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Claim Number One,by George W.

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CLAIM NUMBER ONE

The crowd parted and opened a lane for a dusty man ona sweat-drenched horse to pass.

Claim Number OneBY

GEORGE W. OGDENAUTHOR OF

THE DUKE OF CHIMNEY BUTTETRAILS END, Etc.

FRONTISPIECE BYJ. ALLEN ST. JOHN

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

CopyrightA. C. McCLURG & CO.

1922

Published May, 1922

Copyrighted in Great Britain

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTSI. Comanche 1

II. Guests for theMetropole 9

III. UnconventionalBehavior 21

IV. The Flat-Game Man 46V. Skulkers 63

VI. The Drawing 79VII. A Midnight Extra 104

VIII. The Governor’s Son 122IX. Double Crookedness 140X. Hun Shanklin’s Coat 154

XI. Number One 172XII. The Other Man 188

XIII. Sentiment and Nails 206

XIV. “Like a Wolf” 219XV. An Argument Ends 233

XVI. A Promise 255XVII. A Plan 273

XVIII. The Strange Tent 288XIX. Crook Meets Crook 304XX. A Sudden Cloud 325

XXI. The Crisis 343

Claim Number One

CHAPTER ICOMANCHE

Coming to Comanche, you stopped, forComanche was the end of the world.Unless, of course, you were one of thosewho wished to push the boundary-line ofthe world farther, to make homes in thewilderness where there had been nohomes, to plant green fields in the desertwhere none had been before.

In that case you merely paused atComanche, like the railroad, to wait theturn of events.

Beyond Comanche was the river, andbeyond the river, dim-lined in the west,the mountains. Between the river and the

mountains lay the reservation from whichthe government had pushed the Indians,and which it had cut into parcels to bedrawn by lot.

And so Comanche was there on thewhite plain to serve the present, andtemporary, purpose of housing and feedingthe thousands who had collected there atthe lure of chance with practical,impractical, speculative, romantic, honest,and dishonest ideas and intentions.Whether it should survive to become acolorless post-office and shipping-stationfor wool, hides, and sheep remained forthe future to decide. As the town appearedunder the burning sun of that Augustafternoon one might have believed, withinbounds, that its importance wasestablished for good and all.

It was laid out with the regular severityof the surveyor’s art. Behind the fresh,new railroad depot the tented streetsswept away pretentiously. In the oldsettlements–as much as two months beforethat day some of them had been built–several business houses of wood andcorrugated sheet-iron reared above thecanvas roofs of their neighbors, displayingin their windows all the wares whichmight be classified among the needs ofthose who had come to break the desert,from anvils to zitherns; from beads, beds,and bridles to winches, wagons, waterbottles, and collapsible cups.

At the head of the main street stood ahydrant, which the railroad companysupplied with water, offering itsrefreshment to all comers–to man, beast,

and Indian, as well as to dusty touristswith red handkerchiefs about their necks.Around it, where teams had been fed andthe overflow of water had run, little greenforests of oats were springing, testifying tothe fecundity of the soil, lightingunbelieving eyes with hope.

“Just look what a little water will do!”said the locaters and town-site men,pointing with eloquent gesture. “All thisland needs, gentlemen, is a little water tomake it a paradise!”

On the right hand of the hydrant therewas a bank, presenting a front of brickedstability, its boarded sides painted inimitation of that same resisting material,for the comfort of its depositors perhaps,and the benefit of its credit before the eyesof the passing world. Well out in the

desert, among the hummocks of earthheaped around anchoring sage clumps,stood the Elkhorn Hotel. It was built oflogs, with a design toward the picturesqueand an eye to the tourist class ofadventurers who were expected to throngto the opening. The logs had been cutalong the river–they were that gnarledcottonwood which grows, leaning alwaystoward the northeast, in that land of bitterextremes–the bark stripped from themuntil they gleamed yellowly, and fittedtogether with studied crudity. Upon theprojecting end of the ridge-pole rode aspreading elk-prong, weathered, white,old.

And there was the Hotel Metropole.There always is a Hotel Metropole and anewspaper, no matter where you go. When

you travel beyond them you havepenetrated the Ultima Thule of moderntimes. The Hotel Metropole was near thestation. It was picturesque withoutstraining for it. Mainly it was a large,sandy lot with a rope around it; but part ofit was tents of various colors, sizes, andshapes, arranged around the parent shelterof them all–a circus “top,” weathered andstained from the storms of many years.Their huddling attitude seemed to expressa lack of confidence in their own stability.They seemed a brood of dusty chicks,pressing in for shelter of the motheringwing.

All was under the direction of a smallman with a cream-colored waistcoat and amost incendiary-looking nose. It seemedtempting the laws of physics governing

dry materials and live coals to bring thatnose into the shelter of a desert-bleachedtent. But it was there, and it flared itswelcome with impartial ardor upon allarrivals.

The scheme of the Hotel Metropole wasthis: If you wanted a cot in a tent whereeach bed was partitioned from the otherby a drop-curtain of calico print, youcould enjoy that luxury at the rate of twodollars a night in advance, no baggageaccepted as security, no matter what itsheft or outward appearance of value. Ifyou didn’t want to go that high, or maybewere not so particular about the privacy ofyour sleeping arrangements, you mighthave a cot anywhere in the circus-tentfulof cots, spread out like pews. There thecharge was one dollar. That rate chancing

to be too steep for you, you might go intothe open and rest in one of the outdoorcanvas pockets, which bellied down underyour weight like a hammock. There theschedule was fifty cents.

No matter what part of the house youmight occupy on retiring, you werewarned by the wall-eyed young man whopiloted you to the cot with your numberpinned on it that the hotel was notresponsible for the personal belongings ofthe guests. You were also cautioned towatch out for thieves. The display offirearms while disrobing seemed to beencouraged by the management for itsmoral effect, and to be a part of theceremony of retiring. It seemed to be thebelief in the Hotel Metropole that when aman stored a pistol beneath his pillow, or

wedged it in between his ribs and the sideof the bunk, he had secured the safety ofthe night.

At the distant end of the main street,standing squarely across its center, stoodthe little house which sheltered the branchof the United States land-office, theheadquarters being at Meander, a town aday’s journey beyond the railroad’s end.A tight little board house it was, like atoy, flying the emblem of the brave and thefree as gallantly as a schoolhouse or aforest-ranger station. Around it the crowdlooked black and dense from the railroadstation. It gave an impression of greatactivity and earnest business attention,while the flag was reassuring to a manwhen he stepped off the train sort ofdubiously and saw it waving there at the

end of the world.Indeed, Comanche might be the end of

the world–didn’t the maps show that itwas the end of the world, didn’t therailroad stop there, and doesn’t the worldalways come to an abrupt end, all whiteand uncharted beyond, at the last stationon every railroad map you ever saw? Itmight be the end of the world, indeed, butthere was the flag! Commerce couldflourish there as well as in Washington, D.C., or New York, N. Y., or Kansas City,U. S. A.; even trusts might swell anddistend there under its benign protectorateas in the centers of civilization andpatriotism pointed above.

So there was assurance and comfort tothe timid in the flag at Comanche, as therehas been in the flag in other places at other

times. For the flag is a great institutionwhen a man is far away from home andexpecting to bump into trouble at the nextstep.

Opposite the bank on the main street ofComanche were the tents of the gods ofchance. They were a hungry-mouthedlooking lot that presided within them,taken at their best, for the picking hadbeen growing slimmer and slimmer inWyoming year by year. They had gatheredthere from the Chugwater to the Big HornBasin in the expectation of getting theirskins filled out once more.

One could find in those tents all theknown games of cowboy literature, and agood many which needed explanation tothe travelers from afar. There was onlyone way to understand them thoroughly,

and that was by playing them, and thereseemed to be a pretty good percentage ofcurious persons in the throng that sweatedin Comanche that day.

That was all of Comanche–tents,hydrant, hotels, bank, business houses, andtents again–unless one considered thesmall tent-restaurants and lodging-places,of which there were hundreds; or thesaloons, of which there were scores. Butwhen they were counted in, that was all.

Everybody in Comanche who owned atent was on the make, and the making wasgood. Many of the home-seekers andadventure-expectant young men andwomen had been on the ground twoweeks. They had been paying out goodmoney for dusty stage-rides over thepromising lands which had been allotted

to the Indians already by the government.The stage people didn’t tell them anythingabout that, which was just as well. Itlooked like land where stuff might begrown with irrigation, inspiration,intensity of application, and undying hope.And the locaters and town-site boomersled their customers around to the hydrantand pointed to the sprouting oats.

“Spill a little water on this land and it’sgot Egypt skinned,” they said.

So the mild adventurers stayed on forthe drawing of claims, their ideals andnotions taking on fresh color, their cannedtomatoes (see the proper literature for theuses of canned tomatoes in desertcountries frequented by cowboys) safelypacked away in their trunks against a dayof emergency.

Every one of them expected to drawClaim Number One, and every one of themwas under the spell of dreams. For thelong summer days of Wyoming were aswhite as diamonds, and the soft bluemountains stood along the distant westbeyond the bright river as if to fend theland from hardships and inclemencies, andnurture in its breast the hopes of men.

Every train brought several hundredmore to add to the throng already inComanche–most of them from beyond theMississippi, many of them schemers, mostof them dreamers ready to sacrifice all theendearments of civilization for theromance of pioneering in the West,beyond the limits of the world as definedby the map of the railroad-line over whichthey had come.

CHAPTER IIGUESTS FOR THE

METROPOLE

To Comanche there came that Augustafternoon, when it was wearing down tolong shadows, a mixed company, drawnfrom the far places and the middledistances east of Wyoming. This companyhad assembled in the course of the day’sacquaintance on the last long, dusty runinto the land of expectations.

At dawn these people had left theircomfortable sleeping-cars at Chadron, inthe Nebraska desert, to change to the trainof archaic coaches which transported theland-seekers across the last stretch of their

journey. Before that morning the companyhad been pursuing its way as individualparts–all, that is, with the exception of themiller’s wife, from near Boston; the sisterof the miller’s wife, who was a widowand the mother of June; and June, who waspasty and off-color, due to much fudge andpolishing in a young ladies’ school.

These three traveled together, as threeof such close relationship naturally shouldtravel. The widow was taking June toWyoming to see if she could put somemarketable color in her cheeks, and themiller’s wife was going along for abelated realization, at least partially, ofyouthful yearnings.

Since seventeen the miller’s wife hadlonged to see the sun set behind amountain with snow upon it, and to see a

cowboy with dust on his shoulders, likethe cowboys of the western drama, comeriding out of the glow, a speck at first, andon, and on, until he arrived where shewaited and flung himself from his pantinghorse, neckerchief awry, spurs tinkling,and swept off his broad hat in salute.Beyond that point she had not dared to gosince marrying the miller, who had dustenough on his shoulders–unromantic dust,unromantic shoulders, goodness knows!But that was her picture, all framed in thegold of her heart. She wanted to see themountain with the sun behind it, and thecowboy, and all, and then she could sigh,and go back to the miller and near Bostonto await the prosaic end.

For all of her thirty-eight years Mrs.Dorothy Mann was shy in proportion as

her miller husband, the widely known J.Milton Mann was bold. That he was ahard-mailed knight in the lists of business,and that he was universally known, Mrs.Mann was ready to contend and uphold inany company. She carried with her in theblack bag which always hung upon herarm certain poems bearing her husband’sconfession of authorship, which had beenprinted in the Millers’ Journal , all ofthem calling public attention to the nobleoffice of his ancient trade. Of course themiller was not of the party, so we reallyhave nothing more to do with him than wehave with the rest of the throng thatarrived on the train with these singled-outadventurers. But his influence traveled far,like a shadow reaching out after the heartof his spare, pert, large-eyed wife. She

was not yet so far away from him that shedared move even her eyes as her heartlonged.

In the manner of the miller’s wife, therewas a restraint upon the mostcommonplace and necessary intercoursewith strangers which seemed almostchildish. She even turned in questioningindecision toward June’s mother beforetaking a seat offered her by a strange man,feeling at the same time of the black bagupon her arm, where the poems reposed,as if to beg indulgence from their authorfor any liberties which she might assume.

June’s mother, Mrs. Malvina Reed,widow of that great statesman, the Hon.Alonzo Confucius Reed, who will beremembered as the author of the notablebill to prohibit barbers breathing on the

backs of their customers’ necks, wasduenna of the party. She was a dumpy,small woman, gray, with lines in hersteamed face, in which all attempts atrejuvenation had failed.

Mrs. Reed was a severe lady when itcame to respecting the conventions ofpolite life, and June was her heart’s deepworry. She believed that young woman tobe in the first stage of a dangerous andmysterious malady, which belief andwhich malady were alike nothing in theworld but fudge. When she turned her eyesupon June’s overfed face a moisture cameinto them; a sigh disturbed her breast.

By one of those strange chances, suchas seem to us when we meet them nothingshort of preconceived arrangement,enough seats had been left unoccupied in

the rear coach, all in one place, toaccommodate a second party, which camestraggling through with hand-baggagehooked upon all its dependentaccessories. It proved very pleasant forall involved. There the June party scrapedacquaintance with the others, after the firstrestraint had been dissolved in adiscussion of the virtues of cannedtomatoes applied to the tongue of onefamishing in the desert.

First among the others was the bright-haired young woman from Canton, Ohio,whose gray eyes seemed older thanherself, lighting as if with new hope everytime they turned to acknowledge a goodwish for her luck in the new land. Itseemed at such moments as if shequickened with the belief that she was

coming upon the track of something whichshe had lost, and was in a way of gettingtrace of it again.

She sat up straight-backed as a saint ina cathedral window, but she unbenttoward June. June was not long in findingout that she, also, was a product of grandold Molly Bawn, that mighty institution oflearning so justly famed throughout theworld for its fudge; that her name wasAgnes Horton, and that she was going toregister for a piece of land.

Some five years before June hadmatriculated, Agnes Horton had steppedout, finished, from the halls of MollyBawn.

“She’s old,” confided June to hermother’s ear. “She must be at leasttwenty-five!”

Old or young, she was handsomer thanany other woman on the train, andseemingly unaware of it as she leaned herelbow upon the dusty window-sill andgazed out in pensive introspection uponthe bleak land where glaciers hadtrampled and volcanoes raged, each ofthem leaving its waste of worn stone andblackened ledge.

And there was the school-teacher fromIowa; a long, thin string of a man, whocombed his hair straight back from hisnarrow, dished forehead and said “idear.”He was thinking seriously of sheep.

And there was the commissary sergeantfrom Fort Sheridan, which is within theshadow of Chicago, German-faced,towering, broad. He blushed as ifscandalized every time a woman spoke to

him, and he took Limburger cheese andonions from his cloth telescope grip forhis noonday lunch.

And there was the well-manneredmanufacturer of tools, who came fromBuffalo, and his bald brother with him,who followed the law. There was theinsurance man from Kansas, who grinnedwhen he wasn’t talking and talked whenhe didn’t grin; and the doctor fromMissouri, a large-framed man with a wornface and anxious look, traveling westwardin hope; and the lumberman fromMinnesota, who wore a round hat andlooked meek, like a secretary of a Y. M.C. A., and spat tobacco-juice out of thewindow.

All of these men, save the school-teacher and manufacturer, were more or

less failures, one way or another. Take thesergeant–Sergeant Schaefer, and Jake wasthe name in front of that–for example. Hehad failed in his examination foradvancement to a commission, and blamedthe aristocracy of the army for it. He wasdisgusted with military life; and to him aclaim, especially Claim Number One, inthe Indian Reservation of Wyoming,looked like a haven of independence andpeace.

There was the bald lawyer, too; a youngman old from his honest cares, a failure inthe law because he could not square hisconscience with its practices. He wasready to quit it for an alfalfa-plot and alittle bunch of fat cattle–especially if hedrew Number One.

Horace Bentley sighed when he looked

back upon his struggles with the worldand the law. The law had been a saddlethat galled his back through many a heavyyear. And his brother William, in need ofa holiday from his busy factory, had takena month to himself to see “the boy,” as hecalled Horace, established in a newcalling in the high-minded, open-facedWest.

As for the insurance solicitor andlumberman, it must be owned that theywere gamblers on the drawing. Theymeant to register and hang around for thelottery. Then if they should draw NumberOne, or even anything up to a hundred,they would sell out for what there was tobe gained.

With Dr. Warren Slavens it was quitedifferent from the case of these purely

adventurous speculators. Dr. Slavens hadbeen late in getting a start. It was not adifficulty peculiar to him alone that thestart always seemed a considerabledistance ahead of him. Up to that time hehad been engaged with merely thepreliminaries, and they had hobbled himand cumbered him, and heaped upcontinually such a mass of matter to besmoothed out of the way of his going, thathe never had struck a canter on thehighway of life.

Of all the disheartened, blue, andbeaten men on that dusty train that dustyday, Dr. Warren Slavens, late of Missouri,was without question the deepest down inthe quagmire of failure. He hated himselffor the fizzle that he had made of it, and hehated the world that would not open the

gates and give him one straight dash forthe goal among men of his size.

He went frequently to the platform ofthe car and took a long pull at a big, blackpipe which he carried in a formidableleather case, like a surgical instrument, inhis inner pocket. After each pull at it hereturned with a redder face and a cloudierbrow, ready to snap and snarl like anunder dog that believes every foot in theworld is raised to come down on his ownribs.

But there was nobody on that train whocared an empty sardine-can for thedoctor’s failures or feelings. Nobodywanted to jab him in the ribs; nobodywanted to hear his complaint. He waswise enough to know it, in a way. So hekept to himself, pulling his shoulders up in

soldierly fashion when he passed AgnesHorton’s place, or when he felt that shewas looking at him from her stationdirectly behind his seat.

At any rate, up to the neck as he was inthe bog of failure, the doctor was going toWyoming with a good many practicaladvantages ahead of thousands of hisfellows. Before turning doctor he hadbeen a farmer’s boy; and he told himselfthat, failing in his solid determination toget up to the starting-line in his profession,he believed he could do pretty well at hisolder trade. But if he drew Claim NumberOne he meant to sell it for ten thousanddollars–that being the current valuationplaced on first choice–and go back hometo establish himself in dignity and build upa practice.

The school-teacher hadn’t much to say,but his cast was serious. He expected todraw Number One, not to sell, but toimprove, to put sheep on, and alfalfa, andbuild a long barn with his name on theroof so that it could be read from therailroad as the trains went by.

June’s mother, being a widow, waseligible for the drawing. She also meant toregister. If she drew Number One–and shehadn’t yet made up her mind about thecertainty of that–she intended to sell herrelinquishment and take June to Vienna forexamination by an eminent physician.

When anybody asked Agnes Hortonwhat she intended to do with her winningsout of the land lottery, she only smiledwith that little jumping of hope in hereyes. It was a marvel to the whole party

what a well set-up girl like her, with herrefinement and looks and clothes, wantedto fool her time away in Wyoming for,when the world was full of men whowould wear their hands raw to smooth away for her feet to pass in pleasanterplaces. But all of them could see that inher heart the hope of Number One was asbig as a can of tomatoes–in cowboyliterature–to the eyes of a man dying ofthirst in Death Valley.

Only the toolmaker, William Bentley–and he was gray at the curling hair whichturned up at his broad temples–smiled asif he held it to be a pleasant fantasy, toonebulous and far-away to be realizedupon, when any asked him of his intentionsconcerning Number One. He put off hisquestioners with a pleasantry when they

pressed him, but there was such atenderness in his eyes as he looked at hispale, bald brother, old in honest waysbefore his time, that it was the same asspoken words.

So it will be seen that a great dealdepended on Claim Number One, notalone among the pleasant little company ofours, but in the calculations of every manand woman out of the forty-seven thousandwho would register, ultimately, for thechance and the hope of drawing it.

At Casper a runner for the HotelMetropole had boarded the train. He wasa voluble young man with a thousandreasons why travelers to the end of theworld and the railroad should patronizethe Hotel Metropole and no other. He saton the arms of passengers’ seats and made

his argument, having along with him agreat quantity of yellow cards, each cardbearing a number, each good for anapartment or a cot in the open. By paymentof the rate, a person could secure his bedahead of any need for it which, said theyoung man, was the precaution of a wiseginny who was on to his job. The trainconductor vouched for the genuineness ofthe young man’s credentials, andconditions of things at Comanche as hepictured them.

It was due to Sergeant Jake Schaeferthat the company organized to messtogether. The hotel representative fell inwith the idea with great warmth. Therewas a large tent on the corner, just offMain Street, which the company couldrent, said he. A partition would be put in it

for the privacy of the ladies, and the hotelwould supply the guests with a stove andutensils. June’s mother liked the notion. Itrelieved her of a great worry, for with astove of her own she could still contrivethose dainties so necessary to thecontinued existence of the delicate child.

So the bargain was struck, the sergeantwas placed in charge of the conduct andsupply of the camp, and everybodybreathed easier. They had anticipateddifficulty over the matter of lodging andfood in Comanche, for wild tales ofextortion and crowding, and undesirableconditions generally, had been travelingthrough the train all day.

Comanche was quiet when the trainarrived, for that was the part of the daywhen the lull between the afternoon’s

activities and the night’s frantic reapingfell. Everyone who had arrived the dayprevious accounted himself an old-timer,and all such, together with all the arrivalsof all the days since the registration began,came down to see the tenderfeet swallowtheir first impressions of the coming Eden.

The Hotel Metropole was the onlypublic house in Comanche that maintaineda conveyance to meet travelers at thestation, and that was for the transportationof their baggage only. For a man willfollow his belongings and stick to them inone place as well as another, and theproprietor of the Metropole wasphilosopher enough to know that. So hismen with the wagon grabbed all thebaggage they could wrench from, lift fromunder, or pry out of the grasp of travelers

when they stepped off the train.The June party saw their possessions

loaded into the wagon, under the loudsupervision of Sergeant Schaefer, whohad been in that country before and couldbe neither intimidated, out-sounded, norbluffed. Then, following their travelingagent-guide, they pushed through thecrowds to their quarters.

Fortunate, indeed, they consideredthemselves when they saw how mattersstood in Comanche. There seemed to betwo men for every cot in the place. Ofwomen there were few, and June’s mothershuddered when she thought of what theywould have been obliged to face if theyhadn’t been so lucky as to get a tent tothemselves.

“I never would have got off that train!”

she declared. “No, I never would havebrought my daughter into any suchunprotected place as this!”

Mrs. Reed looked around her severely,for life was starting to lift its head again inComanche after the oppression of theafternoon’s heat.

Mrs. Mann smiled. She was beginningto take a comprehensive account of thedistance between Wyoming and the townnear Boston where the miller toiled in thegloom of his mill.

“I think it’s perfectly lovely andromantic!” said she.

Mrs. Reed received the outburst withdisfavor.

“Remember your husband, DorothyAnn!” warned she.

Dorothy Ann sighed, gently caressingthe black bag which dangled upon herslender arm.

“I do, Malvina,” said she.

CHAPTER IIIUNCONVENTIONAL

BEHAVIOR

Their situation was somewhat beyond theseat of noisy business and raucous-throated pleasure. Mrs. Reed, while livingin an unending state of shivers on accountof the imagined perils which stalked thefootsteps of June, was a bit assured bytheir surroundings.

In front of them was a vacant plot, inwhich inoffensive horses took their siestain the sun, awaiting someone to comealong and hire them for rides of inspectionover the lands which were soon to beapportioned by lot. A trifle farther along

stood a little church, its unglazedwindows black and hollow, like gouged-out eyes. Mrs. Reed drew a vast amount ofcomfort from the church, and theirproximity to it, knowing nothing of itshistory nor its present uses. Its presencethere was proof to her that all Comanchewas not a waste of iniquity.

Almost directly in front of their tent theroad branched–one prong running toMeander, the county Seat, sixty milesaway; the other to the Big Horn Valley.The scarred stagecoaches which had comedown from the seventies were still in useon both routes, the two on the Meanderline being reenforced by democrat wagonswhen there was an overflow of business,as frequently happened in thoseprosperous times.

Every morning the company assembledbefore the tent under the canvas spread toprotect the cookstove, to watch Mrs. Reedand Sergeant Schaefer get breakfast, andto offer suggestions about the fire, andadmire June at her toast-making–the onebranch of domestic art, aside from fudge,which she had mastered. About that timethe stage would pass, setting out on itsdusty run to Meander, and everybody on itand in it would wave, everybody in thegenial company before the tent wouldwave back, and all of the adventurers onboth sides would feel quite primitive, inspite of the snuffling of the locomotive atthe railway station, pushing aroundfreight-cars.

The locomotive seemed to tell them thatthey should not be deceived, that all of

this crude setting was a sham and apretense, and that they had not yet outrunthe conveniences of modern life.

Dr. Slavens appeared to be getting theupper hand of his melancholy, and to bedrawing the comfort from his black pipethat it was designed to give. Next to thesergeant he was the handiest man in thecamp, showing by his readiness to turn afull hand at anything, from paring potatoesto making a fire, that he had shifted forhimself before that day. The ladies alladmired him, as they always admire a manwho has a little cloud of the mysteriousabout him. Mrs. Reed wondered, audibly,in the presence of June and Miss Horton,if he had deserted his wife.

The others were full of the excitementof their novel situation, and drunk on the

blue skies which strained the sunlight ofits mists and motes, pouring it down like abaptismal blessing. Even WilliamBentley, the toolmaker, romped and racedin the ankle-deep dust like a boy.

Sunrise always found the floatingpopulation of Comanche settingbreakfastward in a clamoring tide. Afterthat, when the land-office opened at nineo’clock, the stream turned toward it, thecrowd grew around it, fringing off into thegreat, empty flat in which it stood–astretch of naked land so white andgleaming under the sun that it made theeyes ache. There the land-seekers andthrill-hunters kicked up the dust, and gottheir thousands of clerkly necks burnedred, and their thousands of indoor nosespeeled, while they discussed the chances

of disposing of the high numbers forenough to pay them for the expense of thetrip.

After noonday the throngs sought thehydrant and the shade of the saloons, and,where finances would permit, the solaceof bottled beer. And all day overComanche the heel-ground dust rose asfrom the trampling of ten thousand hoofs,and through its tent-set streets the numbersof a strong army passed and repassed,gazing upon its gaudy lures. They hadcome there to gamble in a big, free lottery,where the only stake was the time spentand the money expended in coming, inwhich the grand prize was Claim NumberOne.

“It looks to me,” said Horace Bentley,the bald lawyer, “like a great many people

are going to be bitterly disappointed inthis game. More than forty thousand haveregistered already, and there are threedays more before the books close. Thegovernment circulars describing the landsay there are eight thousand homesteads,all told–six hundred of them suitable foragriculture once they are brought underirrigation, the rest grazing and mineralland. It seems to me that, as far as ourexpectations go in that direction, we mightas well pack up and go home.”

Four days in camp had made old-timersout of the company gathered under theawning before their tent, waiting for themeal which Mrs. Reed and her assistantswere even then spreading on the trestle-built table. There had been a shower thatafternoon, one of those gusty, blustery,

desert demonstrations which hadwrenched the tents and torn hundreds ofthem from their slack anchoring in theloose soil.

After the storm, with its splash of bigdrops and charge of blinding dust, a coolserenity had fallen over the land. The milkhad been washed out of the distances, andin the far southwest snowy peaks gleamedsolemnly in the setting sun, the barrier onthe uttermost edge of the desert leagueswhich so many thousand men and womenwere hungry to share.

“Yes, it’s a desperate gamble for all ofus,” Dr. Slavens admitted. “I don’t see anymore show of anybody in this partydrawing a low number than I see hope fora man who stands up to one of theswindles in the gambling-tents over

there.”“Still,” argued Milo Strong, the Iowa

teacher, “we’ve got just the same chanceas anybody out of the forty thousand. Idon’t suppose there’s any question that thedrawing will be fair?”

“It will be under the personalmanagement of the United States LandCommissioner at Meander,” said HoraceBentley.

“How do they work it?” asked June,perking up her head in quick interest fromher task of hammering together the seamsof a leaky new tin cup. She had it over aprojecting end of one of the trestles, andwas going about it like a mechanic.

“Where did you learn that trick?”inquired the toolmaker, a look in his eyeswhich was pretty close kin to amazement.

“Huh!” said June, hammering away.“What do you suppose a collegeeducation’s good for, anyway? But howdo they manage the drawing?” shepressed.

“Did they teach you the game of policyat Molly Bawn?” the lawyer asked.

“The idea!” sniffed Mrs. Reed.Miss Horton smiled into her

handkerchief, and June shook her head invigorous denial.

“I don’t even know what it is,” saidshe. “Is it some kind of insurance?”

“It beats insurance for the man that runsthe game,” said Strong, reminiscently.

“All of the names of those who registerwill be taken to Meander when theregistration closes,” explained Horace.

“There are half a dozen clerks in the littleoffice here transcribing the names on tosmall cards, with the addresses and allnecessary information for notifying awinner. On the day of the drawing theforty thousand-odd names will be put intoa big hollow drum, fitted with a crank.They’ll whirl it, and then a blindfoldedchild will put his hand into the drum anddraw out Number One. Another child willthen draw Number Two, and so on untileight thousand names have come out of thewheel. As there are only eight thousandparcels of land, that will end the lottery.What do you think of your chance by now,Miss Horton?”

“Why, it looks fair enough, the way theydo it,” she answered, questioning Dr.Slavens with her eyes.

He shook his head.“You can’t tell,” he responded. “I’ve

seen enough crookedness in this tent-townin the past four days to set my suspicionsagainst everything and every official init.”

“Well, the drawing’s to be held atMeander, you know,” reminded WilliamBentley, the toolmaker, “and Meanderadvertises itself as a moral center. Itseems that it was against this town fromthe very start–it wanted the whole show toitself. Here’s a circular that I got atMeander headquarters today. It’s got agreat knock against Comanche in it.”

“Yes, I saw it,” said the doctor. “Itsounds like one crook knocking another.But it can’t be any worse than this place,anyhow. I think I’ll take a ride over there

in a day or so and size it up.”“Well, I surrender all pretensions to

Claim Number One,” laughed Mrs. Reed,a straining of color in her cheeks.

June had not demanded fudge once infour days. That alone was enough to raisethe colors of courage in her mother’s face,even if there hadn’t been a change in theyoung lady for the better in otherdirections. Four days of Wyoming summersun and wind had made as muchdifference in June as four days ofSeptember blaze make in a peach on thetip of an exposed bough. She wasbrowning and reddening beautifully, andher hair was taking on a trick of wildness,blowing friskily about her eyes.

It was plain that June had in her all themaking of a hummer. That’s what Horace

Bentley, the lawyer, owned to himself ashe told her mother in confidence that amonth of that high country, with its fresh-from-creation air, would be better for thegirl’s natural endowments than all thebeauty-parlors of Boston or the specialistsof Vienna. Horace felt of his early baldspot, half believing that some stubby hairswere starting there already.

There was still a glow of twilight in thesky when lights appeared in thewindowless windows of the church, andthe whine of tuning fiddles came out of itsopen door. Mrs. Reed stiffened as shelocated the sound, and an expression ofoutraged sanctity appeared in her face.She turned to Dr. Slavens.

“Are they going to–to–dance in thatbuilding?” she demanded.

“I’m afraid they are,” said he. “It’s usedfor dancing, they tell me.”

“But it’s a church–it’s consecrated!”she gasped.

“I reckon it’s worn off by this time,” hecomforted. “It was a church a long, longtime ago–for Comanche. The saloon manacross from it told me its history. Heconsidered locating in it, he said, but theywanted too much rent.

“When Comanche was only a railroadcamp–a good while before the rails werelaid this far–a traveling preacher struckthe town and warmed them up with an old-style revival. They chipped in the moneyto build the church in the fervor of thepassing glow, and the preacher had it putup–just as you see it, belfry and all.

“They even bought a bell for it, and it

used to ding for the sheepmen andrailroaders, as long as their religionlasted. When it ran out, the preachermoved on to fresh fields, and a rancherbought the bell to call his hands to dinner.The respectable element of Comanche–that is, the storekeepers, their wives,daughters and sons, and the clerks, andothers–hold a dance there now twice aweek. That is their only relaxation.”

“It’s a shame!” declared Mrs. Reed.“Oh, I don’t know,” said the doctor

easily.“I’m so disappointed in it!” said she.“Because it represents itself as a church

when it’s something else?” inquired thedoctor softly. “Well, I shouldn’t be, if Iwere you. It has really nothing to beashamed of, for the respectable are

mightily in the minority in Comanche, Ican tell you, madam–that is, among theregular inhabitants.”

“Let’s go over and look on,” suggestedWilliam Bentley. “It may make some ofyou gloomy people forget your futuretroubles for a while.”

The party soon found that looking onexposed them to the contagion ofsociability. They were such wholesome-looking people at the gathering, and theirefforts to make the visitors who stoodoutside the door feel at home andcomfortable were so genuine, that reservedissolved most unaccountably.

It was not long before June’s mother,her prejudices against such frivolous andworldly use of a church blown away, waspigeoning around with William Bentley.

Likewise Mrs. Mann, the miller out ofsight and out of mind, stepped lightly withHorace, the lawyer, the sober black bagdoubled up and stored in the pocket of hiscoat, its handles dangling like bridle-reins.

June alone was left unpaired, incompany with the doctor and Miss Horton,who asserted that they did not dance. Herheels were itching to be clicking off thatjolly two-step which the Italian fiddlersand harpist played with such enticingswing. The school-teacher and thesergeant were not with them, having goneout on some expedition of their ownamong the allurements of Comanche.

But June hadn’t long to bear the itch ofimpatience, for ladies were not plentiful atthe dance. Before anybody had time to be

astonished by his boldness, a young manwas bowing before June, presenting hiscrooked elbow, inviting her to the dancewith all the polish that could possibly lieon any one man. On account of anunusually enthusiastic clatter of heels atthat moment, Dr. Slavens and MissHorton, a few paces distant, could nothear what he said, but they caught theirbreaths a little sharply when June took theproffered arm.

“Surest thing you know,” they heard hereager little voice say as she passed themwith a happy, triumphant look behind.

Dr. Slavens looked at Miss Horton;Miss Horton looked at the doctor. Bothlaughed.

“Well, I like that!” she exclaimed.“Yes,” he agreed, but apparently from

quite a different angle, “so do I. It’snatural and unaffected; it’s coming downto first principles. Well, I don’t see thatthere’s anything left for you and me to dobut use up some of this moonlight in awalk. I’d like to see the river in this light.Come?”

“Oh, that would be unconventional!”she protested.

But it was not a strong protest; more ofa question perhaps, which left it all tohim.

“This is an unconventional country,” hesaid. “Look at it, as white as snow underthis summer moon.”

“It’s lovely by night,” she agreed; “butthis Comanche is like a sore spot on aclean skin. It’s a blight and adisfigurement, and these noises they make

after dark sound like some savage revel.”“We’ll put them behind us for two

hours or so,” he decided with finalitywhich allowed no further argument.

As they set off toward the river he didnot offer her the support of his arm, forshe strode beside him with her handsswinging free, long step to his long step,not a creature of whims and shams, heknew, quite able to bear her own weighton a rougher road than that.

“Still it is unconventional,” shereflected, looking away over the flat land.

“That’s the beauty of it,” said he. “Let’sbe just natural.”

They passed beyond the stragglinglimits of Comanche, where the townblended out into the plain in the tattered

tents and road-battered wagons of themost earnest of all the home-seekers,those who had staked everything on thehope of drawing a piece of land whichwould serve at last as a refuge against theworld’s buffeting.

Under their feet was the low-clingingsheep-sage and the running herbs ofyellow and gray which seemed sojuiceless and dry to the eye, but whichwere the provender of thousands of sheepand cattle that never knew the shelter offold or stable, nor the taste of man-growngrain or fodder, from the day of their birthto the day of their marketing. Winter andsummer alike, under the parching sun,under the strangling drifts, that clinging,gray vegetation was the animals’ solenutriment.

Behind the couple the noises ofComanche died to murmurs. Ahead ofthem rose the dark line of cottonwoodswhich stood upon the river-shore.

“I want to take another look at theBuckhorn Cañon,” said the doctor,stalking on in his sturdy, farm-bred gait.

“It makes a fearful roar,” she remarkedas they approached the place where theswift river, compressed into the flumelikepassage which it had whetted out of thegranite, tossed its white mane in themoonlight before plunging into the darkdoor of the cañon.

“I’ve been hearing yarns and traditionsabout that cañon ever since I came here,”he told her. “They say it’s a thousand feetdeep in places.”

“June and I came over here this

morning,” said Agnes, “along withSergeant Schaefer. He said he didn’tbelieve that June could hike that far. I sathere on the rocks a long time watching it. Inever saw so much mystery and terror inwater before.”

She drew a little nearer to him as shespoke, and he put his hand on her shoulderin an unconscious movement of restraintas she leaned over among the blackboulders and peered into the hissingcurrent.

“Do you suppose anybody ever went inthere?” she asked.

“They say the Indians know some wayof getting through,” he replied, “but nowhite man ever went into the cañon andcame out alive. The last one to try it was arepresentative of a Denver paper who

came out here at the beginning of theregistration. He went in there with hiscamera on his back after a story.”

“Poor fellow! Did he get through–atall?”

“They haven’t reported him on the otherside yet. His paper offers a reward for thesolution of the mystery of hisdisappearance, which is no mystery at all.He didn’t have the right kind of footgear,and he slipped. That’s all there is to it.”

He felt her shudder under his hand,which remained unaccountably on herwarm shoulder after the need of restrainthad passed.

“It’s a forbidding place by day,” saidshe, “and worse at night. Just think of thedespair of that poor man when he felthimself falling down there in the dark!”

“Moccasins are the things for a job likethat,” he declared. “I’ve studied it all out;I believe I could go through there withouta scratch.”

“What in the world would anybodywant to do it for? What is there to begained by it, to the good of anybody?” shewondered.

“Well, there’s the reward of fivehundred dollars offered by the newspaperin Denver,” he answered.

“It’s a pitiful stake against such odds!”she scorned.

“And all the old settlers say there’sgold in there–rich pockets of it, washedout of the ledges in the sides of the wallsand held by the rocks in the river-bed andalong the margins. A nugget is picked upnow and then on the other side, so there

seems to be ground for the belief thatfortune waits for the man who makes acareful exploration.”

“He couldn’t carry enough of it out tomake it worth while,” she objected.

“But he could go back,” Dr. Slavensreminded her. “It would be easy thesecond time. Or he might put in effect thescheme a sheep-herder had once.”

“What was that?” she asked, turning herface up to him from her place on the lowstone where she sat, the moonlight glintingin her eyes.

He laughed a little.“Not that it was much of a joke the way

it turned out,” he explained. “He went inthere to hunt for the gold, leaving two ofhis companions to labor along the brink of

the cañon above and listen for his signalshout in case he came across any goldworth while. Then they were to let a ropedown to him and he’d send up thetreasure. It was a great scheme, but theynever got a chance to try it. If he ever gaveany signal they never heard it, for downthere a man’s voice strained to its shrillestwould be no more than a whisper againsta tornado. You can believe that, can’t you,from the way it roars and tears around outhere?”

“All the gold that remains unminedwouldn’t tempt me a hundred feet downthat black throat,” she shuddered. “Butwhat became of the adventurer with thescheme?”

“He came through in time–they caughthim at the outlet over there in the

mountains. The one pocket that remainedin his shredded clothing was full of goldnuggets, they say. So he must have foundit, even if he couldn’t make them hear.”

“What a dismal end for any man!”“A man could beat it, though,” said he,

leaning forward in thoughtful attitude.“He’d need a strong light, and moccasins,so he could cling to the rocks. I believe itcould be done, and I’ve thought a gooddeal about exploring it myself for a day ortwo past. If I don’t draw a low number Ithink I’ll tackle it.”

“Don’t you attempt it!” she cried,clutching his arm and turning her whiteface to him affrightedly. “Don’t you everdare try it!”

He laughed uneasily, his eyes on theblack gash into which the foaming river

darted.“Oh, I don’t know; I’ve heard of men

doing riskier things than that for money,”he returned.

Agnes Horton’s excitement and concernseemed to pass with his words. Shepropped her chin in her palms and satpensively, looking at the broken waterswhich reared around the barrier ofscattered stones in its channel.

“Yes, men sometimes take big risks formoney–even the risk of honor and theeverlasting happiness of others,” said she.

It was like the wind blowing aside atent-flap as he passed, giving him aglimpse of its intimate interior. That littlelifting of her reserve was a glance into thesanctuary of her heart. The melancholy ofher eyes was born out of somebody’s

escapade with money; he was ready torisk his last guess on that.

“Besides, there may be nothing to thatstory of nuggets. That may be just one ofthese western yarns,” she added.

“Well, in any case, there’s the fivehundred the Denver paper offers, besideswhat I could make by syndicating theaccount of my adventure among theSunday papers. I used to do quite a lot ofthat when I was in college.”

“But you don’t need money badlyenough to go into that place after it.Nobody ever needed it that badly,” shedeclared.

“Don’t I?” he answered, a little bitingof bitter sarcasm in his tone. “Well, youdon’t know, my lady, how easy that moneylooks to me compared to my ordinary

channels of getting it.”“It can’t be so very hard in your

profession,” she doubted, as if a bitoffended by his attitude of martyrdombefore an unappreciative world. “I don’tbelieve you have half as hard a time of itas some who have too much money.”

“The hardship of having too muchmoney is one which I never experienced,so I can’t say as to that,” he said, movedto smiles by the humor of it. “But tounderstand what I mean by hardship youmust know how I’ve struggled in the rutsand narrow traditions of my profession,and fought, hoped, and starved. Why, I tellyou that black hole over there looks likean open door with a light inside of itcompared to some of the things I’ve gonethrough in the seven years that I’ve been

trying to get a start. Money? I’ll tell youhow that is, Miss Horton; I’ve thoughtalong that one theme so confounded longthat it’s worn a groove in my brain.

“Here you see me tonight, a piece ofdriftwood at thirty-five, and all for thewant of money enough to buy anautomobile and take the darned-foolworld by storm on its vain side! You can’tscratch it with a diamond on its reasoningside–I’ve scratched away on it until mynails are gone.

“I’ve failed, I tell you, I’ve botched itall up! And just for want of money enoughto buy an automobile! Brains never took adoctor anywhere–nothing but money andbluff!”

“I wonder,” she speculated, “what willbecome of you out here in this raw place,

where the need of a doctor seems to be thefarthest thing in the world, and you withyour nerve all gone?”

It would have reassured her if she couldhave seen the fine flush which this chargeraised in his face. But she didn’t evenlook toward him, and couldn’t have notedthe change if she had, for the moonlightwas not that bright, even in Wyoming.

“But I haven’t lost my nerve!” hedenied warmly.

“Oh, yes, you have,” she contradicted,“or you wouldn’t admit that you’re afailure, and you wouldn’t talk aboutmoney that way. Money doesn’t cut muchice as long as you’ve got nerve.”

“That’s all right from your view,” saidhe pettishly. “But you’ve had easy goingof it, out of college into a nice home, with

a lot of those pink-faced chaps to ride youaround in their automobiles, and operaand plays and horse-shows and all thatstuff.”

“Perhaps,” she admitted, a soft sadnessin her voice. “But wait until you’ve seensomebody drunk with the passion of toomuch money and crazy with the hunger formore; wait until you’ve seen a man’s soulgrow black from hugging it to his heart,and his conscience atrophy and hismanhood wither. And then when it risesup and crushes him, and all that are hiswith it––”

He looked at her curiously, waiting forher to round it out with a personal citation.But she said no more.

“That’s why you’re here, hoping likethe rest of us to draw Number One?”

“Any number up to six hundred will dofor me,” she laughed, sitting erect oncemore and seeming to shake her bittermood off as she spoke.

“And what will you do with it? Sell outas soon as the law allows?”

“I’ll live on it,” dreamily, as if givingwords to an old vision which she hadwarmed in her heart. “I’ll stay there andwork through the hope of summer and thebleakness of winter, and make a home. I’llsmooth the wild land and plant trees andgreen meadows, and roses by the door,and we’ll stay there and it will be–home!”

“Yes,” he nodded, understanding thefeeling better than she knew. “You andmother; you want it just that way.”

“How did you know it was mother?”she asked, turning to him with a quick,

appreciative little start.“You’re the kind of a woman who has a

mother,” he answered. “Mothers leavetheir stamp on women like you.”

“Thank you,” said she.“I’ve often wanted to run away from it

that way, too,” he owned, “for failuremade a coward of me more than once inthose hard years. There’s a prospect ofindependence and peace in the picture youmake with those few swift strokes. But Idon’t see any–you haven’t put any–any–man in it. Isn’t there onesomewhere?”

“No,” simply and frankly; “there isn’tany man anywhere. He doesn’t belong inthe picture, so why should I draw him in?”

Dr. Slavens sighed.

“Yes; I’ve wanted to run away from itmore than once.”

“That’s because you’ve lost yournerve,” she charged. “You shouldn’t wantto run away from it–a big, broad man likeyou–and you must not run away. You muststay and fight–and fight–and fight! Why,you talk as if you were seventy instead ofa youth of thirty-five!”

“Don’t rub it in so hard on that failureand nerve business,” he begged, ashamedof his hasty confession.

“Well, you mustn’t talk of running awaythen. There are no ghosts after you, arethere?”

The moonlight was sifting through theloose strands of her gleaming hair as shesat there bareheaded at his side, and thestrength of his life reached out to her, and

the deep yearning of his lonely soul. Heknew that he wanted that woman out of allthe world full of women whom he hadseen and known–and passed. He knew thathe wanted her with such strong need thatfrom that day none other could comeacross the mirror of his heart and dim herimage out of it.

Simply money would not win a womanlike her; no slope-headed son of a hamfactory could come along and carry her offwithout any recommendation but his cash.She had lived through that kind of lure,and she was there on his own levelbecause she wanted to work out her cleanlife in her own clean way. The thoughtwarmed him. Here was a girl, hereflected, with a piece of steel in herbackbone; a girl that would take the

world’s lashings like a white elm in astorm, to spring resiliently back to statelypoise after the turmoil had passed.Trouble would not break her; sorrowwould only make her fineness finer. Therewas a girl to stand up beside a man!

He had not thought of it before–perhapshe had been too melancholy and bitterover his failure to take by storm thecommunity where he had tried to make hisstart–but he believed that he realized thatmoment what he had needed all along. If,amid the contempt and indifference of thesuccessful, he’d had some incentivebesides his own ambition to struggle forall this time, some splendid, strong-handed woman to stand up in his gloomlike the Goddess of Liberty offering anultimate reward to the poor devils who

have won their way to her feet across thebitter seas from hopeless lands, he mighthave stuck to it back there and won in theend.

“That’s what I’ve needed,” said healoud, rising abruptly.

She looked up at him quickly.“I’ve needed somebody’s sympathy,

somebody’s sarcasm, somebody’s softhand–which could be correctional onoccasion–and somebody’s heart-interestall along,” he declared, standing beforeher dramatically and flinging out his handsin the strong feeling of his declaration.“I’ve been lonely; I’ve been morose. I’veneeded a woman like you!”

Without sign of perturbation or offense,Agnes rose and laid her hand gently uponhis arm.

“I think, Dr. Slavens,” she suggested,“we’d better be going back to camp.”

They walked the mile back to campwith few words between them. The blatantnoises of Comanche grew as they drewnearer.

The dance was still in progress; theothers had not returned to camp.

“Do you care to sit out here and waitfor them?” he asked as they stoppedbefore the tent.

“I think I’ll go to bed,” she answered.“I’m tired.”

“I’ll stand sentry,” he offered.She thanked him, and started to go in.

At the door she paused, went back to him,and placed her hand in her soothing,placid way upon his arm again.

“You’ll fight out the good fight here,”said she, “for this is a country that’s gotbreathing-room in it.”

She looked up into his face a bitwistfully, he thought, as if there weremore in her heart than she had spoken.“You’ll win here–I know you’ll win.”

He reached out to put his arm about her,drawn by the same warm attraction thathad pulled the words from him at theriverside. The action was that of a manreaching out to lean his weary weightupon some familiar object, and there wassomething of old habit in it, as if he hadbeen doing it always.

But she did not stay. He folded onlymoonlight, in which there is littlesubstance for a strong man, even inWyoming. Dr. Slavens sighed as the tent-

flap dropped behind her.“Yes; that’s what I’ve needed all the

time,” said he.He sat outside with his pipe, which

never had seemed so sweet. But, for all ofits solace, he was disturbed by the thoughtthat perhaps he had made a blunder whichhad placed him in a false light with MissHorton–only he thought of her as Agnes,just as if he had the right. For there wereonly occasions on which Dr. Slavensadmitted himself to be a fizzle in the bigfireworks of the world. That was a chargewhich he sometimes laid to himself inmortification of spirit, or as a flagellant tospur him along the hard road. He had notmeant to let it slip him aloud over there bythe river, because he didn’t believe it atall–at least not in that high-hoping hour.

So he sat there in the moonlight beforethe tent, the noises of the town swellinglouder and louder as the night grew older,his big frame doubled into the stingy lapof a canvas chair, his knees almost as highas his chin. But it was comfortable, andhis tobacco was as pleasant to his sensesas the distillation of youthful dreams.

He had not attained the automobilestage of prosperity and arrogance,certainly. But that was somewhere ahead;he should come to it in time. Out of thesmoke of his pipe that dreamy night hecould see it. Perhaps he might be a littlegray at the temples when he came to it,and a little lined at the mouth, but therewould be more need of it then than now,because his legs would tire more easily.

But Agnes had taken that foolishly

blurted statement for truth. So it was hisjob henceforward to prove to Agnes thathe was not bankrupt in courage. And hemeant to do it he vowed, even if he had toget a tent and hang out his shingle inComanche. That would take nerveunquestionably, for there were fivedoctors in the place already, none of themmaking enough to buy stamps to writeback home for money.

Already, he said, he was out of the rutof his despondency; already the rust wasknocked off his back, and the eagerness tocrowd up to the starting-line was on himas fresh again as on the day when he hadwalked away from all competitors in theexamination for a license before the stateboard.

At midnight the others came back from

the dance and broke the trend of hissmoke-born dreams. Midnight was thehour when respectable Comanche put outits lights and went to bed. Not to sleep inevery case, perhaps, for the din was atcrescendo pitch by then; but, at any event,to deprive the iniquitous of the moralsupport of looking on their debaucheriesand sins.

Dr. Slavens was in no mood for hissagging canvas cot, for his newenthusiasm was bounding through him as ifhe had been given an intravenous injectionof nitroglycerin. There was Wyomingbefore him, all white and virginal andfresh, a big place for a big deed.Certainly, said Dr. Slavens. Just as ifmade to order for his needs.

So he would look around a bit before

turning in, with his high-stepping humorover him, and that spot on his arm, whereher hand had lain, still aglow with hermysterious fire.

CHAPTER IVTHE FLAT-GAME MAN

The noises of the tented town swelled inpicturesque chorus as Dr. Slavens walkedtoward them, rising and trailing off intothe night until they wore themselves out inthe echoless plain.

