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Title: The Quirt

Author: B.M. Bower

Illustrator: Anton Otto Fischer

Release Date: September 3, 2006 [EBook#19166]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKTHE QUIRT ***

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Book Cover

THE QUIRT

By B.M.

BowerGoodIndianLonesomeLand

TheUphill

ClimbTheGringosTheRanch attheWolverineTheFlying U'sLast StandJean ofthe LazyAThePhantomHerd

TheHeritage

of theSiouxStarr, ofthe DesertTheLookoutManCabinFeverSkyriderTheThunderBirdRim o' theWorldThe Quirt

Al's gun spoke, and Warfield sagged atthe knees and the

shoulders, and slumped to the ground.Frontispiece. See page 294.

THE QUIRT

BY

B. M. BOWER

WITH FRONTISPIECE BY

ANTON OTTO FISCHER

BOSTON

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY

1920

Copyright, 1920,

By Little, Brown, and Company.

All rights reserved

Published May, 1920

Reprinted, May, 1920

Reprinted, July, 1920

Reprinted, October, 1920

CONTENTS

chapter pageI Little Fish 1

II

TheEnchantmentof LongDistance

12

III

Reality isWeighedand FoundWanting

22

"She's aGood Girl

IV When SheAin't Crazy"

38

VA Death"ByAccident"

54

VILoneAdvisesSilence

68

VII The Man atWhisper 85

VIII"It TakesNerve Justto Hang On"

100

IXThe EvilEye of theSawtooth

115

AnotherSawtooth

X "Accident" 126

XISwan TalksWith HisThoughts

144

XIIThe QuirtParries theFirst Blow

158

XIII Lone TakesHis Stand 168

XIV "Frank'sDead" 178

XV Swan Trailsa Coyote 192

XVI

TheSawtoothShows ItsHand

200

XVII Yack Don'tLie

216

XVIII"I Think AlWoodruff'sGot Her"

233

XIX Swan CallsFor Help 245

XX Kidnapped 255

XXI"Oh, ICould KillYou!"

264

XXII

"Yack, ILick YouGood if YouBark"

277

XXIII"I CouldaLoved ThisLittle Girl"

284

XXIVAnotherStoryBegins

296

THE QUIRT

THE QUIRT

CHAPTER ONE

LITTLE FISH

Quirt Creek flowed sluggishly betweenwillows which sagged none too gracefullyacross its deeper pools, or languishedbeside the rocky stretches that were bonedry from July to October, with a narrowchannel in the center where what waterthere was hurried along to the poolsbelow. For a mile or more, where the landlay fairly level in a platter-like valley setin the lower hills, the mud that rimmed the

pools was scored deep with the tracks ofthe "TJ up-and-down" cattle, as the doublemonogram of Hunter and Johnson wascalled.

A hard brand to work, a cattleman wouldtell you. Yet the TJ up-and-down herdnever seemed to increase beyond aniggardly three hundred or so, though theQuirt ranch was older than its lordlyneighbors, the Sawtooth Cattle Company,who numbered their cattle by tens ofthousands and whose riders must havestrings of fifteen horses apiece to keepthem going; older too than many a modestranch that had flourished awhile and hadfinished as line-camps of the Sawtoothwhen the Sawtooth bought ranch andbrand for a lump sum that looked big to

the rancher, who immediately departed tomake himself a new home elsewhere:older than others which had somehowgone to pieces when the rancher died orwent to the penitentiary under the stigmaof a long sentence as a cattle thief. Therewere many such, for the Sawtooth,powerful and stern against outlawry,tolerated no pilfering from theirthousands.

The less you have, the more careful youare of your possessions. Hunter andJohnson owned exactly a section and ahalf of land, and for a mile and a halfQuirt Creek was fenced upon either side.They hired two men, cut what hay theycould from a field which they irrigated,fed their cattle through the cold weather,

watched them zealously through thesummer, and managed to ship enough beefeach fall to pay their grocery bill and theirmen's wages and have a balance sufficientto buy what clothes they needed, andperhaps pay a doctor if one of them fellill. Which frequently happened, since Britwas becoming a prey to rheumatism thatsometimes kept him in bed, and Frankoccasionally indulged himself in a gallonor so of bad whisky and sufferedafterwards from a badly derangeddigestion.

Their house was a two-room log cabin,built when logs were easier to get thanlumber. That the cabin contained tworooms was the result of circumstancesrather than design. Brit had hauled from

the mountain-side logs long and logs short,and it had seemed a shame to cut the longones any shorter. Later, when the outsideworld had crept a little closer to theirwilderness—as, go where you will, theoutside world has a way of doing—he hadbuilt a lean-to shed against the cabin fromwhat lumber there was left after building acowshed against the log barn.

In the early days, Brit had had a wife andtwo children, but the wife could notendure the loneliness of the ranch nor theinconvenience of living in a two-room logcabin. She was continually worrying overrattlesnakes and diphtheria andpneumonia, and begging Brit to sell outand live in town. She had married himbecause he was a cowboy, and because he

was a nimble dancer and rode gallantlywith silver-shanked spurs ajingle on hisheels and a snakeskin band around his hat,and because a ranch away out on QuirtCreek had sounded exactly like a story ina book.

Adventure, picturesqueness, evenromance, are recognized and appreciatedonly at a distance. Mrs. Hunter lost theperspective of romance and adventure,and shed tears because there wassufficient mineral in the water to yellowher week's washing, and for various othercauses which she had never foreseen andto which she refused to resign herself.

Came a time when she delivered a shrill-voiced, tear-blurred ultimatum to Brit.Either he must sell out and move to town,

or she would take the children and leavehim. Of towns Brit knew nothing exceptthe post-office, saloon, cheap restaurantside,—and a barber shop where a fellowcould get a shave and hair-cut before hewent to see his girl. Brit could not imaginehimself actually living, day after day, in atown. Three or four days had always beenhis limit. It was in a restaurant that he hadfirst met his wife. He had stayed threedays when he had meant to finish hisbusiness in one, because there was anawfully nice girl waiting on table in thePalace, and because there was going to bea dance on Saturday night, and he wantedhis acquaintance with her to develop tothe point where he might ask her to gowith him, and be reasonably certain of afavorable answer.

Brit would not sell his ranch. In this FrankJohnson, old-time friend and neighbor,who had taken all the land the governmentwould allow one man to hold, and whoselines joined Brit's, profanely upheld him.They had planned to run cattle together,had their brand already recorded, and hadscraped together enough money to buy adozen young cows. Luckily, Brit had"proven up" on his homestead, so thatwhen the irate Mrs. Hunter deserted himshe did not jeopardize his right to the land.

Brit was philosophical, thinking that ayear or so of town life would be a cure. Ifhe missed the children, he was free fromtears and nagging complaints, so that hiscontent balanced his loneliness. Frankproved up and came down to live with

him, and the partnership began to wearinto permanency. Share and share alike,they lived and worked and wrangledtogether like brothers.

For months Brit's wife was too angry andspiteful to write. Then she wroteacrimoniously, reminding Brit of his dutyto his children. Royal was old enough forschool and needed clothes. She wasslaving for them as she had never thoughtto slave when Brit promised to honor andprotect her, but the fact remained that hewas their father even if he did not act likeone. She needed at least ten dollars.

Brit showed the letter to Frank, and thetwo talked it over solemnly while they saton inverted feed buckets beside the stable,facing the unearthly beauty of a cloud-

piled Idaho sunset. They did not feel thatthey could afford to sell a cow, and two-year-old steers were out of the question.They decided to sell an unbroken colt thata cow-puncher fancied. In a week Britwrote a brief, matter-of-fact letter toMinnie and enclosed a much-worn ten-dollar banknote. With the two dollars anda half which remained of his share of thesale, Brit sent to a mail-order house for amackinaw coat, and felt cheatedafterwards because the coat was not"wind and water proof" as advertised inthe catalogue.

More months passed, and Brit received,by registered mail, a notice that he wasbeing sued for divorce on the ground ofnon-support. He felt hurt, because, as he

pointed out to Frank, he was perfectlywilling to support Minnie and the kids ifthey came back where he could have achance. He wrote this painstakingly to thelawyer and received no reply. Later helearned from Minnie that she had freedherself from him, and that she was keepingboarders and asking no odds of him.

To come at once to the end of Brit'smatrimonial affairs, he heard from thechildren once in a year, perhaps, after theywere old enough to write. He did not sendthem money, because he seemed never tohave any money to send, and because theydid not ask for any. Dumbly he sensed, astheir handwriting and their spellingimproved, that his children were growingup. But when he thought of them they

seemed remote, prattling youngsters whomMinnie was forever worrying over andwho seemed to have been always underthe heels of his horse, or under the wheelsof his wagon, or playing with thepitchfork, or wandering off into the sagewhile he and their distracted mothersearched for them. For a long while—howmany years Brit could not remember—they had been living in Los Angeles.Prospering, too, Brit understood. The girl,Lorraine—Minnie had wanted fancynames for the kids, and Brit apologizedwhenever he spoke of them, which wasseldom—Lorraine had written that"Mamma has an apartment house." Thathad sounded prosperous, even at thebeginning. And as the years passed andtheir address remained the same, Brit

became fixed in the belief that the CasaGrande was all that its name implied, andperhaps more. Minnie must be getting rich.She had a picture of the place on thestationery which Lorraine used when shewrote him. There were two palm trees infront, with bay windows behind them, andpillars. Brit used to study thesemagnificences and thank God that Minniewas doing so well. He never could havegiven her a home like that. Brit sometimesadded that he had never been cut out for amarried man, anyway.

Old-timers forgot that Brit had ever beenmarried, and late comers never heard of it.To all intents the owners of the Quirt outfitwere old bachelors who kept pretty muchto themselves, went to town only when

they needed supplies, rode old, narrow-fork saddles and grinned scornfully at"swell-forks" and "buckin'-rolls," andlistened to all the range gossip withoutadding so much as an opinion. They nevertalked politics nor told which candidatesreceived their two votes. They kept thesame two men season after season,—leathery old range hands with eyes thatsaw whatever came within their field ofvision, and with the gift of silence, whichis rare.

If you know anything at all aboutcattlemen, you will know that the Quirtwas a poor man's ranch, when I tell youthat Hunter and Johnson milked threecows and made butter, fed a few pigs onthe skim milk and the alfalfa stalks which

the saddle horses and the cows disdainedto eat, kept a flock of chickens, and soldwhat butter, eggs and pork they did notneed for themselves. Cattlemen seldom dothat. More often they buy milk in small tincans, butter in "squares," and do withouteggs.

Four of a kind were the men of the TJ up-and-down, and even Bill Warfield—president and general manager of theSawtooth Cattle Company, and of theFederal Reclamation Company andseveral other companies, State senator andgeneral benefactor of the Sawtoothcountry—even the great Bill Warfieldlifted his hat to the owners of the Quirtwhen he met them, and spoke of them as"the finest specimens of our old,

fast-vanishing type of range men." SenatorWarfield himself represented the moderntype of range man and was proud of hisprogressiveness. Never a scheme for thecountry's development was hatched butyou would find Senator Warfield closelyallied with it, his voice the deciding onewhen policies and progress were beingdiscussed.

As to the Sawtooth, forty thousand acrescomprised their holdings under patents,deeds and long-time leases from thegovernment. Another twenty thousandacres they had access to through the graceof the owners, and there was forest-reserve grazing besides, which theSawtooth could have if it chose to pay thenominal rental sum. The Quirt ranch was

almost surrounded by Sawtooth land ofone sort or another, though there was scantgrazing in the early spring on thesagebrush wilderness to the south. Thisneeded Quirt Creek for accessible water,and Quirt Creek, save where it ran throughcut-bank hills, was fenced within thesection and a half of the TJ up-and-down.

So there they were, small fish making shiftto live precariously with other small fishin a pool where big fish swam lazily. Ifone small fish now and then disappearedwith mysterious abruptness, the othersmall fish would perhaps scurry here andthere for a time, but few would leave thepool for the safe shallows beyond.

This is a tale of the little fishes.

CHAPTER TWOTHE ENCHANTMENT OF LONG

DISTANCE

Lorraine Hunter always maintained thatshe was a Western girl. If she reached thepoint of furnishing details she would tellyou that she had ridden horses from thetime that she could walk, and that herfather was a cattle-king of Idaho, whosecattle fed upon a thousand hills. When shewas twelve she told her playmatesexciting tales about rattlesnakes. When shewas fifteen she sat breathless in themovies and watched picturesque

horsemen careering up and down andaround the thousand hills, and believed inher heart that half the Western pictureswere taken on or near her father's ranch.She seemed to remember certainlandmarks, and would point them out toher companions and whisper a desultorylecture on the cattle industry as illustratedby the picture. She was much inclined tocriticism of the costuming and the acting.

At eighteen she knew definitely that shehated the very name Casa Grande. Shehated the narrow, half-lighted hallwaywith its "tree" where no one ever hung ahat, and the seat beneath where no oneever sat down. She hated the row of key-and-mail boxes on the wall, with the bellbuttons above each apartment number. She

hated the jangling of the hall telephone, thescurrying to answer, the prodding ofwhichever bell button would summon thetenant asked for by the caller. She hatedthe meek little Filipino boy who sweptthat ugly hall every morning. She hated thescrubby palms in front. She hated thepillars where the paint was peeling badly.She hated the conflicting odors that seepedinto the atmosphere at certain hours of theday. She hated the three old maids on thethird floor and the frowsy woman on thefirst, who sat on the front steps in hersoiled breakfast cap and bungalow apron.She hated the nervous tenant whooccupied the apartment just over hermother's three-room-and-bath, andpounded with a broom handle on the floorwhen Lorraine practised overtime on

chromatic scales.

At eighteen Lorraine managed somehow toobtain work in a Western picture, andbeing unusually pretty she so fardistinguished herself that she was given asmall part in the next production. Herglorious duty it was to ride madly throughthe little cow-town "set" to the post-officewhere the sheriff's posse loungedconspicuously, and there pull her horse toan abrupt stand and point excitedly to thedistant hills. Also she danced quite closeto the camera in the "Typical CowboyDance" which was a feature of thisparticular production.

Lorraine thereby earned enough money tobuy her fall suit and coat and cheap furs,and learned to ride a horse at a gallop and

to dance what passed in pictures as a"square dance."

At nineteen years of age Lorraine Hunter,daughter of old Brit Hunter of the TJ up-and-down, became a real "range-bredgirl" with a real Stetson hat of her own, agreen corduroy riding skirt, gray flannelshirt, brilliant neckerchief, boots andspurs. A third picture gave her furtherpractice in riding a real horse,—albeit anextremely docile animal called Mousewith good reason. She became known onthe lot as a real cattle-king's daughter,though she did not know the name of herfather's brand and in all her life had seenno herd larger than the thirty head of tamecattle which were chased past the cameraagain and again to make them look like ten

thousand, and which were so thoroughly"camera broke" that they stopped whenthey were out of the scene, turned andwere ready to repeat the performance adlib.

Had she lived her life on the Quirt ranchshe would have known a great deal moreabout horseback riding and cattle andrange dances. She would have known agreat deal less about the romance of theWest, however, and she would probablynever have seen a sheriff's posse ridingtwenty strong and bunched like bird-shotwhen it leaves the muzzle of the gun.Indeed, I am very sure she would not.Killings such as her father heard of withhis lips drawn tight and the cords standingout on the sides of his skinny neck she

would have considered the grim tragediesthey were, without once thinking of the"picture value" of the crime.

As it was, her West was filled with menwho died suddenly in gobs of red paintand girls who rode loose-haired andpanting with hand held over the heart,hurrying for doctors, and cowboys andparsons and such. She had seen many aman whip pistol from holster and dare amob with lips drawn back in a wolfishgrin over his white, even teeth, andkidnappings were the inevitableaccompaniment of youth and beauty.

Lorraine learned rapidly. In three yearsshe thrilled to more blood-curdlingadventure than all the Bad Men in all theWest could have furnished had they lived

to be old and worked hard at being bad alltheir lives. For in that third year sheworked her way enthusiastically through asixteen-episode movie serial called "TheTerror of the Range." She was pastmistress of romance by that time. Sheknew her West.

It was just after the "Terror of the Range"was finished that a great revulsion in themanagement of this particular companystopped production with a stunningcompleteness that left actors and actressesfeeling very much as if the studio roof hadfallen upon them. Lorraine's Westvanished. The little cow-town "set" wasbeing torn down to make room forsomething else quite different. Thecowboys appeared in tailored suits and

drifted away. Lorraine went home to theCasa Grande, hating it more than ever shehad hated it in her life.

Some one up-stairs was frying liver andonions, which was in flagrant defiance ofRule Four which mentioned cabbage,onions and fried fish as undesirablefoodstuffs. Outside, the palm leaves weredripping in the night fog that had sweptsoggily in from the ocean. Her mother wastrying to collect a gas bill from thedressmaker down the hall, who protestedshrilly that she distinctly rememberedhaving paid that gas bill once and had nointention of paying it twice.

Lorraine opened the door markedLandlady, and closed it with a slamintended to remind her mother that

bickerings in the hall were less desirablethan the odor of fried onions. She hadoften spoken to her mother about thevulgarity of arguing in public with thetenants, but her mother never seemed tosee things as Lorraine saw them.

In the apartment sat a man who had beentoo frequent a visitor, as Lorraine judgedhim. He was an oldish man with the linesof failure in his face and on his lean formthe sprightly clothing of youth. He hadbeen a reporter,—was still, hemaintained. But Lorraine suspectedshrewdly that he scarcely made a livingfor himself, and that he was home-huntingin more ways than one when he came tovisit her mother.

The affair had progressed appreciably in

her absence, it would appear. He greetedher with, a fatherly "Hello, kiddie," andwould have kissed her had Lorraine notevaded him skilfully.

Her mother came in then and complainedintimately to the man, and declared that thedressmaker would have to pay that bill orhave her gas turned off. He offeredsympathy, assistance in the turning off ofthe gas, and a kiss which was perfectlyaudible to Lorraine in the next room. Theaffair had indeed progressed!

"L'raine, d'you know you've got a newpapa?" her mother called out in thepeculiar, chirpy tone she used when shewas exuberantly happy. "I knew you'd besurprised!"

"I am," Lorraine agreed, pulling aside thecheap green portières and looked in uponthe two. Her tone was unenthusiastic. "Asuperfluous gift of doubtful value. I do notfeel the need of a papa, thank you. If youwant him for a husband, mother, that isentirely your own affair. I hope you'll bevery happy."

"The kid don't want a papa; husbands arewhat means the most in her young life,"chuckled the groom, restraining his bridewhen she would have risen from his knee.

"I hope you'll both be very happy indeed,"said Lorraine gravely. "Now you won'tmind, mother, when I tell you that I amgoing to dad's ranch in Idaho. I reallymeant it for a vacation, but since youwon't be alone, I may stay with dad

permanently. I'm leaving to-morrow or thenext day—just as soon as I can pack mytrunk and get a Pullman berth."

She did not wait to see the relief in hermother's face contradicting theexpostulations on her lips. She went out tothe telephone in the hall, rememberedsuddenly that her business would beoverheard by half the tenants, and decidedto use the public telephone in a hotelfarther down the street. Her decision to goto her dad had been born with the wordson her lips. But it was a lusty, full-voicedyoung decision, and it was growing at anamazing rate.

Of course she would go to her dad inIdaho! She was astonished that the ideahad never before crystallized into action.

Why should she feed her imagination upona mimic West, when the great, gloriousreal West was there? What if her dad hadnot written a word for more than a year?He must be alive; they would surely haveheard of his death, for she and Royal werehis sole heirs, and his partner would havetheir address.

She walked fast and arrived at thetelephone booth so breathless that she wascompelled to wait a few minutes beforeshe could call her number. She inquiredabout trains and rates to Echo, Idaho.

Echo, Idaho! While she waited for theinformation clerk to look it up the verywords conjured visions of wide horizonsand clean winds and high adventure. If shepictured Echo, Idaho, as being a replica of

the "set" used in the movie serial, can youwonder? If she saw herself, the belovedqueen of her father's cowboys, dashinginto Echo, Idaho, on a crimply-manedbroncho that pirouetted gaily before thepost-office while handsome young men inchaps and spurs and "big four" Stetsonswatched her yearningly, she was merelyliving mentally the only West that sheknew.

From that beatific vision Lorraine floatedinto others more entrancing. All thehairbreadth escapes of the heroine of themovie serial were hers, adapted by hernative logic to fit within the bounds ofpossibility,—though I must admit theybulged here and there and threatened tooverlap and to encroach upon the

impossible. Over the hills where herfather's vast herds grazed, sleek and wildand long-horned and prone to stampede,galloped the Lorraine of Lorraine'sdreams, on horses sure-footed and swift.With her galloped strong men whose faceslimned the features of her favoriteWestern "lead."

That for all her three years of intermittentintimacy with a disillusioning world ofmimicry, her dreams were pure romance,proved that Lorraine had still theunclouded innocence of her girlhoodunspoiled.

CHAPTER THREEREALITY IS WEIGHED AND FOUND

WANTING

Still dreaming her dreams, still featuringherself as the star of many adventures,Lorraine followed the brakeman out of thedusty day coach and down the car steps tothe platform of the place called Echo,Idaho. I can only guess at what sheexpected to find there in the person of acattle-king father, but whatever it was shedid not find it. No father, of any typewhatever, came forward to claim her. Inspite of her "Western" experience she

looked about her for a taxi, or at least astreet car. Even in the wilds of Westernmelodrama one could hear the clang ofstreet-car gongs warning careless autoistsoff the track.

After the train had hooted and gone onaround an absolutely uninteresting low hillof yellow barrenness dotted with stuntedsage, it was the silence that firstimpressed Lorraine disagreeably. Echo,Idaho, was a very poor imitation of all theWestern sets she had ever seen. True, ithad the straggling row of square-fronted,one-story buildings, with hitch rails, butthe signs painted across the fronts wereabsolutely common. Any director she hadever obeyed would have sent for hisassistant director and would have used

language which a lady must not listen to.Behind the store and the post-office andthe blacksmith shop, on the brow of thelow hill around whose point the train haddisappeared, were houses with baywindows and porches absolutely out ofkeeping with the West. So far as Lorrainecould see, there was not a log cabin in thewhole place.

The hitch rails were empty, and there wasnot a cowboy in sight. Before the post-office a terribly grimy touring car stoodwith its running-boards loaded withcanvas-covered suitcases. Three goggled,sunburned women in ugly khaki suits weredisconsolately drinking soda water frombottles without straws, and a goggled, red-faced, angry-looking man was jerking

impatiently at the hood of the machine.Lorraine and her suitcase apparentlyexcited no interest whatever in Echo,Idaho.

The station agent was carrying two boxesof oranges and a crate of Californiacabbages in out of the sun, and a limpindividual in blue gingham shirt and dirtyoveralls had shouldered the mail sack andwas making his way across the dusty, rut-scored street to the post-office.

Two questions and two brief answersconvinced her that the station agent did notknow Britton Hunter,—which wasstrange, unless this happened to be a verynew agent. Lorraine left him to hiscabbages and followed the man with themail sack.

At the post-office the anemic clerk cameforward, eyeing her with admiringcuriosity. Lorraine had seen anemic youngmen all her life, and the last three yearshad made her perfectly familiar with thatlook in a young man's eyes. She met itwith impatient disfavor founded chieflyupon the young man's need of a decenthair-cut, a less flowery tie and a tailoredsuit. When he confessed that he did notknow Mr. Britton Hunter by sight heceased to exist so far as Lorraine wasconcerned. She decided that he also wasnew to the place and therefore perfectlyuseless to her.

The postmaster himself—Lorraine wascheered by his spectacles, his shirtsleeves, and his chin whiskers, which

made him look the part—was betterinformed. He, too, eyed her curiouslywhen she said "My father, Mr. BrittonHunter," but he made no comment on therelationship. He gave her a telegram and aletter from the General Delivery. Thetelegram, she suspected, was the one shehad sent to her dad announcing the date ofher arrival. The postmaster advised her toget a "livery rig" and drive out to theranch, since it might be a week or twobefore any one came in from the Quirt.Lorraine thanked him graciously anddeparted for the livery stable.

The man in charge there chewed tobaccomeditatively and told her that his teamswere all out. If she was a mind to waitover a day or two, he said, he might

maybe be able to make the trip. Lorrainetook a long look at the structure which heindicated as the hotel.

"I think I'll walk," she said calmly.

"Walk?" The stableman stopped chewingand stared at her. "It's some consider'bleof a walk. It's all of eighteen mile—Idunno but twenty, time y'get to the house."

"I have frequently walked twenty-five orthirty miles. I am a member of the SierraClub in Los Angeles. We seldom takehikes of less than twenty miles. If you willkindly tell me which road I must take——"

"There she is," the man stated flatly, andpointed across the railroad track to where

a sandy road drew a yellowish linethrough the sage, evidently making for thehills showing hazily violet in the distance.Those hills formed the only break in themonotonous gray landscape, and Lorrainewas glad that her journey would take herclose to them.

"Thank you so much," she said coldly andreturned to the station. In the smalllavatory of the depot waiting room sheexchanged her slippers for a pair ofmoderately low-heeled shoes which shehad at the last minute of packing tuckedinto her suitcase, put a few extra articlesinto her rather smart traveling bag, left thesuitcase in the telegraph office and started.Not another question would she ask ofEcho, Idaho, which was flatter and more

insipid than the drinking water in the tin"cooler" in the waiting room. The stationagent stood with his hands on his hips andwatched her cross the track and start downthe road, pardonably astonished to see ayoung woman walk down a road that ledonly to the hills twenty miles away,carrying her luggage exactly as if her tripwas a matter of a block or two at most.

The bag was rather heavy and as she wenton it became heavier. She meant to carry itslung across her shoulder on a stick assoon as she was well away from theprying eyes of Echo's inhabitants. Later, ifshe felt tired, she could easily hide itbehind a bush along the road and send oneof her father's cowboys after it. The roadwas very dusty and carried the wind-

blown traces of automobile tires. Someone would surely overtake her and giveher a ride before she walked very far.

For the first half hour she believed thatshe was walking on level ground, butwhen she looked back there was no signof any town behind her. Echo haddisappeared as completely as if it hadbeen swallowed. Even the unseemly bay-windowed houses on the hill had goneunder. She walked for another half hourand saw only the gray sage stretching allaround her. The hills looked farther awaythan when she started. Still, that beatenroad must lead somewhere. Two hourslater she began to wonder why thisparticular road should be so unending andso empty. Never in her life before had she

walked for two hours without seeming toget anywhere, or without seeing any livinghuman.

Both shoulders were sore from the weightof the bag on the stick, but the sagebusheslooked so exactly alike that she feared shecould not describe the particular spotwhere the cowboys would find her bag,wherefore she carried it still. She wasbeginning to change hands very often whenthe wind came.

Just where or how that wind sprang up shedid not know. Suddenly it was whoopingacross the sage and flinging up clouds ofdust from the road. To Lorraine, softenedby years of southern California weather, itseemed to blow straight off an ice field, itwas so cold.

After an interminable time whichmeasured three hours on her watch, shecame to an abrupt descent into a creekbed, down the middle of which the creekitself was flowing swiftly. Here the roadforked, a rough, little-used trail keepingon up the creek, the better traveled roadcrossing and climbing the farther bank.Lorraine scarcely hesitated before shechose the main trail which crossed thecreek.

From the creek the trail she followed keptclimbing until Lorraine wondered if therewould ever be a top. The wind whippedher narrow skirts and impeded her, tuggedat her hat, tingled her nose and wateredher eyes. But she kept on doggedly,disgustedly, the West, which she had seen

through the glamour of swift-bloodedRomance, sinking lower and lower in herestimation. Nothing but jack rabbits andlittle, twittery birds moved through thesage, though she watched hungrily forhorsemen.

Quite suddenly the gray landscape glowedwith a palpitating radiance, unreal,beautiful beyond expression. She stopped,turned to face the west and staredawestruck at one of those flaming sunsetswhich makes the desert land seem but agateway into the ineffable glory beyondthe earth. That the high-piled, gorgeouscloud-bank presaged a thunderstorm shenever guessed; and that a thunderstormmay be a deadly, terrifying peril she neverhad quite believed. Her mother had told of

people being struck by lightning, butLorraine could not associate lightningwith death, especially in the West, wheremen usually died by shooting, lynching, orby pitching over a cliff.

The wind hushed as suddenly as it hadwhooped. Warned by the twinkling lightsfar behind her—lights which must be thesmall part at last visible of Echo, Idaho—Lorraine went on. She had been walkingsteadily for four hours, and she mustsurely have come nearly twenty miles. Ifshe ever reached the top of the hill, shebelieved that she would see her father'sranch just beyond.

The afterglow had deepened to dusk whenshe came at last to the highest point of thatlong grade. Far ahead loomed a cluster of

square, black objects which must be theranch buildings of the Quirt, andLorraine's spirits lightened a little. What asurprise her father and all his cowboyswould have when she walked in uponthem! It was almost worth the walk, shetold herself hearteningly. She hoped thatdad had a good cook. He would wear aflour-sack apron, naturally, and would betall and lean, or else very fat. He wouldbe a comedy character, but she hoped hewould not be the grouchy kind, which,though very funny when he rampagesaround on the screen, might be ratheruncomfortable to meet when one is tiredand hungry and out of sorts. But of coursethe crankiest of comedy cooks would bedecently civil to her. Men always were,except directors who are paid for their

incivility.

A hollow into which she walked incomplete darkness and in silence, save thegurgling of another stream, hid from sightthe shadowy semblance of houses andbarns and sheds. Their disappearanceslumped her spirits again, for withoutthem she was no more than a solitaryspeck in the vast loneliness. Their actualnearness could not comfort her. She wasseized with a reasonless, panicky fear thatby the time she crossed the stream andclimbed the hill beyond they would nolonger be there where she had seen them.She was lifting her skirts to wade thecreek when the click of hoofs strikingagainst rocks sent her scurrying to coverin a senseless fear.

"I learned this act from the jack rabbits,"she rallied herself shakily, when she wassafely hidden behind a sagebush whosepungency made her horribly afraid that shemight sneeze, which would be tooridiculous.

"Some of dad's cowboys, probably, butstill they may be bandits."

If they were bandits they could scarcelybe out banditting, for the two horsemenwere talking in ordinary, conversationaltones as they rode leisurely down to theford. When they passed Lorraine, thehorse nearest her shied against the otherand was sworn at parenthetically for afool. Against the skyline Lorraine saw therider's form bulk squatty and ungraceful,reminding her of an actor whom she knew

and did not like. It was that resemblanceperhaps which held her quiet instead offollowing her first impulse to speak tothem and ask them to carry her grip to thehouse.

The horses stopped with their forefeet inthe water and drooped heads to drinkthirstily. The riders continued theirconversation.

"—and as I says time and again, they ain'tbig enough to fight the outfit, and thequicker they git out the less lead they'llcarry under their hides when they do go.What they want to try an' hang on for,beats me. Why, it's like setting into apoker game with a five-cent piece! Theyain't got my sympathy. I ain't got any usefor a damn fool, no way yuh look at it."

"Well, there's the TJ—they been here along while, and they ain't packin' any lead,and they ain't getting out."

"Well, say, lemme tell yuh something. TheTJ'll git theirs and git it right. Drink allnight, would yuh?" He swore long andfluently at his horse, spurred him throughthe shallows, and the two rode on up thehill, their voices still mingled in desultoryargument, with now and then an oath risingclearly above the jumble of words.

They may have been law-abiding citizensriding home to families that were waitingsupper for them, but Lorraine crept outfrom behind her sagebush, sneezing andthanking her imitation of the jack rabbits.Whoever they were, she was not sorry shehad let them ride on. They might be her

father's men, and they might have beenvery polite and chivalrous to her. But theirvoices and their manner of speaking hadbeen rough; and it is one thing, Lorrainereflected, to mingle with made-up villains—even to be waylaid and kidnapped andtied to trees and threatened with death—but it is quite different to accost rough-speaking men in the dark when you knowthat they are not being rough to suit thedirector of the scene.

She was so absorbed in trying to constructa range war or something equally thrillingfrom the scrap of conversation she hadheard that she reached the hilltop in whatseemed a very few minutes of climbing.The sky was becoming overcast. Alreadythe stars to the west were blotted out, and

the absolute stillness of the atmospherefrightened her more than the big, darkwilderness itself. It seemed to her exactlyas though the earth was holding its breathand waiting for something terrible tohappen. The vague bulk of buildings wasstill some distance ahead, and when arumble like the deepest notes of a pipeorgan began to fill all the air, Lorrainethrust her grip under a bush and began torun, her soggy shoes squashingunpleasantly on the rough places in theroad.

Lorraine had seen many stage storms andhad thrilled ecstatically to the mimiclightning, knowing just how it was made.But when that huge blackness behind andto the left of her began to open and show a

terrible brilliance within, and to closeabruptly, leaving the world ink black, shewas terrified. She wanted to hide as shehad hidden from those two men; but fromthat stupendous monster, a realthunderstorm, sagebrush formed noprotection whatever. She must reach thesubstantial shelter of buildings, thecomforting presence of men and women.

She ran, and as she ran she wept aloudlike a child and called for her father. Thedeep rumble grew louder, nearer. Therevealed brilliance became swift sword-thrusts of blinding light that seemed to stabdeep the earth. Lorraine ran awkwardly,her hands over her ears, crying out at eachlightning flash, her voice drowned in thethunder that followed it close. Then, as

she neared the somber group of buildings,the clouds above them split with a terrific,rending crash, and the whole place stoodpitilessly revealed to her, as if a spotlighthad been turned on. Lorraine stood aghast.The buildings were not buildings at all.They were rocks, great, black, forbiddingboulders standing there on a narrow ridge,having a diabolic likeness to houses.

The human mind is wonderfully resilient,but readjustment comes slowly after ashock. Dumbly, refusing to admit thesignificance of what she had seen,Lorraine went forward. Not until she hadreached and had touched the firstgrotesque caricature of habitation did shewholly grasp the fact that she was lost,and that shelter might be miles away. She

stood and looked at the orderly group ofboulders as the lightning intermittentlyrevealed them. She saw where the roadran on, between two square-faced rocks.She would have to follow the road, forafter all it must lead somewhere,—to herfather's ranch, probably. She wonderedirrelevantly why her mother had nevermentioned these queer rocks, and shewondered vaguely if any of them hadcaves or ledges where she could be safefrom the lightning.

She was on the point of stepping out intothe road again when a horseman rode intosight between the two rocks. In the sameinstant of his appearance she heard theunmistakable crack of a gun, saw the riderjerk backward in the saddle, throw up one

hand,—and then the darkness droppedbetween them.

Lorraine crouched behind a juniper bushclose against the rock and waited. Thenext flash, came within a half-minute. Itshowed a man at the horse's head, holdingit by the bridle. The horse was rearing.Lorraine tried to scream that the man onthe ground would be trampled, butsomething went wrong with her voice, sothat she could only whisper.

When the light came again the man whohad been shot was not altogether on theground. The other, working swiftly, hadthrust the injured man's foot through thestirrup. Lorraine saw him stand back andlift his quirt to slash the horse across therump. Even through the crash of thunder

Lorraine heard the horse go past her downthe hill, galloping furiously. When shecould see again she glimpsed him running,while something bounced along on theground beside him.

