The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Duke OfChimney Butte, by G. W. Ogden

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Title: The Duke Of Chimney Butte

Author: G. W. Ogden

Illustrator: P.V.E. Ivory

Release Date: August 21, 2009 [EBook#29748]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKTHE DUKE OF CHIMNEY BUTTE ***

Produced by Chris Curnow, Barbara Kosker,Michael and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net

"There's no use to run away fromme," he said[Page 166]

THE DUKE OFCHIMNEY

BUTTE

BY

G. W. OGDENAUTHOR OF

THE LAND OF LAST CHANCE

FRONTISPIECE BY

P. V. E. IVORY

GROSSET & DUNLAPPUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

Copyright

A. C. McClurg & Co.1920

Published April, 1920

Copyrighted in Great Britain

CONTENTSCHAPTER PAGE

I The All-in-One 1

II Whetstone,the Outlaw 18

III An EmptySaddle 39

IV "And Speakin Passing" 47

V Feet uponthe Road 69

VI Allurementsof Glendora 81

VIITheHomeliestMan

95

VIII The Houseon the Mesa 108

IX A Knight-Errant 114

XGuests ofthe BossLady

130

XI Alarms andExcursions 146

XII The Fury ofDoves 166

XIII"No Honorin HerBlood"

185

Notice Is

XIV Served 198

XV Wolves ofthe Range 218

XVIWhetstoneComesHome

238

XVII How ThickIs Blood? 255

XVIII The Rivalryof Cooks 270

XIX TheSentinel 276

XX Business,and More 289

XXI A Test ofLoyalty 302

The Will-

XXII o'-the-Wisp 320XXIII Unmasked 329

XXIV Use for anOld Paper 333

XXV "When SheWakes Up" 345

XXVI Oysters andAmbitions 361

XXVIIEmolumentsandRewards

374

The Duke ofChimney Butte

CHAPTER I

THE ALL-IN-ONE

Down through the Bad Lands the LittleMissouri comes in long windings, white,from a distance, as a frozen river betweenthe ash-gray hills. At its margin there arewillows; on the small forelands, whichflood in June when the mountain watersare released, cottonwoods grow, leaningtoward the southwest like captivesstraining in their bonds, yearning in theirway for the sun and winds of kinderlatitudes.

Rain comes to that land but seldom inthe summer days; in winter the windsweeps the snow into rocky cañons;buttes, with tops leveled by the drift of theold, earth-making days, break the wearyrepetition of hill beyond hill.

But to people who dwell in a land along time and go about the business ofgetting a living out of what it has to offer,its wonders are no longer notable, itshardships no longer peculiar. So it waswith the people who lived in the BadLands at the time that we come amongthem on the vehicle of this tale. To them itwas only an ordinary country of toil anddisappointment, or of opportunity andprofit, according to their station andsuccess.

To Jeremiah Lambert it seemed the landof hopelessness, the last boundary of utterdefeat as he labored over the uneven roadat the end of a blistering summer day,trundling his bicycle at his side. Therewas a suit-case strapped to the handlebarof the bicycle, and in that receptacle werethe wares which this guileless peddler hadcome into that land to sell. He had set outfrom Omaha full of enthusiasm andyouthful vigor, incited to the utmost degreeof vending fervor by the representations ofthe general agent for the little instrumentwhich had been the stepping-stone togreater things for many an ambitious youngman.

According to the agent, Lambertreflected, as he pushed his punctured, lop-

wheeled, disordered, and dejected bicyclealong; there had been none of theambitious business climbers at hand toadd his testimony to the general agent'sword.

Anyway, he had taken the agency, andthe agent had taken his essential twenty-two dollars and turned over to him onehundred of those notable ladders to futuregreatness and affluence. Lambert had themthere in his imitation-leather suit-case—from which the rain had taken the lastdeceptive gloss—minus seven which hehad sold in the course of fifteen days.

In those fifteen days Lambert hadtraveled five hundred miles, by the powerof his own sturdy legs, by the grace of hisbicycle, which had held up until this day

without protest over the long, sandy,rocky, dismal roads, and he had lived onless than a gopher, day taken by day.

Housekeepers were not pining for thecombination potato-parer, apple-corer,can-opener, tack-puller, known as the"All-in-One" in any reasonableproportion.

It did not go. Indisputably it was a goodthing, and well built, and finished like twodollars' worth of cutlery. The sellingprice, retail, was one dollar, and it lookedto an unsophisticated young graduate of anagricultural college to be a better openingtoward independence and the foundationof a farm than a job in the hay fields. Aman must make his start somewhere, andthe farther away from competition the

better his chance.

This country to which the general agenthad sent him was becoming more andmore sparsely settled. The chances werestretching out against him with every mile.The farther into that country he should gothe smaller would become the need forthat marvelous labor-saving invention.

Lambert had passed the last housebefore noon, when his sixty-five-poundbicycle had suffered a punctured tire, andthere had bargained with a Scotch womanat the greasy kitchen door with the smellof curing sheepskins in it for his dinner. Ittook a good while to convince the womanthat the All-in-One was worth it, but sheyielded out of pity for his hungry state.From that house he estimated that he had

made fifteen miles before the tire gaveout; since then he had added ten or twelvemore to the score. Nothing that looked likea house was in sight, and it was coming ondusk.

He labored on, bent in spirit, sore offoot. From the rise of a hill, when it hadfallen so dark that he was in doubt of theroad, he heard a voice singing. And thiswas the manner of the song:

Oh, I bet my money on abob-tailed hoss,

An' a hoo-dah, an' ahoo-dah;

I bet my money on a bob-tailed hoss,

An' a hoo-dah bet onthe bay.

The singer was a man, his voice anaggravated tenor with a shake to it like anaccordion, and he sang that stanza overand over as Lambert leaned on his bicycleand listened.

Lambert went down the hill. Presentlythe shape of trees began to form out of thevalley. Behind that barrier the man wasdoing his singing, his voice now risingclear, now falling to distance as if hepassed to and from, in and out of a door,or behind some object which broke theflow of sound. A whiff of coffee,presently, and the noise of the manbreaking dry sticks, as with his foot,jarring his voice to a deeper tremolo.Now the light, with the legs of the man init, showing a cow-camp, the chuck wagon

in the foreground, the hope of hospitalitybig in its magnified proportions.

Beyond the fire where the singing cookworked, men were unsaddling their horsesand turning them into the corral. Lamberttrundled his bicycle into the firelight,hailing the cook with a cheerful word.

The cook had a tin plate in his hands,which he was wiping on a flour sack. Atsight of this singular combination of manand wheels he leaned forward inastonishment, his song bitten off betweentwo words, the tin plate before his chest,the drying operations suspended.Amazement was on him, if not fright.Lambert put his hand into his hip-pocketand drew forth a shining All-in-One,which he always had ready there to

produce as he approached a door.

He stood there with it in his hand, thefirelight over him, smiling in his mostingratiating fashion. That had been one ofthe strong texts of the general agent.Always meet them with a smile, he said,and leave them with a smile, no matterwhether they deserved it or not. It proveda man's unfaltering confidence in himselfand the article which he presented to theworld.

Lambert was beginning to doubt eventhis paragraph of his general instructions.He had been smiling until he believed hiseye-teeth were wearing thin fromexposure, but it seemed the one thing thathad a grain in it among all the buncombeand bluff. And he stood there smiling at

the camp cook, who seemed to be afraidof him, the tin plate held before hisgizzard like a shield.

There was nothing about Lambert'sappearance to scare anybody, and least ofall a bow-legged man beside a fire in theopen air of the Bad Lands, where thingsare not just as they are in any other part ofthis world at all. His manner was ratherboyish and diffident, and whollyapologetic, and the All-in-One glistenedin his hand like a razor, or a revolver, oranything terrible and destructive that astartled camp cook might make it out tobe.

A rather long-legged young man, incanvas puttees, a buoyant andirrepressible light in his face which the

fatigues and disappointments of the longroad had not dimmed; a light-haired man,with his hat pushed back from hisforehead, and a speckled shirt on him, andtrousers rather tight—that was what thecamp cook saw, standing exactly as he hadturned and posed at Lambert's first word.

Lambert drew a step nearer, and begannegotiations for supper on the basis of aneven exchange.

"Oh, agent, are you?" said the cook,letting out a breath of relief.

"No; peddler."

"I don't know how to tell 'em apart.Well, put it away, son, put it away,whatever it is. No hungry man don't haveto dig up his money to eat in this camp."

This was the kindest reception thatLambert had received since taking to theroad to found his fortunes on the All-in-One. He was quick with his expression ofappreciation, which the cook ignoredwhile he went about the business oflighting two lanterns which he hung on thewagon end.

Men came stringing into the light fromthe noise of unsaddling at the corral withloud and jocund greetings to the cook, andrespectful, even distant and reserved,"evenin's" for the stranger. All of them butthe cook wore cartridge-belts andrevolvers, which they unstrapped and hungabout the wagon as they arrived. All ofthem, that is, but one black-haired, tallyoung man. He kept his weapon on, and

sat down to eat with it close under hishand.

Nine or ten of them sat in at the meal,with a considerable clashing of cutlery ontin plates and cups. It was evident toLambert that his presence exercised arestraint over their customary exchange ofbanter. In spite of the liberality of thecook, and the solicitation on part of hisnumerous hosts to "eat hearty," Lambertcould not help the feeling that he wasaway off on the edge, and that his arrivalhad put a rein on the spirits of these men.

Mainly they were young men likehimself, two or three of them onlybetrayed by gray in beards and hair;brown, sinewy, lean-jawed men, nodissipation showing in their eyes.

Lambert felt himself drawn to them by asense of kinship. He never had been in acow-camp before in his life, but there wassomething in the air of it, in the dignifiedignoring of the evident hardships of such alife that told him he was among his kind.

The cook was a different type of manfrom the others, and seemed to have beenpitched into the game like the last pawn ofa desperate player. He was a short man,thick in the body, heavy in the shoulders,so bow-legged that he weaved from sideto side like a sailor as he went swingingabout his work. It seemed, indeed, that hemust have taken to a horse very early inlife, while his legs were yet plastic, forthey had set to the curve of the animal'sbarrel like the bark on a tree.

His black hair was cut short, all excepta forelock like a horse, leaving his bigears naked and unframed. These turnedaway from his head as if they had beenfrosted and wilted, and if ears ever stoodas an index to generosity in this world thecamp cook's at once pronounced him themost liberal man to be met between themountains and the sea. His features weresmall, his mustache and eyebrows large,his nose sharp and thin, his eyes blue, andas bright and merry as a June day.

He wore a blue wool shirt, new andclean, with a bright scarlet necktie as bigas a hand of tobacco; and a green velvetvest, a galloping horse on his heavy goldwatch-chain, and great, loose, baggycorduroy trousers, like a pirate of the

Spanish Main. These were folded intoexpensive, high-heeled, quilted-toppedboots, and, in spite of his trade, there wasnot a spot of grease or flour on himanywhere to be seen.

Lambert noted the humorous glanceswhich passed from eye to eye, and the slywinks that went round the circle of cross-legged men with tin plates between theirknees as they looked now and then at hisbicycle leaning close by against a tree.But the exactions of hospitality appearedto keep down both curiosity and commentduring the meal. Nobody asked him wherehe came from, what his business was, orwhither he was bound, until the last platewas pitched into the box, the last cupdrained of its black, scalding coffee.

It was one of the elders who took it upthen, after he had his pipe going andLambert had rolled a cigarette from theproffered pouch.

"What kind of a horse is that you'reridin', son?" he inquired.

"Have a look at it," Lambert invited,knowing that the machine was new tomost, if not all, of them. He led the way tothe bicycle, they unlimbering from theirsquatting beside the wagon and following.

He took the case containing hisunprofitable wares from the handlebarsand turned the bicycle over to them,offering no explanations on itspeculiarities or parts, speaking only whenthey asked him, in horse parlance, withhumor that broadened as they put off their

reserve. On invitation to show its gait hemounted it, after explaining that it hadstepped on a nail and traveled lamely. Hecircled the fire and came back to them,offering it to anybody who might want totry his skill.

Hard as they were to shake out of thesaddle, not a man of them, old or young,could mount the rubber-shod steed of thecity streets. All of them gave it up after atumultuous hour of hilarity but the bow-legged cook, whom they called Taterleg.He said he never had laid much claim tobeing a horseman, but if he couldn't ride along-horned Texas steer that went onwheels he'd resign his job.