He heard the far-away roll and rumbleof voices coming from the gambling-tents;the high-tenor invitation of the barkersoutside questionable shows; the bawl ofstreet-gamblers, who had all manner ofdevices, from ring-pitching to shell-gameson folding tables, which they could pickup in a twinkling and run away with whentheir dupes began to threaten and rough

them up; the clear soprano of the singer,who wore long skirts and sang chastesongs, in the vaudeville tent down by thestation.

And above all, mingled with all–always, everywhere–the brattle of cornetand trombone, the whang of piano, thewail of violin, the tinkle of the noble harp,an aristocrat in base company, weeping itsown downfall.

All of the flaring scene appeared to thedoctor to be extremely artificial. It was astage set for the allurement of theunsophisticated, who saw in this strainedand overdone imitation of the old West theromance of their expectations. If theyhadn’t found it there thousands of themwould have been disappointed, perhapsdisillusioned with a healthful jolt. All the

reality about it was its viciousness, andthat was unquestionable.

It looked as if gambling crooks fromeverywhere had collected at Comanche,and as if the most openly and notoriouslycrooked of them all was the bony, dry-faced man with a white spot over the sightof his left eye, who conducted a dice-game in the front part of the chiefamusement-place of the town. This was acombination variety theater and saloon,where free “living pictures” were posedfor the entertainment of those who drankbeer at the tables at twenty-five cents aglass.

Of the living pictures there were three,all of them in green garments, which hungloosely upon flaccid thighs. Sometimesthey posed alone, as representations of

more or less clothed statuary; sometimesthey grouped, with feet thrust out, headsthrown back, arms lifted in stiff postures,as gladiators, martyrs, and spring songs.Always, whether living or dead, theywere most sad and tattered, famished andlean pictures, and their efforts werereceived with small applause. They weretoo thin to be very wicked; so it appeared,at least.

Dr. Slavens stopped in the wide-spreading door of this place to watch theshifting life within. Near him sat a youngComanche Indian, his hair done up in twobraids, which he wore over his shouldersin front. He had an eagle feather in his hatand a new red handkerchief around hisneck, and he looked as wistful as a youngIndian ever did outside a poem or a

picture-film. He was the unwelcomeguest, whom no one might treat, to whomno one might sell.

That was one of the first thingsstrangers in Comanche learned: one mustnot give an Indian a drink of liquor, nomatter how thirsty he looked. And,although there was not a saloon-keeper inthe place who would have considered amoment before stooping to rob a deadman, there was not one who would havesold an Indian a bottle of beer. Such is thefear, if not respect, that brave old UncleSam is able to inspire.

But brave old Sam had left the barsdown between his wards and thegamblers’ tables. It is so everywhere. TheIndian may not drink, but he may play“army game” and all the others where

crooked dice, crooked cards, and crookedmen are to be found. Perhaps, thought thedoctor, the young man with the eaglefeather–which did not make him at allinvisible, whatever his own faith in itsvirtues might have been–had played hismoney on the one-eyed man’s game, andwas hanging around to see whetherretributive justice, in the form of somemore fortunate player, would, in the end,clean the old rascal out.

The one-eyed man was assisted by alarge gang of cappers, a gang whichappeared to be in the employ of thegamblers’ trust of Comanche. The doctorhad seen them night after night first at onegame, then at another, betting withfreedom and carelessness which were theenvy of the suckers packed forty deep

around them. At the one-eyed man’s gamejust then they were coming and going in avariety which gave a color of genuinepatronage. That was an admirablearrangement, doubtless due to the one-eyed man’s sagacity, which the doctor hadnoted the night before. For the game hadits fascination for him, not because the fireof it was in his veins, but because it wassuch an out-and-out skin game that it wasmarvelous how fools enough could befound, even in a gathering like that, tokeep it going.

The living pictures had just passed offthe stage, and it was the one-eyed man’sinning. He rattled his dice in the box,throwing his quick glance over the crowd,which seemed reluctant to quit the beer-tables for his board. Art was the subject

which the gambler took up as he pouredout his dice and left them lying on theboard. He seemed so absorbed in art forthe moment that he did not see a few smallbets which were laid down. He leanedover confidentially and talked into theeyes of the crowd.

“Art, gentlemen, is a fine thing for thehuman race,” said he. “You have just sawan elegant exhibition of art, and who isthere in this crowd that don’t feel a betterman for what he saw?”

He looked around, as if inviting achallenge. None came. He resumed:

“Art in all its branches is a elegant finething, gentlemen. It raises a man up, and itelevates him, and it makes him feel like amillionaire. If I only had a dime, as theman said, I’d spend it for a box of

cigareets just to git the chromo-card.That’s what I think of art, gentlemen, andthat’s how crazy I am over it.

“Now, if anybody here wants to bet meI ain’t got two eyes, I ain’t a goin’ to takehim up, for I know I ain’t, gentlemen, andI’ve knowed it for thirty years. But ifanybody wants to bet me I can’t throwtwenty-seven––”

This was the one-eyed man’s game. Hestood inside the curve of a crescent-shaped table, which struck him almostunder the arms, his back to the wall of thetent. Players could surround him, almost;still, nobody could get behind him. In thatdirection there always was a way out. Hestood there offering odds of five to one toanybody who wanted to bet him that hecouldn’t himself, with his own hand and

his own dice, throw twenty-seven. Anyother number coming out of the box, theone-eyed man lost.

Examine the dice, gents; examine thebox. If any gent had any doubts at all aboutthe dice being straight, all he had to dowas to examine them. There they lay,gents, honestly and openly on the tablebefore the one-eyed man, his bony handhovering over them caressingly.

Gents examined them freely. Nearlyevery player who put money down–securein that egotistical valuation of one’s ownshrewdness which is the sure-thing-man’sbank and goldmine and mint–rolled thedice, weighed them, eyed them sharply.Then they bet against the one-eyed man–and lost.

That is, they lost if he wanted them to

lose. There were victims who lookedpromising for a fat sacrifice who had to betolled and primed and led on gently up tothe block. At the right time the one-eyedman trimmed them, and he trimmed themdown to the short bones.

His little boost for art finished–for theliving pictures were art in which he had aproprietary interest, and he could afford totalk for it once in a while–the one-eyedman cast his glance over his table and sawthe small bets. By some singular fortuneall of the bettors won. They pocketed theirwinnings with grins as they pushed outamong the gathering crowd.

Men began to pack thickly around thegambler’s crescent table, craning overshoulders to see what was going on. Hewas making a great Wild-West show of

money, with a large revolver lying besideit at his elbow. Seeing that the young manwho had carried June Reed off to thedance so intrepidly had made his wayforward and was betting on the game, Dr.Slavens pushed up to the table and stoodnear.

The young fellow did not bear himselfwith the air of a capper, but rather withthat of one who had licked a little poisonand was drunk on the taste. He had wontwo small bets, and he was out for more.

There were no chips, no countersexcept cash. Of that the young manappeared to have plenty. He held acheerful little wad of it in his hand, so thatno time might be lost in taking advantageof the great opportunity to beat a man athis own game.

The display of so much money on bothsides held the crowd in silent charm. Theyoung man was the only player, althoughthe one-eyed man urged others to come onand share the fortunes of his sweatingpatron, whose face was afire with theexcitement of easy money, and whosereason had evaporated under the heat.

“At every roll of the dice my youngfriend adds to his pile,” said the gambler.“He’s got a head, gents, and he knowshow to use it. Look at ’im, gents, gittin’richer at every roll of the dice! You mightas well have a share in all this here moneyand wealth, and you would be sharin’ it ifyou had the nerve of my young friend.”

The one-eyed man turned the dice outand lost again. There was a littlemovement of the crowd, a little audible

intaking of breath, a little crowdingforward, like that of cattle massed in apen.

The suckers never did seem to get itthrough their heads, thought the doctor ashe beheld their dumb excitement withgrowing contempt, that the one-eyed manswitched the dice on them just as often ashe pleased between the table and the box,by a trick which was his oneaccomplishment and sole capital. Withoutthat deftness of hand the one-eyed manmight have remained a bartender, and avery sloppy and indifferent one at that; butwith it he was the king-pin of thegamblers’ trust in Comanche, and his graftwas the best in the town.

“There it goes, gents!” he said, shakinghis long, hound-shaped head with doleful

expression of face. “The tide of luck’sturned ag’in’ me. You can see that as plainas water in a pan, but they ain’t one of yougot the nerve to step up and help my youngfriend trim me.

“You fellers know what you make methink of? Well, you make me think of a lotof little boys with ten cents to spend onFourth of July. You stand around withyour fingers in your mouth, afraid you’llsee somethin’ you like better if you letloose of your little old dime, and you hangon to it till the fun’s all over and the ice-cream’s all gone.

“But my young friend here–Now, now!”he remonstrated as the highly excitedyoung man took up his winnings, addedthem to the money which he held inreserve in his left hand, and placed the

whole amount upon the table. “Nowyou’re a comin’ it purty strong! Go easy,young feller, and give a old man with onlyone eye and a game leg a chance. But youwon’t do it; I can see that in the cast ofyour eye; you’re bound to clean me out atone smack; that’s what you’re bound todo.”

The one-eyed man shook the diceboxvery carefully, as if mixing some rareprescription. Then he stopped shaking andheld his hand over the mouth of the box, asif he expected the cubes might jump upand join in his ruination while his headwas turned.

“Now, look-a here!” said he,addressing them generally. “I’ve traveledthis wide world over ever since I was atender child, as the man said, and I never

seen a chance like this to skin a fellerslide by without more’n one lone manhavin’ sense enough and nerve enough togit in on it.

“Do I see any more of your money,gents, before I roll the dice? Do I see anymore of your money of the ream anddominion of Uncle Sam, with the eagle aspreadin’ his legs, with his toes full ofarrers, and his mouth wide open ahollerin’ de-fiance and destruction ag’in’his innimies on land and sea,wheresomever they may be, as the fellersaid?

“Do I see any more of your money,gents? Do I git sight of any more? Lowestbet’s one dollar, gents, and you might aswell git in on the finish and let the old mango up with a whoop. I’m game, gents; I go

the limit. Do I see any more of yourmoney? Do I see any more?”

He did. He saw considerably more thanhe had seen at one time since he openedthe game in Comanche. He seemed greatlyaffected by the sight, shaking his head withsolemnity and casting his eye around withreproach.

“That’s right! That’s right!” said he.“Sock it to a old feller when you’ve gothim down! That’s the way of this coldworld. Well, all I ask of you, gents”–hepaused in his request to shake the boxagain, holding it poised for the throw–“isthis: When you clean me I ask you to stakeme, between you, to twenty-seven dollars.Twenty-seven’s my lucky number; I wasborned on the 27th day of Jannewarry, andI always bet on twenty-seven.”

He poured the dice upon the table,reaching for his pile of bills and gold as ifto cash in on the winnings as he set thebox down, even while the dice wererolling and settling. But at that point theone-eyed man stayed his hand, bendingover the dice as if he could not believe hiseye.

“Well, bust me!” said he, sighing as ifhonestly disappointed in the throw. “M’luck’s turned! Dang me, fellers, if I didn’twin!”

Without enthusiasm, still shaking hishead sadly, he drew the winnings over thetable, sorting the bills, shuffling them intoneat heaps, adding them to his enticingpile, which lay heaped upon a green clothat his hand.

“I don’t know why I stick to this game,

gents,” said he, “for it’s all ag’in’ me. Idon’t win once in nine hundred times. Thishere’s more money than I’ve took in at anyone time since I come to Comanche, andit’s more’n I ever expect to take in ag’in ifI stay here forty-nine years.

“But it’s in m’ blood to bet on twenty-seven. I can’t help it, boys. It’ll be theruination of me ag’in, like it’s ruined memany a time before; but I got to roll ’em! Igot to roll ’em! And if anybody wants togit in, let him put his money down!”

The young man seemed a little dazed bythe quick change of the gambler’s luck, buthis reason had no voice to speak againstthe clamor of his desires. He producedmore money, bills of large denomination,and counted out a thousand dollars,defiantly flourishing every bill. He

whacked the pile down on the table with afoolishly arrogant thump of his fist.

“I’m with you to the finish,” he said, hisboyish face bright with the destructive fireof chance. “Roll ’em out!”

Other players crowded forward,believing perhaps that the queer freak offortune which had turned the gambler’sluck would not hold. In a few minutesthere was more money on the table thanthe one-eyed man had stood before inmany a day.

Sorry for the foolish young man, andmoved by the sacrifice which he saw inpreparation, Dr. Slavens pressed againstthe table, trying to flash the youth awarning with his eyes. But the physiciancould not get a look into the young man’sflushed face; his eyes were on the stake.

The one-eyed man was gabbing again,running out a continual stream of cheapand pointless talk, and offering the dice asusual for inspection. Some looked at thecubes, among the number the young man,who weighed them in his palm and rolledthem on the table several times. Doubtlessthey were as straight as dice ever weremade. This test satisfied the rest. The one-eyed man swept the cubes into his handand, still talking, held that long, bonymember hovering over the mouth of thebox.

At that moment Dr. Slavens, lurching asif shoved violently from behind, set hisshoulder against the table and pushed it,hard and suddenly, against the one-eyedman’s chest, all but throwing himbackward against the wall of the tent. The

gambler’s elbows flew up in his struggleto keep to his feet, and the hand thathovered over the dicebox dropped thedice upon the board.

Instantly a shout went up; instantly halfa hundred hands clawed at the table toretrieve their stakes. For the one-eyed manhad dropped not five dice, but ten.

He waited for no further developments.The tent-wall parted behind him as hedived through into the outer darkness,taking with him his former winnings andhis “bank,” which had been cunninglyarranged on the green cloth for no otherpurpose; his revolver and his dice,leaving nothing but the box behind.

The young man gathered up his stakewith nervous hands and turned his flushedface to the doctor, smiling foolishly.

“Thank you, old man,” he said. “Oh,yes! I know you now,” he added, offeringhis hand with great warmth. “You werewith her people at the dance.”

“Of course,” smiled the doctor. “Howmuch did you lose?”

“Say, I ought to have a nurse!” said theyoung man abjectly. “If you hadn’t heavedthat table into the old devil’s ribs just thenhe’d ’a’ skinned me right! Oh, about sixhundred, I guess; but in ten minutes morehe’d ’a’ cleaned me out. Walker’s myname,” he confided; “Joe Walker. I’mfrom Cheyenne.”

Dr. Slavens introduced himself.“And I’m from Missouri,” said he.Joe Walker chuckled a little.“Yes; the old man’s from there, too,”

said he, with the warmth of one relativeclaiming kinship with another from far-away parts; “from a place called SaintJoe. Did you ever hear of it?”

“I’ve heard of it,” the doctor admitted,smiling to himself over the ingenuousunfolding of the victim whom he hadsnatched from the sacrifice.

“They don’t only have to show youfellers from Missouri,” pursued Walker;“but you show them! That’s the old man’sway, from the boot-heels up.”

They were walking away from thegambling-tent, taking the middle of theroad, as was the custom in Comanche afterdark, sinking instep deep in dust at everystep.

“What are you doing with all thatmoney in a place like this?” the doctor

questioned.“Well, it’s this way,” explained Walker

with boyish confidence. “The old man’sgoing to set me up in a sheep-ranchbetween here and Casper. We’ve got aranch bargained for with six miles ofriver-front, he sent me over here with fivethousand dollars to cinch the businessbefore the feller changed his mind.”

“Why didn’t you bring a draft?” thedoctor wondered.

“Some of these sheepmen wouldn’t takegovernment bonds. Nothing but plain cashgoes with them.”

“Oh, I didn’t think you had anyparticular use for even that, the wayyou’re slinging it around!” said the doctor,with no attempt to hide the feeling he heldfor any such recklessness.

“Looked that way,” admitted Walkerthoughtfully. “But I’ve got to meet thatsheepman here at the bank in the morning,where he can have somebody that he’s gotconfidence in feel of the money and tellhim it’s genuine, and I’ll have to put upsome kind of a stall to cover the money Ilost. Guess I can get away with it,somehow. Cripes! I sweat needles everytime I think of what’d ’a’ happened to meif you hadn’t showed us suckers that one-eyed feller’s hand!”

“Well, the important thing now, itseems to me, is to hang on to what’s lefttill you meet that rancher.”

“Don’t you worry!” rejoined Walkerwarmly. “I’m going to sit on the edge ofthat little old bunk all night with my six-shooter in one hand and that money in the

other! And any time in future that you seeme bettin’ on any man’s game, you sendfor the fool-killer, will you?”

“Yes, if I happen to be around,”promised the doctor.

“I ought to know ’em; I was raised righthere in Wyoming among ’em;” saidWalker. “I thought that feller was square,or maybe off a little, because he talked somuch. He was the first talkin’ gambler Iever met.”

“Talk is his trick,” Slavens enlightenedhim. “That was old Hun Shanklin, the flat-game man. I’ve looked him up since I gothere. He plays suckers, and nothing butsuckers. No gambler ever bets on HunShanklin’s game. He talks to keep theireyes on his face while he switches thedice.”

Walker was gravely silent a littlewhile, like a man who has just arrived atthe proper appreciation of some gravedanger which he has escaped.

“I’ve heard of Hun Shanklin a longtime, but I never saw him before,” he said.“He’s killed several men in his time. Doyou suppose he knows you shoved histable, or does he think somebody back ofyou pushed you against it?”

“I don’t suppose he needs anybody totell him how it happened,” replied thedoctor a little crabbedly.

“Of course I’ve got my own notion of it,old feller,” prattled Walker; “but theywere purty thick around there just then,and shovin’ a good deal. I hope he thinksit happened that way. But I know nobodyshoved you, and I’m much obliged.”

“Oh, forget it!” snapped Slavens,thinking of the six hundred dollars whichhad flown out of the young fellow’s handso lightly. Once he could have bought avery good used automobile for fourhundred.

“But don’t you suppose–” Walkerlowered his voice to a whisper, lookingcautiously around in the dark as hespoke–“that you stand a chance to hearfrom Hun Shanklin again?”

“Maybe,” answered Slavens shortly.“Well, here’s where I turn off. I’mstopping at the Metropole down here.”

“Say!”Walker caught his arm appealingly.“Between you and me I don’t like the

looks of that dump where I’ve got a bed.

You’ve been here longer than I have; doyou know of any place where a man withall this blamed money burnin’ his hidemight pull through till morning with it if hehappened to slip a cog and go to sleep?”

“There’s a spare cot in our tent,” saidthe doctor, “and you’re welcome to it ifyou feel that you can trust yourself in ourcompany. We mess together in a sort ofcommunistic fashion.”

Walker was profuse in his gratitude.“I’ll feel easy among decent people!”

he declared. “I’m mostly decent myself,and my family’s one of the best in thisstate. Don’t you size me up by what yousaw me do tonight, will you?”

“The best of us slip up once in awhile,” Slavens said.

Walker had some business of clearinghis throat. And then:

“Are you–that is–is she, related toyou?”

“Oh, no,” laughed the doctor. “I’msorry she isn’t.”

“She’s a peach; don’t you think so?”“Undoubtedly,” admitted the doctor.

“Well, here we are–at home.”They stood outside a little while, their

faces turned toward the town. It wasquieting down now. Here and there avoice was raised in drunken song ordrunken yelp; here and there a pistol-shotmarked the location of some silly fellowwho believed that he was living andexperiencing all the recklessness of theuntamed West. Now and then the dry,

shrill laughter of a woman sounded,without lightness, without mirth, as if itcame from the lips of one who long, longago, in the fever of pain and despair, hadwept her heart empty of its tears. Now andagain, also, a wailing cornet lifted its lonevoice, dying away dimly like adisappearing light.

“The wolves are satisfied for one night;they’ve stopped howling,” the doctor said.

CHAPTER VSKULKERS

There remained but one day until chanceshould settle the aspirations of the dustythousands who waited in Comanche; oneday more would see Claim Number Oneallotted for selection to some more or lessworthy American citizen.

The young man, Walker, had beenreceived on a footing of fellowship intothe commune of the circus-tent. He saidthat he had concluded happily thearrangements for the purchase of thesheep-ranch, and that he intended to goand take possession of it in a few days.Meantime, he appeared to be considerably

shot up over June. In spite of Mrs. Reed’sfrowns, he hung around her like a hornetafter a soft pear.

There was considerable excitement inthe camp of the communists that morning,owing to preparations which were goingforward for an excursion over the landwhere somebody’s Number One layshrouded in green greasewood and graysage. For this important occasion Walkerhad engaged the most notable stage-driverin that part of the country, whose turn itwas that day to lie over from the runbetween Comanche and Meander.

The party was to use his stage also, andcarry lunch along, and make a grand dayof it along the river, trying for trout ifconditions held favorable. Smith was thename of the driver.

Smith was smiling like a baker as hedrove up, for Smith could not beholdladies without blushing and smiling. Smithhad the reputation of being a terror toholdup men. Also, the story was current inComanche that he had, in a bare-handed,single encounter with a bear, choked theanimal to death. There was some varianceover the particulars as to the breed ofbear, its color, age, size, and weight.Some–and they were the unromantic, suchas habitually lived in Wyoming and keptsaloons–held that it was a black cub witha broken back; others that it was acinnamon bear with claws seven incheslong; while the extremists would besatisfied with nothing short of a grizzlywhich stood five feet four at the shouldersand weighed eighteen hundred pounds!

But, no matter what romance had donefor Smith, it could not overdo his ancient,green vehicle, with the lettering,

BIG HORN VALLEY

along its side near the roof. It was aConcord stage, its body swinging oncreaking straps. It had many a wound ofarrowhead in its tough oak, and many abullet-hole, all of which had been pluggedwith putty and painted over long years agofor the assurance and comfort of nervouspassengers, to whom the evidence ofconflict might have been disturbing.

Now that there was no longer anyreason for concealment, the owners hadallowed the paint to crumble and the puttyto fall away, baring the veteran’s scars.These were so thick that it seemed a

marvel that anybody who took passage init in those perilous days escaped. In a sun-cracked and time-curled leather holstertacked to the seat at Smith’s right hand, alarge revolver with a prodigious blackhandle hung ready for the disciplining ofbandits or bears, as they might comeacross Smith’s way.

Smith rounded up before the tent with acurve like a skater, bringing his fourhorses to a stop in fine style. No matterhow Smith’s parts might be exaggeratedby rumor or humor in other ways, as ateamster he stood without a peer betweenCody and Green River. He leaped to theground with surprising agility and sethimself about arranging the interior of thecoach for the accommodation of hispassengers. He was chewing on something

which might have been bear-meat orbuckskin, from its apparent tenacious andunyielding nature.

Agnes Horton was to ride on the boxwith Smith, for she had a camera andwanted to catch some views. Smith grewso red over handing her up that Dr.Slavens began to fear lest he might takefire from internal heat and leave them withonly the ashes of a driver on their hands.But they all got placed without any suchmelancholy tragedy, with a great manycries of “Oh, Mr. Smith!” here, and “Oh,Mr. Smith!” there, and many head-puttings-out on the part of the ladiesinside, and gallantries from Mr. Walkerand Mr. Horace Bentley, the lawyer.

William Bentley, the toolmaker, withthe basket of lunch upon his knees,

showered the blessing of his kindly smileupon them all, as if he held them to beonly children. Mrs. Mann, her black bagon her arm, squeaked a little when thecoach lurched on the start, knocking herhead and throwing her hat awry.

Smith, proud of his load, and perhaps alittle vain on account of so much unusualloveliness at his side, swung down themain street with its early morning crowds.People waved at them the friendly signalsof the highroad of adventure, and June, indefiance of terrible eyebrows andadmonishing pokes, waved back at them,her wild hair running over her cheeks. Sothey set out in the bright morning to viewthe promised land.

They struck off down the Meanderstage-road, which ran for the greater part

of its way through the lands awaiting thedisposition of chance. Mainly it followedthe survey of the railroad, which was tobe extended to Meander, and along whichmen and teams were busy even then,throwing up the roadbed.

To the north there was a rise of land,running up in benched gradations to whiteand barren distant heights; behind themwere brown hills. Far away in the bluesouthwest–Smith said it was more thaneighty miles–there stood the mountainswith their clean robes of snow, whilescattered here and there about the vastplain through which they drove, werebuttes of blue shale and red ledges, assymmetrical of side and smooth of top asif they had been raised by the architects ofTenochtitlán for sacrifice to their ugly

gods.“Old as Adam,” said Smith, pointing to

one gray monument whose summit hadbeen pared smooth by the slow knife ofsome old glacier. The sides of the buttelooked almost gay in the morning light intheir soft tones of blue and red.

“From appearances it might very wellbe,” agreed Agnes.

She looked at Smith and smiled. Therewas the glory of untrammeled space in herclear eyes, a yearning as of the desert-born on the far bounds of home. Smithdrove on, his back very straight.

“Older,” said he with laconic finalityafter holding his peace for a quarter of amile.

Smith spoke as if he had known both

Adam and the butte for a long time, and sowas an unquestionable authority. Agneswas not disposed to dispute him, so theylurched on in silence along the dust-cushioned road.

“That ain’t the one the Indian girljumped off of, though,” said Smith,meditatively.

“Isn’t it?”She turned to him quickly, ready for a

story from the picturesque strangler ofbears. Smith was looking between the earsof the off-leader. He volunteered no more.

“Well, where is the one she jumpedfrom?” she pressed.

“Nowhere,” said Smith.“Oh!” she said, a bit disappointed.“Everywhere I’ve went,” said he,

“they’ve got some high place where theIndian girl jumped off of. In Mezourythey’ve got one, and even in Kansas.They’ve got one in Minnesota and Illinoyand Idaho, and bend my eyebrows if Iknow all the places they ain’t got ’em! Butdon’t you never let ’em!take you in on nosuch yarns. Them yarns is for suckers.”

Somehow Agnes felt grateful towardSmith, whose charitable purposedoubtless was to prevent her being takenin. But she was sorry for the fine traditionand hated to give it up.

“But didn’t one ever jump off a cliffor–anything?” she asked.

Smith struck out with a free-arm swingand cracked his whip so loudly that threefemale heads were at once protruded fromthe windows below.

“What I want to know,” said heargumentatively, “is, who seen ’emjump?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted; “but Isuppose they found their bodies.”

“Don’t you believe it!” depreciatedSmith. “Indian maidens ain’t the jumpin’kind. I never seen one of ’em in my daythat wouldn’t throw down the best fellershe ever had for a red umbreller and adime’s worth of stick candy.”

“I’m sorry for the nice stories yourknowledge of the Indian character spoils,”she laughed.

“The thing of it in this country is, miss,not to let ’em take you in,” Smithcontinued. “That’s what they’re out for–totake in suckers. No matter how wise youmay be in some other place, right here in

this spot you may be a sucker. Do you gitmy words?”

“I think so,” she responded, “and thankyou. I’ll try to keep my eyes open.”

“They’s places in this country,” Smithwent on, for he liked to talk as well as thenext one, once he got under way, “whereyou could put your pocketbook down atthe fork of the road with your card on topof it and go back there next week and findit O. K. But they’s other places where ifyou had your money inside of three safesthey’d git at it somehow. This is one ofthat kind of places.”

They had been dropping down a slopescattered with gray lava chunks and setwith spiked soapweed, which let them tothe river level. Ahead of them, twistedcottonwoods and red willows marked the

brink of the stream.“This is the first bench,” said Smith,

“and it’s mainly good land. Before thebooks was opened for registration thegover’ment give the Indians choice of ahomestead apiece, and they picked off allthis land down here. Oh, well, on up theriver they’s a little left, and if I draw alow number I know where to put my handon a piece.”

“It looks nice and green here,” said she,admiring the feathery vegetation, whichgrew as tall as the stage along theroadway.

“Yes, but you want to watch out forgreasewood,” advised Smith, “when youcome to pick land in this country. It’s asign of alkali. Pick that gray, dusty-lookin’stuff. That’s sage, and where it grows big,

anything’ll grow when you git the wateron it.”

“But how do you get the water on thishilly land?” she asked.

The question had been troubling herever since she had taken her first look atthe country, and nobody had come forwardwith a satisfactory explanation.

“You got to go up the river till youstrike your level,” explained Smith, “andthen you tap it and take the water to yourland.”

“But if you’re on the ‘third bench’ that Ihear them talking about so much–then whatdo you do up there, a thousand or two feetabove the river?”

“You go back where you come from ifyou’re wise,” said Smith.

When they reached the section which,according to Smith, had not all been takenup by the Indians already, the party got outoccasionally for closer inspection of theland. The men gravely trickled the soilthrough their fingers, while the womengrabbed at the sweet-smelling herbswhich grew in abundance everywhere,and tore their sleeves reaching for theclusters of bullberries, then turning red.

Dr. Slavens and William Bentley triedfor fish, with a total catch between them ofone small trout, which was carried intriumph to the place picked upon by Smithfor the noonday camp. Smith would nottrust the coffee to any hand but his own,and he blackened up the pot shamefully,Mrs. Reed declared.

But what did Smith care for the

criticism of Mrs. Reed when he wasmaking coffee for Agnes? What did hecare, indeed, for the judgment of thewhole world when he was laying out hisbest efforts to please the finest womanwho ever sat beside him on the box, andone for whom he was ready to go anydistance, and do any endeavors, to saveher from being made a sucker of and takenin and skinned?

It was pleasant there by the river; sopleasant that there was not one of them butvoted Wyoming the finest and mostcongenial spot in the world, with thekindest skies, the softest summer winds,and the one place of all places for a home.

“Yes,” Smith remarked, tossing pebblesinto the river from the place where he satcross-legged on the ground with his pipe,

“it takes a hold of you that way. It goes totwenty below in the winter, sometimes,and the wind blows like the plug hadpopped out of the North Pole, and thesnow covers up the sheep on the range andsmothers ’em, and you lose all you gotdown to the last chaw of t’backer. But youstick, some way, and you forgit you everhad a home back in Indiana, wherestrawberries grow.”

“Why, don’t they grow here?” asked themiller’s wife, holding a bunch of redbullberries caressingly against her cheek.

“I ain’t seen a natural strawberry infourteen years,” said Smith, more proudthan regretful, as if such a long abstinencewere a virtue.

“Natural?” repeated Mrs. Reed.“Surely you don’t mean that they

manufacture them here?”“They send ’em here in cans,”

explained Smith, “pale, with sour wateron ’em no more like real, ma’am, than acigarette’s like a smoke.”

The men with pipes chuckled theirappreciation of the comparison. HoraceBentley, with a fresh cigarette–which hehad taken out of a silver case–in hisfingers, turned it, quizzically smiling as hestruck a match.

“It’s an imitation,” said he; “but it’sgood enough for me.”

The sun was slanting near the roughhills beyond the river when they startedback to Comanche.

“You’ve seen the best of thereservation,” explained Smith, “and they

ain’t no earthly use in seein’ the worst ofit.”

They were well along on the way,passing through a rough and outcast stretchof country, where upheaved ledges stoodon edge, and great blocks of stone poisedmenacingly on the brows of shatteredcliffs, when Smith, who had been lookingsharply ahead, pulled in suddenly andturned to Agnes with apologeticquestioning in his eyes. It seemed to herthat he had something on his mind whichhe was afraid to put into words.

“What is it, Mr. Smith?” she asked.“I was just goin’ to say, would you

mind goin’ inside and lettin’ that doctorman take your place for a while?”

Smith doubtless had his reason, shethought, although it hurt her pride that he

should withhold his confidence. But sheyielded her place without furtherquestioning, with a great amount ofblushing over the stocking which aprotruding screwhead was responsible forher showing to Dr. Slavens as he assistedher to the ground.

The sudden stop, the excitementincident to changing places, threw thewomen within the coach into a cackle.

“Is it robbers?” demanded Mrs. Reed,getting hold of June’s hand and clinging toit protectingly as she put her head out andpeered up at Smith, who was sitting therestolidly, his eyes on the winding trailahead, his foot on the brake.

“No, ma’am,” answered Smith, notlooking in her direction at all.

“What is it, then?” quavered Mrs. Mann

from the other side of the stage.She could not see Smith, and the

desolation of their surroundings set herfancy at work stationing dusty cowboybandits behind each riven, lowering stone.

“Oh, I hope it’s robbers!” said June,bouncing up and down in her seat. “Thatwould be just fine!”

“Hush, hush!” commanded her mother,shaking her correctively. “Such a wickedwish!”

Milo Strong, the teacher from Iowa, hadgrown very pale. He buttoned his coat andkept one hand in the region of his belt.One second he peered wildly out of thewindows on his side, the next he strainedto see if devastation and ruin wereapproaching from the other.

“Smith doubtless had some verycommonplace reason for making thechange,” said William Bentley, makingroom for Agnes beside him. “I expectMiss Horton talked too much.”

With that the stage started and theirfears subsided somewhat. On the boxSmith was looking sharply at the doctor.Then he asked:

“Can you drive better than you canshoot, or shoot better than you can drive?”

“I guess it’s about a stand-off,” repliedthe doctor without a ripple of excitement;“but I was brought up with four mules.”

Without another word Smith stood onthe footboard, and Dr. Slavens slid alongto his place. Smith handed the physicianthe lines and took the big revolver from itspocket by the seat.

“Two fellers on horseback,” said he,keeping his eyes sharply on the boulder-hedged road, “has been dodgin’ along thetop of that ridge kind of suspicious. Noreason why any honest man would want toride along up there among the rocks whenhe could ride down here where it’ssmooth. They may be straight or they maybe crooked. I don’t know. But you meet allkinds along this road.”

The doctor nodded. Smith said no more,but stood, one knee on the seat, with hispistol held in readiness for instant action.When they reached the top of the ridgenobody was in sight, but there wereboulders enough, and big enough, on everyhand to conceal an army. Smith nodded;the doctor pulled up.

The stage had no sooner stopped than

Walker was out, his pistol in hand, readyto show June and all her female relativesso dear that he was there to stand betweenthem and danger as long as their perilmight last.

Smith looked around carefully.“Funny about them two fellers!” he

muttered.From the inside of the stage came

June’s voice, raised in admiration of Mr.Walker’s intrepidity, and her mother’svoice, commanding her to be silent, andnot draw down upon them the fury of thebandits, who even then might be takingaim at them from behind a rock.

Nobody appearing, between whom andJune he might precipitate himself, Walkermounted a rock for a look around. He hadno more than reached the top when the two

horsemen who had caused the flurry rodefrom behind the house-size boulder whichhad hidden them, turned their backs,crouching in their saddles as if to hidetheir identity, and galloped off.

“Huh! Old Hun Shanklin’s one of ’em,”sniffed Smith, plainly disgusted that theaffair had turned out so poorly.

He put his weapon back in its place andtook the lines.

“And that feller, he don’t have to goaround holdin’ people up with a gun in hishand,” he added. “He’s got a safer andsurer game of it than that.”

“And that’s no cross-eyed view of it,either,” Dr. Slavens agreed.

Walker came over and stood beside thenear wheel.

“One of them was Hun Shanklin!” saidhe, whispering up loudly for the doctor’sear, a look of deep concern on his youthfulface.

Slavens nodded with what show ofunconcern he could assume. For, knowingwhat he knew, he wondered what thegambler was there for, and why he seemedso anxious to keep the matter of hisidentity to himself.

When they arrived at Comanche the sunwas down. Mrs. Reed hurried Juneindoors, all exclamations and shuddersover what she believed to have been avery narrow escape. Vowing that shenever would go exploring around in thatwild land again, she whisked off without aword for Smith.

The others shook hands with the driver,

Agnes coming last. He took off his hatwhen it came her turn.

“Keep your eyes skinned,” he advisedher, “and don’t let ’em play you for asucker. Any time you need advice, or anyhelp that I can give you, if I’m not here I’mon the road between here and Meander.You can git me over there by telephone.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” said shewarmly and genuinely, wondering why heshould take such an unaccountable interestin her.

The others had gone about theirbusiness, thinking strongly of supper,leaving Smith and her alone beside the oldgreen stage.

“But don’t ask for Smith if you call meup,” said he, “for that’s only my firstname, and they’s a horse-wrangler over

there with that for his last. They mightthink you wanted him.”

“Oh, I didn’t know!” she stammered, allconfusion over the familiarity that she hadbeen taking all day. “I didn’t know yourother name–nobody ever told me.”

“No; not many of ’em down here knowsit,” he responded. “But up at Meander, atthe barn, they know it. It’s Phogenphole.”

“Oh!”“But if you don’t like it,” added Smith,

speaking with great fervor, and leaningtoward her a little eagerly and earnestly,“I’ll have a bill put through the Legislaturedown at Cheyenne and change it!”

They ate supper that evening by lantern-light, with the night noise of Comanchebeginning to rise around them earlier than

usual. Those who were there for thereaping realized that it would be their lastbig night, for on the morrow the drawingwould fall. After the first day’s numbershad been taken from the wheel atMeander, which would run up into thethousands, the waiting crowds would meltaway from Comanche as fast as trainscould carry them. So those who were onthe make had both hands out in Comanchethat night.

They all wondered how it would turnout for them, the lumberman and theinsurance agent–who had not been of theparty that day in Smith’s coach–offering tolay bets that nobody in the mess woulddraw a number below five hundred. Therewere no takers. Then they offered to betthat all in the mess would draw under five

hundred. Mrs. Reed rebuked them for theirgambling spirit, which, she said, wasrampant in Comanche, like a plague.

CHAPTER VITHE DRAWING

As has been previously said, one must gofast and far to come to a place where thereis neither a Hotel Metropole nor anewspaper. Doubtless there arecommunities of civilized men on the NorthAmerican continent where there is neither,but Comanche was not one of them.

In Comanche the paper was a daily. Itseditor was a single-barreled grafter whowore a green mohair coat and dyedwhiskers. His office and establishmentoccupied an entire twelve-by-sixteen tent;the name of the paper was The Chieftain.

The Chieftain had been one of the first

enterprises of Comanche. It got thereahead of the first train, arriving in awagon, fully equipped. The editor had anold zinc cut of a two-storied brickbusiness house on a corner, which he hadrun with a grocery-store advertisementwhen he was getting out a paper in Tulsa,Oklahoma. This he now made use of withimpressive effect and inspiring display ofhis cheerful confidence in his own futureand that of the town where, like a blowingseed of cottonwood, he had foundlodgment.

He ran this cut in every issue at the topof what would have been his editorialcolumn if there had been time for him towrite one, with these words:

FUTURE HOME OF The Chieftain ON

THECORNER THIS PAPER NOW

OCCUPIES,AS DESIGNED BY THE EDITOR AND

OWNER, J. WALTER MONG

From the start that Editor Mong wasmaking in Comanche his dream did notappear at all unreasonable. Everybody inthe place advertised, owing to some subtleinfluence of which Mr. Mong was master,and which is known to editors of his brandwherever they are to be found. If abusiness man had the shield ofrespectability to present to all questioners,he advertised out of pride and civic spirit;if he had a past, J. Walter Mong had anose, sharpened by long training inpicking up such scents; and so he

advertised out of expediency.That being the way matters stood, The

Chieftain carried very little butadvertisements. They paid better thannews, and news could wait its turn, saidthe editor, until he settled down steadilyinto a weekly and had room for it.

But Mr. Mong laid himself out to givethe returns from the drawing forhomesteads, it being one of those rarechances in which an editor could combinebusiness and news without putting on anextra form. The headquarters of the UnitedStates land-office for that territory beingat Meander, the drawing was to take placethere. Meander was sixty miles fartheralong, connected with the railroad andComanche by stage and telephone. So,every hour of the eventful day, Editor

Mong was going to issue an extra ontelephonic information from the seat of thedrawing.

On the day of the drawing, which cameas clear and bright as the painted dreamsof those who trooped Comanche’s streets,there remained in the town, after theflitting entrants had come and gone, fullythirty thousand expectant people. Theywere those in whom the hope of lownumbers was strong. For one drawing alow number must make his selection ofland and file on it at Meander within afew days.

In the case of the first number, the luckydrawer would have but three days to makehis selection and file on it. If he lapsed,then Number Two became Number One,and all down the line the numbers

advanced one.So, in case that the winner of Number

One had registered and gone home to thefar East or the middle states, he couldn’tget back in time to save his valuablechance. That gave big hope to those whoexpected nothing better than seven or nineor something under twenty. Three or fourlapses ahead of them would move themalong, each peg adding thousands to theirwinnings, each day running out for them ingolden sands.

By dawn the streets were filled by earlyskirmishers for breakfast, and sunrise metthousands more who, luggage in hand,talked and gesticulated and blocked thedusty passages between the unstable wallsof that city of chance, which soon wouldcome down and disappear like smoke

from a wayside fire. The thousands withtheir bags in hand would not sleep anothernight beneath its wind-restless roofs. Allthose who expected to draw ClaimNumber One were ready to take the stageor hire a special conveyance to Meander,or, failing of their expectations in thelottery, to board the special trains whichthe railroad had made ready, and leave forhome.

By nine o’clock it seemed to thewaiting throngs that several ordinary dayshad passed since they left their saggingcanvas cots at daybreak to stand attendantupon the whim of chance. They gathered inthe blazing sun in front of the office of thepaper, looking in at Editor Mong, whoseemed more like a quack doctor thatmorning than ever before, with his

wrinkled coat-sleeves pushed above hiselbows and his cuffs tucked back overthem, his black-dyed whiskers gleaming inshades of green when the sun hit them, likethe plumage of a crow.

For all the news that came to Comancheover the telephone-wire that day mustcome through the office of The Chieftain.There was but one telephone in the town;that was in the office of the stage-line, andby arrangement with its owners, the editorhad bottled up the slightest chance of aleak.

There would be no bulletins, the editorannounced. Anyone desiring news of thedrawing must pay twenty-five cents for acopy of the paper containing it. It was theeditor’s one great chance for graft, and hemeant to work it until it was winded.

The lottery was to open in Meander atten o’clock; but long before that hour thequivering excitement which shook thefabric of Comanche had reached the tentwhere Mrs. Reed mothered it over thecompany of adventurers. The lumbermanand insurance agent were away early;Sergeant Schaefer and Milo Strongfollowed them to the newspaper officevery shortly; and the others sat out in front,watching the long shadows contracttoward the peg that June had driven in theground the day before at the line of teno’clock.

“Well, this is the day,” said WilliamBentley. “What will you take for yourchance, Doctor?”

“Well, it wouldn’t take very much to getit this morning,” Dr. Slavens replied,

peering thoughtfully at the ground, “for it’sone of those things that grow smaller andsmaller the nearer you approach.”

“I’d say twenty-five hundred for mine,”offered Horace.

“Great lands!” exclaimed Mrs. Reed,blinking, as she looked out across theopen toward the river. “If anybody willgive me three dollars for my chance hecan take it, and welcome.”

“Then you’d feel cheap if you won,”June put in. “It’s worth more than thateven up in the thousands; isn’t it, Mr.Walker?”

Walker was warm in his declarationthat it would be a mighty small and poorpiece of Wyoming that wouldn’t be worthmore than that.

“We haven’t heard from you, MissHorton,” said William Bentley.

“I’m afraid nothing would tempt me topart with my chance,” Agnes replied. “Ihold it just the reverse of Dr. Slavens. Thelonger I look at it the bigger it gets.”

The doctor was the only one presentwho understood fully how much she hadbuilt around that chance. Their eyes met ashe looked across at her; he rememberedwhat she had said of planting trees, andhaving roses beside her door.

“It’s almost there!” cried June, lookingat her stake.

“Twenty minutes yet,” announcedHorace, who sat with his watch in hispalm.

They were all bonneted and booted,

ready for an expedition, although they hadnone in sight. It was as if they expectedNumber One to come flying through thetown, to be caught and held by the swiftestof foot, the one alert and ready to springup and dash after it.

“Shall we go over to the newspaperoffice?” asked the doctor, looking acrossagain and catching Agnes’ eyes.

June jumped up and accepted theproposal for all.

“Oh, let’s do!” she exclaimed. “Let’sbe there to get the very first word!”

On the part of the ladies there was adash into the tent to adjust their headgearbefore glasses and to renew the powderon their noses. While they were goneHorace Bentley, the lawyer, stood withhis watch exposed to his impatient eye.

“In five minutes,” he announced as theladies rejoined them, “they will draw thefirst name from the wheel at Meander. Ihope that it may be the name of someonein this party.”

“I hope it will be yours,” said Dr.Slavens’ eyes as he looked earnestly atAgnes; and: “Number Two would do verywell for me in case your name came first,”her eyes seemed to answer him.

But there was none by who knew whathad passed between them of their hopes,so none could read the messages, even ifthere had been any so curious as to try.

Mrs. Mann was humming a little songas they started away toward thenewspaper office, for she was tiring ofWyoming, where she had not seen a singlecowboy yet; and the prospect of returning

to the miller was growing dear to herheart. There was a quiet over Comanchethat morning which seemed different fromthe usual comparative peace of thatportion of the day–a strained and feveredquiet, as of hushed winds before a gale. Ittook hold of even June as the party passedthrough the main street, joining the streamof traffic which pressed in one directiononly.

They could not arrive within a squareof the newspaper-tent, for the crowdaround it was packed and dense; so theystopped where there was breathing-spaceamong groups of men who stood with theirgripsacks between their feet, waiting forthe first word.

At five minutes past ten the editor ofThe Chieftain handed his printer a slip of

paper, and the name of the winner ofClaim Number One was put in type. Thenews was carried by one who pushedthrough the throng, his hat on the back ofhis head, sweat drenching his face. Theman was in a buck-ague over the prospectof that name being his own, it seemed, andthought only of drawing away from thesudden glare of fortune until he couldcollect his wits.

Some people are that way–the timidones of the earth. They go through lifeleaving a string of baited traps behindthem, lacking courage to go back and seewhat they have caught.

More than two hundred names were inthe first extra run off The Chieftain’spress at half-past ten. The name of thewinner of Number One was Axel

Peterson; his home in Meander, rightwhere he could step across the street andfile without losing a minute.

Milo Strong, the schoolmaster fromIowa, drew Number Thirty-Seven. Noneof the others in the colony at the HotelMetropole figured in the first returns.

They went back as silently as they hadcome, the doctor carrying the list in hishand. Before the tent stood the lumbermanand the insurance agent, their bags in theirhands.

“We’ve got just six minutes to catch thefirst train out,” said the insurance agent,his big smile just as wide as ever. “Goodluck to you all, and hope we meet again.”

The lumberman waved his farewell ashe ran. For them the gamble was off. Theyhad staked on coming in below one

hundred, and they had lost. There wasnothing more to hang around Comanchefor, and it is supposed that they caught thetrain, for they were seen there no more.

There were several hundred others inthat quick-coming and quick-goingpopulation whose hopes were dispersedby the printed list. And so the townsuffered a heavy drain with the departureof the first train for the East. The railroadcompany, foreseeing the desire to be gone,had arranged a long string of coaches,with two engines hitched up and panting toset out. The train pulled away with everyinch of space occupied.

All day the enterprising editor printedand sold extras. His press, run by animpertinent little gasoline engine, couldturn out eighteen hundred of those single-

sheet dodgers in an hour, but it couldn’tturn them out fast enough. Every timeEditor Mong looked out of his tent andsaw two men reading one paper he cursedhis limited vision which had stood in theway of putting sixty dollars more into apress of twice that capacity. As it was, theday’s work brought him nearly threethousand dollars, money on the spot; noback subscriptions to worry over, nocabbage or cordwood in exchange.

When the drawing closed for the dayand the last extra was off, more than threethousand numbers had been taken from thewheel at Meander. The only one amongthe Metropole colony to draw after thefirst published list was Agnes Horton.Claim Number Nine Hundred and Fivefell to her lot.

Claims that high were useless, andeverybody knew it; so interest droppedaway, the little gasoline engine popped itslast impertinent pop and subsided, and thecrowds drifted off to get ready to departas fast as trains could be made up to haulthem. Sergeant Schaefer, having failed ofhis expectations, felt a revival of interestin the military life, and announced that hewould leave on the first train out nextmorning.

That night the price of cots suffered adispiriting drop. Fifty cents would hire themost exclusive bed in the phantom city ofComanche.

As for Dr. Slavens, the day’s eventshad left him with a dazed feeling ofinsecurity. His air was cleared of hope; hecould not touch a stable bit of footing as

far around him as he could reach. He hadcounted a good deal on drawing somethingalong in the early hundreds; and as the daywore along to his disappointment in thathope he thought that he might come taggingin at the end, in the mean way that hiscross-grained luck had of humiliating himand of forcing the fact that he was more orless a failure before his eyes.

No matter what he drew under threethousand, he said, he’d take it and bethankful for it. If he could locate on atrickle of water somewhere and start outwith a dozen ewes and a ram, he’d buryhimself away in the desert and pull theedges of it up around him to keep out thedisappointments of the world. A manmight come out of it in a few years withenough money–that impenetrable armor

which gives security even to fools–to buya high place for himself, if he couldn’t winit otherwise. Men had done well on smallbeginnings with sheep; that country wasfull of them; and it was a poor one,indeed, that wasn’t able to buy up any tendoctors he could name.

So Dr. Slavens ran on, following thelead of a fresh dream, which had itsfoundation on the sands of despair. Whenthe drawing had passed the high numberswhich he had set as his possible lowest,he felt like sneaking away, whipped, tohide his discouragement where there wasno one to see. His confounded luckwouldn’t even grant him the opportunity ofburying himself out there in that gray seaof blowing dust!

There was no use in trying to disguise

the fact any longer; he was a fizzle. Somemen were designed from the beginning forfailures, and he was one of the plainestpatterns that ever was made. There was aplace for Axel Peterson, the alien, butthere was no place for him.

In spite of his age and experience, hedid not understand that the world valuesmen according to the resistance theyinterpose against it; according to thestamping down of feet and the presentingof shoulders and the squaring arms to takeits blows. Cowards make a front before itand get on with amazing success; drovesof poltroons bluster and storm, with emptyshells of hearts inside their ribs, and kickup a fine dust in the arena, under the cloudof which they snatch down many of thelaurels which have been hung up for

worthier men. Success lies principally inunderstanding that the whole game is abluff on the world’s part, and that thebiggest bluffer in the ring takes down thepurse.

But the timid hearts of the earth neverlearn this; the sentimentalists and the poetsdo not understand it. You can’t go alongsweeping a clear path for your feet with abunch of flowers. What you need is agood, sound club. When a hairy shinimpedes, whack it, or make a feint and abluff. You’ll be surprised how easily theterrifying hulks of adversity are charmedout of the highway ahead of you by a littleimpertinence, a little ginger, and a littlegall.

Many a man remains a coward all hislife because somebody cowed him when

he was a boy. Dr. Slavens had put hishands down, and had stood with hisshoulders hunched, taking the world’sthumps without striking back, for so manyyears in his melancholy life that hisnatural resistance had shrunk. On that dayhe was not as nature had intended him, butas circumstances had made him.

It had become the friendly fashion incamp for the doctor and Agnes to take awalk after supper. June’s mother hadfrowned on the boldness of it, whisperingto June’s aunt. But the miller’s wife, moreliberal and romantic, wouldn’t hear ofwhisperings. She said their conduct wasas irreproachable in that country as eatingpeas with a spoon.