She saw the other man, with a dry branchin his hand, dragging it across the roadwhere it ran between the two rocks. ThenLorraine Hunter, hardened to the sight ofcrimes committed for picture values only,realized sickeningly that she had justlooked upon a real murder,—the cold-blooded killing of a man. She felt verysick. Queer little red sparks squirmed anddanced before her eyes. She crumpleddown quietly behind the juniper bush anddid not know when the rain came, thoughit drenched her in the first two or three

minutes of downpour.

CHAPTER FOUR"SHE'S A GOOD GIRL WHEN SHE

AIN'T CRAZY"

When the sun has been up just long enoughto take the before-dawn chill from the airwithout having swallowed all thediamonds that spangle bush and twig andgrass-blade after a night's soaking rain, itis good to ride over the hills of Idaho andfeel oneself a king,—and never mind thecrown and the scepter. Lone Morgan,riding early to the Sawtooth to see theforeman about getting a man for a fewdays to help replace a bridge carried fifty

yards downstream by a local cloudburst,would not have changed places with amillionaire. The horse he rode was thehorse he loved, the horse he talked to likea pal when they were by themselves. Theridge gave him a wide outlook to the fourcorners of the earth. Far to the north theSawtooth range showed blue, the nearermountains pansy purple where the pinetrees stood, the foothills shaded delicatelywhere canyons swept down to the grayplain. To the south was the sagebrush, asoft, gray-green carpet under the sun. Thesky was blue, the clouds were handfuls ofclean cotton floating lazily. Of the night'sstorm remained no trace save slipperymud when his horse struck a patch of clay,which was not often, and the packed sandstill wet and soggy from the beating rain.

Rock City showed black and inhospitableeven in the sunlight. The rock walls rosesheer, the roofs slanted rakishly, the signsscratched on the rock by facetious riderswere pointless and inane. Lone picked hisway through the crooked defile that wasmarked Main Street on the corner of thefirst huge boulder and came abruptly intothe road. Here he turned north and shookhis horse into a trot.

A hundred yards or so down the slopebeyond Rock City he pulled up short witha "What the hell!" that did not soundprofane, but merely amazed. In the soddenroad were the unmistakable footprints of awoman. Lone did not hesitate in namingthe sex, for the wet sand held the imprintcleanly, daintily. Too shapely for a boy,

too small for any one but a child or awoman with little feet, and with the pointat the toes proclaiming the fashion of thetowns, Lone guessed at once that she wasa town girl, a stranger, probably,—andthat she had passed since the rain; whichmeant since daylight.

He swung his horse and rode back,wondering where she could have spent thenight. Halfway through Rock City thefootprints ended abruptly, and Lone turnedback, riding down the trail at a lope. Shecouldn't have gone far, he reasoned, and ifshe had been out all night in the rain, withno better shelter than Rock City afforded,she would need help,—"and lots of it, andpretty darn quick," he added to John Doe,which was the ambiguous name of his

horse.

Half a mile farther on he overtook her.Rather, he sighted her in the trail, saw herduck in amongst the rocks and scatteredbrush of a small ravine, and spurred afterher. It was precarious footing for his horsewhen he left the road, but John Doe wasaccustomed to that. He jumped boulders,shied around buckthorn, crashed throughsagebrush and so brought the girl to bayagainst a wet bank, where she stoodshivering. The terror in her face and herwide eyes would have made her famous inthe movies. It made Lone afraid she wascrazy.

Lone swung off and went up to herguardedly, not knowing just what aninsane woman might do when cornered.

"There, now, I'm not going to hurt yuh atall," he soothed. "I guess maybe you'relost. What made you run away from mewhen you saw me coming?"

Lorraine continued to stare at him.

"I'm going to the ranch, and if you'd like aride, I'll lend you my horse. He'll begentle if I lead him. It's a right smart walkfrom here." Lone smiled, meaning toreassure her.

"Are you the man I saw shoot that man andthen fasten him to the stirrup of the saddleso the horse dragged him down the road?If you are, I—I——"

"No—oh, no, I'm not the man," Lone saidgently. "I just now came from home. Better

let me take you in to the ranch."

"I was going to the ranch—did you seehim shoot that man and make the horsedrag him—make the horse—he slashedthat horse with the quirt—and he wenttearing down the road dragging—it—itwas—horrible!"

"Yes—yes, don't worry about it. We'll fixhim. You come and get on John Doe andlet me take you to the ranch. Come on—you're wet as a ducked pup."

"That man was just riding along—I sawhim when it lightened. And he shot him—oh, can't you do something?"

"Yes, yes, they're after him right now.Here. Just put your foot in the stirrup—I'll

help you up. Why, you're soaked!"Perseveringly Lone urged her to the horse."You're soaking wet!" he exclaimed again.

"It rained," she muttered confusedly. "Ithought it was the ranch—but they wererocks. Just rocks. Did you see him shootthat man? Why—why it shouldn't beallowed! He ought to be arrested rightaway—I'd have called a policeman but—isn't thunder and lightning just perfectlyawful? And that horse—going down theroad dragging——

"You'd better get some one to double forme in this scene," she said irrelevantly. "I—I don't know this horse, and if he startsrunning the boys might not catch him intime. It isn't safe, is it?"

"It's safe," said Lone pityingly. "You won'tbe dragged. You just get on and ride. I'lllead him. John Doe's gentle as a dog."

"Just straight riding?" Lorraine consideredthe matter gravely. "Wel-ll—but I saw aman dragged, once. He'd been shot first. It—it was awful!"

"I'll bet it was. How'd you come to bewalking so far?"

Lorraine looked at him suspiciously. Lonethought her eyes were the most wonderfuleyes—and the most terrible—that he hadever seen. Almond-shaped they were, theirises a clear, dark gray, the eyeballsblue-white like a healthy baby's. That wasthe wonder of them. But their glassy shinemade them terrible. Her lids lifted in a

sudden stare.

"You're not the man, are you? I—I think hewas taller than you. And his hat wasbrown. He's a brute—a beast! To shoot aman just riding along—— It rained," sheadded plaintively. "My bag is back theresomewhere under a bush. I think I couldfind the bush—it was where a rabbit wassitting—but he's probably gone by thistime. A rabbit," she told him impressively,"wouldn't sit out in the rain all night,would he? He'd get wet. And a rabbitwould feel horrid when he was wet—suchthick fur he never would get dried out.Where do they go when it rains? Theyhave holes in the ground, don't they?"

"Yes. Sure, they do. I'll show you one,down the road here a little piece. Come on

—it ain't far."

To see a rabbit hole in the ground,Lorraine consented to mount and ridewhile Lone walked beside her, agreeingwith everything she said that neededagreement. When she had gone a few rods,however, she began to call him Charlieand to criticize the direction of the picture.They should not, she declared, mixmurders and thunderstorms in the samescene. While the storm effect wasperfectly wonderful, she thought it ratherdetracted from the killing. She did notbelieve in lumping big stuff together likethat. Why not have the killing done bymoonlight, and use the storm when themurderer was getting away, or somethinglike that? And as for taking them out on

location and making all those storm sceneswithout telling them in advance so thatthey could have dry clothes afterwards,she thought it a perfect outrage! If it werenot for spoiling the picture, she wouldquit, she asserted indignantly. She thoughtthe director had better go back to driving alaundry wagon, which was probablywhere he came from.

Lone agreed with her, even though he didnot know what she was talking about. Hewalked as fast as he could, but even so hecould not travel the six miles to the ranchvery quickly. He could see that the girlwas burning up with fever, and he couldhear her voice growing husky,—couldhear, too, the painful laboring of herbreath. When she was not mumbling

incoherent nonsense she was laughinghoarsely at the plight she was in, and afterthat she would hold both hands to herchest and moan in a way that made Lonegrind his teeth.

When he lifted her off his horse at theforeman's cottage she was whisperingthings no one could understand. Threecowpunchers came running and hinderedhim a good deal in carrying her into thehouse, and the foreman's wife ranexcitedly from one room to the other,asking questions and demanding that someone do something "for pity's sake, she maybe dying for all you know, while you standthere gawping like fool-hens."

"She was out all night in the rain—gotlost, somehow. She said she was coming

here, so I brought her on. She's down witha cold, Mrs. Hawkins. Better take off themwet clothes and put hot blankets aroundher. And a poultice or something on herchest, I reckon." Lone turned to the door,stopped to roll a cigarette, and watchedMrs. Hawkins hurrying to Lorraine with awhisky toddy the cook had mixed for her.

"A sweat's awful good for a cold likeshe's got," he volunteered practically."She's out of her head—or she was when Ifound her. But I reckon that's mostly scare,from being lost all night. Give her a goodsweat, why don't you?" He reached thedoorstep and then turned back to add, "Sheleft a grip back somewhere along the road.I'll go hunt it up, I reckon."

He mounted John Doe and rode down to

the corral, where two or three riders werekilling time on various pretexts while theywaited for details of Lone's adventure.Delirious young women of the silk-stocking class did not arrive at theSawtooth every morning, and it wasrumored already amongst the men that shewas some looker, which naturally whettedtheir interest in her.

"I'll bet it's one of Bob's girls, cometrailin' him up. Mebby another of themheart-ballum cases of Bob's," hazardedPop Bridgers, who read nothing unless itwas printed on pink paper, and whorefused to believe that any good couldcome out of a city. "Ain't that right,Loney? Hain't she a heart-ballum girl ofBob's?"

From the saddle Lone stared downimpassively at Pop and Pop's companions."I don't know a thing about her," he statedemphatically. "She said she was coming tothe ranch, and she was scared of thethunder and lightning. That's every wordof sense I could get outa her. She ain'taltogether ignorant—she knows how toclimb on a horse, anyway, and she kickedabout having to ride sideways on accountof her skirts. She was plumb out of herhead, and talked wild, but she handled herreins like a rider. And she nevermentioned Bob, nor anybody elseexcepting some fellow she called Charlie.She thought I was him, but she only talkedto me friendly. She didn't pull any lovetalk at all."

"Charlie?" Pop ruminated over a freshquid of tobacco. "Charlie! Mebby Bob, hestakes himself to a different name now andthen. There ain't any Charlie, exceptCharlie Werner; she wouldn't mean him,do yuh s'pose?"

"Charlie Werner? Hunh! Say, Pop, sheain't no squaw—is she, Loney?" SidSterling remonstrated.

"If I can read brands," Lone testified,"she's no girl of Bob's. She's a good,honest girl when she ain't crazy."

"And no good, honest girl who is not crazycould possibly be a girl of mine! Is thatthe idea, Lone?"

Lone turned unhurriedly and looked at

young Bob Warfield standing in the stabledoor with his hands in his trousers pocketsand his pipe in his mouth.

"That ain't the argument. Pop, here, waswondering if she was another heart-ballum girl of yours," Lone grinnedunabashed. "I don't know such a hell of alot about heart-balm ladies, Bob. I ain't amillionaire. I'm just making a guess attheir brand—and it ain't the brand thislittle lady carries."

Bob removed one hand from his pocketand cuddled the bowl of his pipe. "If she'sa woman, she's a heart-balmer if she getsthe chance. They all are, down deep intheir tricky hearts. There isn't a woman onearth that won't sell a man's soul out of hisbody if she happens to think it's worth her

while—and she can get away with it. Butdon't for any sake call her my heart-balmer."

"That was Pop," drawled Lone. "It don'tstrike me as being any subject for youfellows to make remarks about, anyway,"he advised Pop firmly. "She's a right nicelittle girl, and she's pretty darn sick." Hetouched John Doe with the spurs and rodeaway, stopping at the foreman's gate tofinish his business with Hawkins. He wasa conscientious young man, and since hehad charge of Elk Spring camp, he set itsinterests above his own, which was morethan some of the Sawtooth men wouldhave done in his place.

Having reported the damage to the bridgeand made his suggestions about the

repairs, he touched up John Doe again andloped away on a purely personal matter,which had to do with finding the bagwhich the girl had told him was under abush where a rabbit had been sitting.

If she had not been so very sick, Lonewould have laughed at her naïve methodof identifying the spot. But he was toosorry for her to be amused at the vagariesof her sick brain. He did not believeanything she had said, except that she hadbeen coming to the ranch and had left herbag under a bush beside the road. It shouldnot be difficult to find it, if he followedthe road and watched closely the busheson either side.

Until he reached the place where he hadfirst sighted her, Lone rode swiftly,

anxious to be through with the businessand go his way. But when he came uponher footprints again, he pulled up and heldJohn Doe to a walk, scanning each bushand boulder as he passed.

It seemed probable that she had left thegrip at Rock City where she must havespent the night. She had spoken of beingdeceived into thinking the place was theSawtooth ranch until she had come into itand found it "just rocks." Then, hereasoned, the storm had broken, and herfright had held her there. When daylightcame she had either forgotten the bag orhad left it deliberately.

At Rock City, then, Lone stopped toexamine the base of every rock, evenriding around those nearest the road. The

girl, he guessed shrewdly, had notwandered off the main highway, else shewould not have been able to find it again.Rock City was confusing unless one wasperfectly familiar with its curious,winding lanes.

It was when he was riding slowly aroundthe boulder marked "Palace Hotel, RatesReasnible," that he came upon the placewhere a horse had stood, on the side bestsheltered from the storm. Deep hoof marksclosely overlapping, an over-turned stonehere and there gave proof enough, and therain-beaten soil that blurred the hoofprintsfarthest from the rock told him more. Lonebacked away, dismounted, and, steppingcarefully, went close. He could see noreason why a horse should have stood

there with his head toward the road tenfeet away, unless his rider was waiting forsomething—or some one. There wereother boulders near which offered moreshelter from rain.

Next the rock he discovered a boot track,evidently made when the riderdismounted. He thought of the wildstatement of the girl about seeing someone shoot a man and wondered briefly ifthere could be a basis of truth in what shesaid. But the road showed no sign of astruggle, though there were, here andthere, hoofprints half washed out with therain.

Lone went back to his horse and rode on,still looking for the bag. His search wasthorough and, being a keen-eyed young

man, he discovered the place whereLorraine had crouched down by a rock.She must have stayed there all night, forthe scuffed soil was dry where her bodyhad rested, and her purse, caught in thejuniper bush close by, was sodden withrain.

"The poor little kid!" he muttered, andwith, a sudden impulse he turned andlooked toward the rock behind which thehorse had stood. Help had been that close,and she had not known it, unless——

"If anything happened there last night, shecould have seen it from here," he decided,and immediately put the thought awayfrom him.

"But nothing happened," he added, "unless

maybe she saw him ride out and go ondown the road. She was out of her headand just imagined things."

He slipped the soaked purse into his coatpocket, remounted and rode on slowly,looking for the grip and half-believing shehad not been carrying one, but haddreamed it just as she had dreamed that aman had been shot.

He rode past the bag without seeing it, forLorraine had thrust it far back under astocky bush whose scraggly branchesnearly touched the ground. So he came atlast to the creek, swollen with the night'sstorm so that it was swift and dangerous.Lone was turning back when John Doethrew up his head, stared up the creek fora moment and whinnied shrilly. Lone

stood in the stirrups and looked.

A blaze-faced horse was standing a shortrifle-shot away, bridled and with an emptysaddle. Whether he was tied or not Lonecould not tell at that distance, but he knewthe horse by its banged forelock and itswhite face and sorrel ears, and he knewthe owner of the horse. He rode toward itslowly.

"Whoa, you rattle-headed fool," headmonished, when the horse snorted andbacked a step or two as he approached.He saw the bridle-reins dangling, broken,where the horse had stepped on them inrunning. "Broke loose and run off again,"he said, as he took down his rope andwidened the loop. "I'll bet Thurman wouldsell you for a bent nickel, this morning."

The horse squatted and jumped when hecast the loop, and then stood quivering andsnorting while Lone dismounted andstarted toward him. Ten steps from thehorse Lone stopped short, staring. Fordown in the bushes on the farther side halflay, half hung the limp form of a man.

CHAPTER FIVEA DEATH "BY ACCIDENT"

Lone Morgan was a Virginian by birth,though few of his acquaintances knew it.Lone never talked of himself except as hispersonal history touched a commoninterest with his fellows. But until he wasseventeen he had lived very close to thecenter of one of the deadliest feuds of theBlue Ridge. That he had been neutral wasmerely an accident of birth, perhaps. Andthat he had not become involved in thequarrel that raged among his neighborswas the direct result of a genius for

holding his tongue. He had attended thefunerals of men shot down in their owndooryards, he had witnessed the trials ofthe killers. He had grown up with thesettled conviction that other men'squarrels did not concern him so long as hewas not directly involved, and that whatdid not concern him he had no right todiscuss. If he stood aside and let violencestalk by unhindered, he was merely doingwhat he had been taught to do from thetime he could walk. "Mind your ownbusiness and let other folks do the same,"had been the family slogan in Lone'shome. There had been nothing in Lone'slater life to convince him that minding hisown business was not a very good habit. Ithad grown to be second nature,—and ithad made him a good man for the

Sawtooth Cattle Company to have on itspay roll.

Just now Lone was stirred beyond hisusual depth of emotion, and it was notaltogether the sight of Fred Thurman'sbattered body that unnerved him. Hewanted to believe that Thurman's deathwas purely an accident,—the accident itappeared. But Lorraine and the telltalehoofprints by the rock compelled him tobelieve that it was not an accident. Heknew that if he examined carefully enoughFred Thurman's body he would find themark of a bullet. He was tempted to look,and yet he did not want to know. It was nobusiness of his; it would be foolish to letit become his business.

"He's too dead to care now how it

happened—and it would only stir uptrouble," he finally decided and turned hiseyes away.

He pulled the twisted foot from thestirrup, left the body where it lay, and ledthe blaze-faced horse to a tree and tied itsecurely. He took off his coat and spreadit over the head and shoulders of the deadman, weighted the edges with rocks androde away.

Halfway up the hill he left the road andtook a narrow trail through the sage, ashort-cut that would save him a couple ofmiles.

The trail crossed the ridge half a milebeyond Rock City, dipping into the lowerend of the small gulch where he had

overtaken the girl. The place recalled withfresh vividness, her first words to him:"Are you the man I saw shoot that otherman and fasten his foot in the stirrup?"Lone shivered and threw away thecigarette he had just lighted.

"My God, that girl mustn't tell that to anyone else!" he exclaimed apprehensively."No matter who she is or what she is, shemustn't tell that!"

"Hello! Who you talking to? I heardsomebody talking——" The bushes partedabove a low, rocky ledge and a facepeered out, smiling good-humoredly. Lonestarted a little and pulled up.

"Oh, hello, Swan. I was just telling thishorse of mine all I was going to do to him.

Say, you're a chancey bird, Swan, yellingfrom the brush, like that. Some folkswoulda taken a shot at you."

"Then they'd hit me, sure," Swanobserved, letting himself down into thetrail. He, too, was wet from his hat crownto his shoes, that squelched when helanded lightly on his toes. "Anybodywould be ashamed to shoot at a mark solarge as I am. I'd say they're poorshooters." And he added irrelevantly, ashe held up a grayish pelt, "I got that coyoteI been chasing for two weeks. He wassure smart. He had me guessing. But Imade him guess some, maybe. He guessedwrong this time."

Lone's eyes narrowed while he lookedSwan over. "You must have been out all

night," he said. "You're crazier abouthunting than I am."

"Wet bushes," Swan corrected carelessly."I been tramping since daylight. It's mywork to hunt, like it's your work to ride."He had swung into the trail ahead of JohnDoe and was walking with long strides,—the tallest, straightest, limberest youngSwede in all the country. He had thebluest eyes, the readiest smile, thehealthiest color, the sunniest hair anddisposition the Sawtooth country had seenfor many a day. He had homesteaded aneighty-acre claim on the south side ofBear Top and had by that means gainedpossession of two living springs and theonly accessible portion of Wilder Creekwhere it crossed the meadow called

Skyline before it plunged into a gulch toonarrow for cattle to water with any safety.

The Sawtooth Cattle Company had foryears "covered" that eighty-acre patch ofgovernment land, never dreaming that anyone would ever file on it. Swan Vjolmarwas there and had his log cabin roofedand ready for the door and windowsbefore the Sawtooth discovered hispresence. Now, nearly a year afterwards,he was accepted in a tolerant, half-friendly spirit. He had not objected to theSawtooth cattle which still watered atSkyline Meadow. He was a "Governmenthunter" and he had killed many coyotesand lynx and even a mountain lion or two.Lone wondered sometimes what theSawtooth meant to do about the Swede,

but so far the Sawtooth seemed inclined todo nothing at all, evidently thinking hiswar on animal pests more than atoned forhis effrontery in taking Skyline as ahomestead. When he had proven up on hisclaim they would probably buy him outand have the water still.

"Well, what do you know?" Swan turnedhis head to inquire abruptly. "You'repretty quiet."

Lone roused himself. "Fred Thurman'sbeen dragged to death by that damnedflighty horse of his," he said. "I found himin the brush this side of Granite Creek.Had his foot caught in the stirrup. I thoughtI'd best leave him there till the coronercan view him."

Swan stopped short in the trail and turnedfacing Lone. "Last night my dog Yackwhines to go out. He went and sat in aplace where he looks down on the walley,and he howled for half an hour. I said thenthat somebody in the walley has died. Thatdog is something queer about it. He knowsthings."

"I'm going to the Sawtooth," Lone toldhim. "I can telephone to the coroner fromthere. Anybody at Thurman's place, do youknow?"

Swan shook his head and started againdown the winding, steep trail. "I don't huntover that way for maybe a week. That'stoo bad he's killed. I like Fred Thurman.He's a fine man, you bet."

"He was," said Lone soberly. "It's a damnshame he had to go—like that."

Swan glanced back at him, studied Lone'sface for an instant and turned into atributary gully where a stream trickleddown over water-worn rocks. "Here Ileave you," he volunteered, as Lone cameabreast of him. "A coyote's crossed upthere, and I maybe find his tracks. I couldgo do chores for Fred Thurman ifnobody's there. Should I do that? What yousay, Lone?"

"You might drift around by there if it ain'ttoo much out of your way, and see if he'sgot a man on the ranch," Lone suggested."But you better not touch anything in thehouse, Swan. The coroner'll likely appointsomebody to look around and see if he's

got any folks to send his stuff to. Just feedany stock that's kept up, if nobody's there."

"All right," Swan agreed readily. "I'll dothat, Lone. Good-by."

Lone nodded and watched him climb thesteep slope of the gulch on the side towardThurman's ranch. Swan climbed swiftly,seeming to take no thought of where he puthis feet, yet never once slipping orslowing. In two minutes he was out ofsight, and Lone rode on moodily, tryingnot to think of Fred Thurman, trying to shutfrom his mind the things that wild-eyed,hoarse-voiced girl had told him.

"Lone, you mind your own business," headvised himself once. "You don't knowanything that's going to do any one any

good, and what you don't know there's nogood guessing. But that girl—she mustn'ttalk like that!"

Of Swan he scarcely gave a thought afterthe Swede had disappeared, yet Swan wasworth a thought or two, even from a manwho was bent on minding his ownbusiness. Swan had no sooner climbed thegulch toward Thurman's claim than heproceeded to descend rather carefully tothe bottom again, walk along on the rocksfor some distance and climb to the ridgewhose farther slope led down to GraniteCreek. He did not follow the trail, butstruck straight across an outcroppingledge, descended to Granite Creek andstrode along next the hill where the soilwas gravelly and barren. When he had

gone some distance, he sat down and tookfrom under his coat two huge, crudelymade moccasins of coyote skin. These hepulled on over his shoes, tied them aroundhis ankles and went on, still keeping closeunder the hill.

He reached the place where Fred Thurmanlay, stood well away from the body andstudied every detail closely. Then,stepping carefully on trampled brush androcks, he approached and cautiously liftedLone's coat. It was not a pretty sight, butSwan's interest held him there for perhapsten minutes, his eyes leaving the body onlywhen the blaze-faced horse moved. ThenSwan would look up quickly at the horse,seem reassured when he saw that theanimal was not watching anything at a

distance, and return to his curious task.Finally he drew the coat back over thehead and shoulders, placed each stoneexactly as he had found it and went up tothe horse, examining the saddle ratherclosely. After that he retreated as carefullyas he had approached. When he had gonehalf a mile or so upstream he found aplace where he could wash his handswithout wetting his moccasins, returned tothe rocky hillside and took off the clumsyfootgear and stowed them away under hiscoat. Then with long strides that coveredthe ground as fast as a horse could dowithout loping, Swan headed as straight asmight be for the Thurman ranch.

About noon Swan approached the crowdof men and a few women who stood at a

little distance and whispered together,with their faces averted from the bodyaround which the men stood grouped. Thenews had spread as such news will, evenin a country so sparsely settled as theSawtooth. Swan counted forty men,—hedid not bother with the women. FredThurman had been known to every one ofthem. Some one had spread a piece ofcanvas over the corpse, and Swan did notgo very near. The blaze-faced horse hadbeen led farther away and tied to acottonwood, where some one had throwndown a bundle of hay. The Sawtoothcountry was rather punctilious in its dutytoward the law, and it was generallybelieved that the coroner would want tosee the horse that had caused the tragedy.

Half an hour after Swan arrived, thecoroner came in a machine, and with himcame the sheriff. The coroner, animportant little man, examined the body,the horse and the saddle, and there was theusual formula of swearing in a jury. Theinquest was rather short, since there wasonly one witness to testify, and Lonemerely told how he had discovered thehorse there by the creek, and that the bodyhad not been moved from where he foundit.

Swan went over to where Lone, anxious toget away from the place, was untying hishorse after the jury had officially namedthe death an accident.

"I guess those horses could be turnedloose," he began without prelude. "What

you think, Lone? I been to Thurman'sranch, and I don't find anybody. Somehorses in a corral, and pigs in a pen, andchickens. I guess Thurman was livingalone. Should I tell the coroner that?"

"I dunno," Lone replied shortly. "Youmight speak to the sheriff. I reckon he's theman to take charge of things."

"It's bad business, getting killed," Swansaid vaguely. "It makes me feel damnsorry when I go to that ranch. There's thehorses waiting for breakfast—andThurman, he's dead over here and can'tfeed his pigs and his chickens. It's a whitecat over there that comes to meet me andrubs my leg and purrs like it's lonesome.That's a nice ranch he's got, too. Nowwhat becomes of that ranch? What you

think, Lone?"

"Hell, how should I know?" Lone scowledat him from the saddle and rode away,leaving Swan standing there staring afterhim. He turned away to find the sheriff andalmost collided with Brit Hunter, whowas glancing speculatively from him toLone Morgan. Swan stopped and put outhis hand to shake.

"Lone says I should tell the sheriff I couldlook after Fred Thurman's ranch. What youthink, Mr. Hunter?"

"Good idea, I guess. Somebody'll have to.They can't——" He checked himself."You got a horse? I'll ride over with yuh,maybe."

"I got legs," Swan returned laconically."They don't get scared, Mr. Hunter, andmaybe kill me sometime. You could tellthe sheriff I'm government hunter andhonest man, and I take good care of things.You could do that, please?"

"Sure," said Brit and rode over to wherethe sheriff was standing.

The sheriff listened, nodded, beckoned toSwan. "The court'll have to settle up theestate and find his heirs, if he's got any.But you look after things—what's yourname? Vjolmar—how yuh spell it? I'llswear you in as a deputy. Good Lord,you're a husky son-of-a-gun!" The sheriff'seyes went up to Swan's hat crown,descended to his shoulders and lingeredthere admiringly for a moment, traveled

down his flat, hard-muscled body and hisstraight legs. "I'll bet you could put upsome fight, if you had to," he commented.

Swan grinned good-humoredly, glancedconscience-stricken at the covered figureon the ground and straightened his facedecorously.

"I could lick you good," he admitted in astage whisper. "I'm a son-off-a-gun allright—only I don't never get mad atsomebody."

Brit Hunter smiled at that, it was so likeSwan Vjolmar. But when they werehalfway to Thurman's ranch—Brit onhorseback and Swan striding easily alongbeside him, leading the blaze-faced horse,he glanced down at Swan's face and

wondered if Swan had not lied a little.

"What's on your mind, Swan?" he askedabruptly.

Swan started and looked up at him,glanced at the empty hills on either side,and stopped still in the trail.

"Mr. Hunter, you been longer in thecountry than I have been. You seen somegood riding, I bet. Maybe you see somemen ride backwards on a horse?"

Brit looked at him uncomprehendingly."Backwards?"

Swan led up the blaze-faced horse andpointed to the right stirrup. "Spurs wouldscratch like that if you jerk your foot,maybe. You're a good rider, Mr. Hunter,

you can tell. That's a right stirrup, ain't it?Fred Thurman, he's got his left foot twistaround, all broke from jerking in hisstirrup. Left foot in right stirrup——" Hepushed back his hat and rumpled hisyellow hair, looking up into Brit's faceinquiringly. "Left foot in right stirrup isriding backwards. That's a damn goodrider to ride like that—what you think,Mr. Hunter?"

CHAPTER SIXLONE ADVISES SILENCE

Twice in the next week Lone found anexcuse for riding over to the Sawtooth.During his first visit, the foreman's wifetold him that the young lady was still toosick to talk much. The second time hewent, Pop Bridgers spied him first andcackled over his coming to see the girl.Lone grinned and dissembled as best hecould, knowing that Pop Bridgers fed hisimagination upon denials and argumentand remonstrance and was likely to buildgossip that might spread beyond the

Sawtooth. Wherefore he did not go nearthe foreman's house that day, but contentedhimself with gathering from Pop's talk thatthe girl was still there.

After that he rode here and there,wherever he would be likely to meet aSawtooth rider, and so at last he cameupon Al Woodruff loping along the crestof Juniper Ridge. Al at first displayed nointention of stopping, but pulled up whenhe saw John Doe slowing downsignificantly. Lone would have preferred achat with some one else, for this was asharp-eyed, sharp-tongued man; but AlWoodruff stayed at the ranch and wouldknow all the news, and even though hemight give it an ill-natured twist, Lonewould at least know what was going on.

Al hailed him with a laughing epithet.

"Say, you sure enough played hell allaround, bringin' Brit Hunter's girl to theSawtooth!" he began, chuckling as if hehad some secret joke. "Where'd you pickher up, Lone? She claims you found her atRock City. That right?"

"No, it ain't right," Lone denied promptly,his dark eyes meeting Al's glance steadily."I found her in that gulch away this side.She was in amongst the rocks where shewas trying to keep outa the rain. BritHunter's girl, is she? She told me she wasgoing to the Sawtooth. She'd have made it,too, if it hadn't been for the storm. She gotas far as the gulch, and the lightningscared her from going any farther." Heoffered Al his tobacco sack and fumbled

for a match. "I never knew Brit Hunter hada girl."

"Nor me," Al said and sifted tobacco intoa cigarette paper. "Bob, he drove her overthere yesterday. Took him close to all dayto make the trip—and Bob, he claims tohate women!"

"So would I, if I'd got stung for fiftythousand. She ain't that kind. She's a nicegirl, far as I could tell. She got well, allright, did she?"

"Yeah—only she was still coughing somewhen she left the ranch. She like to of hadpneumonia, I guess. Queer how sheclaimed she spent the night in Rock City,ain't it?"

"No," Lone answered judicially, "I don'tknow as it's so queer. She never realizedhow far she'd walked, I reckon. She wasplumb crazy when I found her. Youcouldn't take any stock in what she said.Say, you didn't see that bay I was halter-breaking, did yuh, Al? He jumped thefence and got away on me, day beforeyesterday. I'd like to catch him up again.He'll make a good horse."

Al had not seen the bay, and the talktapered off desultorily to a final "So-long,see yuh later." Lone rode on, careful not tolook back. So she was Brit Hunter's girl!Lone whistled softly to himself while hestudied this new angle of the problem,—for a problem he was beginning toconsider it. She was Brit Hunter's girl,

and she had told them at the Sawtooth thatshe had spent the night at Rock City. Hewondered how much else she had told;how much she remembered of what shehad told him.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulledout a round leather purse with a chainhandle. It was soiled and shrunken with itswetting, and the clasp had flecks of rustupon it. What it contained Lone did notknow. Virginia had taught him that a manmust not be curious about the personalbelongings of a woman. Now he turned thepurse over, tried to rub out the stiffness ofthe leather, and smiled a little as hedropped it back into his pocket.

"I've got my calling card," he said softly toJohn Doe. "I reckon I had the right hunch

when I didn't turn it over to Mrs. Hawkins.I'll ask her again about that grip she saidshe hid under a bush. I never heard aboutany of the boys finding it."

His thoughts returned to Al Woodruff andstopped there. Determined still to attendstrictly to his own affairs, his thoughtspersisted in playing truant and in strayingto a subject he much preferred not to thinkof at all. Why should Al Woodruff beinterested in the exact spot where BritHunter's daughter had spent the night of thestorm? Why should Lone instinctivelydiscount her statement and lie whole-heartedly about it?

"Now if Al catches me up in that, he'llthink I know a lot I don't know, or else——" He halted his thoughts there, for

that, too, was a forbidden subject.

Forbidden subjects are like otherforbidden things: they have a way ofmaking themselves very conspicuous.Lone was heading for the Quirt ranch bythe most direct route, fearing, perhaps, thatif he waited he would lose his nerve andwould not go at all. Yet it was importantthat he should go; he must return the girl'spurse!

The most direct route to the Quirt took himdown Juniper Ridge and across GraniteCreek near the Thurman ranch. Indeed, ifhe followed the trail up Granite Creek andacross the hilly country to Quirt Creek, hemust pass within fifty yards of theThurman cabin. Lone's time was limited,yet he took the direct route rather

reluctantly. He did not want to bereminded too sharply of Fred Thurman asa man who had lived his life in his ownway and had died so horribly.

"Well, he didn't have it coming to him—but it's done and over with, now, so it's nouse thinking about it," he reflected, whenthe roofs of the Thurman ranch buildingsbegan to show now and then through thethin ranks of the cottonwoods along thecreek.

But his face sobered as he rode along. Itseemed to him that the sleepy littlemeadows, the quiet murmuring of thecreek, even the soft rustling of thecottonwood leaves breathed a newloneliness, an emptiness where the manwho had called this place home, who had

clung to it in the face of opposition thatwas growing into open warfare, had livedand had left life suddenly—unwarrantably, Lone knew in his heart. Itmight be of no use to think about it, but thevivid memory of Fred Thurman was withhim when he rode up the trail to the stableand the small corrals. He had to think,whether he would or no.

At the corral he came unexpectedly insight of the Swede, who grinned aguileless welcome and came toward him,so that Lone could not ride on unless hewould advertise his dislike of the place.John Doe, plainly glad to find an excuse tostop, slowed and came to where Swanwaited by the gate.

"By golly, this is lonesome here," Swan

complained, heaving a great sigh. "Thatjudge don't get busy pretty quick, I'mmaybe jumping my job. Lone, what youthink? You believe in ghosts?"

"Naw. What's on your chest, Swan?" Loneslipped sidewise in the saddle, resting hismuscles. "You been seeing things?"

"No—I don't be seeing things, Lone. Butsometimes I been—like I feel something."He stared at Lone questioningly. "Whatyou think, Lone, if you be sitting downeating your supper, maybe, and you feelsomething say words in your brain? Likeyou know something talks to you and thenquits."

Lone gave Swan a long, measuring look,and Swan laughed uneasily.

