help me up?"  The question came after a long considering
pause.  It came with a certain eagerness.

But Nan remonstrated with all her might.

"No, no, Jeff," she cried, in serious alarm.  "You mustn't.  True you
mustn't.  It'll kill you to move now."

Her appeal was quite without effect.

"Then I'll have to do it myself."

Jeff's obstinate decision was immovable, and in the end the girl was
forced to give way.

The sick man endured five minutes of the intensest agony in the effort
required.  Twice he nearly fainted, but, in the end, he stood beside
the somewhat huddled figure under the red willow, gasping under the
excruciation of internal pains.

"I can lie here, Nan," he said.  "Will you--help me?"

Exerting all her strength the girl helped him to the ground.  The
position he had chosen was close to the still form of his dead wife.
Once he was safely resting again, Nan breathed her relief.

He looked up at her, and something like a smile was in his blue eyes.

"Thanks, Nan.  Say--I'll need that coat of yours--later.  Will you go
along--and get it?"

Nan moved away.  She needed no second bidding.  Nor did she return
until the man's voice summoned her.

"Nan!" he called.

She came to him at once bearing her coat in her hands.  For a second,
surprise widened her eyes.  He was no longer where she had left him.
He had moved a few yards away.  And she wondered how he had been
capable of the unassisted effort.  Then she glanced swiftly at the dead
woman.  The covering over the body had been moved.  She was certain.
It had been replaced differently from the way she had arranged it.  She
offered no comment, but busied herself spreading her coat over the
man's bared chest, where the rough bandages had been fastened with her
father's aid.

Again she seated herself on the ground beside him, but now his face was
turned from her.  It was toward the still figure a few yards away.

"Tell me the rest now, Nan," he said.  "She did her--best--to--save me."

"More than her best.  Say, Jeff, she loved you better than life.
That's why she's--there."

"Tell me."

A new note had crept into his demand.  There was a hush in his voice
which gave his words a curious tenderness, reverence even for the woman
they were speaking of.

"Guess it must have been over in a minute.  Oh, say, it was just the
biggest, blindest, most tremendous thing.  It was too awful.  She was
so beautiful, too.  And then the love in it.  I kind of shiver when I
think of it.  We heard your shout, Jeff.  Evie came right along with
us.  She insisted.  You see, I'd made her mad.  I'd blamed her to her
face.  I--I'm sorry now.  But, my, she was brave, and how she loved
you!  Well, when Bud heard your shout I guess it didn't take him more
than a minute to beat in the door they'd fastened.  Him an' the boys.
The rest took seconds.  We stood clear, as you said, guessing you meant
a run for it.  The place was ablaze.  When the door fell we saw it all.
You were near it.  Beyond you were two men.  Sikkem was one.  They were
against the far wall, sideways from the door.  They had guns in their
hands.  They meant finishing you anyway, whatever happened after.  But
there was a bundle of blazing stuff in front of them, an' it seemed to
worry them quite a deal.  You started for the door.  They got busy to
use their guns right away.  Then something happened.  We'd forgot Evie.
Guess we were plumb staggered.  Something rushed past us, into that
blazing hut.  It was Evie, an' she managed to get between you and them
just as you dropped.  She fell where she stood.  It was the shots
they'd meant for you.  Then Bud opened on 'em, the boys did too, and
after that we dragged you and Evie out.  Oh, Jeff, she just didn't want
to live without you."

A great sob broke from the girl, and it found an echo deep down in the
man's heart.  Nan buried her face in her hands, and the sound of her
sobs alone broke the stillness.

The man offered no comment.  He made no movement.  He lay there with
his clear eyes gazing at the silhouette of that still dark figure
against the mysterious sheen of night.  His look gave no key to his
thoughts or emotions.  His own physical sufferings even found no
expression in them.  But thoughts were stirring, deep thoughts and
emotions which were his alone, and would remain his alone until the end.