“I wish I was in her place!” she sighed.“Dorothy Ann!” gasped Mrs. Reed.

“Remember your husband, Dorothy Ann!”“I do,” sighed the miller’s wife.“Well, if you were in her place you’d

ask somebody to accompany you on yourmoonlight strolls, I hope. I hope that’swhat you’d do, Dorothy Ann.”

“No,” answered the miller’s wifethoughtfully. “I’d propose. She’ll lose himif she doesn’t.”

On the evening of that day of blastedhopes the two of them walked away in thegloaming toward the river, with fewwords between them until they left thelights of Comanche behind.

“Mr. Strong is considerably elated overhis luck,” said Agnes at last, after manysidling glances at his gloomy profile.

“That’s the way it goes,” Dr. Slavens

sighed. “I don’t believe that chance isblind; I think it’s just perverse. I shouldsay, not counting myself, that Strong is theleast deserving of any man in the crowd ofus. Look at old Horace Bentley, thelawyer. He doesn’t say anything, but youcan see that his heart is aching withdisappointment.”

“I have noticed it,” she agreed. “Hehasn’t said ten words since the last extra.”

“When a man like that dreams, hedreams hard–and deep,” the doctorcontinued. “But how about yourself?”

She laughed, and placed a restraininghand upon his arm.

“You’re going too fast,” she panted.“I’ll be winded before we get to theriver.”

“I guess I was trying to overtake myhopes,” said he. “I’m sorry; we’ll goslower–in all things–the rest of the way.”

She looked at him quickly, a littlecuriously, but there was no explanation inhis eyes, fixed on the graying landscapebeyond the river.

“It looks like ashes,” said he softly,with a motion of the hand toward thenaked hills. “There is no life in it; there isnothing of the dead. It is a cenotaph ofdreams. But how about your claim?”

“It’s a little farther up than I hadexpected,” she admitted, but with acheerful show of courage which she didnot altogether feel.

“Yes; it puts you out of the chance ofdrawing any agricultural land, throws youinto the grazing and mineral,” said he.

“Unless there are a great many lapses,”she suggested.

“There will be hundreds, in myopinion,” he declared. “But in case thereare not enough to bring you down to theclaim worth having–one upon which youcould plant trees and roses and suchthings?”

“I’ll stick to it anyhow,” said shedeterminedly.

“So this is going to be home?” heasked.

“Home,” she answered with a caressingtouch upon the word. “I came here to makeit; I sha’n’t go away without it. I don’tknow just how long it will take me, norhow hard it will be, but I’m going tocollect interest on my hopes from thiscountry before I turn my back.”

“You seem to believe in it,” said he.“Perhaps I believe more in myself,” she

answered thoughtfully. “Have youdetermined what you are going to do?”

He laughed–a short, harsh expression ofironical bitterness.

“I’ve gone through the mill today ofheat and cold,” said he. “First, I wasgoing to sell my relinquishment for tenthousand dollars as soon as the law wouldallow, but by noon I had come down tofive hundred. After that I took up thenotion of sheep stronger than Milo, fromIowa, ever thought of it. It took just onemore extra to put that fire out, and now theashes of it aren’t even warm. Just what mynext phantasy will be I can’t say.”

“But you’re going to stay here, aren’tyou?”

“I’ve thought of that, too. I’ve thought ofmaking another try at it in a professionalway. But this is a big, empty country. Fewpeople live in it and fewer die. I don’tknow.”

“Well, you’re a doctor, not anundertaker, anyhow,” she reminded him.

“Yes; I missed my calling,” he laughed,with the bitterness of defeat.

“No,” she corrected; “I didn’t meanthat. But perhaps at something else youmight get on faster here–business of somekind, I mean.”

“If I had the chance!” he exclaimedwearily, flinging his hat to the ground ashe sat beside her on a boulder at theriver’s edge. “I’ve never had a square andopen chance at anything yet.”

“I don’t know, of course,” said she.“But the trouble with most of us, it seemsto me, is that we haven’t the quickness orthe courage to take hold of the chancewhen it comes. All of us let so many goodones get away.”

Dusk had deepened. The star-glow wasupon the river, placid there in its sereneapproach to the rough passage beyond. Hesat there, the wind lifting the hair upon hisforehead, pondering what she had said.

Was it possible that a man could walkblindly by his chances for thirty-fiveyears, only to be grasping, empty-palmed,after them when they had whisked away?For what else did his complainingssignify? He had lacked the courage or thequickness, or some essential, as she hadsaid, to lay hold of them before they fled

away beyond his reach forever.There was a chance beside him going to

waste tonight–a golden, great chance. Notfor lack of courage would he let it pass, hereflected; but let it pass he must. Hewanted to tell her that he would be adifferent man if he could remain near herall the rest of his years; he longed to saythat he desired dearly to help her smooththe rough land and plant the trees anddraw the water in that place which shedreamed of and called home.

But there was nothing in his past tojustify her confidence in his future.Women worth having did not marryforlorn hopes in the expectation of makinga profit out of them by and by. He had nohearth to offer her; he had no thatch; hehad not a rood of land to lead a mountain

stream across and set with the emeraldand royal purple of alfalfa; not a foot ofgreensward beside the river, where ayeaning ewe might lie and ease the burdenof her pains. He had nothing to offer,nothing to give. If he asked, it must be toreceive all and return nothing, exceptwhatever of constancy time might proveout of his heart.

If he had even a plan to lay downbefore her and ask her to share, it wouldbe something, he thought; or a braveresolve, like her own. But there wasemptiness all around him; his feet couldnot find a square yard of solid earth toshape his future upon. It was not that hebelieved that she cared for money or thematerial rewards of success, for she hadspoken bitterly of that. The ghosts of

money’s victims were behind her; she hadsaid as much the first time they had talkedof their hopes in that new land.

There must be something in that placefor him, as she had said; there must be anunimproved opportunity which Fate hadfashioned for his hand. Hope lifted itsresilient head again. Before the morninghe must have a plan, and when he had theplan he would speak.

“We’ll have to be breaking up camp ina day or two more,” Agnes said,disturbing the long silence which hadsettled between them.

“I suppose so,” he responded; “but Idon’t know what the plans of the othersare.”

“Mr. Strong is going to Meander in themorning,” she told him; “and Horace

Bentley is going with him, poor fellow, tolook around, he says. William Bentleytold me this evening that he would leavefor home in a day or two, and Mrs. Reedand her charges are waiting to hear from afriend of June’s who was in school withher–I think she is the Governor’s daughter,or maybe he’s an ex-governor–about along-standing invitation to visit her in hersummer home, which is near here, as theycompute distances in Wyoming.”

“And Schaefer is leaving in themorning,” reflected the doctor. “Thatleaves but you and me unaccounted for.Are you going on to Meander soon?”

“Yes; I want to be there to file when mytime comes.”

“I’ve thought of going over there to feelthings out, too,” Dr. Slavens went on.

“This place will shrink in a few days likea piece of wet leather in the sun. They’llhave nothing left of it but the stores, andno business to sustain them until thecountry around here is settled. That maybe a long time yet. Still, there may besomething around here for me. I’m goingto look into the possibilities tomorrow.And we’ll have at least another talkbefore we part?”

“Many more, I hope,” she said.Her answer presented an alluring lead

for him to say more, but before he couldspeak, even if minded to do it, she wenton:

“This has been a pleasant experience,this camping in the clean, unused country,and it would be a sort of Persian poetexistence if we could go on with it

always; but of course we can’t.”“It isn’t all summer and fair skies here,”

he reminded her, “any more than it is in–well, Persia. Twenty below in wintersometimes, Smith said. Do youremember?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “But it seemsimpossible.”

“You wouldn’t believe this little rivercould turn into a wild and savage torrent,either, a few hundred yards along, if youhad nothing to judge it by but this quietstretch,” he returned. “But listen to itdown there, crashing against the rocks!”

“There’s no news of that rash man whowent into the cañon for the newspaper?”Agnes asked.

“He must have lodged in there

somewhere; they haven’t picked him up onthe other side,” he said, a thoughtfulabstraction over him.

“I hope you’ve given up the thought oftrying to explore it?”

“I haven’t thought much about it lately,”he replied; “but I’m of the same opinion. Ibelieve the difficulties of the cañon aregreatly exaggerated. In fact, as I told youbefore, the reward posted by thatnewspaper looks to me like easy money.”

“It wouldn’t pay you if the reward wereten times as large,” she declared with alittle argumentative heat.

“Perhaps not,” said he, as if he had buta passing and shallow interest in thesubject.

Sitting there bareheaded to the wind,

which was dropping down coldly from thefar mountains, he seemed to be in abrooding humor.

“The moon is late tonight,” he noted.“Shall we wait till it rises?”

“Yes,” she answered, feeling the greatgentleness that there was about him whenhe was in a serious way.

Why he had not been successful in theprofession for which nature plainly haddesigned him she could not understand; forhe was a man to inspire confidence whenhe was at his best, and unvexed by thememory of the bitter waters which hadpassed his lips. She felt that there wouldbe immeasurable solace in his hand forone who suffered; she knew that he wouldput down all that he had in life for afriend.

Leaning her chin upon her palm, shelooked at him in the last light of the west,which came down to them dimly, as iffalling through dun water, from some high-floating clouds. As if following in herthought something that had gone before,she said:

“No; perhaps you should not stay in thisbig, empty country when there arecrowded places in the world that are fullof pain, and little children in them dyingfor the want of such men as you.”

He started and turned toward her,putting out his hand as if to place it uponher head.

“How did you know that it’s thechildren that give me the strongest callback to the struggle?” he asked.

“It’s in your eyes,” said she. And

beneath her breath she added: “In yourheart.”

“About all the success that I ever won Isacrificed for a child,” he said, withreminiscent sadness.

“Will you tell me about it?”“It was a charity case at that,” he

explained, “a little girl who had beenburned in a fire which took all the rest ofthe family. She needed twenty-two squareinches of skin on her breast. One gave allthat he could very well part with––”

“That was yourself,” she nodded,drawing a little nearer to him quiteunconsciously.

“But that was not half enough,” hecontinued as if unaware of theinterruption. “I had to get it into the papers

and ask for volunteers, for you know thatan average of only one in three pieces ofcuticle adheres when set into a wound,especially a burn. The papers made agood deal of it, and I couldn’t keep myname out, of course. Well, enough school-children came forward to patch up threeor four girls, and together we saved her.

“No matter. The medical association ofthat city jumped me very promptly. Theold chaps said that I had handled the caseunprofessionally and had used it merelyfor an advertisement. They chargedunprofessional conduct against me; theytried me in their high court and found meguilty. They dug the ground from under myfeet and branded me as a quack. Theybroke me, they tried to have my license topractice revoked. But they failed in that.

That was three years ago. I hung on, but Istarved. So when I speak in what mayseem a bitter way of the narrow traditionsof my profession, you know my reason isfairly well grounded.”

“But you saved the little girl!”It was too dark for him to see her eyes.

The tears that lay in them could not droptheir balm upon his heart.

“She’s as good as new,” said hecheerfully, fingering the inner pocket ofhis coat. “She writes to me right along.Here’s a picture-card that followed mehere, mailed from the home that the manwho gave his tough old hide to mend herfound for her when she was well. Shelives in Oklahoma now, and her sweetfortitude under her misfortune has been aremembrance to sustain me over many a

hungry day.”“But you saved the little girl!” Agnes

repeated with unaccountable insistence, asif trying to beat down the injustice of hisheavy penance with that argument.

And then he saw her bow her head uponher folded arms like a little child, andweep in great sobs which came rackinglyas if torn from the core of her heart.

Dr. Slavens picked up his hat, put it on,got to his feet, and took a stride away fromher as if he could not bear the sight of herpoignant sympathy. Then he turned, cameback, and stooped above her, laying hishand upon her hair.

“Don’t do that!” he pleaded. “All that’sgone, all that I’ve missed, is not worth asingle tear. You must not make mytroubles your own, for at the worst there’s

not enough for two.”She reached out her tear-wet hand and

clung to his, wordless for a little while.As it lay softly within his palm he strokedit soothingly and folded it between hishands as if to yield it freedom nevermore.Soon her gust of sorrow passed. She stoodbeside him, breathing brokenly in the ebbof that overmastering tide. In the openingof the broad valley the moon stood redly.The wind trailed slowly from the hills tomeet it, as if to warm itself at its beacon-fire.

“You saved the little girl!” said sheagain, laying her warm hand for a momentagainst his cheek.

In that moment it was well for Dr.Warren Slavens that the lesson of his hardyears was deep within his heart; that the

continence and abnegation of his past hadripened his restraint until, no matter howhis lips might yearn to the sweets whichwere not his own, they would not taste. Hetook hold of himself with a rough hand, forthe moonlight was upon her trembling lips;it stood imprisoned in the undried tearswhich lay upon her cheeks.

The invitation was there, and the time,such as the lines of a man’s life areplotted to lead up to from the beginning.But there was lacking too much on his partfor an honest man to stoop and gather whatpresented. He might have folded his armsabout her and drawn her to his breast, asthe yearning of his soul desired; he mighthave kissed her lips and dispelled themoonlight from her trembling tears–andspoiled it all for both.

For that would have been a trespasswithout mitigation, a sacrilege beyondexcuse. When a man took a woman likethat in his arms and kissed her, accordingto his old-fashioned belief, he took fromevery other man the right to do so, ever. Insuch case he must have a refuge to offerher from the world’s encroachments, and asecurity to requite her in all that sheyielded for his sake.

Such he had not. There was nohearthstone, there was no roof-tree, therewas no corner of refuge in all the vast,gray world. He had no right to take wherehe could not give, although it wrenchedhis heart to give it up.

He took the soft, warm hand which hadbestowed its benediction on his cheek,and held it in childish attitude, swinging at

his side. No word was said as they facedback to the unstable city, their shadowstrailing them, long and grotesque, like thesins of men which come after them, andgambol and grimace for all the world tosee but those who believe them hidden.

CHAPTER VIIA MIDNIGHT EXTRA

Dr. Slavens sat on the edge of his cot,counting his money. He hadn’t a greatdeal, so the job was not long. When hefinished he tucked it all away in hisinstrument-case except the few coinswhich he retained in his palm.

It would not last much longer, thoughthe. A turn would have to be made soon, orhe must hunt a job on the railroad or aranch. Walker had talked a lot abouthaving Dr. Slavens come in on the newsheep venture with him, on thesupposition, of course, that the physicianhad money. Walker had told him also a

great deal about men who had started inthat country as herders, “running a band ofsheep” on shares, receiving so much of theincrease of the flock year by year. Manyof the richest sheepmen in that country hadstarted that way only a few years before,so Walker and others said.

Perhaps, thought Dr. Slavens, theremight be a chance to hook up with Walkerunder such an arrangement, put his wholelife into it, and learn the business from theground up. He could be doing that whileAgnes was making her home on her claim,perhaps somewhere near–a few hundredmiles–and if he could see a gleam at thefarther end of the undertaking after aseason he could ask her to wait. That wasthe best that he could see in the prospectjust then, he reflected as he sat there with

his useless instrument-case between hisfeet and the residue of the day’s expensesin his hand.

Agnes had gone into the section of thetent sacred to the women; he supposed thatshe was going to bed, for it was nearlyeleven o’clock. Strong and Horace wereasleep in their bunks, for they were to takethe early stage for Meander in themorning. Walker and William Bentley andSergeant Schaefer were out.

The little spark of hope had begun toglow under Slavens’ breath. PerhapsWalker and sheep were the solution of hislife’s muddle. He would find Walkerbefore the young man took somebody elsein with him, expose the true state of hisfinances, and see whether Walker wouldentertain a proposal to give him a band of

sheep on shares.Like every man who is trying to do

something that he isn’t fitted to, becausehe has failed of his hopes and expectationsin the occupation dearest to his heart,Slavens heated up like a tin stove underthe trashy fuel of every vagrant schemethat blew into his brain.

Sheep was all that he could see now.Already he had projected ahead until hesaw himself the complacent owner of vastherds; saw the miles of his ranches; sawthe wool of his flocks being trampled intothe long sacks in his own shearing-sheds.And all the time his impotent instrument-case shone darkly in the light of hiscandle, lying there between his feet at theedge of the canvas bed.

With a sigh he came back from his long

flight into the future, and took up hisinstrument-case with caressing hand.Placing it on his knees, he opened it andlifted the glittering instruments fondly.

Of course, if he could make it go at hisprofession that would be the thing. Itwould be better than all the sheep onWyoming’s dusty hills. A little surgerysomewhere, with its enameled table andwhite fittings, and automobiles comingand going all day, and Agnes to look in atevening––. Yes, that would be the thing.

Perhaps sheep for a few years wouldhelp to that end. Even five years wouldleave him right in the middle stretch oflife, with all his vigor and all the benefitof experience. Sheep looked like thesolution indeed. So thinking, he blew outhis candle and went out to look for

Walker.At the door of the tent he stopped,

thinking again of Agnes, and of themoonlight on her face as they stood by theriverside, trembling again when theweight of the temptation which hadassailed him in that moment swept overhim in a heart-lifting memory. PerhapsAgnes condemned him for refusing theopportunity of her lips. For when awoman expects to be kissed, and ischeated in that expectation, it leaves her incensorious mood. But scorn of an hourwould be easier borne than regret ofyears.

So he reflected, and shook his headsolemnly at the thought. He passed into theshadows along the deserted street, goingtoward the sounds which rose from

beneath the lights beyond.Comanche appeared livelier than ever

as he passed along its thronged streets.Those who were to leave as soon as theycould get a train were making a lastreckless night of it; the gamblers werebusy at their various games.

The doctor passed the tent where HunShanklin had been stationed with hiscrescent table. Shanklin was gone, andanother was in his place with an army-game board, or chuck-a-luck, doing wellwith the minnows in the receding sea.Wondering what had become of Shanklin,he turned to go down a dark little streetwhich was a quick cut to the back entranceof the big gambling-tent, where heexpected to find Walker and go into thematter of sheep.

Even at that moment the lights werebright in the office of The Chieftain. Theeditor was there, his green coat wideopen, exposing his egg-spattered shirt-front to all who stopped to look, andmaking a prodigious show of excitement atthe imposing-stone, where the form of thelast extra of the day lay under his nervoushand.

The printer was there also, his hairstanding straight where he had roached itback out of his eyes with inky fingers,setting type for all he was worth. In a littlewhile those on the street heard the familiarbark of the little gasoline engine, andhundreds of them gathered to inquire intothe cause of this late activity.

“Running off an extra,” said EditorMong. A great, an important piece of news

had just reached the office of TheChieftain, and in a few minutes an extrawould be on the streets, with the secret atthe disposal of every man who had twobits in his pants. Those were the identicalwords of that advance-guard ofcivilization and refinement, Mr. J. WalterMong.

It was midnight when the circulator ofThe Chieftain–engaged for that importantday only–burst out of the tent with anarmful of papers, crying them in a voicethat would have been red if voices hadbeen colored in Comanche, it was soscorched from coming out of the tractwhich carried liquor to his reservoir.

“Ho-o-o! Git a extree! Git a extree! Allabout the mistake in the winner of NumberOne! Git a extree! Ho-o-o-o!”

People caught their breaths and stoppedto lean and listen. Mistake in the winner ofNumber One? What was that? Theparched voice was plain enough in thatstatement:

“Mistake in the winner of NumberOne.”

A crowd hundreds deep quicklysurrounded the vender of extras, andanother crowd assembled in front of theoffice, where Editor Mong stood with apile of papers at his hand, changing theminto money almost as fast as that miracleis performed by the presses of the UnitedStates Treasury.

Walker and William Bentley boredthrough the throng and bought a paper.Standing under the light at a saloon door,they read the exciting news. Editor Mong

had cleared a place for it, without regardto the beginning or the ending of anythingelse on the page, in the form which hadcarried his last extra of the day. There theannouncement stood in bold type, twocolumns wide, under an exclamatory

EXTRA!William Bentley read aloud:Owing to a mistake in transmitting the newsby telephone, the name of the winner ofClaim Number One in today’s land-drawingat Meander was omitted. The list of winnerspublished heretofore in The Chieftain iscorrect, with the single exception that eachof them moves along one number. NumberOne, as announced, becomes Number Two,and so on down the list.The editor regrets this error, which was dueentirely to the excitement and confusion inthe office at Meander, and takes this earliest

opportunity of rectifying it.The editor also desires to announce that TheChieftain will appear no longer as a dailypaper. Beginning with next Monday it will beissued as a four-page, five-column weekly,containing all the state, national, and foreignnews. Price three dollars a year in advance.The editor thanks you for your loyal supportand patronage.The winner of Claim Number One is Dr.Warren Slavens, of Kansas City, Missouri.Axel Peterson, first announced as thewinner, drew Number Two.

Editor Mong had followed the tradition ofthe rural school of journalism in leavingthe most important feature of his news forthe last line.

“Well!” said the toolmaker. “So ourdoctor is the winner! But it’s a marvel thatthe editor didn’t turn the paper over to say

so. I never saw such a botch at writingnews!”

He did not know, any more than any ofthe thousands who read that ingenuousannouncement, that Editor Mong wasworking his graft overtime. They did notknow that he had entered into a conspiracyto deceive them before the drawing began,the clerk in charge of the stage-office andthe one telephone of the place being in onthe swindle.

Mong knew that the Meander stagewould leave for Comanche at eight in themorning, or two hours before the drawingbegan. It was the only means, exclusive ofthe telephone, by which news could travelthat day between the two places, and as itcould carry no news of the drawing hisscheme was secure.

Mong had feared that his extras mightnot move with the desired celerity duringthe entire day–in which expectation hewas agreeably deceived–so hedeliberately withheld the name of thewinner of Number One, substituting for itin his first extra the name of the winner ofNumber Two. He believed that everyperson in Comanche would rush out ofbed with two bits in hand for the extramaking the correction, and his guess wasgood.

Walker and Bentley hurried back to theHotel Metropole to find that SergeantSchaefer had arrived ahead of them withthe news. They were all up in picturesquedéshabillé, Horace with a blanket aroundhim like a bald-headed brave, his barefeet showing beneath it. The camp was in

a state of pleasurable excitement; but Dr.Slavens was not there to share it, nor toreceive the congratulations which all wereready to offer with true sincerity.

“I wonder where he is?” questionedHorace a little impatiently.

He did not like to forego the ceremony,but he wanted to get back to bed, for aman’s legs soon begin to feel chilly in thatmountain wind.

“He left here not very long ago,” saidAgnes; “perhaps not more than an hour. Iwas just preparing to go to bed.”

“It’s a fine thing for him,” commentedSergeant Schaefer. “He can relinquish assoon as he gets his papers for ten ortwelve thousand dollars. I understand therailroad’s willing to pay that.”

“It’s nice and comfortable to have amillionaire in our midst,” said June.“Mother, you’d better set your cap forhim.”

“June Reed!” rebuked her mothersharply above the laughter which theproposal provoked.

But under the hand of the night thewidow blushed warmly, and with a littlestirring of the treasured leaves of romancein her breast. She had thought of trying forthe doctor, for she was only forty-seven,and hope lives in the female heart muchlonger than any such trifling term.

They sat and talked over the change thisbelated news would make in the doctor’sfortunes, and the men smoked their pipes,and the miller’s wife suggested tea. Butnobody wanted to kindle a fire, so she

shivered a little and went off to bed.The night wore on, Comanche howling

and fiddling as it never had howled andfiddled before. One by one the doctor’sfriends tired of waiting for him and wentto bed. Walker, William Bentley, andAgnes were the last of the guard; the hourwas two o’clock in the morning.

“I believe you’d just as well go to bed,Miss Horton,” suggested Bentley, “andsave the pleasure of congratulating himuntil tomorrow. I can’t understand why hedoesn’t come back.”

“I didn’t know it was so late,” sheexcused, rising to act on his plainlysensible view of it.

“Walker and I will skirmish around andsee if we can find him,” said Bentley. “It’smore than likely that he’s run across some

old friend and is sitting talkingsomewhere. You’ve no notion how timeslips by in such a meeting.”

“And perhaps he doesn’t know of hisgood fortune yet,” she suggested.

“Oh, it’s all over town long ago,”Walker put in. “He knows all about it bythis time.”

“But it isn’t like him to keep awaydeliberately and shun sharing such goodnews with his friends,” she objected.

“Not at all like him,” agreed Bentley;“and that’s what’s worrying me.”

She watched them away until the gloomhid them; then went to her compartment inthe tent, shut off from the others like it bygaily flowered calico, such as is used tocover the bed-comforts of the snoring

proletariat. It was so thin that the light of acandle within revealed all to one without,or would have done so readily, if therehad been any bold person on the pry.

There she drew the blanket of her cotabout her and sat in the dark awaiting thereturn of Bentley and Walker. There wasno sleep in her eyes, for her mind was fullof tumult and foreboding and dread lestsomething had befallen Dr. Slavens in thepitfalls of that gray city, the true terrorsand viciousness of which she could onlysurmise.

Bentley and Walker went their way insilence until they came to the lights. Therewas no thinning of the crowds yet, for thenews in the midnight extra had giveneverybody a fresh excuse for celebrating,if not on their own accounts, then on

account of their friends. Had not everyholder of a number been set back one faintmark behind the line of his hopes?

Very well. It was not a thing to laughover, certainly, but it was not to bemended by groans. So, if men mightneither groan nor laugh, they could drink.And liquor was becoming cheaper inComanche. It was the last big night; it wasa wake.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Walker, “Idon’t think we’d better look for him toohard, for if we found him he wouldn’t bein any shape to take back there by now.”

“You mean he’s celebrating his goodluck?” asked Bentley.

“Sure,” Walker replied. “Any manwould. But I don’t see what he wanted togo off and souse up alone for when he

might have had good company.”“I think you’ve guessed wrong,

Walker,” said Bentley. “I never knew himto take a drink; I don’t believe he’dcelebrate in that way.”

Even if he had bowled up, protestedWalker, there was no harm in it. Any manmight do it, he might do it himself; in fact,he was pretty sure that he would do it,under such happy conditions, although hebelieved a man ought to have a friend ortwo along on such occasions.

From place to place they threaded theirway through the throng, which ran in back-currents and cross-currents, leavingbehind it upon the bars and gaming-tablesan alluvium of gold. Dr. Slavens was notat any of the tables; he was not reelingagainst any of the bars; nor was he to be

seen anywhere in the sea of faces, mottledwith shadows under the smoky lights.

“Walker, I’m worried,” Bentleyconfessed as they stood outside the lastand lowest place of diversion thatremained to be visited in the town.

“I tell you, it flies up and hits a man thatway,” protested Walker. “Sheep-herdersgo that way all of a sudden after a year ortwo without a taste of booze, sometimes.He’ll turn up in a day or two, kind ofmussed up and ashamed; but we’ll showhim that it’s expected of a gentleman inthis country once in a while, and make himfeel at home.”

“Yes, of course,” Bentley agreed, hismind not on the young man’s chatter norhis own reply. “Well, let’s run throughthis hole and have it over with.”

Inside the door four dusty troopers, ondetached duty from the military postbeyond Meander, sat playing cards. Asthey appeared to be fairly sober, Walkerapproached them with inquiries.

No, they hadn’t seen Dr. Slavens. Why?What had he done? Who wanted him?

Explanations followed.“Well,” said a sergeant with service-

stripes on his sleeve and a broad, bluescar across his cheek, “if I’d ’a’ drawedNumber One you bet you wouldn’t have tobe out lookin’ for me. I’d be up on thehighest point in Comanche handin’ outdrinks to all my friends. Ain’t seen him,pardner. He ain’t come in here in the lasttwo hours, for we’ve been right here atthis table longer than that.”

They passed on, to look upon the

drunken, noisy dance in progress beyondthe canvas partition.

“Not here,” said Walker. “But say!There’s a man over there that I know.”

Bentley looked in that direction.“The one dancing with the big woman

in red,” directed Walker.Bentley had only a glance at Walker’s

friend, for the young man pulled his armand hurried him out. Outside Walkerseemed to breathe easier.

“I’ll tell you,” he explained. “It’s thisway: I didn’t suppose he’d want to beseen in there by anybody that knew him.You see, he’s the Governor’s son.”

“Oh, I see,” said Bentley.“So if we happen to run across him

tomorrow you’ll not mention it, will you?”

“I’ll not be advertising it that I was inthere in very big letters,” Bentley assuredhim.

“A man does that kind of a thing once ina while,” said Walker. “It bears out what Iwas saying about the doctor. No matterhow steady a man is, it flies up and hitshim that way once in a while.”

“Maybe you’re right,” yielded Bentley.“I think we’d just as well go to bed.”

“Just as well,” Walker agreed.The chill of morning was in the air. As

they went back the crowds had thinned todregs, and the lights in many tents wereout.

“She thinks a lot of him, doesn’t she?”observed Walker reflectively.

“Who?” asked Bentley, turning so

quickly that it seemed as if he started.“Miss Horton,” Walker replied. “And

there’s class to that girl, I’m here to tellyou!”

Agnes, in the darkness of hercompartment, strained forward to catchthe sound of the doctor’s voice when sheheard them enter, and when she knew thathe was not there a feeling which was halfresentment, half accusation, rose withinher. Was she to be disappointed in him atlast? Had he no more strength in the happylight of his new fortune than to go out and“celebrate,” as she had heard the sergeantconfidentially charging to Horace, like anylow fellow in the sweating throng?

But this thought she put away from herwith humiliation and self-reproach,knowing, after the first flash of vexation,

that it was unjust. Her fears rose toweringand immense again; in the silence of thegraying morning she shivered, drawing hercold feet up into the cot to listen and wait.

Walker and Bentley had gone quietly tobed, and in the stillness around her therewas an invitation to sleep. But for herthere was no sleep in all that night’sallotment.

The roof of the tent toward the eastgrew transparent against the sky. Soon theyellow gleam of the new sun struck it,giving her a sudden warm moment ofhope.

It is that way with us. When our dearone lies dying; when we have struggledthrough a night hideous with the phantomsof ruin and disgrace, then the dawn comes,and the sun. We lift our seamed faces to

the bright sky and hope again. For if thereis still harmony in the heavens, how canthe discord of the earth overwhelm us? Sowe comfort our hearts, foolishly exaltingour troubles to the plane of the eternalconsonance.

The sun stood “the height of a lance”when Agnes slipped quietly to the door ofthe tent. Over the gray desert lands asmoky mist lay low. Comanche, stirringfrom its dreams, was lighting its fires.Here passed one, the dregs of sleep uponhim, shoulders bent, pail in hand, feetclinging heavily to the road, makingtoward the hydrant where the green oatssprang in the fecund soil. There, amongthe horses in the lot across the way,another growled hoarsely as he served thecrowding animals their hay.

Agnes looked over the sagging tent-roofs with their protruding stovepipes andwondered what would be revealed if allwere swept suddenly away. Shewondered what fears besides her ownthey covered, silent in the pure light ofday. For Comanche was a place of secretsand deceits.

She laid a fire in the tin stove and putthe kettle on to boil. Horace Bentley andMilo Strong were stirring within the tent,making ready for the stage, whichdeparted for Meander at eight.

Mrs. Mann, the miller’s wife, came outsoftly, the mark of the comb in her hair,where it had become damp at the templesduring her ablution. She looked about herswiftly as she stood a moment in the door,very trim and handsome in her close-

fitting black dress, with a virginal touch ofwhite collar and a coral pin.

Agnes was bending over a bed of coals,which she was raking down to the front ofthe stove for the toast–a trick taught theladies of the camp by Sergeant Schaefer–and did not seem to hear her.

“Dr. Slavens hasn’t come back?” Mrs.Mann whispered, coming over softly toAgnes’ side.

Agnes shook her head, turning her facea moment from the coals.

“I heard you get up,” said Mrs. Mann,“and I hurried to join you. I know just howyou feel!”

With that the romantic little lady put anarm around Agnes’ neck and gave her ahurried kiss, for Horace was in the door.

A tear which sprang suddenly leapeddown Agnes’ face and hissed upon thecoals before the girl could take herhandkerchief from her sweater-pocket andstop its wilful dash. Under the pretext ofshielding her face from the glow she driedthose which might have followed it intothe fire, and turned to Horace with a nodand smile.

What was there, she asked herself, to besitting there crying over, like a rough-knuckled housewife whose man has stayedout all night in his cups? If he wanted tostay away that way, let him stay! And thenshe recalled his hand fumbling at the innerpocket of his coat, and the picture post-card which he had handed her at theriverside.

Still, it wasn’t a matter to cry about–not

yet at least. She would permit no moredisloyal thoughts. There was some gravetrouble at the bottom of Dr. Slavens’absence, and she declared to herself thatshe would turn Comanche over, like astone in the meadow of which thephilosopher wrote, and bare all itscreeping secrets to the healthy sun, but thatshe would find him and clear away theunjust suspicions which she knew weregrowing ranker in that little colony hourby hour.

They all gathered to bid SergeantSchaefer good-bye, for he was to rejointhem no more. June pressed upon him apaper-bag of fudge, which she hadprepared the day before as a surpriseagainst this event. The sergeant stowed itaway in the side pocket of his coat,

blushing a great deal when he accepted it.There was a little sadness in their

hearts at seeing the soldier go, for itforetold the dissolution of the pleasantparty. And the gloom of Dr. Slavens’absence was heavy over certain of themalso, even though Sergeant Schaefer triedto make a joke of it the very last thing hesaid. They watched the warrior awaytoward the station, where the engine of histrain was even then sending up its smoke.In a little while Horace and Milofollowed him to take the stage.

There came a moment after the men haddeparted when Agnes and WilliamBentley found themselves alone, the widthof the trestle-supported table betweenthem. She looked across at him with noattempt to veil the anxiety which had taken

seat in her eyes. William Bentley noddedand smiled in his gentle, understandingway.

“Something has happened to him,” shewhispered, easing in the words the pentalarm of her breast.

“But we’ll find him,” he comforted her.“Comanche can’t hide a man as big as Dr.Slavens very long.”

“He’ll have to be in Meander day aftertomorrow to file on his claim,” she said.“If we can’t find him in time, he’ll loseit.”

CHAPTER VIIITHE GOVERNOR’S SON

After a conference with Walker in themiddle of the morning, Bentley decidedthat it would be well to wait untilafternoon before beginning anew theirsearch for the doctor. In case he had beencalled in his professional capacity–forpeople were being born in Comanche, aselsewhere–it would be exceedinglyembarrassing to him to have theauthorities lay hands on him as an estray.

“But his instrument-case is under hiscot in the tent,” persisted Agnes, who wasfor immediate action.

“He may have had an emergency call

out of the crowd,” explained Bentley.In spite of his faith in the doctor, he was

beginning to lean toward Walker’s viewof it. Slavens was big enough to take careof himself, and experienced enough tokeep his fingers out of other people’sporridge. Besides that, there had to be amotive behind crime, and he knew of nonein the doctor’s case. He was not the kindof man that the sluggers and holdups of theplace practiced upon, sober and straightas he always had been. Then it must be,argued Bentley, that the doctor had hisown reason for remaining away. Hisunexpected luck might have unbalancedhim and set him off on a celebration suchas was common in such cases.

“Very well,” agreed Agnes. “I’ll waituntil noon, and then I’m going to the

police.”Being a regularly incorporated city,

Comanche had its police force. Therewere four patrolmen parading about industy déshabillé with prominent firearmsappended, and a chief who presided overthem in a little box-house, where he mightbe seen with his coat off and a diamond inthe front of his white shirt, smoking cigarsall day, his heels on the window-sill.

As Dr. Slavens had not appeared at thetime designated as her limit by Agnes,Bentley went with her to the chief’s officeto place the matter before him. It was wellthat they did not go there for sympathy,and unfortunate that they expected help.The chief received them with disdainfulaloofness which amounted almost tocontempt. He seemed to regard their

appeal to him for the elucidation of thedoctor’s mystery as an affront.

The chief was a short man, who vainlybelieved that he could sustain his trousersin dignified position about his hiplessbody with a belt. The result of thismisplaced confidence was a gap betweenwaistcoat and pantaloons, in which hiswhite shirt appeared like a zebra’s stripe.

He was a much-bedizened andgarnitured man, for all that he lacked acoat to hang his ornaments upon. Stones ofdoubtful value and unmistakable sizeornamented the rings upon his stockyfingers, and dangled in an elaborate“charm” upon the chain of his watch. Theonly name they ever addressed him by inComanche other than his official title wasTen-Gallon. Whether this had its origin in

his capacity, or his similarity of build to akeg, is not known, but he accepted it withcomplacency and answered to it withpride.

Ten-Gallon was the chief guardian ofthe interests of the gamblers’ trust ofComanche, which was responsible for hiselevation to office–for even the officeitself–and which contributed the fund outof which his salary came. It is a curiousanomaly of civilization, everywhere underthe flag which stretched its stripes in thewind above the little land-office atComanche, that law-breaking thrives mostprosperously under the protection of law.

Gambling in itself had not beenprohibited by statute at that time inWyoming, though its most profitable sidediversions–such as dropping paralyzing

poisons in a man’s drink, snatching hismoney and clearing out with it, crackinghim on the head with a leaden billet, orstanding him up at the point of a pistol andrifling him–were, as now,discountenanced under the laws.

But what profit is there in gambling ifthe hangers-on, the cappers, the steerers,and the snatchers of crumbs in all cannotfind protection under the flag and itsinstitutions? That was what the gamblers’trust of Comanche wanted to know. Inorder to insure it they had the cityincorporated, and put in a good, limber-wristed bartender as chief of police.

It was to that dignitary that Dr. Slavens’friends had come with their appeal forassistance. There was discouragement inthe very air that surrounded the chief, and

in the indifference with which he heardtheir report. He looked at Agnes with theslinking familiarity of a man who knowsbut one kind of woman, and judges theworld of women thereby. She coloredunder the insult of his eyes, and Bentley,even-tempered and slow to wrath as hewas, felt himself firing to fighting pitch.

“Well,” said the chief, turning fromthem presently with a long gape,terminating in a ructatious sigh, “I’ll shakeout all the drunks in the calaboose thisafternoon, and if your friend’s among ’emI’ll send him on over to you. No harmcould happen to him here in Comanche.He’d be as safe here, night or day, as hewould be playin’ tennis in the back yard athome.”

The chief mentioned that game with

scorn and curling of the lip. Then he gazedout of the window vacuously, as if he hadforgotten them, his mashed cigar smokingfoully between his gemmed fingers.

Bentley looked at Agnes in amazedindignation. When he squared off as if toread his mind to the chief she checkedhim, and laid her hand on his arm with acompelling pressure toward the door.

“That man’s as crooked as the riverover there!” he exclaimed when they hadregained the sunlight outside the smoke-polluted office.

“That’s plain,” she agreed; “and itdoesn’t mitigate my fears for the doctor’ssafety in the least.”

“Walker and I were wrong in ouropinion; something has happened toSlavens,” said Bentley.

“Your opinion?” she questioned.“Well, I should say Walker’s rather,”

he corrected. “I only concurred weaklyalong toward the end. Walker has held outall the time that Slavens went out to hold acelebration all by himself.”

“No; he didn’t do that,” said shecalmly. “I thought so for a little while thismorning, too. But I know he didn’t. Doyou suppose––”

She stopped, as if consideringsomething too extravagant to utter.

“Suppose?” he repeated.“He talked a good deal about going into

the cañon to clear up the mystery of thatnewspaperman and earn the reward,” saidshe.

Bentley shook his head.

“He’d hardly start at night and withoutpreparation.”

“He seemed to be a man of peculiarmoods. If it came over him suddenly andstrongly in an hour of depression he mighteven go to that desperate length. Hebelieved the difficulties of the cañon werelargely exaggerated, anyhow. Once he toldme that he would undertake to go throughit with nothing more than a pair ofmoccasins and a lantern. It was his theorythat a man would need the moccasins forclinging to the rocks.”

“It’s a queer notion,” said Bentleyreflectively.

“Do you think––” she began, halting herwords again and looking at him withdistended eyes.

“There’s no telling what a man might do

when desperate and despondent,” heanswered. “But I don’t believe he’d gowithout leaving some word, or at leastmaking some disposition of his property inwriting, in case he never returned. We’llopen his bags and see what we can find.”

They hurried forward to carry out thisintention.

The doctor’s baggage consisted of hisbattered suitcase and the black bag whichcontained his instruments. Neither waslocked, but neither contained any word toexplain where he had gone, nor to givesupport to the belief that he had intendedgoing anywhere.

Walker, whom Bentley and Agnesrejoined at the camp, sat pondering theinformation supplied by the girlconcerning the doctor’s designs on the

cañon.“I’ll tell you,” he declared at length, as

if talking to himself, “that man had thenerve to tackle it!”

Agnes looked at him, her facequickening.

“What do you know about him?” sheasked.

“I know,” said Walker mysteriously,with no intention of bringing his ownindiscretions up for the censure of Juneand her severe mother, “that he hadcourage enough to tackle anything. I’veseen proof of that right here in Comanche,and I want to tell you people that doctorwasn’t any man’s coward.”

“Thank you for saying that,” blurtedAgnes, wholly unintentionally, a glow of

pride on her cheeks.Mrs. Reed and June looked at her, the

widow with a severe opening of hermouth, out of which no sound came; Junewith a smile behind her hand.

Walker shook his head.“He had the courage,” said he, “but he

had too much sense to try to go throughthat cañon. No white man ever went inthere and came out alive. And even if thedoctor had wanted to go he wouldn’t havestarted at night.”

“I don’t know that it would make muchdifference,” said Agnes. “It’s always nightin that terrible cañon.”

“And that’s so, too,” Walker agreed. “Ithink I’ll go over there and take a lookaround.”

“Do you mind if Mr. Bentley and I gowith you?” Agnes asked.

“I was going to suggest it,” Walkerreplied, looking longingly at June.

June asked permission with her eyes;Mrs. Reed nodded, having overcome herfears of Walker, owing to the substantialcredentials which he was able to show.Mrs. Mann put on her hat and slipped herblack bag a bit farther up her arm, andstood ready in a moment to join theexpedition. Mrs. Reed was to remainalone in camp to watch things, for they hadbeen warned that morning by the hotelpeople against a band of visiting Indians,who picked up anything and everythingthat was not anchored at least at one end.

It was late in the afternoon; the sun waslow when they reached the river. There

wasn’t anything to be made out of thefootprints there. The mouth of the cañonhad been visited by a great many tourists,some of whom had ventured within a littleway to bring out stones for mementos oftheir daring days of fearsome adventuresin the West.

The party stood looking into the mouthof the narrow slit between the high-towering walls. Down there it wasalready dark; the eye could pierce thegloom but a little way.

“There are places in there where thesun never shines, even for a second aday,” Walker declared. “And that watergoes through there with power enough in itto grind a man’s bones against the rocks.There must be a fall of more than athousand feet.”

“I don’t believe he went in there,” saidAgnes with finality, after standing as iftrance-bound for a long time, gazing afterthe foam-white river as it roared into theechoing depths.

“No,” Walker agreed. “He had toomuch sense for that.”

They were all cheered and lightened bythis conclusion. A daylight study of theterrors of the place was sufficient toconvince anybody that a man would haveto be driven to desperate lengths before hewould venture for the dubious reward ornarrow notoriety to be gained byfollowing that wild river through its darkway.

“I camped over at the other side onesummer,” Walker told them as they turnedaway to go back to Comanche, “and I used

to pick up things that had come through–boards and things that people had droppedin over at Meander. It pounds things up, Itell you!”

“Did you ever pick up any gold on theother side?” asked June.

“I never found a trace of any,” saidWalker. “I think that’s all a sheep-herder’s yarn.”

They saw one of the police force inconversation with Mrs. Reed in front ofthe tent as they drew near, and hastenedforward in the hope that he had broughtnews of the missing man. Mrs. Reedreceived them with shocked expression,and a gesture of the hands denotinghopelessness for the salvation of theworld.

“It’s scandalous!” she declared.

The policeman, a carpenterly lookingman full of sandy hairs, stood by, grinning.

“What is it, Mother?” asked June.“I’ll not repeat what he says,”

announced Mrs. Reed. “I will–not–repeat–it!”

They turned to the officer, who worehis tarnished badge–evidently bought afterlong service in a pawn-shop at Cheyenne–pinned to his suspender at a point wherehe could turn his eye down on it wheneverthe longing, or a desire to feed upon thepride of his official importance, overcamehim.

“I was tellin’ her that the chief sent meover to say that your friend, the doctor,was seen last night at half-past two in themornin’, jagged up so tight he took twosteps back’ards for every one he went

ahead. The chief told me to tell you hewas layin’ under a tent somewhere, andthat he’d be as safe as a calf in a barn. Ihope that’s what you wanted to know.”

The policeman turned and went hisdusty way after delivering his messagefrom the chief, the wagon-spoke which hecarried at the end of a thong twirling at hiswrist.

Walker looked around with a little flashof triumph in his eyes, for a man likes tobe vindicated in his opinion, even at theexpense of his friends’ honor. But the gustof pain and disappointment which he sawsweep over Agnes’ face set him back witha sudden wrench.

“Say,” said he with an assumption ofindignation which he did not altogetherfeel, “I don’t believe that!”

“Nor I,” declared Bentley, with no needof assuming a part to say it. “I heard a mandescribing a crook the other day. He saidthe fellow was so crooked that if youwere to shoot him in the top of the headthe bullet would make seven holes in hisbody before it hit the ground. That’s thekind of a man that chief is.”

“Well, it’s scandalous!” declared Mrs.Reed. “Even it he comes back, his conductis simply disgusting, and I’ll never permithim to address a word to my daughteragain!”

Agnes had drawn a little apart fromthem. She had no heart to come to Dr.Slavens’ defense, although she knew thatthe charge was calumnious. But itfurnished her a sudden and new train ofthought. What interest had the chief of

police in circulating such a report? Wasthe motive for Dr. Slavens’ disappearancebehind that insidious attempt to discredithim, and fasten a character upon himwholly foreign to his own?

It was a matter worth looking into. HadDr. Slavens incurred, somehow, thedisfavor of the vicious element which wasthe backbone of the place? And had hepaid the penalty of such temerity, perhapswith his life?

Thinking over the futility of a furtherappeal to the authorities there, andwondering where she could turn for honestassistance beyond William Bentley, whocould do no more than herself, Agneswalked away from the camp a shortdistance, retracing the way they had come.

“Of all the deluded, deceived

creatures!” said Mrs. Reed.“Hush-sh-sh!” said the miller’s wife.It was almost sunset when Agnes,

overtaking her thoughts, halted with a startto find that she had gone half the distanceback to the river. Hoping that they wouldnot be waiting supper on her account, sheturned and hurried back.

Meanwhile, at camp there had been alittle running-up of excitement, occasionedby the arrival of the Governor’s son, whocame on a commission from his motherand sister, bearing a note of invitation toMrs. Reed, her sister, Mrs. Mann, andJune Reed.

Jerry Boyle–for that was the name ofthe Governor’s son–was greatly surprisedto find his friend, Joe Walker, in the camp.But that only made it easier for him, he

declared, seeing that Walker could vouchfor him and put him on unquestionableterms at once.

“Just as if it were necessary!”exclaimed Mrs. Reed, glowing withpleasure. “And you the brother of mydaughter’s dearest friend!”

Jerry Boyle seemed older by ten yearsthan Walker. He was a tall man, with alittle forward bend to him that gave him anawkward cast. He was dark-skinned andbig-nosed, with black eyebrows whichmet at its bridge and appeared to threatenan invasion of that structure. Littlesensitive, expressive ripples ran over hisface as he talked, and that was all thetime. For Boyle was as voluble as apolitical press-agent.

Bentley recognized him, even before he

was introduced, as the man whom Walkerhad pointed out in the dance-house thenight before. He said nothing about that,but he smiled to himself when he recalledWalker’s anxiety to leave the place. It wasa sort of guilty honor, he thought, such asthat which was anciently supposed tostand between thieves.

As Agnes approached, Boyle was in themiddle of a story of his experiences inComanche during the days of its infancy.Mrs. Reed, busy about the stove, hadgrown so deeply interested that she stoodwith a lamb chop in her hand poisedabove the frying-pan, her face all smiles.Boyle was seated on a low box, and someof the others were standing around him,hiding him from Agnes, who stopped nearthe stove on catching the sound of the new

voice. Mrs. Reed nodded reassuringly.“It’s the Governor’s son,” said she.Boyle caught sight of Agnes at that

moment and jumped to his feet. Walkerturned to introduce him.

“No need,” said Boyle, stridingforward to their great amazement, his handoutstretched. “Miss Gates and I are oldfriends.”

Agnes drew back with a frightened,shrinking start, her face very white.

“I beg your pardon, sir!” she protestedwith some little show of indignation.

“This is Miss Horton,” said Walker,coming to her rescue with considerablepresence. “She’s one of us.”

Boyle stammered, staring in amazement.“I apologize to Miss Horton,” said he

with something like an insolent emphasisupon the name. “The resemblance isremarkable, believe me!”

Agnes inclined her head in coldacknowledgment, as if afraid to trust hertongue, and passed on into the tent. Boylestared after her, and a feeling that therewas something out of tune seemed to fallupon the party waiting there for supper inthe red sunset.

Boyle forgot the rest of his story, andthe others forgot to ask him to resume it.He repeated something about remarkableresemblances, and seemed to have falleninto a period of abstraction, from whichhe roused himself presently with a short,grunting laugh.

“I must be gettin’ on,” said he, arisingand taking his cowboy hat from the table,

where it lay among the plates–to the greatsatisfaction and delight of Mrs. Mann,who believed that she had met a realwesterner at last.

“Oh, stay for supper!” pleaded June.“You’ll get enough of me when you

come out to the ranch,” he laughed, givingher cheek a brotherly pinch.

While Mrs. Reed would have resentedsuch familiarity with June’s cheek on thepart of Mr. Walker, or even Mr. Bentley,she took it as an act of condescension andcompliment on the part of the Governor’sson, and smiled.

Walker went off down the street withBoyle, to speed him on his way. TheGovernor’s son was to send out to theranch, some forty miles distant, for aconveyance to carry Mrs. Reed and her

party thither. It was to be there early onthe morning of the second day from thattime, that being, for that country, only aneasy day’s drive for a double team to ademocrat wagon.

There was an uncomfortable air ofuneasiness and constraint upon themduring supper and afterward, a periodusually filled with banter and chatter, andshrill laughter from June. They were notable to get clear of the suspicion raised byBoyle’s apparent recognition of Agnesand her denial that she was Miss Gates.The two older women especially seemedto believe that Agnes had been guilty ofsome serious misdemeanor in her past.

“He wasn’t mistaken in her identity,”whispered Mrs. Reed to Mrs. Mann whenAgnes went in for a wrap as the chill of

night began to settle.Mrs. Mann, charitable and romantic as

she was in her mild way, shook her headsadly.

“I’m afraid he wasn’t,” said she.“I’m sorry that I can’t take June away

from here tomorrow,” lamented Mrs.Reed. “There’s something hidden in thatwoman’s life!”

Agnes had come out silently, as anyonemust have come over that velvet-softearth, which much trampling only madethe softer. In the gloom she stood justbehind Mrs. Reed. That pure-minded ladydid not know that she was there, and wasunable to see the rolling warning in hersister’s eyes.