"That sounds crazy. But it's true, whatsomething tells me in my brain. I go andlook, and by golly, it's there just like thewords tell me."

Lone straightened in the saddle. "Youbetter come clean, Swan, and tell thewhole thing. What was it? Don't talk incircles. What words did you feel—in yourbrain?" In spite of himself, Lone felt as hehad when the girl had talked to him andcalled him Charlie.

Swan closed the gate behind him withsteady hands. His lips were pressedfirmly together, as if he had definitelymade up his mind to something. Lone wasimpressed somehow with Swan's perfectcontrol of his speech, his thoughts, hisactions. But he was puzzled rather than

anything else, and when Swan turned,facing him, Lone's bewilderment did notlessen.

"I'll tell you. It's when I'm sitting down toeat my supper. I'm just reaching out myhand like this, to get my coffee. Andsomething says in my head, 'It's a lie. Idon't ride backwards. Go look at mysaddle. There's blood——' And that's all.It's like the words go far away so I can'thear any more. So I eat my supper, andthen I get the lantern and I go look. Youcome with me, Lone. I'll show you."

Without a word Lone dismounted andfollowed Swan into a small shed besidethe stable, where a worn stock saddlehung suspended from a crosspiece, arawhide string looped over the horn. Lone

did not ask whose saddle it was, nor didSwan name the owner. There was noneed.

Swan took the saddle and swung it aroundso that the right side was toward them. Itwas what is called a full-stamped saddle,with the popular wild-rose design onskirts and cantle. Much hard use andoccasional oilings had darkened theleather to a rich, red brown, marred withold scars and scratches and the stains ofmany storms.

"Blood is hard to find when it's raining allnight," Swan observed, speaking low asone does in the presence of death. "But ifsomebody is bleeding and falls off a horseslow, and catches hold of things and trieslike hell to hang on——" He lifted the

small flap that covered the cinch ring andrevealed a reddish, flaked stain.Phlegmatically he wetted his finger tip onhis tongue, rubbed the stain and held uphis finger for Lone to see. "That's a damnfunny place for blood, when a man isdragging on the ground," he commenteddrily. "And something else is damn funny,Lone."

He lifted the wooden stirrup and touchedwith his finger the rowel marks. "That ison the front part," he said. "I could swearin court that Fred's left foot was twisted—that's damn funny, Lone. I don't see menride backwards, much."

Lone turned on him and struck the stirrupfrom his hand. "I think you better forgetit," he said fiercely. "He's dead—it can't

help him any to——" He stopped andpulled himself together. "Swan, you take afool's advice and don't tell anybody elseabout feeling words talk in your head.They'll have you in the bug-house atBlackfoot, sure as you live." He looked atthe saddle, hesitated, looked again atSwan, who was watching him. "Thatblood most likely got there when Fredwas packing a deer in from the hills. Andmarks on them old oxbow stirrups don'tmean a damn thing but the need of a newpair, maybe." He forced a laugh andstepped outside the shed. "Just shows you,Swan, that imagination and being alone allthe time can raise Cain with a fellow. Youwant to watch yourself."

Swan followed him out, closing the door

carefully behind him. "By golly, I'mwatching out now," he assentedthoughtfully. "You don't tell anybody,Lone."

"No, I won't tell anybody—and I'd adviseyou not to," Lone repeated grimly. "Justkeep those thoughts outa your head, Swan.They're bad medicine."

He mounted John Doe and rode away, hiseyes downcast, his quirt slapping absentlythe weeds along the trail. It was not hisbusiness, and yet—— Lone shook himselftogether and put John Doe into a lope. Hehad warned Swan, and he could do nomore.

Halfway to the Quirt he met Lorraineriding along the trail. She would have

passed him with no sign of recognition,but Lone lifted his hat and stopped.Lorraine looked at him, rode on a fewsteps and turned. "Did you wish to speakabout something?" she askedimpersonally.

Lone felt the flush in his cheeks, whichangered him to the point of speakingcurtly. "Yes. I found your purse where youdropped it that night you were lost. I wasbringing it over to you. My name'sMorgan. I'm the man that found you andtook you in to the ranch."

"Oh." Lorraine looked at him steadily."You're the one they call Loney?"

"When they're feeling good toward me. I'mLone Morgan. I went back to find your

grip—you said you left it under a bush, butthe world's plumb full of bushes. I foundyour purse, though."

"Thank you so much. I must have been anawful nuisance, but I was so scared—andthings were terribly mixed in my mind. Ididn't even have sense enough to tell youwhat ranch I was trying to find, did I? Soyou took me to the wrong one, and I was aweek there before I found it out. And thenthey were perfectly lovely about it andbrought me—home." She turned the purseover and over in her hands, looking at itwithout much interest. She seemed in nohurry to ride on, which gave Lonecourage.

"There's something I'd like to say," hebegan, groping for words that would make

his meaning plain without telling toomuch. "I hope you won't mind my tellingyou. You were kinda out of your headwhen I found you, and you said somethingabout seeing a man shot and——"

"Oh!" Lorraine looked up at him, lookedthrough him, he thought, with thosebrilliant eyes of hers. "Then I did tell——"

"I just wanted to say," Lone interruptedher, "that I knew all the time it was just anightmare. I never mentioned it toanybody, and you'll forget all about it, Ihope. You didn't tell any one else, didyou?"

He looked up at her again and found herstudying him curiously. "You're not the

man I saw," she said, as if she weresatisfying herself on that point. "I'vewondered since—but I was sure, too, thatI had seen it. Why mustn't I tell any one?"

Lone did not reply at once. The girl's eyeswere disconcertingly direct, her voice andher manner disturbed him with theirjudicial calmness, so at variance with thewildness he remembered.

"Well, it's hard to explain," he said at last."You're strange to this country, and youdon't know all the ins and outs of—things.It wouldn't do any good to you or anybodyelse, and it might do a lot of harm." Hiseyes nicked her face with a wistful glance."You don't know me—I really haven't gotany right to ask or expect you to trust me.But I wish you would, to the extent of

forgetting that you saw—or thought yousaw—anything that night in Rock City."

Lorraine shivered and covered her eyesswiftly with one hand. His words hadbrought back too sharply that scene. Butshe shook off the emotion and faced himagain.

"I saw a man murdered," she cried. "Iwasn't sure afterwards; sometimes Ithought I had dreamed it. But I was sure Isaw it. I saw the horse go by, running—and you want me to keep still about that?What harm could it do to tell? Perhaps it'strue—perhaps I did see it all. I might thinkyou were trying to cover up something—only, you're not the man I saw—or thoughtI saw."

"No, of course I'm not. You dreamed thewhole thing, and the way you talked to mewas so wild, folks would say you're crazyif they heard you tell it. You're a strangerhere, Miss Hunter, and—your father is notas popular in this country as he might be.He's got enemies that would be glad of thechance to stir up trouble for him. You—just dreamed all that. I'm asking you toforget a bad dream, that's all, and not gotelling it to other folks."

For some time Lorraine did not answer.The horses conversed with sundry nose-rubbings, nibbled idly at convenient brushtips, and wondered no doubt why theirriders were so silent. Lone tried to thinkof some stronger argument, some appealthat would reach the girl without

frightening her or causing her to distrusthim. But he did not know what more hecould say without telling her what mustnot be told.

"Just how would it make trouble for myfather?" Lorraine asked at last. "I can'tbelieve you'd ask me to help cover up acrime, but it seems hard to believe that anightmare would cause any greatcommotion. And why is my fatherunpopular?"

"Well, you don't know this country," Loneparried inexpertly. "It's all right in someways, and in some ways it could be a lotimproved. Folks haven't got much to talkabout. They go around gabbling theirheads off about every little thing, andadding onto it until you can't recognize

your own remarks after they've beenpeddled for a week. You've maybe seenplaces like that."

"Oh, yes." Lorraine's eyes lighted with asmile. "Take a movie studio, for instance."

"Yes. Well, you being a stranger, youwould get all the worst of it. I just thoughtI'd tell you; I'd hate to see youmisunderstood by folks around here. I—Ifeel kinda responsible for you; I'm the onethat found you."

Lorraine's eyes twinkled. "Well, I'm gladto know one person in the country whodoesn't gabble his head off. You haven'tanswered any of my questions, and you'vemade me feel as if you'd found adangerous, wild woman that morning. It

isn't very flattering, but I think you'rehonest, anyway."

Lone smiled for the first time, and shefound his smile pleasant. "I'm no angel,"he disclaimed modestly, "and most folksthink I could be improved on a whole lot.But I'm honest in one way. I'm thinkingabout what's best for you, this time."

"I'm terribly grateful," Lorraine laughed."I shall take great care not to go all aroundthe country telling people my dreams. Ican see that it wouldn't make me awfullypopular." Then she sobered. "Mr. Morgan,that was a horrible kind of—nightmare.Why, even last night I woke up shivering,just imagining it all over again."

"It was sure horrible the way you talked

about it," Lone assured her. "It's becauseyou were sick, I reckon. I wish you'd tellme as close as you can where you left thatgrip of yours. You said it was under abush where a rabbit was sitting. I'd like tofind the grip—but I'm afraid that rabbithas done moved!"

"Oh, Mr. Warfield and I found it, thankyou. The rabbit had moved, but I sort ofremembered how the road had lookedalong there, and we hunted until wediscovered the place. Dad has driven inafter my other luggage to-day—and Ibelieve I must be getting home. I was onlyout for a little ride."

She thanked him again for the trouble hehad taken and rode away. Lone turned offthe trail and, picking his way around rough

outcroppings of rock, and acrossunexpected little gullies, headed straightfor the ford across Granite Creek andhome. Brit Hunter's girl, he was thinking,was even nicer than he had pictured her.And that she could believe in thenightmare was a vast relief.

CHAPTER SEVENTHE MAN AT WHISPER

Brit Hunter finished washing the breakfastdishes and put a stick of wood into thebroken old cook-stove that had served himand Frank for fifteen years and wasfeeling its age. Lorraine's breakfast was inthe oven, keeping warm. Brit looked in,tested the heat with his gnarled hand tomake sure that the sour-dough biscuitswould not be dried to crusts, and closedthe door upon them and the bacon andfried potatoes. Frank Johnson had thehorses saddled and it was time to go, yet

Brit lingered, uneasily conscious that hishabitation was lacking in many thingswhich a beautiful young woman mightconsider absolute necessities. He had seenin Lorraine's eyes, as they glanced hereand there about the grimy walls, a certaindisparagement of her surroundings. Thelook had made him wince, though he couldnot quite decide what it was thatdispleased her. Maybe she wanted lacecurtains, or something.

He set the four chairs in a row against thewall, swept up the bits of bark and ashesbeside the stove, made sure that the waterbucket was standing full on its benchbeside the door, sent another criticalglance around the room, and tiptoed overto the dish cupboard and let down the

flowered calico curtain that had beenlooped up over a nail for convenience.The sun sent a bright, wide bar of yellowlight across the room to rest on the shelfbehind the stove where stood the salt can,the soda, the teapot, a box of matches andtwo pepper cans, one empty and the otherfull. Brit always meant to throw out thatempty pepper can and always neglected todo so. Just now he remembered picking upthe empty one and shaking it over thepotatoes futilely and then changing it forthe full one. But he did not take it away; inthe wilderness one learns to save uselessthings in the faint hope that some day theymay become useful. The shelves werecluttered with fit companions to that emptypepper can. Brit thought that he wouldhave "cleaned out" had he known that

Lorraine was coming. Since she was here,it scarcely seemed worth while.

He walked on his boot-toes to the door ofthe second room of the cabin, listenedthere for a minute, heard no sound andtook a tablet and pencil off another shelflittered with useless things. The notewhich he wrote painstakingly, lest shemight think him lacking in education, helaid upon the table beside Lorraine'splate; then went out, closing the doorbehind him as quietly as a squeaking doorcan be made to close.

Lorraine, in the other room, heard thesqueak and sat up. Her wrist watch, on thechair beside her bed, said that it wasfifteen minutes past six, which sheconsidered an unearthly hour for rising.

She pulled up the covers and tried to sleepagain. The day would be long enough, atbest. There was nothing to do, unless shetook that queer old horse with withers likethe breastbone of a lean Christmas turkeyand hips that reminded her of the littleroofs over dormer windows, and went fora ride. And if she did that, there wasnowhere to go and nothing to do when shearrived there.

In a very few days Lorraine had exhaustedthe sights of Quirt Creek and vicinity. Ifshe rode south she would eventually cometo the top of a hill whence she could lookdown upon further stretches of barrenness.If she rode east she would comeeventually to the road along which she hadwalked from Echo, Idaho. Lorraine had

had enough of that road. If she went northshe would—well, she would not meet Mr.Lone Morgan again, for she had tried ittwice, and had turned back because thereseemed no end to the trail twisting throughthe sage and rocks. West she had not gone,but she had no doubt that it would be thesame dreary monotony of dull graylandscape.

Monotony of landscape was one thingwhich Lorraine could not endure, unless ithad a foreground of riders hurtling hereand there, and of perspiring men around acamera tripod. At the Sawtooth ranch,after she was able to be up, she had seencowboys, but they had lacked the dash andthe picturesque costuming of the West sheknew. They were mostly commonplace

young men, jogging past the house onhorseback, or loitering down by thecorrals. They had offered absolutely nointerest or "color" to the place, and theowner's son, Bob Warfield, had drivenher over to the Quirt in a Ford and hadseemed exactly like any other big, good-looking young man who thought well ofhimself. Lorraine was not susceptible tomere good looks, three years with the"movies" having disillusioned her quitethoroughly. Too many young men of BobWarfield's general type had attempted tomake love to her—lightly and not too well—for Lorraine to be greatly impressed.

She yawned, looked at her watch again,found that she had spent exactly sixminutes in meditating upon her immediate

surroundings, and fell to wondering why itwas that the real West was so terriblycommonplace. Why, yesterday she hadbeen brought to such a pass of sheerloneliness that she had actually beendriven to reading an old horse-doctorbook! She had learned the symptoms ofepizoötic—whatever that was—and poll-evil and stringhalt, and had gone from thatto making a shopping tour through aMontgomery Ward catalogue. There wasnothing else in the house to read, except ahalf dozen old copies of the Boise News.

There was nothing to do, nothing to see,no one to talk to. Her dad and the big,heavy-set man whom he called Frank,seemed uncomfortably aware of theirdeficiencies and were pitiably anxious to

make her feel welcome,—and failed. Theycalled her "Raine." The other two men didnot call her anything at all. They wereboth sandy-complexioned and they bothchewed tobacco quite noticeably, andwhen they sat down in their shirt sleevesto eat, Lorraine had seen irregular humpsin their hip pockets which must be six-guns; though why they should carry them intheir pockets instead of in holster beltsbuckled properly around their bodies andsagging savagely down at one side andswinging ferociously when they walked,Lorraine could not imagine. They did notwear chaps, either, and their spurs werejust spurs, without so much as a silverconcho anywhere. Cowboys in overallsand blue gingham shirts and faded oldcoats whose lapels lay in wrinkles and

whose pockets were torn down at thecorners! If Lorraine had not been positivethat this was actually a cattle ranch inIdaho, she never would have believed thatthey were anything but day laborers.

"It's a comedy part for the cattle-queen'sdaughter," she admitted, putting out a handto stroke the lean, gray cat that jumpedupon her bed from the open window. "Ket,it's a scream! I'll take my West before thecamera, thank you; or I would, if I hadn'tjumped right into the middle of this trickWest before I knew what I was doing.Ket, what do you do to pass away thetime? I don't see how you can have thenerve to live in an empty space like thisand purr!"

She got up then, looked into the kitchen

and saw the paper on the table. This wasnew and vaguely promised some sort ofbreak in the deadly monotony which shesaw stretching endlessly before her.Carrying the nameless cat in her arms,Lorraine went in her bare feet across thegrimy, bare floor to the table and pickedup the note. It read simply:

"Your brekfast is in the oven wewont be back till dark maby. Don'tleave the ranch today. Yr loveingfather."

Lorraine hugged the cat so violently thatshe choked off a purr in the middle."'Don't leave the ranch to-day!' Ket, Ibelieve it's going to be dangerous orsomething, after all."

She dressed quickly and went outside intothe sunlight, the cat at her heels, the thrillof that one command filling the graymonotone of the hills with wonderfulpossibilities of adventure. Her father hadmade no objection before when she wentfor a ride. He had merely instructed her tokeep to the trails, and if she didn't knowthe way home, to let the reins lie loose onYellowjacket's neck and he would bringher to the gate.

Yellowjacket's instinct for direction hadnot been working that day, however.Lorraine had no sooner left the ranch outof sight behind her than she pretended thatshe was lost. Yellowjacket had thereuponwalked a few rods farther and stopped,patiently indifferent to the location of his

oats box. Lorraine had waited until hishead began to droop lower and lower, andhis switching at flies had become purelyautomatic. Yellowjacket was going tosleep without making any effort to find theway home. But since Lorraine had not toldher father anything about it, his injunctioncould not have anything to do with theunreliability of the horse.

"Now," she said to the cat, "if three orfour bandits would appear on the ridge,over there, and come tearing down into theimmediate foreground, jump the gate andsurround the house, I'd know this was thereal thing. They'd want to make me tellwhere dad kept his gold or whatever itwas they wanted, and they'd have me tiedto a chair—and then, cut to Lone Morgan

(that's a perfectly wonderful name for thelead!) hearing shots and coming on a deadrun to the rescue." She picked up the catand walked slowly down the hard-troddenpath to the stable. "But there aren't anybandits, and dad hasn't any gold oranything else worth stealing—Ket, if dadisn't a miser, he's poor! And Lone Morganis merely ashamed of the way I talked tohim, and afraid I'll queer myself with theneighbors. No Western lead that I eversaw would act like that. Why, he didn'teven want to ride home with me, that day.

"And Bob Warfield and his Ford areincidents of the past, and not one soul atthe Sawtooth seems to give a darn whetherI'm in the country or out of it. Soon as theyfound out where I belonged, they brought

me over here and dropped me and forgotall about me. And that, I suppose, is whatthey call in fiction the Western spirit!

"Dad looked exactly as if he'd opened thedoor to a book agent when I came. He—hetolerates my presence, Ket! And FrankJohnson's pipe smells to high heaven, andI hate him in the house and 'the boys'—hmhm! The boys—Ket, it would beterribly funny, if I didn't have to stayhere."

She had reached the corral and stoodbalancing the cat on a warped top rail,staring disconsolately at Yellowjacket,who stood in a far corner switching atflies and shamelessly displaying all theangularity of his bones under a yellowishhide with roughened hair that was

shedding dreadfully, as Lorraine haddiscovered to her dismay when sheremoved her green corduroy skirt afterriding him. Yellowjacket's lower lipsagged with senility or lack of spirit,Lorraine could not tell which.

"You look like the frontispiece in thathorse-doctor book," she remarked, eyeinghim with disfavor. "I can't say that comedyhide you've got improves yourappearance. You'd be better peeled, Ibelieve."

She heard a chuckle behind her and turnedquickly, palm up to shield her eyes fromthe straight, bright rays of the sun. Nowhere was a live man, after all, with his hattilted down over his forehead, a cigarettein one hand and his reins in the other,

looking at her and smiling.

"Why don't you peel him, just on achance?" His smile broadened to a grin,but when Lorraine continued to look athim with a neutral expression in her eyes,he threw away his cigarette andabandoned with it his free-and-easymanner.

"You're Miss Hunter, aren't you? I rodeover to see your father. Thought I'd findhim somewhere around the corral,maybe."

"You won't, because he's gone for the day.No, I don't know where."

"I—see. Is Mr. Johnson anywhere about?"

"No, I don't believe any one is anywhere

about. They were all gone when I got up, alittle while ago." Then, remembering thatshe did not know this man, and that shewas a long way from neighbors, sheadded, "If you'll leave a message I can telldad when he comes home."

"No-o—I'll ride over to-morrow or nextday. I'm the man at Whisper. You can tellhim I called, and that I'll call again."

Still he did not go, and Lorraine waited.Some instinct warned her that the man hadnot yet stated his real reason for coming,and she wondered a little what it could be.He seemed to be watching her covertly,yet she failed to catch any telltaleadmiration for her in his scrutiny. Shedecided that his forehead was too narrowto please her, and that his eyes were too

close together, and that the lines aroundhis mouth were cruel lines and gave thelie to his smile, which was pleasantenough if you just looked at the smile andpaid no attention to anything else in hisface.

"You had quite an experience getting outhere, they tell me," he observedcarelessly; too carelessly, thoughtLorraine, who was well schooled in thecircumlocutions of delinquent tenants,agents of various sorts and those whocrave small gossip of their neighbors."Heard you were lost up in Rock City allnight."

Lorraine looked up at him, startled. "Icaught a terrible cold," she said, laughingnervously. "I'm not used to the climate,"

she added guardedly.

The man fumbled in his pocket andproduced smoking material. "Do you mindif I smoke?" he asked perfunctorily.

"Why, no. It doesn't concern me in theslightest degree." Why, she thoughtconfusedly, must she always be remindedof that horrible place of rocks? What wasit to this man where she had been lost?

"You must of got there about the time thestorm broke," the man hazarded after asilence. "It's sure a bad place in athunderstorm. Them rocks draw lightning.Pretty bad, wasn't it?"

"Lightning is always bad, isn't it?"Lorraine tried to hold her voice steady. "I

don't know much about it. We don't havethunderstorms to amount to anything, inLos Angeles. It sometimes does thunderthere in the winter, but it is very mild."

With hands that trembled she picked thecat off the rail and started toward thehouse. "I'll tell dad what you said," shetold him, glancing back over her shoulder.When she saw that he had turned his horseand was frankly following her to thehouse, her heart jumped wildly into herthroat,—judging by the feel of it.

"I'm plumb out of matches. I wonder if youcan let me have some," he said, stillspeaking too carelessly to reassure her."So you stuck it out in Rock City allthrough that storm! That's more than whatI'd want to do."

She did not answer that, but once on thedoorstep Lorraine turned and faced him.Quite suddenly it came to her—theknowledge of why she did not like thisman. She stared at him, her eyes wide andbright.

"Your hat's brown!" she exclaimedunguardedly. "I—I saw a man with abrown hat——"

He laughed suddenly. "If you stay aroundhere long you'll see a good many," he said,taking off his hat and turning it on his handbefore her. "This here hat I traded foryesterday. I had a gray one, but it didn'tsuit me. Too narrow in the brim. Brownhats are getting to be the style. If I canborrow half a dozen matches, MissHunter, I'll be going."

Lorraine looked at him again doubtfullyand went after the matches. He thankedher, smiling down at her quizzically. "Aman can get along without lots of things,but he's plumb lost without matches.You've maybe saved my life, Miss Hunter,if you only knew it."

She watched him as he rode away,opening the gate and letting himselfthrough without dismounting. Hedisappeared finally around a small spur ofthe hill, and Lorraine found her kneestrembling under her.

"Ket, you're an awful fool," she exclaimedfiercely. "Why did you let me give myselfaway to that man? I—I believe he was theman. And if I really did see him, it wasn'tmy imagination at all. He saw me there,

perhaps. Ket, I'm scared! I'm not going tostay on this ranch all alone. I'm going tosaddle the family skeleton, and I'm goingto ride till dark. There's something queerabout that man from Whisper. I'm afraid ofhim."

After awhile, when she had finished herbreakfast and was putting up a lunch,Lorraine picked up the nameless gray catand holding its head between her slimfingers, looked at it steadily. "Ket, you'rethe humanest thing I've seen since I lefthome," she said wistfully. "I hate acountry where horrible things happenunder the surface and the top is just grayand quiet and so dull it makes you want toscream. Lone Morgan lied to me. He lied—he lied!" She hugged the cat impulsively

and rubbed her cheek absently against it,so that it began purring immediately.

"Ket—I'm afraid of that man at Whisper!"she breathed miserably against its fur.

CHAPTER EIGHT"IT TAKES NERVE JUST TO HANG

ON"

Brit was smoking his pipe after supperand staring at nothing, though his face wasturned toward the closed door. Lorrainehad washed the dishes and was tidying theroom and looking at her father now andthen in a troubled, questioning way ofwhich Brit was quite oblivious.

"Dad," she said abruptly, "who is the manat Whisper?"

Brit turned his eyes slowly to her face as

if he had not grasped her meaning and waswaiting for her to repeat the question. Itwas evident that his thoughts had pulledaway from something that meant a gooddeal to him.

"Why?"

"A man came this morning, and said hewas the man at Whisper, and that hewould come again to see you."

Brit took his pipe from his mouth, lookedat it and crowded down the tobacco with aforefinger. "He seen me ride away fromthe ranch, this morning," he said. "He wascoming down the Whisper trail as I wastaking the fork over to Sugar Spring, Frankand me. What did he say he wanted to seeme about?"

"He didn't say. He asked for you andFrank." Lorraine sat down and folded herarms on the oilcloth-covered table. "Dad,what is Whisper?"

"Whisper's a camp up against a cliff, overwest of here. It belongs to the Sawtooth. Isthat all he said? Just that he wanted to seeme?"

"He—talked a little," Lorraine admitted,her eyebrows pulled down. "If he saw youleave, I shouldn't think he'd come here andask for you."

"He knowed I was gone," Brit statedbriefly.

With a finger nail Lorraine traced the ugly,brown pattern on the oilcloth. It was not

easy to talk to this silent man who was herfather, but she had done a great deal ofthinking during that long, empty day, andshe had reached the point where she wasafraid not to speak.

"Dad!"

"What do you want, Raine?"

"Dad, was—has any one around heredied, lately?"

"Died? Nobody but Fred Thurman, overhere on Granite. He was drug with a horseand killed."

Lorraine caught her breath, saw Britlooking at her curiously and moved closerto him. She wanted to be near somebodyjust then, and after all, Brit was her father,

and his silence was not the inertia of adull mind, she knew. He seemed bottled-up, somehow, and bitter. She caught hishand and held it, feeling its roughnessbetween her two soft palms.

"Dad, I've got to tell you. I feel trapped,somehow. Did his horse have a whiteface, dad?"

"Yes, he's a blaze-faced roan. Why?" Britmoved uncomfortably, but he did not takehis hand away from her. "What do youknow about it, Raine?"

"I saw a man shoot Fred Thurman andpush his foot through the stirrup. And, dad,I believe it was that man at Whisper. Theone I saw had on a brown hat, and thisman wears a brown hat—and I was

advised not to tell any one I had been atthat place they call Rock City, when thestorm came. Dad, would an innocent man—one that didn't have anything to do witha crime—would he try to cover it upafterwards?"

Brit's hand shook when he removed thepipe from his mouth and laid it on thetable. His face had turned gray whileLorraine watched him fearfully. He laidhis hand on her shoulder, pressing downhard—and at last his eyes met her big,searching ones.

"If he wanted to live—in this country—he'd have to. Leastways, he'd have to keephis mouth shut," he said grimly.

"And he'd try to shut the mouths of others

——"

"If he cared anything about them, hewould. You ain't told anybody what yousaw, have yuh?"

Lorraine hid her face against his arm."Just Lone Morgan, and he thought I wascrazy and imagined it. That was in themorning, when he found me. And he—hewanted me to go on thinking it was just anightmare—that I'd imagined the wholething. And I did, for awhile. But this manat Whisper tried to find out where I wasthat night——"

Brit pulled abruptly away from her, got upand opened the door. He stood there for atime, looking out into the gloom of earlynightfall. He seemed to be listening,

Lorraine thought. When he came back toher his voice was lower, his mannerintangibly furtive.

"You didn't tell him anything, did you?" heasked, as if there had been no pause intheir talk.

"No—I made him believe I wasn't there.Or I tried to. And dad! As I was going tocross that creek just before you come toRock City, two men came along onhorseback, and I hid before they saw me.They stopped to water their horses, andthey were talking. They said somethingabout the TJ had been here a long time, butthey would get theirs, and it was likesitting into a poker game with a nickel.They said the little ones aren't big enoughto fight the Sawtooth, and they'd carry lead

under their hides if they didn't leave. Dad,isn't your brand the TJ? That's what itlooks like on Yellowjacket."

Brit did not answer, and when Lorrainewas sure that he did not mean to do so, sheasked another question. "Dad, why didn'tyou want me to leave the ranch to-day? Iwas nervous after that man was here, and Idid go."

"I didn't want you riding around thecountry unless I knew where you went,"Brit said. "My brand is the TJ up-and-down. We never call it just the TJ."

"Oh," said Lorraine, relieved. "Theyweren't talking about you, then. But dad—it's horrible! We simply can't let thatmurder go and not do anything. Because I

know that man was shot. I heard the shotfired, and I saw him start to fall off hishorse. And the next flash of lightning I saw——"

"Look here, Raine. I don't want you talkingabout what you saw. I don't want youthinkin' about it. What's the use?Thurman's dead and buried. The cor'nercome and held an inquest, and the juryagreed it was an accident. I was on thejury. The sheriff's took charge of hisproperty. You couldn't prove what yousaw, even if you was to try." He looked ather very much as Lone Morgan had lookedat her. His next words were very nearlywhat Lone Morgan had said, Lorraineremembered. "You don't know this countrylike I know it. Folks live in it mainly

because they don't go around blattingeverything they see and hear and think."

"You have laws, don't you, dad? Youspoke about the sheriff——"

"The sheriff!" Brit laughed harshly. "Yes,we got a sheriff, and we got a jail, and ajudge—all the makin's of law. But we ain'tgot one thing that goes with it, and that'sjustice. You'd best make up your mind likethe cor'ner's jury done, that Fred Thurmanwas drug to death by his horse. That's allthat'll ever be proved, and if you can'tprove nothing else you better keep yourmouth shut."

Lorraine sprang up and stood facing herfather, every nerve taut with protest. "Youdon't mean to tell me, dad, that you and

Frank Johnson and Lone Morgan and—everybody in the country are cowards, doyou?"

Brit looked at her patiently. "No," he saidin the tone of acknowledged defeat, "weain't cowards, Raine. A man ain't acoward when he stands with his handsover his head. Most generally it's becausesome one's got the drop on 'im."

Lorraine would not accept that. "You thinkso, because you don't fight," she criedhotly. "No one is holding a gun at yourhead. Dad! I thought Westerners neverquit. It's fight to the finish, always. Why,I've seen one man fight a whole outfit andwin. He couldn't be beaten because hewouldn't give up. Why——"

Brit gave her a tolerant glance. "Where'dyou see all that, Raine?" He moved to thetable picked up his pipe and knocked outthe ashes on the stove hearth. Hismovements were those of an aging man,—yet Brit Hunter was not old, as age isreckoned.

"Well—in stories—but it was reasonableand logical and possible, just the same. Ifyou use your brains you can outwit them,and if you have any nerve——"

Brit made a sound somewhat like a snort."These days, when politics is played bythe big fellows, and the law is used tomake money for 'em, it takes nerve just tohang on," he said. "Nobody but a dangfool would fight." Slow anger grew withinhim. He turned upon Lorraine almost

fiercely. "D'yuh think me and Frank couldfight the Sawtooth and get anything out ofit but a coffin apiece, maybe?" hedemanded harshly. "Don't the Sawtoothown this country? Warfield's got thesheriff in his pocket, and the cor'ner, andthe judge, and the stock inspector—he'sSenator Warfield, and what he wants hegets. He gets it through the law that youwas talking about a little while ago. Whatyou goin' to do about it? If I had the moneyand the land and the political pull he's got,mebby I'd have me a sheriff and a judge,too.

"Fred Thurman tried to fight the Sawtoothover a water right he owned and theywanted. They had the case runnin' in courttill they like to of took the last dollar he

had. He got bull-headed. That water rightmeant the hull ranch—everything heowned. You can't run a ranch withoutwater. And when he'd took the case up andup till it got to the Supreme Court, and hestood some show of winnin' out—he hadan accident. He was drug to death by hishorse."

Brit stooped and opened the stove door,seeking a live coal; found none and turnedagain to Lorraine, shaking his pipe at herfor emphasis.

"We try to prove Fred was murdered, andwhat's the result? Something happens: tome, mebby, or Frank, or both of us. Andyou can't say, 'Here, I know the Sawtoothhad a hand in that.' You got to prove it!And when you've proved it," he added

bitterly, "you got to have officers that'llcarry out the law instead of using it tohog-tie yuh."

His futile, dull anger surged up again."You call us cowards because we don't gitup on our hind legs and fight the Sawtooth.A lot you know about courage! You'veread stories, and you've saw movingpictures, and you think that's the West—that's the way they do it. One man hold offa hunderd with his gun—and on the otherhand, a hunderd men, mebby, ridin' hell-whoopin' after one. You think that's it—that's the way they do it. Hunh!" He liftedthe lid of the stove, spat into it as if hewere spitting in the face of an enemy, andturned again to Lorraine.

"What you seen—what you say you seen

—that was done at night when there wasn'tno audience. All the fighting the Sawtoothdoes is done under cover. You won't seenone of it—they ain't such fools. And whatus small fellers do, we do it quiet, too.We ain't ridin' up and down the trail,flourishin' our six-shooters and yellin' tothe Sawtooth to come on and we'll clean'em up!"

"But you're fighting just the same, aren'tyou, dad? You're not letting them——"

"We're makin' out to live here—and we'vebeen doin' it for twenty-five year," Brittold her, with a certain grim dignity."We've still got a few head uh stock left—enough to live on. Playin' poker with anickel, mebby—but we manage to ante,every hand so fur." His mind returned to

the grisly thing Lorraine had seen.

"We can't run down the man that got FredThurman, supposin' he was killed, as yousay. That's what the law is paid to do. IfLone Morgan told you not to talk about it,he told you right. He was talking for yourown good. What about Al—the man fromWhisper? You didn't tell him, did you?"

His tone, the suppressed violence of hismanner, frightened Lorraine. She movedfarther away from him.

"I didn't tell him anything. He was curiousbut—I only said I knew him because hewas wearing a brown hat, and the man thatshot Mr. Thurman had a brown hat. I didn'tsay all that. I just mentioned the hat. Andhe said there were lots of brown hats in

the country. He said he had traded for thatone, just yesterday. He said his own hatwas gray."

Brit stared at her, his jaw sagging a little,his eyes growing vacant with the thoughtshe hid deep in his mind. He slumped downinto his chair and leaned forward, hisarms resting on his knees, his fingersclasped loosely. After a little he tilted hishead and looked up at her.

"You better go to bed," he told herstolidly. "And if you're going to live at theQuirt, Raine, you'll have to learn to keepyour mouth shut. I ain't blaming you—butyou told too much to Al Woodruff. Don'ttalk to him no more, if he comes herewhen I'm gone." He put out a hand,beckoning her to him, sorry for his

harshness. Lorraine went to him and kneltbeside him, slipping an arm around hisneck while she hid her face on hisshoulder.

"I won't be a nuisance, dad—really, Iwon't," she said. "I—I can shoot a gun. Inever shot one with bullets in, but I could.And I learned to do lots of things when Iwas working in that play West I thoughtwas real. It isn't like I thought. There's nopicture stuff in the real West, I guess; theydon't do things that way. But—what I wantyou to know is that if they're fighting youthey'll have to fight me, too.