He took it out into the open, away fromthe immediate danger of a collision with a

tree, and squared himself to break it in. Hegot it going at last, cheered by loudwhoops of admiration and encouragement,and rode it straight into the fire. Hescattered sticks and coals and bore awabbling course ahead, his friends afterhim, shouting and waving hats.Somewhere in the dark beyond thelanterns he ran into a tree.

But he came back pushing the machine,his nose skinned, sweating and triumphant,offering to pay for any damage he haddone. Lambert assured him there was nodamage. They sat down to smoke again,all of them feeling better, the barrieragainst the stranger quite down, everythingcomfortable and serene.

Lambert told them, in reply to kindly,

polite questioning from the elder of thebunch, a man designated by the nameSiwash, how he was lately graduated fromthe Kansas Agricultural College atManhattan, and how he had taken the roadwith a grip full of hardware to get enoughballast in his jeans to keep the winterwind from blowing him away.

"Yes, I thought that was a college hatyou had on," said Siwash.

Lambert acknowledged its weakness.

"And that shirt looked to me from thefirst snort I got at it like a college shirt. Iused to be where they was at one time."

Lambert explained that an aggie wasn'tthe same as a regular college fellow, suchas they turn loose from the big factories in

the East, where they thicken their tonguesto the broad a and call it an education;nothing like that, at all. He went into thedetails of the great farms manned by thestudents, the bone-making, as well as thebrain-making work of such an institutionas the one whose shadows he had latelyleft.

"I ain't a-findin' any fault with themfarmer colleges," Siwash said. "I workedfor a man in Montanny that sent his boy offto one of 'em, and that feller come backand got to be state vet'nary. I ain't gotnothing ag'in' a college hat, as far as thatgoes, neither, but I know 'em when I see'em—I can spot 'em every time. Will youlet us see them Do-it-Alls?"

Lambert produced one of the little

implements, explained its points, and itpassed from hand to hand, with commentswhich would have been worth gold to thegeneral agent.

"It's a toothpick and a tater-peeler puttogether," said Siwash, when it came backto his hand. The young fellow with theblack, sleek hair, who kept his gun on,reached for it, bent over it in the light,examining it with interest.

"You can trim your toenails with it andhalf-sole your boots," he said. "You canshave with it and saw wood, pull teethand brand mavericks; you can open abottle or a bank with it, and you can openthe hired gal's eyes with it in the mornin'.It's good for the old and the young, for thecrippled and the in-sane; it'll heat your

house and hoe your garden, and put thechildren to bed at night. And it's made andsold and distributed by Mr.—Mr.—by theDuke——"

Here he bent over it a little closer,turning it in the light to see what wasstamped in the metal beneath the words"The Duke," that being the name denotingexcellence which the manufacturer hadgiven the tool.

"By the Duke of—the Duke of—is themthree links of saursage, Siwash?"

Siwash looked at the triangle under thename.

"No, that's Indian writin'; it means amountain," he said.

"Sure, of course, I might 'a' knowed,"

the young man said with deep self-scorn."That's a butte, that's old Chimney Butte,as plain as smoke. Made and sold anddistributed in the Bad Lands by the Dukeof Chimney Butte. Duke," said hesolemnly, rising and offering his hand,"I'm proud to know you."

There was no laughter at this; it was nottime to laugh yet. They sat looking at theyoung man, primed and ready for the biglaugh, indeed, but holding it in for itsmoment. As gravely as the cowboy hadrisen, as solemnly as he held hiscountenance in mock seriousness, Lambertrose and shook hands with him.

"The pleasure is mostly mine," said he,not a flush of embarrassment or resentmentin his face, not a quiver of the eyelid as he

looked the other in the face, as if this weresome high and mighty occasion, in truth.

"And you're all right, Duke, you're sureall right," the cowboy said, a note ofadmiration in his voice.

"I'd bet you money he's all right,"Siwash said, and the others echoed it innods and grins.

The cowboy sat down and rolled acigarette, passed his tobacco across toLambert, and they smoked. And no matterif his college hat had been only half as bigas it was, or his shirt ring-streaked andspotted, they would have known thestranger for one of their kind, andaccepted him as such.

CHAPTER II

WHETSTONE, THEOUTLAW

When Taterleg roused the camp beforethe east was light, Lambert noted thatanother man had ridden in. This was awiry young fellow with a short nose andfiery face, against which his scanteyebrows and lashes were as white aschalk.

His presence in the camp seemed to puta restraint on the spirits of the others,

some of whom greeted him by the nameJim, others ignoring him entirely. Amongthese latter was the black-haired man whohad given Lambert his title and elevatedhim to the nobility of the Bad Lands. Onthe face of it there was a crow to bepicked between them.

Jim was belted with a pistol and heeledwith a pair of those long-roweledMexican spurs, such as had gone out offashion on the western range long beforehis day. He leaned on his elbow near thefire, his legs stretched out in a way thatobliged Taterleg to walk round thespurred boots as he went between hiscooking and the supplies in the wagon, thetailboard of which was his kitchen table.

If Taterleg resented this lordly

obstruction, he did not discover it byword or feature. He went on humming atune without words as he worked, handingout biscuits and ham to the hungry crew.Jim had eaten his breakfast already, andwas smoking a cigarette at his ease. Nowand then he addressed somebody inobscene jocularity.

Lambert saw that Jim turned his eyes onhim now and then with sneering contempt,but said nothing. When the men had madea hasty end of their breakfast three of themstarted to the corral. The young man whohad humorously enumerated the virtues ofthe All-in-One, whom the others calledSpence, was of this number. He turnedback, offering Lambert his hand with asmile.

"I'm glad I met you, Duke, and I hopeyou'll do well wherever you travel," hesaid, with such evident sincerity and goodfeeling that Lambert felt like he wasparting from a friend.

"Thanks, old feller, and the same toyou."

Spence went on to saddle his horse,whistling as he scuffed through the lowsage. Jim sat up.

"I'll make you whistle through yourribs," he snarled after him.

It was Sunday. These men whoremained in camp were enjoying theinfrequent luxury of a day off. With thefirst gleam of morning they got out theirrazors and shaved, and Siwash, who

seemed to be the handy man and chiefcounselor of the outfit, cut everybody'shair, with the exception of Jim, who hadjust returned from somewhere on the train,and still had the scent of the barber-shopon him, and Taterleg, who had masteredthe art of shingling himself, and kept hishand in by constant practice.

Lambert mended his tire, using an oldrubber boot that Taterleg found kickingaround camp to plug the big holes in hisouter tube. He was for going on then, butSiwash and the others pressed him to stayover the day, to which invitation heyielded without great argument.

There was nothing ahead of him butdesolation, said Taterleg, a country sorough that it tried a horse to travel it.

Ranchhouses were farther apart as a manproceeded, and beyond that, mountains. Itlooked to Taterleg as if he'd better give itup.

That was so, according to the opinionof Siwash. To his undoubted knowledge,covering the history of twenty-four years,no agent ever had penetrated that farbefore. Having broken this record on abicycle, Lambert ought to be satisfied. Ifhe was bound to travel, said Siwash, hisadvice would be to travel back.

It seemed to Lambert that the bottomwas all out of his plans, indeed. It wouldbe far better to chuck the whole schemeoverboard and go to work as a cowboy ifthey would give him a job. That wasnearer the sphere of his intended future

activities; that was getting down to theroot and foundation of a business whichhad a ladder in it whose rungs were notmade of any general agent's hot air.

After his hot and heady way of quickdecisions and planning to completionbefore he even had begun, Lambert wasgalloping the Bad Lands as superintendentof somebody's ranch, having made theleap over all the trifling years, with theirtrifling details of hardship, low wages,loneliness, and isolation in a wink. Fromsuperintendent he galloped swiftly on hisfancy to a white ranchhouse by some calmriverside, his herds around him, his bighat on his head, market quotations comingto him by telegraph every day, packersappealing to him to ship five trainloads at

once to save their government contracts.

What is the good of an imagination if aman cannot ride it, and feel the wind in hisface as he flies over the world? Eventhough it is a liar and a trickster, and arifler of time which a drudge of successwould be stamping into gold, it is betterfor a man than wine. He can return fromhis wide excursions with no deeper injurythan a sigh.

Lambert came back to the reality,broaching the subject of a job. Here Jimtook notice and cut into the conversation,it being his first word to the stranger.

"Sure you can git a job, bud," he said,coming over to where Lambert sat withSiwash and Taterleg, the latter peelingpotatoes for a stew, somebody having

killed a calf. "The old man needs a coupleof hands; he told me to keep my eye openfor anybody that wanted a job."

"I'm glad to hear of it," said Lambert,warming up at the news, feeling that hemust have been a bit severe in hisjudgment of Jim, which had not beenaltogether favorable.

"He'll be over in the morning; you'dbetter hang around."

Seeing the foundation of a new fortunetaking shape, Lambert said he would"hang around." They all applauded hisresolution, for they all appeared to likehim in spite of his appearance, which wasdistinctive, indeed, among the sombercolors of that sage-gray land.

Jim inquired if he had a horse, thegrowing interest of a friend in his manner.Hearing the facts of the case from Lambert—before dawn he had heard them fromTaterleg—he appeared concerned almostto the point of being troubled.

"You'll have to git you a horse, Duke;you'll have to ride up to the boss when youhit him for a job. He never was known tohire a man off the ground, and I guess ifyou was to head at him on that bicycle,he'd blow a hole through you as big as acan of salmon. Any of you fellers got ahorse you want to trade the Duke for hisbicycle?"

The inquiry brought out a round ofsomewhat cloudy witticism, withproposals to Lambert for an exchange on

terms rather embarrassing to meet, seeingthat even the least preposterous was notsincere. Taterleg winked to assure himthat it was all banter, without a bit of harmat the bottom of it, which Lambertunderstood very well without the servicesof a commentator.

Jim brightened up presently, as if hesaw a gleam that might lead Lambert outof the difficulty. He had an extra horsehimself, not much of a horse to look at, butas good-hearted a horse as a man everthrowed a leg over, and that wasn't no lie,if you took him the right side on. But youhad to take him the right side on, andhumor him, and handle him like eggs tillhe got used to you. Then you had as purtya little horse as a man ever throwed a leg

over, anywhere.

Jim said he'd offer that horse, only hew a s a little bashful in the presence ofstrangers—meaning the horse—and didn'tshow up in a style to make his ownerproud of him. The trouble with that horsewas he used to belong to a one-leggedman, and got so accustomed to the feel ofa one-legged man on him that he wasplumb foolish between two legs.

That horse didn't have much style tohim, and no gait to speak of; but he was asgood a cow-horse as ever chawed a bit. Ifthe Duke thought he'd be able to ride him,he was welcome to him. Taterleg winkedwhat Lambert interpreted as a warning atthat point, and in the faces of the othersthere were little gleams of humor, which

they turned their heads, or bent to study theground, as Siwash did, to hide.

"Well, I'm not much on a horse,"Lambert confessed.

"You look like a man that'd been on ahorse a time or two," said Jim, with aknowing inflection, a shrewd flattery.

"I used to ride around a little, but that'sbeen a good while ago."

"A feller never forgits how to ride,"Siwash put in; "and if a man wants towork on the range, he's got to ride 'less'nhe goes and gits a job runnin' sheep, andthat's below any man that is a man."

Jim sat pondering the question, handshooked in front of his knees, a match in hismouth beside his unlighted cigarette.

"I been thinkin' I'd sell that horse," saidhe reflectively. "Ain't got no use for himmuch; but I don't know."

He looked off over the chuck wagon,through the tops of the scrub pines inwhich the camp was set, drawing his thin,white eyebrows, considering the case.

"Winter comin' on and hay to buy," saidSiwash.

"That's what I've been thinkin' andstudyin' over. Shucks! I don't need thathorse. I tell you what I'll do, Duke"—turning to Lambert, brisk as with a gush ofsudden generosity—"if you can ride thatold pelter, I'll give him to you for apresent. And I bet you'll not git as cheapan offer of a horse as that ever in your lifeag'in."

"I think it's too generous—I wouldn'twant to take advantage of it," Lambert toldhi m, trying to show a modesty in thematter that he did not feel.

"I ain't a-favorin' you, Duke; not adollar. If I needed that horse, I'd hang ontohim, and you wouldn't git him a cent underthirty-five bucks; but when a man don'tneed a horse, and it's a expense on him, hecan afford to give it away—he can give itaway and make money. That's what I'm a-doin', if you want to take me up."

"I'll take a look at him, Jim."

Jim got up with eagerness, and went tofetch a saddle and bridle from under thewagon. The others came into thetransaction with lively interest. OnlyTaterleg edged round to Lambert, and

whispered with his head turned away tolook like innocence:

"Watch out for him—he's a bal'-facedhyeeny!"