CHAPTER XXVII

THE ROUND-UP

Bud's great bulk blocked the window opening on to the veranda.  It was
his favorite vantage point in leisure.  The after breakfast pipe
usually found him there.  His evening pipe, when the sun was dipping
toward the glistening, fretted peaks of the hills, rarely found him
elsewhere.  It was the point from which, in a way, he was able to view
the whole setting of the life that was his.

The winter had come and gone, vanishing amidst the howling gales of
snow and sleet which never fail to herald the approach of the open
season.  It is almost like the last furious onslaught of a despairing
and defeated foe.  Now the world was abeat with swift pulsations in
fibre and nerve.  The wide valley of Rainbow Hill was stirring with the
vigor of renewed life.  Man, beast, fowl, foliage.  It was the same.
Spring was in the blood.  Spring was in the sap.  And all the world was
fresh and ready for the call of the coming year.

The spring round-up was in full swing with all its ceaseless toil for
the ranching world.  Already the pastures were crowded with stock
brought in from distant valleys and grazings.  Numberless calves
answered their mothers' calls, and hung to their sides in panic at the
commotion in the midst of which they found themselves.  Already
hundreds of them had endured the terrors of the searing irons which
left them indelibly marked as the property of the great Obar Ranch,
while hundreds more were awaiting the same process.

And the irons and forges were kept going all day.  Just as was the
largely augmented band of cattlemen.  In ones and twos these hardy
ruffians, many of them "toughs" who worked at no other time of the
year, scoured every hill, and valley, and plain, however remote in the
vast region.  Theirs it was to locate the strays to whatever ranch they
belonged, and bring them in to home pastures.  The sorting would be
made after and the distribution.  For the whole of the round-up was a
commonwealth amongst the growers, and each and everybody was called
upon to do his adequate share in the work.

Bud was glad.  Nor was it without good reason.  The busy life was the
life he lived for.  And the busy life had been made possible and
complete by the events of the previous summer.

He was physically weary and yearning for the supper which was still
awaiting Nan's return.  But if he were physically tired the feeling did
not extend beyond his muscles.  His thoughts were busy as his eyes
gazed out upon the scenes of life and movement which were going on.

Just now he was thinking of the girl, impatient at the delay of her
return from the pastures, where she was superintending the sorting for
the morrow's branding.  Thinking of her quickly carried him to thoughts
of his partner and friend, and thus, by degrees, his mind went back to
the events of the last summer which had left the present operations
free from the threat which had then overshadowed all their efforts.

It had been a bad time, a bad time for them all.  But for Jeff--ah, it
had been touch and go.  How near, perhaps, it was only now, after long
months had passed, and a proper perspective had been obtained, that the
full extent of his narrow escape could be estimated.

It had been Christmas before Jeff was completely out of the hands of
the surgeon they had had to obtain from Calthorpe.  For three months of
that time he had hovered between life and death.  Nor had his trouble
been confined solely to his physical hurts.  No, these had been sore:
they had been grievous in the extreme.  Three times wounded, and his
face, and hands, and arms badly burned.  But half of his trouble had
been the mental sufferings he had endured as a result of his marriage,
and the final tragedy of Evie's death.

Now, as Bud looked back on that time, two things stood out beyond all
the rest.  It was the desperate courage--even madness he called it--of
Jeff, and the superlative devotion of Nan.

He had by no means understood all that Jeff had achieved at the moment
of his rescue.  It was not till long after, by a process of close
questioning, that the magnitude of it became plain.  Then the marvel of
it dawned on him.  The courage, the madness of it.  Jeff had rid the
district of the whole gang of rustlers single-handed.  He had shot five
of them to death, and the last two had fallen victims to his own,
Bud's, gun after they had been wounded by Jeff.

Then had followed that period when Nan had stepped into the picture.
With pride, and a great satisfaction, he remembered her weeks and
months of devotion to the injured man.  Her sleepless, tireless watch.
Her skill and patient tenderness.  These things had been colossal.  To
him it had been a vision of a mother's tender care for an ailing child.
And the thought of it now stirred him to a touch of bitterness in his
feelings toward his partner and friend.