"I don't mean movie stuff, honestly I don't.I'm in this thing now, and you'll have tocount me, same as you count Jim andSorry. Won't you please feel that I'm one

more in the game, dad, and not just anotherresponsibility? I'll herd cattle, or dowhatever there is to do. And I'll keep mymouth shut, too. I can't stay here, day afterday, doing nothing but sweep and dust tworooms and fry potatoes and bacon for youat night. Dad, I'll go crazy if you don't letme into your life!

"Dad, if you knew the stunts I've done inthe last three years! It was make-believeWest, but I learned things just the same."She kissed him on the unshaven cheeknearest her,—and thought of the kisses shehad breathed upon the cheeks of storyfathers with due care for the make-up onher lips. Just because this was real, shekissed him again with the frank vigor of achild.

"Dad," she said wheedlingly, "I think youmight scare up something that I can reallyride. Yellowjacket is safe, but—but youhave real live horses on the ranch, haven'tyou? You must not go judging me by thepalms and the bay windows of the CasaGrande. That's where I've slept, the lastfew years when I wasn't off on location—but it's just as sensible to think I don'tknow anything else, as it would be for meto think you can't do anything but skimmilk and fry bacon and make sour-doughbread, just because I've seen you do it!"

Brit laughed and patted her awkwardly onthe back. "If you was a boy, I'd set you upas a lawyer," he said with an attempt atplayfulness. "I kinda thought you couldride. I seen how you piled onto old

Yellowjacket and the way you held yourreins. It runs in the blood, I guess. I'll seewhat I can do in the way of a horse. OleYellowjacket used to be a real rim-rider,but he's gitting old; gitting old—same asme."

"You're not! You're just letting yourselffeel old. And am I one of the outfit, dad?"

"I guess so—only there ain't going to beany of this hell-whoopin' stuff, Raine. Youcan't travel these trails at a long lope withyore hair flyin' out behind and—and allthat damn foolishness. I've saw 'em in themovin' pitchers——"

Lorraine blushed, and was thankful thather dad had not watched her work in thatserial. For that matter, she hoped that Lone

Morgan would never stray into a moviewhere any of her pictures were beingshown.

"I'm serious, dad. I don't want to make ashow of myself. But if you'll feel that I canbe a help instead of a handicap, that'swhat I want. And if it comes to fighting——"

Brit pushed her from him impatiently."There yuh go—fight—fight—and I toldyuh there ain't any fighting going on.Nothing more'n a fight to hang on andmake a living. That means straight, hardwork and mindin' your own business. Ifyou want to help at that——"

"I do," said Raine quietly, getting to herfeet. Her legacy of stubbornness set her

lips firmly together. "That's exactly what Imean. Good night, dad."

Brit answered her noncommittally,apparently sunk already in his ownmusings. But his lips drew in to suppressa smile when he saw, from the corner ofhis eyes, that Lorraine was winding thealarm on the cheap kitchen clock, and thatshe set the hand carefully and took theclock with her to bed.

CHAPTER NINETHE EVIL EYE OF THE

SAWTOOTH

Oppression is a growth that flourishesbest in the soil of opportunity. It seldomsprings into full power at once. TheSawtooth Cattle Company had begun muchas its neighbors had begun: with a tract ofland, cattle, and the ambition forprospering. Senator Warfield had thenbeen plain Bill Warfield, manager of theoutfit, who rode with his men and sawhow his herds increased,—saw too howthey might increase faster under certain

conditions. At the outset he was not,perhaps, more unscrupulous than some ofhis neighbors. True, if a homesteader lefthis claim for a longer time than the lawallowed him, Bill Warfield would chooseone of his own men to file a contest on thatclaim. The man's wages would be paid.Witnesses were never lacking to swear tothe improvements he had made, and afterthe patent had been granted thehomesteader (for the contestant alwayswon, in that country) the Sawtooth, wouldpay him for the land. Frequently aSawtooth man would file upon land beforeany other man had claimed it. Sometimes aSawtooth man would purchase arelinquishment from some poor devil of aclaim-holder who seemed always to havebad luck, and so became discouraged and

ready to sell. An intelligent man like BillWarfield could acquire much land in thismanner, give him time enough.

In much the same manner his herdsincreased. He bought out small rancherswho were crowded to the selling point inone way or another. They would findthemselves fenced off from water, theSawtooth having acquired the water rightsto creek or spring. Or they would behemmed in with fenced fields and wouldfind it next to impossible to make use ofthe law which gave them the right to"condemn" a road through. They wouldnot be openly assailed,—Bill Warfieldwas an intelligent man. A dozen brandswere recorded in the name of theSawtooth Cattle Company, and if a small

rancher found his calf crop shorter than itshould be, he might think as he pleased,but he would have no tangible proof thathis calves wore a Sawtooth brand.

Inevitably it became necessary now andthen to stop a mouth that was ready tospeak unwelcome truths. But if a Sawtoothman were known to have committedviolence, the Sawtooth itself was the firstto put the sheriff on his trail. If the mansuccessfully dodged the sheriff and madehis way to parts unknown, the Sawtoothcould shrug its shoulders and wash itshands of him.

Then whispers were heard that theSawtooth had on its pay roll men whowere paid to kill and to leave no trace. Somany heedless ones crossed the

Sawtooth's path to riches! Fred Thurmanhad been one; a "bull-headed cuss" whohad the temerity to fight back when theSawtooth calmly laid claim to the firstwater rights to Granite Creek, havingbought it, they said, with the placer claimof an old miner who had prospected alongthe headwaters of Granite at the base ofBear Top.

By that time the Sawtooth had grown to apower no poor man could hope to defeat.Bill Warfield was Senator Warfield, andSenator Warfield was a power in thepolitical world that immediatelysurrounded him. Since his neighboringranchmen had not been able to prevent hissteady climbing to the position he nowheld, they had small hope of pulling him

down. Brit was right. They did well tohang on and continue living in that country.

An open killing, one that would attract theattention of the outside world, might beavenged. The man who committed thecrime might be punished,—if publicopinion were sufficiently massed againsthim. In that case Senator Warfield wouldcry loudest for justice. But it would take astronger man than the country held to raisethe question of Fred Thurman's death andtake even the first steps toward proving ita murder.

"It ain't that they can do anything, Mr.Warfield," the man from Whisper saidguardedly, urging his horse close to themachine that stood in the trail from Echo.It was broad day—a sun-scorched day to

boot—and Senator Warfield perspiredbehind the wheel of his car. "It's the talkthey may get started."

"What have they said? The girl was at theranch for several days. She didn't talkthere, or Hawkins would have told me."

"She was sick. I saw her the other day atthe Quirt, and she more'n half recognizedme. Hell! How'd I know she was in thereamong them rocks? Everybody that wasapt to be riding through was accountedfor, and I knew there wasn't any onecoming horseback or with a rig. Myhearing's pretty good."

Warfield moved the spark lever up anddown on the wheel while he thought."Well," he said carefully at last, "if you're

falling down in your work, what are youwhining about it to me for? What do youwant?"

Al moistened his lips with his tongue. "Iwant to know how far I can go. It's beenhands off the Quirt, up to now. And theQuirt's beginning to think it can get awaywith most anything. They've throwed afence across the pass through from SugarSpring to Whisper. That sends us awayaround by Three Creek. You can't trailstock across Granite Ridge, nor them lavaledges. If it's going to be hands off, I wantto know it. There's other places I'd ratherlive in, if the Quirt's going to raise talkabout Fred Thurman."

Senator Warfield pulled at his collar andtie as if they choked him. "The Quirt has

made no trouble," he said. "Of course, ifthey begin throwing fences across ourstock trails and peddling gossip, that isanother story. I expect you to protect ourinterests, of course. And I have nevermade a practice of dictating to you. In thiscase"—he sent a sharp glance at Al—"itseems to me your interests are involvedmore than ours. As to Fred Thurman, Idon't know anything about it. I was nothere when he died, and I have never seenthis girl of Brit's who seems to worry you.She doesn't interest me, one way or theother."

"She seems to interest Bob a whole lot,"Al said maliciously. "He rode over to seeher yesterday. She wasn't home, though."

Senator Warfield seemed unmoved by this

bit of news, wherefore Al returned to themain issue.

"Do I get a free hand, or don't I?" heinsisted. "They can't be let peddle talk—not if I stay around here."

Senator Warfield considered the matter.

"The girl's got the only line on me," Alwent on. "The inquest was as clean as Iever saw. Everything all straight—andthen, here she comes up——"

"If you know how to stop a woman'smouth, Al, you can make a million a monthtelling other men." Senator Warfieldsmiled at him. Then he leaned across thefront seat and added impressively, "Bearone thing in mind, Al. The Sawtooth

cannot permit itself to become involved inany scandal, nor in any killing cases.We're just at the most crucial point withour reclamation project, over here on theflat. The legislature is willing to make anappropriation for the building of the canal,and in two or three months at the latest weshould begin selling agricultural tracts tothe public. The State will also throw openthe land it had withdrawn from settlement,pending the floating of this canal project.More than ever the integrity of theSawtooth Cattle Company must bepreserved, since it has come out openly asa backer of the irrigation company.Nothing—nothing must be permitted tostand in the way."

He removed his thin driving cap and

wiped his perspiring forehead. "I'm sorrythis all happened—as it has turned out,"he said, with real regret in his tone. "Butsince it did happen, I must rely upon youto—to—er——"

"I guess I understand," Al grinnedsardonically. "I just wanted you to knowhow things is building up. The Quirt'skinda overreached itself. I didn't want youcomin' back on me for trying to keep theirfeet outa the trough. I want you to knowthings is pretty damn ticklish right now,and it's going to take careful steppin'."

"Well, don't let your foot slip, Al,"Senator Warfield warned him. "TheSawtooth would hate to lose you; you're agood man."

"Oh, I get yuh," Al retorted. "My foot ain'tgoing to slip—— If it did, the Sawtoothwould be the first to pile onto my back!"The last sentence was not meant for thesenator's ears. Al had backed his horse,and Senator Warfield was stepping on thestarter. But it would not have matteredgreatly if he had heard, for this was apoint quite thoroughly understood by themboth.

The Warfield car went on, lurching overthe inequalities of the narrow road. Alshook his horse into a shambling trot,picking his way carelessly through thescattered sage.

His horse traveled easily, now and thenlifting a foot high to avoid rock orexposed root, or swerving sharply around

obstacles too high to step over. Al veryseldom traveled along the beaten trails,though there was nothing to deter him nowsave an inherent tendency towardsecretiveness of his motives, destinationsand whereabouts. If the country was open,you would see Al Woodruff riding atsome distance from the trail—or youwould not see him at all, if there weregullies in which he could conceal himself.He was always "line-riding," or huntingstray stock—horses, usually—or strikingacross to some line-camp of the Sawtooth,on business which he was perfectlywilling to state.

But you will long ago have guessed that hewas the evil eye of the SawtoothCompany. He took no orders save such

general ones as Senator Warfield had justgiven him. He gave none. Whatever he didhe did alone, and he took no man into hisconfidence. It is more than probable thatSenator Warfield would never haveknown to a certainty that Al wasresponsible for Thurman's death, if Al hadnot been worried over the Quirt's possibleknowledge of the crime and anxious toknow just how far his power might go.

Ostensibly he was in charge of the camp atWhisper, a place far enough off the beatentrails to free him from chance visitors.The Sawtooth kept many such campsoccupied by men whose duty it was tolook after the Sawtooth cattle that grazednear; to see that stock did not "bog down"in the tricky sand of the adjacent water

holes and die before help came, and tofend off any encroachments of the smallercattle owners,—though these weregrowing fewer year by year, thanks to theweeding-out policy of the Sawtooth andthe cunning activities of such as AlWoodruff.

It may sound strange to say that theSawtooth country had not had a real"killing" for years, though accidentaldeaths had been rather frequent. One man,for instance, had fallen over a ledge andbroken his neck, presumably while drunk.Another had bought a few sticks ofdynamite to open up a spring on his ranch,and at the inquest which followed the juryhad returned a verdict of "death caused bybeing blown up by the accidental

discharge of dynamite." A sheepman wasstruck by lightning, according to thecoroner, and his widow had been glad tosell ranch and sheep very cheaply to theSawtooth and return to her relatives inMontana. The Sawtooth had shipped thesheep within a month and turned the ranchinto another line-camp.

You will see that Senator Warfield hadevery reason to be sincere when he calledAl Woodruff a good man; good for theSawtooth interests, that means. You willalso see that Brit Hunter had reasons forbelieving that the business of ranching inthe Sawtooth country might be classed asextra hazardous, and for saying that it tooknerve just to hang on.

That is why Al rode oblivious to his

surroundings, meditating no doubt uponthe best means of preserving the"integrity" of the Sawtooth and at the sametime soothing effectively the ticklishnessof the situation of which he hadcomplained. It was his business to find thebest means. It was for just such work thatthe Sawtooth paid him—secretly, to besure—better wages than the foreman,Hawkins, received. Al was conscientiousand did his best to earn his wages; notbecause he particularly loved killing andspying as a sport, but because theSawtooth had bought his loyalty for aprice, and so long as he felt that he wasgetting a square deal from them, he wouldturn his hand against any man that stood intheir way. He was a Sawtooth man, and hefought the enemies of the Sawtooth as

matter-of-factly as a soldier will fight forhis country. To his unimaginative mindthere was sufficient justification in thatattitude. As for the ease with which heplanned to kill and cover his killing underthe semblance of accident, he would havesaid, if you could make him speak of it,that he was not squeamish. They'd all haveto die some day, anyway.

CHAPTER TENANOTHER SAWTOOTH

"ACCIDENT"

Frank Johnson rose from the breakfasttable, shaved a splinter off the edge of thewater bench for a toothpick and sharpenedit carefully while he looked at Brit.

"You goin' after them posts, or shall I?" heinquired glumly, which, by the way, washis normal tone. "Jim and Sorry oughta gitthe post holes all dug to-day. One of usbetter take a look through that young stockin the lower field, too, and see if there'sany more sign uh blackleg. Which you

ruther do?"

Brit tilted his chair backward so that hecould reach the coffeepot on the stovehearth. "I'll haul down the posts," hedecided carelessly. "They're easy loaded,and I guess my back's as good as yourn."

"All you got to do is skid 'em down off'nthe bank onto the wagon," Frank said. "Iwisht you'd go on up where we cut themlast ones and git my sweater, Brit. I mustaleft it hanging on a bush right close towhere I was workin'."

Brit's grunt signified assent, and Frankwent out. Jim and Sorry, the twounpicturesque cowboys of whom Lorrainehad complained to the cat had alreadydeparted with pick and shovel to their

unromantic task of digging post holes.Each carried a most unattractive lunch tiedin a flour sack behind the cantle of hissaddle. Lorraine had done herconscientious best, but with lumpy, sour-dough bread, cold bacon and currant jellyof that kind which is packed in woodenkegs, one can't do much with a cold lunch.Lorraine wondered how much worse itwould look after it had been tied on thesaddle for half a day; wondered too whatthose two silent ones got out of life,—what they looked forward to, what wastheir final goal. For that matter shefrequently wondered what there was inlife for any of them, shut into that deadlymonotony of sagebrush and rocksinterspersed with little, grassy meadowswhere the cattle fed listlessly.

Even the sinister undercurrent ofantagonism against the Quirt could notwhip her emotions feeling that she wasdoing anything more than live therestricted, sordid little life of a poorlyequipped ranch. She had ridden once withFrank Johnson to look through a bunch ofcattle, but it had been nothing more than ahot, thirsty, dull ride, with a wind thatblew her hat off in spite of pins and tiedveil, and with a companion who spokeonly when he was spoken to and then asbriefly as possible.

Her father would not talk again as he hadtalked that night. She had tried to makehim tell her more about the Sawtooth andhad gotten nothing out of him. The manfrom Whisper, whom Brit had spoken of

as Al, had not returned. Nor had thepromised saddle horse materialized. Theboys were too busy to run in any horses,her father had told her shortly when shereminded him of his promise. When thefence was done, maybe he could rustle heranother horse,—and then he had addedthat he didn't see what ailed Yellowjacket,for all the riding she was likely to do.

"Straight hard work and minding your ownbusiness," her father had said, and itseemed to Lorraine after three or fourdays of it that he had summed up the life ofa cattleman's daughter in a masterlymanner which ought to be recorded amongFamous Sayings like "War is hell" and"Don't give up the ship."

On this particular morning Lorraine's

spirits were at their lowest ebb. If it werenot for the new stepfather, she wouldreturn to the Casa Grande, she told herselfdisgustedly. And if it were not for thebelief among all her acquaintances thatshe was queening it over the cattle-king'svast domain, she would return and findwork again in motion pictures. But shecould not bring herself to the point offacing the curiosity and the petty gossip ofthe studios. She would be expected toexplain satisfactorily why she had left thereal West for the mimic West ofHollywood. She did not acknowledge toherself that she also could not face theadmission of failure to carry out what shehad begun.

She had told her dad that she wanted to

fight with him, even though "fighting" inthis case meant washing the coarseclothing of her father and Frank, scrubbingthe rough, warped boards of the cabinfloor, and frying ranch-cured bacon forevery meal, and in making butter to sell,and counting the eggs every night andbeing careful to use only the cracked onesfor cooking.

She hated every detail of this crudehousekeeping, from the chipped enameldishpan to the broom that was all one-sided, and the pillow slips which werenothing more nor less than sugar sacks.She hated it even more than she had hatedthe Casa Grande and her mother's frowsymentality. But because she could see thatshe made life a little more comfortable for

her dad, because she felt that he neededher, she would stay and assure herselfover and over that she was staying merelybecause she was too proud to go back tothe old life and own the West a failure.

She was sweeping the doorstep with theone-sided broom when Brit drove outthrough the gate and up the trail which sheknew led eventually to Sugar Spring. Thehorses, sleek in their new hair and skittishwith the change from hay to new grass,danced over the rough ground so that therunning gear of the wagon, with its loopedlog-chain, which would later do duty as abrake on the long grade down from timberline on the side of Spirit Canyon, rattledand banged over the rocks with a clatterthat could be heard for half a mile.

Lorraine looked after her father enviously.If she were a boy she would be riding onthat sack of hay tied to the "hounds" for aseat. But, being a girl, it had neveroccurred to Brit that she might like to go,—might even be useful to him on the trip.

"I suppose if I told dad I could drive thatteam as well as he can, he'd just look atme and think I was crazy," she thoughtresentfully and gave the broom a spitefulfling toward a presumptuous hen that hadapproached too closely. "If I'd asked himto let me go along he'd have made someexcuse—oh, I'm beginning to know dad!He thinks a woman's place is in the house—preferably the kitchen. And here I'vethought all my life that cowgirls didnothing but ride around and warn people

about stage holdups and everything! I'djust like to know how a girl would everhave a chance to know what was going onin the country, unless she heard the mentalking while she poured their coffee.Only this bunch don't talk at all. They justgobble and go."

She went in then and shut the door with aslam. Up on the ridge Al Woodrufflowered his small binocular and easedaway from the spot where he had beencrouching behind a bush. Every one on theQuirt ranch was accounted for. As well asif he had sat at their breakfast table Alknew where each man's work would takehim that day. As for the girl, she was safeat the ranch for the day, probably. If shedid take a ride later on, it would probably

be up the ridge between the Quirt andThurman's ranch, and sit for an hour or sojust looking. That ride was beginning to bea habit of hers, Al had observed, so thathe considered her accounted for also.

He made his way along the side hill towhere his horse was tied to a bush,mounted and rode away with his mindpretty much at ease. Much more at easethan it would have been had he read whatwas in Lorraine's mind when, sheslammed that door.

Up above Sugar Spring was timber. Byapplying to the nearest Forest Supervisora certain amount could be had for ranchimprovements upon paying a small sumfor the "stumpage." The Quirt hadpermission to cut posts for their new fence

which Al Woodruff had reported to hisboss.

As he drove up the trail, which was inplaces barely passable for a wagon, Britwas thinking of that fence. The Sawtoothwould object to it, he knew, since it cutoff one of their stock trails and sent themaround through rougher country. Just whatform their objection would take, Brit didnot know. Deep in his intrepid soul hehoped that the Sawtooth would at lastshow its hand openly. He had liked FredThurman, and what Lorraine had told himwent much deeper than she knew. Hewanted to bring them into the open wherehe could fight with some show of winning.

"I'll git Bill Warfield yet—and git himright," was the gist of his musings. "He's

bound to show his head, give him timeenough. Him and his killers can't alwayskeep under cover. Let 'em come at meabout that fence! It's on my land—theQuirt's got a right to fence every foot ofland that belongs to 'em."

All the way over the ridge and across theflat and up the steep, narrow road alongthe edge of Spirit Canyon, Brit dwelt uponthe probable moves of the Sawtooth. Theywould wait, he thought, until the fence wascompleted and they had made a trailaround through the lava rocks. They wouldnot risk any move at present; they wouldwait and tacitly accept the fence, orpretend to accept it, as a naturalinconvenience. But Brit did not deceivehimself that they would remain passive.

That it had been "hands off the Quirt" hedid not know, but attributed the Quirt'simmunity to careful habits and the fact thatthey had never come to the point wheretheir interests actually clashed with theSawtooth.

It never occurred to him therefore that hewas slated for an accident that day if thedetails could be conveniently arranged.

It was a long trail to Sugar Spring, andfrom there up Spirit Canyon the climb wasso tedious and steep that Brit took a fullhour for the trip, resting the team oftenbecause they were soft from the new grassdiet and sweated easily. They lost none oftheir spirit, however, and when the roadwas steepest nagged at each other withhead-shakings and bared teeth, and ducked

against each other in pretended fright atevery unusual rock or bush.

At the top he was forced to drive a fullhalf mile beyond the piled posts to a flatlarge enough to turn around. All this tooktime, especially since Caroline, the brownmare, would rather travel ten milesstraight ahead than go backward ten feet.Brit was obliged to "take it out of her"with the rein ends and his full repertoireof opprobrious epithets before he couldcramp the wagon and head them down thetrail again.

At the post pile he unhitched the team forsafety's sake and tied them to trees, wherehe fed them a little grain in nose bags. Hewas absorbed now in his work andthought no more about the Sawtooth. He

fastened the log chain to the rear wheels tobrake the wagon on the long grade downthe canyon, loaded the wagon with posts,bound them fast with a lighter chain he hadbrought for the purpose, ate his own lunchand decided that, since he had made fairtime and would arrive home too early todo the chores and too late to start anyother job, he would cruise farther up themountain side and see what was theprospect of getting out logs enough for anaddition to the cabin.

Now that Raine was going to live withhim, two rooms were not enough. Britwanted to make her as happy as he could,in his limited fashion. He had for somedays been planning a "settin' room andbedroom" for her. She would be having

beaux after awhile when she gotacquainted, he supposed. He could notdeny her the privilege; she was young andshe was, in Brit's opinion, the best lookinggirl he had ever seen, not even exceptingMinnie, her mother. But he hoped shewouldn't go off and get married the firstthing she did,—and one good way toprevent that, he reasoned, was to make hercomfortable with him. He had noticedhow pleased she was that their cabin wasof logs. She had even remarked that shecould not understand how a rancher wouldever want to build a board shack if therewas any timber to be had. Well, timberwas to be had, and she should have herlog house, though the hauling was notgoing to be any sunshine, in Brit's opinion.With his axe he walked through the timber,

craning upward for straight tree trunks andlightly blazing the ones he would want, theoccasional axe strokes sounding distinctlyin the quiet air.

Lorraine heard them as she rode oldYellowjacket puffing up the grade,following the wagon marks, and knew thatshe was nearing the end of her journey,—for which Yellowjacket, she supposed,would be thankful. She had started notmore than an hour later than her father, butthe team had trotted along more brisklythan her poor old nag would travel, so thatshe did not overtake her dad as she hadhoped.

She was topping the last climb when shesaw the team tied to the trees, and at thesame moment she caught a glimpse of a

man who crawled out from under the loadof posts and climbed the slope farther on.She was on the point of calling out to him,thinking that he was her dad, when hedisappeared into the brush. At the samemoment she heard the stroke of an axeover to the right of where the man wasclimbing.

She was riding past the team whenCaroline humped her back and kickedviciously at Yellowjacket, who plungedstraight down off the trail without waitingto see whether Caroline's aim was exact.He slid into a juniper thicket and sat downlooking very perplexed and verypermanently placed there. Lorrainestepped off on the uphill side of him,thanked her lucky stars she had not broken

a leg, and tried to reassure Yellowjacketand to persuade him that no real harm hadbeen done him. Straightway shediscovered that Yellowjacket had a mindof his own and that a pessimistic mind. Herefused to scramble back into the trail,preferring to sit where he was, or sinceLorraine made that too uncomfortable, tostand where he had been sitting.Yellowjacket, I may explain, owned aRoman nose, a pendulous lower lip anddrooping eyelids. Those who know horseswill understand.

By the time Lorraine had bullied andcajoled him into making a somewhatcircuitous route to the road, where hefinally appeared some distance above thepoint of his descent, Brit was there,

hitching the team to the wagon.

"What yuh doing up there?" he wanted toknow, looking up with some astonishment.

Lorraine furnished him with details andher opinion of both Caroline and Yellowjacket. "I simply refuse to ride thiscomedy animal another mile," shedeclared with some heat. "I'll drive theteam and you can ride him home, or he canbe tied on behind the wagon."

"He won't lead," Brit objected. "Yeller'sall right if you make up your mind to a fewfailin's. You go ahead and ride him home.You sure can't drive this team."

"I can!" Lorraine contended. "I've drivenfour horses—I guess I can drive two, all

right."

"Well, you ain't going to," Brit stated witha flat finality that abruptly ended theargument.

Lorraine had never before been reallyangry with her father. She struckYellowjacket with her quirt and sent himsidling past the wagon and the trickyCaroline, too stubborn to answer her dadwhen he called after her that she hadbetter ride behind the load. She went on,making Yellowjacket trot when he did notwant to trot down hill.

Behind her she heard the chuck-chuck ofthe loaded wagon. Far ahead she heardsome one whistling a high, sweet melodywhich had the queer, minor strains of

some old folk song. For just a few barsshe heard it, and then it was stilled, andthe road dipping steeply before herseemed very lonely, its emptiness coolingher brief anger to a depression that hadheld her too often in its grip since thatterrible night of the storm. For the firsttime she looked back at her father lurchingalong on the load and at the team lookingso funny with the collars pushed up ontheir necks with the weight of the loadbehind.

With a quick impulse of penitence shewaved her hand to Brit, who waved backat her. Then she went on, feeling a bit lessalone in the world. After all, he was herdad, and his life had been hard. If hefailed to understand her and her mental

hunger for real companionship, perhapsshe also failed to understand him.

They had left the timber line now and hadcome to the lip of the canyon itself.Lorraine looked down its steep, rock-roughened sides and thought how her olddirector would have raved over itspossibilities in the way of "stunts."Yellow jacket, she noticed, keptcircumspectly to the center of the trail andeyed the canyon with frank disfavor.

She did not know at just what moment shebecame aware of trouble behind her. Itmay have been Yellowjacket, turning hishead sidewise and abruptly quickening hispace that warned her. It may have been thedifference in the sound of the wagon andthe impact of the horses' hoofs on the

rocky trail. She turned and saw thatsomething had gone wrong. They werecoming down upon her at a sharp trot,stepping high, the wagon tongue thrust upbetween their heads as they tried to holdback the load.

Brit yelled to her then to get out of theway, and his voice was harsh andinsistent. Lorraine looked at the steepbank to the right, knew instinctively thatYellowjacket would never have time toclimb it before the team was upon them,and urged him to a lope. She glanced backagain, saw that the team was not runningaway, that they were trying to hold thewagon, and that it was gaining momentumin spite of them.

"Jump, dad!" she called and got no

answer. Brit was sitting braced with hisfeet far apart, holding and guiding theteam. "He won't jump—he wouldn't jump—any more than I would," she chattered toherself, sick with fear for him, while shelashed her own horse to keep out of theirway.

The next she knew, the team was running,their eyeballs staring, their front feet flunghigh as they lunged panic-stricken downthe trail. The load was rocking alongbehind them. Brit was still braced andclinging to the reins.

Panic seized Yellowjacket. He, too, wentlunging down that trail, his head thrownfrom side to side that he might watch thething that menaced him, heedless of thefact that danger might lie ahead of him

also. Lorraine knew that he was runningsenselessly, that he might leave the trail atany bend and go rolling into the canyon.

A sense of unreality seized her. It couldnot be deadly earnest, she thought. It wasso exactly like some movie thrill, plannedcarefully in advance, rehearsed perhapsunder the critical eye of the director, anddone now with the camera man turningcalmly the little crank and counting thenumber of film feet the scene would take.A little farther and she would be out of thescene, and men stationed ahead wouldride up and stop her horse for her and tellher how well she had "put it over."

She looked over her shoulder and sawthem still coming. It was real. It wasterribly real, the way that team was

fleeing down the grade. She had neverseen anything like that before, never seenhorses so frantically trying to run from theswaying load behind them. Always, shehad been accustomed to moderation in thepace and a slowed camera to speed up theaction on the screen. Yellowjacket, too—she had never ridden at that terrific speeddown hill. Twice she lost a stirrup andgrabbed the saddle horn to save herselffrom going over his head.

They neared a sharp turn, and it took allher strength to pull her horse to the insideand save him from plunging off down thecanyon's side. The nose of the hill hid fora moment her dad, and in that moment sheheard a crash and knew what hadhappened. But she could not stop;

Yellowjacket had his ears laid back flaton his senseless head, and the bit clampedtight in his teeth.

She heard the crash repeated indiminuendo farther down in the canyon.There was no longer the rattle of thewagon coming down the trail, the sharpstaccato of pounding hoofs.

CHAPTER ELEVENSWAN TALKS WITH HIS

THOUGHTS

Lorraine, following instinct rather thanthought, pulled Yellowjacket into the firstopening that presented itself. This was anarrow, rather precipitous gully thatseamed the slope just beyond the bend.The bushes there whipped her head andshoulders cruelly as the horse forged inamong them, but they trapped himeffectually where the gully narrowed to apoint. He stopped perforce, and Lorrainewas out of the saddle and running down to

the trail before she quite realized what shewas doing.

At the bend she looked down, saw themarks where the wagon had gone over,scraping rocks and bushes from its path.Fence posts were strewn at all anglesdown the incline, and far down a horsewas standing with part of the harness onhim and with his head droopingdispiritedly. Her father she could not see,nor the other horse, nor the wagon. Aclump of young trees hid the lowerdeclivity. Lorraine did not stop to think ofwhat she would find down there. Sliding,running, she followed the traces of thewreck to where the horse was standing. Itwas Caroline, looking very dejected butapparently unhurt, save for skinned

patches here and there where she hadrolled over rocks.

A little farther, just beyond the point of thegrove which they seemed to have missedaltogether, lay the other horse and whatwas left of the wagon. Brit she did not seeat all. She searched the bushes, lookedunder the wagon, and called and called.

A full-voiced shout answered her fromfarther up the canyon, and she ranstumbling toward the sound, too agonizedto shed tears or to think very clearly. Itwas not her father's voice; she knew thatbeyond all doubt. It was no voice that shehad ever heard before. It had a clearresonance that once heard would not havebeen easily forgotten. When she saw themfinally, her father was being propped up in

a half-sitting position, and the strange manwas holding something to his lips.

"Just a little water. I carry me a bottle ofwater always in my pocket," said Swan,glancing up at her when she had reachedthem. "It sometimes makes a man's headthink better when he has been hurt, if hecan drink a little water or something."

Brit swallowed and turned his face awayfrom the tilted bottle. "I jumped—but Ididn't jump quick enough," he mutteredthickly. "The chain pulled loose. Where'sthe horses, Raine?"

"They're all right. Caroline's standing overthere. Are you hurt much, dad?" It was afutile question, because Brit was alreadygoing off into unconsciousness.

"He's hurt pretty bad," Swan declaredhonestly, looking up at her with his eyesgrown serious. "I was across the walleyand I saw him coming down the road likerolling rocks down a hill. I came quick.Now we make stretcher, I think, and carryhim home. I could take him on my back,but that is hurting him too much." Helooked at her—through her, it seemed toLorraine. In spite of her fear, in spite ofher grief, she felt that Swan was readingher very soul, and she backed away fromhim.

"I could help your father very much," hesaid soberly, "but I should tell you asecret if I do that. I should maybe ask thatyou tell a lie if somebody asks questions.Could you do that, Miss?"

"Lie?" Lorraine laughed uncertainly. "I'dkill!—if that would help dad."

Swan was folding his coat very carefullyand placing it under Brit's head. "Mymother I love like that," he said, withoutlooking up. "My mother I love so well thatI talk with my thoughts to her sometimes.You believe people can talk with theirthoughts?"

"I don't know—what's that got to do withhelping dad?" Lorraine knelt beside Britand began stroking his forehead softly, asis the soothing way of women with theirsick.

"I could send my thought to my mother. Icould say to her that a man is hurt and thata doctor must come very quickly to the

Quirt ranch. I could do that, Miss, but Ishould not like it if people knew that I didit. They would maybe say that I am crazy.They would laugh at me, and it is not rightto laugh at those things."

"I'm not laughing. If you can do it, forheaven's sake go ahead! I don't believe it,but I won't tell any one, if that's what youwant."

"If some neighbors should ask, 'How didthat doctor come so quick?'——"

"I'd rather lie and say I sent for him, thansay that you or any one else sent atelepathic message. That would soundmore like a lie than a lie would. How arewe going to make a stretcher? We've gotto get him home, somehow——"

"At my cabin is blankets," Swan told herbriskly. "I can climb the hill—it is upthere. In a little while I will come back."

He started off without waiting to see whatLorraine would have to say about it, andwith some misgivings she watched himrun down to the canyon's bottom and goforging up the opposite side with a mostamazing speed and certainty. In travelpictures she had seen mountain sheepclimb like that, and she likened him nowto one of them. It seemed a shame that hewas a bit crazy, she thought; andimmediately she recalled his perfectassurance when he told her of sendingthought messages to his mother. She hadheard of such things, she had even read alittle on the subject, but it had never

seemed to her a practical means ofcommunicating. Calling a doctor, forinstance, seemed to Lorraine rather far-fetched an application of what was at bestbut a debatable theory.

Considering the distance, he was back in asurprisingly short time with two blankets,a couple of light poles and a flask ofbrandy. He seemed as fresh and unwindedas if he had gone no farther than the grove,and he wore, more than ever, his air ofcheerful assurance.

"The doctor will be there," he remarked,just as if it were the simplest thing in theworld. "We can carry him to FredThurman's. There I can get horses and awagon, and you will not have to carry sofar. And when we get to your ranch the

doctor will be there, I think. He is startingnow. We will hurry. I will fix it so youneed not carry much. It is just to make itsteady for me."

While he talked he was working on thestretcher. He had a rope, and he wasknotting it in a long loop to the poles.Lorraine wondered why, until he hadlifted her father and placed him on thestretcher and placed the loop over his ownhead and under one arm, as a ploughmanholds the reins, so that his hands may befree.

"If you will carry the front," said Swanpolitely, "it will not be heavy for you likethis. But you will help me keep it steady."

Lorraine was past discussing anything.

She obeyed him silently, lifting the end ofthe stretcher and leading the way down tothe canyon's bottom, where Swan assuredher they could walk quite easily andwould save many détours which the roadabove must take. At the bottom Swanstopped her so that he might shorten therope and take more of the weight on hisshoulders. She protested half-heartedly,but Swan only laughed.