They trooped off to the corral, whichwas a temporary enclosure made of wirerun among the little pines. Jim brought thehorse out. It stood tamely enough to besaddled, with head drooping indifferently,and showed no deeper interest and noresentment over the operation of bridling,Jim talking all the time he worked, like thefaker that he was, to draw off a too-closeinspection of his wares.

"Old Whetstone ain't much to look at,"he said, "and as I told you, Mister, he ain'tgot no fancy gait; but he can bust themiddle out of the breeze when he lays out

a straight-ahead run. Ain't a horse on thisrange can touch his tail when oldWhetstone throws a ham into it and letsout his stren'th."

"He looks like he might go some,"Lambert commented in the vacuous way ofa man who felt that he must say something,even though he didn't know anything aboutit.

Whetstone was rather above the statureof the general run of range horses, withclean legs and a good chest. But he was ahammer-headed, white-eyed, short-manedbeast, of a pale water-color yellow, likean old dish. He had a beaten-down,bedraggled, and dispirited look about him,as if he had carried men's burdens beyondhis strength for a good while, and had no

heart in him to take the road again. He hada scoundrelly way of rolling his eyes towatch all that went on about him withoutturning his head.

Jim girthed him and cinched him,soundly and securely, for no matter whowas pitched off and smashed up in thatride, he didn't want the saddle to turn andbe ruined.

"Well, there he stands, Duke, andsaddle and bridle goes with him if you'reable to ride him. I'll be generous; I won'tgo half-way with you; I'll be whole hog ornone. Saddle and bridle goes withWhetstone, all a free gift, if you can ridehim, Duke. I want to start you up right."

It was a safe offer, taking all precedentinto account, for no man ever had ridden

Whetstone, not even his owner. The beastwas an outlaw of the most pronouncedtype, with a repertory of tricks, calculatedto get a man off his back, so extensive thathe never seemed to repeat. He stoodalways as docilely as a camel to besaddled and bridled, with what method inthis apparent docility no man versed inhorse philosophy ever had been able toreason out. Perhaps it was that he hadbeen born with a spite against man, andthis was his scheme for luring him on tohis discomfiture and disgrace.

It was an expectant little group thatstood by to witness this greenhorn's riseand fall. According to his establishedmethods, Whetstone would allow him tomount, still standing with that indifferent

droop to his head. But one who was sharpwould observe that he was rolling his oldwhite eyes back to see, tipping his sharpear like a wildcat to hear every scrapeand creak of the leather. Then, with theman in the saddle, nobody knew what hewould do.

That uncertainty was what madeWhetstone valuable and interestingbeyond any outlaw in the world. Mengrew accustomed to the tricks of ordinarypitching broncos, in time, and the noveltyand charm were gone. Besides, therenearly always was somebody who couldride the worst of them. Not so Whetstone.He had won a good deal of money for Jim,and everybody in camp knew that thirty-five dollars wasn't more than a third of the

value that his owner put upon him.

There was boundless wonder amongthem, then, and no little admiration, whenthis stranger who had come into thatunlikely place on a bicycle leaped into thesaddle so quickly that old Whetstone wastaken completely by surprise, and heldhim with such a strong hand and stiff reinthat his initiative was taken from him.

The greenhorn's next maneuver was toswing the animal round till he lost hishead, then clap heels to him and send himoff as if he had business for the day laidout ahead of him.

It was the most amazing start thatanybody ever had been known to make onWhetstone, and the most startling andenjoyable thing about it was that this

strange, overgrown boy, with his openface and guileless speech, had playedthem all for a bunch of suckers, and knewmore about riding in a minute than theyever had learned in their lives.

Jim Wilder stood by, swearing by allhis obscene deities that if that man hurtWhetstone, he'd kill him for his hide. Buthe began to feel better in a little while.Hope, even certainty, picked up again.Whetstone was coming to himself.Perhaps the old rascal had only beenelaborating his scheme a little at the start,and was now about to show them that theirfaith in him was not misplaced.

The horse had come to a sudden stop,legs stretched so wide that it seemed as ifhe surely must break in the middle. But he

gathered his feet together so quickly thatthe next view presented him with his backarched like a fighting cat's. And there ontop of him rode the Duke, his small brownhat in place, his gay shirt ruffling in thewind.

After that there came, so quickly that itmade the mind and eye hasten to follow,all the tricks that Whetstone ever had triedin his past triumphs over men; and throughall of them, sharp, shrewd, unexpected,startling as some of them were, that littlebrown hat rode untroubled on top. OldWhetstone was as wet at the end of tenminutes as if he had swum a river. Hegrunted with anger as he heaved andlashed, he squealed in his resentfulpassion as he swerved, lunged, pitched,

and clawed the air.

The little band of spectators cheered theDuke, calling loudly to inform him that hewas the only man who ever had stuck thatlong. The Duke waved his hat inacknowledgement, and put it back on withdeliberation and exactness, while oldWhetstone, as mad as a wet hen, tried toroll down suddenly and crush his legs.

Nothing to be accomplished by that oldtrick. The Duke pulled him up with awrench that made him squeal, andWhetstone, lifted off his forelegs,attempted to complete the backward turnand catch his tormentor under the saddle.But that was another trick so old that thesimplest horseman knew how to meet it.The next thing he knew, Whetstone was

galloping along like a gentleman, justwind enough in him to carry him, not anounce to spare.

Jim Wilder was swearing himself blue.It was a trick, an imposition, he declared.No circus-rider could come there andabuse old Whetstone that way and live toeat his dinner. Nobody appeared to sharehis view of it. They were a unit indeclaring that the Duke beat any manhandling a horse they ever saw. IfWhetstone didn't get him off pretty soon,he would be whipped and conquered, hisbelly on the ground.

"If he hurts that horse I'll blow a hole inhim as big as a can of salmon!" Jimdeclared.

"Take your medicine like a man, Jim,"

Siwash advised. "You might knowsomebody'd come along that'd ride him, intime."

"Yes, come along!" said Jim with asneer.

Whetstone had begun to collect himselfo ut on the flat among the sagebrush aquarter of a mile away. The frenzy ofdesperation was in him. He was resortingto the raw, low, common tricks of theordinary outlaw, even to biting at hisrider's legs. That ungentlemanly behaviorwas costly, as he quickly learned, at theexpense of a badly cut mouth. He neverhad met a rider before who had energy tospare from his efforts to stick in the saddleto slam him a big kick in the mouth whenhe doubled himself to make that vicious

snap. The sound of that kick carried to thecorral.

"I'll fix you for that!" Jim swore.

He was breathing as hard as his horse,sweat of anxiety running down his face.The Duke was bringing the horse back, hisspirit pretty well broken, it appeared.

"What do you care what he does tohim? It ain't your horse no more."

It was Taterleg who said that, standingnear Jim, a little way behind him, asgorgeous as a bridegroom in the brightsun.

"You fellers can't ring me in on no gamelike that and beat me out of my horse!"said Jim, redder than ever in his passion.

"Who do you mean, rung you in, youlittle, flannel-faced fiste?"[1] Siwashdemanded, whirling round on him withblood in his eye.

Jim was standing with his legs apart,bent a little at the knees, as if he intendedto make a jump. His right hand was nearthe butt of his gun, his fingers wereclasping and unclasping, as if he limberedthem for action. Taterleg slipped upbehind him on his toes, and jerked the gunfrom Jim's scabbard with quick and surehand. He backed away with it, presentingit with determined mien as Jim turned onhim and cursed him by all his lurid gods.

"If you fight anybody in this camptoday, Jim, you'll fight like a man," saidTaterleg, "or you'll hobble out of it on

three legs, like a wolf."

The Duke was riding old Whetstonelike a feather, letting him have his spurtsof kicking and stiff-legged bouncingwithout any effort to restrain him at all.There wasn't much steam in the outlaw'santics now; any common man could haveridden him without losing his hat.

Jim had drawn apart from the others,resentful of the distrust that Taterleg hadshown, but more than half of his courageand bluster taken away from him with hisgun. He was swearing more volubly thanever to cover his other deficiencies; but hewas a man to be feared only when he hadhis weapon under his hand.

The Duke had brought the horse almostback to camp when the animal was taken

with an extraordinarily vicious spasm ofpitching, broken by sudden efforts to flinghimself down and roll over on hispersistent rider. The Duke let him have ithis way, all but the rolling, for a while;then he appeared to lose patience with thestubborn beast. He headed him into theopen, laid the quirt to him, and gallopedtoward the hills.

"That's the move—run the devil out ofhim," said one.

The Duke kept him going, and going forall there was in him. Horse and rider weredim in the dust of the heated race againstthe evil passion, the untamed demon, inthe savage creature's heart. It began tolook as if Lambert never intended to comeback. Jim saw it that way. He came over

to Taterleg as hot as a hornet.

"Give me that gun—I'm goin' after him!"

"You'll have to go without it, Jim."

Jim blasted him to sulphurous perdition,and split him with forked lightning fromhis blasphemous tongue.

"He'll come back; he's just runnin' thevinegar out of him," said one.

"Come back—hell!" said Jim.

"If he don't come back, that's hisbusiness. A man can go wherever hewants to go on his own horse, I guess."

That was the observation of Siwash,standing there rather glum and out of tuneover Jim's charge that they had rung theDuke in on him to beat him out of his

animal.

"It was a put-up job! I'll split that fellerlike a hog!"

Jim left them with that declaration ofhis benevolent intention, hurrying to thecorral where his horse was, his saddle onthe ground by the gate. They watched himsaddle, and saw him mount and ride afterthe Duke, with no comment on his actionsat all.

The Duke was out of sight in the scrubtimber at the foot of the hills, but his duststill floated like the wake of a swift boat,showing the way he had gone.

"Yes, you will!" said Taterleg.

Meaningless, irrelevant, as thatfragmentary ejaculation seemed, the others

understood. They grinned, and twistedwise heads, spat out their tobacco, andwent back to dinner.

FOOTNOTE:

Fice—dog.

CHAPTER III

AN EMPTY SADDLE

The Duke was seen coming back beforethe meal was over, across the little plainbetween camp and hills. A quarter of amile behind him Jim Wilder rode, whetherseen or unseen by the man in the lead theydid not know.

Jim had fallen behind somewhat by thetime the Duke reached camp. Theadmiration of all hands over this triumphagainst horseflesh and the devil within it

was so great that they got up to welcomethe Duke, and shake hands with him as heleft the saddle. He was as fresh andnimble, unshaken and serene, as when hemounted old Whetstone more than an hourbefore.

Whetstone was a conquered beast,beyond any man's doubt. He stood withflaring nostrils, scooping in his breath, nota dry hair on him, not a dash of vinegar inhis veins.

"Where's Jim?" the Duke inquired.

"Comin'," Taterleg replied, waving hishand afield.

"What's he doin' out there—where's hebeen?" the Duke inquired, a puzzled lookin his face, searching their sober

countenances for his answer.

"He thought you——"

"Let him do his own talkin', kid," saidSiwash, cutting off the cowboy'sexplanation.

Siwash looked at the Duke shrewdly,his head cocked to one side like a robinlistening for a worm.

"What outfit was you with before youstarted out sellin' them tooth-puller-can-opener machines, son?" he inquired.

"Outfit? What kind of an outfit?"

"Ranch, innercence; what range wasyou ridin' on?"

"I never rode any range, I'm sorry tosay."

"Well, where in the name of mustarddid you learn to ride?"

"I used to break range horses for fivedollars a head at the Kansas CityStockyards. That was a good while ago;I'm all out of practice now."

"Yes, and I bet you can throw a rope,too."

"Nothing to speak of."

"Nothing to speak of! Yes, I'll bet younothing to speak of!"

Jim didn't stop at the corral to turn inhis horse, but came clattering into camp,madder for the race that the Duke had ledhim in ignorance of his pursuit, as everyman could see. He flung himself out of thesaddle with a flip like a bird taking to the

wing, his spurs cutting the ground as hecame over to where Lambert stood.

"Maybe you can ride my horse, youdamn granger, but you can't ride me!" hesaid.

He threw off his vest as he spoke, thatbeing his only superfluous garment, andbowed his back for a fight. Lambertlooked at him with a flush of indignantcontempt spreading in his face.

"You don't need to get sore about it; Ionly took you up at your own game," hesaid.

"No circus-ringer's goin' to come inhere and beat me out of my horse. You'lleither put him back in that corral or you'llchaw leather with me!"

"I'll put him back in the corral when I'mready, but I'll put him back as mine. I wonhim on your own bet, and it'll take a wholelot better man than you to take him awayfrom me."