To Bud there could only be one possible end to such a wealth of
devotion as his little Nan had displayed, but it seemed that all his
ideas on the subject must be wrong.  To his uncomprehending mind they
seemed no nearer to each other than in the days before a mad passion
had seized upon Jeff for the woman he had married.

Bud was very human.  His patience had its limits, and just now they
seemed to have been reached.  He admitted this to himself frankly.  He
told himself he had "no durned patience with the bunch."  And the bunch
included both Nan and Jeff.  He felt that Nan, too, must be to blame in
some way.

He had "no durned patience with the bunch."  Therein lay the key-note
of his mixed feelings.  Here everything was prospering but the one
thing above all others upon which he had set his heart.  He felt as
though he must "butt in" and put matters right himself.  How, he did
not attempt to suggest.  But he felt that if he did not do so, or
something or other did not occur to precipitate matters, the "whole
durned shootin' match was li'ble to peter."

This was how he saw things.  This was how he felt, as he awaited Nan's
return from the pastures.

She came at last.  She rode up and passed her weary horse to a
barn-hand who promptly waited upon her.  She was covered with dust to
her waist.  Her top-boots were white with it.  But her cheeks were as
fresh as peach bloom, and her soft eyes shone with all a ranchman's
enthusiasm at the most exhilarating period of the year.

"One hundred an' forty-two young Obars to-day, my Daddy," she cried out
exuberantly.  "Ther' don't seem any end to last year's crop.  Say,
Jeff's just crazy to death about things."

"He surely is."

The old man's reply was tinged by a reflection of his thoughts.  But
his eyes lit nevertheless.

Nan regarded him seriously.

"Most men get a grouch when they're kept waiting food," she observed
slily.  "Say, come right in an' you'll soon feel the world's a mighty
good place to live in."

Instantly Bud's humor improved.

"Guess you do your best to make it that way."

The girl laughed as she led the way in.

"That surely is a pretty nice talk, my Daddy.  Guess I'll take
advantage of it, an' keep you waiting another three minutes while I get
rid of the dust."

Her father nodded.

"Jeff comin' up?" he inquired.

The girl shook her head.  For a moment the smiling eyes were hidden
beneath their lids.

"Not for supper.  He's gone on to the branding 'pinch.'"

She was gone before her father could reply, and he was left to his own
reflections, which were still further inspired by impatience.

Well enough he knew the arduous nature of the work.  Had he not been at
it himself since the first streak of dawn?  But he felt that Jeff was
going beyond the bounds of necessity.  Even beyond the bounds of reason.

However, he was not given much time to nurse any imaginary grievance.
For Nan reappeared after a surprisingly short interval, and the
transformation she had achieved was not a little startling.  Her dusty
riding suit had given place to a pretty house frock of some softly
clinging material which restored to her at once the charm of her
essential femininity.  The pretty brown of her eyes, and the wavy
softness of her hair became indescribably charming in such a setting.
Bud regarded her with warm approval, and his spirits rose.

"Jeff's coming right up after he's eaten," she said, as they look their
places at the table.  "He's getting the food he needs at the bunkhouse.
He guesses he hasn't time to get supper right."

"Ah."

The announcement gave Bud more pleasure than his monosyllable admitted.
His eyes once more took in the picture Nan made as she sat behind the
steaming coffee urn at the head of the table.  And somehow the change
she had made became less startling.

The meal was the customary ranch supper.  The table was simply loaded
with cold meats, and sweets, and cakes of varied description.  The fare
was homely but plentiful, and, to these simple-living people, it was
all that was required.  Bud helped himself liberally, while Nan poured
out the fragrant coffee.

"We ought to be through in a week now," Nan said, passing a heavy china
cup of coffee across to her father.  "Jeff figures we're well up on
average in spite of the stock we lost last summer.  It's pretty good to
think--after that time.  Say, Daddy, we owe Jeff a pretty big thing."

The old man looked up with a smile.

"Guess the owin' ain't all with us," he said, with his mouth full.

Nan paused in the act of sipping her coffee.  Her eyes were full of
incredulity.