"I am strong like a mule," he said. "Youshould see me wrestle with somebody.Clear over my head—I can carry a man inmy hands. This is so you can walk fast.Three miles straight down we come toThurman's ranch, where I get the horses.It's funny how hills make a road fararound. Just three miles—that's all. I have

walked many times."

Lorraine did not answer him. She felt thathe was talking merely to keep her fromworrying, and she was fairly sick withanxiety and did not hear half of what hewas saying. She was nervously carefulabout choosing her steps so that she wouldnot stumble and jolt her father. She did notbelieve that he was wholly unconscious,for she had seen his eyelids tighten and hislips twitch several times, when she waswaiting for Swan. He had seemed to be inpain and to be trying to hide the fact fromher. She felt that Swan knew it, else hewould have talked of her dad, would atleast have tried to reassure her. But it isdifficult to speak of a person who hearswhat you are saying, and Swan was

talking of everything, it seemed to her,except the man they were carrying.

She wondered if it were really true thatSwan had sent a call through space for adoctor; straightway she would call herselfcrazy for even considering for a momentits possibility. If he could do that—but ofcourse he couldn't. He must just imagineit.

Many times Swan had her lower thestretcher to the ground, and would make agreat show of rubbing his arms and easinghis shoulder muscles. Whenever Lorrainelooked full into his face he would grin ather as though nothing was wrong, andwhen they came to a clear-running streamhe emptied the water bottle, dipped up alittle fresh water, added brandy, and lifted

Brit's head very gently and gave him adrink. Brit opened his eyes and looked atSwan, and from him to Lorraine, but hedid not say anything. He still had thattightened look around his mouth whichspelled pain.

"Pretty quick now we get you fixed upgood," Swan told him cheerfully. "Onemile more is all, and we get the horsesand I make a good bed for you." Helooked a signal, and Lorraine once moretook up the stretcher.

Another mile seemed a long way, lightthough Swan had made the load for her.She thought once that he must have someclairvoyant power, because whenever shefelt as if her arms were breaking, Swanwould tell her to stop a minute.

"How do you know a doctor will come?"she asked Swan suddenly, when they wereresting with the Thurman ranch in viewhalf a mile below them.

Swan did not look at her directly, as hadbeen his custom. She saw a darker shadeof red creep up into his cheeks. "Mymother says she would send a doctorquick," he replied hesitatingly. "You willsee. It is because—your father he is notlike other men in this country. Your fatheris a good man. That is why a doctorcomes."

Lorraine looked at him strangely andstooped again to her burden. She did notspeak again until they were passing theThurman fence where it ran up into themouth of the canyon. A few horses were

grazing there, the sun striking their sideswith the sheen of satin. They staredcuriously at the little procession, snortedand started to run, heads and tails heldhigh. But one wheeled suddenly and camegalloping toward them, stopped when hewas quite close, ducked and wentthundering past to the head of the field.Lorraine gave a sharp little scream and setdown the stretcher with a lurch, staringafter the horse wide-eyed, her face white.

"They do it for play," Swan saidreassuringly. "They don't hurt you. Thefence is between, and they don't hurt youanyway."

"That horse with the white face—I saw it—and when the man struck it with hisquirt it went past me, running like that and

dragging—oh-h!" She leaned against thebluff side, her face covered with her twopalms.

Swan glanced down at Brit, saw that hiseyes were closed, ducked his head fromunder the looped rope and went toLorraine.

"The man that struck that horse—do youknow that man?" he asked, all the goodnature gone from his voice.

"No—I don't know—I saw him twice, bythe lightning flashes. He shot—and then Isaw him——" She stopped abruptly,stood for a minute longer with her eyescovered, then dropped her hands limply toher sides. But when the horse camecircling back with a great flourish, she

shivered and her hands closed into thefists of a fighter.

"Are you a Sawtooth man?" she demandedsuddenly, looking up at Swan defiantly. "Itwas a nightmare. I—I dreamed once abouta horse—like that."

Swan's wide-open eyes softened a little."The Sawtooth calls me that damn Swedeon Bear Top," he explained. "I took ahomestead up there and some day theywill want to buy my place or they willwant to make a fight with me to get thewater. Could you know that man again?"

"Raine!" Brit's voice held a warning, andLorraine shivered again as she turnedtoward him. "Raine, you——"

He closed his eyes again, and she couldget no further speech from him. But shethought she understood. He did not wanther to talk about Fred Thurman. She wentto her end of the stretcher and waited therewhile Swan put the rope over his head.They went on, Lorraine walking with herhead averted, trying not to see the blaze-faced roan, trying to shut out the memoryof him dashing past her with his terribleburden, that night.

Swan did not speak of the matter again.With Lorraine's assistance he carried Britinto Thurman's cabin, laid him, stretcherand all, on the bed and hurried out to catchand harness the team of work horses.Lorraine waited beside her father,helpless and miserable. There was nothing

to do but wait, yet waiting seemed to herthe one thing she could not do.

"Raine!" Brit's voice was very weak, butLorraine jumped as though a trumpet hadbellowed suddenly in her ear. "Swan—he's all right. But don't go telling—all yuhknow and some besides. He ain't—Sawtooth, but—he might let out——"

"I know. I won't, dad. It was that horse——"

Brit turned his face to the wall as if nomore was to be said on the subject.Lorraine wandered around the cabin,which was no larger than her father'splace. The rooms were scrupulously clean—neater than the Quirt, she observedguiltily. Not one article, however small

and unimportant, seemed to be out of itsplace, and the floors of both rooms werescrubbed whiter than any floors she hadever seen. Swan's housekeeping qualitiesmade her ashamed of her ownimperfections; and when, thinking thatSwan must be hungry and that the least shecould do was to set out food for him, sheopened the cupboard, she had a swift,embarrassed vision of her own culinaryimperfections. She could cook better foodthan her dad had been content to eat and toset before others, but Swan's bread was atriumph in sour dough. Biscuits tall andlight as bread can be she found, coveredneatly with a cloth. Prunes stewed so thatthere was not one single wrinkle in them—Lorraine could scarcely believe theywere prunes until she tasted them. She

was investigating a pot of beans whenSwan came in.

"Food I am thinking of, Miss," he grinnedat her. "We shall hurry, but it is not goodto go hungry. Milk is outside in acupboard. It is quicker than to makecoffee."

"It will be dark before we can get himhome," said Lorraine uneasily. "And bythe time a doctor can get out there——"

"A doctor will be there, I think. You don'tbelieve, but that is no difference to hiscoming just the same."

He brought the milk, poured off thecreamy top into a pitcher, stirred it, andquietly insisted that she drink two glasses.

Lorraine observed that Swan himself atevery little, bolting down a biscuit in greatmouthfuls while he carried a mattress andblankets out to spread in the wagon. It waslike his pretense of weariness on the longcarry down the canyon, she thought. It wasfor her more than for himself that he wasthinking.

CHAPTER TWELVETHE QUIRT PARRIES THE FIRST

BLOW

A car with dimmed lights stood in front ofthe Quirt cabin when Swan drove aroundthe last low ridge and down to the gate.The rattle of the wagon must have beenheard, for the door opened suddenly andFrank stood revealed in the yellow light ofthe kerosene lamp on the table within.Behind Frank, Lorraine saw Jim and Sorrystanding in their shirt sleeves looking outinto the dark. Another, shorter figure sheglimpsed as Frank and the two men

stepped out and came striding hastilytoward them. Lorraine jumped out and ranto meet them, hoping and fearing that herhope was foolish. That car might easily beonly Bob Warfield on some errand of noimportance. Still, she hoped.

"That you, Raine? Where's Brit? What'sall this about Brit being hurt? A doctorfrom Shoshone——"

"A doctor? Oh, did a doctor come, then?Oh, help Swan carry dad in! I'm—oh, I'mafraid he's awfully injured!"

"Yes-s—but how'n hell did a doctor knowabout it?" Sorry, the silent, blurtedunexpectedly.

"Oh,—never mind—but get dad in. I'll

——" She ran past them without finishingher sentence and burst incoherently intothe presence of an extremely calm littleman with gray whiskers and dust on theshoulders of his coat. These details, I mayadd, formed the sum of Lorraine's firstimpression of him.

"Well! Well!" he remonstrated with aprofessional briskness, when she nearlybowled him over. "We seem to be insomething of a hurry! Is this the patient Iwas sent to examine?"

"No!" Lorraine flashed impatiently overher shoulder as she rushed into her ownroom and began turning down the covers."It's dad, of course—and you'd better getyour coat off and get ready to go to work,because I expect he's just one mass of

broken bones!"

The doctor smiled behind his whiskersand returned to the doorway to direct thecarrying in of his patient. His sharp eyeswent immediately to Brit's face, pallidunder the leathery tan, his fingers went toBrit's hairy, corded wrist. The doctorsmiled no more that evening.

"No, he is not a mass of broken bones, Iam happy to say," he reported gravely toLorraine afterwards. "He has a sufficientnumber, however. The left scapula isfractured, likewise the clavicle, and thereis a compound fracture of the femur. Thereis some injury to the head, the exact extentof which I cannot as yet determine. Heshould be removed to a hospital, unlessyou are prepared to have a nurse here for

some time, or to assume the burden of along and tedious illness." He looked at herthoughtfully. "The journey to Shoshonewould be a considerable strain on thepatient in his present condition. He has asplendid amount of constitutional vitality,or he would scarcely have survived hisinjuries so long without medicalattendance. Can you tell me just how theaccident occurred?"

"Excuse me, doctor—and Miss," Swandiffidently interrupted. "I could ask you totake a look on my shoulder, if you please.If you are done setting bones in Mr.Hunter. I have a great pain on my shoulderfrom carrying so long."

"You never mentioned it!" Lorrainereproached him quickly. "Of course it

must be looked after right away. And then,Doctor, I'd like to talk to you, if you don'tmind." She watched them retreat to thebunk-house together, Swan's big formtowering above the doctor's slighterfigure. Swan was talking earnestly, themumble of his voice reaching Lorrainewithout the enunciation of any particularword to give a clue to what he was saying.But it struck her that his voice did notsound quite natural; not so Swedish, not socareful.

Frank came tiptoeing out of the roomwhere Brit lay bandaged and unconsciousand stood close to Lorraine, looking downat her solemnly.

"How 'n 'ell did he git here—the doctor?"he demanded, making a great effort to hold

his voice down to a whisper, andforgetting now and then. "How'd he knowBrit rolled off'n the grade? Us here, wenever knowed it, and I was tryin' to sendhim back when you came. He saidsomebody telephoned there was a manhurt in a runaway. There ain't a telephonecloser'n the Sawtooth, and that there's agood twenty mile and more from whereBrit was hurt. It's damn funny."

"Yes, it is," Lorraine admitteduncomfortably. "I don't know any morethan you do about it."

"Well, how'n 'ell did it happen? Brit, heoughta know enough to rough-lock downthat hill. An' that team ain't a runawayteam. I never had no trouble with 'em—they're good at holdin' a load. They'll set

down an' slide but what they'll hold 'er.What become of the horses?"

"Why—they're over there yet. We forgotall about the horses, I think. Caroline wasstanding up, all right. The other horse maybe killed. I don't know—it was lyingdown. And Yellowjacket was up that littlegully just this side of the wreck, when Ileft him. They did try to hold the load,Frank. Something must have happened tothe brake. I saw dad crawling out fromunder the wagon just before I got to wherethe load was standing. Or some one did. Ithink it was dad. But Caroline kicked myhorse down off the road, and I only sawhim a minute—but it must have been dad.And then, a little way down the hill,something went wrong."

Frank seemed trying to reconstruct theaccident from Lorraine's description."He'd no business to start down if hisrough-lock wasn't all right," he said. "Itain't like him. Brit's careful about themthings—little men most always are. I don'tsee how 'n 'ell it worked loose. It's a damnqueer layout all around; and this heredoctor gitting here ahead of you folks, thatthere is the queerest. What's he say aboutBrit? Think he'll pull through?"

The doctor himself, coming up just then,answered the question. Of course thepatient would pull through! What weredoctors for? As to his reason for coming,he referred them to Mr. Vjolmar, whom hethought could better explain the matter.

The three of them waited,—five of them,

since Jim and Sorry had come up, anxiousto hear the doctor's opinion and anythingelse pertaining to the affair. Swan wascoming slowly from the bunk-house,buttoning his coat. He seemed to feel thatthey were waiting for him and to knowwhy. His manner was diffident,deprecating even.

"We may as well go in out of themosquitoes," the doctor suggested. "And Iwish you would tell these people whatyou told me, young man. Don't be afraid tospeak frankly; it is rather amazing but notat all impossible, as I can testify. In fact,"he added dryly, "my presence here oughtto settle any doubt of that. Just tell them,young man, about your mother."

Swan was the last to enter the kitchen, and

he stood leaning against the closed door,turning his old hat round and round, hiseyes going swiftly from face to face. Theywere watching him, and Swan blushed adeep red while he told them about hismother in Boise, and how he could talk toher with his thoughts. He explainedlaboriously how the thoughts from hercame like his mother speaking in his head,and that his thoughts reached her in thesame way. He said that since he was alittle boy they could talk together withtheir thoughts, but people laughed andsome called them crazy, so that now hedid not like to have somebody know thathe could do it.

"But Brit Hunter's hurt bad, so a doctormust come quick, or I think he maybe will

die. It takes too long to ride a horse toEcho from this ranch, so I call on mymother, and I tell my mother a doctor mustcome quick to this ranch. So my mothersends a telephone to this doctor inShoshone, and he comes. That is all. But Iwould not like it if everybody maybe findsit out that I do that, and makes talk aboutit."

He looked straight at Jim and Sorry, andthose two unprepossessing ones looked ateach other and at Swan and at the doctorand at each other again, and headed for thedoor. But Swan was leaning against it, andhis eyes were on them. "I would like it ifyou say somebody rides to get the doctor,"he hinted quietly.

Sorry looked at Jim. "I rode like hell," he

stated heavily. "I leave it to Jim."

"You shore'n hell did!" Jim agreed, andSwan removed his big form from the door.

"You boys goin' over t' Spirit Canyon?"Frank wanted to know.

"Yeah," said Sorry, answering for themboth, and they went out, giving Swan asidelong look of utter bafflement as theypassed him. Talking by the thought routefrom Spirit Canyon to Boise City wasevidently a bit too much for even theirphlegmatic souls to contemplate withperfect calm.

"They'll keep it to theirselves, whetherthey believe it or not," Frank assuredSwan in his labored whisper. "It don't go

down with me. I ain't supe'stitious enoughfer that."

"The doctor he comes, don't he?" Swanretorted. "I shall go back now and milk thecows and do chores."

"But if your shoulder is lame, Swan, howcan you?" Lorraine asked in herunexpected fashion.

Swan swallowed and looked helplessly atthe doctor, who stood smoothing his chin."The muscle strain is not serious," he saidcalmly. "A little gentle exercise willprevent further trouble, I think."Whereupon he turned abruptly to the doorof the other room, glanced in at Brit andbeckoned Lorraine with an upraisedfinger.

"You have had a hard time of it yourself,young lady," he told her. "You needn'tworry about Swan. He is not sufferingappreciably. I shall mix you a veryunpleasant dose of medicine, and then Iwant you to go to bed and sleep. I shallstay with your father to-night; not that it isnecessary, but because I prefer daylightfor the trip back to town. So there is noreason why you should sit up and wearyourself out. You will have plenty of timeto do that while your father's bones mend."

He proceeded to mix the unpleasant dose,which Lorraine swallowed andstraightway forgot, in the muddle ofthoughts that whirled confusingly in herbrain. Little things distressed her oddly,while her father's desperate state left her

numb. She lay down on the cot in thefarther corner of the kitchen where herfather had slept just last night—it seemedso long ago!—and almost immediately, asher senses recorded it, bright sunlight wasshining into the room.

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

LONE TAKES HIS STAND

Lone Morgan, over at Elk Spring camp,was just sitting down to eat his middaymeal when some one shouted outside.Lone stiffened in his chair, felt under hiscoat, and then got up with somedeliberation and looked out of the windowbefore he went to the door. All this was amatter of habit, bred of Lone's youth in thefeud country, and had nothing whatever todo with his conscience.

"Hello!" he called, standing in thedoorway and grinning a welcome toSwan, who stood with one arm resting onthe board gate. "She's on the table—comeon in."

"I don't know if you're home with the doorshut like that," Swan explained, coming upto the cabin. "I chased a coyote from RockCity to here, and by golly, he's going yet!I'll get him sometime, maybe. He's smart,but you can beat anything with thinking ifyou don't stop thinking. Always the otherfeller stops sometimes, and then you gethim. You believe that?"

"It most generally works out that way,"Lone admitted, getting another plate andcup from the cupboard, which was merelya box nailed with its bottom to the wall,

and a flour sack tacked across the front fora curtain. "Even a coyote slips up now andthen, I reckon."

Swan sat down, smoothing his tousledyellow hair with both hands as he did so."By golly, my shoulder is sore yet fromcarrying Brit Hunter," he remarkedcarelessly, flexing his muscles andgrimacing a little.

Lone was pouring the coffee, and he ranSwan's cup over before he noticed whathe was doing. Swan looked up at him andlooked away again, reaching for a cloth towipe the spilled coffee from the table.

"How was that?" Lone asked, turningaway to the stove. "What-all happened toBrit Hunter?"

Swan, with his plate filled and his coffeewell sweetened, proceeded to relate withmuch detail the story of Brit's misfortune."By golly, I don't see how he don't getkilled," he finished, helping himself toanother biscuit. "By golly, I don't. Fallinginto Spirit Canyon is like getting draggedby a horse. It should kill a man. What youthink, Lone?"

"It didn't, you say." Lone's eyes wereturned to his coffee cup.

"It don't kill Brit Hunter—not yet. I thinkmaybe he dies with all his bones broke,like that. By golly, that shows you whatcould happen if a man don't think. Britshould look at that chain on his wheelbefore he starts down that road."

"Oh. His brake didn't hold, eh?"

"I look at that wagon," Swan answeredcarefully. "It is something funny about thatchain. I worked hauling logs in themountains, once. It is something damnfunny about that chain, the way it's fixed."

Lone did not ask him for particulars, asperhaps Swan expected. He did not speakat all for awhile, but presently pushedback his plate as if his appetite were gone.

"It's like Fred Thurman," Swan continuedmoralizing. "If Fred don't ride backwards,I bet he don't get killed—like that."

"Where's Brit now?" Lone asked, gettingup and putting on his hat. "At the ranch?"

"Or heaven, maybe," Swan responded

sententiously. "But my dog Yack, he don'thowl yet. I guess Brit's at the ranch."

"Sorry I'm busy to-day," said Lone,opening the door. "You stay as long as youlike, Swan. I've got some riding to do."

"I'll wash the dishes, and then I maybewill think quicker than that coyote. I'mafter him, by golly, till I get him."

Lone muttered something and went out.Within five minutes Swan, hearinghoofbeats, looked out through a crack inthe door and saw Lone riding at a gallopalong the trail to Rock City. "Good bait.He swallows the hook," he commented tohimself, and his good-natured grin was notbrightening his face while he washed thedishes and tidied the cabin.

With Lone rode bitterness of soul and asick fear that had nothing to do with hisown destiny. How long ago Brit had beenhurled into the canyon Lone did not know;he had not asked. But he judged that itmust have been very recently. Swan hadnot told him of anything but the runaway,and of helping to carry Brit home—and ofthe "damn funny thing about the chain"—the rough-lock, he must have meant. Toowell Lone understood the sinister meaningthat probably lay behind that phrase.

"They've started on the Quirt now," hetold himself with foreboding. "She's beentelling her father——"

Lone fell into bitter argument withhimself. Just how far was it justifiable tomind his own business? And if he did not

mind it, what possible chance had heagainst a power so ruthless and socunning? An accident to a man driving aloaded wagon down the Spirit Canyongrade had a diabolic plausibility that noman in the country could question. Brit, hereasoned, could not have known before hestarted that his rough-lock had beentampered with, else he would have fixedit. Neither was Brit the man to forget thebrake on his load. If Brit lived, he mighttalk as much as he pleased, but he couldnever prove that his accident had beendeliberately staged with murderous intent.

Lone lifted his head and looked awayacross the empty miles of sageland to thequiet blue of the mountains beyond. Peace—the peace of untroubled wilderness—

brooded over the land. Far in the distance,against the rim of rugged hills, was anirregular splotch of brown which was theheadquarters of the Sawtooth. Lone turnedhis wrist to the right, and John Doe,obeying the rein signal, left the trail andbegan picking his way stiff-legged downthe steep slope of the ridge, headingdirectly toward the home ranch.

John Doe was streaked with sweat and hisflanks were palpitating with fatigue whenLone rode up to the corral anddismounted. Pop Bridgers saw him andcame bow-legging eagerly forward withgossip titillating on his meddlesometongue, but Lone stalked by him with onlya surly nod. Bob Warfield he saw at adistance and gave no sign of recognition.

He met Hawkins coming down from hishouse and stopped in the trail.

"Have you got time to go back to the officeand fix up my time, Hawkins?" he askedwithout prelude. "I'm quitting to-day."

Hawkins stared and named the Biblicalplace of torment. "What yuh quittin' for,Lone?" he added incredulously. "All youboys got a raise last month; ain't that goodenough?"

"Plenty good enough, so long as I work forthe outfit."

"Well, what's wrong? You've been with usfive years, Lone, and it's suited you allright so far——"

Lone looked at him. "Say, I never set out

to marry the Sawtooth," he stated calmly."And if I have married you-all byaccident, you can get a bill of divorce fordesertion. This ain't the first time a manever quit yuh, is it, Hawkins?"

"No—and there ain't a man on the pay rollwe can't do without," Hawkins retorted,his neck stiffening with resentment. "It's akinda rusty trick, though, Lone, quittin'without notice and leaving a camp empty."

"Elk Spring won't run away," Loneassured him without emotion. "She's beenleft alone a week or two at a time duringroundups. I don't reckon the outfit'll bustup before you get a man down there."

The foreman looked at him curiously, forthis was not like Lone, whose tone had

always been soft and friendly, and whosemanner had no hint of brusqueness. Therewas a light, too, in Lone's eyes that hadnot been there before. But Hawkins wouldnot question him further. If Lone Morganor any other man wanted to quit, that washis privilege,—providing, of course, thathis leaving was not likely to menace thepeace and security of the Sawtooth. Lonehad made it a point to mind his ownbusiness, always. He had never askedquestions, he had never surmised orgossiped. So Hawkins gave him a checkfor his wages and let him go with no morethan a foreman's natural reluctance to losea trustworthy man.

By hard riding along short cuts, Lonereached the Quirt ranch and dropped reins

at the doorstep, not much past mid-afternoon.

"I rode over to see if there's anything I cando," he said, when Lorraine opened thedoor to him. He did not like to ask abouther father, fearing that the news would bebad.

"Why, thank you for coming." Lorrainestepped back, tacitly inviting him to enter."Dad knows us to-day, but of course he'sterribly hurt and can't talk much. We doneed some one to go to town for things.Frank helps me with dad, and Jim andSorry are trying to keep things going onthe ranch. And Swan does what he can, ofcourse, but——"

"I just thought you maybe needed

somebody right bad," said Lone quietly,meaning a great deal more than Lorrainedreamed that he meant. "I'm not doinganything at all, right now, so I can just aswell help out as not. I can go to town rightaway, if I can borrow a horse. John Doe,he's pretty tired. I been pushing him rightthrough—not knowing there was a towntrip ahead of him."

Lorraine found her eyes going misty. Hewas so quiet, and so reassuring in hisquiet. Half her burden seemed to slip fromher shoulders while she looked at him.She turned away, groping for the doorlatch.

"You may see dad, if you like, while I getthe list of things the doctor ordered. Heleft only a little while ago, and I was

waiting for one of the boys to come backso I could send him to town."

It was on Lone's tongue to ask why thedoctor had not taken in the order himselfand instructed some one to bring out thethings; but he remembered how very busywith its own affairs was Echo anddecided that the doctor was wise.

He tiptoed in to the bed and saw a sallowface covered with stubbly gray whiskersand framed with white bandages. Britopened his eyes and moved his thin lips insome kind of greeting, and Lone sat downon the edge of a chair, feeling asmiserably guilty as if he himself hadbrought the old man to this pass. It seemedto him that Brit must know more of theaccident than Swan had told, and the

thought did not add to his comfort. Hewaited until Brit opened his eyes again,and then he leaned forward, holding Brit'swandering glance with his own intentgaze.

"I ain't working now," he said, loweringhis voice so that Lorraine could not hear."So I'm going to stay here and help seeyou through with this. I've quit theSawtooth."

Brit's eyes cleared and studied Lone'sface. "D'you know—anything?"

"No, I don't." Lone's face hardened a little."But I wanted you to know that I'm—withthe Quirt, now."

"Frank hire yuh?"

"No. I ain't hired at all. I'm just—withyuh."

"We—need yuh," said Brit grimly, lookingLone straight in the eyes.

CHAPTERFOURTEEN"FRANK'S DEAD"

"Frank come yet?" The peevishimpatience of an invalid whose horizonhas narrowed to his own personal welfareand wants was in Brit's voice. Two weekshe had been sick, and his temper had notsweetened with the pain of his brokenbones and the enforced idleness. Brit wasthe type of man who is never quiet unlesshe is asleep or too ill to get out of bed.

Lorraine came to the doorway and looked

in at him. Two weeks had set their markon her also. She seemed older, quieter inher ways; there were shadows in her eyesand a new seriousness in the set of hermouth. She had had her burdens, and shehad borne them with more patience thanmany an older woman would have done,but what she thought of those burdens shedid not say.

"No, dad—but I thought I heard a wagon alittle while ago. He must be coming," shesaid.

"Where's Lone at?" Brit moved restlesslyon the pillow and twisted his face at thepain.

"Lone isn't back, either."

"He ain't? Where'd he go?"

Lorraine came to the bedside and, liftingBrit's head carefully, arranged the pillowas she knew he liked it. "I don't knowwhere he went," she said dully. "He rodeoff just after dinner. Do you want yoursupper now? Or would you rather waituntil Frank brings the fruit?"

"I'd ruther wait—if Frank don't take allnight," Brit grumbled. "I hope he ain'tconnected up with that Echo booze. If hehas——"

"Oh, no, dad! Don't borrow trouble. Frankwas anxious to get home as soon as hecould. He'll be coming any minute, now.I'll go listen for the wagon."

"No use listenin'. You couldn't hear it inthat sand—not till he gits to the gate. Idon't see where Lone goes to, all the time.Where's Jim and Sorry, then?"

"Oh, they've had their supper and gone tothe bunk-house. Do you want them?"

"No! What'd I want 'em fur? Not to lookat, that's sure. I want to know how thingsis going on this ranch. And from all I canmake out, they ain't goin' at all," Britfretted. "What was you 'n Lone talkin' solong about, out in the kitchen last night?Seems to me you 'n' him have got a lot tosay to each other, Raine."

"Why, nothing in particular. We were just—talking. We're all human beings, dad;we have to talk sometimes. There's

nothing else to do."

"Well, I caught something about theSawtooth. I don't want you talking to Loneor anybody else about that outfit, Raine. Itold yuh so once. He's all right—I ain'tsaying anything against Lone—but the lessyou have to say the more you'll have to bethankful fur, mebby."

"I was wondering if Swan could havegotten word somehow to the Sawtooth andhad them telephone out that you were hurt.And Lone was drawing a map of the trailsand showing me how far it was from thecanyon to the Sawtooth ranch. And he wasasking me just how it happened that thebrake didn't hold, and I said it must havebeen all right, because I saw you come outfrom under the wagon just before you

hitched up. I thought you were fixing thechain on them."

"Huh?" Brit lifted his head off the pillowand let it drop back again, because of thepain in his shoulder. "You never seen mecrawl out from under no wagon. I comestraight down the hill to the team."

"Well, I saw some one. He went up intothe brush. I thought it was you." Lorraineturned in the doorway and stood looking athim perplexedly. "We shouldn't be talkingabout it, dad—the doctor said we mustn't.But are you sure it wasn't you? Because Icertainly saw a man crawl out from underthe wagon and start up the hill. Then thehorses acted up, and I couldn't see himafter Yellowjacket jumped off the road."

Brit lay staring up at the ceiling,apparently unheeding her explanation.Lorraine watched him for a minute andreturned to the kitchen door, peering outand listening for Frank to come from Echowith supplies and the mail and, moreimportant just now, fresh fruit for herfather.

"I think he's coming, dad," she called in toher father. "I just heard something downby the gate."

She could save a few minutes, she thought,by running down to the corral where Frankwould probably stop and unload the fewsacks of grain he was bringing, before hedrove up to the house. Frank was verymethodical in a fussy, purposeless way,she had observed. Twice he had driven to

Echo since her father had been hurt, andeach time he had stopped at the corral onhis way to the house. So she closed thescreen door behind her, careful that itshould not slam, and ran down the path inthe heavy dusk wherein crickets wererasping a strident chorus.

"Oh! It's you, is it, Lone?" she exclaimed,when she neared the vague figure of a manunsaddling a horse. "You didn't see Frankcoming anywhere, did you? Dad won'thave his supper until Frank comes with thethings I sent for. He's late."

Lone was lifting the saddle off the back ofJohn Doe, which he had bought from theSawtooth because he was fond of thehorse. He hesitated and replaced thesaddle, pulling the blanket straight under

it.

"I saw him coming an hour ago," he said."I was back up on the ridge, and I saw ateam turn into the Quirt trail from the ford.It couldn't be anybody but Frank. I'll rideout and meet him."

He was mounted and gone before sherealized that he was ready. She heard thesharp staccato of John Doe's hoofbeatsand wondered why Lone had not waitedfor another word from her. It was as if shehad told him that Frank was in someterrible danger,—yet she had merelycomplained that he was late. The bunk-house door opened, and Sorry came out onthe doorstep, stood there a minute andcame slowly to meet her as she retracedher steps to the house.

"Where'd Lone go so sudden?" he asked,when she came close to him in the dusk."That was him, wasn't it?"

Lorraine stopped and stood looking at himwithout speaking. A vague terror hadseized her. She wanted to scream, and yetshe could think of nothing to scream over.It was Lone's haste, she told herselfimpatiently. Her nerves were ragged fromnursing her dad and from worrying overthings she must not talk about,—thatforbidden subject which never left hermind for long.

"Wasn't that him?" Sorry repeateduneasily. "What took him off again in sucha rush?"

"Oh, I don't know! He said Frank should

have been here long ago. He went to lookfor him. Sorry," she cried suddenly, "whatis the matter with this place? I feel as ifsomething horrible was just ready to jumpout at us all. I—I want my back againstsomething solid, all the time, so thatnothing can creep up behind. Nothing," sheadded desperately, "could happen toFrank between here and the turn-off at theford, could it? Lone saw him turn into ourtrail over an hour ago, he said."

Sorry, his fingers thrust into his overallspockets, his thumbs hooked over thewaistband, spat into the sand beside thepath. "Well, he started off with a crackeddoubletree," he said slowly. "He mightabusted 'er pullin' through that sand hollow.She was wired up pretty good, though, and

there was more wire in the rig. I don'tknow of anything else that'd be liable tohappen, unless——"

"Unless what?" Lorraine promptedsharply. "There's too much that isn't talkedabout, on this ranch. What else couldhappen?"

Sorry edged away from her. "Well—Idunno as anything would be liable tohappen," he said uncomfortably. "'Taintlikely him 'n' Brit 'd both have accidents—not right hand-runnin'."

"Accidents?" Lorraine felt her throatsqueeze together. "Sorry, you don't mean—Sawtooth accidents?" she blurted.

She surprised a grunt out of Sorry, who

looked over his shoulder as if he fearedeavesdroppers. "Where'd you git thatidee?" he demanded. "I dunno what youmean. Ain't that yore dad callin' yuh?"

Lorraine ignored the hint. "You do knowwhat I mean. Why did you say theywouldn't both be likely to have accidentshand-running? And why don't you dosomething? Why does every one just keepstill and let things happen, and not say aword? If there's any chance of Frankhaving an—an accident, I should thinkyou'd be out looking after him, and notstanding there with your hands in yourpockets just waiting to see if he shows upor if he doesn't show up. You're all justlike these rabbits out in the sage. You'llhide under a bush and wait until you're

almost stepped on before you so much aswiggle an ear! I'm getting good and tiredof this meek business!"

"We-ell," Sorry drawled amiably as shewent past him, "playin' rabbit-under-a-bush mebby don't look purty, but it's derngood life insurance."

"A coward's policy," Lorraine taunted himover her shoulder, and went to see whather father wanted. When he, too, wantedto know why Lone had come and goneagain in such a hurry, Lorraine felt all thecourage go out of her at once. Their veryuneasiness seemed to prove that there wasmore than enough cause for it. Yet, whenshe forced herself to stop and think, it wasall about nothing. Frank had driven toEcho and had not returned exactly on time,

though a dozen things might have detainedhim.

She was listening at the door when Swanappeared unexpectedly before her, havingwalked over from the Thurman ranch afterdoing the chores. To him she observedthat Frank was an hour late, and Swan,whistling softly to Jack—Lorraine wassurprised to hear how closely the callresembled the chirp of a bird—strodeaway without so much as a pretense atexcuse. Lorraine stared after him wide-eyed, wondering and yet not daring towonder.

Her father called to her fretfully, and shewent in to him again and told him whatSorry had said about the crackeddoubletree, and persuaded him to let her

bring his supper at once, and to have thefruit later when Frank arrived. Brit did notsay much, but she sensed his uneasiness,and her own increased in proportion.Later she saw two tiny, glowing pointsdown by the corral and knew that Sorryand Jim were down there, waiting andlistening, ready to do whatever wasneeded of them; although what that wouldbe she could not even conjecture.

She made her father comfortable,chattered aimlessly to combat herunderstanding of his moody silence, andlistened and waited and tried her pitifulbest not to think that anything could bewrong. The subdued chuckling of thewagon in the sand outside the gate startledher with its unmistakable reality after so

many false impressions that she heard it.

"Frank's coming, dad," she announcedrelievedly, "and I'll go and get the mailand the fruit."

She ran down the path again, almost light-hearted in her relief from that vague terrorwhich had held her for the past hour. Fromthe corral Sorry and Jim came walking upthe path to meet the wagon which wasmaking straight for the bunk-house insteadof going first to the stable. One man rodeon the seat, driving the team which walkedslowly, oddly, reminding Lorraine of afuneral procession. Beside the wagonrode Lone, his head drooped a little in thestarlight. It was not until the team stoppedbefore the bunk-house that Lorraine knewwhat it was that gave her that strange,

creepy feeling of disaster. It was notFrank Johnson, but Swan Vjolmar whoclimbed limberly down from the seatwithout speaking and turned toward theback of the wagon.

"Why, where's Frank?" she asked, goingup to where Lone was dismounting insilence.

"He's there—in the wagon. We picked himup back here about three-quarters of amile or so."

"What's the matter? Is he drunk?" Thiswas Sorry who came up to Swan andstood ready to lend a hand.

"He's so drunk he falls out of wagon downthe road, but he don't have whisky smell

by his face," was Swan's ambiguous reply.

"He's not hurt, is he?" Lorraine pressedclose, and felt a hand on her arm pullingher gently away.