In the manner of youth andindependence, Lambert got hotter withevery word, and after that there wasn'tmuch room for anything else to be said oneither side. They mixed it, and they mixedit briskly, for Jim's contempt for a manwho wore a hat like that supplied thecourage that had been drained from himwhen he was disarmed.

There was nothing epic in that fight,nothing heroic at all. It was a wildcatstruggle in the dust, no more science oneither side than nature put into their hands

at the beginning. But they surely did kickup a lot of dust. It would have been apeaceful enough little fight, with ahandshake at the end and all over in anhour, very likely, if Jim hadn't managed toget out his knife when he felt himself in fora trimming.

It was a mean-looking knife, with abuck-horn handle and a four-inch bladethat leaped open on pressure of a spring.Its type was widely popular all over theWest in those days, but one of them wouldbe almost a curiosity now. But Jim had itout, anyhow, lying on his back with theDuke's knee on his ribs, and was whittlingaway before any man could raise a hand tostop him.

The first slash split the Duke's cheek for

two inches just below his eye; the nexttore his shirt sleeve from shoulder toelbow, grazing the skin as it passed. Andthere somebody kicked Jim's elbow andknocked the knife out of his hand.

"Let him up, Duke," he said.

Lambert released the strangle hold thathe had taken on Jim's throat and lookedup. It was Spence, standing there with hishorse behind him. He laid his hand onLambert's shoulder.

"Let him up, Duke," he said again.

Lambert got up, bleeding a cataract. Jimbounced to his feet like a spring, his handto his empty holster, a look of dismay inhis blanching face.

"That's your size, you nigger!" Spence

said, kicking the knife beyond Jim's reach."That's the kind of a low-down cuss youalways was. This man's our guest, andwhen you pull a knife on him you pull it onme!"

"You know I ain't got a gun on me, you——"

"Git it, you sneakin' houn'!"

Jim looked round for Taterleg.

"Where's my gun? you greasypotslinger!"

"Give it to him, whoever's got it."

Taterleg produced it. Jim began backingoff as soon as he had it in his hand,watching Spence alertly. Lambert leapedbetween them.

"Gentlemen, don't go to shootin' over alittle thing like this!" he begged.

Taterleg came between them, also, andSiwash, quite blocking up the fairway.

"Now, boys, put up your guns; this isSunday, you know," Siwash said.

"Give me room, men!" Spencecommanded, in voice that trembled withpassion, with the memory of old quarrels,old wrongs, which this last insult to thecamp's guest gave the excuse for wipingout. There was something in his tone not tobe denied; they fell out of his path as if thewind had blown them. Jim fired, hiselbow against his ribs.

Too confident of his own speed, orforgetting that Wilder already had his

weapon out, Spence crumpled at theknees, toppled backward, fell. His pistol,half-drawn, dropped from the holster andlay at his side. Wilder came a step nearerand fired another shot into the fallen man'sbody, dead as he must have known him tobe. He ran on to his horse, mounted, androde away.

Some of the others hurried to the wagonafter their guns. Lambert, for a momentshocked to the heart by the sudden horrorof the tragedy, bent over the body of theman who had taken up his quarrel withouteven knowing the merits of it, or whosefault lay at the beginning. A look into hisface was enough to tell that there wasnothing within the compass of this earththat could bring back life to that strong,

young body, struck down in a breath like abroken vase. He looked up. Jim Wilderwas bending in the saddle as he rodeswiftly away, as if he expected them toshoot. A great fire of resentment for thisman's destructive deed swept over him,hotter than the hot blood wasting from hiswounded cheek. The passion of vengeancewrenched his joints, his hand shook andgrew cold, as he stooped again to unfastenthe belt about his friend's dead body.

Armed with the weapon that had beendrawn a fraction of a second too late,drawn in the chivalrous defense ofhospitality, the high courtesy of anobligation to a stranger, Lambert mountedthe horse that had come to be his at theprice of this tragedy, and galloped in

pursuit of the fleeing man.

Some of the young men were hurrying tothe corral, belting on their guns as they ranto fetch their horses and join the pursuit.Siwash called them back.

"Leave it to him, boys; it's his byrights," he said.

Taterleg stood looking after the tworiders, the hindmost drawing steadily uponthe leader, and stood looking so until theydisappeared in the timber at the base ofthe hills.

"My God!" said he. And again, after alittle while: "My God!"

It was dusk when Lambert came back,leading Jim Wilder's horse. There wasblood on the empty saddle.

CHAPTER IV

"AND SPEAK INPASSING"

The events of that Sunday introducedLambert into the Bad Lands andestablished his name and fame. Withinthree months after going to work for theSyndicate ranch he was known for ahundred miles around as the man who hadbroken Jim Wilder's outlaw and won thehorse by that unparalleled feat.

That was the prop to his fame—that he

had broken Jim Wilder's outlaw. Certainlyhe was admired and commended for theunhesitating action he had taken inavenging the death of his friend, but in thathe had done only what was expected ofany man worthy the name. Breaking theoutlaw was a different matter entirely. Indoing that he had accomplished what wasbelieved to be beyond the power of anyliving man.

According to his own belief, his ownconscience, Lambert had made a bad start.A career that had its beginning incontentions and violence, enough of itcrowded into one day to make more thanthe allotment of an ordinary life, could notterminate with any degree of felicity andhonor. They thought little of killing a man

in that country, it seemed; no more than aperfunctory inquiry, to fulfill the letter ofthe law, had been made by the authoritiesinto Jim Wilder's death.

While it relieved him to know that thelaw held his justification to be ample,there was a shadow following him whichhe could not evade in any of the hilariousdiversions common to those wild souls ofthe range.

It troubled him that he had killed a man,even in a fair fight in the open field withthe justification of society at his back. Inhis sleep it harried him with visions;awake, it oppressed him like a sorrow, orthe memory of a shame. He becamesolemn and silent as a chastened man,seldom smiling, laughing never.

When he drank with his companions inthe little saloon at Misery, the loadingstation on the railroad, he took his liquoras gravely as the sacrament; when heraced them he rode with face grim as anIndian, never whooping in victory, neverswearing in defeat.

He had left even his own lawful andproper name behind him with his past. Farand near he was known as the Duke ofChimney Butte, shortened in cases ofdirect address to "Duke." He didn't resentit, rather took a sort of grim pride in it,although he felt at times that it was onemore mark of his surrender tocircumstances whose current he mighthave avoided at the beginning by theexercise of a proper man's sense.

A man was expected to drink a gooddeal of the overardent spirits which weresold at Misery. If he could drink withoutbecoming noisy, so much the more to hiscredit, so much higher he stood in theestimation of his fellows as a copper-bottomed sport of the true blood. TheDuke could put more of that notoriouswhisky under cover, and still containhimself, than any man they ever had seenin Misery. The more he drank the glummerhe became, but he never had been knowneither to weep or curse.

Older men spoke to him with respect,yo unge r ones approached him withadmiration, unable to understand whatkind of a safety-valve a man had on hismouth that would keep his steam in when

that Misery booze began to sizzle in hispipes. His horse was a subject of interestalmost equal to himself.

Under his hand old Whetstone—although not more than seven—haddeveloped unexpected qualities. When theanimal's persecution ceased, hisperversity fled. He grew into a well-conditioned creature, sleek of coat,beautiful of tail as an Arab barb, bright ofeye, handsome to behold. His speed andendurance were matters of as much note ashis outlawry had been but a little whilebefore, and his intelligence was somethingalmost beyond belief.

Lambert had grown exceedingly fond ofhim, holding him more in the estimation ofa companion than the valuation of a dumb

creature of burden. When they rode thelong watches at night he talked to him, andWhetstone would put back his sensitiveear and listen, and toss his head in joyfulappreciation of his master's confidenceand praise.

Few horses had beaten Whetstone in arace since he became the Duke's property.It was believed that none on that rangecould do it if the Duke wanted to put himto his limit. It was said that the Duke lostonly such races as he felt necessary to thecontinuance of his prosperity.

Racing was one of the main diversionswhen the cowboys from the surroundingranches met at Misery on a Sundayafternoon, or when loading cattle there.Few trains stopped at Misery, a

circumstance resented by the cowboys,who believed the place should be asimportant to all the world as it was tothem. To show their contempt for thisaloof behavior they usually raced thetrains, frequently outrunning thosewestward bound as they labored up thelong grade.

Freight trains especially they tookdelight in beating, seeing how it nettledthe train crews. There was nothing moredelightful in any program of amusementthat a cowboy could conceive than ridingabreast of a laboring freight engine, thesulky engineer crowding every pound ofpower into the cylinders, the sootyfireman humping his back throwing incoal. Only one triumph would have been

sweeter—to outrun the big passenger trainfrom Chicago with the brass-fenced car atthe end.

No man ever had done that yet, althoughmany had tried. The engineers all knewwhat to expect on a Sunday afternoonwhen they approached Misery, where thecowboys came through the fence andraced the trains on the right-of-way. Along, level stretch of soft gray earth, setwith bunches of grass here and there,began a mile beyond the station, unmarredby steam-shovel or grader's scraper. Aman could ride it with his eyes shut; ahorse could cover it at its best.

That was the racing ground over whichthey had contended with the Chicago-Puget Sound flier for many years, and a

place which engineers and firemenprepared to pass quickly while yet aconsiderable distance away. It was a sightto see the big engine round the curvebelow, its plume of smoke rising straightfor twenty feet, streaming back like arunning girl's hair, the cowboys all set intheir saddles, waiting to go.

Engineers on the flier were not so sulkyabout it, knowing that the race was theirsbefore it was run. Usually they leaned outof the window and urged the riders onwith beckoning, derisive hand, while thefireman stood by grinning, confident of thehead of steam he had begun storing for thisemergency far down the road.

Porters told passengers about thesewild horsemen in advance, and eager

faces lined the windows on that side of thecars as they approached Misery, and allwho could pack on the end of theobservation car assembled there. In spiteof its name, Misery was quite acomfortable break in the day's monotonyfor travelers on a Sunday afternoon.

Amid the hardships and scantdiversions of this life, Lambert spent hisfirst winter in the Bad Lands, drinking inthe noisy revels at Misery, riding the long,bitter miles back to the ranch, despisinghimself for being so mean and low. It wasa life in which a man's soul would eithershrink to nothing or expand until it becametoo large to find contentment within thehorizon of such an existence.

Some of them expanded up to the size

for ranch owners, superintendents, bosses;stopped there, set in their mold. Lambertnever had heard of one stretching so widethat he was drawn out of himself entirely,his eyes fixed on the far light of a noblerlife. He liked to imagine a man so inspiredout of the lonely watches, the stormyrides, the battle against blizzard and night.

This train of thought had carried himaway that gentle spring day as he rode toMisery. He resented the thought that hemight have to spend his youth as a hiredservant in this rough occupation,unremunerative below the hope of evergaining enough to make a start in businessfor himself. There was no romance in it,for all that had been written, no beautifuldaughter of the ranch owner to be married,

and a fortune gained with her.

Daughters there must be, indeed, amongthe many stockholders in that big business,but they were not available in the BadLands. The superintendent of the ranch hadthree or four, born to that estate, full ofloud laughter, ordinary as baled hay. Aman would be a loser in marrying such asthey, even with a fortune ready made.

What better could that rough countryoffer? People are no gentler than theirpursuits, no finer than the requirements oftheir lives. Daughters of the Bad Lands,such as he had seen of them in the wivesto whom he once had tried to sell the All-in-One, and the superintendent's girlswere not intended for any other life. Asfor him, if he had to live it out there, with

the shadow of a dead man at his heels, hewould live it alone. So he thought, goingon his way to Misery, where there was tobe racing that afternoon, and a grand effortto keep up with the Chicago flier.

Lambert never had taken part in thatlongstanding competition. It appeared tohim a senseless expenditure of horseflesh,a childish pursuit of the wind. Yet, foolishas it was, he liked to watch them. Therewas a thrill in the sweeping start of twentyor thirty horsemen that warmed a man,making him feel as if he must whoop andwave his hat. There was a belief aliveamong them that some day a man wouldcome who would run the train neck andneck to the depot platform.

Not much distinction in it, even so, said

he. But it set him musing and consideringas he rode, his face quickening out of itssomber cloud. A little while after hisarrival at Misery the news went round thatthe Duke was willing at last to enter therace against the flier.

True to his peculiarities, the Duke hadmade conditions. He was willing to race,but only if everybody else would keep outof it and give him a clear and open field.Taterleg Wilson, the bow-legged campcook of the Syndicate, circulated himselflike a petition to gain consent to thisunusual proposal.