"I don't understand, Daddy," she said frankly.  "We owe more to Jeff
than ever.  Much more.  He came pretty near handing over his poor life
so the Obar might prosper.  He cleared out that gang who would have
done the Obar to death.  A man can't give more to--his friends."

Bud remained unconvinced.  He shook his great head and his smile
deepened to a twinkle of real amusement.

"That's so," he said.  "But he didn't just give that poor life of his.
I allow he was ready to because--because, wal, I guess he's built in a
right fashion.  We owed him for that sure.  But I 'low he's been paid
in a way it don't fall to every feller's lot to git paid.  You paid
that score for us both, an' if ther's any debt left over to be paid,
why I guess I'm ready to pay it."  He chuckled.  "You know, Nan,
woman's a ticklish proposition.  Ther's wise highbrows guess they
handed out all ther' is to say 'bout women-folk, an' I figger some has
used elegant langwidge, an' made pretty talk.  But they ain't said it
all, an' ain't never likely to ef they was to yarn the whole way from
here to hell an' back.  I'm gettin' older most every day, an' maybe I
oughter git wiser.  But ef I was to live till the great round-up I
don't guess I'd ever learn the limits of a woman's self-sacrifice fer
them she takes the notion to mother.  An' it don't matter if it's her
own folk, or her beau, or her man, or some pestilential kid she's
rescued from drownin' in a churn of cream she's jest fixed ready fer
butter makin'.  Wot Jeff don't owe you fer haulin' him right back into
the midst of life, why I guess you couldn't find with one of them
things crazy highbrows wastes otherwise valuable lives in lookin' at
bugs with."

Nan laughed, but her denial came swiftly.

"Jeff doesn't owe me a thing," she declared.  "The wasn't a soul else
around to nurse him.  I'd have hated handing him on to you."  Then she
sighed, but her eyes shone with a light which her father well enough
understood.  "I--I needed to nurse him.  If I hadn't been able to, why,
I think I'd have just died.  But he don't owe me a thing--not a thing."

Bud took a great gulp of coffee and set his cup down with a clatter.
His deep gurgling laugh was good to hear.

"That ain't no argyment," he cried, his deep eyes twinkling.  "You've
jest said the things I hadn't savvee to put into words right.  Woman's
jest a sort of angel come right down from Heaven on a snowflake.  She
sure is.  Ther' ain't no reason to her.  Set her around a sick bed with
physic she ken hand on to the feller lyin' there, an' ther' ain't no
limit to wot she can do.  It's a passion.  You can't blame her.  She's
fixed that way.  She'll just nurse that feller in a way that makes him
feel he wants to start right in trundlin' a wooden hoop, or blowin' a
painted trumpet, hanging on to her hand, same as he did before he quit
actin' foolish on his mother's lap.  It kind o' seems to me a mortal
wonder women don't set their men-folk actin' queer settin' aside a
railroad track guessin' they're advertisements fer a new hair-wash, or
some other fancy dope.  I guess women is the greatest proposition ever
step out o' the Garden of Eden--someways."

Nan laughed happily.

"That's spoiled it, Daddy," she cried.  "Why not leave it at the Garden
of Eden?"

Bud laughingly shook his head.

"Why for should I?" he retorted.  "If they're angels they ain't all
halo an' wings.  Anyway, she did step out o' the Garden.  An' though
the committee ast her to vacate, I allow it was a mighty good thing fer
the human race, or we'd all be eatin' grass still, or some other
perfectly ridiculous cattle feed.  No siree!  She ain't all halo an'
wings, or us men 'ud be settin' around all the time shoutin' hymns
doleful instead of enjoyin' ourselves lyin' awake at nights figgerin'
to beat the other feller's play.  Woman's jest woman, an' the
diff'rences in her is just what a mighty tough world makes of her.
Maybe she's foolish.  Maybe she ain't.  Anyway, she's got most things
agin her to make her that way, an' it seems to me a yeller dawg don't
have much the worst of the game.  No.  I guess woman's jest woman, an'
us men needs to git right on our knees and thank Providence that is so."