"He's hurt," Lone said, just behind her."We'll take him into the bunk-house andbring him to. Run along to the house anddon't worry—and don't say anything toyour dad, either. There's no need to botherhim about it. We'll look after Frank."

Already Swan and Sorry and Jim werelifting Frank's limp form from the rear ofthe wagon. It sagged in their arms like adead thing, and Lorraine stepped backshuddering as they passed her. A minutelater she followed them inside, where Jimwas lighting the lamp with shaking fingers.

By the glow of the match Lorraine sawhow sober Jim looked, how his chin wastrembling under the drooping, sandymustache. She stared at him, hating to readthe emotion in his heavy face that she hadalways thought so utterly void of feeling.

"It isn't—he isn't——" she began, andturned upon Swan, who was beside thebunk, looking down at Frank's upturnedface. "Swan, if it's serious enough for adoctor, can't you send another thoughtmessage to your mother?" she asked. "Helooks—oh, Lone! He isn't dead, is he?"

Swan turned his head and stared down ather, and from her face his glance wentsharply to Lone's downcast face. Helooked again at Lorraine.

"To-night I can't talk with my mind," Swantold her bluntly. "Not always I can do that.I could ask Lone how can a man be drunkso he falls off the wagon when no whiskysmell is on his breath."

"Breath? Hell! There ain't no breath tosmell," Sorry exclaimed as unexpectedlyas his speeches usually were. "If he'sbreathin' I can't tell it on him."

"He's got to be breathing!" Lone declaredwith a suppressed fierceness that madethem all look at him. "I found a half bottleof whisky in his pocket—but Swan's right.There wasn't a smell of it on his breath—Itell you now, boys, that he was lying in thesand between two sagebushes, on his face.And there is where he got the blow—behind his ear. It's one of them

accidents that you've got to figure out foryourself."

"Oh, do something!" Lorraine crieddistractedly. "Never mind now how ithappened, or whether he was drunk or not—bring him to his senses first, and let himexplain. If there's whisky, wouldn't thathelp if he swallowed some now? Andthere's medicine for dad's bruises in thehouse. I'll get it. And Swan! Won't youplease talk to your mother and tell her weneed the doctor?"

Swan drew back. "I can't," he said shortly."Better you send to Echo for telegraph.And if you have medicine, it should be onhis head quick."

Lone was standing with his fingers

pressed on Frank's wrist. He looked up,hesitated, drew out his knife and openedthe small blade. He moved so that hisback was to Lorraine, and still holding thewrist he made a small, clean cut in theflesh. The three others stooped, staredwith tightened lips at the bloodlessincision, straightened and looked at oneanother dumbly.

"I'd like to lie to you," Lone told Lorraine,speaking over his shoulder. "But I won't.You're too game and too square. Go andstay with your dad, but don't let him know—get him to sleep. We don't need thatmedicine, nor a doctor either. Frank'sdead. I reckon he was dead when he hitthe ground."

CHAPTER FIFTEENSWAN TRAILS A COYOTE

At daybreak Swan was striding toward theplace where Frank Johnson had beenfound. Lone, his face moody, his eyesclouded with thought, rode beside him,while Jack trotted loose-jointedly atSwan's heels. Swan had his rifle, andLone's six-shooter showed now and thenunder his coat when the wind flipped backa corner. Neither had spoken since theyleft the ranch, where Jim was wanderingdismally here and there, trying to do thechores when his heart was heavy with a

sense of personal loss and grimforeboding. None save Brit had sleptduring the night—and Brit had slept onlybecause Lorraine had prudently given hima full dose of the sedative left by thedoctor for that very purpose. Sorry hadgone to Echo to send a telegram to thecoroner, and he was likely to return nowat any time. Wherefore Swan and Lonewere going to look over the ground beforeothers had trampled out what evidencethere might be in the shape of footprints.

They reached the spot where the team hadstopped of its own accord in crossing alittle, green meadow, and had gone tofeeding. Lone pulled up and half turned inthe saddle, looking at Swan questioningly.

"Is that dog of yours any good at trailing?"

he asked abruptly. "I've got a theory thatsomebody was in that wagon with Frank,and drove on a ways before he jumpedout. I believe if you'd put that dog on thetrail——"

"If I put that dog on the trail he stays on thetrail all day, maybe," Swan averred withsome pride. "By golly, he follows acoyote till he drops."

"Well, it's a coyote we're after now," saidLone. "A sheep-killer that has made hislast killin'. Right here's where I rode upand caught the team, last night. We bettertake a look along here for tracks."

Swan stared at him curiously, but he didnot speak, and the two went on moreslowly, their glances roving here and there

along the trail edge, looking for footprints.Once the dog Jack swung off the trail intothe brush, and Swan followed him whileLone stopped and awaited the result.Swan came back presently, with Jacksulking at his heels.

"Yack, he take up the trail of a coyote,"Swan explained, "but it's got the four legs,and Yack, he don't understand me when Idon't follow. He thinks I'm crazy thismorning."

"I reckon the team came on toward homeafter the fellow jumped out," Loneobserved. "He'd plan that way, seems tome. I know I would."

"I guess that's right. I don't haveexperience in killing somebody," Swan

returned blandly, and Lone was toopreoccupied to wonder at theunaccustomed sarcasm.

A little farther along Swan swooped downupon a blue dotted handkerchief of thekind which men find so useful wherelaundries are but a name. Again Lonestopped and bent to examine it as Swanspread it out in his hands. A few tinygrains of sandstone rattled out, and in thecenter was a small blood spot. Swanlooked up straight into Lone's dark,brooding eyes.

"By golly, Lone, you would do that, too, ifyou kill somebody," he began in a newtone,—the tone which Lorraine had heardindistinctly in the bunk-house when Swanwas talking to the doctor. "Do you think

I'm a damn fool, just because I'm aSwede? You are smart—you think outevery little thing. But you make a bigmistake if you don't think some one elsemay be using his brain, too. Thishandkerchief I have seen you pull fromyour pocket too many times. And it had arock in it last night, and the blood showsthat it was used to hit Frank behind theear. You think it all out—but maybe I'vebeen thinking too. Now you're underarrest. Just stay on your horse—he can'trun faster than a bullet, and I don't misscoyotes when I shoot them on the run."

"The hell you say!" Lone stared at him."Where's your authority, Swan?"

Swan lifted the rifle to a comfortable,firing position, the muzzle pointing straight

at Lone's chest. With his left hand heturned back his coat and disclosed abadge pinned to the lining.

"I'm a United States Marshal, that's all; agovernment hunter," he stated. "I'm hot onthe trail of coyotes—all kinds. Throw thatsix-shooter over there in the brush, willyou?"

"I hate to get the barrel all sanded up,"Lone objected mildly. "You can pack it,can't you?" He grinned a little as hehanded out the gun, muzzle towardhimself. "You're playing safe, Swan, but ifthat dog of yours is any good, you'll have achange of heart pretty quick. Isn't that aman's track, just beside that flat rock? Putthe dog on, why don't you?"

"Yack is on already," Swan pointed out."Ride ahead of me, Lone."

With a shrug of his shoulders Loneobeyed, following the dog as it trottedthrough the brush on the trail of a man'sfootprints which Swan had shown it. Aman might have had some trouble inkeeping to the trail, but Jack trotted easilyalong and never once seemed at fault. In avery few minutes he stopped in a rockydepression where a horse had been tied,and waited for Swan, wagging his tail andshowing his teeth in a panting smile. Theman he had trailed had mounted andridden toward the ridge to the west. Swanexamined the tracks, and Lone sat on hishorse watching him.

Jack picked up the trail where the

horseman had walked away toward theroad, and Swan followed him, motioningLone to ride ahead.

"You could tell me about this, I think, but Ican find out for myself," he observed,glancing at Lone briefly.

"Sure, you can find out, if you use youreyes and do a little thinking," Lonereplied. "I hope you do lay the evidenceon the right doorstep."

"I will," Swan promised, looking ahead towhere Jack was nosing his way throughthe sagebrush.

They brought up at the edge of the roadnearly a quarter of a mile nearer Echo thanthe place where Frank's body had been

found. They saw where the man hadclimbed into the wagon, and followed towhere they had found Frank beside theroad, lying just as he had pitched forwardfrom the wagon seat.

"I think," said Swan quietly, "we will gonow and find out where that horse wentlast night."

"A good idea," Lone agreed. "Do you seehow it was done, Swan? When he saw theteam coming, away back toward Echo, herode down into that wash and tied hishorse. He was walking when Frankovertook him, I reckon—maybe claiminghis horse had broke away from him. Hehad a rock in his handkerchief. Frankstopped and gave him a lift, and he usedthe rock first chance he got. Then I reckon

he stuck the whisky bottle in Frank'spocket and heaved him out. He droppedthe handkerchief out of his hip pocketwhen he jumped out of the rig. It's rightsimple, and if folks didn't get towondering about it, it'd be safe as anykilling can be. As safe," he addedmeaningly, "as dragging Fred Thurman, orunhooking Brit's chain-lock before hestarted down the canyon with his load ofposts."

Swan did not answer, but turned back towhere the horse had been left tied andtook up the trail from there. As before, thedog trotted along, Lone riding closebehind him and Swan striding after. Theydid not really need the dog, for thehoofprints were easily followed for the

greater part of the way.

They had gone perhaps four miles whenLone turned, resting a hand on the cantleof his saddle while he looked back atSwan. "You see where he was headed for,don't yuh, Swan?" he asked, his tone asfriendly as though he was not under arrestas a murderer. "If he didn't go to Whisper,I'll eat my hat."

"You're the man to know," Swan retortedgrimly. And then, because Lone's horsehad slowed in a long climb over a ridge,he came up even with a stirrup. "Lone, Ihate to do it. I'd like you, if you don't killfor a living. But for that I could shoot youquick as a coyote. You're smart—but notsmart enough. You gave your self awaywhen I showed you Fred's saddle. After

that I knew who was the Sawtooth killerthat I came here to find."

"You thought you knew," Lone correctedcalmly.

"You don't have to lie," Swan informedhim bluntly. "You don't have to tellanything. I find out for myself if I makemistake."

"Go to it," Lone advised him coldly. "Itdon't make a darn bit of difference to mewhether I ride in front of you or behind.I'm so glad you're here on the job, Swan,that I'm plumb willing to be tied hand andfoot if it'll help you any."

"When a man's too damn willing to be myprisoner," Swan observed seriously, "he

gets tied, all right. Put out your hands,Lone. You look good to me with braceletson, when you talk so willing to go to jailfor murder."

He had slipped the rifle butt to the ground,and before Lone quite realized what hewas doing Swan had a short, wicked-looking automatic pistol in one hand and apair of handcuffs in the other. Loneflushed, but there was nothing to do buthold out his hands.

CHAPTER SIXTEENTHE SAWTOOTH SHOWS ITS

HAND

In her fictitious West Lorraine had longsince come to look upon violence as asynonym for picturesqueness; murder andmystery were inevitably anaccompaniment of chaps and spurs. Butwhen a man she had cooked breakfast for,had talked with just a few hours ago, laydead in the bunk-house, she forgot that itwas merely an expected incident ofWestern life. She lay in her bed shakingwith nervous dread, and the shrill rasping

of the crickets and tree-toads wasunendurable.

After the first shock had passed a deep,fighting rage filled her, made her long forday so that she might fight back somehow.Who was the Sawtooth Company, that theycould sweep human beings from their pathso ruthlessly and never be called toaccount? Not once did she doubt that thiswas the doing of the Sawtooth, anothercarefully planned "accident" calculated torid the country of another man who insome fashion had become inimical to theirinterests.

From Lone she had learned a good dealabout the new irrigation project which layvery close to the Sawtooth's heart. Shecould see how the Quirt ranch, with its

water rights and its big, fertile meadowsand its fences and silent disapprobation ofthe Sawtooth's methods, might be lookedupon as an obstacle which they would beglad to remove.

That her father had been sent down thatgrade with a brake deliberately madeuseless was a horrible thought which shecould not put from her mind. She hadthought and thought until it seemed to herthat she knew exactly how and why thekiller's plans had gone awry. She wascertain that she and Swan had preventedhim from climbing down into the canyonand making sure that her dad did not liveto tell what mischance had overtaken him.He had probably been watching while sheand Swan made that stretcher and carried

her dad away out of his reach. He wouldnot shoot her,—he would not dare. Norwould he dare come to the cabin andfinish the job he had begun. But he hadmanaged to kill Frank—poor old Frank,who would never grumble and argue overlittle things again.

There was nothing picturesque, nothingadventurous about it. It was just straight,heart-breaking tragedy, that had its sordidside too. Her dad was a querulous sickman absorbed by his sufferings and not yetout of danger, if she read the doctor's facearight. Jim and Sorry had taken orders alltheir life, and they would not be able tohandle the ranch work alone; yet how elsewould it be done? There was Lone,—instinctively she turned her thoughts to him

for comfort. Lone would stay and help,and somehow it would be managed.

But to think that these things could be donewithout fear of retribution. Jim and Sorry,Swan and Lone had not attempted to hidetheir belief that the Sawtooth wasresponsible for Frank's death, yet not oneof them had hinted at the possibility ofcalling the sheriff, or placing the blamewhere it belonged. They seemed brow-beaten into the belief that it would beuseless to fight back. They seemed to lookupon the doings of the Sawtooth as an actof Providence, like being struck bylightning or freezing to death, as mensometimes did in that country.

To Lorraine that passive submission wasthe most intolerable part, the one thing she

could not, would not endure. Had shelived all of her life on the Quirt, sheprobably would never have thought offighting back and would have acceptedconditions just as her dad seemed toaccept them. But her mimic West hadtaught her that women sometimes daredwhere the men had hesitated. It neveroccurred to her that she should submit tothe inevitable just because the menappeared to do so.

Wherefore it was a new Lorraine whorose at daybreak and silently cookedbreakfast for the men, learned from Jimthat Sorry was not back from Echo, andthat Swan and Lone had gone down to theplace where Frank had been found. Shepoured Jim's coffee and went on her

tiptoes to see if her father still slept. Shedreaded his awakening and the momentwhen she must tell him about Frank, andshe had an unreasonable hope that thenews might be kept from him until thedoctor came again.

Brit was awake, and the look in his eyesfrightened Lorraine so that she stopped inthe middle of the room, staring at himfascinated.

"Well," he said flatly, "who is it this time?Lone, or—Frank?"

"Why—who is what?" Lorraine parriedawkwardly. "I don't——"

"Did they git Frank, las' night?" Brit's eyesseemed to bore into her soul, searching

pitilessly for the truth. "Don't lie to me,Raine—it ain't going to help any. Was itFrank or Lone? They's a dead man laid outon this ranch. Who is it?"

"F-frank," Lorraine stammered, backingaway from him. "H-how did you know?"

"How did it happen?" Brit's eyes wereterrible.

Lorraine shuddered while she told him.

"Rabbits in a trap," Brit muttered, staringat the low ceiling. "Can't prove nothing—couldn't convict anybody if we couldprove it. Bill Warfield's got this countyunder his thumb. Rabbits in a trap. Raine,you better pack up and go home to yourmother. There's goin' to be hell a-poppin'

if I live to git outa this bed."

Lorraine stooped over him, and her eyeswere almost as terrible as were Brit's."Let it pop. We aren't quitters, are we,dad? I'm going to stay with you." Then shesaw tears spilling over Brit's eyelids andleft the room hurriedly, fighting back astorm of weeping. She herself could notmourn for Frank with any sense of greatpersonal loss, but it was different with herdad. He and Frank had lived together forso many years that his loyal heart achedwith grief for that surly, faithful oldpartner of his.

But Lorraine's fighting blood was up, andshe could not waste time in weeping. Shedrank a cup of coffee, went out and calledJim, and told him that she was going to

take a ride, and that she wanted a decenthorse.

"You can take mine," Jim offered. "He'sgentle and easy-gaited. I'll go saddle up.When do you want to go?"

"Right now, as soon as I'm ready. I'll fixdad's breakfast, and you can look after himuntil Lone and Swan come back. One ofthem will stay with him then. I may begone for three or four hours. I'll go crazy ifI stay here any longer."

Jim eyed her while he bit off a chew oftobacco. "It'd be a good thing if you hadsome neighbor woman come in and staywith yuh," he said slowly. "But there ain'tany I can think of that'd be much force.You take Snake and ride around close and

forget things for awhile." He hesitated, hishand moving slowly back to his pocket. "Ifyuh feel like you want a gun——"

Lorraine laughed bitterly. "You don't thinkany accident would happen to me, doyou?"

"Well, no—er I wouldn't advise yuh to goridin'," Jim said thoughtfully. "This heregun's kinda techy, anyway, unless you'reused to a quick trigger. Yuh might be saferwithout it than with it."

By the time she was ready, Jim was tyinghis horse, Snake, to the corral. Lorrainewalked slowly past the bunk-house withher face turned from it and her thoughtsdwelling terrifiedly upon what lay within.Once she was past she began running, as if

she were trying to outrun her thoughts. Jimwatched her gravely, untied Snake andstood at his head while she mounted, thenwalked ahead of her to the gate andopened it for her.

"Yore nerves are sure shot to hell," heblurted sympathetically as she rode pasthim. "I guess you need a ride, all right.Snake's plumb safe, so yuh got no call toworry about him. Take it easy, Raine, onthe worrying. That's about the worst thingyou can do."

Lorraine gave him a grateful glance and afaint attempt at a smile, and rode up thetrail she always took,—the trail where shehad met Lone that day when he returnedher purse, the trail that led to FredThurman's ranch and to Sugar Spring and,

if you took a certain turn at a certainplace, to Granite Ridge and beyond.

Up on the ridge nearest the house AlWoodruff shifted his position so that hecould watch her go. He had been watchingLone and Swan and the dog, trailingcertain tracks through the sagebrush downbelow, and when Lorraine rode awayfrom the Quirt they were in the wagonroad, fussing around the place whereFrank had been found.

"They can't pin nothing on me," Al tried tocomfort himself. "If that damn girl wouldkeep her mouth shut I could stand a trial,even. They ain't got any evidencewhatever, unless she saw me at Rock Citythat night." He turned and looked againtoward the two men down on the road and

tilted his mouth down at the corners in asour grin.

"Go to it and be damned to you!" hemuttered. "You haven't got the dope, andyou can't git it, either. Trail that horse ifyou want to—I'd like to see yuh amuseyourselves that way!"

He turned again to stare after Lorraine,meditating deeply. If she had only been aman, he would have known exactly how tostill her tongue, but he had never beforebeen called upon to deal with the problemof keeping a woman quiet. He saw that shewas taking the trail toward FredThurman's, and that she was ridingswiftly, as if she had some errand in thatdirection, something urgent. Al was veryadept at reading men's moods and

intentions from small details in theirbehavior. He had seen Lorraine start onseveral leisurely, purposeless rides, andher changed manner held a significancewhich he did not attempt to belittle.

He led his horse down the side of theridge opposite the road and the house,mounted there and rode away afterLorraine, keeping parallel with the trailbut never using it, as was his habit. Hemade no attempt to overtake her, and notonce did Lorraine glimpse him or suspectthat she was being followed. Al knewwell the art of concealing his movementsand his proximity from the inquisitive eyesof another man's saddle horse, and Snakehad no more suspicion than his rider thatthey were not altogether alone that

morning.

Lorraine sent him over the trail at a pacewhich Jim had long since reserved foremergencies. But Snake appearedperfectly able and willing to hold it andnever stumbled or slowed unexpectedly asdid Yellowjacket, wherefore Lorrainerode faster than she would have done hadshe known more about horses.

Still, Snake held his own better than evenJim would have believed, and carriedLorraine up over Granite Ridge and downinto the Sawtooth flat almost as quickly asLorraine expected him to do. She came upto the Sawtooth ranch-houses with Snakein a lather of sweat and with her owndetermination unweakened to carry thewar into the camp of her enemy. It was,

she firmly believed, what should havebeen done long ago; what would havecurbed effectually the arrogant powers ofthe Sawtooth.

She glanced at the foreman's cottage onlyto make sure that Hawkins was nowherein sight there, and rode on toward thecorrals, intercepting Hawkins and a large,well-groomed, smooth-faced man whomshe knew at once must be SenatorWarfield himself. Unconsciously Lorrainementally fitted herself into a dramaticmovie "scene" and plunged straight intothe subject.

"There has been," she said tensely,"another Sawtooth accident. It workedbetter than the last one, when my fatherwas sent over the grade into Spirit

Canyon. Frank Johnson is dead. I am hereto discover what you are going to do aboutit?" Her eyes were flashing, her chest wasrising and falling rapidly when she hadfinished. She looked straight into SenatorWarfield's face, her own full in thesunlight, so that, had there been a camera"shooting" the scene, her expressionwould have been fully revealed—thoughshe did not realize all that.

Senator Warfield looked her over calmly(just as a director would have wished himto do) and turned to Hawkins. "Who is thisgirl?" he asked. "Is she the one who camehere temporarily—deranged?"

"She's the girl," Hawkins affirmed, hiseyes everywhere but on Lorraine's face."Brit Hunter's daughter—they say."

"They say? I am his daughter! How dareyou take that tone, Mr. Hawkins? Myhome is at the Quirt. When you strike atthe Quirt you strike at me. When you strikeat me I am going to strike back. Since Icame here two men have been killed andmy father has been nearly killed. He maydie yet—I don't know what effect thisshock will have upon him. But I know thatFrank is dead, and that it's up to me nowto see that justice is done. You—youcowards! You will kill a man for the sakeof a few dollars, but you kill in the dark.You cover your murders under thepretense of accidents. I want to tell youthis: Of all the men you have murdered,Frank Johnson will be avenged. You aregoing to answer for that. I shall see thatyou do answer for it! There is justice in

this country, there must be. I'm going todemand that justice shall be measured outto you. I——"

"Was she violent, before?" SenatorWarfield asked Hawkins in an undertonewhich Lorraine heard distinctly. "You're adeputy, Hawkins. If this keeps on, I'mafraid you will have to take her in andhave her committed for insanity. It's ashame, poor thing. At her age it is pitiful.Look how she has ridden that horse!Another mile would have finished him."

"Do you mean to say you think I'm crazy?What an idea! It seems to me, SenatorWarfield, that you are crazy yourself, toimagine that you can go on killing peopleand thinking you will never have to paythe penalty. You will pay. There is law in

this land, even if——"

"This is pathetic," said Senator Warfield,still speaking to Hawkins. "Her father—ifhe is her father—is sick and not able totake care of her. We'll have to assume theresponsibility ourselves, I'm afraid,Hawkins. She may harm herself, or——"

Lorraine turned white. She had never seenjust such a situation arise in a screenstory, but she knew what danger might liein being accused of insanity. WhileWarfield was speaking, she had a swiftvision of the evidence they could bringagainst her; how she had arrived theredelirious after having walked out fromEcho,—why, they would call even that asymptom of insanity! Lone had warned herof what people would say if she told any

one of what she saw in Rock City, perhapsreally believing that she had imagined itall. Lone might even think that she hadsome mental twist! Her world was reelingaround her.

She whirled Snake on his hind feet, struckhim sharply with the quirt and wasgalloping back over the trail past theHawkins house before Senator Warfieldhad finished advising Hawkins. She sawMrs. Hawkins standing in the door, staringat her, but she did not stop. They wouldtake her to the asylum; she felt that theSawtooth had the power, that she hadplayed directly into their hands, and thatthey would be as ruthless in dealing withher as they had been with the nesterswhom they had killed. She knew it, she

had read it in the inscrutable, level look ofSenator Warfield, in the half cringing,wholly subservient manner of Hawkinswhen he listened to his master.

"They're fiends!" she cried aloud once,while she urged Snake up the slope ofGranite Ridge. "I believe they'd kill me ifthey were sure they could get away withit. But they could frame an insanity chargeand put me—my God, what fiends theyare!"

At the Sawtooth, Senator Warfield wastalking with Mrs. Hawkins while herhusband saddled two horses. Mrs.Hawkins lived within her four walls andcalled that, her "spere," and spoke of herhusband as "he." You know the type ofwoman. That Senator Warfield was

anything less than a godlike man whostood very high on the ladder of Fame, shewould never believe. So she relatedgarrulously certain incoherent, aimlessutterances of Lorraine's, and cried a little,and thought it was perfectly awful that asweet, pretty girl like that should be crazy.She would have made an ideal witnessagainst Lorraine, her very sympathycarrying conviction of Lorraine's need ofit. That she did not convince SenatorWarfield of Lorraine's mentalderangement was a mere detail. SenatorWarfield had reasons for knowing thatLorraine was merely afflicted with adangerous amount of knowledge and wasusing it without discretion.

"You mustn't let her run loose and maybe

kill herself or somebody else!" Mrs.Hawkins exclaimed. "Oh, Senator, it'sawful to think of! When she went past thehouse I knew the poor thing wasn't right——"

"We'll overtake her," Senator Warfieldassured her comfortingly. "She can't govery far on that horse. She'd ridden himhalf to death, getting here. He won't holdout—he can't. She came here, I suppose,because she had been here before. Asanitarium may be able to restore her to anormal condition. I can't believe it'sanything more than some nervousdisorder. Now don't worry, my goodwoman. Just have a room ready, so thatshe will be comfortable here until we canget her to a sanitarium. It isn't hopeless, I

assure you—but I'm mighty glad Ihappened to be here so that I can takecharge of the case. Now here comesHawkins. We'll bring her back—don't youworry."

"Well, take her away as quick as you can,Senator. I'm scared of crazy people. Hisbrother went crazy in our house and——"

"Yes, yes—we'll take care of her. Poorgirl, I wish that I had been here when shefirst came," said the senator, as he went tomeet Hawkins, who was riding up fromthe corrals leading two horses—one forLorraine, which shows what was hisopinion of Snake.

CHAPTERSEVENTEEN

YACK DON'T LIE

For a time the trail seemed to lead towardWhisper. Then it turned away and seemedabout to end abruptly on a flat outcroppingof rock two miles from Whisper camp.Lone frowned and stared at the ground,and Swan spoke sharply to Jack, who wasnosing back and forth, at fault if ever adog was. But presently he took up thescent and led them down a barren slopeand into grassy ground where a bunch ofhorses grazed contentedly. Jack singled

out one and ran toward it silently, as hehad done all his trailing that morning. Thehorse looked up, stared and wentgalloping down the little valley,stampeding the others with him.

"That's about where I thought we'd windup—in a saddle bunch," Lone observeddisgustedly. "If I had the evidence you'recarrying in your pocket, Swan, I'd put thatdarn dog on the scent of the man, not thehorse."

"The man I've got," Swan retorted. "I don'thave to trail him."

"Well, now, you think you've got him.Here's good, level ground—I couldn't getouta sight in less than ten minutes, afoot.Let me walk out a ways, and you see if

that handkerchief's mine. Oh, search meall you want to, first," he added, when heread the suspicion in Swan's eyes. "Makeyourself safe as yuh please, but give me afair show. You've made up your mind I'mthe killer, and you've been fitting theevidence to me—or trying to."

"It fits," Swan pointed out drily.

"You see if it does. The dog'll tell you allabout it in about two minutes if you givehim a chance."

Swan looked at him. "Yack don't lie. Bygolly, I raised that dog to trail, and hetrails, you bet! He's cocker spaniel andbloodhound, and he knows things, thatdog. All right, Lone, you walk over to thatblack rock and set down. If you think you

frame something, maybe, I pack a deadman to the Quirt again."

"You can, for all me," Lone repliedquietly. "I'd about as soon go that way asthe way I am now."

Swan watched him until he was seated onthe rock as directed, his manacled handsresting on his knees, his face turnedtoward the horses. Then Swan took theblue handkerchief from his pocket, calledJack to him and muttered something inSwedish while the dog sniffed at the cloth."Find him, Yack," said Swan, standingstraight again.

Jack went sniffing obediently in widecircles, crossing unconcernedly Lone'sfootprints while he trotted back and forth.

He hesitated once on the trail of the horsehe had followed, stopped and looked atSwan inquiringly, and whined. Swanwhistled the dog to him with a peculiar,birdlike note and called to Lone.

"You come back, Lone, and let Yack takea damn good smell of you. By golly, if thatdog lies to me this time, I lick him good!"

Lone came back, grinning a little. "Allright, now maybe you'll listen to reason. Iain't the kind to tell all I know and somebesides, Swan. I've been a Sawtooth man,and a fellow kinda hates to throw downhis outfit deliberate. But they're going toostrong for any white man to stand for. Iquit them when they tried to get BritHunter. I don't know so much, Swan, butI'm pretty good at guessing. So if you'll

come with me to Whisper, your dog mayshow yuh who owns that handkerchief. Ifhe don't, then I'm making a mistake, and I'dlike to be set right."

"Somebody rode that horse," Swanmeditated aloud. "Yack don't make amistake like that, and I don't think I'mblind. Where's the man that was on thehorse? What you think, Lone?"

"Me? I think there was another horsesomewhere close to that outcropping, tiedto a bush, maybe. I think the man you'reafter changed horses there, just on achance that somebody might trail him fromthe road. You put your dog on the trail ofthat one particular horse, and he showedyuh where it was feeding with the bunch.It looks to me like it was turned loose,

back there, and come on alone. Your manwent to Whisper; I'll bank money on that.Anyway, your dog'll know if he's beenthere."

Swan thought it over, his eyes movinghere and there to every hint of movementbetween the skyline and himself. Suddenlyhe turned to Lone, his face flushing withhonest shame.

"Loney, take a damn Swede and give himsomething he believes, and you could pullhis teeth before you pull that notion fromhis thick head. You acted funny, that dayFred Thurman was killed, and you gaveyourself away at the stable when I showedyou that saddle. So I think you're thekiller, and I keep on thinking that, and I'vebeen trying to catch you with evidence. I'm

a Swede, all right! Square head. Built ofwood two inches thick. Loney, you kickme good. You don't have time to ride overhere, get some other horse and ride backto the Quirt after Frank was killed. Yougot there before I did, last night. We knowFrank was dead not much more than onehour when we get him to the bunk-house.Yack, he gives you a good alibi."

"I sure am glad we took the time to trailthat horse, then," Lone remarked, whileSwan was removing the handcuffs."You're all right, Swan. Nothing likesticking to an idea till you know it'swrong. Now, let's stick to mine forawhile. Let's go on to Whisper. It ain'tfar."

They returned to the rocky hillside where

the trail had been covered, and searchedhere and there for the tracks of anotherhorse; found the trail and followed iteasily enough to Whisper. Swan put Jackonce more on the scent of thehandkerchief, and if actions meantanything, Jack proved conclusively that hefound the Whisper camp reeking with thescent.

But that was all,—since Al was at thatmoment trailing Lorraine toward theSawtooth.

"We may as well eat," Swan suggested."We'll get him, by golly, but we don't haveto starve ourselves."

"He wouldn't know we're after him," Loneagreed. "He'll stick around so as not to

raise suspicion. And he might come back,most any time. If he does, we'll say I'm outwith you after coyotes, and we stoppedhere for a meal. That's good enough tosatisfy him—till you get the drop on him.But I want to tell yuh, Swan, you can't takeAl Woodruff as easy as you took me. Andyou couldn't have taken me so easy if I'dbeen the man you wanted. Al would killyou as easy as you kill coyotes. Give hima reason, and you won't need to give him achance along with it. He'll find the chancehimself."

Because they thought it likely that Alwould soon return, they did not hurry.They were hungry, and they cookedenough food for four men and ate itleisurely. Jim was at the ranch, Sorry had

undoubtedly returned before now, and thecoroner would probably not arrive beforenoon, at the earliest.

Swan wanted to take Al Woodruff backwith him in irons. He wanted to confrontthe coroner with the evidence he hadfound and the testimony which Lone couldgive. There had been too many killingsalready, he asserted in his naïve way; thesooner Al Woodruff was locked up, thesafer the country would be.

He discussed with Lone the possibility ofmaking Al talk,—the chance of hisimplicating the Sawtooth. Lone did nothope for much and said so.

"If Al was a talker he wouldn't be holdingthe job he's got," Lone argued. "Don't get

the wrong idea again, Swan. Yuh may pinthis on to Al, but that won't let theSawtooth in. The Sawtooth's too slick forthat. They'd be more likely to make up alynching party right in the outfit and hangAl as an example than they would try toshield him. He's played a lone hand,Swan, right from the start, unless I'm badlymistaken. The Sawtooth's paid him forplaying it, that's all."

"Warfield, he's the man I want," Swanconfided. "It's for more than killing thesemen. It goes into politics, Loney, and itgoes deep. He's bad for the government.Getting Warfield for having men killed isgetting Warfield without telling secrets ofpolitics. Warfield, he's a smart man, bygolly. He knows some one is after him in

politics, but he don't know some one isafter him at home. So the big Swede hasgot to be smart enough to get the evidenceagainst him for killing."

"Well, I wish yuh luck, Swan, but I can'tsay you're going at it right. Al won't talk, Itell yuh."

Swan did not believe that. He waitedanother hour and made a mental inventoryof everything in camp while he waited.Then, chiefly because Lone's impatiencefinally influenced him, he set out to seewhere Al had gone.

According to Jack, Al had gone to thecorral. From there they put Jack on thefreshest hoofprints leaving the place, andwere led here and there in an apparently

aimless journey to nowhere until, afterJack had been at fault in another rockpatch, the trail took them straight away tothe ridge overlooking the Quirt ranch. Thetwo men looked at one another.

"That's like Al," Lone commented drily."Coyotes are foolish, alongside him, andyou'll find it out. I'll bet he's beenwatching this place since daybreak."

"Where he goes, Yack will follow," Swangrinned cheerfully. "And I follow Yack.We'll get him, Lone. That dog, he neverquits till I say quit."

"You better go down and get a horse,then," Lone advised. "They're all gentle.Al's mounted, remember. He's maybe goneover to the Sawtooth, and that's farther

than you can walk."

"I can walk all day and all night, when Ineed to go like that. I can take short cutsthat a horse can't take. I think I shall go onmy own legs."

"Well, I'm going down to the house first. Iknow them two men riding down to thegate. I want to see what the boss andHawkins have got to say about this last'accident.' Better come on down, Swan.You might pick up something. They'reheading for the ranch, all right. Going tomake a play at being neighborly, Ireckon."

"You bet I want to see Warfield," Swanassented rather eagerly and called Jack,who had nosed around the spot where Al

had waited so long and was now trottingalong the ridge on the next lap of Al'sjourney.

They reached the gate in time to meetWarfield and Hawkins face to face.Hawkins gave Lone a quick, questioninglook and nodded carelessly to Swan.Warfield, having a delicate errand toperform and knowing how much dependedupon first impressions, pulled up eagerlywhen he recognized Lone.

"Has the girl arrived safely, Lone?" heasked anxiously.

"What girl?" Lone looked at himnoncommittally.

"Miss—ah—Hunter. Have you been away

all the forenoon? The girl came to theranch in such a condition that I was afraidshe might do herself or some one else aninjury. Has she been unbalanced forlong?"

"If you mean Lorraine Hunter, she was allright last time I saw her, and that was lastnight." Lone's eyes narrowed a little as hewatched the two. "You say she went to theSawtooth?"

"She came pelting over there crazier thanwhen you brought her in," Hawkins brokein gruffly. "She ain't safe going aroundalone like that."