“Would you mind walking over to the

stage-office with me, Mr. Bentley?” askedAgnes. “I want to engage passage toMeander for tomorrow.”

On the way to the stage-office theytalked matters over between them. Herpurpose in going to Meander was,primarily, to enlist the sheriff of the countyin the search for Dr. Slavens, and,remotely, to be there when her day camefor filing on a piece of land.

“I made up my mind to do it after wecame back from the cañon,” sheexplained. “There’s nothing more to behoped for here. That story the police toldus only strengthens my belief that a crimehas been committed, and in my opinionthat chief knows all about it, too.”

She said nothing of Boyle and the startthat his salutation had given her. Whatever

Bentley thought of that incident he kept tohimself. But there was one thing inconnection with Boyle’s visit which hefelt that she should know.

“The Governor’s son told Walker thathe saw the doctor late last night in aboutthe same condition as that policemandescribed,” he said. “It came up whenWalker asked Boyle to keep an eye openand let us know if he happened to runacross him.”

“Well, in spite of the high authority, Idon’t believe it,” said she withundisturbed conviction.

For a little while Bentley walked onbeside her in silence. When he spoke therewas the softness of reverence in his voice.

“If I had the faith of a good woman insuch measure as that,” said he, “I’d think I

was next door to heaven!”“It is the being who inspires faith that is

more admirable than the faith itself, itseems to me,” she rejoined. “Faith haslived in many a guilty heart–faith insomebody, something.”

“Yes,” he agreed gently. And then, aftera little while: “Yes.”

“Will you be returning to the Eastsoon?” she asked.

“I’ve been thinking some of going on toMeander to get a fuller impression of thiscountry and see how the boy is gettingon,” he replied.

“Then go with me,” she invited.“I wondered if you had faith enough in

me to ask me,” he laughed.There was an extra stage out the next

morning, owing to the movement towardMeander of people who must file on theirclaims within the next ten days. Smith wasto drive it. He was in the office when theyarrived.

“I think I’ll assume the responsibility oftaking the doctor’s two bags with me,”said Bentley.

She agreed that there was little use inleaving them behind. Walker was to go tohis ranch the next day; the others wouldbreak camp the following morning. Therewould be nobody to leave his possessionsin charge of, except the hotel-keeper, whohad a notoriously short memory, and whowas very likely to forget all about it, evenif the doctor ever returned.

Bentley made arrangements for thetransportation of that much excess

baggage, therefore. The cost wasreminiscent of freight charges in the daysof the Santa Fé Trail.

“We’ll leave word for him at the hotel-office,” said he.

As they came out of the stage-office aman was mounting a horse before thestable door, a group of stage employeesaround him. He galloped off with aflourish. The man who had caparisonedhis horse stood looking after him as hedisappeared in the night.

“That feller’s in a hurry–he couldn’twait for the stage in the morning,” saidSmith. “He’s ridin’ relay to Meandertonight on our horses, and he’ll be therelong before we start. He’s the Governor’sson.”

CHAPTER IXDOUBLE CROOKEDNESS

Comanche was drying up like a leaky pail.There remained only the dregs of thethronging thousands who had chopped itsstreets to dust beneath their heels; and theywere worked out, panned down to scantprofit, and growing leaner picking everyday.

The ginger was gone out of the barker’sspiel; the forced gaiety was dying out ofthe loud levees where the abandoned ofthe earth held their nightly carousals.Comanche was in the lethargy ofdissolution; its tents were in the shadowof the approaching end.

Most of the shows had gone, leavinggreat gaps in the tented streets where theyhad stood, their débris behind them, andmany of the saloons were packing theirfurnishings to follow. It had been aseasonable reaping; quick work, andplenty of it while it lasted; and they weredeparting with the cream of it in theirpouches. What remained ran in a streamtoo thin to divide, so the big ones wereoff, leaving the little fellows to lick up thetrickle.

A few gambling-joints were doingbusiness still, for men will gamble whenthey will neither eat nor drink. HunShanklin had set up a tent of his own, thebig one in which he had made his stand atthe beginning having been taken down. Tomake sure of police protection, he had

established himself on Main Street, nextdoor to headquarters.

Ten-Gallon, the chief, now constitutedthe entire force, all his special officershaving been dropped to save expense tothe municipality, since the population hadbegun to leak away so rapidly and thegamblers’ trust had been dissolved.

The chief slept until the middle of eachafternoon. Then he went on duty in HunShanklin’s tent, where he usuallyremained the rest of the day, his chairtilted back against the pole at the frontend. It was generally understood that hehad a large interest in the game, whichwas the same old one of twenty-seven.

On the side there was an army-gameoutfit at which a pimple-faced young manpresided, small whiskers growing

between his humors where they hadescaped the razor, like the vegetation ofthat harsh land in the low places, out ofthe destroying edge of the wind. For army-game was held so innocuous in Comanchethat even a cook might run it.

It was the third day after the drawing,and the middle of the afternoon. Thatshort-time had seen these many changes inComanche, and every hour was witnessingmore. Mrs. Reed and her party had gonethat morning in the wagon sent for themfrom the Governor’s ranch. The HotelMetropole, now almost entirely withoutguests for its many tents and cots, wasbeing taken down.

The red-nosed proprietor was loadingcots into a wagon, his large wife, in astriped kimono with red ruffles at the

sleeves and a large V of bare bosomshowing, standing in the door of theoffice-tent directing his labors in a voicewhich suggested a mustache and knee-boots. A dangling strand of her greasyblack hair swung in the wind across hercheek, at times lodging in the curve of itand obscuring her eye. As the lady’s handswere both employed, one in holding up thetrain of her florescent garb, the other insupporting her weight against the tent-pole, she had no free fingers to tuck theblowing wisp in place. So, when it lodgedshe blew it out of the way, slewing hermouth around to do so, and shutting oneeye as if taking aim.

All these employments left her no timefor the man who had approached within afew feet of her and stood with an inquiring

poise as if asking permission to speak.She went on with her directing, and skirt-holding, and leaning against the tent-pole,and blowing, without giving him a fulllook, although she had taken hisappraisement with the corner of her eye.

The man was not of an appearance toinspire the hope of gain in the bosom ofthe hostess. His band-less slouch-hatflapped down over his forehead and face,partly hiding a bandage, the sanguine dyeof which told what it concealed. A blackbeard of some days’ growth, the dust ofthe range caught in it, covered his chin andjowls; and a greasy khaki coat, such assheep-herders wear, threatened to splitupon his wide shoulders every time hemoved his arms.

His trousers were torn, and streaked

with the stain of rain and clay. He hadpinned the rents about his knees together,but he seemed so insecurely covered that astrong wind might expose him, or a suddenstart burst his seams and scantcontrivances to shield his nakedness. Hetouched his hat in a moment when hecaught the quick eye of the landlord’s wifeupon him again, and moved a little nearer.

“Can you tell me, madam,” said herespectfully, “what has become of theparty that was camped in the tent aroundon the other side–four ladies and severalmen?”

“We don’t lodge either sheep-herdersor sheep-shearers unless they take a bathfirst,” said she, turning from himdisdainfully.

“But I am neither a herder nor a

shearer,” he protested, “although I may––”“May be worse,” she finished, though

perhaps not in the way he intended.“Suit yourself about it,” he yielded. “I

don’t want lodging, anyhow.”The landlord came staggering in with an

armload of cheap bed-covers and threwthem down where his dragoon of a wifedirected with imperious gesture.

“Just look at all that money investedand no return!” she lamented.

The battered stranger appealed to thelandlord, repeating his question.

“None of your business,” the landlordreplied crabbedly. “But they’re gone, ifthat’ll do you any good.”

“Did they leave two grips–a suitcaseand a doctor’s instrument-case–with

you?” inquired the man.“They left a pie-anno and a foldin’-bed,

and a automobile and a safety-razor!” saidthe landlord, looking reproachfully at hisbig wife, who was motioning him out tohis labors again.

“Or any word for Dr. Slavens?” thestranger pursued with well-containedpatience.

“What do you want to know for?” askedthe woman, turning upon him suddenly.

“Because the grips belonged to me,madam; I am Dr. Slavens.”

The landlord looked at him sharply.“Oh, you’re the feller that went off on a

drunk, ain’t you? I remember you now.Well, they didn’t leave no grips here.”

“And no word either that I know of,”

added the woman.She swept Dr. Slavens with wondering

eyes, for she had held a pretty goodopinion of him before his sudden, andevidently heavy, fall.

“But where in this world have youbeen, man?” she asked.

“Nowhere in this world,” he answered.“I’ve been taking a little side-trip to hell!”

“You cert’nly look like it, mister!” thewoman shuddered, closing the wide V ather bosom, the flaring garment clutched inher great ring-encumbered hand.

“Will you tell me, then, about myfriends?” he asked.

“Gone; that’s all we know,” said she.“Part went on the train, two or three

days ago; some went on the stage; and the

rest left in a wagon this morning,” said thelandlord.

But he couldn’t tell who went on thetrain, the stage, or the wagon. It was noneof his business, he said. They paid theirbill; that was all he knew, or cared.

“May I take a look around the tent tosee if they left any written word for methere?” the doctor requested.

“Go on,” said the woman, a littlesoftening of sympathy coming into herhard eyes.

Dr. Slavens went back to the tent,which stood as it had been left thatmorning when the last of the party wentaway. The canvas under which their tablestood stretched there hospitably still, andthe stove with the morning’s ashes coldupon its little hearth. Inside, the cots were

all in place, but there was not a line ofwriting from any friendly hand to tell himwhere they had gone, or where hisproperty had been left.

He walked toward the business part ofthe town and turned down Main Street,considering with himself what turn tomake next. His head bent in meditation, hepassed along lamely, his hands in thepockets of his torn trousers, where therewas nothing, not even the thickness of adime, to cramp his finger-room. Pausing inthe aimless way of one who has nounfinished business ahead of him, helooked around, marking the changes whichhad come upon the street during those fewdays.

The litter of broken camp was on everyhand; broken barrels, piles of boxes,

scattered straw, bottles sown as thicklyupon the ground as if someone had plantedthem there in the expectation of reaping aharvest of malt liquors and ardent spirits.Here the depression of a few inchesmarked where a tent had stood, the earthwhere the walls had protected it from thebeating feet showing a little higher allaround; there in the soft ground was themark of a bar, the vapors of spilledliquors rising sharply in the sun.

Bands of boys and camp-dregs, ofwhom he might have been one from hisappearance, scraped and dug among thedébris, searching for what might havebeen dropped from careless or drunkenhands and trampled out of sight. That theywere rewarded frequently was attested bythe sharp exclamations and triumphant

cries.Across from where he stood was the

site of a large place, its littered leavingseither already worked over or not yettouched. No one scratched and peeredamong its trash-heaps or clawed over itsreeking straw. Dr. Slavens tookpossession of the place, turning the looseearth and heaped accumulations with hisfeet as he rooted around like a swine. Itmust have been worked over andexhausted, he concluded, for it turned noglint of silver to the sun. Persisting, heworked across the space which the tenthad covered, and sat down on a box torest.

The sun was low; the tops of two tall,round tents across the way came betweenit and his eyes when he sat down. That

was the luck of some people, thought he,to arrive too late. The pay-dirt was allworked out; the pasturage was cropped;the dry sage was all gathered and burned.

No matter. A man had but one momentof life to call his own, wrote MarcusAurelius. The moment just passed into thescore of time’s count, the moment whichthe hand of the clock trembles over, ahair’s breadth yet to go–these are noman’s to claim. One is gone forever; theother may mark the passing of his soul.Only this moment, this throb of the heart,this half-drawn breath, is a living man’s toclaim. The beggar has it; the monarch cancommand no more. Poor as he was, Dr.Slavens thought, smiling as he worked hisfoot, into the trampled dust, he was as richin life’s allotment as the best.

The sole of his cut and broken shoestruck some little thing which resisted,then turned up white beneath his eye.Broken porcelain, or bone fragment, itappeared. He would have pushed it asidewith his toe; but just then it turned,showing the marking of a die.

Here was a whimsical turn ofcircumstance, thought he. An outcast diefor a broken man, recalling by its presencethe high games of chance which both ofthem had played in their day and lost,perhaps. It was a little, round-cornereddie, its spots marked deep and plain. As itlay in his hand it brought reminiscences ofHun Shanklin, for it was of his pattern ofdice, and his size, convenient for hidingbetween the fingers of his deceptive hand.

Dr. Slavens rolled it on the box beside

him. It seemed a true and honest die, for itcame up now an ace, now trey; now six,now deuce. He rolled it, rolled it, thinkingof Hun Shanklin and Hun’s long, loose-skinned hand.

For a place of wiles, such as Comanchehad been and doubtless was still, it was avery honest little die, indeed. What usewould anybody have for it there? hewondered. The memory of what he hadseen dice do there moved him to smile.Then the recollection of what had stood onthat spot came to him; the big tent, with theliving pictures and variety show, and HunShanklin’s crescent table over against thewall.

That must have been the very spot of itslocation, with the divided wall of the tentback of him, through which he had

disappeared on the night that Walker losthis money and Shanklin dropped his dice.Of course. That was the explanation. Thelittle cube in Slavens’ palm was one ofShanklin’s honest dice, with which hetolled on the suckers. He had lost one ofthem in his precipitate retreat.

Dr. Slavens put the cube in his pocketand got up, turning the débris of the campagain with his foot, watching for the gleamof silver. As he worked, a tubby man withwhiskers turned out of the thin stream oftraffic which passed through the street andsat on one of the boxes near at hand. Hesat there wiping his face, which was asred and sweat-drenched as if he had justfinished a race, holding his hat in his hand,exclaiming and talking to himself.

He was so self-centered in his

overflowing indignation that he did notnotice the man kicking among the rubbishjust a few feet away. Presently the littleman drew out a roll of money and countedit on his knee, to look up when he hadfinished, and shake his fist at the tentwhich stood shoulder-to-shoulder by thepolice station. The gesture wasaccompanied by maledictions upon crooksand robbers, and the force of hisexpressions made necessary the use of thehandkerchief again. This the man tookfrom his hat, which he held in his handready to receive it again like a dish, andscrubbed his fiery face, set over with fierywhiskers and adorned with a fiery nose.When he had cooled himself a bit he satwatching the doctor at his labor, lifting hiseyebrows every time he blinked.

“Lost something?” he asked.“Yes,” replied the doctor, kicking

away, not even looking at his questioner.“Well, if you dropped it out of your

hand or through a hole in your pocketyou’re lucky!” said the little man, shakinghis fist at the tent where his wrathappeared to center. “This place is full ofcrooks. They’ll rob you when you’reasleep and they’ll skin you when you’reawake, with both eyes open.”

The doctor had nothing to add to this,and no comment to append. The man onthe box put on his hat, with a corner ofhandkerchief dangling from it over his ear.

“You live here?” he inquired.“Yes; right now I do,” the doctor

replied.

“Well, do you know anything about along, lean, one-eyed man that runs a dice-game over there in that tent?”

“I’ve heard of him,” said the doctor.“Well, he skinned me out of two

hundred dollars a little while ago, blasthis gizzard!”

“You’re not the first one, and it’s notlikely that you’ll be the last,” the doctorassured him, drawing a little nearer andstudying the victim from beneath hishanging hat-brim.

“No; maybe not,” snapped the other.“But I’ll even up with him before I goaway from here.”

“Would you be willing to risk tendollars more on a chance to get it back?”asked the doctor.

“Show me the man who can tell me howto do it, and watch me,” bristled thevictim.

“I know that man, and I know hisscheme,” said the doctor, “and I’ve gotone that will beat it.”

The whiskered man put his hand into thepocket where the remainder of his rollwas stored, and looked at the batteredstranger with a disfavoring scowl.

“How do I know you ain’t anothercrook?” he asked.

“You don’t know, and maybe I am acrook in a small way. I’m in hard luckright now.”

“What’s your scheme?”“That’s my capital,” the doctor told

him. “If I had a few dollars I’d put it

through without splitting with anybody; butI haven’t a cent. I’ve been kicking thisstraw and trash around here for the lasthour in the hope of turning up a dime. I’llsay this to you: I’ll undertake to recoveryour two hundred dollars for you if you’llput up ten. If I get it back, then you are togive me twenty-five of it, and if I winmore I’m to keep all above the twohundred. And you can hold on to your tendollars till we stand up to the table, andthen you can hold to my coat. I can’t getaway with it, but I don’t guarantee, youunderstand, that I’ll win.”

The little man was thoughtful a spell.When he looked up there was the glitter ofhope in his sharp scrutiny.

“It’d take a crook to beat that old man’sgame,” said he, “and maybe you can do it.

As long as I can hold on to the money Idon’t see how I stand to lose it, and I’vegot a notion to go you.”

“Suit yourself,” said the doctor, turningagain to his exploration of the straw.

“Ain’t much in that,” commented thegambler’s victim, watching him withpuzzled face.

No comment from the searching man.“You’re a funny feller, anyhow, and I

got a notion to take you up. Crook, heh?”“Oh, a sort of a tin-horn,” answered the

doctor apparently indifferent about thewhole matter.

Slavens was working farther awaynow, so the man left his place on the boxto draw within the range of confidentialconversation.

“If I was to put up the ten, would you bewilling to go over there now and put thatscheme of yours in motion?” he asked.

“No; not now. There would be somepreliminaries. In the first place, that oldman knows me, although he might not spotme at the first look in this rig. I’d have toget a pair of goggles to hide my eyes. Andthen there would be supper.”

“Sure,” agreed the little man. “I wasgoing to ask you about that, anyhow.”

“Thank you. The crowd will be thickerin there about ten o’clock tonight, andhe’ll have more money on the table. It willbe better for me and for my scheme towait till about that time. It’s a long shot,partner; I’ll tell you that before you takeit.”

“One in five?” asked the man, looking

around cautiously, leaning forward,whispering.

“Not one in twenty,” discounted thedoctor. “But if it goes, it goes as smoothas grease.”

The man stood considering it, lookingas grave as a Scotch capitalist. Suddenlyhe jerked his head.

“I’ll take it!” said he.Over a greasy supper, in a tent away out

on the edge of things, they arranged thedetails of their plot against Hun Shanklin’ssure thing. What scheme the doctor had inmind he kept to himself, but he told his co-conspirator how to carry himself, and,with six small bills and some paper, hemade up as handsome a gambler’s roll ascould have been met with in all Comanchethat night. Out of the middle of its alluring

girth the corner of a five-dollar noteshowed, and around the outside Slavensbound a strip of the red handkerchief uponwhich the little man had mopped hissweating brow. It looked bungling enoughfor any sheep-herder’s hoard, and fatenough to tempt old Hun Shanklin to leadits possessor on.

After he had arranged it, the doctorpushed it across to his admiringcompanion.

“No,” said the little man, shaking hishead; “you keep it. You may be a crook,but I’ll trust you with it. Anyhow, if youare a crook, I’m one too, I reckon.”

“Both of us, then, for tonight,” said thedoctor, hooking the smoked gogglesbehind his ears.

CHAPTER XHUN SHANKLIN’S COAT

Several sheep-herders, who had arrivedlate to dip into the vanishing diversions ofComanche, and a few railroad men towhom pay-day had just supplied a littlemore fuel to waste in its fires, were inHun Shanklin’s tent when Dr. Slavens andhis backer arrived.

Shanklin was running off about the sameold line of talk, for he was more volublethan inventive, and never varied it much. Itserved just as well as a new lecture forevery occasion, for the memory of suckersis even shorter than their judgment.

Gents were invited to step up and

weigh the honesty of those dice, and gazeon the folly of an old one-eyed feller whohad no more sense than to take such longchances. If anybody doubted that he tooklong chances, let that man step up and putdown his money. Could he throw twenty-seven, or couldn’t he? That was thequestion, gents, and the odds were five toone that he could.

“I ain’t in this business for my health,gents,” he declared, pouring the dice outon his table, shaking them, and pouringthem again. “I’m a gambler, and I’m hereto make money, and make it as easy as Ican; but if I’d been takin’ my pay insheepskins since I’ve been in this man’stown I wouldn’t have enough of them tomake me a coat. Live and let live is mymotto, and if you can’t let ’em live let ’em

die.“Five times one dollar is five dollars,

and five times five is twenty-five. Did anyof you fellers ever make that much in aminute? Look at them dice. Take ’em inyour hand; roll ’em on the table. Don’tthey run true and straight? Twenty-sevencomes up for you sometimes, and it comesup for me. But it comes up oftener for methan it does for you, because I’ve got itcharmed. That’s m’ lucky number. I wasborned on the 27th of Jannewarry, inRange 27, Township 27, twenty-sevenmile from Turkey Trail, Montaney, wherethe wind blows circles and the water runsup-hill.

“You win, friend,” pushing stake andwinnings to a sheep-herder who hadventured a dollar. “Five times one is

five.”Interest in the game began to show

rising temperature; the infection of easymoney was working through thebystanders’ sluggish blood. Shanklin keptthe score of loss and gain a little in hisown favor, as he was able to do from hisyears of practice, while still leaving theimpression among the players thatcollectively they were cleaning him out.Some who felt sudden and sharp drainsdropped out, but others took their places,eyes distended, cheeks flushed, money inhand.

Dr. Slavens and his backer made theirway to the front. Slavens noted thatShanklin was making an extraordinaryspread of money, which he had beside hishand in a little valise. It was craftily

disposed in the mouth of the half-openbag, which seemed crammed to the hingeswith it, making an alluring bait. The long,black revolver of Shanklin’s other daysand nights lay there beside the bagasserting its large-caliber office ofprotection with a drowsy alligator lookabout it.

Slavens was as dirty and unwashed asthe foulest in that crowd. His khaki coatbore a varnish of grease, his hat waswithout band or binding, and the growth ofbeard which covered his face like thebristles of a brush gave him the aspect ofone who had long been the companion andwarder of sheep upon the hills. With theadded disguise of the smoked-glassgoggles, common to travelers in thatglaring, dusty land, it would have required

one with a longer and more intimateacquaintance with him than Hun Shanklincould claim to pick him out of a crowd.

Slavens pulled out his roll and stoodagainst the table, holding it in his handwith a loutish display of excitement andcaution, as if unable to make up his mindwhether to risk it on the game or not.When Shanklin saw it he began to directhis talk with a view to charming it out ofthe supposed sheep-herder’s hand.

With nervous fingers Slavens untied thestrip of handkerchief, turned his back, andslipped off a dollar bill. This he put on thetable with a cautious leaning forward anda suspicious hovering over it with thehand, playing the part so well thatShanklin’s sharp old eye was entirelydeceived.

“You win, friend,” said Shanklin,pushing five dollars across the table.“This is like takin’ money away from achild.”

There was some tolling to be done onboth sides in that game. Slavens turned hisback again, with a true pastoral show ofsecrecy concerning his money, although hebungled it so that Shanklin could see himpulling the five-dollar note from themiddle of his roll, as if searching for thenext smallest bill. This he put on the table.

There was too much under his eye thatthrow for old Hun to let it get away. Sothe magic twenty-seven came rattling outof the box, and Hun raked over hiswinnings with doleful face and solemnshaking of the head, according to his way.He predicted feelingly that his luck could

not last, and that the next time his numbercame up there would be only two dollarson the table.

From the little pile of one-dollar billsunder his hand–the five which he had wonand the one that he had first staked–thedoctor counted five slowly, and thencounted it over again, to make sure. Hewon.

The others were watching him as hepushed the twenty-five dollars out in themiddle of the table with a defiant snort.He crouched over his stake with guardingmien as old Hun took up the box andshook the dice. They fell near his hand,scattering a little, rolling over to the edgeof his money as they settled down. He hadwon again.

This extraordinary luck seemed to turn

the bettor’s head. He spread out hisfingers, leaning lower over his stake, as ifto prevent its being swept away byviolence or mistake.

“I won, I tell you! I won!” said he.“You won, friend,” said Hun, counting

out the money to him, a look of triumph inhis greedy little eye. For, according to allthe signs, the poison was so deep in thesupposed sheep-herder’s blood thatnothing but the loss of all his hoard wouldcool it again.

Slavens nervously counted downtwenty-five dollars again, keeping theremainder of his winnings in his hand, asif ready to take chance on the jump.

A man must have it given to him bothways in order to key him up to the rightplace, Hun Shanklin knew. All winning

would no more do than all loss. So thistime the loaded dice were switched intothe box, and the charmed number came outagain.

“Hold on! Hold on!” protested thebettor as Shanklin started to sweep themoney away with one hand and gather inhis tricky dice with the other. For Hunnever left those dice any longer on theboard than necessary.

Slavens threw himself forward on thetable, his elbows spread, scrutinizing thedice as if he had not yet figured the total.

“Yes; you win this time,” said hegrudgingly, removing his hand from hisstake, but dropping the money which heclutched in his fist at the same time.

With fatherly kindness Shanklinadmonished him to hold on to his money,

and helped him pick it up. And, sharp ashis old eye was, he did not see that one ofhis precious dice, hidden under a bill, hadchanged places with another, which hadwaited that moment in the doctor’s hand.

The others around the table had giventhe game over to the amazing sheep-herderwho seemed to have so much cash. Theystood by, gaping and exclaiming, growinghotter and hotter with the fever all the timethemselves, licking their dry lips, feelingof their money, getting ready to pitch intoit as soon as the film of chance hadthickened a little on their eyes, shutting outreason entirely.

Slavens straightened up and gave hisbacker two gentle prods in the ribs, whichwas the signal agreed upon to let the otherknow that the scheme was in working

order, and that something was due tohappen. He counted down one hundreddollars and stood expectant, whileShanklin held his hand over the mouth ofthe dicebox and looked at him withcontemptuous reproach.

“No, you don’t! No, you don’t!” saidHun. “If you want to play this man’s gameyou got to shove up some money of yourown. That money’s my money, and you’vebeen shovin’ it on and draggin’ it off somuch I’m afraid you’ll wear it out if youkeep on.

“It’s mine, I tell you! Every cent of it’smine! If you got any of your own put it up,and then I’ll roll ’em. If you got a hundredto pile on top of that, or five hundred, orten hundred, come on and pile it up. ThenI’ll roll ’em. But I ain’t a goin’ to stand

here and speculate in my own money allnight!”

So there they were, caught in a blindcañon when they thought they were cominginto the clear. That was an unlooked-forand unprepared-for turn that Shanklin hadgiven to their plans. Right when they hadhim unsuspectingly loaded up so he couldno more throw twenty-seven than he couldfly, except by the tremendously longchance that the good die would fall rightto make up the count, he sat down on hishind legs and balked.

Slavens was at the end of his rope.There appeared nothing for it but towithdraw the stake and sneak off withonly half of his backer’s loss of theafternoon retrieved. He was reaching outhis hand to pull the money away, when the

little fellow with whiskers caught his arm.Slavens thought he read a signal in the

touch, and turned as if to consult his rollagain. As he did so the little man thrust acomfortable wad of bills into his hand,and Slavens faced the table, countingdown five one-hundred-dollar bills.

Hun Shanklin’s eye was burning thebacks of those aristocrats of the currencyas he lifted his box.

“That’s more like it,” he commended. “Ican play with a gentleman that carriesthem things around with him all night,even if I lose at every throw.”

“Hold on!” said the doctor as Hun wastilting the box to throw. “Cover that moneybefore you throw. I’ve got six hundreddollars down there, and I want you tocount out three thousand by the side of it.”

“Well, I’ve got the money, friend, ifthat’s what you doubt,” said Shanklin,with a lofty air of the injured gentleman.

He drew a sheaf of bills from the valiseand, in the stillness of awe which hadcome over the crowd, counted down therequired amount.

“I’ve won fortunes, gentlemen, and I’velost ’em,” said Shanklin, taking up the boxagain. “Keep your eye on the dice.”

He was so certain of what would comeout of the box that he reached for themoney before the dice had settled, readyto sweep it away. But a change came overhis face, as of sudden pain, when he sawthe result of the throw, and with a littledry snort his hand shot out toward therevolver which lay beside his valise.

The little man with whiskers, admirably

cool, got there first. Hun Shanklin waslooking into the end of his own gun, andunloading, through the vent of his ugly, flatmouth, the accumulated venom of his life.He was caught in his own trap by asharper man than himself, a being that upto that minute he had believed the worldcould not produce.

Dr. Slavens quickly gathered themoney. The others around the table,blazing now in their desire to get adivision of fortune’s favors, put downtheir bets and called loudly for thegamekeeper to cover them.

“Game’s closed,” Shanklin announced,shutting up his valise, into which he hadtossed both dice and box.

He made a move as if to part the tent-wall behind him.

“Hold on!” said the doctor, snatchingoff his goggles and pushing up the brim ofhis hat. “I’ve got another score to settlewith you, Shanklin. Do you know menow?”

Shanklin didn’t wait to reply. Hedropped to his knees just as Slavensreached for him, catching the collar of hiscoat. In an instant the gambler was gone,but his coat was in Dr. Slavens’ hand, acircumstance from which the assembledmen drew a great deal of merriment.

The chief of police, remiss in his highduty, should have been there to sustainShanklin’s hand, according to theirgentlemanly agreement when thepartnership was formed. He arrived toolate. Shanklin was gone, and from theturmoil in the tent the chief concluded that

he had trimmed somebody in his old-fashioned, comfortable way. So his duty,as he saw it in that moment, lay in clearingthem out and dispersing them, and turningdeaf ears to all squeals from the shorn andskinned.

Dr. Slavens and his friend had nothingto linger for. They were the first to leave,the doctor carrying Shanklin’s coat underhis arm, the pockets of his own greasymakeshift bulging with more money thanhe ever had felt the touch of before. Asthey hurried along the dark street awayfrom the scene of their triumph, the littleman with fiery whiskers did the talking.

“Mackenzie is my name,” said he, all ofthe suspicion gone out of him, deep,feeling admiration in its place, “and if youwas to happen up to southern Montana

you’d find me pretty well known. I’ve gotfifty thousand sheep on the range up there,average four dollars a head, and I’d handhalf of ’em over to you right now if you’dshow me how you turned that trick. Thatwas the slickest thing I ever saw!”

“It wouldn’t do you any good at all toknow how it was done,” said Slavens,“for it was a trick for the occasion and theman we worked it on. The thing for us todo is to go to some decent, quiet place anddivide this money.”

“Give me my two hundred and thestake,” said Mackenzie, “and keep therest. I don’t need money; I’ve got twonational banks full of it up there inMontana now.”

“Lord knows I need it!” said the doctor,beginning to sweat over the nearness to

visions which he once believed he shouldnever overhaul.

He stepped along so fast in hiseagerness to come up with and lay handson them that Mackenzie was thrown into atrot to keep up.

“I don’t know who you are or whereyou came from,” said Mackenzie, “butyou’re not a crook, anyhow. That money’syours; you got it out of him as beautiful asI ever saw a man skinned in my day. But ifyou don’t want to tip it off, that’s yourbusiness.”

“It was a chance,” said the doctor,recalling a night beside the river and thewords of Agnes when she spoke of thattheme, “and I had the sense and thecourage for once to take it.”

In the café-tent where they had taken

their supper they sat with a stew of cannedoysters between them, and made thedivision of the money which the lost diehad won. Mackenzie would accept nomore than the two hundred dollars whichhe had lost on Shanklin’s game, togetherwith the five hundred and ten advanced inthe hope of regaining it.

It was near midnight when they parted,Mackenzie to seek his lodging-place, Dr.Slavens to make the rounds of the stores inthe hope of finding one open in which hecould buy a new outfit of clothing. Theywere all closed and dark. The best that hecould do toward improving his outcastappearance was to get shaved. This done,he found lodging in a place where hecould have an apartment to himself, andeven an oil-lamp to light him to his rest.

Sitting there on the side of his bed, heexplored the pockets of Hun Shanklin’scoat. There were a number of businesscards, advertising various concerns inComanche, which Shanklin had used forrecording his memoranda; two telegrams,and a printed page of paper, folded intosmall space. There was nothing more.

The paper was an extra edition of TheChieftain, such as the doctor had grownsadly familiar with on the day of thedrawing. With a return of theheartsickness which he had felt that day,he unfolded it far enough to see the date. Itwas the day of the drawing. He droppedthe half-folded sheet to the floor and tookup the telegrams.

One, dated the day before, was fromMeander. The other was evidently

Shanklin’s reply, which perhaps had notbeen filed, or perhaps was a copy. Thefirst read:

Can close with Peterson if you are sure hewill be Number One.

Be certain on numbers N. W. quar. 6-12-33. Repeat.

Jerry.

The reply which Shanklin had written andperhaps sent, preserving a copy in hiscrafty, cautious way, was:

Peterson is Number One. N. W.quarter 6-12-33 is right.

There was neither name nor address onthe telegram, but it was easy to see that itwas for “Jerry” at Meander. Some dealwas on foot, a crooked deal, no doubt,

between Shanklin and somebody forsomething in which Peterson and NumberOne––

Hold on! Slavens sat up with aquickening of interest in those two wordswhich he thought he never should feelagain. Peterson! That was the name of thewinner of Number One. Certainly! Queerthat he didn’t put two and two together atthe first glance, thought he. He wonderedhow much they were paying Peterson forhis relinquishment, and what there was inthe northwest quarter of Section Six,Township Twelve, Range Thirty-three,that Hun Shanklin wanted to get his handson.

Well, it was interesting, at any rate,even though he didn’t draw himself. In aflash he thought of Agnes and of her

hopes, and her high number, andwondered whether she had gone toMeander to file. Slavens held upShanklin’s coat by the collar and ranthrough the pockets in the hope of findingsomething that would yield furtherparticulars.

There was nothing else in the coat. Itdidn’t matter, he reflected; his interest inClaim Number One was gone forever. Hedidn’t care who had it, or what was donewith it, or whether Hun Shanklin and theman called Jerry gave ten thousand dollarsfor it or ten cents.

But that was a pretty good coat. It was agreat deal better and more respectablethan the one he had on, and it looked as ifit might come nearer fitting. True,Shanklin was a thin man; but he was wide.

The doctor put on the garment. It was avery comfortable fit; the sleeves were alittle long, but there was room enough inthe shoulders. Surprising, said he, howwide that old rascal was in the chest. Hetransferred his money to Hun Shanklin’spockets, chuckling at the thought that hewas returning it whence it came. Inconscience, said he, if consciencerequired such a palliative, he had maderestitution.

On the floor at his foot lay the extra. Infalling it had presented to his view theother side of the fold. The ruled, double-column box, with the surrounding typelifted irregularly around it, attracted hisattention. He picked it up, sat again on theedge of the bed, and read his own nameprinted there as the winner of Number

One.He couldn’t make it out. He turned the

paper, looking again at the date. “Owingto a mistake in transmitting the news,” heread. He got up and walked the length ofhis compartment, the paper in his hand.How was that? Number One–he was thewinner of Number One! How was that?How was that?

There was fortune’s caper for you!Number One! And the time past–or but afew hours between then and the limit–forstepping up and claiming it! And HunShanklin had a hand in it. Wait a minute–wait!

Hun Shanklin, and a man called Jerry,and Peterson, the Swede. But Shanklin,who sent telegrams assuring somebodythat Peterson was Number One–Shanklin

most of all. Slavens passed his hand withtentative pressure over the soiled bandagewhich bound his brow, feeling with fingerand thumb along the dark stain whichtraced what it hid from sight. Shanklin!That would explain some things, manythings. Perhaps all things.

He stood there, counting on his fingerslike a schoolboy, frowning as he counted.One–two–three. The third day–that wasthe third day. And he was Number One.And he had lost!

Out in the office of the lodging-place alamp burned smokily at the elbow of anold man who read a paper by its light.

“This should be the twenty-eighth,according to my reckoning,” said Slavens,appearing before him and speaking

without prelude.The old man looked up, unfriendly,

severe.“You’re purty good at figures,” said he.He bumped his bony shoulders over his

paper again.Undaunted, Slavens asked him the hour.

The old clerk drew out a cheap watch andheld it close to his grizzled face.

“Time for all honest men but me andyou to be in bed, I reckon. It’s a quarter toone.”

A quarter to one! Next morning–no; thatvery morning at nine o’clock, Petersonwould step up to the window of the land-office in Meander and file on ClaimNumber One–his claim–Dr. WarrenSlavens’ claim, the seed of his dead hope.

That is, if the long chance that lay betweenhim and that hour should be allowed topass unimproved.

“Do you want to sell that watch?” askedthe doctor suddenly.

The old man looked up at him sharply,the shadow of his nose falling long uponhis slanting paper.

“You go to thunder!” said he.“No,” said Slavens without showing

offense. “I want that watch for a fewhours, and I’ll pay you for it if you want tolet me have it.”

He drew out a roll of money as thick asthe old man’s thin neck, and stood with itin his hand. The old man slipped theleather thong from his buttonhole and laidthe watch on the board in front of him.

“It cost me a dollar two or three yearsago”–what was a year to him in hisfruitless life, anyway?–“and if you want togive me a dollar for it now you can takeit.”

Slavens took up the timepiece afterputting down the required price.

“I paid for my bed in advance, youremember?” said he.

The old clerk nodded, his dull eye onthe pocket into which all that money haddisappeared.

“Well, I’m going out for a while, and Imay not be back. That’s all.”

With that the doctor passed out into thestreet.

Eight hours between him and the lastchance at Claim Number One–eight hours,

and sixty miles. That was not such amighty stretch for a good horse to cover ineight hours–nothing heroic; very ordinaryin truth, for that country.

With a clearly defined purpose, Slavensheaded for the corral opposite the HotelMetropole, beside which the man campedwho had horses for hire. A lantern burnedat the closed flap of the tent. After a littleshaking of the pole and rough shouting, theman himself appeared, overalled andbooted and ready for business.

“You must weigh a hundred andseventy?” said he, eying his customer overafter he had been told what a horse waswanted for. “What’s your hurry to git toMeander?”

“A hundred and eighty,” corrected thedoctor, “and none of your business! If you

want to hire me a horse, bring him out. Ifyou don’t, talk fast.”

“I ain’t got one I’d hire you for thatride, heavy as you are,” said the man; “butI’ve got one a feller left here for me to sellthat I’d sell you.”

“Let me see him,” said the doctor.The man came out of the straw-covered

shed presently, leading a pretty fair-looking creature. He carried a saddleunder his arm. While the doctor looked thebeast over with the lantern the mansaddled it.

“Well, how much?” demanded thedoctor.

“Hundred and fifty,” said the man.“I’ll give you a hundred, and that’s fifty

more than he’s worth,” the doctor offered.

“Oh, well, seein’ you’re in such arush,” the man sighed.

As he pocketed the price he gave thedirections asked.

“They’s two roads to Meander,” heexplained; “one the freighters use that runsover the hills and’s solid in most all kindsof weather, and the stage-road, thatfollows the river purty much. It’s shorterby a few miles and easier to foller; but it’sgot some purty loose ground here andthere.”

“Much obliged,” said the doctor,striking his heels to his horse’s sides andgalloping off, following the road which hehad seen the stages take to Meander, in thedays when Claim Number One was fartheroff even than eight hours and sixty miles.

CHAPTER XINUMBER ONE

In Meander that morning people began togather early at the land-office, for it wasthe first day for filing, and a certaindesignated number, according to the ruleslaid down and understood before thedrawing, must appear and make entry ontheir chosen tracts.

There had been a good deal of talk andexcitement over the nonappearance inMeander of the man who drew the firstchance. The story had gone around, fromwhat source nobody knew, that he wouldlapse, in which case Number Two wouldbecome Number One, and all along the

line would advance. Number One wouldhave to be there to file first, as NumberTwo could not be entered ahead of him,and if he did not step up to the windowwhen it opened, his chance was goneforever.

The United States Government wouldaccept no excuses; the machinery of itsvast, admirable business could not bethrown out of gear for an hour or a day,and stand idle while the clerks waited forthe holder of Claim Number One to comefrom some distant part and step into hisown. So there was a good deal ofnervousness and talking, and speculatingand crowding forward in the waiting line,as the hour for opening the office drewnear.

At the head of the line, holding a card

with certain figures on it, stood AxelPeterson, a bony-faced man with lean,high shoulders, engineer in the flour-millat Meander. Peterson strained his longneck and lifted his chin as if his loosecollar bound him and choked hisaspirations.

It was a racking hour for Axel Peterson,who had been offered a sum which wasriches to him if he would file on the landdescribed by the figures on the card, payits purchase price to the government on thespot with the money provided him for thatpurpose, and then step out. Already he hadsigned an agreement to make a deed to it.However, the land was yet in the mists ofuncertainty just ahead, beyond his grasp.

For it was stipulated in his agreementthat if the-holder of the first choice should

appear in time to file, then Peterson wasto hand over the money which he carriedin his pocket to purchase immediate titleto the claim. In that case, Jerry Boyle, theGovernor’s son, who stood side by sidewith Peterson before the window and heldPeterson’s agreement to deed certaindescribed lands in his hand; in that caseJerry Boyle would be free to opennegotiations with the holder of the firstchance.

There was no secret among thosegathered to file regarding what was goingforward at the head of the line. It wasgenerally understood, also, that otherswere on hand to grab the same piece ofland as that which Boyle was so eager toget into his possession. Gold, some said.Others were strong in the statement that it

was coal and oil. At any rate there wasanother man present who had been activewith Peterson, but he had arrived too late.Boyle already had the Scandinavian downin writing.

Milo Strong was in his place, hoping inhis heart that Dr. Slavens would notappear, as the physician’s lapse would sethim one forward. Off to one side, amonghundreds gathered to witness the filing onlands which would mean the developmentof a great stretch of country aroundMeander, and thereby add to its prosperityand importance, were William andHorace Bentley and Agnes.

They watched the clerks in the land-office arrive and enter through the sidedoor. A shelf had been arranged in one ofthe front windows of the office, past

which the entrants could file without goinginto the building. At nine o’clock thiswindow would be opened. It was before itthat Peterson and Jerry were standing.

William Bentley looked at his watch.“Seven minutes more,” he announced.“He’ll never come,” said Agnes,

shaking her head sadly. “His chance isslipping away.”

“I’ve hoped right up to this minute thathe would come,” said William, “but Idrop out now. It would have been sucheasy money for him, too.”

“Yes; Boyle’s got that fellow tied up torelinquish to him the minute the entry ismade,” Horace added. “I know the lawyerwho drew up the papers. It’s illegal allthrough, but they say Boyle’s got such a

pull through his father that anything hewants will go.”

Until that hour Agnes had kept her faithin Dr. Slavens and her hope that he wouldappear in time to save his valuable claim.Now hope was gone, and faith, perhaps,had suffered a tarnishment of luster.

For that is the way of human judgment.When one whom we have expected to riseup out of the smoke of obscurity or the fogof calumniation fails in what we feel to behis obligation to the world and ourselves–especially ourselves–faith falters in itsplace, and gives way to reproach, bitterwords, hot arraignments. There is noscorn like the scorn of one who has been afriend.

And still Agnes kept her faith that Dr.Slavens was blameless for his

unexplained disappearance and prolongedabsence deep-anchored in her heart. Butthere was a surface irritation at thatmoment, a disposition to censure andscold. For nothing short of death shouldkeep a man away from the main chance ofhis career, thought she, and she could notbelieve that he was dead.

It was altogether disappointing,depressing. He should have come; heshould have moved the encumberingobstacles out of his way, no matter whattheir bulk. Not so much for his own sakemaybe, when all was refined to its base ofthought, as for the redemption of her faithand trust.

“I don’t care to stay and see them file,”said she, turning away. “I’ll get enough ofit, I suppose, when my turn comes, waiting

in line that way in the sun.”“There’s a special stage out for

Comanche at eleven,” said William, hiswatch in his hand. “If I can get a seat I’llreturn on it. It’s time I was back in theshop.”

“For,” he might have added if he hadexpressed his thoughts, “no matter what Ithink of you, Agnes, I see that it would beuseless for me to hang around and hope.Dr. Slavens has stepped into the door ofyour heart, and there is no room foranybody else to pass.”

But he left it unsaid, standing with hishead bent as if in meditation, his watch inhis hand.

“Two minutes more,” he announced.“I’m moving from the hotel,” said she

quickly, “to a room I’ve taken with a dearold lady in a funny little house among thetrees. It’s cheaper for me while I wait tofile. I’ll see you to say good-bye.”

She hurried away, leaving the two menstanding looking after her, Horace smiling,for he did not altogether understand.William could see deeper. He knew thatshe was afraid lest her disappointmentwould burst out in tears if she remained tosee Axel Peterson square his elbows onthe shelf before the window and makeentry on Claim Number One.

A clerk within the office was poundingon the window-sash, for the paint whichthe building had been treated to in honorof the occasion had gummed it fast. AxelPeterson, straining his long neck,swallowing dry gulps, looked to the right,

the left, the rear. The ends of his fingerswere fairly on Claim Number One;nobody was pressing forward to supplanthim and take away his chance.

Of course, in case Boyle could notinduce the holder of the first chance, in theevent that he might yet come, to file on thecoveted land, then there would be achance left for Peterson. So Petersonknew–Boyle had made that plain. But whocould resist the amount Boyle was readyto give? Nobody, concluded AxelPeterson, feeling a chill of nervousnesssweep him as the window-sash gave andthe window opened, showing the twoclerks ready, with their pens in hand.

The preliminary questions were beingasked; the card with Peterson’s signatureon it was taken out of the file for its

identification–although he was personallyknown to everybody in the town–for nodetail of caution and dignity could beomitted on an occasion so important asthat; Axel Peterson was taking his breathin short bites, his hand trembling as hetook up the pen to enter his name whenthat moment should arrive; his voice wasshaking as he answered the questions putto him by the clerk.

There was a stirring down the line, anda crowding forward. From the outer rim ofthe people gathered to bear witness to theimportant ceremony there rose a subduedshout, like the expression of wonder orsurprise. The volume of this soundincreased as it swept toward the office.Those in the line, Axel Peterson first ofall, saw a movement in the crowd, saw it

part and open a lane for a dusty man on asweat-drenched horse to pass.

One of the clerks arranged the detail-map of the reservation before him withgreat deliberation, his pen ready to checkoff the parcel of land when the entrantshould give its description. The otherspread the blank on the desk, dipped hispen, and asked:

“What tract do you wish to file on, Mr.Peterson?”

The man on horseback had forgedthrough the crowd and brought hisstumbling beast to a stand not a rod awayfrom Axel Peterson’s side. Peterson hadviewed the proceeding with a disturbingqualm. Boyle, as talkative before as awasherwoman, now grew suddenly silent.His mouth stood open impotently; the gray

of a sinking heart came over his face as helooked long at the battered man, who haddropped the reins to the ground and wascoming toward them on unsteady legs.

Then, in a flash, Boyle recovered hispoise.

“Quick! Quick!” he called to the clerk,thrusting an impatient hand through thewindow. “Give him the paper and let himsign; you can fill in the numbersafterward!”

The clerk owed his appointment toBoyle’s father when the latter was inCongress; so he was ready at heart toobey. But it was an irregularity whichmight rebound with uncomfortable result.Thus he hesitated a few seconds, and as hehesitated the road-stained horsemanpushed in between Axel Peterson and the

window.“You’re a little hasty,” said the man.

“It’s a few seconds until nine yet,according to my time. My name isSlavens, and I am Number One.”

The people in the crowd pressedcloser, closing around the tired horse,which stood with its head drooping, itsflaccid sides heaving. Jerry Boyle saidnothing, but he put into his pocket thepaper which he had been holding ready inhis hand for Axel Peterson’s signature theminute the entry should be made, andturned his back. A black-visaged man withshifting, greasy eyes shouldered, panting,through the press of people and put hishand on Slaven’s arm.

“I’d like to have a word with youbefore you file,” he requested.

Slavens looked at him severely from theshadow of his battered hat. The manlacked the bearing of one who inspiresconfidence; Slavens frowned hisdisapproval of the approach.

“It means money to you,” pressed theman, stretching out his hand and showing acard with numbers penciled on it.

Axel Peterson had stood gaping, hiscard with numbers on it also in his hand,held up at a convenient angle for his eyes.Dr. Slavens had read them as he pushedPeterson aside, and the first two figures onthe other man’s card–all that Slavenscould hastily glimpse–were the same.And, stranger still, they were the same asHun Shanklin had recorded in telegraphedreply to the request from Jerry that herepeat them.

That was enough to show him that therewas something afoot worth while, and tofortify him in his determination, strong inhis mind every mile of that long night ride,to file on that identical tract of land, comeof it what might.

“I’ll talk to you after a while,” said he.Boyle said nothing, although the look he

gave the forward man was blasting andnot without effect. The fellow fell back;something which looked like a roll of billspassed from Boyle’s hand to AxelPeterson’s, and with a jerk of theshoulder, which might have been intendedas a defiance to his rival or as anexpression of resignation, Boyle movedback a little into the crowd, where hestood whispering with his friends.Peterson’s face lit up again; he swallowed

and stretched his neck, wetting his dry lipswith his tongue.

The preliminaries were gone over againby the clerks with deliberate dignity; thecard bearing the doctor’s signature wasproduced, his identity established, and thechart of the reservation again drawnforward to check off the land as he gavethe description.

“What tract have you selected, Dr.Slavens?” asked the clerk with the blank.

Dr. Slavens drew from the pocket of hiscoat a crumpled yellow paper, unfolded it,and spread it on the shelf.

“The northwest quarter of Section Six,Township Twelve, Range Thirty-three,”he replied, his eyes on Hun Shanklin’sfigures.

Jerry Boyle almost jumped at the firstword. As the doctor completed thedescription of the land he strode forward,cursing in smothered voice.

“Where did you get that paper?” hedemanded, his voice pitched an octaveabove its ordinary key by the tremulousheat of his anger.

Dr. Slavens measured him coldly withone long, contemptuous look. Heanswered nothing, for the answer wasobvious to all. It was none of Boyle’sbusiness, and that was as plain as spokenwords.

Boyle seemed to wilt. He turned hisback to the winner of Number One, butfrom that moment he stuck pretty close toAxel Peterson until something passedbetween them again, this time from

Peterson’s hand to Boyle’s. Petersonsighed as he gave it up, for hope wentwith it.

Meantime a wave of information wasrunning through the crowd.

“It’s Number One,” men repeated toeach other, passing the word along.“Number One got here!”

Hurrying to the hotel, Agnes wasskirting through the thinner edges of thegathering at the very moment when Dr.Slavens turned from the window, hispapers in his hand. As he went to hisweary horse and took up the reins, thecreature greeted him with a littlechuckling whinny, and the people gavehim a loud and hearty cheer.

When the cheering spread to the peoplearound her, Agnes stopped and asked a

man why they did that. She spoke a littleirritably, for she was out of humor withpeople who would cheer one man fortaking something that belonged to another.That was the way she looked at it,anyhow.

“Why, haven’t you heard?” asked theman, amazed, but enlarged withimportance, because he had the chance oftelling somebody. “It’s Number One. Herode up on a horse just in the nick of thesecond and saved his claim.”

“Number One!” said she. “A horse!”“Sure, ma’am,” said her informant,

looking at her queerly. “Here he comesnow.”