Bud reattacked his supper.  There had been impatience as well as
amiability in his denial.  For all his regard for his partner he could
not allow Nan her absurd self-effacement without protest.  None knew
better than he the extent of his debt to Jeff for ridding the Obar of
the rustlers.  But Jeff, he also knew, owed his life to the devotion,
the skill, the love of this girl upon whom he had no claim.

He remained silent now, lost in thoughts he dared not impart to Nan,
and the girl herself had nothing to say.  She, too, was thinking.  But
there was no impatience in her thoughts.

She was thinking of a moment which had occurred down at the pastures.
A moment just before her return home to supper.  To her it had been a
moment of compensation for everything which she had ever suffered, a
moment when the whole aspect of her life had been suddenly changed to a
radiant vision of happiness.

She had been standing beside Jeff watching the work of the boys within
the pastures.  Their talk had all been of the business of the day.
There had been no other sign between them.  The old comradeship alone
seemed to prevail.  Then they had turned away, with their talk
silenced.  They had moved toward their horses which were standing in
the shadow of a small bluff.

Just as they came up Jeff had paused, and turned, and looked down at
her from his superior height.  She would never forget that look.  It
was the look she had seen in his eyes when he first gazed on the beauty
of the woman he had married.  Her heart was set thumping in her bosom
as she thought of it now.  A deep flush surged to her cheeks, and she
kept her head studiously bent over her plate.

Then had followed a great impulsive abandoning of his usual reserve.
It had been so unusual in him, but to Nan so natural.  It seemed as
though of a sudden some great barrier between them had been thrust
aside by emotions beyond the man's control.  He had flung out his hands
toward her, and, before she knew what was happening, she felt their
passionate pressure under the buckskin gauntlets she was wearing.  Then
had come words, rapid, even disjointed; again to her so natural, yet
strange, awkward on the lips of this man.

"Say, little Nan," he cried, "we've won out.  Look at 'em.  The
pastures.  They're full.  Fuller than we ever guessed they'd be after
last year.  Things are running same as we've dreamed.  The Obar's going
up--up.  And--it's all too late."

On the warm impulse of the moment she had answered him without a second
thought.

"Why--why is it too late?"

Her hands were still held in his passionate grasp.  He laughed a
bitter, mirthless laugh.

"Why, because--because I've wakened out of a passionate nightmare to
realize all I've--lost."

She had abruptly withdrawn her hands.  She remembered the curious chill
which suddenly seemed to pass through her body.  But she answered him
simply, earnestly.

"You mustn't blame yourself for all you've lost, Jeff," she said.
"Maybe Evie loved you better than you knew.  But she--she, too, was to
blame.  You must try to forget."

Then had happened something so startling that even now she could hardly
credit it.  Jeff had turned away.  His face was toward the hills where
the setting sun still lit the fastnesses in which lay the fateful
Spruce Crossing.  His words came shortly, simply.

"I wasn't thinking of--Evie," he said.  "The memory of her, of all
that, has gone--forever."

Oh, the bewilderment of that moment.  Nan remembered the absurdity of
her reply now with something very like panic:

"Who--what--were you thinking of then?"

"Who--what?"  The man's eyes lit with a deep, passionate yearning.
"Why, little Nan, the only person who is ever in my thoughts now--you."

It had come so simply yet so full of scarcely restrained passion.
Would she ever forget?  Never, never.  Her emotions had been beyond
words.  She wanted to weep.  She wanted to laugh.  But more than all
she wanted to flee before he could utter another word.  She turned to
her horse without a word.  In a moment she was in the saddle, and had
turned the creature about to ride off.  But Jeff's voice stayed her.

"Say, little Nan, I----" he broke off.  "Oh, I guess I'll eat at the
bunkhouse.  I haven't time for supper right.  I've got to get down to
the branding pinch.  Say, Nan," a sudden deep urging had filled his
voice, and he came to her horse's side and laid a detaining hand upon
its reins.  "Can I come along up--later?  I didn't mean to make you
mad.  True.  I couldn't help it.  I----  May I come along--after I get
through?"

It had been utterly impossible for her to make articulate reply.  Her
emotions were too deep, too overwhelming.  She had simply nodded her
head.  And in that trifling movement she knew she had conveyed a sign
beyond all misunderstanding.