Senator Warfield glanced at himimpatiently. "Is there any truth in herdeclaring that Frank Johnson is dead? She

seemed to have had a shock of some kind.She was raving crazy, and in her ramblingtalk she said something about FrankJohnson having died last night."

Lone glanced back as he led the waythrough the gate which Swan was holdingopen. "He didn't die—he got killed lastnight," he corrected.

"Killed! And how did that happen? It wasimpossible to get two coherent sentencesout of the girl." Senator Warfield rodethrough just behind Lone and reined close,lowering his voice. "No use in letting thisget out," he said confidentially. "It may bethat the girl's dementia is some curablenervous disorder, and you know what aninjustice it would be if it became noisedaround that the girl is crazy. How much

English does that Swede know?"

"Not any more than he needs to get alongon," Lone answered, instinctively onguard. "He's all right—just a good-naturedkinda cuss that wouldn't harm anybody."

He glanced uneasily at the house, hopingthat Lorraine was safe inside, yet fearingthat she would not be safe anywhere. Saneor insane, she was in danger if SenatorWarfield considered her of sufficientimportance to bring him out on horsebackto the Quirt ranch. Lone knew how seldomthe owner of the Sawtooth rode onhorseback since he had high-powered carsto carry him in soft comfort.

"I'll go see if she's home," Lone explained,and reined John Doe toward the house.

"I'll go with you," Senator Warfieldoffered suavely and kept alongside."Frank Johnson was killed, you say? Howdid it happen?"

"Fell off his wagon and broke his neck,"Lone told him laconically. "Brit's prettysick yet; I don't guess you'd better goinside. There's been a lot of excitementalready for the old man. He only seesfolks he's used to having around."

With that he dismounted and went into thehouse, leaving Senator Warfield withoutan excuse for following. Swan andHawkins came up and waited with him,and Jim opened the door of the bunk-houseand looked out at them without showingenough interest to come forward andspeak to them.

In a few minutes Lone returned, to findSenator Warfield trying to gleaninformation from Swan, who seemedwilling enough to give it if only he couldfind enough English words to form acomplete sentence. Swan, then, hadavailed himself of Lone's belittlement ofhim and was living down to it. But Lonegave him scant attention just then.

"She hasn't come back. Brit's workedhimself up into a fever, and I didn't daretell him she wasn't with me. I said she'sall tired out and sick and wanted to stayup by the spring awhile, where it's cool. Isaid she was with me, and the sun was toomuch for her, and she sent him word thatJim would take care of him awhile longer.So you better move down this way, or

he'll hear us talking and want to knowwhat's up."

"You're sure she isn't here?" SenatorWarfield's voice held suspicion.

"You can ask Jim, over here. He's been onhand right along. And if you can't take hisword for it, you can go look in the shack—but in that case Brit's liable to take ashot at yuh, Senator. He's on the warpathright, and he's got his gun right handy."

"It is not necessary to search the cabin,"Senator Warfield answered stiffly."Unless she is in a stupor we'd have heardher yelling long ago. The girl was a ravingmaniac when she appeared at theSawtooth. It's for her good that I'mthinking."

Jim stepped out of the doorway and cameslowly toward them, eyeing the two fromthe Sawtooth curiously while he chewedtobacco. His hands rested on his hips, histhumbs hooked inside his overalls; agawky pose that fitted well his colorlesspersonality,—and left his right hand closeto his six-shooter.

"Cor'ner comin'?" he asked, nodding at thetwo who were almost strangers to him."Sorry, he got back two hours ago, and hesaid the cor'ner would be right out. But heain't showed up yet."

Senator Warfield said that he felt sure thecoroner would be prompt and thenquestioned Jim artfully about "MissHunter."

"Raine? She went fer a ride. I loaned hermy horse, and she ain't back yet. I told herto take a good long ride and settle hernerves. She acted kinda edgy."

Senator Warfield and his foremanexchanged glances for which Lone couldhave killed them.

"You noticed, then, that she was notquite—herself?" Senator Warfield usedhis friendly, confidential tone on Jim.

"We-ell—yes, I did. I thought a ridewould do her good, mebby. She's beensticking here on the job purty close. AndFrank getting killed kinda—upset her, Iguess."

"That's it—that's what I was saying.

Disordered nerves, which rest and propermedical care will soon remedy." Helooked at Lone. "Her horse was worn outwhen she reached the ranch. Does sheknow this country well? She started thisway, and she should have been here sometime ago. We thought it best to ride afterher, but there was some delay in gettingstarted. Hawkins' horse broke away andgave us some trouble catching him, so thegirl had quite a start. But with her horsefagged as it was, we had no idea that wewould fail to get even a sight of her. Shemay have wandered off on some othertrail, in which case her life as well as herreason is in danger."

Lone did not answer at once. It hadoccurred to him that Senator Warfield

knew where Lorraine was at that minute,and that he might be showing this concernfor the effect it would have on his hearers.He looked at him speculatively.

"Do you think we ought to get out and huntfor her?" he asked.

"I certainly think some one ought to. Wecan't let her wander around the country inthat condition. If she is not here, she issomewhere in the hills, and she should befound."

"She sure ain't here," Jim assertedconvincingly. "I been watching for the lasttwo hours, expecting every minute she'dshow up. I'd a been kinda oneasy, myself,but Snake's dead gentle, and she's a purtyfair rider fer a girl."

"Then we'll have to find her. Lone, canyou come and help?"

"The Swede and me'll both help," Lonevolunteered. "Jim and Sorry can wait herefor the coroner. We ought to find herwithout any trouble, much. Swan, I'll getyou that tobacco first and see if Brit needsanything."

He started to the house, and Swanfollowed him aimlessly, his long stridesbringing him close to Lone before theyreached the door.

"What do you make of this new play?"Lone muttered cautiously when he sawSwan's shadow move close to his own.

"By golly, it's something funny about it.

You stick with them, Loney, and find out.I'm taking Al's trail with Yack. You fix it."And he added whimsically, "Not so muchtobacco, Lone. I don't eat it or smoke itever in my life."

His voice was very Swedish, which wasfortunate, because Senator Warfieldappeared softly behind him and went intothe house. Swan was startled, but he hadn'tmuch time to worry over the possibility ofhaving been overheard. Brit's voice rosein a furious denunciation of Bill Warfield,punctuated by two shots and followedalmost immediately by the senator.

"My God, the whole family's crazy!"Warfield exclaimed, when he had reachedthe safety of the open air. "You're right,Lone. I thought I'd be neighborly enough to

ask what I could do for him, and he triedto kill me!"

Lone merely grunted and gave Swan thetobacco.

CHAPTEREIGHTEEN

"I THINK AL WOODRUFF'S GOTHER"

There was no opportunity for furtherconference. Senator Warfield showed noespecial interest in Swan, and the Swedewas permitted without comment to take hisdog and strike off up the ridge. Jim andSorry were sent to look after Brit, whowas still shouting vain threats against theSawtooth, and the three men rode awaytogether. Warfield did not suggestseparating, though Lone expected him to

do so, since one man on a trail was asgood as three in a search of this kind.

He was still inclined to doubt the wholestory. He did not believe that Lorraine hadbeen to the Sawtooth, or that she hadraved about anything. She had probablygone off by herself to cry and to worryover her troubles,—hurt, too, perhaps,because Lone had left the ranch thatmorning without a word with her first. Hebelieved the story of her being insane hadbeen carefully planned, and that Warfieldhad perhaps ridden over in the hope thatthey would find her alone; though withFrank dead on the ranch that would beunlikely. But to offset that, Lone's reasontold him that Warfield had probably notknown that Frank was dead. That had been

news to him—or had it? He tried toremember whether Warfield hadmentioned it first and could not. Too manydisturbing emotions had held him lately;Lone was beginning to feel the need of along, quiet pondering over his problems.He did not feel sure of anything except thefact that the Quirt was like a drowningman struggling vainly against thewhirlpool that is sucking him slowlyunder.

One thing he knew, and that was hisdetermination to stay with these two of theSawtooth until he had some definiteinformation; until he saw Lorraine orknew that she was safe from them. Like aweight pressing harder and harder untilone is crushed beneath it, their talk of

Lorraine's insanity forced fear into hissoul. They could do just what they hadtalked of doing. He himself had placedthat weapon in their hands when he tookher to the Sawtooth delirious and told ofwilder words and actions. Hawkins andhis wife would swear away her sanity ifthey were told to do it, and there werewitnesses in plenty who had heard himcall her crazy that first morning.

They could do it; they could have hercommitted to an asylum, or at least to asanitarium. He did not underestimate theinfluence of Senator Warfield. And whatcould the Quirt do to prevent the outrage?Frank Johnson was dead; Brit was out ofthe fight for the time being; Jim and Sorrywere the doggedly faithful sort who must

have a leader before they can be countedupon to do much.

Swan,—Lone lifted his head and glancedtoward the ridge when he thought of Swan.There, indeed, he might hope for help. ButSwan was out here, away fromreinforcements. He was trailing AlWoodruff, and when he found him,—thatmight be the end of Swan. If not, Warfieldcould hurry Lorraine away before Swancould act in the matter. A whimsicalthought of Swan's telepathic miraclecrossed his mind and was dismissed as anunseemly bit of foolery in a matter sograve as Lorraine's safety. And yet—thedoctor had received a message that hewas wanted at the Quirt, and he hadarrived before his patient. There was no

getting around that, however impossible itmight be. No one could have foreseenBrit's accident; no one save the man whohad prepared it for him, and he would bethe last person to call for help.

"We followed the girl's horse-tracksalmost to Thurman's place and lost thetrail there." Warfield turned in the saddleto look at Lone riding behind him. "Wemade no particular effort to trace her fromthere, because we were sure she wouldcome on home. I'm going back that far, andwe'll pick up the trail, unless we find herat the ranch. She may have hidden herselfaway. You can't," he added, "be sure ofanything where a demented person isconcerned. They never act according tologic or reason, and it is impossible to

make any deductions as to their probablemovements."

Lone nodded, not daring to trust his tonguewith speech just then. If he were to protectLorraine later on, he knew that he must notdefend her now.

"Hawkins told me she had some sort ofhallucination that she had seen a mankilled at Rock City, when she waswandering around in that storm," Warfieldwent on in a careless, gossipy tone. "Justwhat was that about, Lone? You're the onewho found her and took her in to the ranch,I believe. She somehow mixed herdelusion up with Fred Thurman, didn'tshe?"

Lone made a swift decision. He was

afraid to appear to hesitate, so he laughedhis quiet little chuckle while he scrambledmentally for a plausible lie.

"I don't know as she done that, quite," hedrawled humorously. "She was out of herhead, all right, and talking wild, but I laidit to her being sick and scared. She said aman was shot, and that she saw it happen.And right on top of that she said she didn'tthink they ought to stage a murder and athunderstorm in the same scene, andthought they ought to save the thunder andlightning for the murderer to make hisgetaway by. She used to work for themoving pictures, and she was going onabout some wild-west picture she thoughtshe was acting a part in.

"Afterwards I told her what she'd been

saying, and she seemed to kinda rememberit, like a bad dream she'd had. She told meshe thought the villain in one of the playsshe acted in had pulled off a stage murderin them rocks. We figured it out togetherthat the first crack of thunder had soundedlike shooting, and that's what started heroff. She hadn't ever been in a realthunderstorm before, and she's scared ofthem. I know that one we had the other daylike to of scared her into hysterics. Ilaughed at her and joshed her out of it."

"Didn't she ever say anything about FredThurman, then?" Warfield persisted.

"Not to me, she didn't. Fred was draggedthat night, and if she heard about a manbeing killed during that same storm, shemight have said something about it. She

might have wondered if that was what shesaw. I don't know. She's pretty sensible—when she ain't crazy."

Warfield turned his horse, as if byaccident, so that he was brought face toface with Lone. His eyes searched Lone'sface pitilessly.

"Lone, you know how ugly a story cangrow if it's left alone. Do you believe thatgirl actually saw a man shot? Or do youthink she was crazy?"

Lone met Warfield's eyes fairly. "I thinkshe was plumb out of her head," heanswered. And he added with just theright degree of hesitation: "I don't thinkshe's what you'd call right crazy, Mr.Warfield. Lots of folks go outa their heads

and talk crazy when they get a touch offever, and they get over it again."

"Let's have a fair understanding,"Warfield insisted. "Do you think I amjustified in the course I am taking, or don'tyou?"

"Hunting her up? Sure, I do! If you andHawkins rode on home, I'd keep onhunting till I located her. If she's beenraving around like you say, she's in noshape to be riding these hills alone. She'sgot to be taken care of."

Warfield gave him another sharp scrutinyand rode on. "I always prefer to deal inthe open with every one," he averred. "Itmay not be my affair, strictly speaking.The Quirt and the Sawtooth aren't very

intimate. But the Quirt's having troubleenough to warrant any one in lending ahand; and common humanity demands thatI take charge of the girl until she is herselfagain."

"I don't know as any one would questionthat," Lone assented and ground his teethafterwards because he must yield even theappearance of approval. He knew thatWarfield must feel himself in rather adesperate position, else he would nevertrouble to make his motives so clear toone of his men. Indeed, Warfield hadprotested his unselfishness in the mattertoo much and too often to have deceivedthe dullest man who owned the slightestsuspicion of him. Lone could have smiledat the sight of Senator Warfield betraying

himself so, had smiling been possible tohim then.

He dropped behind the two at the firstrough bit of trail and felt stealthily to testthe hanging of his six-shooter, which hemight need in a hurry. Those two menwould never lay their hands on LorraineHunter while he lived to prevent it. He didnot swear it to himself; he had no need.

They rode on to Fred Thurman's ranch,dismounted at Warfield's suggestion—which amounted to a command—andbegan a careful search of the premises. IfWarfield had felt any doubt of Lone'sloyalty he appeared to have dismissed itfrom his mind, for he sent Lone to thestable to search there, while he andHawkins went into the house. Lone

guessed that the two felt the need of aprivate conference after their visit to theQuirt, but he could see no way to slipunobserved to the house and eavesdrop,so he looked perfunctorily through all thesheds and around the depleted haystacks,—wherever a person could find a hidingplace. He was letting himself downthrough the manhole in the stable loft whenSwan's voice, lowered almost to awhisper, startled him.

"What the hell!" Lone ejaculated under hisbreath. "I thought you were on anothertrail!"

"That trail leads here, Lone. Did you findRaine yet?"

"Not a sign of her. Swan, I don't know

what to make of it. I did think them twowere stalling. I thought they either hadn'tseen her at all, or had got hold of her andwere trying to square themselves on theinsanity dodge. But if they know whereshe is, they're acting damn queer, Swan.They want her. They haven't got her yet."

"They're in the house," Swan reassuredLone. "I heard them walking. You don'tthink they've got her there, Lone?"

"If they have," gritted Lone, "they madethe biggest blunder of their lives bringingme over here. No, I could see they wantedto get off alone and hold a powwow. Theyexpected she'd be at the Quirt."

"I think Al Woodruff, he's maybe got her,then," Swan declared, after studying the

matter briefly. "All the way he follows thetrail over here, Lone. I could see yousometimes in the trail. He was keeping hidfrom the trail—I think because Raine wasriding along, this morning, and he'sfollowing. The tracks are that old."

"They said they had trailed Raine this far,coming from the Sawtooth," Lone told himworriedly. "What do you think Al wouldwant——"

"Don't she see him shoot Fred Thurman?By golly, I'm scared for that girl, Loney!"

Lone stared at him. "He wouldn't dare!"

"A coward is a brave man when you scarehim bad enough," Swan stated flatly. "I'mcareful always when I corner a coward."

"Al ain't a coward. You've got himwrong."

"Maybe, but he kills like a coward wouldkill, and he's scared he will be caught.Warfield, he's scared, too. You watchhim, Lone.

"Now I tell you what I do. Yack, he picksup the trail from here to where you canfollow easy. We know two places wherehe didn't go with her, and from here is twomore trails he could take. But one goes tothe main road, and he don't take that one, Ibet you. I think he takes that girl up SpiritCanyon, maybe. It's woods and wildcountry in a few miles, and plenty ofplaces to hide, and good chances forgetting out over the top of the divide.

"I'm going to my cabin, and you don't sayanything when I leave. Warfield, he don'twant the damn Swede hanging around. Soyou go with them, Loney. This is to whatyou call a show-down."

"We'll want the dog," Lone told him, butSwan shook his head. Hawkins andWarfield had come from the house andwere approaching the stable. Swan lookedat Lone, and Lone went forward to meetthem.

"The Swede followed along on the ridge,and he didn't see anything," hevolunteered, before Warfield couldquestion him. "We might put his dog on thetrail and see which way she went fromhere."

Warfield thought that a good idea. He wasso sure that Lorraine must be somewherewithin a mile or two of the place that heseemed to think the search was practicallyover when Jack, nosing out the trail of AlWoodruff, went trotting toward SpiritCanyon.

"Took the wrong turn after she left thecorrals here," Warfield commentedrelievedly. "She wouldn't get far, up thisway."

"There's the track of two horses,"Hawkins said abruptly. "That there is thegirl's horse, all right—there's a hind shoemissing. We saw where her horse had casta shoe, coming over Juniper Ridge. Butthere's another horse track."

Lone bit his lip. It was the other horse thatJack had been trailing so long. "There wasa loose horse hanging around Thurman'splace," he said casually. "It's him, taggingalong, I reckon."

"Oh," said Hawkins. "That accounts forit."

CHAPTERNINETEEN

SWAN CALLS FOR HELP

Past the field where the horses weregrazing and up the canyon on the sidetoward Skyline Meadow, that lay on ashoulder of Bear Top, the dog nosedunfalteringly along the trail. Now and thenhe was balked when the hoofprints ledhim to the bank of Granite Creek, but notfor long. Jack appeared to understand whyhis trailing was interrupted and sniffed thebank until he picked up the scent again.

"Wonder if she changed off and rode thatloose horse," Hawkins said once, whenthe tracks were plain in the soft soil of thecreek bank. "She might, and lead thathorse she was on."

"She wouldn't know enough. She's a citygirl," Lone replied, his heart heavy withfear for Lorraine.

"Well, she ain't far off then," Hawkinscomforted himself. "Her horse acted aboutplayed out when she hit the ranch. She hadhim wet from his ears to his tail, and hewas breathin' like that Ford at the ranch. Ifthat's a sample of her riding, she ain't faroff."

"Crazy—to ride up here. Keep your eyesopen, boys. We must find her, whatever

we do." Warfield gazed apprehensively atthe rugged steeps on either hand and at thetimber line above them. "From here on shecouldn't turn back without meeting us—if Iremember this country correctly. Couldshe, Hawkins?"

"Not unless she turned off, up here a mileor two, into that gulch that heads intoSkyline," said Hawkins. "There's a stocktrail part way down from the top where itswings off from the divide to WilderCreek."

Swan, walking just behind Hawkins,moved up a pace.

"I could go on Skyline with Yack, and Icould come down by those trail," hesuggested diffidently, Swedishly, yet with

a certain compelling confidence. "Whatyou think?"

"I think that's a damned good idea for asquare head," Hawkins told him, andrepeated it to Warfield, who was ridingahead.

"Why, yes. We don't need the dog, or theman either. Go up to the head of the gulchand keep your eyes open, Swan. We'llmeet you up here. You know the girl, don'tyou?"

"Yas, Ay know her pretty good," grinnedSwan.

"Well, don't frighten her. Don't let her seethat you think anything is wrong—anddon't say anything about us. We made the

mistake of discussing her condition withinher hearing, and it is possible that sheunderstood enough of what we weresaying to take alarm. You understand?Don't tell girl she's crazy." He tapped hishead to make his meaning plainer. "Don'ttell girl we're looking for her. Youunderstand?"

"Yas, Ay know English pretty good. Aydon't tell too moch." His cheerful smilebrought a faint response from SenatorWarfield. At Lone he did not look at all. "Igo quick. I'm good climber like a sheep,"he boasted, and whistling to Jack, hebegan working his way up a rough, brush-scattered ledge to the slope above.

Lone watched him miserably, wishing thatSwan was not quite so matter of fact in his

man-chasing. If Al Woodruff, for somereason which Lone could not fathom, hadtaken Lorraine and forced her to go withhim into the wilderness, Warfield andHawkins would be his allies the momentthey came up with him. Lone was nocoward, but neither was he a fool.Hawkins had never distinguished himselfas a fighter, but Lone had gleaned here andthere a great deal of information aboutSenator Warfield in the old days when hehad been plain Bill. When Lorraine andAl were overtaken, then Lone would needto show the stuff that was in him. He onlyhoped he would have time, and that luckwould be with him.

"If they get me, it'll be all off with her," heworried, as he followed the two up the

canyon. "Swan would have been a help.But he thinks more of catching Al than hedoes of helping Raine."

He looked up and saw that already Swanwas halfway up the canyon's steep side,making his way through the brush withmore speed than Lone could have shownon foot in the open, unless he ran. Thesight heartened Lone a little. Swan mighthave some plan of his own,—an ambush,possibly. If he would only keep alongwithin rifle shot and remain hidden, hewould show real brains, Lone thought. ButSwan, when Lone looked up again, wasclimbing straight away from the littlesearching party; and even though heseemed tireless on foot, he could notperform miracles.

Swan, however, was not troubling himselfover what Lone would think, or even whatWarfield was thinking. Contrary to Lone'sidea of him, Swan was tired, and he wasthinking a great deal about Lorraine, andvery little about Al Woodruff, except asAl was concerned with Lorraine'swelfare. Swan had made a mistake, and hewas humiliated over his blunder. Al hadkept himself so successfully in thebackground while Lone's peculiar actionshad held his attention, that Swan had neverconsidered Al Woodruff as the killer.Now he blamed himself for Frank's death.He had been watching Lone, had beenbaffled by Lone's consistent kindnesstoward the Quirt, by the force of hispersonality which held none of theelements of cold-blooded murder. He had

believed that he had the Sawtooth killerunder observation, and he had beenwatching and waiting for evidence thatwould impress a grand jury. And all thewhile he had let Al Woodruff ride freeand unsuspected.

The one stupid thing, in Swan's opinion,which he had not done was to let Lone goon holding his tongue. He had forced theissue that morning. He had wanted to makeLone talk, had hoped for a weakening anda confession. Instead he had learned agood deal which he should have knownbefore.

As he forged up the slope across theridged lip of the canyon, his oneimmediate object was speed. Up thecanyon and over the divide on the west

shoulder of Bear Top was a trail to theopen country beyond. It was perfectlypassable, as Swan knew; he had packed inby that trail when he located hishomestead on Bear Top. That is why hehad his cabin up and was living in itbefore the Sawtooth discovered hispresence.

Al, he believed, was making for Bear TopPass. Once down the other side he wouldfind friends to lend him fresh horses.Swan had learned something of thesefriends of the Sawtooth, and he couldguess pretty accurately how far some ofthem would go in their service. Freshhorses for Al, food—perhaps even a cabinwhere he could hide Lorraine away—were to be expected from any one of them,

once Al was over the divide.

Swan glanced up at the sun, saw that itwas dropping to late afternoon and startedin at a long, loose-jointed trot across themountain meadow called Skyline. A fewpines, with scattered clumps of juniperand fir, dotted the long, irregular stretch ofgrassland which formed the meadow.Range cattle were feeding here and there,so wild they lifted heads to stare at theman and dog, then came trotting forward,their curiosity unabated by the fact thatthey had seen these two before.

Jack looked up at his master, looked at thecattle and took his place at Swan's heels.Swan shouted and flung his arms, and thecattle ducked, turned and gallopedawkwardly away. Swan's trot did not

slacken. His rifle swung rhythmically inhis right hand, the muzzle tilteddownward. Beads of perspiration on hisforehead had merged into tiny rivulets onhis cheeks and dripped off his clean-lined,square jaw. Still he ran, his breathunlabored yet coming in whisperyaspirations from his great lungs.

The full length of Skyline Meadow he ran,jumping the small beginning of WilderCreek with one great leap that scarcelyinterrupted the beautiful rhythm of hisstride. At the far end of the clearing,snuggled between two great pines thatreached high into the blue, his squattycabin showed red-brown against theprecipitous shoulder of Bear Top peak,covered thick with brush and scraggy

timber whipped incessantly by the windthat blew over the mountain's crest.

At the door Swan stopped and examinedthe crude fastening of the door; madehimself certain, by private marks of hisown, that none had entered in his absence,and went in with a great sigh ofsatisfaction. It was still broad daylight,though the sun's rays slanted in through thewindow; but Swan lighted a lantern thathung on a nail behind the door, carried itacross the neat little room, and set it downon the floor beside the usual pioneercupboard made simply of clean boxesnailed bottom against the wall. Swan hadfurnished a few extra frills to hiscupboard, for the ends of the boxes werefastened to hewn slabs standing upright

and just clearing the floor. Near the uppershelf a row of nails held Swan's coffeecups,—four of them, thick and white, suchas cheap restaurants use.

Swan hooked a finger over the nail thatheld a cracked cup and glanced over hisshoulder at Jack, sitting in the doorwaywith his keen nose to the world.

"You watch out now, Yack. I shall talk tomy mother with my thoughts," he said,drawing a hand across his forehead andspeaking in breathless gasps. "Youwatch."

For answer Jack thumped his tail on thedirt floor and sniffed the breeze, taking inhis overlapping tongue while he did so.He licked his lips, looked over his

shoulder at Swan, and draped his pinktongue down over his lower jaw again.

"All right, now I talk," said Swan andpulled upon the nail in his fingers.

The cupboard swung toward him bodily,end slabs and all. He picked up thelantern, stepped over the log sill andpulled the cupboard door into place again.

Inside the dugout Swan set the lantern on atable, dropped wearily upon a roughbench before it and looked at the jarsbeside him, lifted his hand and opened acompact, but thoroughly efficient fieldwireless "set." His right fingers droppedto the key, and the whining drone of thewireless rose higher and higher as hetuned up. He reached for his receivers,

ducked his head and adjusted them withone hand, and sent a call spitting tiny bluesparks from the key under his fingers.

He waited, repeating the call. His blueeyes clouded with anxiety and he fumbledthe adjustments, coaxing the current intoperfect action before he called again.Answer came, and Swan bent over thetable, listening, his eyes fixed vacantlyupon the opposite wall of the dugout.Then, his fingers flexing delicately,swiftly, he sent the message that told howcompletely his big heart matched the bigbody:

"Send doctor and trained nurse toQuirt ranch at once. Send men toBear Top Pass, intercept man withyoung woman, or come to rescue if

he don't cross. Have three men herewith evidence to convict if we cansave the girl who is valuablewitness. Girl being abducted in fearof what she can tell. They plan tocharge her with insanity. Urgent.Hurry. Come ready to fight.

"S.V."

Swan had a code, but codes require alittle time in the composition of amessage, and time was the one thing hecould not waste. He heard the gist of themessage repeated to him, told the man atthe other station that lives were at stake,and threw off the current.

CHAPTER TWENTYKIDNAPPED

Lorraine had once had a nasty fall fromriding down hill at a gallop. Sheremembered that accident and permittedSnake to descend Granite Ridge at a walk,which was fortunate, since it gave thehorse a chance to recover a little from thestrain of the terrific pace at which she hadridden him that morning. At first it hadbeen fighting fury that had impelled her tohurry; now it was fear that drove herhomeward where Lone was, and Swan,and that stolid, faithful Jim. She felt that

Senator Warfield would never dare tocarry out his covert threat, once shereached home. Nevertheless, the threathaunted her, made her glance often overher shoulder.

At the Thurman ranch, which she waspassing with a sickening memory of thenight when she and Swan had carried herfather there, Al Woodruff rode outsuddenly from behind the stable andblocked the trail, his six-shooter in hishand, his face stony with determination.Lorraine afterwards decided that he musthave seen or heard her coming down theridge and had waited for her there. Hesmiled with his lips when she pulled upSnake with a startled look.

"You're in such a hurry this morning that I

thought the only way to get a chance to talkto you was to hold you up," he said, inmuch the same tone he had used that day atthe ranch.

"I don't see why you want to talk to me,"Lorraine retorted, not in the leastfrightened at the gun, which was too muchlike her movie West to impress her much.But her eyes widened at the look in hisface, and she tried to edge away from himwithout seeming to do so.

Al stopped her by the simple method ofreaching out his left hand and catchingSnake by the cheek-piece of the bridle."You don't have to see why," he said. "I'vebeen thinking a lot about you lately. I'vemade up my mind that I've got to have youwith me—always. This is kinda sudden,

maybe, but that's the way the game runs,sometimes. Now, I want to tell yuh one ortwo things that's for your own good. Oneis that I'll have my way, or die getting it.Don't be scared; I won't hurt you. But ifyou try to break away, I'll shoot you, that'sall. I'm going to marry you, see, first. ThenI'll make love to you afterwards. I ain'tasking you if you'll marry me. You'regoing to do it, or I'll kill you."

Lorraine gazed at him fascinated, tooastonished to attempt any move towardescape. Al's hand slipped from the bridledown to the reins, and still holding Snake,still holding the gun muzzle toward her,still looking her straight in the eyes, hethrew his right leg over the cantle of hissaddle and stepped off his horse.

"Put your other hand on the saddle horn,"he directed. "I ain't going to hurt you ifyou're good."

He twitched his neckerchief off—Lorrainesaw that it was untied, and that he musthave planned all this—and with it he tiedher wrists to the saddle horn. She gaveSnake a kick in the ribs, but Al checkedthe horse's first start and Snake was tootired to dispute a command to stand still.Al put up his gun, pulled a hunting knifefrom a little scabbard in his boot, slicedtwo pairs of saddle strings fromLorraine's saddle, calmly caught and heldher foot when she tried to kick him,pushed the foot back into the stirrup andtied it there with one of the leather strings.Just as if he were engaged in an everyday

proceeding, he walked around Snake andtied Lorraine's right foot; then, to preventher from foolishly throwing herself fromthe horse and getting hurt, he tied thestirrups together under the horse's belly.

"Now, if you'll be a good girl, I'll untieyour hands," he said, glancing up into herface. He freed her hands, and Lorraineimmediately slapped him in the face andreached for his gun. But Al was too quickfor her. He stepped back, picked upSnake's reins and mounted his own horse.He looked back at her appraisingly, sawher glare of hatred and grinned at it, whilehe touched his horse with the spurs androde away, leading Snake behind him.

Lorraine said nothing until Al, riding at alope, passed the field at the mouth of

Spirit Canyon where the blaze-faced roanstill fed with the others. They werefeeding along the creek quite close to thefence, and the roan walked toward them.The sight of it stirred Lorraine out of herdumb horror.

"You killed Fred Thurman! I saw you,"she cried suddenly.

"Well, you ain't going to holler it all overthe country," Al flung back at her over hisshoulder. "When you're married to me,you'll come mighty close to keeping yourmouth shut about it."

"I'll never marry you! You—you fiend! Doyou think I'd marry a cold-bloodedmurderer like you?"

Al turned in the saddle and looked at herintently. "If I'm all that," he told hercoolly, "you can figure out about what'llhappen to you if you don't marry me. Ifyou saw what I done to Fred Thurman,what do you reckon I'd do to you?" Helooked at her for a minute, shrugged hisshoulders and rode on, crossing the creekand taking a trail which Lorraine did notknow. Much of the time they traveled inthe water, though it slowed their pace.Where the trail was rocky, they took it andmade better time.

Snake lagged a little on the upgrades, buthe was well trained to lead and gave littletrouble. Lorraine thought longingly ofYellowjacket and his stubbornness andtried to devise some way of escape. She

could not believe that fate would permitAl Woodruff to carry out such a plan.Lone would overtake them, perhaps,—andthen she remembered that Lone wouldhave no means of knowing which way shehad gone. If Hawkins and SenatorWarfield came after them, her plightwould be worse than ever. Still, shedecided that she must risk that danger andgive Lone a clue.

She dropped a glove beside the trail,where it lay in plain sight of any onefollowing them. But presently Al lookedover his shoulder, saw that one of herhands was bare, and tied Snake's reins tohis saddle and his own horse to a bush.Then he went back down the trail until hefound the glove. He put it into his pocket,

came silently up to Lorraine and pulled offher other glove. Without a word he tookher wrists in a firm clasp, tied themtogether again to the saddle horn, pulledoff her tie, her hat, and the pins from herhair.

"I guess you don't know me yet," heremarked dryly, when he had confiscatedevery small article which she could letfall as she rode. "I was trying to treat yuhwhite, but you don't seem to appreciate it.Now you can ride hobbled, young lady."

"Oh, I could kill you!" Lorraine whisperedbetween set teeth.

"You mean you'd like to. Well, I ain'tgoing to give you a chance." His eyesrested on her face with a new expression;

an awakening desire for her, anadmiration for the spirit that would not lether weep and plead with him.

"Say! you ain't going to be a bit hard tomarry," he observed, his eyes lightingwith what was probably his nearestapproach to tenderness. "I kinda wish youliked me, now I've got you."

He shook her arm and laughed when sheturned her face away from him, thenremounted his horse. Snake movedreluctantly when Al started on. Lorrainefelt hope slipping from her. With herhands tied, she could do nothing at allsave sit there and ride wherever AlWoodruff chose to lead her horse. Heseemed to be making for the head of SpiritCanyon, on the side toward Bear Top.

As they climbed higher, she could catchglimpses of the road down which herfather had driven almost to his death. Shestudied Al's back as he rode before herand wondered if he could really be cold-blooded enough to kill withoutcompunction whoever he was told to kill,whether he had any personal quarrel withhis victim or not. Certainly he had had noquarrel with her father, or with Frank.

It was long past noon, and she wasterribly hungry and very thirsty, but shewould not tell Al her wants if she starved.She tried to guess at his plans and at hismotive for taking her away like this. Hehad no camping outfit, a bulkily rolledslicker forming his only burden. He couldnot, then, be planning to take her much

farther into the wilderness; yet if he didnot hide her away, how could he expect tokeep her? His motive for marrying herwas rather mystifying. He did not seemsufficiently in love with her to warrant anabduction, and he was too cool for such aheadlong action, unless driven bynecessity. She wondered what he wasthinking about as he rode. Not about her,she guessed, except when some bad placein the trail made it necessary for him tostop, tie Snake to the nearest bush, leadhis own horse past the obstruction andcome back after her. Several times thiswas necessary. Once he took the time toexamine the thongs on her ankles,apparently wishing to make sure that shewas not uncomfortable. Once he looked upinto her sullenly distressed face and said,

"Tired?" in a humanly sympathetic tonethat made her blink back the tears. Sheshook her head and would not look at him.Al regarded her in silence for a minute,led Snake to his own horse, mounted androde on.

He was a murderer; he had undoubtedlykilled many men. He would kill her if sheattempted to escape—"and he could notcatch me," Lorraine was just enough toadd. Yet she felt baffled; cheated of thefull horror of being kidnapped.

She had no knowledge of a bad man whowas human in spots without beingrepentant. For love of a girl, she had beentaught to believe, the worst outlaw wouldweep over his past misdeeds, straightenhis shoulders, look to heaven for help and

become a self-sacrificing hero for whomaudiences might be counted upon to shedfurtive tears.