Dr. Slavens passed within a few feet ofher, leading his horse toward the liverystable. If it had not been that the wind was

blowing sharply, turning back the flappingbrim of his old hat, she would haverepudiated him as an impostor. But therewas no mistaking him, in spite of thestrange clothing which he wore, in spite ofthe bloody bandage about his head.

And at the sight of that bandage herheart felt a strange exultation, a stirringleap of joy, even stronger than her pity andher pain. For it was his vindication; it wasthe badge of his honor; it was hiscredentials which put him back in the rightplace in her life.

He had come by it in no drunkensquabble, she knew; and he had arisenfrom the sickness of it to mount horse andride–desperately, as his condition told–toclaim his own. Through the leagues ofdesert he had come, through the unfriendly

night, with what dim hope in his breast noman might know. Now, sparing the horsethat had borne him to his triumph, hemarched past her, his head up, like onewho had conquered, even though helimped in the soreness of bruised body.

People standing near wondered to seethe tall, pale woman put out her handswith more than a mother’s pity in her eyes,and open her lips, murmuring a namebeneath her breath.

The Bentleys, who had seen Dr.Slavens arrive, had not been able to forcetheir way to him through the crowd. Now,with scores of others, they followed him,to have a word with him after he hadstabled his horse. As they passed Agnes,William made his way to her.

“He arrived in time!” he cried

triumphantly, the sparkle of gladness in hishonest eyes. “He has justified your faith,and your trust, and your––”

She put out both her hands, tears in hereyes, as he halted there, leaving unsaidwhat there was no need to say.

“I’ll tell him where to find you,” saidhe, passing on.

In her room at the hotel Agnes sat downto wait. Peace had come into her soulagain; its fevered alarms were quiet.Expectancy trembled in her bosom, whereno fear foreshadowed what remained forhim to say. Her confidence was socomplete in him, now that he had come,that she would have been satisfied, so shebelieved at that hour, if he had said:

“I was unable to come sooner; I amsorry.”

For love is content with little while it isyoung.

Agnes thought of her prettiest dress,tucked away in the little steamer-trunk,and brought it out. It was not extremelygay, but it was light in color and fabric,and gave a softness to the lines of thebody, and a freshness of youth. And oneneeds to look carefully to that when one isseven-and-twenty, she reflected.

Her fingers fluttered over her hair; sheswayed and turned before the glass,bringing the lines of her neck into criticalinspection. There was the turn of youththere yet, it comforted her to see, andsome degree of comeliness. He wouldcome soon, and she must be at her best, toshow him that she believed in him, andgive him to understand that she was

celebrating his triumph over the contraryforces which he had whipped like a man.

Faith, thought she, as she sat by thewindow and looked down upon the crowdwhich still hung about the land-office, wasa sustaining food. Without it the businessof all the world would cease. She hadfound need to draw heavily upon it in heryears, which she passed in fleeting reviewas she looked pensively upon the crowd,which seemed floundering aimlessly in thesun.

All at once the crowd seemed toresolve into one personality, or to becomebut the incidental background for one man;a tall man with a slight stoop, whoseheavy eyebrows met above his nose liketwo black caterpillars which had clinchedin a combat to contest the passage. Here

and there he moved as if seekingsomebody, familiarly greeted, familiarlyreturning the salutations.

That morning she had seen him at thehead of the line of men waiting to file onland, close beside Peterson, who believedhimself to be Number One. She hadwondered then what his interest might be,and it was largely due to a desire to avoidbeing seen by him that she had hurriedaway. Now he turned as if her thoughtshad burned upon his back like a sunglass,looked directly toward her window, liftedhis hat, and smiled.

As if his quest had come to an end at thesight of her, he pushed across the streetand came toward the hotel. She left thewindow, closing it hurriedly, a shadow offear in her face, her hand pressed to her

bosom, as if that meeting of eyes hadbroken the lethargy of some old pain. Shewaited, standing in the center of the room,as if for a summons which she dreaded tohear.

The hotel at Meander had not at that daycome to such modern contrivances astelephones and baths. If a patron wanted totalk out on the one wire that connectedMeander with the world and the railroad,he had to go to the stage-office; if hewanted a bath he must make a trip to thesteam laundry, where they maintained tubsfor that purpose. But these slightinconveniences were not all on one sideof the house. For if a message came to theoffice for a guest in his room, there wasnothing for the clerk to do but trot up withit.

And so it came that when Agnes openedher door to the summons, her bearing hadno touch of fear or timidity. In the hall shefaced the panting clerk, who had leapedup the stairs and was in a hurry to leapdown again.

“Mr. Jerry Boyle asks if he may havethe pleasure of seeing you in the parlor,Miss Horton,” said the clerk.

“Tell Mr. Boyle,” she answered withwhat steadiness she could command, “thatI have an appointment in a few minutes.I’m afraid that I shall not be able to seehim before–before–tomorrow afternoon.”

That was enough for the clerk, no matterhow near or how far it came to satisfyingthe desires of Jerry Boyle. He gave her astubby bow and heeled it off downstairsagain, kicking up quite a dust in his rapid

flight over the carpet in the hall.As if numbed or dreaming, Agnes

walked slowly about her room, touchinghere or there a familiar article of apparel,and seeking thus to recall herself to a stateof conscious reasoning. The events of themorning–the scene before the land-office,her start back to the hotel, the passing ofthat worn, wounded, and jaded man–seemed to have drawn far into theperspective of the past.

In a little while William Bentley cameup for his bag–for in that hotel every manwas his own porter–and called her to thedoor. He was off with Horace on theeleven o’clock stage for Comanche. Nextmorning he would take a train for the East.Dr. Slavens sent word that he would cometo the hotel as soon as he could make

himself presentable with a new outfit.“Horace will stay at Comanche a while

to look around,” said William, giving herhis card with his home address. “If there’sanything that I can do for you any time,don’t wait to write if you can reach atelegraph-wire.”

If there was pain in his eyes she did notsee it, or the yearning of hope in his voice,she did not hear. She only realized that theman who filled her life was coming soon,and that she must light again the fires offaith in her eyes to greet him.

CHAPTER XIITHE OTHER MAN

Dr. Slavens stood at the door of the parlorto meet her as she came toward him, alittle tremor of weakness in her limbs, asubconscious confession of mastery whichthe active feminine mind might havedenied with blushing show of indignation.

The clothiers of Meander had fittedSlavens out with a very good serge suit.Tan oxfords replaced his old batteredshoes. A physician had dressed the cut onhis forehead, where adhesive plaster,neatly holding gauze over the cut, tookaway the aspect of grimness and gravitywhich the bloody bandage of the morning

had imparted. For all his hard fight, hewas quite a freshened-up man; but therewas a questioning hesitation in his manneras he offered his hand.

Her greeting removed whatever doubtthat William Bentley’s assurance of herfidelity might have left. She took his handbetween both her own and held it so alittle while, looking into his eyes withoutthe reservation of suspicion or distrust.

“We believed you’d come in time allalong,” said she.

“You believed it,” he replied softly, notthe faintest light of a smile on his seriousface; “and I cannot weigh my gratitude inwords. There is an explanation to bemade, and I have saved it for you. I’m abeast to think of food just now, perhaps,but I haven’t eaten anything since

yesterday evening.”“You can tell me afterward, if you

wish,” she said.Through the meal they talked of the

others, of who had come to Meander, whohad gone home; of June and her motherand the miller’s wife. Nothing was said ofthe cause of his absence nor of hisspectacular arrival just in the secondremaining to him to save his chance.

“I noticed a road running up toward themountain,” said he when they had finished.“Shall we walk up that way?”

Out past the little cultivated gardens,where stunted corn was growing in thefutile hope that it might come to ear, theyfollowed the road which led into themountain gorge. A rod-wide stream cameplunging down beside the way, bursting its

current upon a thousand stones here andthere, falling into green pools in which thetrout that breasted its roaring torrent mightfind a place to pant.

Here, in an acre of valley, someremnant of glacier had melted after itsslow-plowing progress of ten millionyears. The smooth, round stones which ithad dropped when it vanished in the sunlay there as thickly strewn as seeds from agigantic poppy-boll. And then, as thegorge-wedge narrowed, there were great,polished boulders, like up-peeping skulls,and riven ledges against which Indianhunters had made their fires in the olddays. And on the tipping land of themountainside, and the little strips wheresoil lodged between the rocks, thequaking-asp grew thick and tall.

There in a little nook among the trees,where trampling tourists had eaten theirluncheon upon a flat stone and left thebags and pickle-bottles behind them, theysat down. At that altitude the sunshine ofan afternoon in late August was welcome.A man whipping the stream for troutcaught his tackle in some low branches notten feet from where they sat, and swore ashe disentangled it. He passed on withoutseeing them.

“That goes to illustrate how near a manmay be to something, and not know it,”said the doctor, a smile quickening hisgrave face for a moment. “This timeyesterday I was kicking over the rubbishwhere a gambling-tent had stood inComanche, in the hope of finding a dime.”

He stopped, looked away down the

soft-tinted gorge as if wrapped inreminiscent thought. She caught her breathquickly, turning to him with a little startand gazing at his set face, upon which anew, strange somberness had fallen inthose unaccounted days.

“Did you find it?” she asked.“No, I didn’t,” he answered, coming out

of his dream. “At that hour I knew nothingabout having drawn the first number, and Ididn’t know that I was the lucky man untilpast midnight. I had just a running jump atthe chance then, and I took it.”

“And you won!” she cried, admirationin her eyes.

“I hope so,” said he, gazing earnestlyinto her face.

Her eyes would not stand; they

retreated, and a rush of blood spread overher cheeks like the reserve of an armycovering its withdrawal from the field.

“I feel like I had just begun to live,” hedeclared.

“I didn’t see you arrive this morning,”she told him, “for I turned and went awayfrom the land-office when they opened thewindow. I couldn’t stand it to see that manPeterson take what belonged to you.”

He looked at her curiously.“But you don’t ask me where I was

those two days,” said he.“You’ll tell me–if you want me to

know,” she smiled.“When I returned to the Hotel

Metropole, even more ragged anddiscreditable-appearing than I was when

you saw me this morning,” he resumed,“the proprietor’s wife asked me where I’dbeen. I told her I had been on a trip to hell,and the farther that experience is behindme the stronger my conviction that Idefined it right.

“When I left you that night after wecame back from the river, I went out tolook for young Walker, all blazing up, inmy old-time way of grabbing at things likea bullfrog at a piece of flannel, over whatyou had said about a man not alwayshaving the sense and the courage to takehold of his chances when they presented.

“Walker had talked to me about goingin with him on his sheep-ranch, under theimpression, I suppose, that I had money toinvest. Well, I hadn’t any, as you know,but I got the notion that Walker might set

me up with a flock of sheep, like they doin this country, to take care of on shares. Ihad recovered entirely from mydisappointment in failing to draw a claim,as I thought, knowing nothing about themistake in telephoning the names over.

“I used to be quick to get over thingsthat were based on hope that way,” hesmiled, turning to her for a second andscarcely noting how she leaned forward tolisten. “Just then I was all sheep. I had itplanned out ten years ahead in that twentyminutes. When a man never has hadanything to speculate in but dreams he’sterribly extravagant of them, you know. Iwas recklessly so.

“Well, I was going along with my headin the clouds, and I made a short cut to goin the back way of the biggest gambling-

tent, where I thought Walker might bewatching the games. Right there themachinery of my recollection jumps aspace. Something hit me, and a volcanoburst before my eyes.”

“Oh, I knew it! I knew it!” she cried,poignant anguish in her wailing voice. “Itold that chief of police that; I told him thatvery thing!”

“Did you go to that brute?” he asked,clutching her almost roughly by the wrist.

“William Bentley and I,” she nodded.“The chief wouldn’t help. He told us thatyou were in no danger in Comanche.”

“What else?” he asked.“Go on with the story,” said she.“Yes. I came back to

semiconsciousness with that floating

sensation which men had described to me,but which I never experienced before, andheard voices, and felt light on my closedeyes, which I hadn’t the power to open.But the first thing that I was conscious of,even before the voices and the light, wasthe smell of whisky-barrels.

“Nothing smells like a whisky-barrel.It’s neither whisky nor barrel, but whisky-barrel. Once you have smelled it younever forget. I used to pass a distillerywarehouse on my way to school twice aday, and the smell of whisky-barrels waspart of my early education; so I knew.

“From the noise of voices and the smellof the barrels I judged that I must bebehind the stage of the variety-theater tent,where they kept the stock of whisky for thebar. In a little while I was able to pick up

the identity of one of the voices. The otherone–there were two of them near me–belonged to a man I didn’t know. Youhave heard us speak, when we were backin camp, of Hun Shanklin, the gambler?”

She nodded, her face white, her lipsparted, her breath hanging between themas by a thread.

“It was his voice that I heard; I wascoming stronger every second. I made outthat they were talking of my undesirablepresence in that community. Shanklinowed me a grudge on account of a pushthat I gave his table one night when he wasrobbing a young fool with more moneythan brains by his downright crookedgame. That shove laid the old rascal’sscheme bare and kept him out of severalthousand dollars that night.

“I supposed until last night that his soleobject in assaulting me in the dark was topay off this score; but there was anotherand more important side to it than that.Shanklin and the fellow with him,whoever it was, knew that I was thewinner of Number One, and they wantedme out of the way.

“I’m not clear yet in my mind just why;but they must have had some insideinformation ahead of others in Comanchethat I, and not Peterson, was the luckyman, as reported first. For that extrawasn’t out then.”

“It was all a swindle, the extra,” shehastened to explain. “That editor knew allthe time who Number One was. He heldyour name back just so he might sell a lotmore papers. We found out about it after

we came here.”“Of course Shanklin was in with him

some way. They’re all crooks,” the doctorcommented.

“Perhaps the other man was that wickedchief of police,” said she. “I wouldn’tconsider him above it.”

“Nor I,” Slavens admitted. “But I don’tknow; I never heard him speak. I thought Iheard that other voice this morning here inMeander, but I’m not sure. I’ll belistening. I must get on with my yarn, and Iwarn you now that I’m going to tax yourcredulity and try your confidence beforeI’m through.

“I lay there gathering strength whilethey talked about putting me away, like aman who had been choked. I couldn’t seethem when I opened my eyes, for they

were back of me somewhere, moving thebarrels and boxes around. There was alantern standing on the ground near myhead, and the thought came to me that if Icould knock it over and put it out I mightmake a stagger for the outside and getclear of them. So I upset it.

“The thing didn’t go out. It lay on itsside, burning away the same as ever, butthe move I had made tipped it off to themthat I wasn’t all in. I heard Shanklinswearing as he came toward me, and Ipicked up what strength I had, intending tomake a fight for it. I wasn’t as brisk as Ibelieved myself to be, unluckily, and I hadonly made it to my knees when they piledon to me from behind. I suppose one ofthem hit me with a board or something.There’s a welt back there on my head, but

it don’t amount to anything.”“The cowards!” she breathed, panting

in indignation.“I wish we could find a name in some

language that would describe them,” saidhe; “I’ve not been able to satisfy myselfwith anything that English offers. Nomatter. The next thing that I knew I wasbeing drenched with icy water. It wassplashing over my head and running downmy face, and the restorative qualities of ithas not been overrated by young ladieswho write stories about fainting beautiesfor the magazines, I can hereby testify. Itbrought me around speedily, although Iwas almost deaf on account of a roaring,which I attributed to the return circulationin my battered head, and sickened by anundulating, swirling motion by which I

seemed to be carried along.“I felt myself cramped, knees against

my chin, and struggled to adjust myposition more comfortably. I couldn’tmove anything but my hands, andexploration with them quickly showed methat I was in a box, rather tight on sidesand bottom–one of those tongue-and-groove cases such as they ship dry goodsin–with the top rather open, as if it hadbeen nailed up with scraps. The waterwas splashing through it and drenchingme, and I knew in a flash, as well as ifthey had told me what they were going todo, what they had done. They had cartedme to the river and thrown me in.”

“The cañon! The cañon!” said she,shuddering and covering her face with herhands. “Oh, that terrible water–that awful

place!”“But I am here, sitting beside you, with

the sun, which I never hoped to see again,shining on my face,” he smiled, strokingher hair comfortingly, as one mightassuage the terror of a child.

Agnes lifted her head in wonderingadmiration.

“You can speak of it calmly!” shewondered, “and you went through it, whileit gives me a chill of fear even to thinkabout it! Did you–come to shore beforeyou entered the cañon?”

“No; I went through it from end to end. Idon’t know how far the river carried mein that box. It seemed miles. But the cañonis only two miles long, they say. The boxfloated upright mainly, being pretty wellbalanced by my weight in the bottom, but

at times it was submerged and caughtagainst rocks, where the current held itand the water poured in until I thought Ishould be drowned that way.

“I was working to break the boards offthe top, and did get one off, when thewhole thing went to pieces against a rock.I was rolled and beaten and smashedabout a good bit just then. Arms wereuseless. The current was so powerful thatI couldn’t make a swimming-stroke. Mychief recollection of those few troubledmoments is of my arms being stretched outabove my head, as if they were ropedthere with the weight of my body swingingon them. I supposed that was my finish.”

“But you went through!” she whispered,touching him softly on the arm as if torecall him from the memory of that

despairing time.“I came up against a rock like a dead

fish,” said he, “my head above water,luckily. The current pinned me there andheld me from slipping down. That savedme, for I hadn’t strength to catch hold. Thepressure almost finished me, but a fewgasps cleared my lungs of water, and thathelped some.

“There is no need for me to pretend thatI know how I got on that rock, for I don’tknow. A man loses the conscious relationwith life in such a poignant crisis. Hedoes heroic things, and overcomestremendous odds, fighting to save what theAlmighty has lent him for a little while.But I got on that rock. I lay there with justas little life in me as could kindle andwarm under the ashes again. I might have

perished of the chill of that place if ithadn’t been that the rock was a big one,big enough for me to tramp up and down afew feet and warm myself when I wasable.

“I don’t know how far along the cañon Iwas, or how long it was after day brokeover the world outside before the graylight sifted down to me. It revealed to methe fact that my rock of refuge was aboutmidway of the stream, which waspeculiarly free of obstructions just there. Itseemed to me that the hand of Providencemust have dashed me against it, and fromthat gleam I gathered the conviction that itwas not ordained for me to perish there. Icould not see daylight out of either end ofthe cañon, for its walls are winding, andof course I had nothing but a guess as to

how far I had come.“There was no foothold in the cliffs on

either hand that I could see, and thepounding of that heavy volume of waterdown the fall of the cañon seemed to makethe cliffs tremble. I had to get ashoreagainst the cliff-side, somehow, if I everintended to get out, and I intended to getout, no two ways about it. I might drown ifI plunged in, but I might not. And I wascertain to starve if I stuck to the rock. So Itook off my coat, which the river hadspared me, and let myself down from thelower end of the rock. I had that rollingand thrashing experience all over again,still not quite so bad, for there wasdaylight to cheer me every time my headgot clear of the water.

“There’s no use pulling the story out. I

made it. I landed, and I found that I couldwork my way along the side of the cliffand over the fallen masses by thewaterside. It wasn’t so bad after that.

“My hope was that I might find a placewhere a breach in the cliff would offer meescape that way, but there was none. Thestrip of sky that I could see looked nowider than my hand. I saw the light at themouth of the cañon when it was beginningto fall dusk in there. I suppose it wasalong the middle of the afternoon.”

“We were over there about then,” saidshe, “thinking you might have gone in totry for that reward. If we only hadknown!”

“You could have come over to the otherend with a blanket,” said he, touching herhand in a little communicative expression

of thankfulness for her interest. “There is alittle gravelly strand bordering the river atthat end. After its wild plunge it comes outquite docile, and not half so noisy as itgoes in. I reached that strip of easy goingjust as it was growing too dark for safegroping over the rocks, and when I gotthere my legs bent like hot candles.

“I crawled the rest of the way; when Igot out I must have been a sight to see. Iknow that I almost frightened out of hisremaining wits a sheep-herder who waswatering his flock. He didn’t believe that Icame through the cañon; he didn’t believeanything I said, not even when I told himthat I was cold and hungry.”

“The unfeeling beast!”“Oh, no; he was just about an average

man. He had a camp close by, and let me

warm and dry myself by his fire; gave mesome coffee and food when he saw that Iwasn’t going to hurt him, but I don’tbelieve he shut an eye that entire night. Hewas so anxious to get rid of me in themorning that he gave me an old hat andcoat, and that was the rig I wore when Ireturned to Comanche.”

“The hotel-keeper gave you themessage that we left?” she asked.

“He was surly and ungracious, said hedidn’t know where you were. I was of theopinion that you had turned my baggageover to him, and that he found itconvenient to forget all about it.”

“We brought it here–it’s in my roomnow; and we told him when we left wherewe were going, Mr. Bentley and I.”

“Well, what little money I had was in

my instrument-case,” said he. “So I wasup against it right. I knew there was no usein lodging a complaint against Shanklin,for I had no proof against him, and nevercould convince a jury that I was in myright mind if I should tell my story incourt. So I let that pass.”

“It was a miraculous deliverance fromdeath!” Agnes exclaimed, taking herbreath freely again. Tears mounted to hereyes as she measured Dr. Slavens’ ruggedframe as if with a new interest inbeholding a common pattern which hadwithstood so much.

He told her of meeting Mackenzie, andof finding the lost die; of the raid they hadmade by means of it on Shanklin’s money;of his discovery of the midnight extra inthe pockets of the gambler’s coat.

“So there you have it all,” said he,smiling in embarrassment as if the relationof so much about himself seemedinexcusable. “Anyway, all of the first partof the story. The rest is all on dry land,and not interesting at all.”

“But you hadn’t had time to look overthe land; you didn’t know the goodlocations from the worthless,” said she.“How did you pick out the claim you filedon?”

“Well, there’s a little more of the story,it seems, after all. There was a plotbetween Shanklin and another to filePeterson on a certain tract and then buyhim out, I suppose.”

He told her of the telegram signed“Jerry,” and of Shanklin’s reply.

“So I concluded,” he said, “that if the

land described by their numbers wasvaluable to them it would be valuable tome. That my guess was good, I had proofwhen I filed. The chap who was pilotingPeterson up to the window, and who Isuspect was the ‘Jerry’ of the message,wanted to know where I got the figures.He wasn’t a bit nice about it, either.”

A swift pallor overspread AgnesHorton’s face; a look of fright stood in hereyes.

“Was he a tall man, dark, with heavyeyebrows?” she inquired, waiting hisanswer with parted lips.

“That fits him,” said he. “Do you knowhim?”

“It’s Jerry Boyle, the Governor’s son.He is Walker’s friend; Walker broughthim to camp the day after you

disappeared. He had an invitation for Mrs.Reed and her party from his mother–youknow they had been expecting it. And hesaid–he said––”

“He said––”“That is, he told Walker that he saw

you–drunk at two o’clock that morning.”“Hum-m,” rumbled the doctor, running

his hands through his hair. “Hum-m! Ithought I knew that voice!”

He got to his feet in his agitation. Agnesrose quickly, placing her hand on his arm.

“Was he the other man?” she asked.“Well, it’s a serious charge to lay

against the Governor’s son,” he replied,“but I’m afraid he was the other man.”

There was such a look of consternationin her face that he sought to calm her.

“He’s not likely to go any further withit, though,” Slavens added.

“Oh, you don’t know him. You don’tknow him!” Agnes protested earnestly.

He searched her face with a quickglance.

“Do you?” he asked, calmly.“There is something bad in his face–

something hiding, it seems to me,” shesaid, without show of conscious evasion.

“I’ll call him, no matter what move hemakes,” Slavens declared, lookingspeculatively across the gorge. “Look howhigh the sun is up the wall over yonder. Ithink we’d better be going back.”

“Oh, I’ve kept you too long,” she criedin self-reproach. “And to think you werein the saddle all night.”

“Yes; I lost the trail and rode a goodmany miles out of the way,” said he. “Butfor that I’d have been on hand an hoursooner.”

“Well, you were in time, anyway.”“And I’ve drawn blindly,” he laughed.

“I’ve got a piece of land marked‘Grazing,’ on the chart. It may be worth afortune, and it may be worth twenty centsan acre. But I’m going to see it through.When are you going to file?”

“My number comes on the fifth day, butlapses may bring me in line tomorrow,”she answered. “Smith, the stage-driver,knows of a piece adjoining the one he hasselected for himself, if nobody ‘beats himto it,’ as he says. He has given me thenumbers, and I’m going to take his wordfor it. About half of it can be irrigated, and

it fronts on the river. The rest is on thehills.”

“I hope you may get it. Smith ought toknow what’s good in this country andwhat isn’t. When you have it you’ll leadon the water and plant the rose?”

“And plant the rose,” she repeatedsoftly.

“Don’t you think,” he asked, taking herhand tenderly as she walked by his side,“that you’d better let me do the roughwork for you now?”

“You are too generous, and too trustingin one unknown,” she faltered.

The beat of hoofs around the sharp turnin the road where it led out into the valleyin which Meander lay, fell sharp andsudden on their ears. There the way was

close-hemmed with great boulders, amongwhich it turned and wound, and theyscarcely had time to find a standing-placebetween two riven shoulders of stonewhen the horseman swept around the turnat a gallop.

He rode crouching in his saddle as if toreach forward and seize some fleeingobject of pursuit, holding his animal insuch slack control that he surely must haveridden them down if they had not givenhim the entire way. His hat was blownback from his dark face, which bore ascowl, and his lips were moving as if hemuttered as he rode. Abreast of the pair hesaw them where they stood, and touchedhis hat in salute.

In the dust that he left behind theyresumed their way. Dr. Slavens had drawn

Agnes Horton’s hand through his arm; hefelt that it was cold and trembling. Helooked at her, perplexity in his kind eyes.

“That’s the man who stood withPeterson at the head of the line,” he said.

“Yes; Jerry Boyle,” she whispered,looking behind her fearfully. “Let’s hurryon! I’m afraid,” she added with theineffectiveness of dissimulation, “that I’vekept you from your sleep too long.Together with your awful experience andthat long ride, you must be shattered forthe want of rest.”

“Yet I could stand up under a good dealmore,” he rejoined, his thoughts trailingJerry Boyle up the shadowy gorge. “But Iwas asking you, before that fellow brokein––”

She raised her hand appealingly.

“Don’t, please. Please–not now!”

CHAPTER XIIISENTIMENT AND NAILS

Vast changes had come over the face ofthat land in a few days. Every quarter-section within reach of water for domesticuses had its tent or its dugout in thehillside or its hastily built cabin of planks.Where miles of unpeopled desert hadstretched lonely and gray a week before,the smoke of three thousand fires rose upeach morning now, proclaiming a newdomain in the kingdom of husbandry.

On the different levels of that ruggedcountry, men and women had planted theirtent-poles and their hopes. Unacquaintedwith its rigors, they were unappalled by

the hardships, which lay ahead of them,dimly understood. For that early autumnweather was benignant, and the sun wasmellow on the hills.

Speculation had not turned out asprofitable as those who had come topractice it had expected. Outside of theanxiety of Jerry Boyle and others to getpossession of the apparently worthlesspiece of land upon which Dr. Slavens hadfiled, there were no offers for therelinquishment of homesteads. That beingthe case, a great many holders of lownumbers failed to file. They wanted, nothomes, but something without muchendeavor, with little investment and nosweat. So they had passed on to prey uponthe thrifty somewhere else, leaving theland to those whose hearts were hungry

for it because it was land, with the widehorizon of freedom around it, and a placeto make home.

And these turned themselves to bravelyleveling with road-scrapers and teams thehummocks where the sagebrush grew,bringing in surveyors to strike the levelfor them in the river-shore, plottingditches to carry the water to their fields.Many of them would falter before the fightwas done; many would lose heart in theface of such great odds before the greenblessing of alfalfa should rise out of thesullen ground.

Many a widow was there, whose heartwas buried in a grave back East, and manya gray man, making his first independentstart. Always the West has held up itspromise of freedom to men, and the hope

of it has led them farther than the hope ofgold.

About midway between Meander andComanche, Agnes Horton was located onthe land which Smith had selected for her.Smith had retired from driving the stageand had established a sort of commercialcenter on his homestead, where he had astore for supplying the settlers’ needs. Healso had gone into the business ofcontracting to clear lands of sagebrush andlevel them for irrigation, having had alarge experience in that work in otherparts of the state.

Agnes had pitched her tent on the river-bank, in a pleasant spot where there wasplenty of grazing for her horse. Just acrossher line, and only a few hundred yards up-stream, a family was encamped, putting up

a permanent home, making a recklessinroad among the cottonwoods whichgrew along the river on their land. Acrossthe stream, which was fordable there, ayoung man and his younger wife, with thesaddle-marks of the city on them, had theirwhite nest. Agnes could hear the bridesinging early in the morning, when the suncame up and poured its melted gold overthat hopeful scene, with never a cloudbefore its face.

Twenty miles farther along, towardComanche, Dr. Slavens had pitched histent among the rocks on the high, barrenpiece of land which he had selectedblindly, guided by Hun Shanklin’s figures.He was not a little surprised, and at thesame time cheered and encouraged, tofind, when he came to locating it, that it

was the spot where they had seen Shanklinand another horseman on the afternoon oftheir stage excursion, when the two hadbeen taken by Smith as men of evil intent,and the doctor had been called to the boxto handle the lines.

His neighbors in the rich valley belowhim regarded him with doubt of hisbalance, and that was a current suspicionup and down the river among those whodid not know the story. But the politiciansin Meander, and those who were on handbefore the filing began, who knew howJerry Boyle had nursed Axel Peterson, andhow he had dropped the Scandinavianwhen the stranger rode up unexpectedlyand filed on Number One, believed thatthe doctor had held inside information,and that his claim was worth millions.

But if the quarter-section containedanything of value, there was no evidenceof it that Dr. Slavens could find. It wasabout the crudest and most unfinishedpiece of earth that he ever had seenoutside the Buckhorn Cañon. It looked asif the materials for making something on atremendous pattern had been assembledthere, thrown down promiscuously, andabandoned.

Ledges of red rock, which seemed as iffires had scorched them for ages, stoodedgewise in the troubled earth, theirseamed faces toward the sky. It was as ifnature had put down that job temporarily,to hurry off and finish the river, or thehills beyond the river, and never hadfound time to come back. Tumbledfragments of stone, huge as houses,

showing kinship with nothing in theirsurroundings, stood here thickly in a littlecup between the seared hills, andbalanced there upon the sides of buttesamong the streaks of blue shale.

A little grass grew here and there incarpet-size splotches, now yellow anddry, while that in the valley was at itsbest. Spiked plants, which lookedtropical, and which were as green duringthe rigors of winter as during the doubtfulblessings of summer, stood on the slopes,their thousand bayonets guarding againsttrespass where only pressing necessitycould drive a human foot. Sheep-sage,which grew low upon the ground, andunostentatious and dun, was found here,where no flocks came to graze; this wasthe one life-giving thing which sprang

from that blasted spot.The lowest elevation on the doctor’s

claim was several hundred feet above theriver, from which he hauled the waterwhich he drank and used for culinarypurposes. If there was wealth in the landand rocks, nature had masked it very wellindeed. The pick and the hammer revealednothing; long hours of prying andexploring yielded no gleam of metal toconfirm his fast-shrinking belief that hehad pitched on something good.

His only comfort in those first days wasthe thought of the money which he hadtaken from Shanklin, with the aid of thegambler’s own honest little die. That cashwas now safe in the bank at Meander.There was enough of it, everything elsefailing, to take him–and somebody–back

to his own place when she was ready togo; enough to do that and get theautomobile, take the world on its vainside, and pull success away from it. Hewas able for it now; no doubt of hisability to climb over any obstaclewhatever remained after his wrestlingmatch with the river in the BuckhornCañon. There was no job ahead of himthat he could even imagine, as big as that.

Nobody had come forward to make himan offer for his place. Jerry Boyle had notappeared, nothing had been seen of theman who accosted him at the window themorning he filed. Although he hadremained in Meander two days after thatevent, nobody had approached him inregard to the land which so many hadseemed anxious to get before it came into

his ownership. Boyle he had not seensince the evening Dr. Slavens and Agnesmet him in the gorge riding in such anxioushaste.

Perhaps the value of the claim, if valuelay in it, was the secret of a few, and thosefew had joined forces to starve out hiscourage and hope. If nobody cameforward with a voluntary offer for theland, it never would be worth proving upon and paying the government the priceasked for it. All over that country therewas better land to be had without cost.

As the days slipped past and nobodyappeared with ten thousand dollarsbulging his pockets, Slavens began to talkto himself among the solitudes of hisdesert. He called himself a foremostexample of stupidity and thick-headedness

for not giving ear to the man who wantedto talk business the day he filed on thatoutcast corner of the earth. Then, growingstubborn, he would determine to pay thegovernment the purchase price, clean upon it at once, and take title to it. Then, if ithad the stuff in it, they might come aroundwith some sort of offer in time.

No matter; he would stick to it himselfuntil winter. That always was his finalconclusion, influenced, perhaps, by a hopethat the roughness of winter wouldspeedily convince “somebody” that rosesand dreams of roses belonged to thesummer. He would have nothing more topay on the homestead for a year. Andmuch could happen in a year, in a day;even an hour.

Slavens had a good tent in a sheltered

place, which he believed he could makecomfortable for winter, and he meant tosend for some books. Meantime, he hadtobacco to smoke and a rifle to practicewith, and prospects ahead, no matterwhich way the cat might jump.

The doctor’s target practice was astrong contributing force to the generalbelief among his neighbors that he wasderanged. They said he imagined that hewas repelling invaders from his claim,which would be valuable, maybe, to aman who wanted to start a rattlesnakefarm. But Slavens had a motive, moreweighty than the pastime that thisseemingly idle pursuit afforded. Therewas a time of settlement ahead betweenhim and Jerry Boyle for the part theGovernor’s son had borne in his assault.

When the day for that adjustment came,Slavens intended to seek it.

Concerning Shanklin, he was in adegree satisfied with what he had done.The loss of that much money, he believed,was a greater drain on the old crook than agallon of blood. Slavens felt that it hurtShanklin in the gambler’s one sensitivespot. There was a great deal owing to himyet from that man, in spite of what he hadforced Shanklin to pay, and he meant tocollect the balance before he left thatstate.

So the rifle practice went ahead, day byday, supplemented by a turn now and thenwith Hun Shanklin’s old black pistol,which Mackenzie had turned over toSlavens as part of his lawful spoil.

While Dr. Slavens banged away among

his rocks, not knowing whether he was avictim of his own impetuosity or thepeculiarly favored son of fortune, AgnesHorton, in her tent beside the river, wasundergoing an adjustment of vision whichwas assisting her to see startlingly thingsexactly as they were. The enchantment ofdistance had fallen away. When she cameto grips with the land, then its wildunfriendliness was revealed, and themagnitude of the task ahead of her wasmade discouragingly plain.

All over her cultivable strip of landwhich lay between the river and the hills,the gray sage grew in clumps, each clusteranchoring the soil around it in a littlemound. Through many years the earth hadblown and sifted around the saplessshrubs until they seemed buried to the

ears, and hopeless of ever getting outagain, but living on their gray life in a grayworld, waiting for the best.

All of this ground must be leveledbefore it could receive the benefits ofirrigation, and the surprising thing to herwas how much wood the land yieldedduring this operation. Each littlesagebrush had at least twenty times asmuch timber under the earth as it hadabove, and each thick, tough root was aretarding and vexatious obstacle in theway of scraper and plow. Smith said itwas sometimes necessary in that countryto move three acres of land in order tomake one.

But Smith was enthusiastically for it.He kept asserting that it paid, and pointedto the small bit of agricultural land that

there was in the whole expanse of thatreservation, for an example, to prove hispoint. There was room for otherindustries, such as mining and grazing, butthe man who could grow food and foragefor the others was the one who would takedown the money from the hook. That wasSmith’s contention.

He told Agnes that she could lift enoughwater with a wheel in the river to irrigatea garden and more, but there was no needof putting in the wheel until spring. Therains of that season would bring up theseed, and while it was making the most ofthe moisture in the ground she could besetting her wheel.

“A person’s got to plan ahead in thiscountry,” said Smith. “You must know to askinned knuckle just what you’ll need a

year, or five years, ahead here, if you evermake it go worth havin’. It ain’t like it isback where you come from. There you cango it more or less hit-or-miss, and hitabout as often as you miss. Here you’vegot to know.”

Smith was moving to organize thesettlers along the river into a company toput in a canal which would water all theirland, the chief capital to be elbow-grease;the work to be done that fall and winter.Smith was indeed the head and inspirationof all enterprise in that new place. Peopleto whom that country was strange, and thatincluded nearly all of them, looked to himfor advice, and regarded with admirationand wonder his aptness in answeringeverything.

Agnes was doubtful of the future, in

spite of her big, brave talk to Dr. Slavensin the days before the drawing. Now thatshe had the land, and a better piece of itthan she had hoped for, considering herhigh number, she felt weakly unfit to takeit in hand and break it to the condition ofdocility in which it would tolerate fruit-trees, vines, and roses.

It cheered her considerably, andrenewed her faith in her sex, to see someof the women out with their teams,preparing their land for the seeding nextspring. More than one of them had no manto lean on, and no money to hire one totake the rough edge off for her. In thatrespect Agnes contrasted her easiersituation with theirs. She had the means,slender as they might be, indeed, toemploy somebody to do the work in the

field. But the roses she reserved for herown hands, putting them aside as oneconceals a poem which one has written, ora hope of which he is afraid.

In the first few days of her residence onher land, Agnes experienced all thechanges of mercurial rising and falling ofspirits, plans, dreams. Some days shesaddled her horse, which she had boughtunder the doctor’s guidance at Meander,and rode, singing, over the hills, exaltedby the wild beauty of nature entirelyunadorned. There was not yet a house inthe whole of what had been the IndianReservation, and there never had been onewhich could be properly called such.

Here was a country, bigger than any oneof several of the far eastern states, as yetunchanged by the art of man. The vastness

of it, and the liberty, would lay hold of herat such times with rude power, making herfeel herself a part of it, as old a part of itas its level-topped buttes and ramparts ofriven stone.

Then again it frightened her, giving hera feeling such as she remembered oncewhen she found herself alone in a boatupon a great lake, with the shore left farbehind and none in sight beyond the mistyhorizon. She seemed small then, andinadequate for the rough struggle that layahead.

Smith noted this, and read the symptomslike a doctor.

“You’ve got to keep your nerve,” headvised, bluntly kind, “and not let thelonesomeness git a hold on you, MissHorton.”

“The lonesomeness?” she echoed. Itseemed a strange-sounding phrase.

“It’s a disease,” Smith proceeded, “andI suppose you git it anywhere; but you gitit harder here. I’ve seen men take it, andturn gray and lose their minds, runnin’sheep. After you once git over it you’rebroke. You wouldn’t leave this country fora purty on a chain.”

“I hope I’ll not get it,” she laughed.“How do people act when they take thelonesomeness?”

“Well, some acts one way and someacts another,” said Smith. “Some mopesand run holler-eyed, and some kicks andcomplains and talk about ‘God’s country’till it makes you sick. Just like this wasn’tas much God’s country as any place youcan name! It’s all His’n when you come

down to the p’int, I reckon. But how awoman acts when she takes it I can’t somuch say for I never knew but one that hadit. She up and killed a man.”

“Oh, that was terrible! Did she lose hermind?”

“Well, I don’t know but you could sayshe did. You see she married a sheepman.He brought her out here from Omaha, andleft her up there on the side of themountain in a little log cabin aboveMeander while he went off foolin’ aroundwith them sheep, the way them fellersdoes. I tell you when you git sheep on thebrain you don’t eat at home more thanonce in three months. You live around in asheep-wagon, cuttin’ tails off of lambs,and all such fool things as that.”

“Why, do they cut the poor things’ tails

off?” she asked, getting the notion thatSmith was having a little fun at herexpense.

“They all do it,” he informed her, “tokeep the sand and burrs out of ’em. If theylet ’em.grow long they git so heavy withsand it makes ’em.poor to pack ’em. theysay, I don’t know myself; I’m not asheepman.”

“But why did she shoot a man? Becausehe cut off lambs’ tails?”

“No, she didn’t,” said Smith. “She wentout of her head. The feller she shot was astorekeeper’s son down in Meander, andhe got to ridin’ up there to talk to her andcheer her up. The lonesomeness it hadsuch a hold on her, thinkin’ about Omahaand houses, and pie-annos playin’ in everyone of ’em, that she up and run off with

that feller when he promised to take herback there. They started to cut across tothe U.P. in a wagon–more than a hundredmiles. That night she come to her headwhen he got too fresh, and she had toshoot him to make him behave.”

“Her husband should have been shot, itseems to me, for leaving her that way,”Agnes said.

“A man orto stick to his wife in thiscountry, specially if she’s new to it andnot broke,” said Smith; “and if I had one,ma’am, I’d stick to her.”

Smith looked at her as he said this, withconviction and deep earnestness in hiseyes.

“I’m sure you would,” she agreed.“And I’d be kind to her,” he declared.

“There’s no need to tell me that,” sheassured him. “You’re kind to everybody.”

“And if she didn’t like the name,” Smithwent on significantly, “I’d have itchanged!”

“I’m sure she’d like it–she’d be veryungrateful if she didn’t,” Agnes replied,somewhat amused by his earnestness, butafraid to show it. “I’m going to orderlumber for my house in a day or two.”

Smith switched from sentiment tobusiness in a flash.

“Let me sell you the nails,” herequested. “I can give ’em to you as cheapas you can git ’em in Meander.”

CHAPTER XIV“LIKE A WOLF”

Agnes had been on her homestead almosta week. She was making a brave“stagger,” as Smith described allamateurish efforts, toward cutting up somedry cottonwood limbs into stove-lengthsbefore her tent on the afternoon that JerryBoyle rode across the ford.

While she had not forgotten him, shehad begun to hope that he had gone back toComanche, and his sudden appearancethere gave her an unpleasant shock. Hedrew up near her with a friendly word,and dismounted with a cowboy swing tohis long body and legs.

“Well, Agnes, you dodged me inMeander,” said he. “You’ve located quitea piece up the river and off the stage-road,haven’t you?”

“But not far enough, it seems,” sheanswered, a little weariness in her voice,as of one who turns unwillingly to face atlast something which has been put awayfor an evil day.

“No need for us to take up old quarrels,Agnes,” he chided with a show ofgentleness.

“I don’t want to quarrel with you, Jerry;I never did quarrel with you,” shedisclaimed.

“‘Misunderstandings’ would be a betterword then, I suppose,” he corrected. “Butyou could have knocked me over with afeather when you repudiated me over there

at Comanche that day. I suppose I shouldhave known that you were under an aliasbefore I made that break, but I didn’t knowit, Agnes, believe me.”

“How could you?” she said, irritably.“That was nothing; let it rest. But youunderstand that it was for the sake ofothers that the alias was–and is–used; notfor my own.”

“Of course, Agnes. But what do youwant to be wasting yourself on this roughcountry for? There are more suitableplaces in Wyoming for you than thislonesome spot. What’s the object,anyhow?”

“I am building here the City of Refuge,”said she, “and its solitude will be itswalls.”

“Ready for the time when he comes

back, I suppose?”She nodded assent slowly, as if

grudging him that share of the knowledgeof her inner life.

“Poor old kid, you’ve got a job aheadof you!” he commiserated.

A resentful flush crept into her face, butshe turned aside, gathering her sticks as ifto hide her displeasure. Boyle laughed.

“Pardon the familiarity–‘vulgarfamiliarity’ you used to call it–Agnes. But‘what’s bred in the bone,’ you know.”

“It doesn’t matter so much when there’sno one else around, but it’s awkwardbefore people.”

“You wouldn’t marry me on account ofmy tongue!” said he with sourreminiscence.

“It wasn’t so much that, Jerry,” shechided, “and you know it perfectly well.”

“Oh, well, if a man does take a drinknow and then––” he discounted.

“But many drinks, and frequently, arequite different,” she reproved.

“We’ll not fuss about it.”“Far from it,” she agreed.“I didn’t come down to open old

matters, although I suppose you thoughtthat was my intention when you dodgedme and stuck so close to that tin-horndoctor up at Meander.”

“It’s comforting to know you haven’tcome for–that,” said she, ignoring hiscoarse reference to Slavens.

“No; things change a good deal in fouryears’ time, even sentiment–and names.”

“But it wouldn’t be asking too much toexpect you to respect some of thechanges?”

“I don’t suppose,” he mused, “that manypeople around here care whether a man’sname is the one he goes by, or whether it’sthe one he gets his mail under at the post-office at Comanche. That’s generallybelieved to be a man’s own business. Ofcourse, he might carry it too far, but that’shis own lookout.”

“Are you on your way to Comanche?”she asked.

Boyle motioned her to the trunk of thecottonwood whose branches she had beenchopping into fuel, with graceful andunspoken invitation to sit down and hearthe tale of his projected adventures.

“I’ve been wearing a pair of these high-

heeled boots the past few days for the firsttime since I rode the range,” he explained,“and they make my ankles tired when Istand around.”

He seated himself beside her on thefallen log.

“No, I’m not going to Comanche,” saidhe. “I came down here to see you. Theygave me the worst horse in the stable atMeander, and he’ll never be able to carryme back there without a long rest. I’llhave to make camp by the river.”

She glanced at his horse, on the saddleof which hung, cowboy fashion, a bag ofgrub which also contained a frying-panand coffeepot, she knew, from having seenmany outfits like it in the stores atComanche. A blanket was rolled behindthe high cantle. As for the horse, it seemed

as fresh and likely as if it had come threemiles instead of thirty. She believed fromthat evidence that Jerry’s talk about beingforced to make camp was all contrived.He had come prepared for a stay.

“I got into the habit of carrying thosetraps around with me when I was a kid,”he explained, following her eyes, “andyou couldn’t drive me two miles awayfrom a hotel without them. They come inhandy, too, in a pinch like this, I’m here totell you.”

“It’s something like a wise man takinghis coat, I suppose.”

“Now you’ve got it,” commendedBoyle.

“But Smith, who used to drive the stage,could have fixed you up all right,” she toldhim. “He’s got a tent to lodge travelers in

down by his new store. You must haveseen it as you passed?”

“Yes; and there’s another crook!” saidBoyle with plain feeling on the matter.“But I didn’t come down here to see Smithor anybody else but you. It’s business.”

He looked at her with severity in hisdark face, as if to show her that allthoughts of tenderness and sentiment hadgone out of his mind.

“I’m listening,” said she.“There’s a man down here a few miles

spreadin’ himself around on a piece ofproperty that belongs to me,” declaredBoyle, “and I want you to help me get himoff.”

She looked at him in amazement.“I don’t understand what you mean,”

said she.“Slavens.”“Dr. Slavens? Why, he’s on his own

homestead, which he filed upon regularly.I can’t see what you mean by saying itbelongs to you.”

“I mean that he stole the description ofthat land at the point of a gun, that’s what Imean. It belongs to me; I paid money forit; and I’m here to take possession.”

“You’ve got your information wrong,”she denied indignantly. “Dr. Slavensdidn’t steal the description. More thanthat, he could make it pretty uncomfortablefor certain people if he should bringcharges of assault and intended murderagainst them, Mr. Jerry Boyle!”

“Oh, cut out that high-handshake stuff,

Miss Agnes Horton-Gates, or Gates-Horton, and come down to brass tacks!The time was when you could walk up anddown over me like a piece of hall carpet,and I’d lie there and smile. That day’sgone by. I’ve got wool on me now like abellwether, and I’m shaggy at the flankslike a wolf. I can be as mean as a wolf,too, when the time comes. You can’t walkup and down over me any more!”

“Nobody wants to walk up and downover you!” she protested. “But if you wantto put Dr. Slavens off that homestead, goand do it. You’ll not draw me into any ofyour schemes and murderous plots, andyou’ll find Dr. Slavens very well able totake care of himself, too!”

“Oh, sure he can!” scoffed Boyle. “Youdidn’t seem to think so the time you turned

Comanche inside out hunting him, when hewas layin’ drunk under a tent. I don’tknow what kind of a yarn he put up whenhe came back to you, but I’ve got thegoods on that quack, I’ll give you tounderstand!”

Boyle was dropping his polish, whichwas only a superficial coating at the best.In the bone he was a cowboy, belonging tothe type of those who, during the rustlers’war, hired themselves out at five dollars aday, and five dollars a head for every manthey could kill. Boyle himself had been astripling in those days, and the roughnessof his training among a tribe of asdesperate and unwashed villains as everdisgraced the earth underlay his fairexterior, like collar-welts on a horsewhich has been long at pasture.

“I’m not under obligations to keepanybody’s secrets in this country when itcomes to that,” Boyle reminded her.

“It couldn’t be expected of you,” shesighed.

“You’re close to that feller,” hepursued, “and he’s as soft as cheese onyou. All right; pool your troubles and goon off together for all I care, but beforeyou turn another wheel you’ll put thecrowbar under that man that’ll lift him offof that land; savvy? Well, that’s whatyou’ll do!”

“You can spread it all up and down theriver that I’m living here under anassumed name, and you may tell themanything else–all that is true–that you thinkyou ought to tell, just as soon as you wantto begin,” she said, rising and moving

away from him in scorn. “I’ll not help you;I couldn’t help you if I would.”

Boyle got up, his face in a scowl, andas she retreated toward her tent, followedher in his peggy, forward-tilting cowboywalk.

“Say,” he hailed, unveiling at once allthe rudeness of his character, “come backhere a minute and take your medicine!”

She paused while he came up.“Jerry,” said Agnes gently, turning upon

him eyes full of sadness and lost hope,“get on your horse and go away. Don’tforce me to think worse of you than I havethought. Go away, Jerry; go away!”

Boyle’s face was flushed, and hisnaturally pop-eyed expression was greatlyaggravated by his anger. It seemed that his

eyes were straining to leap out, and hadforced themselves forward until thewhites showed beyond the lids.

“Yes, that Slavens is one of these menthat’d eat hot rocks for the woman heloves,” he sneered. “Well, it’s up to himto show how far he’ll go for you.”

“It’s unworthy of even you, Jerry, totalk like that,” she reproved. “As far as Iknow, I am nothing more to Dr. Slavensthan any other friend. If you want hisclaim, why don’t you go down there andbuy it, as you were ready to buy it fromPeterson if you could have filed him onit?”

“Because I can get it cheaper,” saidBoyle. “I’ll not give him ten cents for it.It’s your job to go and tell him that I wanthim to go over to Meander and pay up on

that land, and I’ll furnish the money for it,but before he pays he must sign arelinquishment to me.”

“I’ll not do it!” she declared.“If you won’t lead, I’ll have to try

spurs, and I don’t like to do that, Agnes,for the sake of old days.”

“Forget the old days.”“I’ll go you,” said he.“There’s nothing that you can tell these

people about me that will lower me muchin their estimation. None of them, exceptSmith, knows me very well, anyhow. Idon’t care so much for their opinion, forI’m not here to please them.”

Boyle placed his hand on her shoulderand looked gravely into her face.