After that the woman had impelled her.  She hurriedly rode off, fearing
she knew not what.  She knew she fled, incontinently fled.  And her
first act on arrival home had been to rid herself of the almost mannish
suit in which she worked, so that Jeff, when he made his appearance,
might find her the woman she really was.

The voices of the men on the veranda reached Nan within the parlor.
She did not want to listen.  She told herself so.  Besides, she had a
perfect right to remain where she was.  And, anyway, Bud had no secrets
from her.  So she placed herself beyond the chance of observation, and
remained quiet lest she should lose a word of what the voices were
saying.

Bud was talking.  His tone and words rumbled pleasantly upon the
evening air.  His talk was of the round-up.  It was the talk of a man
wedded to the life of the western plains.  It was the talk of a man who
is conscious of success achieved in spite of great difficulties and
trials.  There was a deep note of satisfaction in all he said.

Jeff's voice sounded at intervals.  A lighter note.  His answers were
precise, as was his way.  But they lacked the enthusiasm of the other.
It was as though his thoughts were traveling far afield, while his ears
subconsciously conveyed the other's talk to a brain ready to formulate
adequate reply.

Apparently, however, this abstraction impressed itself upon the other
at last, for presently Nan heard her father challenge him in his direct
fashion.

"Feelin' beat, eh?"

Nan pictured the steady gaze of her father's deep-set inquiring eyes as
he put the question.

"No."

The reply came without hesitation.  It was simple, definite.  Again the
picture presented itself to Nan.  Jeff, she felt, was gazing out into
the twilight, absorbed in the thoughts which held him.  She knew the
attitude.  She had seen it so often before.

It was Bud's voice which broke the silence that followed.

"Guess the work's pretty tough," he said.  "You don't need to fergit
you bin a mighty sick man.  If you do, why, you'll be li'ble to find
yourself on Nan's hands again."

"I couldn't wish for better."

The reply had come on the instant.  It must have warned even Bud that
he had found a key to the man's abstraction.

"That's so--sure."

The emphasis was unmistakable.  Nan waited almost breathlessly in a
delicious condition of apprehension.

"Wher's Nan?"

Jeff's demand came sharply.

"Som'eres around inside."

"I came up to see her."

"So?"

"Yes."

The lowing of the cattle in the pastures was dying with the deepening
twilight.  The calves seemed to have found their mothers and all was
contentment.  Nan glad of the growing shadows.  For her, obscurity the
only thing just now.

Jeff's voice again broke the silence.  There was something utterly
simple in the manner of his words.

"I love Nan, Bud," he said.  "I want to tell her so.  If she'd marry
me, I don't guess there'd be a thing left worth asking for.  But I
don't guess she will.  Why should she?  I'm not worth her.  Gee!  But I
want her bad."

Nan buried her face in her hands.  Then she drew back, back, far into
the dusk of the room.  But she could not escape the voices.

Bud's answer came slowly, deliberately.  There was a curious note of
emotion in it.

"You sure aren't.  No man is.  Ther' ain't a feller on earth worthy my
little Nan.  But it's up to her.  Guess she's around inside som'eres."

There was the sound of swift footsteps on the veranda.  Nan drew
further back into the room.  The far wall alone stayed her progress.
The door was to her hand, but she made no attempt to avail herself of
it.  Oh, those delicious moments of terror.  It seemed to her as if
every joy of life was concentrated in them.  Her breath came pantingly.
The moments became insupportable.

Suddenly a figure, tall, slim, filled the open window.  Swift as a
flash the mind of the girl went back to the long months of nursing when
he had lain helpless in her hands.  He had been hers then in his
helplessness.  Now, in his full manhood's strength, he was coming to
her again.  A choking sensation seized her, a mist grew before her eyes.

"Nan!"

The tone of it The softness.  The thrilling passion.

"Yes, Jeff."

The answer was low, almost inaudible.

Nor did the man have to search the darkened room.  The love which he
had for so long thrust aside was--waiting for him.



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