It was asking a great deal of those mento give up their established diversion, nomatter how distinguished the man inwhose favor they were requested to stand

aside. That Sunday afternoon race hadbecome as much a fixed institution in theBad Lands as the railroad itself. Withsome argument, some bucking andsnorting, a considerable cost to Taterlegfor liquor and cigars, they agreed to it.Taterleg said he could state,authoritatively, that this would be theDuke's first, last, and only ride against theflier. It would be worth money to stand offand watch it, he said, and worth puttingmoney on the result. When, where, woulda man ever have a chance to see such arace again? Perhaps never in his life.

On time, to a dot, the station agent toldthe committee headed by Taterleg, whichhad gone to inquire in the grave andimportant manner of men conducting a

ceremony. The committee went back to thesaloon, and pressed the Duke to have adrink. He refused, as he had refusedpolitely and consistently all day. A mancould fight on booze, he said, but it was amighty poor foundation for business.

There was a larger crowd in Miserythat day than usual for the time of year, itbeing the first general holiday after thewinter's hard exactions. In addition tovisitors, all Misery turned out to see therace, lining up at the right-of-way fence asfar as they would go, which was not agreat distance along. The saloon-keepercould see the finish from his door. On thestart of it he was not concerned, but he hadmoney up on the end.

Lambert hadn't as much flesh, by a good

many pounds, as he had carried into theBad Lands on his bicycle. One who hadknown him previously would have thoughtthat seven years had passed him, makinghim over completely, indeed, since then.His face was thin, browned andweathered, his body sinewy, its leannessaggravated by its length. He was as lightin the saddle as a leaf on the wind.

He was quite a barbaric figure as hewaited to mount and ride against the train,which could be heard whistling far downthe road. Coatless, in flannel shirt, a brightsilk handkerchief round his neck; calfskinvest, tanned with the hair on, its color redand white; dressed leather chaps, a pair ofboots that had cost him two-thirds of amonth's pay. His hat was like forty others

in the crowd, doe-colored, worn with thehigh crown full-standing, a leather thong atthe back of the head, the brim drooping abit from the weather, so broad that hisface looked narrower and sharper in itsshadow.

Nothing like the full-blooded youngaggie who had come into the Bad Lands tofound his fortune a little less than a yearbefore, and about as different from him inthought and outlook upon life as inphysical appearance. The psychology ofenvironment is a powerful force.

A score or more of horsemen werestrung out along the course, where theyhad stationed themselves to watch the raceat its successive stages, and cheer theirchampion on his way. At the starting-point

the Duke waited alone; at the station acrowd of cowboys lolled in their saddles,not caring to make a run to see the finish.

It was customary for the horsemen whoraced the flier to wait on the ground untilthe engine rounded the curve, then mountand settle to the race. It was counted fair,also, owing to the headway the trainalready had, to start a hundred yards or sobefore the engine came abreast, in order tolimber up to the horses' best speed.

For two miles or more the track ranstraight after that curve, Misery about themiddle of the stretch. In that long, straightreach the builders of the road had begunthe easement of the stiff grade through thehills beyond. It was the beginning of ahard climb, a stretch in which west-bound

trains gathered headway to carry themover the top. Engines came panting roundthat curve, laboring with the strain of theirload, speed reduced half, and dropping abit lower as they proceeded up the grade.

This Sunday, as usual, train crew andpassengers were on the lookout for thegame sportsmen of Misery. Already theengineer was leaning out of his window,arm extended, ready to give the derisivechallenge to come on as he swept by.

The Duke was in the saddle, holding inWhetstone with stiff rein, for the animalwas trembling with eagerness to springaway, knowing very well from thepreparations which had been goingforward that some big event in the lives ofhis master and himself was pending. The

Duke held him, looking back over hisshoulder, measuring the distance as thetrain came sweeping grandly round thecurve. He waited until the engine waswithin a hundred feet of him before heloosed rein and let old Whetstone go.

A yell ran up the line of spectators asthe pale yellow horse reached out his longneck, chin level against the wind like aswimmer, and ran as no horse ever hadrun on that race-course before. Everyhorseman there knew that the Duke wasstill holding him in, allowing the train tocreep up on him as if he scorned to takeadvantage of the handicap.

The engineer saw that this was going tobe a different kind of race from theyelling, chattering troop of wild riders

which he had been outrunning withunbroken regularity. In that yellow streakof horse, that low-bending, bony rider, hesaw a possibility of defeat and disgrace.His head disappeared out of the window,his derisive hand vanished. He wasturning valves and pulling levers, trying tocoax a little more power into his pistonstrokes.

The Duke held Whetstone back until hiswind had set to the labor, his musclesflexed, his sinews stretched to the race. Athird of the race was covered when theengine came neck and neck with the horse,and the engineer, confident now, leanedfar out, swinging his hand like the oar of aboat, and shouted:

"Come on! Come on!"

Just a moment too soon this confidence,a moment too soon this defiance. It wasthe Duke's program to run this thing neckand neck, force to force, with noadvantage asked or taken. Then if he couldgather speed and beat the engine on thehome stretch no man, on the train or off,could say that he had done it with theadvantage of a handicap.

There was a great whooping, a greatthumping of hoofs, a monstrous swirl ofdust, as the riders at the side of the race-course saw the Duke's maneuver and readhis intention. Away they swept, a noisytroop, like a flight of blackbirds, hats off,guns popping, in a scramble to get up asclose to the finishing line as possible.

Never before in the long history of that

unique contest had there been so muchexcitement. Porters opened the vestibuledoors, allowing passengers to crowd thesteps; windows were opened, heads thrustout, every tongue urging the horseman onwith cheers.

The Duke was riding beside theengineer, not ten feet between them. Morethan half the course was run, and there theDuke hung, the engine not gaining an inch.The engineer was on his feet now, hand onthe throttle lever, although it was open aswide as it could be pulled. The firemanwas throwing coal into the furnace,looking round over his shoulder now andthen at the persistent horseman who wouldnot be outrun, his eyes white in his grimyface.

On the observation car women hungover the rail at the side, wavinghandkerchiefs at the rider's back; along thefence the inhabitants of Misery brokeaway like leaves before a wind and wentrunning toward the depot; ahead of theracing horse and engine the mounted menwho had taken a big start rode on towardthe station in a wild, delirious charge.

Neck and neck with the engine oldWhetstone ran, throwing his long legs likea wolf-hound, his long neck stretched, hisears flat, not leaving a hair that he couldcontrol outstanding to catch the wind. Theengineer was peering ahead with fixedeyes now, as if he feared to look again onthis puny combination of horse and manthat was holding its own in this unequal

trial of strength.

Within three hundred yards of thestation platform, which sloped down at theend like a continuation of the course, theDuke touched old Whetstone's neck withthe tips of his fingers. As if he had given asignal upon which they had agreed, thehorse gathered power, grunting as he usedto grunt in the days of his outlawry, andbounded away from the cab window,where the greasy engineer stood withwhite face and set jaw.

Yard by yard the horse gained, his longmane flying, his long tail astream, foam onhis lips, forging past the great drivingwheels which ground against the rails;past the swinging piston; past the powerfulblack cylinders; past the stubby pilot,

advancing like a shadow over the track.When Whetstone's hoofs struck the planksof the platform, marking the end of thecourse, he was more than the length of theengine in the lead.

The Duke sat there waving his handsolemnly to those who cheered him as thetrain swept past, the punchers around himlifting up a joyful chorus of shots andshouts, showing off on their own accountto a considerable extent, but sincere overall because of the victory that the Dukehad won.

Old Whetstone was standing where hehad stopped, within a few feet of the track,front hoofs on the boards of the platform,not more than nicely warmed up foranother race, it appeared. As the

observation car passed, a young womanleaned over the rail, handkerchief reachedout to the Duke as if trying to give it tohim.

He saw her only a second before shepassed, too late to make even a futileattempt to possess the favor of herappreciation. She laughed, waving it tohim, holding it out as if in challenge forhim to come and take it. Without wasting aprecious fragment of a second inhesitation the Duke sent Whetstonethundering along the platform in pursuit ofthe train.

It seemed a foolish thing to do, and arisky venture, for the platform was old, itsplanks were weak in places. It was notabove a hundred feet long, and beyond it

only a short stretch of right-of-way untilthe public road crossed the track, thefence running down to the cattle guard,blocking his hope of overtaking the train.

More than that, the train was picking upspeed, as if the engineer wanted to get outof sight and hearing of that demonstrativecrowd, and put his humiliation behind himas quickly as possible. No man's horsecould make a start with planks under hisfeet, run two hundred yards and overtakethat train, no matter what the inducement.That was the thought of every man who sata saddle there and stretched his neck towitness this unparalleled streak of folly.

If Whetstone had run swiftly in the firstrace, he fairly whistled through the air likea wild duck in the second. Before he had

run the length of the platform he hadgained on the train, his nose almost evenwith the brass railing over which the girlleaned, the handkerchief in her hand.Midway between the platform and thecattle guard they saw the Duke lean in hissaddle and snatch the white favor from herhand.

The people on the train end cheered thisfeat of quick resolution, quicker action.But the girl whose handkerchief the Dukehad won only leaned on the railing,holding fast with both hands, as if sheoffered her lips to be kissed, and lookedat him with a pleasure in her face that hecould read as the train bore her onwardinto the West.

The Duke sat there with his hat in his

hand, gazing after her, only her strainingface in his vision, centered out of the dustand widening distance like a star that aman gazes on to fix his course before it isoverwhelmed by clouds.

The Duke sat watching after her, thetrain reducing the distance like a visionthat melts out of the heart with a sigh. Sheraised her hand as the dust closed in thewake of the train. He thought shebeckoned him.

So she came, and went, crossing hisway in the Bad Lands in that hour of hissmall triumph, and left her perfumed tokenof appreciation in his hand. The Duke putit away in the pocket of his shirt beneaththe calfskin vest, the faint delicacy of itsperfume rising to his nostrils like the

elusive scent of a violet for which onesearches the woodland and cannot find.

The dusty hills had gulped the train thatcarried her before the Duke rode round thestation and joined his noisy comrades.Everybody shook hands with him,everybody invited him to have a drink. Heput them off—friend, acquaintance,stranger, on their pressing invitation todrink—with the declaration that his horsecame first in his consideration. After hehad put Whetstone in the livery barn andfed him, he would join them for a round,he said.

They trooped into the saloon to squaretheir bets, the Duke going his way to thebarn. There they drank and grew noisierthan before, to come out from time to time,

mount their horses, gallop up and downthe road that answered Misery for a street,and shoot good ammunition into theharmless air.

Somebody remarked after a while thatthe Duke was a long time feeding thathorse. Taterleg and others went toinvestigate. He had not been there, thekeeper of the livery barn said. A furtherlook around exhausted all the possiblehiding-places of Misery. The Duke wasnot there.

"Well," said Taterleg, puzzled, "I guesshe's went."

CHAPTER V

FEET UPON THE ROAD

"I always thought I'd go out West, butsomehow I never got around to it,"Taterleg said. "How far do you aim to go,Duke?"

"As far as the notion takes me, I guess."

It was about a month after the race thatthis talk between Taterleg and the Duketook place, on a calm afternoon in a campfar from the site of that one into which thepeddler of cutlery had trundled his

disabled bicycle a year before. The Dukehad put off his calfskin vest, the weatherbeing too hot for it. Even Taterleg hadmade sacrifices to appearance in favor ofcomfort, his piratical corduroys beingreplaced by overalls.

The Duke had quit his job, moved bythe desire to travel on and see the world,he said. He said no word to any man aboutthe motive behind that desire, verynaturally, for he was not the kind of a manwho opened the door of his heart. But tohimself he confessed the hunger for anunknown face, for the lure of an onward-beckoning hand which he was no longerable to ignore.

Since that day she had strained over thebrass railing of the car to hold him in her

sight until the curtain of dust intervened,he had felt her call urging him into theWest, the strength of her beckoning handdrawing him the way she had gone, tosearch the world for her and find her onsome full and glorious day.

"Was you aimin' to sell Whetstone andgo on the train, Duke?"

"No, I'm not goin' to sell him yet awhile."

The Duke was not a talkative man onany occasion, and now he sat in silencewatching the cook kneading out a batch ofbread, his thoughts a thousand miles away.

Where, indeed, would the journey thathe was shaping in his intention that minutecarry him? Somewhere along the railroad

between there and Puget Sound thebeckoning lady had left the train;somewhere on that long road betweenmountain and sea she was waiting for himto come.

Taterleg stood his loaves in the sun torise for the oven, making a considerablerattling about the stove as he put in thefire. A silence fell.