“But if I was to show proof to the land

commissioner that you’d got possession ofa homestead here through fraud andperjury, then where would you land?” heasked.

“It isn’t true!” she cried, fear risingwithin her and driving away the color ofcourage which to that moment had flownin her face.

“It is true, Agnes,” he protested. “Youregistered under the name of AgnesHorton and made affidavit that it was yourlawful name; you entered this land underthe same name, and took title to it in thepreliminaries, and that’s fraud andperjury, if I know anything about thedefinition of either term.”

“Do you mean to tell me, Jerry,” shefaltered, “that I’d have to go to prison ifDr. Slavens wouldn’t consent to save me

by giving up his claim to you?”“Well, the disgrace of it would amount

to about the same, even if a jury refused tosend you up,” said he brutally, grinning alittle over the sight of her consternation.“You’d be indicted, you see, by theFederal grand jury, and arrested by theUnited States marshal, and locked up.Then you’d be tried, and your picturewould be put in the papers, and the devilwould be to pay all around. You’d loseyour homestead anyhow, and your right toever take another. Then where would theCity of Refuge be?”

“But you wouldn’t do it,” she appealed,placing her hand on his arm, looking intohis face beseechingly, the sudden weightof her trouble making her look old. “Youwouldn’t do it, Jerry, would you?”

“Wouldn’t I?” he mocked disdainfully.“Well, you watch me!”

“It’s a cowardly way to use anadvantage over a woman!”

“Never mind,” grinned Boyle. “I’ll takecare of that. If that tin-horn doctor wantsto toe the line and do what I say to keepyou out of a Federal pen, then let him steplively. If he does it, then you can stay herein peace as long as you live, for anythingI’ll ever say or do. You’ll be AgnesHorton to me as long as my tongue’s inworkin’ order, and I’ll never know anymore about where you came from or whatpassed before in your history than Smithdown there.”

Agnes stood with her head drooping, asif the blackmailer’s words had taken awaythe last shoring prop of her ambition and

hope. After a while she raised her white,pained face.

“And if I refuse to draw the doctor intothis to save myself?” she asked.

“Then I guess you’ll have to suffer, oldkid!” said he.

Boyle saw the little tremor which ranover her shoulders like a chill, and smiledwhen he read it as the outward signal ofinward terror. He had no doubt in theworld that she would lay hold of hisalternative to save herself and her plansfor others, as quickly as he, coward atheart, would sacrifice a friend for his owncomfort or gain.

Yet Agnes had no thought in thatmoment of sacrificing Dr. Slavens and hisprospects, which the unmasking ofBoyle’s hand now proved to be valuable,

to save herself. There must be some otherway, she thought, and a few hours to turn itin her mind, and reflect and plan, mightshow her the road to her deliverance. Shedid not doubt that the penalty for what shehad done would be as heavy as Boylethreatened.

“So it’s up to you, handle first,” exultedBoyle, breaking her reflections. “I’ll rideoff down the river a little piece and gointo camp, and tomorrow evening I’llcome up for your answer from Slavens.It’s about twenty miles from here to hisclaim, and you can make it there and backeasy if you’ll start early in the morning. Soit’s all up to you, and the quicker thesooner, as the man said.”

With that, Boyle rode away. Accordingto her newly formed habit, Agnes gathered

her wood and made a fire in the littlestove outside her tent, for the day waswasting and the shadow of the westernhills was reaching across the valley.

Life had lost its buoyancy for her in thatpast unprofitable hour. It lay around hernow like a thing collapsed, which shelacked the warm breath to restore. Still,the evening was as serene as pastevenings; the caress of the wind was assoft as any of the south’s slow breathingsof other days. For it is in the heart thatmen make and dismantle their paradises,and from the heart that the fountain springswhich lends its color to every prospectthat lies beyond.

Boyle’s dust had not settled beforeSmith came by, jangling a road-scraperbehind his team. He was coming from his

labor of leveling a claim, skip one, up theriver. He drew up, his big red face asrefulgent as the setting sun, a smile on itwhich dust seemed only to soften andsweat to illumine. He had a hearty wordfor her, noting the depression of her spirit.

After passing the commonplaces, aceremony which must be done with Smithwhether one met him twice or twentytimes a day, he waved his hand down theriver in the direction that Boyle had gone.

“Feller come past here a little whileago?” he asked, knowing very well thatBoyle had left but a few minutes before.

“He has just gone,” she told him.“Jerry Boyle,” nodded Smith; “the

Governor’s son. He ain’t got no use forme, and I tell you, if I had a womanaround the place––”

Smith hung up his voice there as ifsomething had crossed his mind. He stoodlooking down the valley in a speculativeway.

“Yes?” she inquired, respectfullyrecalling him.

“Yes,” repeated Smith. “If I had awoman around the house I’d take a shot atthat feller as quick as I would at a lobo-wolf!”

Smith jangled on, his scraper makingtoadish hops and tortoise-like tips andamblings over the inequalities in the way.She looked after him, a new light shiningfrom her eyes, a new passion stirring herbosom, where his words had fallen like aspark upon tinder.

So that was the estimation in which menheld Jerry Boyle–men like Smith, who

moved along the lower levels of life andsmoothed over the rough places for othersto pass by and by! It must be but thereflection of thought in higher planes–“If Ihad a woman around the place!” Such thenwas the predatory reputation of JerryBoyle, who was capable of dishonorableacts in more directions than one, whosevery presence was a taint.

And he would ride back theretomorrow evening, perhaps after the sunhad set, perhaps after darkness had fallen,to receive the answer to his dishonorableproposal that she sacrifice her friend tosave herself from his spite, and theconsequences of her own misguided act.

“If I had a woman around the place!”The spark in the tinder was spreading,

warming, warming, glowing into a fierce,

hot flame. Like a wolf–like a wolf–Smithwould take a shot at him–like a wolf!Smith had compared him to a wolf; hadsaid he could be as mean as a wolf–and ifthere was a woman around the place!

She went into the tent, the blood risinghot to her temples, beating, singing in herears. The revolver which she had broughtwith her on the doctor’s advice hung at thehead of her cot. With it strapped aroundher she went back to her stove, which shefed with a wild vigor, exulting in seeingthe flames pour out of the pipe and the thinsides grow red.

“Like a wolf–like a wolf!”The words pounded in her mind, leaped

through her circulation like quickeningfire.

“Like a wolf–if there was a woman

around the house––”And a man like that was coming back,

perhaps when the darkness had let downover that still valley, expecting her to saythat she had killed the hope of her dearestfriend to shield herself from his smirchedand guilty hand!

CHAPTER XVAN ARGUMENT ENDS

Morning found Agnes only the more firmlydetermined to bear her troubles alone.Smith came by early. He looked curiouslyat the revolver, which she still carried ather waist, but there was approval in hiseyes. The sight of the weapon seemed tocheer Smith, and make him easier in hismind about something that had given himunrest. She heard him singing as he passedon to his work. Across the river the bridewas singing also, and there seemed to be asong in even the sound of the merry axesamong the cottonwoods, where herneighboring settler and his two lank sons

were chopping and hewing the logs fortheir cabin. But there was no song in herown heart, where it was needed most.

She knew that Jerry Boyle had campedsomewhere near the stage-road, where hecould watch her coming and going to carrythe demand on Dr. Slavens which he hadleft with her. He would be watching theroad even now, and he would watch allday, or perhaps ride up there to learn thereason when he failed to see her pass. Shetied back the flaps of her tent to let thewind blow through, and to show anycaller that she was not at home, thensaddled her horse and rode away into thehills. It needed a day of solitude, shethought, to come to a conclusion on thequestion how she was to face it out withJerry Boyle. Whether to stay and fight the

best that she was able, or to turn and fly,leaving all her hopes behind, was a matterwhich must be determined before night.

In pensive mood she rode on, giving herhorse its head, but following a generalcourse into the east. As her wise animalpicked its way over the broken ground,she turned the situation in her mind.

There was no doubt that she had beenindiscreet in the manner of taking up herhomestead, but she could not drive herselfto the belief that she had committed amoral crime. And the doctor. He woulddrop all his prospects in the land that heheld if she should call on him, she wellbelieved. He was big enough for asacrifice like that, with never a question inhis honest eyes to cloud the generosity ofthe act. If she had him by to advise her in

this hour, and to benefit by his wisdomand courage, she sighed, how comfortableit would be.

Perhaps she should have gone, musedshe, pursuing this thought, to his place, andput the thing before him in all its ugliness,with no reservations, no attempts toconceal or defend. He could have told herhow far her act was punishable. Perhaps,at the most, it would mean no more thangiving up the claim, which was enough,considering all that she had founded on it.Yes, she should have ridden straight to Dr.Slavens; that would have been the wisercourse.

Considering whether she would havetime to go and return that day, wasted asthe morning was, she pulled up her horseand looked around to see if she could

estimate by her location the distance fromher camp. That she had penetrated thecountry east of the river farther than everbefore, was plain at a glance. Thesurroundings were new to her. There wasmore vegetation, and marks of recentgrazing everywhere.

She mounted the hill-crest for a widersurvey, and there in a little valley belowher she saw a flock of sheep grazing,while farther along the ridge stood asheep-wagon, a strange and ratherdisconcerting figure striding up and downbeside it.

Doubtless it was the shepherd, sheunderstood. But a queer figure he made inthat place; and his actions were unusual,to say the least, in one of his sedate andmelancholy calling. He was a young man,

garbed in a long, black coat, tattered moreor less about the skirts and open in front,displaying his red shirt. His hair was longupon his collar, and his head was bare.

As he walked up and down a short beatnear his wagon, the shepherd held in hishand a book, which he placed before hiseyes with a flourish now, and then with aflourish withdrew it, meantimegesticulating with his empty hand in themost extravagant fashion. His dog, sharperof perception than its master, lay asidefrom him a little way, its ears pricked up,its sharp nose lifted, sniffing the scent ofthe stranger. But it gave no alarm.

Agnes felt that the man must beharmless, whatever his peculiarities. Sherode forward, bent on asking him how farshe had strayed from the river. As she

drew near, she heard him muttering anddeclaiming, illustrating his arguments ofprotestation with clenched fist and tossinghead, his long hair lifting from his templesin the wind.

He greeted her respectfully, withoutsign of perturbation or surprise, as onewell accustomed to the society of peopleabove the rank of shepherd.

“My apparent eccentric behavior at themoment when you first saw me, madam, ormiss, perhaps, most likely I should say,indeed––”

Agnes nodded, smiling, to confirm hispenetration.

“So, as I was saying, my behavior mayhave led you into doubt of my balance,and the consequent question of your safetyin my vicinity,” he continued.

“Nothing of the kind, I assure you,” saidshe. “I thought you might be a–a divinitystudent by your dress, or maybe acandidate for the legal profession.”

“Neither,” he disclaimed. “I am aphilosopher, and at the moment you firstbeheld me I was engaged in a heatedcontroversy with Epictetus, whoseDiscourses I hold in my hand. We areunable to agree on many points, especiallyupon the point which he assumes that hehas made in the discussion of grief. Hecontends that when one is not blamable forsome calamity which bereaves him orstrips him of his possessions, grief isunmanly, regret inexcusable.

“‘How?’ say I, meeting him foot to footon the controversy, ‘in case I lose my son,my daughter, my wife–the wife of my soul

and heart–shall I not grieve? shall I not bepermitted the solace of a tear?’

“And Epictetus: ‘Were you to blame forthe disease which cut them off? Did youlight the fire which consumed them, orsink the ship which carried them down?’

“‘No,’ I answer; ‘but because I’mblameless shall I become inhuman, andclose my heart to all display of tendernessand pain?’

“And there we have it, miss, over andover again. Ah, I am afraid we shall neveragree!”

“It is lamentable,” Agnes agreed,believing that the young man’s life in thesolitudes had unsettled his mind. “I neveragree with him on that myself.”

The philosopher’s hollow, weathered

face glowed as she gave this testimony.He drew a little nearer to her, shaking thelong, dark, loose hair back from hisforehead.

“I am glad that you don’t think medemented,” said he. “Many, who do notunderstand the deeper feelings of the soul,do believe it. The hollow-minded and theunstable commonly lose their smallbalance of reason in these hills, miss, withno companionship, month in and monthout, but a dog and the poor, foolishcreatures which you see in the valleyyonder. But to one who is a philosopher,and a student of the higher things, thissituation offers room for the expansion ofthe soul. Mine has gone forth and enlargedhere; it has filled the universe.”

“But a man of your education and

capabilities,” she suggested, thinking tohumor him, “ought to be more congeniallysituated, it seems to me. There must bemore remunerative pursuits which youcould follow?”

“Remuneration for one may not bereward for another,” he told her. “I shallremain here until my mission isaccomplished.”

He turned to his flock, and, with amotion of the arm, sped his dog to fetch insome stragglers which seemed straying offwaywardly over the crest of the oppositehill. As he stood so she marked his asceticgauntness, and noted that the hand whichswung at his side twitched and clenched,and that the muscles of his cleanly shavedjaws swelled as he locked his teeth indetermination.

“Your mission?” she asked, curiousregarding what it might be, there in thesolitude of those barren hills.

“I see that you are armed,” he observedirrelevantly, as if the subject of hismission had been put aside. “I have a verymodern weapon of that pattern in thewagon, but there is little call for the use ofit here. Perhaps you live in the midst ofgreater dangers than I?”

“I’m one of the new settlers over in theriver bottom,” she explained. “I rode up toask you how far I’d strayed from home.”

“It’s about seven miles across to theriver, I should estimate,” he told her. “Igraze up to the boundary of thereservation, and it’s called five milesfrom there.”

“Thank you; I think I’ll be going back

then.”“Will you do me the favor to look at

this before you go?” he asked, drawing afolded paper from the inner pocket of hiscoat and handing it to her.

It was a page from one of those so-called Directories which small graftersgo about devising in small cities and out-on-the-edge communities, in which thepictures of the leading citizens are printedfor a consideration. The page had beenfolded across the center; it was brokenand worn.

“You may see the person whose portraitis presented there,” said he, “and if youshould see him, you would confer a favorby letting me know.”

“Why, I saw him yesterday!” sheexclaimed in surprise. “It’s Jerry Boyle!”

The sheep-herder’s eyes brightened. Aglow came into his brown face.

“You do well to go armed where thatwolf ranges!” said he. “You know him–you saw him yesterday. Is he still there?”

“Why, I think he’s camped somewherealong the river,” she told him, unable toread what lay behind the excitement in theman’s manner.

He folded the paper and returned it tohis pocket, his breath quick upon his lips.Suddenly he laid hold of her bridle withone hand, and with the other snatched therevolver from her low-swinging holster.

“Don’t be alarmed,” said he; “but Iwant to know. Tell me true–lean over andwhisper in my ear. Is he your friend?”

“No, no! Far from it!” she whispered,

complying with his strange order out offear that his insanity, flaming as it wasunder the spur of some half-brokenmemory, might lead him to take her life.

He gave her back the revolver andreleased the horse.

“Go,” said he. “But don’t warn him, asyou value your own life! My mission hereis to kill that man!”

Perhaps it was a surge of unworthinesswhich swept her, lifting her heart likehope. The best of us is unworthy at times;the best of us is base. Selfishness is thefestering root of more evil than gold. Inthat flash it seemed to her that Providencehad raised up an arm to save her. Sheleaned over, her face bright witheagerness.

“Has he wronged you, too?” she asked.

He lifted his hand to his foreheadslowly, as if in a gesture of pain. Theblood had drained from his face; hischeek-bones were marked white throughhis wind-hardened skin.

“It’s not a subject to be discussed witha woman, sir,” said he absently. “Therewas a wife–somewhere there was a wife!This man came between us. I was not thenwhat I am today–a shepherd on the hills....But I must keep you here; you will betrayme and warn him if I let you go!” he cried,rousing suddenly, catching her bridleagain.

“No, I’ll not warn him,” Agnes assuredhim.

“If I thought you would”–he hesitated,searching her face with his fevered eyes,in which red veins showed as in the eyes

of an angry dog–“I’d have to sacrificeyou!”

Agnes felt that she never could drawher weapon in time, in case the eccentrictried to take it away again, and her heartquailed as she measured the distance shewould have to ride before the fall of theground would protect her, even if sheshould manage to break his hold on thebridle, and gallop off while he wasfetching his pistol from the wagon.

“I’ll not warn him,” said she, placingher hand on his arm. “I give you mysincere word that I’ll do nothing to savehim from what I feel to be your justvengeance.”

“Go, before I doubt you again!” hecried, slapping her horse with his palm ashe let go the bridle.

From the tip of the hill she looked back.He had disappeared–into the wagon, shesupposed; and she made haste to swervefrom the straight course to put another hillbetween them, in case he might run afterher, his mad mind again aflame with thebelief that she would cheat him of hisrevenge.

Agnes arrived in camp full of tremorsand contradictory emotions. One minuteshe felt that she should ride and warnBoyle, guilty as he might be, anddeserving of whatever punishment thehand of the wronged man might be able toinflict; the next she relieved herself of thisimpulse by arguing that the insane sheep-herder was plainly the instrument of fate–she lacked the temerity, after the firstflush, to credit it to Providence–lifted up

to throw his troubles between her and herown.

She sat in the sun before her tentthinking it over, for and against, coolingconsiderably and coming to a sanerjudgment of the situation. Every littlewhile she looked toward the hills, to seeif the shepherd had followed her. She hadseen no horse in the man’s camp; he couldnot possibly make it on foot, under twohours, even if he came at all, she toldherself.

Perhaps it was an imaginary grievance,based upon the reputation which Boylehad earned for himself; maybe the poor,declaiming philosopher had forgotten allabout it by now, and had returned to hisdiscourses and his argument. She breweda pot of tea, for the shadows were marking

noonday, and began to consider ridingdown the river to find Boyle and tell himof the man’s threat, leaving him to followhis own judgment in the matter. Hisconscience would tell him whether tostand or fly.

Strong as her resentment was againstthe man who had come into her plans sounexpectedly and thrown them in a tangle,she felt that it would be wrong to her ownhonesty to conceal from him theknowledge of his danger. Perhaps thereremained manliness enough in him tocause him to withdraw his avariciousscheme to oust Dr. Slavens in return for aservice like that. She determined at last toseek Boyle in his camp.

She brought up her horse and saddled it,took a look around camp to see that

everything was in shape–for she liked toleave things tidy, in case some of theneighbors should stop in–and was about tomount, when a man’s head and shouldersappeared from behind her owncottonwood log. A glance showed her thatit was the sheep-herder. His head wasbare, his wild hair in his eyes.

He got to his feet, his pistol in his hand.“I watched you,” said he, sheathing the

weapon, as if he had changed his mindabout the use of it. “I knew you’d go!”

“But I didn’t intend to when I partedfrom you up there on the hill,” shedeclared, greatly confused over beingcaught in this breach of faith with even acrazy man.

“I considered that, too,” said thephilosopher. “But I watched you. I’ll

never be fool enough to entirely trust awoman again. You all lie!”

She wondered how he had arrived thereso quickly and silently, for he gave noevidence of fatigue or heat. She did notknow the dry endurance which a life likehis builds up in a man. Sheep-herders inthat country are noted for their fleetness. Itis a common saying of them that theirheels are as light as their heads.

But there he was, at any rate, and hergood intentions toward Boyle must besurrendered. Conscience had a palliativein the fact that she had meant to go.

“Heaven knows I have as little reasonto wish him well as you!” said she,speaking in low voice, as if to herself, asshe began to undo the saddle girth.

“Stay here, then,” said the sheep-

herder, watching her with glistening eyes.“I’ll kill him for both of us! Where is hiscamp?”

“I don’t know,” she replied,shuddering.

The demented shepherd’s way ofspeaking of taking a human life, eventhough a worthless one, or a vicious one,was eager and hungry. He licked his lipslike a dog.

“You said he was camped on the river.Where?”

“I don’t know,” she returned again.“I’ll tell you,” said he, staying her hand

as she tugged on a strap. “Both of us willgo! You shall ride, and I’ll run beside you.But”–he bent over, grinding his teeth andgrowling between them–“you sha’n’t help

kill him! That’s for me, alone!”She drew back from his proposal with a

sudden realization of what a desperatelybrutal thing this unstrung creature wasabout to do, with a terrible arraignment ofself-reproach because she had made noeffort to dissuade him or place an obstaclein the way of accomplishing his design. Itwas not strange, thought she, with arevulsion of self-loathing, that he acceptedher as a willing accomplice and proposedthat she bear a hand. Even her effort toride and find Boyle had been half-hearted.She might have gone, she told herself,before the herder arrived.

“No, no! I couldn’t go! I couldn’t!” shecried, forgetting that she was facing anunbalanced man, all the force of pleadingin her voice.

“No, you want to kill him yourself!” hecharged savagely. “Give me that horse–give it to me, I tell you! I’ll go alone!”

He sprang into the saddle, not waitingto adjust the stirrups to his long legs. Withhis knees pushed up like a jockey’s, herode off, the pointer of chance, or thecunning of his own inscrutable brain,directing him the way Boyle had gone theevening before.

His going left her nerveless and weak.She sat and watched him out of sightbeyond the cottonwoods and willows,thinking what a terrible thing it was to rideout with the cold intention of killing aman. This man was irresponsible; thestrength of his desire for revenge hadoverwhelmed his reason. The law wouldexcuse him of murder, for in the dimness

of his own mind there was no conceptionof crime.

But what excuse could there be for onewho sat down in deliberation––

Base Jerry Boyle might be, ready tosacrifice unfeelingly the innocent for hisown pleasure and gain, ready to strike attheir dearest hopes, ready to trampleunder his feet the green gardens of theirhearts’ desire; yet, who should sit injudgment on him, or seek a justification inhis deeds to–to–– Even then she could notbring her thoughts to express it, althoughher wild heart had sung over it less thantwenty-four hours before.

A shiver of sickness turned her cold.With quick, nervous fingers she unbuckledthe belt which held her revolver andcartridges; she carried the weapon into the

tent and flung it to the ground.At dusk the sheep-herder returned, with

the horse much blown.“He had been there, but he’s gone,” he

announced. “I followed him eastwardalong the stage-road, but lost his trail.”

He dismounted and dropped the reins tothe ground. Agnes set about to relieve thetired animal of the burden of the saddle,the sheep-herder offering no assistance.He stood with his head bent, an air ofdejection and melancholy over him, acloud upon his face. Presently he walkedaway, saying no more. She watched himas he went, moodily and unheeding of hisway, until he passed out of view around athicket of tangled shrubs which grew uponthe river-bank.

While her horse was relieving his

weariness in contented sighs over his oats,Agnes made a fire and started her eveningcoffee. She had a feeling of cleanness inher conscience, and a lightness of heartwhich she knew never could have beenher own to enjoy again if the crazedherder had come back with blood upon hishands.

There was no question about the feelingof loneliness that settled down upon herwith aching intensity when she sat down toher meal, spread on a box, the lantern ayellow speck in the boundless night. A rodaway its poor, futile glimmer against suchmighty odds was understood, standingthere with no encompassing walls to markthe boundary of its field. It was like thestruggle of a man who stands alone in thevastness of life with no definite aim to

circumscribe his endeavor, wasting hisfeeble illumination upon a little rod ofearth.

We must have walls around us, bothlanterns and men, rightly to fill the sphereof our designed usefulness; walls torestrain our wastrel forces; walls to bindour lustful desires, our foolish ambitions,our outwinging flights. Yet, in its way, thelantern served nobly, as many a manserves in the circle which binds his smalladventures, and beyond which his famecan never pass.

From the door of her tent Agnes lookedout upon the lantern, comparing herselfwith it, put down there as she was in thatblank land, which was still in the night ofits development. Over that place, whichshe had chosen to make a home and a

refuge, her own weak flame would falldimly, perhaps never able to light it all.Would it be worth the struggle, the heart-hunger for other places and things, theyears of waiting, the toil and loneliness?

She went back to her supper, the cupwhich she had gone to fetch in her hand.The strength of night made her heart timid;the touch of food was dry and tastelessupon her lips. For the first time sincecoming to that country she felt the pain ofdiscouragement. What could she doagainst such a great, rough thing? Would itever be worth the labor it would cost?

Feeble as her light was against thenight, it was enough to discover tears uponher cheeks as she sat there upon theground. Her fair hair lay dark in theshadows, and light with that contrast

which painters love, where it lifted in airyrise above her brow. And there were thepensive softness of her chin, the sweep ofher round throat, the profile as sharp as ashadow against the mellow glow. Perhapsthe lantern was content in itscircumscribed endeavor against the night,when it could light to such good advantageso much loveliness.

“If I’d have put my hands over your eyes,who would you have named?” asked avoice near her ear, a voice familiar, andfitted in that moment with oldassociations.

“I’d have had no trouble in guessing,Jerry, for I was expecting you,” sheanswered, scarcely turning her head,although his silent manner of approach had

startled her.“Agnes, I don’t believe you’ve got any

more nerves than an Indian,” he said,dropping down beside her.

“If one wanted to make a facetiousrejoinder, the opening is excellent,” shesaid, fighting back her nervousness with asmile. “Will you have some supper?”

“I’d like it, if you don’t mind.”She busied herself with the stove, but

he peremptorily took away from her theoffice of feeding the fire, and watched heras she put bacon on to fry.

“Agnes, you ought to have been fryingbacon for me these four years past–figuratively, I mean,” he remarked,musingly.

“If you don’t mind, we’ll not go back to

that,” she said.Boyle made no mention of the purpose

of his visit. He made his supper withambassadorial avoidance of the subjectwhich lay so uneasily on her mind. Whenhe had finished, he drew out his tobacco-sack and rolled a cigarette, and, as itdangled from his lip by a shred of itswrapping, he turned to her.

“Well?” he asked.She was standing near the lantern,

removing the few utensils–the bacon hadbeen served to him in the pan–from heroutdoor table. When she answered himshe turned away until her face was hiddenin the shadow.

“I didn’t carry your message to Dr.Slavens as you ordered, Jerry.”

“I know it,” said he. “What next?”“I guess it’s ‘up to you,’ as you put it.

I’m not going to try to save myself at theexpense of any of my friends.”

Boyle got up. He took a little turn awayfrom the box whereon the lantern stood, asif struggling to maintain the fair front hehad worn when he appeared. After a littlehe turned and faced her, walking backslowly until only the length of the littlestove was between them.

“Have you considered your owndanger?” he asked.

“It wouldn’t help you a great deal here,among these rough, fair-minded people, totake an advantage like that of a woman,especially when her transgression ismerely technical and not intentional,” sherejoined.

“I wouldn’t have to appear in it,” heassured her.

“Well, set the United States marshalafter me as soon as you want to; I’ll behere,” she said, speaking with the eventone of resignation which one commandswhen the mind has arrived at a determinedstand to face the last and worst.

“Agnes, I told you yesterday that I wasall over the old feeling that I had for you.”

Boyle leaned forward as he spoke, hisvoice earnest and low.

“But that was a bluff. I’m just as big afool as I ever was about it. If you want towalk over me, go ahead; if you want to–oh, rats! But I’ll tell you; if you’ll comeaway with me I’ll drop all of this. I’llleave that tin-horn doctor where he is, andlet him make what he can out of his

claim.”“I couldn’t marry you, Jerry; it’s

impossible to think of that,” she told himgently.

“Oh, well, that’s a formality,” hereturned, far more in his voice than hiswords. “I’ll say to you––”

“You’ve said too much!” she stoppedhim, feeling her cheeks burn under theoutrage which he had offered to her chasteheart. “There’s no room for any morewords between you and me–never! Gonow–say no more!”

She walked across the bright ring oflight toward the tent, making a little detouraround him, as if afraid that his violentwords might be followed by violentdeeds.

Boyle turned where he stood, followingher with his eyes. The light of the lanternstruck him strongly up to the waist,leaving his head and shoulders in thegloom above its glare. His hands were inthe pockets of his trousers, his shouldersdrooping forward in that horseback stoopwhich years in the saddle had fastened onhim.

Agnes had reached the tent, where shestood with her hand on the flap, turning ahasty look behind her, when a shot out ofthe dark from the direction of the river-bank struck her ears with a suddennessand a portent which seemed to carry thepain of death. She was facing that way;she saw the flash of it; she saw JerryBoyle leap with lithe agility, as ifspringing from the scourge of flames, and

sling his pistol from the hostler under hiscoat.

In his movement there was anadmirable quickness, rising almost to thedignity of beauty in the rapidity withwhich he adjusted himself to meet thissudden exigency. In half the beat of aheart, it seemed, he had fired. Out of thedark came another leap of flame, anotherreport. Boyle walked directly toward thepoint from which it came, firing as hewent. No answer came after his secondshot.

Agnes pressed her hand over her eyesto shut out the sight, fearing to see himfall, her heart rising up to accuse her. Shehad forgotten to warn him! She hadforgotten!

Boyle’s voice roused her. There was a

dry harshness in it, a hoarseness as of onewho has gone long without water on thelips.

“Bring that lantern here!” hecommanded.

She did not stand to debate it, but tookup the light and hurried to the place wherehe stood. A man lay at his feet, his longhair tossed in disorder, his long coatspread out like a black blotch upon theground. Boyle took the lantern and bentover the victim of his steady arm, growledin his throat, and bent lower. The man’sface was partly hidden by the rank grass inwhich he lay. Boyle turned it up to thelight with his foot and straightened hisback with a grunt of disdain.

“Huh! That rabbit!” said he, giving herback the light.

It did not require that gleam upon thewhite face to tell Agnes that the victimwas the polemical sheep-herder, whoseintention had been steadier than his aim.

Boyle hesitated a moment as if to speakto her, but said nothing before he turnedand walked away.

“You’ve killed him!” she called afterhim sharply. “Don’t go away and leavehim here like this!”

“He’s not dead,” said Boyle. “Don’tyou hear him snort?”

The man’s breathing was indeedaudible, and growing louder with eachlabored inspiration.

“Turn him over on his face,” directedBoyle. “There’s blood in his throat.”

“Will you go for Smith?” she asked,

kneeling beside the wounded man.“He’s coming; I can hear the sauerkraut

jolt in him while he’s half a mile away. Ifanybody comes looking for me on accountof this–coroner or–oh, anybody–I’ll bedown the river about a quarter below thestage-ford. I’ll wait there a day longer tohear from you, and this is my last word.”

With that Boyle left her. Smith camevery shortly, having heard the shots; andthe people from up the river came, and theyoung man from the bridal nest across onthe other side. They made a wondering,awed ring around the wounded man, whowas pronounced by Smith to be in deepwaters. There was a bullet through hisneck.

Smith believed there was life enoughleft in the sheep-herder to last until he

could fetch a doctor from Meander.“But that’s thirty miles,” said Agnes,

“and Dr. Slavens is not more than twenty.You know where he’s located–down byComanche?”

Smith knew, but he had forgotten for theminute, so accustomed to turning as hewas to the center of civilization in thatsection for all the gentle ministrants ofwoe, such as doctors, preachers, andundertakers.

“I’ll have him here before morning,”said Smith, posting off to get his horse.

The poor sheep-herder was too sorelyhurt to last the night out. Before Smith hadbeen two hours on his way the shepherdwas in the land of shades, having it outface to face with Epictetus–if he carriedthe memory of his contention across with

him, to be sure.The neighbors arranged him respectably

upon a board, and covered him over witha blanket, keeping watch beside him in theopen, with the clear stars shiningundisturbed by this thing which made sucha turmoil in their breasts. There he lay,waiting the doctor and the coroner, and allwho might come, his earthly troubleslocked up forever in his cold heart, hisearthly argument forever at an end.

CHAPTER XVIA PROMISE

Dr. Slavens rode in before dawn, moreconcerned about Agnes than about theperson in whose behalf he had beensummoned. On the way he asked Smithrepeatedly how the tragedy affected her;whether she was frightened or greatlydisturbed.

“She’s as steady as a compass,” saidSmith; and so he found her.

Somewhat too steady, in fact. It was thesteadiness of a deep and settledmelancholy, through which his best effortscould do no more than strike a feeble,weary smile.

Immediately upon the death of theherder, one of the men had ridden toMeander and carried word to the coroner.That official arrived in the middle of theforenoon, bringing with him the undertakerand a wagon. After some perfunctoryinquiries, the coroner concluded that aninquest was not necessary. He did not goto the trouble to find Boyle and questionhim, but he looked with a familiarunderstanding in his piggish eyes at Agneswhen she related the circumstances of thetragedy.

Coroners, and others who knew theGovernor’s son, had but one measure for awoman who entertained Jerry Boyle alonein her tent, or even outside it, at night.Boyle’s associations had set the standardof his own morality, as well as that of his

consorts. The woman from up the river,and the little bride from across the ford,drew off together, whispering, after Agneshad told her story. Presently they slippedaway without a word.

Even Dr. Slavens, cool and just-mindedas he was, felt the hot stirring of jealoussuspicion. It brought to his mindunpleasantly the ruminations of hissolitary days in camp among the rocks,when he had turned over in his mind thebelief that there was something of the pastbetween Agnes and Boyle.

He had not convicted her in his ownjudgment of any wrong, for the sincerity ofher eyes had stood between him and thepossibility of any such conclusion. Nowthe thought that, after all his trust, shemight be unworthy, smote painfully upon

his heart.When the others had gone away, after a

little standing around, hitch-legged andwise, in close discussion of the event, thedoctor sitting, meantime, with Agnes infront of the tent, he spoke of the necessityof getting back to his claim. She was paleafter the night’s strain, although apparentlyunconscious of the obloquy of herneighbors. Nevertheless, she pressed himto remain for the midday meal.

“I’ve not been very hospitable, I’mafraid,” said she; “but this thing hasstunned me. It seems like it has takensomething away from the prospect of lifehere.”

“Yes, it has taken something away,” heresponded, gravely thoughtful, his lookbent upon the ground.

She sprang up quickly, a sharp little cryupon her lips as if from the shock of ablow from a hand beloved.

“I saw it in their eyes!” she cried. “Butyou–but you! Oh–oh–I trusted you toknow!”

“Forgive me,” he begged. “I did notmean to hurt you. Perhaps I was thinkingof the romance and the glamour which thishad stripped away from things here. I thinkmy mind was running on that.”

“No,” she denied. “You were thinkinglike that little woman across the river withthe fright and horror in her big eyes. Youwere thinking that I am guilty, and thatthere can be but one answer to thepresence of that man in my camp lastnight. His notorious name goes before himlike a blight.”

“You’ll have to move your camp now,”as if seeking delicately to avoid the ghostthat seemed to have risen between them;“this place will have unpleasantassociations.”

“Yes; it cannot be reconsecrated andpurified.”

He stood as if prepared to leave. Agnesplaced her hand upon his shoulder,looking with grieved eyes into his face.

“Will you stay a little while,” sheasked, “and hear me? I want to part fromyou with your friendship and respect, for Iam entitled to both, I am worthy of both–ifever.”

“Let me move your stool out into thesun,” he suggested. “There’s a chill in thewind today. Of course I’ll stay, and we’llhave some more of that excellent coffee

before I go. You must teach me how youmake it; mine always turns out as muddyas a bucket of Missouri River water.”

His cheerfulness was like that which ahealthy man displays at the bedside of adying friend–assumed, but helpful in itsway. He placed her folding canvas stoolin the sun beyond the shadow of the tentand found a box for himself. Thusarranged, he waited for her to speak.

“Still, I am not sure of what I protestedin regard to your friendship and respect,”said she after a little brooding silence. “Iam a fraud, taken at the best, and perhapsa criminal.”

Dr. Slavens studied her face as shepaused there and looked away, as if herthoughts concentrated beyond the bluehills in the west.

“My name is not Horton,” she resumed,facing him suddenly. “It is Gates, and myfather is in the Federal penitentiary atLeavenworth.”

“But there was no call for you to tell methis,” he protested softly.

“Yes, every reason for it,” she averred.“The fabric of all my troubles rests onthat. He was president of a bank–youremember the scandal, don’t you? It wasnation-wide.”

He nodded.“I spoke to you once of the ghosts of

money. They have worried me for fouryears and more, for nothing but the ghostsare left when one loses place andconsequence before the world. It was anational bank, and the charge wasmisapplication of funds. He had money

enough for all the sane uses of any man,but the pernicious ambition to be greaterassailed him, even old as he was.

“He never said, and I never have held itso, that his punishment was unjust. Only itseemed to us unfair when so many greaterevildoers escape or receive pardons. Youwill remember, perhaps, that none of thedepositors lost anything. Wild as hisschemes appeared, they turned out soundenough after a while, and everything wasliquidated.

“We gave up everything of our own;mother and I have felt the rub of hardshipbefore today. The hardest of all was thefalling away of those whom we believedto be friends. We learned that the favorsof society are as fickle as those of fortune,and that they walk hand in hand.

“No matter. Father’s term will expire inless than one month. He is an old, broken,disgraced man; he never will be able tolift up his face before the world again.That is why I am here. Mother and Iconcluded that we might make a refuge forhim here, where he would be unknown.We planned for him to leave his name, andas much of his past as he could shake off,behind him at the prison door.

“It was no sacrifice for me. All that Ihad known in the old life was gone.Sneers followed me; the ghosts of moneyrose up to accuse. I was a felon’sdaughter; but, worse than that–I was poor!This country held out its arms to me, cleanand undefiled. When I got my first sight ofit, and the taste of its free air in mynostrils, my heart began to unfold again,

and the cramped wrinkles fell out of mytired soul.”

The sunshine was around them, and thepeace of the open places. They sat for theworld to see them, and there was nothingto hide in the sympathy that moved Dr.Slavens to reach out and take the girl’shand. He caressed it with comfortingtouch, as if to mitigate the suffering of herheart, in tearing from it for his eyes to see,her hoarded sorrow and unearned shame.

“There is that freedom about it,” saidhe, “when one sees it by day andsunlight.”

“But it has its nights, too,” sheshuddered, the shadow of last night in hereyes.

“Yet they all pass–the longest of themand the most painful,” he comforted her.

“And leave their scars sometimes. HowI came here, registered, drew a claim, andfiled on it, you know. I did all that underthe name of Horton, which is a familyname on mother’s side, not thinking whatthe consequence might be. Now, inpayment for this first breach of the law, Imust at least give up all my schemes hereand retreat. I may be prosecuted; I mayeven go to prison, like my father did.”

“Surely not!” he protested. “Who isthere to know it, to lay a charge againstyou?”

“Such person is not wanting in themiserable plot of my life,” she answered.“I will reach him soon in my sorry tale.”

“Boyle!” Slavens said, as if thinkingaloud. “He’s the man!”

“You take the name from my mouth,”

she told him. “He has threatened me withprosecution. Perjury, he says it would becalled, and prison would be the penalty.”

“It might be so here,” he admitted.“I met Jerry Boyle about five years ago,

when father was in Congress. His fatherwas at that time Senator from this state.We lived in Washington, and Jerry Boylewas then considered a very original anddelightful young man. He was fresh infrom the range, but he had the polish of auniversity education over his roughness,and what I know now to be inborncoarseness was then accepted foringenuousness. He passed current in thebest society of the capital, where he wascoddled as a butterfly of new species. Wemet; he made love to me, and I–I am afraidthat I encouraged him to do it at first.

“But he drank and gambled, and got intobrawls. He stabbed an attaché of theMexican Legation over a woman, and theengagement to marry him which I hadentered into was broken. I was foolish inthe first instance, but I plead the mitigationof frivolity and youth. My heart was not init. I beg you to believe, Dr. Slavens, thatmy heart was not in it at all.”

She looked at him with pleadingsincerity, and from her eyes his heartgathered its recesses full of joy.

“I need no further assurance of that,” hesmiled.

“You are generous. It was on theafternoon of the day that followed yourdisappearance from Comanche that Boylecame into camp there. I had not forgottenhim, of course, nor his influential position

in this state; but I never thought of meetinghim there. It was a sickening shock to me.I denied his protestations ofacquaintanceship, but it passed off poorlywith all of them who were present, exceptWilliam Bentley, generous gentleman thathe is.”

“He is so,” testified Slavens.“I left Comanche because I was afraid

of him, but he rode post the night that Iengaged passage and beat me to Meander;but he wasn’t hurrying on my account, asyou know. He tried to see me there inMeander, but I refused to meet him. Theday before yesterday he came here andsolicited my help in carrying out ascheme. I refused. He threatened me withexposure and arrest on account of falseentry and affidavit.”

Agnes told then of her ride into thehills, the meeting with the herder, andsubsequent events up to the shooting. Butshe said nothing of Boyle’s base proposalto her, although her face burned at therecollection, giving Slavens more thanhalf a guess what was behind that virtuousflame.

“And so, you poor little soul, all yourplans for your City of Refuge are shatteredbecause you refuse to sacrifice somebodyto keep them whole,” said he.

“No matter,” she returned in that voiceof abnegation which only a long marchingline of misfortunes can give a woman or aman command over. “I have decided,anyway, to give it up. It’s too big andrough and lonesome for me.”

“And that person whom you put up your

heart and soul to shield,” he went on,looking steadily into her face and pursuinghis former thought, “has something in hispossession which this man Boyle covetsand thinks he must have? And the cheapestand easiest way to get it is to make youpay for it in the violation of your honestprinciples, if he can drive you to it in hisskulking way?”

She bowed assent, her lips tightly set.“Yes,” said he. “Just so. Well, why

didn’t Boyle come to me with his threats,the coward!”

“No, no!” she cried in quick fright.“Not that; it is something–something else.”

“You poor dissembler!” he laughed.“You couldn’t be dishonest if you wantedto the worst way in the world. Well, don’tyou worry; I’ll take it up with him today.”

“You’ll not give it up!” she exclaimedvehemently. “All your hopes are there,and it’s yours, and you’ll not give it up!”

“Never mind,” he soothed, again takingher hand, which she had withdrawn to aidin emphasizing her protest. “I don’tbelieve he’d carry out his threats about theUnited States marshal and all that.”

“You’ll not give it up to him unless hepays you for it,” she reiterated, ignoringher own prospect of trouble. “It’svaluable, or he wouldn’t be so anxious toget it.”

“Perhaps,” Slavens assented.“I’m going to leave here,” she hurriedly

pursued. “It was foolish of me to come, inthe first place. The vastness of itbewildered me, and ‘the lonesomeness,’as Smith calls it, is settling in my heart.”

“Well, where will you go?” he askedbewilderedly.

“Somewhere–to some village or littlefarm, where we can raise poultry, motherand I.”

“But I haven’t planned it that way,”Slavens smiled. “If you leave, what am Igoing to do?”

“I don’t know,” she acknowledged,“unless–unless you come some time.”

“Look here, Agnes,” said he, taking thematter entirely in hand. “When we leavethis place, we’ll leave together. I’vearranged that all in my mind and intention.It’s all disposed of and settled. Herecomes Boyle now, I think.”

Boyle left his horse standing a few rodsdistant and came over to where they sat.

“You look comfortable,” hecommented, as serene and unperturbed asif the load of one more human life on hissoul were a matter too light to be felt withinconvenience.

“Very comfortable,” answered Slavens,rising stiffly. “We have nothing on ourhands that common water will not washoff.”

“Oh, that nut!” depreciated Boyle.“He’d talked around for a year or twoabout getting me. I only beat him to itwhen he tried; that’s all.”

“But there was another occasion–another attempt that didn’t turn out quitelike you intended,” said Slavens. “Do youremember me?”

“Yes; you’re the tin-horn doctor thatheld a man up in Comanche and stole the

coat off of his back,” Boyle retorted witheasy insolence.

Agnes looked at the doctor imploringly,plainly begging him not to provoke Boyleto another outbreak of violence. She wasstanding beside him, the fear and loathingwhich Boyle’s presence arousedundisguised in her frank face.

“It was an outrage against one of thehonest men who tried to murder me,” saidthe doctor. “But, vicious as it was, neitherShanklin nor you, his side-partner, hasever made a squeal. If it was a holdup,why haven’t you sent one of your littlesheriffs out after me?”

“I’m no partner of Hun Shanklin’s!”denied Boyle.

“Maybe you’ve parted company sincethe night you slugged me and nailed me up

in that box for the river to hide yourwork.”

“I’ll make you prove that charge!”threatened Boyle hotly.

“I can’t prove it,” admitted the doctor.“If I could, I’d have you in courttomorrow. But you were one of them, andI want you to understand fully that I knowit, and will treat you accordingly in anyprivate dealings that may come upbetween you and me.”

“If you keep spoutin’ it around that Iever slugged you, I’ll pull you into courtand make you prove it! It’ll either be putup or shut up with you, mister!”

“Whenever you’re ready,” invitedSlavens.

With somewhat more of ostentation than

the simple act seemed to warrant, Boyleunbuttoned his coat, displaying hisrevolver as he made an exploration of hisvest-pockets for a match to light hiscigarette.

“Well, I guess you know what I’m herefor?” Boyle suggested, passing his glancesignificantly from one to the other of them.

“Dr. Slavens is acquainted with yourproposal,” said Agnes; “and it ought to beneedless for me to say that I’ll not permithim to make any concession to shieldmyself.”

“Fine! fine!” said Boyle in mockapplause, throwing his head back andsnorting smoke.

“In the first place,” said Slavens, “yourbluff don’t go. Miss Gates has not brokenany law in registering and entering this

land under an alias. There’s no crime inassuming a name, and no felony inacquiring property under it, unless fraud isused. She has defrauded nobody, and youcould not make a case against her in athousand years!”

“I can get an indictment–that’s a cinch!”declared Boyle.

“Go ahead,” said the doctor. “We’vegot some new blood in this country now,and we can find a jury that you don’t ownand control when it comes to trial.”

“And after the indictment comes arrestand jail,” Boyle continued, overlookingthe doctor’s argument in the lofty securityof his position. “It would make a lot ofnoisy talk, considering the familyreputation and all that.”

“And the outcome of it might be–and I

doubt even that–that Miss Gates wouldlose her homestead,” Slavens supplied.

“You don’t know the Federal judge inthis district,” Boyle grinned. “Jail’s whatit means, and plenty of it, for the judge hasto approve a bond, if you know what thatmeans.”

“Why don’t you pay Dr. Slavens for hishomestead, as you were ready to pay thatman Peterson if you could have filed himon it?” Agnes asked.

“Because it’s mine already,” saidBoyle. “This man stole the description ofthat land, as I have told you before, at thepoint of a gun.”

“Then you lied!” Slavens calmlycharged.

Boyle hitched his hip, throwing the

handle of his pistol into sight.“You can say that,” said he, “because

I’ve got to have your name on a paper.”“I’ll never permit Dr. Slavens to sign

away his valuable claim to you,” declaredAgnes. “I’ll not allow––”

Slavens lifted his hand for silence.“I’ll do the talking for this family from

now on,” said he, smiling reassuringly ashe held her eyes a moment with his own.

He turned abruptly to Boyle.“And the fighting, too, when necessary.

You keep that little gun in its place whenyou’re around me, young man, or you’llget hurt! One more break like that to showme that you’ve got it, and you and I willmix. Just put that down in your book.”

“Oh, all right, pardner!” returned Boyle

with that jerky insolence which men of hiskind assume when they realize that theyhave been called, and called hard. Hebuttoned his coat.

“And as far as Miss Gates isconcerned, consider her out of this case,”said Slavens. “But I want to have someprivate talk with you.”

They walked over to the place whereBoyle’s horse stood, and there, out of thehearing of Agnes, Slavens sounded Jerrysharply on his intentions. It was plain thatthere was no bluff in Boyle; he meant whathe threatened, and he was small enough tocarry it through.

As an illustration of his far-reachinginfluence, Boyle pointed out to Slavensthat nobody had approached the physicianwith an offer to buy him out, although one

had appeared anxious enough to opennegotiations the day he filed.

“When we tell a man to lay down in thispart of the country, he lays down,” saidBoyle; “and when we order him to walkon his hind legs, he walks. Nobody willoffer you any money for that place; it isn’tworth anything to a soul on earth but me.You couldn’t sell out in a century. You’llget that through your nut if you hangaround here long enough.”

For a little while Slavens thought itover, walking away a few paces andappraising the situation studiously.Suddenly he wheeled and confrontedBoyle, leveling his finger at his face.

“Your bluff don’t go, Boyle!” said he.“You’d just as well get on your horse andlight out; and if you want to bring it to a

fight, then let it be a fight. We’ll meet youon any ground you pick.”

“You’re a fool!” snarled Boyle.“Then I’ll be a bigger one–big enough

to call you to account before another dayhas passed over your head for your part inthat dirty work in Comanche that night.And I want to lay it off to you right nowthat all the influence you can command inthis state isn’t going to save you when I goafter you!”

Boyle picked up his bridle-reins andthreaded his arm through them, standingso, legs wide apart, while he rolled acigarette. As it dangled between his lipsand the smoke of it rose up, veiling hiseyes, he peered narrowly through it at thedoctor.

“There’s a man in the graveyard up at

Cheyenne that made a talk like that onetime,” he said.

“I’ll have to take your word for that,”returned Slavens, quite unmoved. “I’llmeet you at the hotel in Meandertomorrow morning at nine o’clock for asettlement, one way or the other.”

“One way or the other,” repeatedBoyle.

He mounted his horse and rode awaytoward Meander, trailing a thin line ofsmoke behind him.

Agnes hurried forward to meet Slavensas he turned toward her. Her face wasbloodless, her bosom agitated.

“I heard part of what you said,” she toldhim. “Surely you don’t mean to go overthere and fight him on his own ground,

among his friends?”“I’m going over there to see the county

attorney,” said he. “He’s from Kansas,and a pretty straight sort of chap, itseemed to me from what I saw of him. I’mgoing to put this situation of ours beforehim, citing a hypothetical case, and get hisadvice. I don’t believe that there’s a shredof a case against you, and I doubt whetherBoyle can bluff the government officialsinto making a move in it, even with all hisinfluence.”

“And you’ll come back here and tell mewhat he says, no matter what his opinionmay be, before you act one way oranother?”

“If you wish it, although–Well, yes–ifyou wish it.”

“I do, most earnestly,” she assured him.

“You need a good sleep,” he counseled.“Turn in as soon as I’m gone, and don’tworry about this. There’s a good deal ofbluff in Boyle.”

“He’s treacherous, and he shootswonderfully. He killed that poor fellowlast night without ever seeing him at all.”

“But I’m not going to take a shot at himout of the dark,” said he.

“I know. But I’ll be uneasy until youreturn.”

“There’s too much trouble in your facetoday for one of your years,” he said,lifting her chin with rather a professionalrebuke in his eyes. “You’ll have to put itdown, or it will make you old. Go right ondreaming and planning; things will comeout exactly as you have designed.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed, but with littlehope in her voice.

Slavens saddled his horse after they hadrefreshed themselves with coffee. Agnesstood by, racked with an anxiety whichseemed to grind her heart. The physicianthought of the pioneer women of his youth,of those who lived far out on the thin edgeof prairie reaches, and in the gloom offorests which groaned around them in thelone winds of winter nights. There was thesame melancholy of isolation in Agnes’eyes today as he had seen in theirs; thesame sad hopelessness; the same hunger,and the longing to fly from the wildernessand its hardships, heart-weariness, andpain.