Al Woodruff, however, did not love her.His eyes had once or twice softened tofriendliness, but love was not there.Neither was repentance there. He seemedquite satisfied with himself, quite ready tocommit further crimes for sake of his ownsafety or desire. He was hard, shedecided, but he was not unnecessarilyharsh; cruel, without being wantonlybrutal. He was, in short, the strangest manshe had ever seen.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"OH, I COULD KILL YOU!"

Before sundown they reached thetimberland on Bear Top. The horsesslipped on the pine needles when Al leftthe trail and rode up a gentle inclinewhere the trees grew large and there waslittle underbrush. It was very beautiful,with the slanting sun-rays painting broadyellow bars across the gloom of the forest.In a little while they reached the crest ofthat slope, and Lorraine, looking back,could only guess at where the trail wound

on among the trees lower down.

Birds called companionably from the highbranches above them. A nesting grouseflew chuttering out from under a juniperbush, alighted a short distance away andwent limping and dragging one wingbefore them, cheeping piteously.

While Lorraine was wondering if the poorthing had hurt a leg in lighting, Al clippedits head off neatly with a bullet from hissix-shooter, though Lorraine had not seenhim pull the gun and did not know hemeant to shoot. The bird's mate whirredup and away through the trees, andLorraine was glad that it had escaped.

Al slid the gun back into his holster,leaned from his saddle and picked up the

dead grouse as unconcernedly as he wouldhave dismounted, pulled his knife from hisboot and drew the bird neatly, flinging thecrop and entrails from him.

"Them juniper berries tastes the meat ifyou don't clean 'em out right away," heremarked casually to Lorraine, as hewiped the knife on his trousers and thrustit back into the boot-scabbard before hetied the grouse to the saddle by its blue,scaley little feet.

When he was ready to go on, Snakerefused to budge. Tough as he was, he hadat last reached the limit of his energy andambition. Al yanked hard on the bridlereins, then rode back and struck himsharply with his quirt before Snake wouldrouse himself enough to move forward. He

went stiffly, reluctantly, pulling back untilhis head was held straight out before him.Al dragged him so for a rod or two, lostpatience and returned to whip himforward again.

"What a brute you are!" Lorraineexclaimed indignantly. "Can't you see nowtired he is?"

Al glanced at her from under hiseyebrows. "He's all in, but he's got tomake it," he said. "I've been that waymyself—and made it. What I can do, ahorse can do. Come on, you yella-liveredbonehead!"

Snake went on, urged now and then byAl's quirt. Every blow made Lorrainewince, and she made the wincing perfectly

apparent to Al, in the hope that he wouldtake some notice of it and give her achance to tell him what she thought of himwithout opening the conversation herself.

But Al did not say anything. When the timecame—as even Lorraine saw that it must—when Snake refused to attempt a steepslope, Al still said nothing. He untied herankles from the stirrups and her handsfrom the saddle horn, carried her in hisarms to his own horse and compelled herto mount. Then he retied her exactly as shehad been tied on Snake.

"Skinner knows this trail," he toldLorraine. "And I'm behind yuh with a gun.Don't forget that, Miss Spitfire. You letSkinner go to suit himself—and if he goeswrong, you pay, because it'll be you

reining him wrong. Get along there,Skinner!"

Skinner got along in a businesslike waythat told why Al Woodruff had chosen toride him on this trip. He seemed to be aperfectly dependable saddle horse for abandit to own. He wound in and outamong the trees and boulders, steppingcarefully over fallen logs; he thrust hisnose out straight and laid back his earsand pushed his way through thickets ofyoung pines; he went circumspectly alongthe edge of a deep gulch, climbed over aridge and worked his way down theprecipitous slope on the farther side, madehis way around a thick clump of sprucesand stopped in a little, grassy glade nobigger than a city lot, but with a spring

gurgling somewhere near. Then he swunghis head around and looked over hisshoulder inquiringly at Al, who wascoming behind, leading Snake.

Lorraine looked at him also, but Al didnot say anything to her or to the horse. Helet them stand there and wait while heunsaddled Snake, put a drag rope on himand led him to the best grazing. Then,coming back, he very matter-of-factlyuntied Lorraine and helped her off thehorse. Lorraine was all prepared to fight,but she did not quite know how to strugglewith a man who did not take hold of her ortouch her, except to steady her indismounting. Unconsciously she waitedfor a cue, and the cue was not given.

Al's mind seemed intent upon making

Skinner comfortable. Still, he kept an eyeon Lorraine, and he did not turn his backto her. Lorraine looked over to whereSnake, too exhausted to eat, stood withdrooping head and all four legs bracedlike sticks under him. It flashed across hermind that not even her old director wouldorder her to make a run for that horse andtry to get away on him. Snake looked as ifhe would never move from that positionuntil he toppled over.

Al pulled the bridle off Skinner, gave hima half-affectionate slap on the rump, andwatched him go off, switching his tail andnosing the ground for a likable place toroll. Al's glance went on to Snake, andfrom him to Lorraine.

"You sure do know how to ride hell out of

a horse," he remarked. "Now he'll be stiffand sore to-morrow—and we've got quitea ride to make."

His tone of disapproval sent a guiltyfeeling through Lorraine, until sheremembered that a slow horse might saveher from this man who was all bad,—except, perhaps, just on the surface whichwas not altogether repellent. She lookedaround at the tiny basin set like a sauceramong the pines. Already the dusk waspainting deep shadows in the woodsacross the opening, and turning the sky adarker blue. Skinner rolled over twice,got up and shook himself with a satisfiedsnort and went away to feed. She might, ifshe were patient, run to the horse whenAl's back was turned, she thought. Once in

the woods she might have some chance ofeluding him, and perhaps Skinner wouldshow as much wisdom going as he had incoming, and take her down to thesageland.

But Skinner walked to the farther edge ofthe meadow before he stopped, and AlWoodruff never turned his back to a foe.An owl hooted unexpectedly, and Lorraineedged closer to her captor, who wasgathering dead branches one by one andthrowing them toward a certain spotwhich he had evidently selected for acampfire. He looked at her keenly, evensuspiciously, and pointed with the stick inhis left hand.

"You might go over there by the saddleand set down till I get a fire going," he

said. "Don't go wandering around aimless,like a hen turkey, watching a chance toduck into the brush. There's bear in thereand lion and lynx, and I'd hate to see youchawed. They never clean their toe-nails,and blood poison generally sets in wherethey leave a scratch. Go and set down."

Lorraine did not know how much of histalk was truth, but she went and sat downby his saddle and began braiding her hairin two tight braids like a squaw. If she didget a chance to run, she thought, she didnot want her hair flying loose to catch onbushes and briars. She had once fledthrough a brush patch in Griffith Park withher hair flowing loose, and she had notliked the experience, though it had lookedvery nice on the screen.

Before she had finished the braiding, Alcame over to the saddle and untied hisslicker roll and the grouse.

"Come on over to the fire," he said. "I'lllearn yuh a trick or two about campcooking. If I'm goin' to keep yuh with me,you might just as well learn how to cook.We'll be on the trail the biggest part of ourtime, I expect."

He took her by the arm, just as any manmight have done, and led her to the firethat was beginning to crackle cheerfully.He set her down on the side where thesmoke would be least likely to blow herway and proceeded to dress the grouse,stripping off skin and feathers together. Heunrolled the slicker and laid out a piece ofbacon, a package of coffee, a small

coffeepot, bannock and salt. The coffeepotand the grouse he took in one hand—hisleft, Lorraine observed—and startedtoward the spring which she could heargurgling in the shadows amongst the trees.

Lorraine watched him sidelong. Heseemed to take it for granted now that shewould stay where she was. The woodswere dark, the firelight and the warmthenticed her. The sight of the supperpreparations made her hungrier than shehad ever been in her life before. When onehas breakfasted on one cup of coffee atdawn and has ridden all day with nothingto eat, running away from food, eventhough that food is in the hands of one'scaptor, requires courage. Lorraine wasterribly tempted to stay, at least until she

had eaten. But Al might not give heranother chance like this. She crept on herknees to the slicker and seized one pieceof bannock, crawled out of the firelightstealthily, then sprang to her feet andbegan running straight across the meadowtoward Skinner.

Twenty yards she covered when a bulletsang over her head. Lorraine ducked,stumbled and fell headfirst over ahummock, not quite sure that she had notbeen shot.

"Thought maybe I could trust yuh to playsquare," Al said disgustedly, pulling herto her feet, the gun still smoking in hishands. "You little fool, what do you thinkyou'd do in these hills alone? You sureenough belittle me, if you think you'd have

a chance in a million of getting away fromme!"

She fought him, then, with a great, innerrelief that the situation was at lastswinging around to a normal kidnapping.Still, Al Woodruff seemed unable to playhis part realistically. He failed to fill herwith fear and repulsion. She had to thinkback, to remember that he had killed men,in order to realize her own danger. Now,for instance, he merely forced her back tothe campfire, pulled the saddle stringsfrom his pocket and tied her feet together,using a complicated knot which he toldher she might work on all she darnpleased, for all he cared. Then he wentcalmly to work cooking their supper.

This was simple. He divided the grouse

so that one part had the meaty breast andlegs, and the other the back and wings.The meaty part he larded neatly withstrips of bacon, using his hunting knife,—which Lorraine watched fascinatedly,wondering if it had ever taken the life of aman. He skewered the meat on a green,forked stick and gave it to her to broil forherself over the hottest coals of the fire,while he made the coffee and prepared hisown portion of the grouse.

Lorraine was hungry. She broiled thegrouse carefully and ate it, with theexception of one leg, which she surprisedherself by offering to Al, who was pickingthe bones of his own share down to thelast shred of meat. She drank a cup ofcoffee, black, and returned the cup to the

killer, who unconcernedly drank from itwithout any previous rinsing. She atebannock with her meat and secretlythought what an adventure it would be ifonly it were not real,—if only she werenot threatened with a forced marriage tothis man. The primitive camp appealed toher; she who had prided herself uponbeing an outdoor girl saw how she hadalways played at being primitive. Thiswas real. She would have loved it if onlythe man opposite were Lone, or Swan, orsome one else whom she knew andtrusted.

She watched the firelight dancing on Al'ssomber face, softening its hardness,making it almost wistful when he gazedthoughtfully into the coals. She thrilled

when she saw how watchful he was, howhe lifted his head and listened to everylittle night sound. She was afraid of him asshe feared the lightning; she feared hispitiless attitude toward human life. Shewould find some way to outwit him whenit came to the point of marrying him, shethought. She would escape him if shecould without too great a risk of beingshot. She felt absolutely certain that hewould shoot her with as little compunctionas he would marry her by force,—and itseemed to Lorraine that he would notgreatly care which he did.

"I guess you're tired," Al said suddenly,rousing himself from deep study andlooking at her imperturbably. "I'll fix yuhso you can sleep—and that's about all yuh

can do."

He went over to his saddle, took theblanket and unfolded it until Lorraine sawthat it was a full-size bed blanket of heavygray wool. The man's ingenuity seemedendless. Without seeming to have anyextra luggage, he had nevertheless carrieda very efficient camp outfit with him. Hetook his hunting knife, went to the sprucegrove and cut many small, green branches,returning with all he could hold in hisarms. She watched him lay them tips upfor a mattress, and was secretly glad thatshe knew this much at least of campcomfort. He spread the blanket over themand then, without a word, came over toher and untied her feet.

"Go and lay down on the blanket," he

commanded.

"I'll do nothing of the kind!" Lorraine sether mouth stubbornly.

"Well, then I'll have to lay you down,"said Al, lifting her to her feet. "If you getbalky, I'm liable to get rough."

Lorraine drew away from him as far asshe could and looked at him for a fullminute. Al stared back into her eyes. "Oh,I could kill you!" cried Lorraine for thesecond time that day and threw herselfdown on the bed, sobbing like an angrychild.

Al said nothing. The man's capacity forkeeping still was amazing. He knelt besideher, folded the blanket over her from the

two sides, and tied the corners around herneck snugly, the knot at the back. In thesame way he tied her ankles. Lorrainefound herself in a sleeping bag from whichshe had small hope of extricating herself.He took his coat, folded it compactly andpushed it under her head for a pillow; thenhe brought her own saddle blanket andspread it over her for extra warmth.

"Now stop your bawling and go to sleep,"he advised her calmly. "You ain't hurt, andyou ain't going to be as long as you gentledown and behave yourself."

She saw him draw the slicker over hisshoulders and move back where theshadows were deep and she could not seehim. She heard some animal squall in thewoods behind them. She looked up at the

stars,—millions of them, and brighter thanshe had ever seen them before. Insensiblyshe quieted, watching the stars, listeningto the night noises, catching now and thena whiff of smoke from Al Woodruff'scigarette. Before she knew that she wassleepy, she slept.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"YACK, I LICK YOU GOOD IF YOUBARK"

Swan cooked himself a hasty meal whilehe studied the various possibilities of thecase and waited for further word fromheadquarters. He wanted to be sure thathelp had started and to be able to estimatewithin an hour or two the probable time ofits arrival, before he left the wireless.Jack he fed and left on watch outside thecabin, so that he could without risk keepopen the door to the dugout.

His instrument was not a large one, andthe dugout door was thick,—as aprecaution against discovery if he shouldbe called when some visitor chanced to bein the cabin. Not often did a man ride thatway, though occasionally some onestopped for a meal if he knew that thecabin was there and had ever tastedSwan's sour-dough biscuits. His aerialwas cleverly camouflaged between thetwo pine trees, and he had no fear ofdiscovery there; Jack was a faithfulguardian and would give warning if anyone approached the place. Swan couldtherefore give his whole attention to thebusiness at hand.

He was not yet supplied with evidenceenough to warrant arresting Warfield and

Hawkins, but he hoped to get it when thereal crisis came. They could not haveknown of Al Woodruff's intentions towardLorraine, else they would have keptthemselves in the background and wouldnot have risked the failure of their ownplan.

On the other hand, Al must have beenwholly ignorant of Warfield's scheme totry and prove Lorraine crazy. It looked toSwan very much like a muddling of theSawtooth affairs through over-anxiety toavoid trouble. They were afraid of whatLorraine knew. They wanted to eliminateher, and they had made the blunder ofworking independently to that end.

Lone's anxiety he did not even consider.He believed that Lone would be equal to

any immediate emergency and would dowhatever the circumstances seemed torequire of him. Warfield counted him aSawtooth man. Al Woodruff, if the fourmen met unexpectedly, would also take itfor granted that he was one of them. Theywould probably talk to Lone withoutreserve,—Swan counted on that. Whereas,if he were present, they would be on theirguard, at least.

Swan's plan was to wait at the cabin untilhe knew that deputies were headed towardthe Pass. Then, with Jack, it would be asimple matter to follow Warfield to wherehe overtook Al,—supposing he didovertake him. If he did not, then Swanmeant to be present when the meetingoccurred. The dog would trail Al

anywhere, since the scent would be lessthan twenty-four hours old. Swan wouldlocate Warfield and lead him straight toAl Woodruff, and then make his arrests.But he wanted to have the deputies there.

At dusk he got his call. He learned thatfour picked men had started for the Pass,and that they would reach the divide bydaybreak. Others were on their way tointercept Al Woodruff if he crossedbefore then.

It was all that Swan could have hoped for,—more than he had dared to expect onsuch short notice. He notified the operatorthat he would not be there to receiveanything else, until he returned to reportthat he had got his men.

"Don't count your chickens till they'rehatched," came facetiously out of the blue.

"By golly, I can hear them holler in theshell," Swan sent back, grinning to himselfas he rattled the key. "That irrigation graftis killed now. You tell the boss Swan saysso. He's right. The way to catch a fox is towatch his den."

He switched off the current, closed thecase and went out, making sure that thecupboard-camouflaged door lookedperfectly innocent on the outside. With abannock stuffed into one pocket, a chunkof bacon in the other, he left the cabin andswung off again in that long, tireless strideof his, Jack following contentedly at hisheels.

At the farther end of Skyline Meadow hestopped, took a tough leather leash fromhis pocket and fastened it to Jack's collar.

"We don't go running to paw nobody'sstomach and say, 'Wow-wow! Here weare back again!'" he told the dog, pullingits ears affectionately. "Maybe we get shotor something like that. We trail, and wekeep our mouth still, Yack. One bark, andI lick you good!"

Jack flashed out a pink tongue and lickedhis master's chin to show how little hewas worried over the threat, and wentracing along at the end of the leash, takingSwan's trail and his own back to wherethey had climbed out of the canyon.

At the bottom Swan spoke to the dog in an

undertone, and Jack obediently started upthe canyon on the trail of the five horseswho had passed that way since noon. Itwas starlight now, and Swan did nothurry. He was taking it for granted thatWarfield and Hawkins would stop when itbecame too dark to follow the hoofprints,and without Jack to show them the waythey would perforce remain where theywere until daybreak.

They would do that, he reasoned, if theywere sincere in wanting to overtakeLorraine and in their ignorance that theywere also following Al Woodruff. And tryas he would, he could not see the object ofso foolish a plan as this abduction carriedout in collusion with two men of unknownsentiments in the party. They had shown

no suspicion of Al's part in the affair, andSwan grinned when he thought of themutual surprise when they met.

He was not disappointed. They reachedtimber line, following the seldom usedtrail that wound over the divide to BearTop Pass and so, by a difficult routewhich he did not believe Al wouldattempt after dark, to the country beyondthe mountain. Where dark overtook them,they stopped in a sheltered nook to wait,just as Swan had expected they would.They were close to the trail, where no onecould pass without their knowledge.

In the belief that it was only Lorraine theywere following, and that she would befrightened and would come to the cheer ofa campfire, they had a fine, inviting blaze.

Swan made his way as close as he dared,without being discovered, and sat down towait. He could see nothing of the men untilLone appeared and fed the flames morewood, and sat down where the light shoneon his face. Swan grinned again. Warfieldhad probably decided that Lorraine wouldbe less afraid of Lone than of them andhad ordered him into the firelight as a sortof decoy. And Lone, knowing that AlWoodruff might be within shootingdistance, was probably much moreuncomfortable than he looked.

He sat with his legs crossed in true rangefashion and stared into the fire while hesmoked. He was a fair mark for an enemywho might be lurking out there in the dark,but he gave no sign that he realized the

danger of his position. Neither did hewear any air of expectancy. Warfield andHawkins might wait and listen and hopethat Lorraine, wide-eyed and weary,would steal up to the warmth of the fire;but not Lone.

Swan, sitting on a rotting log, becameuneasy at the fine target which Lone madeby the fire, and drew Al Woodruff's bluebandanna from his pocket. He held it toJack's nose and whispered, "You find him,Yack—and I lick you good if you bark."Jack sniffed, dropped his nose to theground and began tugging at the leash.Swan got up and, moving stealthily,followed the dog.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"I COULDA LOVED THIS LITTLEGIRL"

A chill wind that hurried over Bear Topahead of the dawn brought Swan and Jackclattering up the trail that dipped intoSpirit Canyon. Warfield rose stiffly fromthe one-sided warmth of the fire andwalked a few paces to meet him,shrugging his wide shoulders at the coldand rubbing his thigh muscles thatprotested against movement. Much ridingupon upholstered cushions had not helped

Senator Warfield to retain the toughmuscles of hard-riding Bill Warfield. Thesenator was saddle-sore as well ashungry, and his temper showed in hisblood-shot eyes. He would have quarreledwith his best-beloved woman thatmorning, and he began on Swan.

Why hadn't he come back down the gulchyesterday and helped track the girl, as hewas told to do? (The senator had quiteunpleasant opinions of Swedes, and crazywomen, and dogs that were never aroundwhen they were wanted, and he expressedthem fluently.)

Swan explained with a great deal of laborthat he had not thought he was wanted, andthat he had to sleep on his claimsometimes or the law would take it from

him, maybe. Also he virtuously pointedout that he had come with Yack beforedaylight to the canyon to see if they hadfound Miss Hunter and gone home, or ifthey were still hunting for her.

"If you like to find that jong lady, I putYack on the trail quick," he offeredplacatingly. "I bet you Yack finds her inone-half an hour."

With much unnecessary language, SenatorWarfield told him to get to work, and thethree tightened cinches, mounted theirhorses and prepared to follow Swan'slead. Swan watched his chance and gaveLone a chunk of bannock as a substitutefor breakfast, and Lone, I may add,dropped behind his companions and ateevery crumb of it, in spite of his worry

over Lorraine.

Indeed, Swan eased that worry too, whenthey were climbing the pine slope whereAl had killed the grouse. Lone had forgedahead on John Doe, and Swan stoppedsuddenly, pointing to the spot where a fewbloody feathers and a boot-print showed.The other evidence Jack had eaten in thenight.

"Raine's all right, Lone. Got men coming.Keep your gun handy," he murmured andturned away as the others rode up, eagerfor whatever news Swan had to offer.

"Something killed a bird," Swanexplained politely, planting one of hisown big feet over the track, which did notin the least resemble Lorraine's. "Yack!

you find that jong lady quick!"

From there on Swan walked carefully,putting his foot wherever a print of Al'sboot was visible. Since he was muchbigger than Al, with a correspondinglylonger stride, his gait puzzled Lone untilhe saw just what Swan was doing. Thenhis eyes lightened with amusedappreciation of the Swede's cunning.

"We ought to have some hot drink, orwhisky, when we find that girl," Hawkinsmuttered unexpectedly, riding up besideLone as they crossed an open space."She'll be half-dead with cold—if we findher alive."

Before Lone could answer, Swan lookedback at the two and raised his hand for

them to stop.

"Better if you leave the horses here," hesuggested. "From Yack I know we getclose pretty quick. That jong lady's horsemaybe smells these horse and makes anoise, and crazy folks run from noise."

Without objection the three dismountedand tied their horses securely to trees.Then, with Swan and Jack leading theway, they climbed over the ridge anddescended into the hollow by way of theledge which Skinner had negotiated socarefully the night before. Without the dogthey never would have guessed that anyone had passed this way, but as it wasthey made good progress and reached thenearest edge of the spruce thicket just asthe sun was making ready to push up over

the skyline.

Jack stopped and looked up at his masterinquiringly, lifting his lip at the sides andshowing his teeth. But he made no sound;nor did Swan, when he dropped hisfingers to the dog's head and patted himapprovingly.

They heard a horse sneeze, beyond thespruce grove, and Warfield steppedforward authoritatively, waving Swanback. This, his manner said plainly, wasfirst and foremost his affair, and from nowon he would take charge of the situation.At his heels went Hawkins, and Swan sentan oblique glance of satisfaction towardLone, who answered it with his half-smile. Swan himself could not haveplanned the approach more to his liking.

The smell of bacon cooking watered theirmouths and made Warfield and Hawkinslook at one another inquiringly. Crazyyoung women would hardly be expectedto carry a camping outfit. But Swan andLone were treading close on their heels,and their own curiosity pulled themforward. They went carefully around thethicket, guided by the pungent odor ofburning pine wood, and halted so abruptlythat Swan and Lone bumped into themfrom behind. A man had risen up from thecampfire and faced them, his hands risingslowly, palms outward.

"Warfield, by——!" Al blurted in hisoutraged astonishment. "Trailing me witha bunch, are yuh? I knew you'd double-cross your own father—but I never thought

you had it in you to do it in the open.Damn yuh, what d'yuh want that youexpect to get?"

Warfield stared at him, slack-jawed. Heglanced furtively behind him at Swan, andfound that guileless youth ready to pokehim in the back with the muzzle of a gun.Lone, he observed, had another. Helooked back at Al, whose eyes wereablaze with resentment. With an effort hesmiled his disarming, senatorial smile, butAl's next words froze it on his face.

"I think I know the play you're making, butit won't get you anything, Bill Warfield.You think I slipped up—and you told menot to let my foot slip; said you'd hate tolose me. Well, you're the one that slipped,you damned, rotten coward. I was

watching out for leaks. I stopped two, andthis one——"

He glanced down at Lorraine, who satbeside the fire, a blanket tied tightlyaround her waist and her ankles, so that,while comfortably free, she could make nomove to escape.

"I was fixing to stop her from telling allshe knew," he added harshly. "By to-nightI'd have had her married to me, youdamned fool. And here you've blockedeverything for me, afraid I was fallingdown on my job!

"Now folks, lemme just tell you a fewlittle things. I know my limit—you've gotme dead to rights. I ain't complainingabout that; a man in my game expects to

get his, some day. But I ain't going to letthe man go that paid me my wages and abonus of five hundred dollars for everyman I killed that he wanted outa the way.

"Hawkins knows that's a fact. He'sforeman of the Sawtooth, and he knowsthe agreement. I've got to say for Hawkinsthat aside from stealing cattle off thenesters and helping make evidence againstsome that's in jail, Hawkins never doneany dirty work. He didn't have to. Theypaid me for that end of the business.

"I killed Fred Thurman—this girl, here,saw me shoot him. And it was when I toldWarfield I was afraid she might set folkstalking that he began to get cold feet. Up tothen everything was lovely, but Warfieldbegan to crawfish a little. We figured—we

figured, emphasize the we, folks,—that theQuirt would have to be put outa business.We knew if the girl told Brit and Frank,they'd maybe get the nerve to try and pinsomething on us. We've stole 'em blind foryears, and they wouldn't cry if we gothung. Besides, they was friendly withFred.

"The girl and the Swede got in the waywhen I tried to bump Brit off. I'd havegone into the canyon and finished him witha rock, but they beat me to it. The girlherself I couldn't get at very well andmake it look accidental—and anyway, Inever did kill a woman, and I'd hate it likehell. I figured if her dad got killed, she'dleave.

"And let me tell you, folks, Warfield

raised hell with me because Brit Hunterwasn't killed when he pitched over thegrade. He held out on me for that job—soI'm collecting five hundred dollars' worthof fun right now. He did say he'd pay meafter Brit was dead, but it looks like he'sgoing to pull through, so I ain't countingmuch on getting my money outa Warfield.

"Frank I got, and made a clean job of it.And yesterday morning the girl played intomy hands. She rode over to the Sawtooth,and I got her at Thurman's place, on herway home, and figured I'd marry her andtake a chance on keeping her quietafterwards. I'd have been down the Passin another two hours and heading for thenearest county seat. She'd have marriedme, too. She knows I'd have killed her if

she didn't—which I would. I've beensquare with her—she'll tell you that. I toldher, when I took her, just what I was goingto do with her. So that's all straight. She'sbeen scared, I guess, but she ain't gonehungry, and she ain't suffered, except inher mind. I don't fight women, and I'll sayright now, to her and to you, that I've gotall the respect in the world for this littlegirl, and if I'd married her I'd have been asgood to her as I know how, and as she'dlet me be.

"Now I want to tell you folks a few morethings about Bill Warfield. If you want tostop the damnest steal in the country, tie acan onto that irrigation scheme of his. He'sout to hold up the State for all he can get,and bleed the poor devils of farmers

white, that buys land under that canal. Itmay look good, but it ain't good—not by adamn sight.

"Yuh know what he's figuring on doing?Get water in the canal, sell land under acontract that lets him out if the ditchbreaks, or something so he can't supplywater at any time. And when them poorsuckers gets their crops all in, and at thepoint where they've got to have water orlose out, something'll happen to thesupply. Folks, I know! I'm a reliable man,and I've rode with a rope around my neckfor over five years, and Warfield offeredme the same old five hundred every time Imonkeyed with the water supply asordered. He'd have done it slick; don'tworry none about that. The biggest band of

thieves he could get together is thatcompany. So if you folks have got anysense, you'll bust it up right now.

"Bill Warfield, what I've got to say to youwon't take long. You thought you'd make agrand-stand play with the law, and at thesame time put me outa the way. Youfigured I'd resist arrest, and you'd have achance to shoot me down. I know yourrotten mind better than you do. Youwanted to bump me off, but you wanted todo it in a way that'd put you in right withthe public. Killing me for kidnapping thisgirl would sound damn romantic in thenewspapers, and it wouldn't have a thingto do with Thurman or Frank Johnson, orany of the rest that I've sent over the trailfor you.

"Right now you're figuring how you'll getaround this bawling-out I'm giving you.There's nobody to take down what I say,and I'm just a mean, ornery outlaw andkiller, talking for spite. With your pull youexpect to get this smoothed over andhushed up, and have me at a hanging bee,and everything all right for Bill! Well——"

His eyes left Warfield's face and wentbeyond the staring group. His facedarkened, a sneer twisted his lips.

"Who're them others?" he cried harshly."Was you afraid four wouldn't be enoughto take me?"

The four turned heads to look. BillWarfield never looked back, for Al's gun

spoke, and Warfield sagged at the kneesand the shoulders, and he slumped to theground at the instant when Al's gun spokeagain.

"That's for you, Lone Morgan," Al cried,as he fired again. "She talked about you inher sleep last night. She called you Loney,and she wanted you to come and get her. Iwas going to kill you first chance I got. Icoulda loved this little girl. I—could——"

He was down, bleeding and coughing andtrying to talk. Swan had shot him, and twoof the deputies who had been there throughhalf of Al's bitter talk. Lorraine, unable toget up and run, too sturdy of soul to faint,had rolled over and away from him, herlips held tightly together, her eyes wide

with horror. Al crawled after her, his eyespleading.

"Little Spitfire—I shot your Loney—butI'd have been good to you, girl. I watchedyuh all night—and I couldn't help lovingyuh. I—couldn't——" That was all.Within three feet of her, his face towardher and his eyes agonizing to meet hers, hedied.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

ANOTHER STORY BEGINS

This chapter is very much like a preface:it is not absolutely necessary, althoughmany persons will read it and a few willbe glad that it was written.

The story itself is ended. To go on wouldbe to begin another story; to tell of thebuilding up of the Quirt outfit, with Loneand Lone's savings playing a veryimportant part, and with Brit a semi-invalided, retired stockman who smoked

his pipe and told the young couple whatthey should do and how they should do it.

Frank he mourned for and seldommentioned. The Sawtooth, under themanagement of a greatly chastened youngBob Warfield, was slowly winning itsway back to the respect of its neighbors.

For certain personal reasons there was noreal neighborliness between the Quirt andthe Sawtooth. There could not be, so longas Brit's memory remained clear, and Bobwas every day reminded of the crimes hisfather had paid a man to commit.Moreover, Southerners are jealous of theirwomen,—it is their especial prerogative.And Lone suspected that, given theopportunity, Bob Warfield would havefallen in love with Lorraine. Indeed, he

suspected that any man in the countrywould have done that. Al Woodruff had,and he was noted for his indifference towomen and his implacable hardnesstoward men.

But you are not to accuse Lone of being ajealous husband. He was not, and I ammerely pointing out the fact that he mighthave been, had he been given any cause.

Oh, by the way, Swan "proved up" assoon as possible on his homestead andsold out to the Quirt. Lone managed to buythe Thurman ranch also, and the TJ up-and-down is on its feet again as a cattleranch. Sorry and Jim will ride for theQuirt, I suppose, as long as they can crawlinto a saddle, but there are younger mennow to ride the Skyline Meadow range.

Some one asked about Yellowjacket,having, I suppose, a sneaking regard forhis infirmities. He hasn't been peeled yet—or he hadn't, the last I heard of him.Lone and Lorraine told me they weretrying to save him for the "Little Feller" topractise on when he is able to sit upwithout a cushion behind his back, and tohold something besides a rubber rattle.And—oh, do you know how Lone isteaching the Little Feller to sit up on thefloor? He took a horse collar andscrubbed it until he nearly wore out theleather. Then he brought it to the cabin, putit on the floor and set the Little Fellerinside it.

They sent me a snap-shot of the event, butit is not very good. The film was under-

exposed, and nothing was to be seen of theLittle Feller except a hazy spot which Ijudged was a hand, holding a black objectI guessed was the ridgy, rubber rattle withthe whistle gone out of the end,—down theLittle Feller's throat, they are afraid. Andthere was his smile, and a glimpse of hiseyes.

Aren't you envious as sin, and glad they'reso happy?

THE END

NOVELS BY B. M.BOWER

THE RANCH AT THE WOLVERINE

A ringing tale full of exhilaratingcowboy atmosphere, abundantly andabsorbingly illustrating theoutstanding feature of that alluringranch life that is fast vanishing.—Chicago Tribune.

JEAN OF THE LAZY A

A spirited novel of ranch life in which thefascinating heroine poses for film picturesthat she may make money necessary to

prove her father innocent of a crime forwhich he has been convicted.

It possesses all the popularingredients—a quick-action plot,color and picturesqueness aplenty,and an unflagging interest—to befound in Bower's earlier successes.—Philadelphia Public Ledger.

THE PHANTOM HERD

Another western tale in which the HappyFamily become real "movie" actors.

There has been so much truckwritten in the last few years aboutmotion pictures, that it is a positiverelief to find a book by an authorwho knows exactly what to talk

about in an entertaining manner witha knowledge of actual conditions asthey exist.—Boston Post.

THE HERITAGE OF THE SIOUX

A Flying U story in which the HappyFamily get mixed up in a robbery fakedfor film purposes.

Altogether a rattling story, that isbetter in conception and expressionthan the conventional thriller onaccount of its touches of realhumanity in characterization.—Philadelphia Public Ledger.

RIM O' THE WORLD

An engrossing tale of a ranch-feudbetween "gun-fighters" in Idaho.

THE LOOKOUT MAN

A tale of action, excitement and love, fullof the charm of the great outdoors, inwhich the story of the life at a ForestReserve Station on top of a Californiamountain is vividly portrayed.

The signature of B.M. Bower is avaluable trade-mark. It stands forfiction filled with the spirit of ranchlife in the northwest.—BostonHerald.

CABIN FEVER

How Bud Moore and his wife, Marie,fared through their attack of "cabin fever"is the theme of this B.M. Bower story.

The author has put some real

sentiment into a story that gives arapidly filmed "movie" of Westernlife.—Philadelphia Public Ledger.

STARR, OF THE DESERT

A story of mystery, love and adventure,which has a Mexican revolt as its maintheme.

The tale is well written, with thefine art of artlessness, and ofunflagging interest; a book worth thereading which it is sure to get fromevery one who begins it.—NewYork Tribune.

THE FLYING U'S LAST STAND

What happened when a company of schoolteachers and farmers encamped on the

grounds of the Flying U Ranch.

The Northwestern cattle country hasnever had a better chronicler infiction of its deeds and its peoplethan B.M. Bower.—New YorkTimes.

GOOD INDIAN

A story named for its half-breed hero,who dominates this stirring Westernromance.

There is excitement and action onevery page.... A somewhat unusuallove story runs through the book.—Boston Transcript.

THE UPHILL CLIMB

How a cowboy fought the hardest of allbattles—a fight against himself.

Bower knows the West of thecowboys, as do few writers to-day.... The word pictures ofWestern life are realistic, andstrongly suffused with local color.—Philadelphia North American.

LONESOME LAND

A story of modern Montana, giving awholly different phase of life among theranches.

Montana described as it really is, isthe "lonesome land" of this newBower story. A prairie fire and thedeath of the worthless husband are

especially well handled.—A. L. A.Booklist.

SKYRIDER

A cowboy who becomes an aviator is thehero of this new story of Western ranchlife.

An engrossing ranch story with anew note of interest woven into itsbreezy texture.—PhiladelphiaPublic Ledger.

THE THUNDER BIRD

Further aeronautic adventures of"Skyrider" Johnnie Jewel.

"A good story with numberlessthrills and a humorous quality

throughout its pages."—New YorkSun.

LITTLE, BROWN & CO., Publishers,Boston, Mass.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of TheQuirt, by B.M. Bower

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