Lambert was waiting for his horse torest a few hours, and, waiting, he sent hisdreams ahead of him where his feet couldnot follow save by weary roads and slow.

Between Misery and the end of thatrailroad at the western sea there weremany villages, a few cities. A passengermight alight from the Chicago flier at anyof them, and be absorbed in the vastness

like a drop of water in the desert plain.How was he to know where she had leftthe train, or whither she had turnedafterward, or journeyed, or where shelodged now? It seemed beyond findingout. Assuredly it was a task too great forthe life of youth, so evanescent in thescore of time, even though so long andheavy to those impatient dreamers whodraw themselves onward by its goldenchain to the cold, harsh facts of age.

It was a foolish quest, a hopeless one.So reason said. Romance and youth, andthe longing that he could not define, roseto confute this sober argument, flushed andeager, violet scent blowing before.

Who could tell? and perhaps; rashspeculations, faint promises. The world

was not so broad that two might nevermeet in it whose ways had touched for oneheart-throb and sundered again in a sigh.All his life he had been hearing that it wasa small place, after all was said. Perhaps,and who can tell? And so, gallopingonward in the free leash of his ardentdreams.

"When was you aimin' to start, Duke?"Taterleg inquired, after a silence so longthat Lambert had forgotten he was there.

"In about another hour."

"I wasn't tryin' to hurry you off, Duke.My reason for askin' you was because Ithought maybe I might be able to go alongwith you a piece of the way, if you don'tobject to my kind of company."

"Why, you're not goin' to jump the job,are you?"

"Yes, I've been thinkin' it over, and I'vemade up my mind to draw my time tonight.If you'll put off goin' till mornin', I'll startwith you. We can travel together till ourroads branch, anyhow."

"I'll be glad to wait for you, old feller. Ididn't know—which way——"

"Wyoming," said Taterleg, sighing. "It'scome back on me ag'in."

"Well, a feller has to rove and ramble, Iguess."

Taterleg sighed, looking off westwardwith dreamy eyes. "Yes, if he's got a girlpullin' on his heart," said he.

The Duke started as if he had beenaccused, his secret read, his soul laidbare; he felt the blood burn in his face,and mount to his eyes like a drift ofsmoke. But Taterleg was unconscious ofthis sudden embarrassment, this flash ofpanic for the thing which the Dukebelieved lay so deep in his heart no mancould ever find it out and laugh at it ormake gay over the scented romance.Taterleg was still looking off in a generaldirection that was westward, a little southof west.

"She's in Wyoming," said Taterleg; "alady I used to rush out in Great Bend,Kansas, a long time ago."

"Oh," said the Duke, relieved andinterested. "How long ago was that?"

"Over four years," sighed Taterleg, as ifit might have been a quarter of a century.

"Not so very long, Taterleg."

"Yes, but a lot of fellers can court a girlin four years, Duke."

The Duke thought it over a spell. "Yes,I reckon they can," he allowed. "Don't sheever write to you?"

"I guess I'm more to blame than she ison that, Duke. She did write, but I waskind of sour and dropped her. It's hard togit away from, though; it's a-comin' overme ag'in. I might 'a' been married andsettled down with that girl now, me andher a-runnin' a oyster parlor in some goodlittle railroad town, if it hadn't 'a' been fora Welshman name of Elwood. He was a

stonecutter, that Elwood feller was, Duke,workin' on bridge 'butments on the SantaFé. That feller told her I was married andhad four children; he come between us andbust us up."

"Wasn't he onery!" said the Duke,feelingly.

"I was chef in the hotel where that girlworked waitin' table, drawin' down goodmoney, and savin' it, too. But that dernedWelshman got around her and she growedcold. When she left Great Bend she wentto Wyoming to take a job—Lander wasthe town she wrote from, I can put myfinger on it in the map with my eyes shut. Imet her when she was leavin' for thedepot, draggin' along with her grip and noWelshman in a mile of her to give her a

hand. I went up and tipped my hat, but Inever smiled, Duke, for I was sour overthe way that girl she'd treated me. I justtook hold of that grip and carried it to thedepot for her and tipped my hat to heronce more. 'You're a gentleman, whateverthey say of you, Mr. Wilson,' she said."

"She did?"

"She did, Duke. 'You're a gentleman,Mr. Wilson, whatever they say of you,' shesaid. Them was her words, Duke.'Farewell to you,' I said, distant and high-mighty, for I was hurt, Duke—I was hurtright down to the bone."

"I bet you was, old feller."

"'Farewell to you,' I says, and the tearscome in her eyes, and she says to me—

wipin' 'em on a han'kerchief I give her,nothing any Welshman ever done for her,and you can bank on that Duke—she saysto me: 'I'll always think of you as agentleman, Mr. Wilson.' I wasn't ontowhat that Welshman told her then; I didn'tknow the straight of it till she wrote andtold me after she got to Wyoming."

"It was too bad, old feller."

"Wasn't it hell? I was so sore when shewrote, the way she'd believed that littlesawed-off snorter with rock dust in hishair, I never answered that letter for along time. Well, I got another letter fromher about a year after that. She was still inthe same place, doin' well. Her name wasNettie Morrison."

"Maybe it is yet, Taterleg."

"Maybe. I've been a-thinkin' I'd go outthere and look her up, and if she ain'tmarried, me and her we might let bygonesbe bygones and hitch. I could open aoyster parlor out there on the dough I'vesaved up; I'd dish 'em up and she'd wait onthe table and take in the money. We'd dowell, Duke."

"I bet you would."

"I got the last letter she wrote—I'll letyou see it, Duke."

Taterleg made a rummaging in the chuckwagon, coming out presently with theletter. He stood contemplating it withtender eye.

"Some writer, ain't she, Duke?"

"She sure is a fine writer, Taterleg—

writes like a schoolma'am."

"She can talk like one, too. See—'Lander, Wyo.' It's a little town about asbig as my hat, from the looks of it on themap, standin' away off up there alone. Icould go to it with my eyes shut, straightas a bee."

"Why don't you write to her, Taterleg?"The Duke could scarcely keep back asmile, so diverting he found this affair ofthe Welshman, the waitress, and the cook.More comedy than romance, he thought,Taterleg on one side of the fence, that girlon the other.

"I've been a-squarin' off to write,"Taterleg replied, "but I don't seem to gitthe time." He opened his vest to put theletter away close to his heart, it seemed,

that it might remind him of his intentionand square him quite around to the task.But there was no pocket on the sidecovering his heart. Taterleg put the letternext his lung as the nearest approach tothat sentimental portion of his anatomy,and sighed long and loud as he buttonedhis garment.

"You said you'd put off goin' tillmornin', Duke?"

"Sure I will."

"I'll throw my things in a sack and beready to hit the breeze with you afterbreakfast. I can write back to the boss formy time."

Morning found them on the road

together, the sun at their backs. Taterlegwas as brilliant as a humming-bird, evento his belt and scabbard, which had agreat many silver tacks driven into them,repeating the letters LW in greatcharacters and small. He said the letterswere the initials of his name.

"Lawrence?" the Duke ventured toinquire.

Taterleg looked round him with greatcaution before answering, although theywere at least fifteen miles from camp, andfarther than that from the next humanhabitation. He lowered his voice, rubbinghis hand reflectively along the glitteringornaments of his belt.

"Lovelace," he said.

"Not a bad name."

"It ain't no name for a cook," Taterlegsaid, almost vindictively. "You're the firstman I ever told it to, and I'll ask you not topass it on. I used to go by the name ofLarry before they called me Taterleg. I gotthat name out here in the Bad Lands; itsuits me, all right."

"It's a queer kind of a name to call aman by. How did they come to give it toyou?"

"Well, sir, I give myself that name, youmight say, when you come to figger itdown to cases. I was breakin' a horsewhen I first come out here four years ago,headin' at that time for Wyoming. Hethrowed me. When I didn't hop him ag'in,the boys come over to see if I was busted.

When they asked me if I was hurt, I says,'He snapped my dern old leg like a 'tater.'And from that day on they called meTaterleg. Yes, and I guess I'd 'a' been inWyoming now, maybe with a oyster parlorand a wife, if it hadn't been for that blamehorse." He paused reminiscently; then hesaid:

"Where was you aimin' to camp tonight,Duke?"

"Where does the flier stop after itpasses Misery, going west?"

"It stops for water at Glendora, aboutfifty or fifty-five miles west, sometimes.I've heard 'em say if a feller buys a ticketfor there in Chicago, it'll let him off. But Idon't guess it stops there regular. Why,Duke? Was you aimin' to take the flier

there?"

"No. We'll stop there tonight, then, ifyour horse can make it."

"Make it! If he can't I'll eat him raw.He's made seventy-five many a timebefore today."

So they fared on that first day, infriendly converse. At sunset they drew upon a mesa, high above the treeless, brokencountry through which they had beenriding all day, and saw Glendora in thevalley below them.

"There she is," said Taterleg. "I wonderwhat we're goin' to run into down, there?"

CHAPTER VI

ALLUREMENTS OFGLENDORA

In a bend of the Little Missouri, whereit broadened out and took on theappearance of a consequential stream,Glendora lay, a lonely little village with agray hill behind it.

There was but half a street in Glendora,like a setting for a stage, the railroad inthe foreground, the little sun-baked stationcrouching by it, lonely as the winds which

sung by night in the telegraph wirescrossing its roof. Here the trains went bywith a roar, leaving behind them a cloudof gray dust like a curtain to hide from theeyes of those who strained from theirwindows to see the little that remained ofGlendora, once a place of moreconsequence than today.

Only enough remained of the town tolive by its trade. There was enough flourin the store, enough whisky in the saloon;enough stamps in the post office, enoughbeds in the hotel, to satisfy with comfortthe demands of the far-stretchingpopulation of the country contiguousthereto. But if there had risen anextraordinary occasion bringing a demandwithout notice for a thousand pounds more

of flour, a barrel more of whisky, ahundred more stamps or five extra beds,Glendora would have fallen under theburden and collapsed in disgrace.

Close by the station there were cattlepens for loading stock, with two longtracks for holding the cars. In autumn fatcattle were driven down out of the hiddenvalleys to entrain there for market. Inthose days there was merriment afternightfall in Glendora. At other times itwas mainly a quiet place, the shooting thatwas done on its one-sided street being ofa peaceful nature in the way of expressinga feeling for which some plain-witted,drunken cowherder had no words.

A good many years before the day thatthe Duke and Taterleg came riding into

Glendora, the town had supported morethan one store and saloon. The shells ofthese dead enterprises stood there still,windows and doors boarded up, as if theirowners had stopped their mouths whenthey went away to prevent a whisper ofthe secrets they might tell of the oldriotous nights, or of fallen hopes, ordishonest transactions. So they stood nowin their melancholy, backs against the grayhill, giving to Glendora the appearance ofa town that was more than half dead, andsoon must fail and pass utterly away in thegray-blowing clouds of dust.

The hotel seemed the brightest andsoundest living spot in the place, for itwas painted in green, like a watermelon,with a cottonwood tree growing beside

the pump at the porch corner. In yellowletters upon the windowpane of the officethere appeared the proprietor's name,doubtless the work of some wanderingartist who had paid the price of hislodging or his dinner so.

ORSON WOOD, PROP.

said the sign, bedded in curlicues andtwisted ornaments, as if a carpenter hadplaned the letters out of a board, leavingthe shavings where they fell. A greenrustic bench stood across one end of thelong porch, such as is seen in boarding-houses frequented by railroad men, andchairs with whittled and notched armsbefore the office door, near the pump.

Into this atmosphere there had come,many years before, one of those innocents

among men whose misfortune it is to fallbefore the beguilements of the dishonest;that sort of man whom the promoters ofschemes go out to catch in the manner ofan old maid trapping flies in a cup of suds.Milton Philbrook was this man. Somebodyhad sold him forty thousand acres of landin a body for three dollars an acre. Itbegan at the river and ran back to the hillsfor a matter of twenty miles.

Philbrook bought the land on theshowing that it was rich in coal deposits.Which was true enough. But he was notgeologist enough to know that it was onlylignite, and not a coal of commercialvalue in those times. This truth he came tolater, together with the knowledge that hisland was worth, at the most extravagant

valuation, not more than fifty cents anacre.

Finding no market for his brown coal,Philbrook decided to adopt the customs oft he country and turn cattleman. A littleinquiry into that business convinced himthat the expenses of growing the cattle andthe long distance from market absorbed agreat bulk of the profits needlessly. He setabout with the original plan, therefore, offencing his forty thousand acres with wire,thus erasing at one bold stroke the cost ofhiring men to guard his herds.