Her hand lay appealingly upon hisshoulder for a moment before he mounted,

and her face was turned up to him,unspoken yearning on her lips.

“Promise me again before you go thatyou will come back here before yourelinquish your homestead to Boyle,” shedemanded. “Promise me that, no matterwhat the lawyer’s opinion may be, you’llreturn here before you do anything else atall.”

“I promise you,” said he.When he had ridden a little way he

halted his horse and turned in his saddle tolook back. She was sitting there in the sun,her head bowed, her hands clasped overher face, as if she wept or prayed. A littlewhile he waited there, as if meditating areturn, as if he had forgotten something–some solace, perhaps, for which her lipshad appealed to his heart dumbly.

Yet a sincere man seldom knows thesethings, which a trifler is so quick to see.He did not know, perhaps; or perhaps hewas not certain enough to turn his horseand ride back to repair his omission.Presently he rode on slowly, his headbent, the bridle-reins loose in his hand.

CHAPTER XVIIA PLAN

The man who had supplied the horse-blanket for covering the dead sheep-herder had taken it away, but the boardupon which they had stretched him still layunder the tree where they had left it. Therewas blood on it where the wound haddrained, a disturbing sight which persistedin meeting Agnes’ eye every time shecame out of the tent. She was debating inher mind whether to throw the board in theriver or split it up and burn it in the stove,when Smith came along and claimed it.

“Scarce as wood’s goin’ to be in thisvalley six months from now,” Smith

remarked, rubbing dust over the stainwhich did not appear to give him anyqualms, “a man’s got to take care of it.That’s a shelf out of my store.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll ever put goodson it again.”

“Sure. Why not?”“Well, not groceries, at any rate,” she

ventured.“It won’t hurt canned goods,” Smith

told her, turning it stain downward.“Doctor gone back?”

“He’s gone on to Meander on somebusiness.”

“Smart feller,” commended Smith. “If Ihad to have my leg took off I’d just as liefhave that man do it as any doctor I eversaw.”

“I’m sure he would appreciate yourconfidence,” she smiled.

“Been acquainted with him a goodwhile?” he wanted to know.

“Only since I’ve been in this country.We met on the train coming to Comanche.”

Smith sighed as if oppressed by a secrettrouble, and cast his wise eye about thecamp.

“I wouldn’t leave them things aroundout here at night,” he advised, indicatingsome boxes of supplies with which shewas rather liberally provided. “Animalsmight git at ’em.”

“You don’t mean bears?” she askedwith lively concern.

“No; not likely bears,” said he.“Badgers, more like. They’re awful

thieves.”“Thank you for the advice. I meant to

put them in today, but I’ve been sodistracted by last night’s awful events––”

“Yes, I know,” Smith nodded. “I’ll put’em in for you.”

Smith stored the boxes within the tent.The exertion brought out the sweat on hisred face. He stood wiping it, his hat in hishand, turning his eyes to see how sheregarded his strength.

“I tell you, a woman needs a man to dothe heavy work for her in a place likethis,” he hinted.

“I’m finding that out,” she laughed.Smith sat down comfortably on the box

lately occupied by Dr. Slavens. Hebuckled his hands over a knee and sat with

that foot raised from the ground in a mostungainly, but perhaps refreshing, attitude.

“Thinkin’ about marryin’?” he asked.The frankness of the question relieved

her of embarrassment. She smiled.“I suppose every woman thinks of that,

more or less,” she admitted.Smith nodded, and slowly lowered his

foot, looking up at her with slyconfidence, as if discovering to her amighty secret which he had just becomeconvinced she was worthy to share.

“Well, so am I,” said he.It began to look like dangerous ground,

but she didn’t know how to turn him.Thinking to try a show of abstract interest,she told him she was glad to hear it.

“There’s money to be made in this

country,” he continued, warming up to hisargument, “and I know how to make it.Inside of five years I’ll be able to put up ahouse with a cupola on it, and a picketfence in front, and grass in the yard, forthe woman that marries me.”

“I believe you will,” she agreed. “Whatkind of a noise does a bear make?”

“Dang bears!” said Smith, disconcertedby having his plans thrown out of joint insuch an abrupt way.

“I thought I heard one the night beforelast,” she went on. “I was afraid.”

“No need to be,” he assured her. “Bearsdon’t come down here any more. Whatcould a bear live on down here, I’d like toknow? Snakes? Well, bears don’t eatsnakes.”

“Oh!” said she, enlightened.“There’s not a bear in a hundred miles

of here,” he told her.“That’s comforting knowledge,” she

said. “You’ve never told me about the biggrizzly that you killed. Was it long ago?”

“Not so very long,” Smith replied,sighing as he saw himself led so far awayfrom the subject nearest his heart, anddespairing of working his courage up to itagain that day.

“It was a big one, wasn’t it?”“Well, I got fifty dollars off of a feller

for the hide.”“Tell me about it,” she requested.Inwardly she wished that Smith would

go, so she might take a sleep, but shefeared lest he might get back to the subject

of houses and wives if she allowed him todepart from bears, and the historic grizzlyin particular.

“Well, I’ll tell you. I didn’t kill thatbear on purpose,” he began. “I didn’t goout huntin’ him, and I didn’t run after him.If he’d minded his own business like Iminded mine, he’d be alive today for allI’m concerned.”

“Oh, it was an accident?” she asked.“Part accident,” Smith replied. “I was a

deputy game-warden in them days, and acowboy on the side, up in the Big HornValley. A gang of fellers in knee-pants andyeller leggings come into that country,shootin’ everything that hopped up.Millionaires, I reckon they must ’a’ been,countin’ their guns and the way they leftgame to rot on the ground. They killed just

to kill, and I tracked ’em by the smell ofthe carcasses behind ’em They made asneak and got into Yellowstone Park, andthere’s where I collared ’em They was allsettin’ around a fire one night when I comeup to ’em their guns standin’ around. Ithrowed down on ’em and one fool fellerhe made a grab for a gun. I always wassorry for that man.”

“What did you do to him?” she asked.“Busted a diamond he had in a ring,”

said Smith. “Well, they got fines, themfellers did, when I marched ’em out ofthere, I’m here to tell you! If it’d been methat was judge I’d ’a’ sent ’em all to jailfor life.

“When I was comin’ back to the ranchfrom that trip I met that bear you’ve heardso much talk and mostly lies, about. That

bear he’s the most slandered bear thatever lived.”

“Slandered?”“That’s it. He wasn’t wallered to death,

choked to death, pounded to death, nor rundown. He was just plain shot in the top ofthe head.”

“What a queer place to shoot a bear!How did you manage it?”

“He managed it. He come under the treewhere I was at.”

“Oh, I see.”“And that’s all there is to that yarn,

ma’am. I got a man today that I can put onthat work of levelin’ off for you in themorning, if you want me to.”

“I think we’ll let it stand a day or two,”she told him. “I’ll let you know when to

take it up again. I’ve got so much to thinkabout right now that I just stand turninground and round.”

“Yes, you do feel that way in a newplace, sometimes,” Smith allowed. “Well,I guess I’ll have to be goin’ on down tothe store. Business is pickin’ up so fastI’ll have to keep open all the time, notonly evenin’s like I have been doin’.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said she.“Yes; I’ll have to hire a clerk, because

I’ve got to ’tend to my outside work. I’vebeen paintin’ a sign to go over the front,and I tell you that name don’t look so badwhen it’s in print, neither.”

“It isn’t a name to be ashamed of, I’msure,” she cheered. “It’s just as good asany other name, as far as I can see.”

“Phogenphole has got a good manyshanks to it when you come to write it,though,” reflected Smith. “It looks a lotbetter printed out. I think I’ll git me one ofthese here typewritin’-machines. But say!Stop in and take a look at that sign the firsttime you’re passin’; will you?”

Agnes assured him that she would.Smith upended his board as if to go.

“That feller, Boyle, he’s gone,” said he,nodding as if to confirm his ownstatement. “I saw him ride off up the riveran hour or so ago.”

“Yes; I believe he went to Meanderalso.”

“He’s a bad egg,” Smith continued,“and he comes out of a basket of bad eggs.His old man, he’s doin’ more to keep thisstate down than anything you can name.

He’s got millions–and when I saymillions, ma’am, I mean millions–of acresof government land fenced and set off tohis own use, and school lands, and otherlands belongin’ to you and me and thehigh-minded citizens of this country, andhe don’t pay a cent for the use of ’em,neither. Taxes? That man don’t know whattaxes is.”

“Why do the people permit him to doit?”

“People! Huh! He’s got rings in theirnoses, that’s why. What he don’t own he’sgot cowed. I tell you, I know of a townwith three or four thousand people in it,and a schoolhouse as big as one of themold-country castles up on a hill, thatranchers has to go forty miles around to gitto. Can’t put a road through Boyle’s land–

government land, every inch of it. What doyou think of that?”

“I think a stop ought to be put to it,somehow.”

“Sure it had! All of it’s subject tohomestead entry, but it’s got a five-wirefence around it, and thousands of sheepand cattle that the people of this countryfeed and bring up and fatten for nothing,for the Hon. Mr. Boyle. More than oneman’s been shot by Boyle’s fence-ridersfor tryin’ to homestead a piece of land heclaims he’s got a lease on. He ain’t got nolease, but that don’t matter.

“There’s men settled here in thisreservation that’s run up and down thisstate till they turned gray tryin’ to locateon a piece of land. They’ve been hustledand humped along till they’ve lost heart,

most of ’em, and I reckon they doubt nowwhether they’re goin’ to be let stay herefrom one day to another.

“Cattlemen’s kicked ’em out of oneplace, sheepmen out of another, till thisstate ain’t got no farms–the only thing thatit needs. Yes, I tell you, when a man setsup ag’in’ a Boyle or any of that crowd inthis state, he’s due to lose. Well, say,don’t forgit to stop in and see that sign;will you?”

Agnes promised again to do so, andSmith departed, the sheep-herder’scooling-board under his arm.

With Smith’s going, the temperature ofher spirits, which had risen a little to helpher through with him, suffered a recession.She looked about with the thought offinding another location for her camp,

feeling that the disturbing associations ofthe previous night never would allow herto spend a comfortable hour there again.

Her homestead did not offer anotherspot with the advantages which sheenjoyed right where she was. There theriver-bank was low, coming down as thestream did to a gravelly, fordable place,and there the trees offered shelter againstthe summer sun, the thick-matted willowsa break for the winter winds. There was ahome look about it, too, such as naturesometimes contrives in uninhabitedplaces, upon which the traveler lights withsatisfaction and restful delight.

She spent the remainder of the afternoonup and down her half-mile of river-bank,trying to choose between the next likeliestspots, but she hadn’t much heart in the

hunt. Perhaps it would be unwise to allowany affection to grow for the place, onelocation or another, or for any hope to takedeeper root than the sickly sprigs whichshe had planted at the beginning.

Drooping and weary, she returned toher tent when the sun was low, for thethought of sleep had left her with Smith’sdiscussion of the blight of the Boyles uponthat land. There appeared little use intrying to stand out against the son of thisgreat obstructionist who, with a fewfriends and servitors, had kept the state foryears as another man might keep his field.Others might look into the enclosure andsee the opportunities which were beingwasted, but none might touch.

If the gang were deprived of their chiefweapon of menace, namely, the hold

which the Federal laws had upon her, Dr.Slavens might be able to withstand theircovetous attempt to dispossess him of hisvaluable holdings. She knew that Slavenswould not stand by and see her indicted bythe creatures of the Boyles, nor any morenearly threatened with the disgrace ofprison than she was at that hour. He wouldput down everything to save her, evennow when the fruition of his hard-livedyears was at hand.

She sat in the failing sun, scooping alittle furrow with the heel of her boot asshe reflected. She still wore the dividedriding-skirt which she had worn the daybefore on her excursion into the hills, andwith her leather-weighted hat she lookedquite like any other long-striding lady ofthe sagebrush. Sun and wind, and more

than a week of bareheaded disregard ofcomplexion had put a tinge of brown onher neck and face, not much to heradvantage, although she was well enoughwith it.

How was it, she wrangled in her mind,that the lines of their lives had crossed inthat place, this physician’s and hers?Perhaps it was only the trick of chance, orperhaps it was the fulfilment of the plandrawn for them to live by from the first.But it seemed unfair to Dr. Slavens, whohad made a discouraging beginning, thathe must be called upon to surrender themeans of realizing on his ambition whenhe held them in his hand, and for no otherpurpose than to save her, a stranger.

It was unfair of fate to lay their lines so,and it would be doubly ignoble and selfish

of her to permit him to make the sacrifice.Dr. Slavens cared enough for her to askher to marry him, and to expect her tomarry him, although she had given him noword to confirm such expectation. He hadtaken hold of that matter to shape it forhimself, and he intended to marry her, thatwas plain.

Her heart had jumped and turned warmwith a softness toward him when he spokeof “this family” so naturally and frankly toJerry Boyle. It seemed to her that thosewords gave her a dignity and a standingbefore the world which all the shadows ofher troubled life could not dim.

But there were the shadows, there werethe ghosts. She felt that it would beexceedingly burdensome to him to assumethe future of two aged people, besides that

of her own. Marrying her would bemarrying a family, indeed, for she hadwasted on that desert hope much of thesmall bit of money which the scraping andcleaning of their once great properties hadyielded. And there lay the schemeprostrate, winded, a poor runner in arugged race.

Of course, she might come clear of thetangle by permitting Dr. Slavens tosurrender his homestead to Boyle; shemight do that, and impoverish him, andaccept that sacrifice as the price ofherself. For after the doctor had given uphis claim she could marry him and ride offcomplacently by his side, as heartless andsoulless as anything which is bought andsold.

That’s all it would amount to–a

downright sale, even though she did notmarry the doctor. She would be acceptingimmunity at the shameful price of a man’sbiggest chance in all his days. It was toomuch. She couldn’t do it; she neverintended to do it; she couldn’t bring itaround so that it would present anhonorable aspect from any angle.

Evening came over the hills with achill, which it gave to the cottonwoods asit passed them on the river-bank. Theirleaves trembled and sighed, and somewere so frightened by the foreboding ofwinter in that touch that they lost their holdupon the boughs and came circling down.In the tall grass which thrived rankly inthat sub-irrigated spot the insects ofsummer were out of voice. The choristersof the brushwood seemed to be in

difficulties over the beginning, also. Theyset out in shivering starts, and left off withjerky suddenness, as if they had no heartfor singing against this unmistakablewarning that their summer concert seasonhad come to its end.

Agnes fired up her stove and sat by it,watching the eager sparks make theirbrave plunge into the vast night which sosoon extinguished them, as the worldengulfs and silences streams and clouds oflittle men who rush into it with a roar. Somany of them there are who go forth soday by day, who avail, with all their fussand noise, no more against it than thebreath of an infant against a stone.

Sitting there with the night drawing inaround her, she felt the cold truth in herheart about that place, and the

acknowledgment of it, which she had keptaway from her up to that hour. It wasn’tworth while; she did not care for it. Thenand there she was ready to give it up andleave it to whoever might come after herand shape its roughness into a home.

There was a heaviness upon her, and aweight of sadness such as comes out of thesilent places of the night. It was such awide and empty land for a young heart,and its prospect was such a waste ofyears! The thought of refuge and peacewas sweet, but there is refuge to be foundand peace to be won among men and theworks of men; among books, and the softerways of life.

At that hour she was ready to give it up,mount her horse, and ride away. If givingit up would save Dr. Slavens his hard-

won claim, she would not hesitate, shetold herself, to ride to Comanche that nightand take the first train for the East. Butflight would not put her out of the reach ofthe Federal officials, and if she should fly,that would only bring the spite of Boyledown upon her more swiftly and sharplythan remaining there, facing him, anddefying him to do his worst.

No; flight would be useless, becauseJerry Boyle knew exactly where shewould go. There was but one place; theywould follow her to it and find her, andthat would be carrying trouble to a homethat had enough of it as it stood. Theremust be some other way. Was there nobond of tenderness in that dark man’s lifewhich she could touch? no soft influencewhich she might bring to bear upon him

and cause him to release his rapacioushold?

None. So far as she could fit the piecesof the past together she could fashion nodesign which offered relief.

Agnes brought up her horse and gave ita measure of oats near the tent for the sakeof the companionship of its noise, andlarge presence in the lantern light. Shethought that even after she had gone tosleep there would be comfort in the senseof the animal’s nearness.

And so, beside her stove, the lonelynight around her, the dread ache of “thelonesomeness” in her heart, she satwatching the sparks run out of thestovepipe like grains of sand running in aglass. Distance and hope alike have theirenchantments, she owned, which all the

powers of reason cannot dispel. Hand tohand this land was not for her. It wasempty of all that she yearned for; it was ascrude as the beginning.

And out of the turmoil of this thoughtand heartache there came tears whichwelled copiously and without a sob, asone weeps for things which have not beenand cannot be; as one weeps forhopelessness. And the whisperings ofmemory stirred in her heart, and the softlight of recollection kindled like a flame.Out of the past there rose a face–and flash!

A plan!There was something to be done now;

there was hot blood in the heart again. Inone moment the way had straightenedbefore her, and resolution had taken firmcaptaincy. With a pang of hunger she

remembered that for a day she hadsubsisted principally on coffee.

After a hasty supper, sleep wasnecessary, and rest. The horse hadfinished its oats, and was now watchingher sudden activity with forward-thrownears, its bright eyes catching the lantern-gleam as it turned its head. Satisfied,apparently, that the bustle included noimmediate plans for itself, the animallounged easily on three legs and went tosleep.

Agnes stopped to give it a caressing patas she went in. Sleep was the importantthing now, for her plan called forendurance and toil. But there was onelittle thing to be done tonight for which theearly light of morning, in which she mustbe stirring, might not suffice–just a little

writing. It was quickly done, her suitcaseheld across her knees serving for a desk.

CHAPTER XVIIITHE STRANGE TENT

“Do nothing until I return,” ran her letter,which Dr. Slavens read by the last muddylight of day. “I will hold you to a strictaccount of your promise to me that youwould not act in this matter without firstreturning here.”

There was no word of where she hadgone, no time fixed for her to return. Hehad found the envelope pinned to the tent-cloth when he rode up, weary and grim,from his journey to Meander.

Inside the tent all was in order. Therestood her boxes of canned goods andgroceries against the wall. There was her

cot, its blanket folded over the pillow andtucked in neatly to keep out the dust. Shehad not left hastily, it appeared, althoughthe nervous brevity of her note seemed toindicate the contrary. She had contrivedherself a broom of greasewood branches,with which she swept the space betweenstove and tent, keeping it clean down tohard earth. It stood there as she had left it,handle down, as carefully placed as if itwere a most expensive and importantutensil.

Slavens smiled as he lifted it. Even inthe wilderness a true woman could notlive without her broom, a greatercivilizing influence, he thought, than thesword.

He did not go inside the tent, but stoodholding up the flap, looking around the

dim interior. Her lantern stood on a box,matches beside it, as if it had been leftthere ready to his hand in the expectationthat he would come in and make himself athome.

It was not likely, he thought, that any ofthe neighbors could tell him where shehad gone when she had not felt like givinghim that much of her confidence. But hewent down to Smith’s, making casualinquiry, saying nothing about the notewhich she had left, not taking that to beany of Smith’s concern.

As always, Smith had been astir at anearly hour. He had seen her pass, going inthe direction of Comanche. She was ridingbriskly, he said, as if she had only a shortjourney ahead of her, and was out of hailbefore he could push the pan of biscuits he

was working over into the oven and openthe door. It was Smith’s opinion, givenwith his usual volubility and withoutsolicitation, that she had gone out on oneof her excursions.

“More than likely,” said the doctor. “Ithink I’ll go back up there and kind ofkeep an eye on her stuff. Somebody mightcarry some of it off.”

This unmalicious reflection on theintegrity of the community hurt Smith.There was evidence of deep sorrow in hisheart as he began to argue refutation of theingenuous charge. It was humiliating, hedeclared, that a man should come amongthem and hold them in such low esteem.

“In this country nobody don’t go aroundstealin’ stuff out of houses and tents,” heprotested. “You can put your stuff down

on the side of the road and leave it there,and go back in a month and find it.Sheepmen leave supplies for their herdersthat way, and I’ve known ’em to leavetheir pay along with ’em Maybe it’d be aweek or two before them fellers gotaround to it, but it’d be there when theygot there. There’s no such a thing as atramp in this country. What’d a tramp liveon here?”

“I don’t question your defense ofconditions as they were,” the doctorrejoined; “but I’m looking at things as theyare. There are a lot of new people in here,the country is becoming civilized; and themore civilized men grow the more policeand battle-ships and regiments of soldiersthey need to keep things happy andpeaceful between them, and to prevent

their equally civilized and culturedneighbors from stepping in from across theseas and booting them out of theircomfortable homes. You’ve got to keepyour eyes on your suitcase and your handon your wallet when you sit down amongcivilized people, Smith.”

“Say, I guess you’re right about that,”admitted Smith after some reflection. “Iread in the paper the other day that they’regoin’ to build three new battle-ships. Yes,I reckon things’ll change here in this partof Wyoming now. It’ll be so in a year ortwo that a man can’t leave his pantshangin’ out on the line overnight.”

“Yes, you’ll come to that,” the doctoragreed.

“Pants?” pursued Smith reminiscently.“Pants? Well, I tell you. There was a time

in this country, when I drove stage fromCasper to Meander, that I knew every pairof pants between the Chugwater and theWind River. If one man ever had come outwearin’ another feller’s pants, I’d ’a’spotted ’em quick as I would a brand on astray horse. Pants wasn’t as thick in themdays as they are now, and crooks wasn’tas plentiful neither. I knew one oldsheepman back on the Sweetwater thatwore one pair of pants ’leven years.”

“That’s another of the inconveniencesof civilization.”

“Pants and pie-annos,” said Smith. “ButI don’t care; I’ll put in a stock of both of’em just as soon as folks get their housesbuilt and their alfalfa in.”

“That’s the proper spirit,” commendedSlavens.

“And insurance and undertakin’,” addedSmith. “I’ll ketch ’em comin’ and goin’.”

“If you had a doctor to hitch in with youon the deal,” suggested Slavens.

“What’s the matter with you?” grinnedSmith.

“I’ll be cutting a streak out of herebefore long, I think.”

“Soon as you sell that claim?”Slavens nodded.“Don’t let ’em bluff you on the price,”

advised Smith. “They’re long on that gamehere.”

Slavens answered as Smith doubtlessexpected, and with a show of the deepestconfidence in his own sagacity, no matterwhat feeling lay in the well of hisconscience at that hour. He left Smith and

went back to Agnes’ camp, hoping to see alight as he drew near. There was none. Ashe carried no food with him, he wasforced to draw on her stores for supper.

For a long time he lay upon his saddle,smoking beside the stove, turning over inhis mind a thousand conjectures to accountfor her sudden and unexplained absence.He was not worried for her safety, for hebelieved that she had gone to Comanche,and that was a ride too long for her toattempt in a day. Doubtless she would setout on the return early in the morning, andreach home about noon.

It was well in the turn of the followingafternoon when Slavens decided that hewould wait in camp for her no longer.Fears were beginning to rise in him, anddoubt that all was with her as it should be.

If she went toward Comanche, she mustreturn from Comanche; he might meet heron the way to his own camp. If not, in themorning he would go on to Comanche insearch of her.

His horse, fresh and eager, knowing thatit was heading for home, carried him overthe road at a handsome gait. At the firststage-station out of Comanche, a matter oftwenty-five miles, and of fifteen beyondhis camp, he made inquiry about Agnes.

She had passed there the morningbefore, the man in charge said, measuringSlavens curiously with his little hair-hedged eyes as he stood in the door of hisshanty, half a cabbage-head in one hand, abutcher-knife in the other. Slavens thankedhim and drew on the reins.

“I’m breaking in on your preparations

for supper.”“No; it’s dinner,” the man corrected.“I didn’t know that you’d come to six-

o’clock dinners in this part of thecountry,” the doctor laughed.

“Not as I know of,” the cook-horse-wrangler said. “This dinner that I’m gittin’ready, stranger, is for tomorrow noon,when the stage comes by from Comanche.I always cook it the day before to be sureit’ll be ready on time.”

With that the forehanded cook turnedand went back to his pot. As Slavens rodeaway he heard the cabbage crunchingunder the cook’s knife as he sliced it forthe passengers of the Meander stage, tohave it hot and steaming, and well soakedwith the grease of corned beef, when theyshould arrive at noon on the morrow.

Dusk was settling when the doctorreached his tent. Before he dismounted herode to a little clear place among thebewilderment of stones which gave him aview of half a mile, and he sat therelooking a while down the stage-trailtoward Comanche. Beyond him a fewhundred yards another tent had beenplanted. In front of it a man sat cooking hissupper over a little blaze.

“Boyle lost no time in getting here,”muttered the doctor, turning to his ownshelter and kindling a fire on the ashes ofother days.

Ashes were graying again over theembers long after he had boiled his pot ofcoffee and put away his can of warmed-over beans. Night was charged with athreat of frost, as is not uncommon in those

altitudes at the beginning of September. Itwas so chilly that Slavens had drawn ablanket over his back as he sat before hisdying fire, Indian fashion, on the ground,drawing what solace he could from hispipe.

A sound of scrambling hoofs laboringup the sharp hill from the direction ofMeander came to him suddenly, startlinghim out of his reflections. His thoughtleaped to the instant conclusion that it wasAgnes; he laid light fuel to the coals,blowing it to quicken a blaze that wouldguide and welcome her.

When the rider appeared an eager flamewas laving the rocks in the yellow light,and Slavens was standing, peering beyondits radius. A glance told him that it wasnot she for whom he had lighted his

guiding fire. It was a man. In a moment hedrew up on the other side of the blaze andleaned over, looking sharply into Slavens’face.

“Hello!” he hailed loudly, as if shoutingacross a river.

Slavens returned his bellowed hail withmoderation, recognizing in the dustytraveler Comanche’s distinguished chiefof police, Ten-Gallon, of the diamondrings. Slavens never had been able to feelanything but the most lively contempt forthe fellow; now, since learning of Ten-Gallon’s treatment of Agnes, and hisundoubted hand in the plot of HunShanklin and Boyle against himself, thedoctor held him to be nothing short of anopen enemy.

“I’m lookin’ for a man by the name of

Boyle,” announced Ten-Gallon. “Are youholdin’ down camp for him?”

“He’s on down the road a little way.”“Oh, yes,” said Ten-Gallon, “I know

you now. You’re the feller that beat him toit. Well, I had a complaint ag’in’ you forstealin’ a man’s coat over in Comanche.”

“I’m out of your jurisdiction right now,I guess; but I’ll go down to Comanche andgive you a chance at me if you want totake it,” the doctor told him, considerablyout of humor, what with his owndisappointment and the fellow’s naturalinsolence.

The police chief of Comanche laughed.“I’d be about the last man to lay hands

on you for anything you done to that feller,even if you’d ’a’ took his hide along with

his coat,” said he.“Then the crime trust of Comanche must

be dissolved?” sneered Slavens.“I don’t git you, pardner,” returned Ten-

Gallon with cold severity.“Oh, never mind.”“You’re the feller that beat Boyle to it,

too,” added the chief; “and I want to tellyou, pardner, I take off my katy to you.You’re one smart guy!”

“You’ll find your man on down the roadabout a quarter,” directed Slavens, onwhose ear the encomiums of Ten-Gallonfell without savor.

“I heard in Meander today that you’dsold out to Boyle,” said Ten-Gallon.

“Well, you got it straight,” the doctortold him.

Ten-Gallon slued in his saddle,slouching over confidentially.

“Say, it ain’t any of my business,maybe, but how much did you git out ofthis pile of rocks?”

“It isn’t any of your business, but I’lltell you. I got more out of it than thiswhole blasted country’s worth!” Slavensreplied.

Ten-Gallon chuckled–a deep, fat, well-contented little laugh.

“Pardner,” said he admiringly, “youcertainly are one smart guy!”

Ten-Gallon rode on in his quest ofBoyle, while Slavens sat again beside hisfire, which he allowed to burn down tocoals.

Slavens could not share the fellow’s

jubilation over the transfer of thehomestead to Boyle, for he hadsurrendered it on Boyle’s own terms–theterms proposed to Agnes at the beginning.As he filled his big, comforting pipe andsmoked, Slavens wondered what shewould say concerning his failure to returnto her before signing the relinquishment.There would be some scolding, perhapssome tears, but he felt that he was steeringthe boat, and the return merely to keep hisword inviolate would have been useless.

He reviewed the crowded events of thepast two days; his arrival at Meander, histalk with the county attorney. While thatofficial appeared to be outwardly honest,he was inwardly a coward, trembling forhis office. He was candid in hisexpression that Boyle would make a case

against Agnes if he wanted it made, forthere was enough to base an action uponand make a public showing.

When it came to guarding that part ofthe people’s heritage grandiloquentlydescribed as “the public domain,” theBoyles were not always at the front, to besure. They had entered hundreds of men onthe public lands, paid them a few dollarsfor their relinquishment, and in that waycome into illegal ownership of hundredsof thousands of acres of grazing land. Butall the big fish of the Northwest did it,said the county attorney; you couldn’tdraw a Federal grand jury that would finda true bill in such a case against a biglandowner, for the men in shadow alwayswere drawn on the juries.

Of course, when one of them turned

against somebody else that would bedifferent. In the case of the person whoseentry of lands was covered by the doctor’shypothetical statement, and whose namewas not mentioned between them, thecrime had been no greater than their own–not so great from a moral interpretation ofthe law. Cupidity prompted them; thedesire for a home the other. Still, thatwould have no weight. If Boyle wanted tomake trouble, said the county attorney, hecould make it, and plenty of it.

Seeing how far the shadow of theBoyles fell over that land, Slavens at oncedismissed the notion that he had carried toMeander with him of bringing some legalprocedure against Boyle and Boyle’saccomplices on account of the assault andattempted murder which they had

practiced upon him. There could be nohope of an indictment if brought before thegrand jury; no chance of obtaining awarrant for the arrest of Shanklin andBoyle by lodging complaint with thecounty attorney.

Yet he took up that matter with the littlelawyer, whose blond hair stood out inseven directions when Slavens told him ofthe felonious attack and the brutaldisposition of what they had doubtlessbelieved to be his lifeless body. Thecounty attorney shook his head andshowed an immediate disposition to getrid of Slavens when the story was done. Itwas plain that he believed the doctor waseither insane or the tallest liar that everstruck that corner of the globe.

“You couldn’t make a case stick on

that,” said he, shifting his feet and hiseyes, busying his hands with some paperson his desk, which he took up in assumeddesire to be about the duties of his officewithout further loss of time. “All I can sayto you on that is, when you get ready toleave the country, take a shot at them.That’s about the only thing that’s left openfor you to do if you want to even it up.This office can’t help you any.”

And that was his advice, lightly offereddoubtless, with no thought that it would beaccepted and carried out; but strangeadvice, thought Slavens, for the protectorof the people’s peace and dignity to give.In case he should take it, he would have tobe ready to leave, that was certain.

At his meeting with Boyle in the hotel atMeander on the appointed hour, Slavens

found the Governor’s son more arrogantand insistent than before. Boyle set a limitof noon for Slavens to meet his demand.

“I’ve got everything greased,” heboasted, “and I’ll cut the string if youdon’t come up to the lick-log then.”

He offered to take Slavens to interviewthe official in charge of the land-office ifthe doctor doubted that things had not beenset in motion to cause trouble for Agnes inthe event of Slavens’ refusal to yield.While Slavens believed this to be purebluff, knowing that whatever influenceBoyle might have with the person inquestion, the official would be too wise toshow his subserviency in any suchmanner, at the same time the doctor waswell enough convinced of Boyle’s greatand pernicious influence without a further

demonstration. He saw nothing to begained by holding out until he could returnto Agnes and place the situation beforeher, if Boyle had been willing to foregomoving against her that long.

They went to the land-office together,Boyle advancing the money to Slavens forthe outright purchase of the land under theprovision of the act of Congress underwhich the reservation had been opened.Slavens immediately transferred title toBoyle, drew the money which he had ondeposit in the bank at Meander, and rodeaway with the intention of quitting thestate as soon as might be. How soon,depended upon the readiness of someoneto go with him.

Boyle had told him that he might takehis own time about removing his

possessions from the land; but it was hisintention, as he gloomed there by his lowfire, to get them off the next day. In themorning, he intended to go to Comanche,which was only ten miles distant, and tryto find out what had become of Agnes.From there he would send out a wagon tobring in his tent and baggage.

He turned again in his mind everyreason, tenable and untenable, that hecould frame to account for Agnes’ suddenand unexplained trip. He thought sheprobably had gone for her mail, or to senda telegram and receive a reply, or formoney, or something which she needed incamp. More than once he took up theprobability that she had gone off on someforlorn scheme to adjust their mutualaffairs; but there was not a hook of

probability to sustain the weight of thisconjecture, so with little handling it had tobe put down as profitless.

At the best she was gone, and had beengone now two days–a long time for a tripto Comanche. He wondered if anythinghad happened to her on the way; whethershe had fled the state in precipitation, sothat his homestead might be saved fromBoyle. She was generous enough to do it,but not so thoughtless, he believed,knowing as she must know the concernand worry to which he would be subjectuntil he could have word from her.

But for Agnes’ return to round it out,Slavens’ adventure in that country hadcome to a close. Without Agnes it wouldbe incomplete, as without her there wouldbe missing a most important part in the

future pattern of his life. He could not gowithout Agnes, although he had nothing yetof success to offer her.

But that was on the way. The knockswhich he had taken there in those fewweeks had cracked the insulation ofhopelessness which the frost of hisprofitless years had thickened upon him.Now it had fallen away, leaving him lightand fresh for the battle.

Agnes had said little about the moneywhich Dr. Slavens had taken fromShanklin at the gambler’s own crookedgame. Whether she countenanced it or not,Slavens did not know. Perhaps it was nothonest money, in every application of theterm, but it was entirely current, and therewas a most comfortable sense in the feelof it there bulked in the inner pocket of his

coat. He had no qualms nor scruples aboutit at all. Fate had put it in his hands for thecarrying out of his long-deferred desires.If it hadn’t worked honestly for Shanklin,it was about to set in for a mightyreformation.

But there was the trouble of Agnes’absence, which persisted between him andsleep when he arranged himself in hisblankets. He turned with it, and sighed andworked himself into a fever of anxiety.Many times he got up and listened for thesound of hoofs, to go back to his tent andtell himself that it was unreasonable tothink that she would ride by night over thatlonely road.

When morning began to creep in itbrought with it a certain assurance that allwas well with her, as daylight often brings

its deceptive consolation to a heart thatsuffers the tortures of despair in the dark.Sleep caught him then, and held him pastthe hour that he had set for its bound.When he awoke the sun was shining overthe cold ashes of his last night’s fire.

Slavens got up with a deeper feeling ofresentment against Boyle than he ever hadfelt for any man. It seemed to come overhim unaccountably, like a disagreeablesound, or a chill from a contrary wind. Itwas not a pettish humor, but a deep, gravefeeling of hatred, as if the germ of it hadgrown in the blood and spread to everytissue of his body. The thought of Boyle’sbeing so near him was discordant. Itpressed on him with a sense of being nearsome unfit thing which should beremoved.

Dr. Slavens never had carried arms inhis life, and he had no means of bucklingHun Shanklin’s old revolver about him,but he felt that he must take it with himwhen he left the tent. Big and clumsy as itwas, he thrust it under the belt whichsustained his trousers, where it promisedto carry very well, although it was not in afree-moving state in case an emergencyshould demand its speedy use.

There would be no time for breakfast.Even then he should have been inComanche, he told himself withupbraidings for having slept so long. Hishorse had strayed, too. Slavens went afterit in resentful mood. The creature hadfollowed the scant grazing to the secondbench, an elevation considerably above itspresent site.

Slavens followed the horse’s trail,wondering how the animal had been ableto scramble up those slopes, hobbled as itwas. Presently he found the beast andstarted with it back to camp. Rounding thebase of a great stone which stood perchedon the hillside as if meditating a tumble,Slavens paused a moment to look over thetroubled slope of land which had been histwo days before.

There was Boyle’s tent, with a firebefore it, but no one in sight; and there, onthe land which adjoined his former claimon the south, was another tent, so placedamong the rocks that it could not be seenfrom his own.

“It wasn’t there when I left,” Slavensreflected. “I wonder what he’s after?”

CHAPTER XIXCROOK MEETS CROOK

Slavens was saddling his horse before histent, his mind still running on thenewcomer who had pitched to the south ofhim, evidently while he was away. Hewas certain that he would have seen thetent if it had been there before he left, forit was within plain view of the road.

Well, thought the doctor, whoever thestranger was, whatever he hoped orexpected of that place, he was welcometo, for all that Slavens envied him. As forSlavens himself, he had run his race andwon it by a nose; and now that he wasputting down the proceeds to appease

what he held as blackmail, he had no verykeen regrets for what he was losing. Hehad passed through that. There would bethe compensation––

But of that no matter; that must come inits time and place, and if never, no matter.He would have the ease of conscience inknowing that he had served her, andserved her well.

His horse was restive and frisky in thecool of the morning, making a stir amongthe stones with its feet. Slavens spokesharply to the animal, bending to draw upthe girth, the stirrup thrown across thesaddle.

“Now, you old scamp, I’ll take thisfriskiness out of you in a minute,” said he,giving the horse a slap under the belly ashe reached to pull the stirrup down.

He drew back with a start as his eyeslifted above the saddle, and his handdropped to the butt of the revolver whichhe carried so clumsily in his belt. HunShanklin was standing there facing him,not above a dozen feet away, grinningdubiously, but with what he doubtlessmeant for an expression of friendliness.

The old gambler threw out his handswith a sidewise motion eloquent ofemptiness, lifting his shoulders in a quicklittle jerk, as if to say, “Oh, what’s theuse?”

“Kind of surprised you; didn’t I, Doc?”he asked, coming nearer.

“What do you want here?” demandedSlavens harshly.

“Well, not trouble,” replied Shanklinlightly. “If I’d come over for that, I guess I

could ’a’ started it before now.”“Yes, I suppose you could,” admitted

Slavens, watching him distrustfully andfeeling thankful, somehow, that the horsewas between them.

“I saw you up on the hill after yourhorse, so I thought I’d come over and letyou know I was around,” said Shanklin.“Thought I’d tell you that I ain’t holdin’any grudges if you ain’t.”

“I don’t see where you’ve got any callto. I never took a crack at you with ablackjack in the dark!”

“No, you didn’t, friend,” Shanklinagreed in his old easy, persuasive way.“And I never done it to you. You owe thehonorable Mr. Jerry Boyle for the redmark you’ve got on your forrid there. I’llown up that I helped him nail you up and

dump you in the river; but I done itbecause I thought you was finished, and Ididn’t want the muss around.”

“Well, it will all come out on the day ofreckoning, I suppose,” said Slavens, notbelieving a word the old scamp said.

He knew that minute, as he had knownall the time, that no other hand thanShanklin’s had laid him low that night. Ofthis he was as certain in his own mind asif he had seen the gambler lift hand for theblow. Boyle had no motive for it up to thattime, although he had been quick to turnthe circumstance to his advantage.

“I thought Boyle’d dickered you out ofthis claim before now,” said Shanklin,looking around warily.

“He’s down the road here a littlepiece,” replied Slavens testily, “in

company of another friend of yours. Youcould have seen his tent as you came overif you’d looked.”

“I just put up my tent last night,”Shanklin explained.

Slavens took hold of his saddle-horn asif to mount, indicating by his action thatthe visit should come to an end. Shanklin,who was not in the least sensitive on thematter of social rebuffs, did not appear tobe inclined to accept the hint. He shiftedhis legs, thrusting one of them forward in alounging attitude, and dug in his trouserspockets with his long, skinny hands.

“Well, spit it out and have it overwith!” snapped Slavens, feeling that therewas something behind the man’s actions towhich he had not given words.

“That was a purty good coat I left with

you that night,” suggested Shanklin,looking up without the slightest stirring ofhumor in his dry face.

“You’re welcome to it, if that’s all,”said Slavens.

“That’s all. I was kind of attached tothat coat.”

Slavens left him standing there andentered the tent, feeling that Shanklin wasas irresponsible morally as a savage.Evidently the inconsequential matter of anattempt at murder should not be allowedto stand between friends, according to theflat-game man’s way of viewing life. Itappeared that morning as if Shanklin hadno trace of malice in him on account of thepast, and no desire to pursue further hisunderhanded revenge. Conscience was solittle trouble to him that he could sit at

meat with a man one hour and stick a knifein his back the next.

The coat was under a sack of oats,somewhat the worse for wrinkles anddust. Slavens gave it a shake, smoothedthe heaviest of the creases with his hand,and went out to deliver it to its owner.

Shanklin was facing the other way, inthe direction of his own camp. His attitudewas in sharp contrast with the easy,lounging posture of a few moments before.He was tense and alert, straining forwarda little, his lean body poised as if hebalanced for a jump. There was aclattering on the small stones whichstrewed the ground thickly there, as ofsomebody approaching, but the bulk of thehorse was between Slavens and the view,as the doctor stopped momentarily in the

door of the low tent.Clearing the tent and standing upright,

Slavens saw Boyle and Ten-Galloncoming on hurriedly. They had been toShanklin’s camp evidently, looking forhim. From the appearance of both parties,there was something in the wind.

Boyle was approaching rapidly, Ten-Gallon trailing a bit, on account of hisshorter legs perhaps, or maybe becausehis valor was even briefer than his wind.Boyle seemed to be grinning, althoughthere was no mirth in his face. His teethshowed between his parted lips; hecarried his right arm in front, crooked atthe elbow, his fingers curved.

Slavens saw that all thought of the coathad gone but of Shanklin’s mind. The oldgambler did not so much as turn his head.

Slavens threw the coat across his saddleas Boyle came up.

“Well, what have you got to say to it,you dirty old thief?” demanded Boyle,plunging into the matter as if preliminarieswere not needed between him andShanklin.

“You seem to be doin’ the talkin’,”returned Shanklin with a show of coldindifference, although Slavens saw that hewatched every movement Boyle made,and more than once in those few secondsthe doctor marked Hun’s sinewy right armtwitch as if on the point of making someswift stroke.

Boyle stopped while there was yet arod between them, so hot with anger thathis hands were trembling.

“That don’t answer me!” he growled,

his voice thick in his constricted throat.“What have you got to say to the way youdouble-crossed me, you old one-eyedhellion?”

“Talk don’t hurt, Jerry, unless a mantalks too much,” Shanklin answeredmildly. “Now, if I wanted to talk, I couldmighty near talk a rope around your littlewhite neck. I know when to talk and whento keep still.”

“And I know how to jar you loose!”threatened Boyle.

Shanklin leaned toward the Governor’sson never so little, his left hand lifted topoint his utterance, and opened uponBoyle the most withering stream ofblasphemous profanity that Slavens hadever heard. If there ever was a man whocursed by note, as they used to say, Hun

Shanklin was that one. He laid it to Boylein a blue streak.

“What do I owe you?” he began.Then he swung off into the most

derogatory comparisons, applications,insulting flagellations, that man ever stoodup and listened to. His evident motive wasto provoke Boyle to some hostile act, sothat twitching right arm might have theexcuse for dealing out the death which layat its finger-ends. Every little while thetorrent of abuse broke upon the demand,“What do I owe you?” like a rock in thechannel, and then rushed on again withoutlaying hold of the same epithet twice. If aman were looking for a master in thatbranch of frontier learning, a greatopportunity was at hand.

Boyle leaned against the torrent of

abuse and swallowed it, his face losing itsfiery hue, blanching and fading as if everyword fell on his senses like the blow of awhip to the back. The Governor’s sonwatched every muscle of Shanklin’s faceas if to read the gambler’s intention in hiseye, while his hand, stiff-set and clawlike,hovered within three inches of his pistol-butt.

Presently Shanklin stopped, panting likea lizard. Both men stooped a little lower,leaning forward in their eagerwatchfulness. Neither of them seemed tobe conscious that the world held any otherobject than his enemy, crouching, waiting,drawing breath in nostril-dilating gasps.

Boyle moved one foot slightly, as if tosteady himself for a supreme effort. Alittle stone which he dislodged tumbled

down the side of a four-inch gully with anoise that seemed the sound of anavalanche. With that alarm Shanklin’s armmoved swiftly. Like a reflection in aglass, Boyle’s arm moved with it.

Two shots; such a bare margin betweenthem that the ear scarcely could mark theline. Then one.

Shanklin, his hands half lifted, his armscrooked at the elbow and extended fromhis sides, dropped his pistol, his mouthopen, as if to utter the surprise which waspictured in his features. He doubledlimply at the knees, collapsed forward,fell upon his face.

Boyle put his hand to his breast abovehis heart, pressing it hard; took it away,turned about in his tracks as ifbewildered; swayed sickly, sank to his

knees, and fell over to his side with thesilent, hopeless, huddling movement of awild creature that has been shot in thewoods.

Ten-Gallon came from behind the tent,where he had been compressing himselfinto a crevice between two boulders. Hisface was white, and down it sweat waspouring, drawn from the agony of his basesoul. He went to the place where Dr.Slavens knelt beside Boyle.

“Cra-zy Christmas!” gasped he, hismouth falling open. Then again:

“Cra-zy Christmas!”Slavens had gone to Boyle first,

because there was something in the uttercollapse of Shanklin which told him theman was dead. As he stripped Boyle’sclothing off to bare the wound, Slavens

ordered Ten-Gallon to go and see whetherthe old gambler had paid his last loss.

“I won’t touch him! I won’t lay a handon him!” Ten-Gallon refused, drawingback in alarm.

Boyle was not dead, though Shanklin’sbullet had struck him perilously near theheart and had passed through his body.With each feeble intake of breath bloodbubbled from the blue mark, which lookedlike a little bruise, on his chest.

“Well, see if you can make a fire, then,and hurry about it! Get some water on toboil as fast as you can!” Slavens directedthe nerveless chief of police.

Ten-Gallon set about his employmentwith alacrity while Slavens went over toShanklin, turning his face up to the sky.For a little while he stooped over Hun;

then he took the gambler’s coat from thesaddle and spread it over his face. HunShanklin was in need of no greater servicethat man could render him.

Dr. Slavens took off his coat andbrought out his instrument-case. He gaveBoyle such emergency treatment as waspossible where the gun-fighter lay, andthen called Ten-Gallon to help take himinto the tent.

“Lord, he’s breathin’ through his back!”said Ten-Gallon. “He’ll never live till wegit him to the tent–never in this world,Doc! I knew a feller that was knifed in theback one time till he breathed through hisribs that way, and he––”

“Never mind,” said Slavens. “Takehold of him.”

Ten-Gallon’s fire burned briskly, and

the water boiled. Dr. Slavens sterilizedhis instruments in a pan of it, and set aboutto establish the drainage for the woundupon which the slender chance of Boyle’slife depended. Boyle was unconscious, ashe had been from the moment he fell. Theystretched him on the doctor’s cot. With theblankets spread underfoot to keep downthe dust, the early sun shining in throughthe lifted flap, Slavens put aside whateveranimosity he held against the man andwent to work earnestly in an endeavor tosave his life.

Ten-Gallon showed a nervous anxietyto get away. He wanted to go after hishorse; he wanted to go to Boyle’s tent andget breakfast for himself; and then hepressed the necessity of his presence inComanche to keep and preserve the peace.

But Slavens would not permit him to quitthe tent until he could no longer be ofassistance.

It was not the wounded body of JerryBoyle that the pot-bellied peace officerfeared, but the stiffening frame of HunShanklin, lying out there in the bright sun.Every time he looked that way he drew upon himself, like a snail. At length Slavensgave him permission to leave, charginghim to telephone to Meander for thecoroner the moment that he arrived inComanche, and to get word to Boyle’speople at the earliest possible hour.

There seemed to be nothing for Slavensto do but to forego his trip in quest ofAgnes, and sit there in the hope that shewould come. Boyle could not be leftalone, and Shanklin’s body must be

brought up out of the gully and covered.This ran through his mind in erratic

starts and blanks as he bent over thewounded man, listening to his respirationwith more of a humane than professionalfear that the next breath might tell him ofthe hemorrhage which would make asudden end of Boyle’s wavering anduncertain life.

Ten-Gallon had been gone but a littlewhile when Slavens heard him clatteringback in his heel-dragging walk over therocks. He appeared before the doctor witha lively relief in his face.

“Some people headin’ in here,” heannounced. “Maybe they’ll be of somehelp to you. I hated to go and leave youhere alone with that feller”–jerking hishead toward Shanklin’s body–“for I

wouldn’t trust him dead no more than Iwould alive!”

“All right,” said Slavens, scarcelylooking up.

Ten-Gallon appeared to be over hisanxiety to leave. He waited in front of thetent as the sound of horses came nearer.

“Stop them off there a little way,”ordered the doctor. “We don’t want anymore dust around here than we can help.”

He looked around for his hat, put it on,and went out, sleeves up, to see that hisorder was enforced. Agnes was alightingfrom a horse as he stepped out. A tall,slight man with a gray beard wasdemanding of Ten-Gallon what hadhappened there.

Relief warmed the terror out of her eyes

as Agnes ran forward and caught Dr.Slavens’ hand.

“You’re safe!” she cried. “I feared–oh,I feared!”

A shudder told him what words falteredto name.

“It wasn’t my fight,” he told her.“This is Governor Boyle,” said Agnes,

presenting the stranger, who had stoodlooking at them with ill-containedimpatience, seeing himself quite forgottenby both of them in that moment of meeting.

“I am sorry to tell you, sir, that your sonis gravely wounded,” said Dr. Slavens,driving at once to the point.

“Where is he?” asked the Governor, hisface pale, his throat working as if hestruggled with anguish which fought to

relieve itself in a cry.Dr. Slavens motioned to the tent. The

old man went forward, stopping when hesaw his unconscious son and the bloodyclothing beside the cot. He put his hand tohis forehead and stood a moment, his eyesclosed. Then he went in and bent over thewounded man.

A sob of pity rose in Agnes’ throat asshe watched him and saw the pain andaffection upon his face. PresentlyGovernor Boyle turned and walked to thespot where Hun Shanklin’s body lay.Without a word, he lifted the coat from thegambler’s face, covered it again, andturned away.

“Bad company! Bad company!” said he,sadly shaking his head. “How did ithappen, Doctor? You were here? First”–

he held up his hand, as if to check thedoctor’s speech–“will he live?”

“Men have recovered from worsewounds,” responded the doctor. “There’sa chance for him, at least.”

He related, then, the circumstance of themeeting, the brief quarrel, and the fight,Ten-Gallon putting in a word here andthere, although his testimony was neitherasked nor welcomed.

“I don’t know what the cause of thequarrel was,” concluded the doctor. “Twodays ago I relinquished this claim to yourson. He came here immediately and tookpossession.”

“You–you relinquished!” exclaimedAgnes, disappointment in her voice,reproach in her eyes.