A fence in the Bad Lands was unknownoutside a corral in those days. Whencarloads of barbed wire and posts beganto arrive at Glendora men came riding infor miles to satisfy themselves that the

rumors were founded; when Philbrookhired men to build the fence, andoperations were begun, murmurs andthreats against the unwelcome innovationwere heard. Philbrook pushed the work toconclusion, unmindful of the threats,moved now by the intention of founding agreat, baronial estate in that bleak land.His further plan of profit and consequencewas to establish a packing-house atGlendora, where his herds could beslaughtered and dressed and shipped neatto market, at once assuring him a doubleprofit and reduced expense. But that wasone phase of his dream that neverhardened into the reality of machinery andbricks.

While the long lines of fence were

going up, carpenters were at workbuilding a fit seat for Philbrook's baronialaims. The point he chose for his home sitewas the top of a bare plateau overlookingthe river, the face of it gray, crumblingshale, rising three hundred feet in abruptslope from the water's edge. At greatlabor and expense Philbrook built a roadbetween Glendora and this place, andcarried water in pipes from the river toirrigate the grass, trees, shrubs andblooming plants alien to that countrywhich he planted to break the bleakness ofit and make a setting for his costly home.

Here on this jutting shoulder of thecold, unfriendly upland, a house rosewhich was the wonder of all who beheldit as they rode the wild distances and

viewed it from afar. It seemed a mansionto them, its walls gleaming white, its roofgreen as the hope in its builder's breast. Itwas a large house, and seemed larger forits prominence against the sky, built in theshape of a T, with wide porches in theangles. And to this place, upon which hehad lavished what remained of his fortune,Philbrook brought his wife and littledaughter, as strange to their surroundingsas the delicate flowers which pined anddrooped in that unfriendly soil.

Immediately upon completion of hisfences he had imported well-bred cattleand set them grazing within his confines.He set men to riding by night and day apatrol of his long lines of wire, riflesunder their thighs, with orders to shoot

anybody found cutting the fences inaccordance with the many threats to servethem so. Contentions and feuds began, andbattles and bloody encounters, which didnot cease through many a turbulent year.Philbrook lived in the saddle, for he was aman of high courage and unbendingdetermination, leaving his wife and childin the suspense and solitude of their grandhome in which they found no pleasure.

The trees and shrubs which Philbrookhad planted with such care and attendedwith such hope, withered on the bleakplateau and died, in spite of the waterfrom the river; the delicate grass withwhich he sought to beautify and clothe theharsh gray soil sickened and pined away;the shrubs made a short battle against the

bleakness of winter, putting out pale,strange flowers like the wan smile of awoman who stands on the threshold ofdeath, then failed away, and died. Mrs.Philbrook broke under the long strain ofnever-ending battles, and died the springthat her daughter came eighteen years ofage.

This girl had grown up in the saddle, atrue daughter of her fighting sire. Time andagain she had led a patrol of two fence-riders along one side of that sixty squaremiles of ranch while her father guardedthe other. She could handle firearms withspeed and accuracy equal to any man onthe range, where she had been bearing aman's burden since her early girlhood.

All this information pertaining to the

history of Milton Philbrook and hisadventures in the Bad Lands, OrsonWood, the one-armed landlord at the hotelin Glendora told Lambert on the eveningof the travelers' arrival there. The storyhad come as the result of questionsconcerning the great white house on themesa, the two men sitting on the porch inplain view of it, Taterleg entertaining thedaughter of the hotel across the show casein the office.

Lambert found the story moreinteresting than anything he ever hadimagined of the Bad Lands. Here wasromance looking down on him from thelonely walls of that white house, andheroism of a finer kind than these peopleappreciated, he was sure.

"Is the girl still here?" he inquired.

"Yes, she's back now. She's been awayto school in Boston for three or four years,comin' back in summer for a little while."

"When did she come back?"

Lambert felt that his voice was thick ashe inquired, disturbed by the eager beatingof his heart. Who knows? and perhaps,and all the rest of it came galloping to himwith a roar of blood in his ears like thesound of a thousand hoofs. The landlordcalled over his shoulder to his daughter:

"Alta, when did Vesta Philbrook comeback?"

"Four or five weeks ago," said Alta,with the sound of chewing gum.

"Four or five weeks ago," the landlordrepeated, as though Alta spoke a foreigntongue and must be translated.

"I see," said Lambert, vaguely, shakingto the tips of his fingers with a kind ofbuck ague that he never had suffered frombefore. He was afraid the landlord wouldnotice it, and slewed his chair, getting outhis tobacco to cover the fool spell.

For that was she, Vesta Philbrook wasshe, and she was Vesta Philbrook. Heknew it as well as he knew that he couldcount ten. Something had led him there thatday; the force that was shaping the courseof their two lives to cross again had heldhim back when he had considered sellinghis horse and going West a long distanceon the train. He grew calmer when he had

his cigarette alight. The landlord wastalking again.

"Funny thing about Vesta comin' home,too," he said, and stopped a little, as if toconsider the humor of it. Lambert lookedat him with a sudden wrench of the neck.

"Which?"

"Philbrook's luck held out, it lookedlike, till she got through her education. Allthrough the fights he had and the scrapeshe run into the last ten years he never got ascratch. Bullets used to hum around thatman like bees, and he'd ride through 'emlike they was bees, but none of 'em evernotched him. Curious, wasn't it?"

"Did somebody get him at last?"

"No, he took typhoid fever. He took

down about a week or ten days after Vestagot home. He died about a couple of weekago. Vesta had him laid beside her motherup there on the hill. He said they'd neverrun him out of this country, livin' or dead."

Lambert swallowed a dry lump.

"Is she running the ranch?"

"Like an old soldier, sir. I tell you, I'vegot a whole lot of admiration for that girl."

"She must have her hands full."

"Night and day. She's short on fence-riders, and I guess if you boys are lookin'for a job you can land up there with Vesta,all right."

Taterleg and the girl came out and saton the green rustic bench at the farther end

of the porch. It complained under them;there was talk and low giggling.

"We didn't expect to strike anything thissoon," Lambert said, his active mindleaping ahead to shape new romance likea magician.

"You don't look like the kind of boysthat'd shy from a job if it jumped out in theroad ahead of you."

"I'd hate for folks to think we would."

"Ain't you the feller they call; the Dukeof Chimney Butte?"

"They call me that in this country."

"Yes; I knew that horse the minute yourode up, though he's changed for the betterwonderful since I saw him last, and I

knew you from the descriptions I've heardof you. Vesta'd give you a job in a minute,and she'd pay you good money, too. Iwouldn't wonder if she didn't put you in asforeman right on the jump, account of thename you've got up here in the BadLands."

"Not much to my credit in the name, I'mafraid," said Lambert, almost sadly. "Dothey still cut her fences and run off herstock?"

"Yes; rustlin's got to be stylish aroundhere ag'in, after we thought we had allthem gangs rounded up and sent to the pen.I guess some of their time must be up andthey're comin' home."

"It's pretty tough for a single-handedgirl."

"Yes, it is tough. Them fellers are morethan likely some of the old crowdPhilbrook used to fight and round up andsend over the road. He killed off four orfive of them, and the rest of them sworethey'd salt him when they'd done theirtime. Well, he's gone. But they're notabove fightin' a girl."

"It's a tough job for a woman," saidLambert, looking thoughtfully toward thewhite house on the mesa.

"Ain't it, though?"

Lambert thought about it a while, orappeared to be thinking about it, sittingwith bent head, smoking silently, lookingnow and then toward the ranchhouse, thelights of which could be seen. Alta cameacross the porch presently, Taterleg

attending her like a courtier. Shedismissed him at the door with an excuseof deferred duties within. He joined histhoughtful partner.

"Better go up and see her in themorning," suggested Wood, the landlord.

"I think I will, thank you."

Wood went in to sell a cowboy a cigar;the partners started out to have a look atGlendora by moonlight. A little way theywalked in silence, the light of the barber-shop falling across the road ahead ofthem.

"See who in the morning, Duke?"Taterleg inquired.

"Lady in the white house on the mesa.Her father died a few weeks ago, and left

her alone with a big ranch on her hands.Rustlers are runnin' her cattle off, cuttin'her fences——"

"Fences?"

"Yes, forty thousand acres all fenced in,like Texas."

"You don't tell me?"

"Needs men, Wood says. I thoughtmaybe——"

The Duke didn't finish it; just left itswinging that way, expecting Taterleg toread the rest.

"Sure," said Taterleg, taking it rightalong. "I wouldn't mind stayin' aroundhere a while. Glendora's a nice littleplace; nicer place than I thought it was."

The Duke said nothing. But as they wenton toward the barber-shop he grinned.

CHAPTER VII

THE HOMELIEST MAN

That brilliant beam falling through thebarber's open door and uncurtainedwindow came from a new lighting device,procured from a Chicago mail-orderhouse. It was a gasoline lamp that burnedwith a gas mantle, swinging from theceiling, flooding the little shop with agreenish light.

It gave a ghastly hue of death to thehuman face, but it would light up the

creases and wrinkles of the mostweathered neck that came under thebarber's blade. That was the mainconsideration, for most of the barber'swork was done by night, that trade—orprofession, as those who pursue itunfailingly hold it to be—being a side linein connection with his duties as stationagent. He was a progressive citizen, andno grass grew under his feet, no hair underhis hand.

At the moment that the Duke andTaterleg entered the barber's far-reachingbeam, some buck of the range wasstretched in the chair. The customer was aman of considerable length and manyangles, a shorn appearance about his face,especially his big, bony nose, that seemed

to tell of a mustache sacrificed in theoperation just then drawing to a close.

Taterleg stopped short at sight of thelong legs drawn up like a sharp gable toget all of them into the chair, the immensenose raking the ceiling like a double-barreled cannon, the morgue-tinted lightgiving him the complexion of a man readyfor his shroud. He touched Lambert's armto check him and call his attention.

"Look in there—look at that feller,Duke! There he is; there's the man I'vebeen lookin' for ever since I was oldenough to vote. I didn't believe there wasany such a feller; but there he is!"

"What feller? Who is he?"

"The feller that's uglier than me. Dang

his melts, there he is! I'm going to ask himfor his picture, so I'll have the proof toshow."

Taterleg was at an unaccountable pitcho f spirits. Adventure had taken hold ofhim like liquor. He made a start for thedoor as if to carry out his expressedintention in all earnestness. Lambertstopped him.

"He might not see the joke, Taterleg."

"He couldn't refuse a man a friendlyturn like that, Duke. Look at him! What'sthat feller rubbin' on him, do you reckon?"

"Ointment of some kind, I guess."

Taterleg stood with his bow legs sowide apart that a barrel could have beenpitched between them, watching the

operation within the shop with the greatestenjoyment.

"Goose grease, with pre-fume in it thatcuts your breath. Look at that feller shuthis eyes and stretch his derned old neck!Just like a calf when you rub him under thechin. Look at him—did you ever seeanything to match it?"

"Come on—let the man alone."

"Wrinkle remover, beauty restorer,"said Taterleg, not moving forward an inchupon his way. While he seemed to bestruck with admiration for the process ofrenovation, there was an unmistakablejeer in his tone which the barber resentedby a fierce look.

"You're goin' to get into trouble if you

don't shut up," Lambert cautioned.

"Look at him shut his old eyes andstretch his neck! Ain't it the sweetest——"

The man in the chair lifted himself insudden grimness, sat up from between thebarber's massaging hands, which still heldtheir pose like some sort of brace, turneda threatening look into the road. If half hisface was sufficient to raise the declarationfrom Taterleg that the man was uglier thanhe, all of it surely proclaimed him thehomeliest man in the nation. His eyeswere red, as from some long carousal,their lids heavy and slow, his neck waslong, and inflamed like an old gobbler'swhen he inflates himself with his impotentrage.

He looked hard at the two men, so sour

in his wrath, so comical in his unmatchedugliness, that Lambert could not restrain amost unusual and generous grin. Taterlegbared his head, bowing low, not a smile,not a ripple of a smile, on his face.

"Mister, I take off my hat to you," hesaid.

"Yes, and I'll take your fool head off thefirst time I meet you!" the man returned.H e let himself back into the barber'swaiting hands, a growl deep in him, surlyas an old dog that has been roused out ofhis place in the middle of the road.

"General, I wouldn't hurt you for apurty, I wouldn't change your looks for adollar bill," said Taterleg.

"Wait till I git out of this chair!" the

customer threatened, voice smothered inthe barber's hands.

"I guess he's not a dangerous man—lucky for you," said Lambert. He drewTaterleg away; they went on.