“I am sorry that you relinquished it,”said the Governor. “This brave youngwoman rode all the way to my ranch–almost a hundred miles–to save it to you. Iwas absent when she arrived, but I set outwith her at the earliest possible momentupon my return. We rode all night lastnight, sir, changing horses in Comanchethis morning.”

“I am grateful to you, both of you, forthe trouble and fatigue you have undergonein my behalf. But the case, as your sonurged it, sir, was beyond temporizing.Perhaps Miss Gates has told you?”

The Governor nodded curtly, a look ofdispleasure on his face.

“I can’t believe that Jerry meant it,” heprotested. “It must have been one of hisjokes.”

“I am sorry, then, that my idea of humoris so widely divergent from his!” said Dr.Slavens with deep feeling.

“Well, he’s paid for it. The poor boyhas paid for his indiscretion,” said the oldman sadly.

He turned away and went a little space,where he stood as if in meditation.

“You promised me that you’d donothing until you returned and saw me,”Agnes charged. “And I had saved it foryou! I had saved it!”

“You would have been too late,”returned the doctor sharply. “Themachinery for your humiliation wasalready in motion. I doubt whether eventhe Governor could have stopped it inanother day without a great deal ofunpleasant publicity for you. Boyle meant

to have this piece of land, and he got it.That’s all.”

Ten-Gallon was fooling around the fire.He drew over toward the group as theGovernor came back.

“Can my son be removed from here?”the old man asked.

The doctor said that he could not,without practically throwing away hisslender chance for life.

“Do for him what you can; you seem tobe a capable man, sir; you inspireconfidence in me,” said the Governor,laying his hand appealingly on thedoctor’s shoulder; “and if you can savehim, I’ll pay you twice what this infernalclaim was worth to you!”

“I’ve done all that can be done for him,

without hope or expectation of reward,”said the doctor; “and I’ll stick by him tothe end, one way or another. We can carefor him here as long as this weather holds,just as well as they could in a hospital.”

“Well, as far as what this claim’s worthgoes,” put in Ten-Gallon, edging into theconversation, “you don’t need to lose anysleep over that.”

“What do you mean?” demandedSlavens, turning upon him sharply.

Ten-Gallon stirred the dust with his toe,stooped and picked up an empty revolver-cartridge.

“It ain’t worth that!” said he, presentingit in the palm of his hand.

“I don’t know what you’re driving at,”said the doctor, inclined to walk away and

leave him.“I mean that Hun Shanklin queered all

of you,” said Ten-Gallon. “You had thewrong figgers, and you filed on the wrongclaim!”

Pressed for an explanation of how heknew, Ten-Gallon told them that he hadbeen Shanklin’s partner at the beginning,and that Shanklin had deceived andcheated both him and Boyle.

“Ah, then he did double-cross my son!”cried the Governor triumphantly, seizingthis vindication for the young man’s deedwith avid eagerness.

“He sure did,” Ten-Gallon agreed; “andhe done it right! I know all about you”–nodding to the doctor–“and whathappened to you back of that tent inComanche that night. Shanklin had it in for

you ever since you showed up his gamethe night that sucker feller was goin’ to putdown that wad of money. He’d been layin’for you, one way and another, for a coupleof days or so. You walked right into hishand that night.”

“I seemed to,” admitted Slavens withbitter recollection.

“Shanklin knew about copper in theserocks over here––”

“So it’s copper?” said Slavens, unableto restrain his words.

“Copper; that’s what it is,” noddedTen-Gallon. “But it ain’t on this claim,and I’ll show that in a minute, too. Hunhad been writin’ to Jerry about it, tryin’ togit up a company to pay him for what heknew, so they could locate the man thatdrawed Number One there, see? Well,

Hun, he’d known about that copper a longtime; he could go to it with his eyes shut.So he got the description of the land assoon as the survey maps was out, and heoffered to sell the location for fivethousand dollars. He had samples of theore, and it run rich, and it is rich, richestin this state, I’m here to tell you,gentlemen.

“But Jerry wouldn’t give him no fivethousand for what he knew. So Hun he gotsome other fellers on the string, and himand me was partners on the deal and wasgoin’ to split even on account of somethings I knew and was to keep under mykaty.

“Well, Hun sold the figgers of that landto Jerry for five hundred dollars in theend, and he sold it to them other fellers for

the same. When it come out that you wasNumber One, Doc–and us fellers knewthat in the morning of the day of thedrawin’, for we had it fixed with Mong–Hun he tells Jerry that you’ll never sell outfor no reasonable price.

“‘We’ll have to soak that feller,’ hesays, ‘and git him out of the way.’ Jerry heagreed to it, and they had men out afteryou all that day and night, but they didn’tgit a chance at you. Then you walked rightinto old Hun’s hand. Funny!” commentedTen-Gallon stopping there to breathe.

“Very!” said the doctor, putting hishand to the tender scar on his forehead.

He pushed back his hat and turned to theGovernor.

“Very funny!” said he.

“Of course, Jerry, he was winded somewhen you put in your bill there ahead ofhim and Peterson that morning and filed onthe claim he had it all framed up to locatethe Swede feller on. Jerry telephoned overto Comanche and found out from Shanklinhow you got the numbers, and then he laidout to start a fire under you and git you off.Well, he done it, didn’t he?”

Ten-Gallon leered up at Slavens withsome of his old malevolence and officialhauteur in his puffy face.

“Go on with your story, and be carefulwhat charges you lay against my son!”commanded the Governor sharply.

Ten-Gallon was not particularlysquelched or abashed by the rebuke. Hewinked at Agnes as if to express a feelingof secret fellowship which he held for her

on account of things which both of themmight reveal if they saw fit.

“Shanklin, he closed up his game inComanche three or four days ago and wentover to Meander,” Ten-Gallon resumed.“He never had split with me on that moneyhe got for the numbers of this claim out ofJerry and that other crowd. So I folleredhim. Yesterday morning, you know, theland left over from locatin’ them that haddrawed claims was throwed open toanybody that wanted to file on it.

“Well, the first man in the line was thatold houn’ that’s layin’ over there with histoes turnin’ cold. He filed on something,and when I collared him about the money,he throwed me down. He said he sold thenumbers of land that didn’t have no morecopper on it than the palm of his hand, and

he said he’d just filed on the land that hadthe mines. He showed me the papers; thenhe hopped his horse and come on downhere.”

“Incredible!” exclaimed the Governor.“It was like him,” Slavens

corroborated. “He was a fox.”“I was goin’ to take a shot at him,”

bragged Ten-Gallon, “but he was too furahead of me. He had a faster horse thanmine; and when I got here last night hewas already located on that claim. Thecopper mine’s over there where the oldfeller’s tent stands, I tell you. They ain’tenough of it on this place to make a yardof wire.”

“And you carried the story ofShanklin’s deception and fraud to myson,” nodded the Governor, fixing a

severe eye on Ten-Gallon, “and he soughtthe gambler for an explanation?”

“Well, he was goin’ to haul the oldcrook over the fire,” admitted Ten-Gallon,somewhat uneasy under the old man’s eye.

The Governor walked away from themagain in his abstracted, self-centered way,and stood looking off across the troubledlandscape. Dr. Slavens stepped to the tentto see how the patient rested, and Ten-Gallon gave Agnes another wink.

“Comanche’s dwindlin’ down like afire of shavin’s,” said he. “Nobodycouldn’t git hurt there now, not even acrawlin’ baby.”

Indignation flushed her face at theman’s familiarity. But she reasoned that hewas only doing the best he knew to befriendly.

“Are you still chief of police there?”she asked.

“I’m marshal now,” he replied. “Thepolice force has been done away with bythe mayor and council.”

“Well then, I still have doubt about thesafety of Comanche,” she observed,turning from him.

Governor Boyle approached Ten-Gallon and pointed to Hun Shanklin’sbody.

“You must do something to get thatcarcass out of camp right away,” he said.“Isn’t there a deputy coroner atComanche?”

“The undertaker is,” said Ten-Gallon,drawing back at the prospect of having tolay hands on the body of the man whom he

feared in death as he had feared him inlife.

“Send him over here,” Governor Boyledirected.

Ten-Gallon departed on his mission,and the Governor took one of the troddenblankets from in front of the tent andspread it over Shanklin’s body, shroudingit completely. Dr. Slavens had loweredthe flap of the tent to keep the sun from thewounded man’s face. When he came out,Agnes met him with an inquiring look.

“He’s conscious,” said the doctor. “Theblow of that heavy bullet knocked thewind out of him for a while.”

“Will he–lapse again?” asked theGovernor, balancing between hope andfear.

“It isn’t likely. You may go in andspeak to him now if you want to. But hemust keep still. A little exertion might starta hemorrhage.”

Jerry Boyle lay upon his back, hisbloodless face toward them, as theygathered noiselessly in the door of thetent. His eyes were standing open, greatand questioning, out of his pallor, nothingbut the animal quality of bewildermentand fear in their wide stare.

Governor Boyle went in and dropped tohis knees beside the cot. Dr. Slavensfollowed hastily, and placed his hand onthe wounded man’s breast.

“You may listen,” said he; “but keepstill.”

“Don’t even try to whisper,”admonished the Governor, taking his son’s

hand between his own.“That’s all right, Governor,” replied the

young man, his face quickening with thatoverrunning little crinkling, like windover water, which was his peculiar giftfor making his way into the hearts ofwomen and men, unworthy as he was.

“Be still!” commanded the old man. “Iknow what happened. There’s nothing tosay now.”

“Did I get him?” whispered Jerry,turning his head a little and lookingeagerly into his father’s face.

The Governor placed his hand over hisson’s mouth, silencing the young man witha little hissing sound, like a motherquieting her babe.

Agnes turned away, the disgust which

she felt for this savage spirit of the manundisguised in her face. Dr Slavenscautioned the Governor again.

“If he says another word, you’ll have toleave him,” said he. “This is one casewhere talk will turn out anything butcheap.”

He joined Agnes, and together theywalked away from the scene of violenceand death.

“You’re tired to death,” said he. “I’mgoing to take possession of Boyle’s tentdown there for you, and you’ve got to takea long sleep. After that we’ll think aboutthe future.”

She walked on beside him, silent andsubmissive, interposing no objection tohis plan. They found the tent very wellequipped; he started to leave her there to

her repose. She stood in the door with herhat in her hand, her hair in disorder, dustover her dress and shoes.

“Could you send word to Smith by thestage this morning and ask him to bring mythings–tent and everything–down here?”she asked.

“Then you’re not planning to go backthere?” he asked, his heart jumping withhope.

She shook her head, smiling wanly.“I can’t bear the thought of it,” said she.

CHAPTER XXA SUDDEN CLOUD

Dr. Slavens went back to his camp,concluding on the way that it would bewise to have a complete understandingwith Governor Boyle in regard to takingfurther charge of his son’s case. If, afterthree days allowed for infection tomanifest itself, the wound remainedhealthy and clean, there would be littleneed of a doctor in constant attendance.Young Boyle would be able to express hispreference in the matter then, and Slavensdid not want to act as physician to himagainst his will.

Governor Boyle was walking up and

down like a sentry before the tent whenDr. Slavens came up.

“He’s asleep,” said the father. “Heseems to be pitifully weak for a mansuffering from a fresh wound; he droppedoff as if he had fainted.”

“When you consider that a bullet of thatcaliber, with the powder back of it thatthis one had, strikes somewhere around aton,” said the doctor, “it ceases to be awonder that he is weak.”

“It’s Heaven’s mercy that spared him!”declared the Governor, his voice troubledwith emotion.

Slavens wondered at the deep affectionwhich this man of so hard a repute couldshow for his son, and at the tie oftenderness which plainly bound them. Butprecedent is not wanting, as the doctor

reflected, to establish the contention thatsome of the world’s greatest oppressorshave been good fathers, kind husbands,and tender guardians of the home.

“Yes; Shanklin shot twice,” saidSlavens. “It was his second one that hit,after he had been mortally hurt himself.”

“It was the hand of Providence thatturned his aim!” said the Governor. “Theold one-eyed villain had the reputation ofbeing the best shot in the Northwest. Heprovoked my son to draw on him, or triedto at least–for I can’t believe that Jerrydrew first–with the intention of puttinghim out of the way.”

“What do you propose to do aboutbringing another surgeon here?” asked Dr.Slavens.

“Why, I hadn’t given it any serious

thought,” answered Governor Boyle,looking at him quickly.

“It would please me better to have youdo so.”

“But I have entire confidence in yourability to handle the case, sir. Yourconduct in the matter has been admirable,and I see no reason why you should notcontinue to attend my son until–the end,one way or the other.”

“You understand, Governor,” said Dr.Slavens gravely, searching the old man’sface with steady eyes, “that there is noground for good feeling or friendshipbetween your son and me?”

The Governor nodded, averting hisface, as if the acknowledgment gave himpain or shame.

“And in case that everything should notturn out to the happiest conclusion for him,I should not want to stand the chance ofblame.”

“Quite sensible, but unnecessarilycautious, I tell you,” the Governor replied.

“I have done all that a better surgeoncould have done,” pursued the doctor,“and I am quite willing to go ahead and doall that can be done until you can bringanother physician here, to relieve me, orat least satisfy you that I have not allowedany feeling of man to man to standbetween physician and patient.”

“Very well; I will telegraph toCheyenne for a physician,” agreed theGovernor, “since it is your wish. But I amentirely satisfied with, and trustful of you,sir. That I desire you to understand

plainly.”Dr. Slavens thanked him.“I shall send for the other physician to

act merely in an advisory capacity, and inno manner to relieve you of the caseunless you desire to be relieved. But Ithink it will be to your interest to stand byme. I feel that I am under a certainobligation to you, more especially to MissGates, for my son’s––”

“We will not discuss that, if youplease,” Dr. Slavens interrupted.

“At least I will stand by what I said toyou a little while back,” the Governorsaid; “that is, in the matter ofremuneration, if you pull him through.”

“All of that in its proper place,” saidthe doctor. “I am going back to Comanche

now to send for the boy’s mother,” theGovernor announced, “and telegraph toCheyenne for the doctor of whom I spoke.I have known him for many years. I’llhave some more tents and camp-suppliessent out, and anything that you stand inneed of which can be procured inComanche.”

Dr. Slavens gave him a list of articlesneeded in the patient’s case, and theGovernor rode away. The undertaker fromComanche arrived a little later, and tookHun Shanklin’s body up from the ground.When his wagon, on its return toComanche, had passed the tent whereAgnes was trying to sleep, she got up andjoined Dr. Slavens.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she explained.“Every time I shut my eyes I could see that

poor old gambler’s body lying there withthe coat over his face!”

“I don’t feel either pity or pain in hiscase,” said the doctor; “or, when it comesto that, for the other one, either.”

“Well, you couldn’t have prevented it,anyway,” she sighed.

“And wouldn’t have if I could,” hedeclared. “I looked on them as one poisonfighting another, as we set them to do inthe human system. When one overcomesthe other, and the body throws them bothout, health follows.”

“Do you think Jerry will recover?”“There’s a chance for him,” he replied.“For his mother’s sake I hope he will,”

she said. “I went to see her, rememberingin the midst of my distress her kind face

and gentle heart. I’m glad that I went,although my mission failed.”

“No, nothing fails,” he corrected gently.“What looks to us like failure from ourside of it is only the working out of theplan laid down a long time ahead. We maynever see the other side of the puzzle, butif we could see it we’d find that ourapparent failure had been somebodyelse’s gain. It’s the balance ofcompensation. Your thought of Boyle’smother, and your ride to appeal to her inmy behalf, worked out in bringing hisfather here at a time when Jerry neededhim as he never may need him in his lifeagain.”

“It was a strange coincidence,” shereflected.

“We call such happenings that for want

of a better name, or for the short-sightedness which keeps us from applyingthe proper one,” said he. “It’s better thatyou have concluded to give up the City ofRefuge. You’ll not need it now.”

“It was a foolish undertaking, romanticand impossible, from the very beginning,”she owned. “I never could have put itthrough.”

“It would have carried many aheartache with it, and many a hard andlonely day,” said he. “And so we are bothback where we were, so far as landedpossessions go in this country, at thebeginning.”

“I’ve lost considerable by my foolishdream,” she confessed with regret.

“And I have gained everything,” hesmiled, taking her hand in his.

The world around them seemed to betoo grave to look kindly on any love-passages of tenderness or kisses, ortriflings such as is the common way of aman with a maid. In that moment whenhand touched hand she looked up into hiseyes with warm softness glowing in herown, and on her lips stood an invitationwhich his heart sprang to seize, like aneager guest leaping through the portal ofwelcome.

At that moment, when eye drew eye,heart warmed to heart, and lips trembledto meet, Jerry Boyle coughed as if bloodwere mounting to his throat and cutting offhis life.

Dr. Slavens was at his side in amoment. It must have been thestrangulation of an uneasy dream, for there

was no symptom of hemorrhage. Thewounded man still slept, groaning anddrawing the lips back from the teeth, as hehad drawn them in his passion when hecame on that morning to meet his enemywith the intention in his heart to slay.

But love shuddered and grew pale inthe cold nearness of death. The kiss solong deferred was not given, and thefluttering pulse which had warmed towelcome it fell slow, as one who strikes along stride in a journey that has miles yetto measure before its end.

Governor Boyle was back in camp inthe middle of the afternoon, and beforenight the tents and furnishings for lodgingthe party comfortably arrived fromComanche. The Governor pressed Agnes,who was considering riding to Comanche

to find lodging, to remain there to assistand comfort his wife when she shouldarrive.

“We need the touch of a woman’s handhere,” said he.

They brought Jerry’s tent and set it upfor her. She was asleep at dusk.

Mrs. Boyle arrived next morning, havingstarted as soon as the messenger bearingnews of the tragedy reached the ranch. Shewas a slight, white-haired woman, whohad gone through hardships before comingto prosperity on that frontier, so the fifty-mile ride in a wagon was no unusual ortrying experience for her.

Whatever tears she had for her son’ssad plight she had spent on the roughjourney over. As she sat beside him

stroking his heavy hair back from hispallid brow, there was in her face ashadow of haunting anxiety, as if therecollection of some old time of terroradded its pangs to those of the present.

Her presence in camp, and her constantministrations at her son’s side, relievedDr. Slavens of considerable professionalanxiety, as well as labor. It gave him timeto walk about among the gigantic stoneswhich cast their curse of barrenness overthat broken stretch, Agnes with him, andmake a further investigation of the land’smineral possibilities.

“Ten-Gallon was telling the truth, in myopinion,” said he. “I have explored theserocks from line to line of this claim, and Ireached the conclusion a good many daysago that somebody had been misled in

supposing it was worth money. It wasnothing but Boyle’s persistentdetermination to get hold of it that gave ita color of value in my mind.”

“Still, it may be the means, after all, ofyielding you as much as you expected toget out of it at the first,” she suggested.

He looked at her questioningly.“I mean the Governor’s declaration

yesterday morning that he would pay youtwice what you expected to get out of it ifyou would save Jerry’s life.”

“Oh, that!” said he, as if he attachedlittle importance to it.

“He’s a millionaire many times over,”she reminded him. “He can afford to do it,and he should.”

“I may be out of the case entirely before

night,” he told her, explaining that anotherphysician would arrive on the first trainfrom Cheyenne.

“You know best,” said she, resigninghope for his big fee with a sigh.

“Smith will come over with your tentand goods today, very likely,” said he,“and then we can leave. I had planned itall along, from the time we used to takethose moonlight walks to the river, that weshould leave this country together when itcame our time to go.”

“It would be wrong for you to wasteyour life here, even if you could makemore money than elsewhere, when theworld with more people and more pain init needs you so badly,” she encouragedhim.

“Just so,” he agreed. “It’s very well for

Smith to stay here, and men of his kind,who have no broader world. They aredoing humanity a great service insmoothing the desert and bringing thewater into it.”

“We will leave it to them,” she said.They tramped across the claim until

they came in sight of Hun Shanklin’s tent.Its flap was blowing in the wind.

“The old rascal came over to makefriends with me,” said Slavens. “Heclaimed that he never lifted his handagainst me. There’s his horse, trying tomake it down the slope to the river. I’llhave to catch the beast and take that ropeoff.

“There’s a man over there!” Agnesexclaimed. “Look! There among the rocksto the right of the tent! I wonder who it

is?”Slavens looked where she pointed, just

as the man disappeared among the rocks.“It’s the Governor!” she whispered.“Looked like his coat,” he agreed.“Do you suppose he’s––”“Trying to locate old Shanklin’s mine,”

he said. “That’s what he’s after. If there’scopper on that piece the Governor will getit, even if his son doesn’t live to sharewith him. The difference of a figure ortwo in the description of a piece of landmight be revised on the books, if one hadthe influence.”

The doctor for whom Governor Boylehad sent arrived on the afternoon trainfrom Cheyenne and reached the campbefore sunset. He spoke in the highest

terms of the manner in which Dr. Slavenshad proceeded, and declared that it wouldbe presumptuous meddling for him, oranyone else, to attempt to advise in thecase.

Agnes heard his commendation withtriumph in her eyes, and Mrs. Boyle gaveDr. Slavens her blessing in a tearful look.The doctor from Cheyenne took up hisinstrument-case and held out his hand witha great deal more respect in his bearingtoward the unknown practitioner than hehad shown upon his arrival.

“On vacation here?” he asked, puzzledto find any other excuse for so muchability running wild among the rocks inthat bleak place.

“Something like that,” answeredSlavens noncommittally.

“When you’re passing throughCheyenne, stop off and see me,” givingSlavens a respectful farewell.

Dr. Slavens advanced several points inthe appraisement of Governor Boyle,although, to do the Governor justice, hehad seen from the beginning that thewandering physician was a master. Boylehad been weighing men for what theywere worth, buying them and selling them,for too many years to place a wrong bet.He told Slavens that unlimited capital wasback of him in his fight for Jerry’s life,and that he had but to demand it if anythingwas wanted, no matter what the cost.

Dr. Slavens told him bluntly that his sonwas in a fix where one man’s moneywould go as far as another’s to get himclear, and that it had very little weight in

the other end of the scales against the thingthey were standing in front of, face to face.

“Save him to me, Doctor! For God’ssake save him!” begged the old man, hisface bloodless, the weight of his unshoredyears collapsing upon him and bowinghim pitifully.

Again Slavens felt the wonder of thisman’s softness for his son, but pity wastinctured with the thought that if it hadbeen applied in season to shaping theyoung man’s life, and his conscience, andhis sense of justice, it might havecommanded more respect. But he knewthat this was the opportunity to make theone big chance which the years had beenkeeping from him. At the start Slavens hadtold the old man that his son had a chancefor life; he had not said how precariously

it lay balanced upon the lip of the darkcañon, nor how an adverse breath mightsend it beyond the brink. The weight of theresponsibility now lay on him alone.Failure would bring upon him anavalanche of blame; success a gloriousimpetus to his new career.

He took a walk down to the river tothink about it, and breathe over it, and gethimself steadied. When he came back hefound Smith there, unloading Agnes’things, soaking up the details of thetragedy with as much satisfaction as a toadrefreshing itself in a rain.

Smith was no respecter of office orsocial elevation. If a man deservedshooting, then he ought to be shot,according to Smith’s logic. As he made anexcuse to stay around longer by assisting

the doctor to raise Agnes’ tent, heexpressed his satisfaction that Jerry Boylehad received part payment, at least, ofwhat was due him.

“But I tell you,” said he to the doctor inconfidence, turning a wary eye to see thatAgnes was out of hearing just then. “I’mglad he got it the way he did. I was afraidone time that girl over there was goin’ tolet him have it. I could see it in her eye.”

“You can see almost anything in awoman’s eye if your imagination isworking right,” the doctor told him, rathercrabbedly.

“You don’t need to believe it if youdon’t want to,” returned Smith, somewhatoffended, “but I tell you that girl’d shoot aman in a minute if he got too fresh!”

“I believe you’re right about that,

Smith,” agreed the doctor, “so let’s youand I be careful that we don’t get toofresh.”

Smith said no more, but he kept turninghis eye upon the doctor as he got hiswagon ready to set off on his return, witha good deal of unfriendliness in it.Evidently it had come into his mind onlythen that Dr. Slavens was assuming a sortof proprietary air around Agnes.

With his foot on the brake and his linesdrawn up, Smith looked down andaddressed her.

“Well, I don’t suppose you’ll be backon the river for some time?”

“I expect it will be a long time,” shereplied, evading exposition of her plans.

“I’ll keep my eye on the place for you,

and see that them fellers don’t cut downyour timber,” he offered.

She thanked him.“When you come over that way, take a

look at that sign on the front of my store,”said Smith, giving her a significant,intimate glance. “The more you see thatname in print the better you like it.”

With that Smith threw off his brake sosuddenly and violently that it knocked alittle cloud of dust out of his wagon, laidthe whip to his team, and drove off withalmost as grand a flourish as he used toexecute when setting out from Comancheon the stage.

Mrs. Boyle left her son’s side, herhusband relieving her, to see that Agneswas supplied with everything necessary.She had pressed Agnes to remain with

her–which was well enough in accordwith the girl’s own inclination–and helpher care for her “little boy,” as she calledhim with fond tenderness.

“Isn’t she sweet?” whispered Agnes, asMrs. Boyle went to her own tent to fetchsomething which she insisted Agnes musthave. “She is so gentle and good to be themother of such a wolf!”

“But what did she think about herprecious son going to turn the wholeUnited States out after you because youwouldn’t help him pull the plank out fromunder an unworthy friend?”

“I didn’t tell her that,” said Agnes,shaking her head. “I told the Governor aswe came over, and she isn’t to know thatpart of it.”

Their tents made quite a little village,

and the scene presented considerablequiet activity, for the Governor hadbrought a man over from Comanche toserve the camp with fuel and water andturn a hand at preparing the food. Agneswas cook-in-extraordinary to the patientand the doctor. She and Slavens took theirsupper together that night, sitting besidethe fire.

There they talked of the case, and theprospect of the fee, and of the future whichthey were going to fix up together betweenthem, as confidently as young things halftheir age. With the promised fee, lifewould be one way; without it another. Buteverything was white enamel and brassknobs at the poorest, for there wasconfidence to give hope; strength and loveto lend it color.

Striking the fire with a stick until thesparks rose like quail out of the grass, Dr.Slavens vowed solemnly that he wouldwin that fee or take in his shingle–which,of course, was a figurative shingle only atthat time–and Agnes pledged herself tostand by and help him do it as faithfully asif they were already in the future andbound to sustain each other’s hands in thebitter and the sweet of life.

“It would mean a better automobile,”said he.

“And a better surgery, and a nicer chairfor the consulting-room,” she added,dreaming with wide-open eyes upon thefire.

“And a better home, with more comfortin it for you.”

“Oh, as for that!” said she.

“I’ve got my eye on a place with oldelms in front of it, and moss on theshingles, and a well where you pull thebucket up with a rope over a pulley,” saidhe. “I’ve got it all laid out and bloomingin my heart for that precious mother ofyours. It is where mine used to live,” heexplained; “but strangers are in it now.We’ll buy them out.”

“It will be such a burden on you. Andjust at the beginning,” she sighed. “I’mafraid, after all, that I’ll never be cowardenough to consent to it at the last.”

“It’s out of your hands now, Agnes,”said he; “entirely out of your hands.”

“It is strange how it has shaped out,”she reflected after a little silence; “better,perhaps, than we could have arranged it ifwe had been allowed our own way. The

one unfortunate thing about it seems to bethat this case is isolated out here in thedesert, where it never will do you a bit ofgood.”

“Except the fee,” he reminded her witha gentle smile.

“Oh, the fee–of course.”“But there is a big hurdle to get over

before we come to even that.”“You mean––”She looked at him with a start, the

firelight catching her shining eyes.“The crisis.”“Day after tomorrow,” said she,

studying the fire as if to anticipate in itsnecromancy what that day offered to theirhopes.

The shadow of that grave contingency

fell upon them coldly, and the plans theyhad been making with childlike freedomof fancy drew away and grew dim, as ifsuch plans never had been. So muchdepended on the crisis in Jerry Boyle’scondition, as so much devolves upon thebig if in the life of every man and womanat some straining period of hopes andschemes.

Words fell away from them; they let thefire grow pale from neglect, and grayashes came over the dwindling coals, likehoarfrost upon the bright salvia against agarden wall. Silence was over the camp;night was deep around them. In JerryBoyle’s tent, where his mother watched, adim light shone through the canvas. It wasso still there on that barren hillside thatthey could hear the river fretting over the

stones of the rapids below the ford, morethan half a mile away.

After a while her hand sought his, andrested warm upon it as she spoke.

“It was pleasant to dream that,anyway,” said she, giving up a great sigh.

“That’s one advantage of dreams; theyare plastic material, one can shape themafter the heart’s desire,” he answered.

“But it was foolish of me to minglemine with yours so,” she objected. “And itwas wrong and selfish. I can’t fasten thisdead weight of my troubles on you anddrag you back. I can’t do that, dearfriend.”

He started at the word, laying hold ofher hand with eager grip.

“Have you forgotten the other word–is

that all there is to it?” he asked, bendingtoward her, a gentle rebuke in histrembling voice.

“There is so much more! so muchmore!” she whispered. “Because of that, Icannot be so selfish as to dream thosesplendid dreams again–wait,” sherequested, as she felt that he was about tospeak.

“If I thought only of myself, of a refugefor others and myself, then I would notcount the penalty which would attach toyou to provide it. But unless we win theGovernor’s fee, my dear, dear soul, don’tyou see how impossible it will be for usto carry out even the most modest of ourfond schemes?”

“Not at all,” he protested.“It would drag you back to where you

were before, only leaving you with agreater burden of worry and expense,” shecontinued, unheeding. “I was rapt, I wasdeadened to selfish forgetfulness by thesweet music of those dreams. I am awakenow, and I tell you that you must not do it,that I shall never permit you to ruin yourlife by assuming a load which will crushyou.”

“Agnes, the chill of the night is in yourheart,” said he. “I will not listen to suchfolly! Tomorrow, when the sun shines, itwill be the same as yesterday. I have it allarranged; you can’t change it now.”

“Yes. You took charge of me in yourimpetuous generosity, and I wasthoughtless enough to interpose no word.But I didn’t mean to be selfish. Pleaseremember above it all that I didn’t mean to

be selfish.”“I have it all arranged,” he persisted

stubbornly, “and there will be no turningback. Tomorrow it will not look sogloomy to you. Now, you’d better go tobed.”

He rose as he spoke, gave her his hand,and helped her to her feet. As they stoodface to face Agnes placed her hand uponhis shoulder gravely.

“I am in sober earnest about this,Doctor,” said she. “We must not go onwith any more planning and dreaming. Itmay look as if I feared the future with youfor my own sake, putting the case as I do,all dependent on the winning of that fee.But you would not be able to swim withthe load without that. It would sink you,and that, too, after you have fought the big

battle and won new courage and hope, anda new vision to help you meet the world.Unless we weather the crisis, I must rideaway alone.”

“I’d be afraid of the future without you;it would be so bleak and lonesome,” saidhe simply. He gave her good night beforeher tent.

“And for that reason,” said he, carryingon his thought of a minute before, “wemust weather the crisis like goodsailormen.”

CHAPTER XXITHE CRISIS

Brave words are one thing, andinflammation in a gunshot wound isanother. Infection set up in Jerry Boyle’shurt on the day after that which the doctorhad marked as the critical point in hisbattle for life.

Dr. Slavens was of the opinion that thebullet had carried a piece of clothing intothe wound, which it was not able todischarge of itself. An operation for itsremoval was the one hope of saving thepatient, and that measure for relief wasattended by so many perils as to make itvery desperate indeed.

The doctor viewed this alarming turn inhis patient with deep concern, not so muchout of sympathy for the sufferer and hisparents, perhaps, as on his personalaccount. The welfare of Jerry Boyle hadbecome the most important thing in life tohim, for his own future hinged on that asits most vital bearing.

Agnes was firm in her adherence to theplan of procedure which she hadannounced. She declared that, as mattersstood, she would not become a burden,with all her encumbrances, upon hisslender resources. If mischance wrestedthe promised fee out of his hands, thenthey must go their ways separately. Sherepeated her determination to abide bythat on the morning when Dr. Slavensannounced the necessity of the operation.

Slavens was hurt and disappointed. Itseemed that his faith in her suffered ablighting frost.

“In plain words,” he charged, “you willrefuse to marry me because I am poor.”

“There’s no other way to put it,” sheadmitted. “But I refuse only out of myboundless esteem and tenderness for youand your success. I am putting downhappiness when I do this, and taking up anadditional load of pain. But what peace orself-respect would ever be mine again if Ishould consent to add the burden of twohelpless old people to what you will haveto carry on your own account?”

“My back is broad enough to be Atlasto your little world,” he declared.

“But there’s no use strangling success,”she argued. “It can’t be many years, at the

longest, until time and nature relieve mytottering charges of their dependence onme. If you would care to wait, and if Imight not be too old––”

“If there’s nothing better for it, thenwe’ll wait,” he cut in almost sharply. “Doyou remember how I showed you to holdthat cone?”

She had consented to assist him in theoperation to the extent of keeping thepatient under the ether after he hadadministered it.

“This way,” said she, placing thecotton-filled paper cone over the nostrils.

From the physician’s standpoint, theoperation was entirely successful. Asuccessful operation, as the doctor definesit, means that the doctor gets what he startsafter. Frequently the patient expires during

the operation, but that does not subtractanything from the sum of its success.

In the case of Jerry Boyle the matterwore a brighter aspect all around. Thedoctor found the bit of coat-lining whichthe bullet had carried in with it, andremoved it. The seat of inflammation wascentered around it, as he had foreseen, andthe patient was still alive, even though thegreater part of the day had passed sincethe tormenting piece of cloth wasremoved.

The camp was hushed in the depressionof despair. Until that day they had heardMrs. Boyle’s hopeful voice cheering herhusband, upon whom the foreboding ofdisaster seemed to weigh prophetically.Sometimes she had sung in a low voice asshe watched beside her son. But now her

courage seemed to have left her, and shesat in the tent with the Governor, huddledlike two old tempest-beaten birds hidingunder a frail shelter which could notshield them from the last bitter blow. Theyhad given the care of their son over to thedoctor and Agnes entirely, watching theircoming and going with tearful eyes,waiting for the word that would cut theslender stay of hope.

On the afternoon of the second day afterthe operation, Agnes entered the tent andlooked across the patient’s cot into Dr.Slavens’ tired eyes. He shook his head,holding the sufferer’s wrist, his finger onthe fluttering pulse. It seemed to Agnesthat Boyle had sunk as deep into theshadow of the borderland as human everpenetrated and drew breath. From all

appearances he was dead even thatmoment, and the solemn shake of the headwith which the doctor greeted her seemedto tell her it was the end.

She went to her own tent and sat in thesun, which still fell hot and bright. TheGovernor and his wife had let down theflap of their tent, as if they could no longerbear the pain of watching. Tears came intoAgnes’ eyes as she waited there in thewreckage of so many human hopes; tearsfor the mother who had borne thatunworthy son, but whose heart was tenderfor him as if his soul had been without astain; tears for the old man whose spiritwas broken, and tears for herself and herown dreams, and all the tender thingswhich she had allowed to spring withinher breast.

After a long time Dr. Slavens came outof the hospital-tent and let the flap downafter him. The sun was striking long,slanting shadows across the barrens; thefire was dying out of its touch. Agnes’heart sank as she saw the doctor drawaway a little distance, and then turn andwalk a little beat, back and forth, back andforth, his head bowed, his hands claspedbehind him in an attitude of thoroughdisappointment and deep gloom. She gotup and went to him, a feeling that all wasover.

“Never mind,” she consoled, lifting hertear-streaked face to meet his haggardlook. “You’ve lost, but I have come to tellyou that it makes no difference betweenus. We will go on with our life together aswe planned it; we will take up our

dreams.”“Agnes, you have come in good time,”

said he, lifting his hand to his foreheadwearily.

“I am not noble enough to sacrifice myhappiness for your good,” she continued.“I am too weak and common, andwomanly frail for that. I cannot carry outmy brave resolution, now that you’ve lost.We will go away together, according toyour plan, and I will live by your plan,always and forever.”

“You have come in good time–in goodtime,” said he again, as one speaking in adaze.

Then he drew her to his breast, whereher head lay fair and bright, her strayinghair, spread like a shattered sunbeam,lifting in the young wind that came from

the hills beyond the river.There she rested against the rock of his

strength, his hand caressing her wildtresses, the quiver of her sobbing breaststirring him like a warm and quickeningdraught.

“You did well to come and tell methis,” said he, “for, as I love you, my dear,dear woman, I would not have had you onthe other terms. But I have not lost. JerryBoyle has emerged from the shadow. Hewill live.”

After that day when his adventuring soulstrayed so near the portal which opens inbut one direction, Boyle’s recovery wasrapid. Ten days later they loaded him intoa wagon to take him to Comanche, thenceto his father’s home by rail.

Young Boyle was full of the interest oflife again, and his stock of audacity didnot appear to be in the least diminished byhis melancholy experience. He treated Dr.Slavens on the footing of an old friend,and if there was any shame in his heart athis past behavior toward Agnes, hiscolorless cheeks did not betray it.

With the exception of one flying visit tothe capital city of the state, GovernorBoyle had remained in camp faithfullysince the day of the tragedy. But the slowdays in those solitudes were galling to hisbusy mind once the safety of his boy’s lifewas assured. He became in a measuredictatorial and high-handed in his dealingswith the doctor, and altogetherpatronizing.

Dr. Slavens considered his duty toward

the patient at an end on the morning whenthey loaded him into the spring wagon totake him to Comanche. He told theGovernor as much.

“He’ll be able to get up in a few daysmore,” said the doctor, “and inside of amonth he’ll be riding his horse as ifdaylight never had been let through him.”

Governor Boyle took this announcementas the signal for him to produce hischeckbook, which he did withconsiderable ostentation and flourish.

“How much did you expect to get out ofthis pile of rocks?” he asked the doctor,poising his fountain-pen over the page.

Dr. Slavens colored under the question,which came so sharply and indelicately,although he had rehearsed in his mind forthat moment an uncounted number of

times. He said nothing, fumbling as he wasfor a reply.

Jerry, lying back on his cot in thewagon, his head propped up, laughedshortly and answered for him.

“It was about twenty thousand, wasn’tit, Doctor?”

“Somewhere around there,” admittedSlavens, as if confessing some wild folly.

“Well, I said I’d give you half as muchas you expected to get out of it if youpulled Jerry through, and I’m here to keepmy word,” said the Governor, beginningto write.

Agnes looked at the doctor, indignantamazement in her face. Then she turned tothe Governor sharply.

“I beg your pardon, Governor Boyle,

but I was present when you made thatpromise; you said you’d pay him twice asmuch as he hoped to get out of the claim ifhe saved Jerry’s life,” said she.

Governor Boyle raised his eyes with acold, severe look on his bearded face.

“I beg your pardon!” said he withwithering rebuke, which carried with itdenial and challenge of proof. That said,he bent to his writing again.

Jerry Boyle laughed.“Oh, jar loose a little, Governor–be a

sport!” he urged.“Here is my check for ten thousand

dollars, Doctor,” said the Governor,handing the slip to Slavens; “I considerthat pretty good pay for two weeks’work.”

The Governor mounted his horse, andgave the driver the word to proceedslowly to the station.

“And if I croak on the road over theGovernor’ll stop payment on the check,”said Jerry facetiously.

“Well, unless you get busy with thatlittle gun of yours and somebody putsanother hole through you on the way,” thedoctor assured him, “I’ll make it to thebank door with a perfectly good check inmy hand.”

Young Boyle held out his hand infarewell, his face suddenly sober andserious.

“The gun has been cached,” said he. “Ipromised mother I’d never sling it on aman again, and I’m going to stick to it. I’mgoing to get a bill put through the

Legislature making it a felony to pack one,if it can be done. I’m cured, Doctor, inmore ways than one.”

The cavalcade moved off down thewinding road. Agnes was ablaze withindignation.

“The idea of that man going back on hissolemn word, given in the very presenceof death!”

“Never mind; that’s the way he madehis money, I suppose,” said the doctor.“I’ve got more out of it than I everexpected to get without a row, and I’mgoing to make a line for that bank inCheyenne and get the money on his checkbefore he changes his mind. He may get tothinking before he gets home that Jerryisn’t worth ten thousand dollars.”

As they rode up to the rise of the hill,

Agnes reined in and stopped.“Here is where we changed places on

the coach that day when Smith thoughtthere was going to be a fight,” sherecalled.

“Yes, this is the place,” he said,looking around with a smile. “Old HunShanklin was up here spying out the land.”

“Smith called you to the box to helphim, he told me later, because he pickedyou out as a man who would put up afight,” said she.

“Well, let us hope that he made a goodguess,” Slavens said, “for here’s wherewe take up the racket with the worldagain.”

“We changed places on the coach thatday; you took the post of danger,” she

reflected, her eyes roaming the browninghills and coming back to his face with acaress in their placid depths.

“Yes,” he said, slowly, gravely; “wherea man belongs.”

Dr. Slavens gathered up his reins to go,yet lingered a little, looking out over thegray leagues of that vast land unfoldedwith its new adventures at his feet. Agnesdrew near, turned in her saddle to viewagain the place of desolation strewn overwith its monumental stones.

“This is my Gethsemane,” she said.“It was cursed and unholy when I came

to it; I leave it sanctified by my mostprecious memory,” said he.

He rode on; Agnes, pressing after, cameyet a little way behind, content to have it

so, his breast between her and the world.And that was the manner of their goingfrom the place of stones.

EDGAR RICE BURROUGH’SNOVELS

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TARZAN THE UNTAMEDTells of Tarzan’s return to the life of theape-man in his search for vengeance onthose who took from him his wife andhome.JUNGLE TALES OF TARZANRecords the many wonderful exploits bywhich Tarzan proves his right to apekingship.A PRINCESS OF MARSForty-three million miles from the earth–asuccession of the weirdest and mostastounding adventures in fiction. JohnCarter, American, finds himself on the

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THE WHITE LADIES OF WORCESTERA novel of the 12th Century. The heroine,believing she had lost her lover, enters aconvent. He returns, and interestingdevelopments follow.THE UPAS TREEA love story of rare charm. It deals with asuccessful author and his wife.THROUGH THE POSTERN GATEThe story of a seven day courtship, inwhich the discrepancy in ages vanishedinto insignificance before the convincingdemonstration of abiding love.THE ROSARY

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THE LAMP IN THE DESERTThe scene of this splendid story is laid inIndia and tells of the lamp of love thatcontinues to shine through all sorts oftribulations to final happiness.GREATHEARTThe story of a cripple whose deformedbody conceals a noble soul.THE HUNDREDTH CHANCEA hero who worked to win even whenthere was only “a hundredth chance.”THE SWINDLERThe story of a “bad man’s” soul revealedby a woman’s faith.THE TIDAL WAVE

Tales of love and of women who learnedto know the true from the false.THE SAFETY CURTAINA very vivid love story of India. Thevolume also contains four other longstories of equal interest.

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ZANE GREY’S NOVELSMay be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset &

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THE MAN OF THE FORESTTHE DESERT OF WHEATTHE U. P. TRAILWILDFIRETHE BORDER LEGIONTHE RAINBOW TRAILTHE HERITAGE OF THE DESERTRIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGETHE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARSTHE LAST OF THE PLAINSMENTHE LONE STAR RANGERDESERT GOLDBETTY ZANE

LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTSThe life story of “Buffalo Bill” by his

sister Helen Cody Wetmore, withForeword and conclusion by Zane Grey. ZANE GREY’S BOOKS FOR

BOYSKEN WARD IN THE JUNGLETHE YOUNG LION HUNTERTHE YOUNG FORESTERTHE YOUNG PITCHERTHE SHORT STOPTHE RED-HEADED OUTFIELDAND OTHER BASEBALL STORIES

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JAMES OLIVERCURWOOD’S STORIES OF

ADVENTUREMay be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset &

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THE RIVER’S ENDA story of the Royal Mounted Police.THE GOLDEN SNAREThrilling adventures in the Far Northland.NOMADS OF THE NORTHThe story of a bear-cub and a dog.KAZANThe tale of a “quarter-strain wolf andthree-quarters husky” torn between thecall of the human and his wild mate.BAREE, SON OF KAZANThe story of the son of the blind Grey

Wolf and the gallant part he played in thelives of a man and a woman.THE COURAGE OF CAPTAIN PLUMThe story of the King of Beaver Island, aMormon colony, and his battle withCaptain Plum.THE DANGER TRAILA tale of love, Indian vengeance, and amystery of the North.THE HUNTED WOMANA tale of a great fight in the “valley ofgold” for a woman.THE FLOWER OF THE NORTHThe story of Fort o’ God, where the wildflavor of the wilderness is blended withthe courtly atmosphere of France.THE GRIZZLY KINGThe story of Thor, the big grizzly.

ISOBELA love story of the Far North.THE WOLF HUNTERSA thrilling tale of adventure in theCanadian wilderness.THE GOLD HUNTERSThe story of adventure in the Hudson Baywilds.THE COURAGE OF MARGE O’DOONEFilled with exciting incidents in the landof strong men and women.BACK TO GOD’S COUNTRYA thrilling story of the Far North. Thegreat Photoplay was made from this book.

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ELEANOR H. PORTER’SNOVELS

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JUST DAVIDThe tale of a loveable boy and the placehe comes to fill in the hearts of the grufffarmer folk to whose care he is left.THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDINGA compelling romance of love andmarriage.OH, MONEY! MONEY!Stanley Fulton, a wealthy bachelor, to testthe dispositions of his relatives, sendsthem each a check for $100,000, and thenas plain John Smith comes among them towatch the result of his experiment.SIX STAR RANCH

A wholesome story of a club of six girlsand their summer on Six Star Ranch.DAWNThe story of a blind boy whose courageleads him through the gulf of despair into afinal victory gained by dedicating his lifeto the service of blind soldiers.ACROSS THE YEARSShort stories of our own kind and of ourown people. Contains some of the bestwriting Mrs. Porter has done.THE TANGLED THREADSIn these stories we find the concentratedcharm and tenderness of all her otherbooks.THE TIE THAT BINDSIntensely human stories told with Mrs.Porter’s wonderful talent for warm and

vivid character drawing.

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“STORM COUNTRY”BOOKS BY GRACE MILLER

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JUDY OF ROGUES’ HARBORJudy’s untutored ideas of God, her love ofwild things, her faith in life are quite asinspiring as those of Tess. Her faith andsincerity catch at your heart strings. Thisbook has all of the mystery and tenseaction of the other Storm Country books.TESS OF THE STORM COUNTRYIt was as Tess, beautiful, wild, impetuous,that Mary Pickford made her reputation asa motion picture actress. How love actsupon a temperament such as hers–atemperament that makes a woman an angel

or an outcast, according to the character ofthe man she loves–is the theme of thestory.THE SECRET OF THE STORMCOUNTRYThe sequel to “Tess of the StormCountry,” with the same wild background,with its half-gypsy life of the squatters–tempestuous, passionate, brooding. Tesslearns the “secret” of her birth and findshappiness and love through her boundlessfaith in life.FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSINGA haunting story with its scene laid nearthe country familiar to readers of “Tess ofthe Storm Country.”ROSE O’ PARADISE“Jinny” Singleton, wild, lovely, lonely,

but with a passionate yearning for music,grows up in the house of Lafe Grandoken,a crippled cobbler of the Storm Country.Her romance is full of power and gloryand tenderness.

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KATHLEEN NORRIS’STORIES

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset &Dunlap’s list.

SISTERS.Frontispiece by Frank Street.The California Redwoods furnish thebackground for this beautiful story ofsisterly devotion and sacrifice.POOR, DEAR, MARGARETKIRBY.Frontispiece by George Gibbs.A collection of delightful stories,including “Bridging the Years” and “TheTide-Marsh.” This story is now shown inmoving pictures.JOSSELYN’S WIFE.Frontispiece by C.Allan Gilbert.The story of a beautiful woman whofought a bitter fight for happiness and

love.MARTIE, THEUNCONQUERED.Illustrated by CharlesE. Chambers.The triumph of a dauntless spirit overadverse conditions.THE HEART OF RACHAEL.Frontispieceby Charles E. Chambers.An interesting story of divorce and theproblems that come with a secondmarriage.THE STORY OF JULIAPAGE.Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert.A sympathetic portrayal of the quest of anormal girl, obscure and lonely, for thehappiness of life.SATURDAY’S CHILD.Frontispiece by F.Graham Cootes.

Can a girl, born in rather sordidconditions, lift herself through sheerdetermination to the better things forwhich her soul hungered?MOTHER.Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.A story of the big mother heart that beatsin the background of every girl’s life, andsome dreams which came true.

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BOOTH TARKINGTON’SNOVELS

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SEVENTEEN.Illustrated by ArthurWilliam Brown.No one but the creator of Penrod couldhave portrayed the immortal young peopleof this story. Its humor is irresistible andreminiscent of the time when the readerwas Seventeen.PENROD.Illustrated by Gordon Grant.This is a picture of a boy’s heart, full ofthe lovable, humorous, tragic things whichare locked secrets to most older folks. It isa finished, exquisite work.PENROD AND SAM.Illustrated by WorthBrehm.

Like “Penrod” and “Seventeen,” this bookcontains some remarkable phases of realboyhood and some of the best stories ofjuvenile prankishness that have ever beenwritten.THE TURMOIL.Illustrated by G. E.Chambers.Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginativeyouth, who revolts against his father’splans for him to be a servitor of bigbusiness. The love of a fine girl turnsBibbs’ life from failure to success.THE GENTLEMAN FROMINDIANA.Frontispiece.A story of love and politics,–moreespecially a picture of a country editor’slife in Indiana, but the charm of the booklies in the love interest.

THE FLIRT. Illustrated by Clarence P.Underwood.The “Flirt,” the younger of two sisters,breaks one girl’s engagement, drives oneman to suicide, causes the murder ofanother, leads another to lose his fortune,and in the end marries a stupid andunpromising suitor, leaving the reallyworthy one to marry her sister.

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THE NOVELS OF GRACELIVINGSTON HILL LUTZ

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THE BEST MANThrough a strange series of adventures ayoung man finds himself propelled up theaisle of a church and married to a strangegirl.A VOICE IN THE WILDERNESSOn her way West the heroine steps off bymistake at a lonely watertank into a mazeof thrilling events.THE ENCHANTED BARNEvery member of the family will enjoythis spirited chronicle of a young girl’sresourcefulness and pluck, and the secretof the “enchanted” barn.

THE WITNESSThe fascinating story of the enormouschange an incident wrought in a man’slife.MARCIA SCHUYLERA picture of ideal girlhood set in the timeof full skirts and poke bonnets.LO, MICHAEL!A story of unfailing appeal to all who loveand understand boys.THE MAN OF THE DESERTAn intensely moving love story of a manof the desert and a girl of the East picturedagainst the background of the Far West.PHOEBE DEANEA tense and charming love story, told witha grace and a fervor with which only Mrs.Lutz could tell it.

DAWN OF THE MORNINGA romance of the last century with all ofits old-fashioned charm. A companionvolume to “Marcia Schuyler” and“Phoebe Deane.”

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