The allurements of Glendora were nomore dazzling by night than by day. Therewas not much business in the saloon, therebeing few visitors in town, no roistering,no sounds of uncurbed gaiety. Formerlythere had been a dance-hall in connectionwith the saloon, but that branch of thebusiness had failed through lack ofpatronage long ago. The bar stood in thefront of the long, cheerless room, a patchof light over and around it, the melancholyfurniture of its prosperous days dim in thegloom beyond.

Lambert and Taterleg had a few drinksto show their respect for the institutions ofthe country, and went back to the hotel.Somebody had taken Taterleg's placebeside Alta on the green bench. It was aman who spoke with rumbling voice likethe sound of an empty wagon on a rockyroad. Lambert recognized the intonation atonce.

"It looks to me like there's troubleahead for you, Mr. Wilson," he said.

"I'll take that feller by the handle on hisface and bust him ag'in' a tree like agourd," Taterleg said, not in boastingmanner, but in the even and untroubledway of a man stating a fact.

"If there was any tree."

"I'll slam him ag'in' a rock; I'll bust himlike a oyster."

"I think we'd better go to bed without afight, if we can."

"I'm willin'; but I'm not goin' around bythe back door to miss that feller."

They came up the porch into the lightthat fell weakly from the office down thesteps. There was a movement of feetbeside the green bench, an exclamation, aswift advance on the part of the big-nosedman who had afforded amusement forTaterleg in the barber's chair.

"You little bench-leggid fiste, if you'vegot gall enough to say one word to a man'sface, say it!" he challenged.

Alta came after him, quickly, with

pacific intent. She was a tall girl, not verywell filled out, like an immature bean pod.Her heavy black hair was cut in awaterfall of bangs which came down toher eyebrows, the rest of it done up behindin loops like sausages, and fastened with alarge, red ribbon. She had put off herapron, and stood forth in white, hersleeves much shorter than the arms whichreached out of them, rings on her fingerswhich looked as if they would leave theirshadows behind.

"Now, Mr. Jedlick, I don't want you togo raisin' no fuss around here with theguests," she said.

"Jedlick!" repeated Taterleg, turning toLambert with a pained, depressed look onhis face. "It sounds like something you

blow in to make a noise."

The barber's customer was a taller manstanding than he was long lying. Therewasn't much clearance between his headand the ceiling of the porch. He stoodbefore Taterleg glowing, his hat off, hisshort-cut hair glistening with pomatum,showing his teeth like a vicious horse.

"You look like you was cut out with acan-opener," he sneered.

"Maybe I was, and I've got rough edgeson me," Taterleg returned, looking up athim with calculative eye.

"Now, Mr. Jedlick"—a hand on hisarm, but confident of the force of it, like alady animal trainer in a cage of lions—"you come on over here and set down

and leave that gentleman alone."

"If anybody but you'd 'a' said it, Alta,I'd 'a' told him he was a liar," Jedlickgrowled. He moved his foot to go withher, stopped, snarled at Taterleg again. "Iused to roll 'em in flour and swaller 'emwith the feathers on," said he.

"You're a terrible rough feller, ain'tyou?" Taterleg inquired with cuttingsarcasm.

Alta led Jedlick off to his corner;Taterleg and Lambert entered the hoteloffice.

"Gee, but this is a windy night!" saidthe Duke, holding his hat on with bothhands.

"I'll let some of the wind out of him if

he monkeys with me!"

"Looks to me like I know another fellerthat an operation wouldn't hurt," the Dukeremarked, turning a sly eye on his friend.

The landlord appeared with a lamp tolight them to their beds, putting an end tothese exchanges of threat and banter. Ashe was leaving them to their double-barreled apartment, Lambert remarked:

"That man Jedlick's an interesting-lookin' feller."

"Ben Jedlick? Yes, Ben's a case; he'squite a case."

"What business does he foller?"

"Ben? Ben's cook on Pat Sullivan'sranch up the river; one of the best camp

cooks in the Bad Lands, and I guess thebest known, without any doubt."

Taterleg sat down on the side of his bedas if he had been punctured, indeed,lopping forward in mock attitude of uttercollapse as the landlord closed the door.

"Cook! That settles it for me; I've turnedthe last flapjack I'll ever turn for any manbut myself."

"How will you manage the oysterparlor?"

"Well, I've just about give up thatnotion, Duke. I've been thinkin' I'll stick tothe range and go in the sheep business."

"I expect it would be a good move, oldfeller."

"They're goin' into it around here, theytell me."

"Alta tells you."

"Oh, you git out! But I'm a cowman rightnow, and I'm goin' to stay one for somelittle time to come. It don't take muchintelligence in a man to ride fence."

"No; I guess we could both pass onthat."

The Duke blew the lamp out with hishat. There was silence, all but the scuffingsound of disrobing. Taterleg spoke out ofbed.

"That girl's got purty eyes, ain't she?"

"Lovely eyes, Taterleg."

"And purty hair, too. Makes a feller

want to lean over and pat that little row ofbangs."

"I expect there's a feller down theredoin' it now."

The spring complained under Taterleg'ssudden movement; there was a sound ofswishing legs under the sheet. Lambertsaw him dimly against the window, sittingwith his feet on the floor.

"You mean Jedlick?"

"Why not Jedlick? He's got the field tohimself."

Taterleg sat a little while thinking aboutit. Presently he resumed his repose,chuckling a choppy little laugh.

"Jedlick! Jedlick ain't got no more show

than a cow. When a lady steps in and takesa man's part there's only one answer,Duke. And she called me a gentleman, too.Didn't you hear her call me a gentleman,Duke?"

"I seem to remember that somebodyelse called you that one time."

Taterleg hadn't any reply at once.Lambert lay there grinning in the dark. Nomatter how sincere Taterleg might havebeen in this or any other affair, to the Dukeit was only a joke. That is the attitude ofmost men toward the tender vagaries ofothers. No romance ever is serious butone's own.

"Well, that happened a good whileago," said Taterleg defensively.

But memories didn't trouble him muchthat night. Very soon he was sleeping,snoring on the G string with unsparingpressure. For Lambert there was no sleep.He lay in a fever of anticipation.Tomorrow he should see her, his questended almost as soon as begun.

There was not one stick of fuel for theflame of this conjecture, not onereasonable justification for his more thanhope. Only something had flashed to himthat the girl in the house on the mesa wasshe whom his soul sought, whosehandkerchief was folded in hispocketbook and carried with his money.He would take no counsel from reason, nodenial from fate.

He lay awake seeing visions when he

should have been asleep in the midst oflegitimate dreams. A score of plans forserving her came up for examination, ahundred hopes for a happy culmination ofthis green romance budded, bloomed, andfell. But above the race of his hot thoughtsthe certainty persisted that this girl wasthe lady of the beckoning hand.

He had no desire to escape from thesefevered fancies in sleep, as his companionhad put down his homely ambitions. Longhe lay awake turning them to view fromevery hopeful, alluring angle, hearing thesmall noises of the town's small activitiesdie away to silence and peace.

In the morning he should ride to see her,his quest happily ended, indeed, even onthe threshold of its beginning.

CHAPTER VIII

THE HOUSE ON THEMESA

Even more bleak than from a distancethe house on the mesa appeared as theriders approached it up the winding road.It stood solitary on its desert promontory,the bright sky behind it, not a shrub to easeits lines, not a barn or shed to make a rudebackground for its amazing proportions.Native grass grew sparsely on the greattable where it stood; rains had guttered the

soil near its door. There was about it theair of an abandoned place, its long, gauntporches open to wind and storm.

As they drew nearer the house the sceneopened in a more domestic appearance.Beyond it in a little cup of the mesa thestable, cattle sheds, and quarters for themen were located, so hidden in theirshelter that they could not be seen fromany point in the valley below. To theworld that never scaled these crumblingheights, Philbrook's mansion appeared asif it endured independent of those vulgarappendages indeed.

"Looks like they've got the barn wherethe house ought to be," said Taterleg. "I'llbet the wind takes the hide off of a fellerup here in the wintertime."

"It's about as bleak a place for a houseas a man could pick," Lambert agreed. Hechecked his horse a moment to look roundon the vast sweep of country presented toview from the height, the river lying asbright as quicksilver in the dun land.

"Not even a wire fence to break it!"Taterleg drew his shoulders up andshivered in the hot morning sun as hecontemplated the untrammeled roadway ofthe northern winds. "Well, sir, it looks tome like a cyclone carried that house fromsomewheres and slammed it down. Noman in his right senses ever built it there."

"People take queer freaks sometimes,even in their senses. I guess we can rideright around to the door."

But for the wide, weathered porch they

could have ridden up to it and knocked onits panels from the saddle. Taterleg wasfor going to the kitchen door, a suggestionwhich the Duke scorned. He didn't want tomeet that girl at a kitchen door, even herown kitchen door. For that he was about tomeet her, there was no doubt in him thatmoment.

He was not in a state of tremblingeagerness, but of calm expectation, as aman might be justified in who had madehis preparations and felt the outcome sure.He even smiled as he pictured hersurprise, like a man returning homeunexpectedly, but to a welcome of whichhe held no doubt.

Taterleg remained mounted whileLambert went to the door. It was a rather

inhospitable appearing door of solid oak,heavy and dark. There was a narrow paneof beveled glass set into it near the top,beneath it a knocker that must have beenhammered by a hand in some far landcenturies before the house on the mesawas planned.

A negro woman, rheumatic, old, cameto the door. Miss Philbrook was at thebarn, she said. What did they want of her?Were they looking for work? To thesequestions Lambert made no reply. As heturned back to his horse the old servingwoman came to the porch, leaving thedoor swinging wide, giving a view intothe hall, which was furnished with aprofusion and luxuriance that Taterlegnever had seen before.

The old woman watched the Dukekeenly as he swung into the saddle in thesuppleness of his youthful grace. Sheshaded her eyes against the sun, lookingafter him still as he rode with hiscompanion toward the barn.

Chickens were making the barnyard lotscomfortable with their noise, some dairycows of a breed alien to that range waitedin a lot to be turned out to the day'sgrazing; a burro put its big-eared headround the corner of a shed, eying thestrangers with the alert curiosity of a niñoof his native land. But the lady of theranch was not in sight nor sound.

Lambert drew up at the gate cutting theemployees' quarters from the barnyard,and sat looking things over. Here was a

peace and security, an atmosphere ofcontentment and comfort, entirely lackingin the surroundings of the house. Thebuildings were all of far better class thanwere to be found on the ranches of thatcountry; even the bunkhouse a house, infact, and not a shed-roofed shack.

"I wonder where she's at?" saidTaterleg, leaning and peering. "I don't seeher around here nowheres."

"I'll go down to the bunkhouse and seeif there's anybody around," Lambert said,for he had a notion, somehow, that heought to meet her on foot.

Taterleg remained at the gate, becausehe looked better on a horse than off, andhe was not wanting in that vain streakwhich any man with a backbone and

marrow in him possesses. He wanted toappear at his best when the boss of thathigh-class outfit laid her eyes on him forthe first time; and if he had hopes that shemight succumb to his charms, they were nomore extravagant than most men's areunder similar conditions.

Off to one side of a long barn Lambertsaw her as he opened the gate. She wastrying to coax a young calf to drink out ofa bucket that an old negro held under itsnose. Perhaps his heart climbed a little,and his eyes grew hot with a sudden surgeof blood, after the way of youth, as hewent forward.

He could not see her face fully, for shewas bending over the calf, and the broadbrim of her hat interposed. She looked up

at the sound of his approach, a startledexpression in her frank, gray eyes.Handsome, in truth, she was, in her ridinghabit of brown duck, her heavy sombrero,her strong, high boots. Her hair was thecolor of old honeycomb, her face brownedby sun and wind.

She was a maid to gladden a man'sheart, with the morning sun upon her, thestrength of her great courage in her cleareyes; a girl of breeding, as one could seeby her proud carriage.

But she was not the girl whosehandkerchief he had won in his recklessrace with the train!

CHAPTER IX

A KNIGHT-ERRANT

The Duke took off his hat, standingbefore her foolishly dumb between hisdisappointment and embarrassment. Hehad counted so fully on finding the girl ofhis romance that he was reluctant toaccept the testimony of his eyes. Here wasone charming enough to compensate a manfor a hundred fasts and fevers, but she wasnot the lodestone that had drawn upon hisheart with that impelling force whichcould not be denied.

What a stupid blunder his impetuousconclusion had led him into; what anawkward situation! Pretty as she was, hedidn't want to serve this woman, no matterfor her embarrassments and distress. Hecould not remain there a week in theferment of his longing to be on his way,searching the world for her whom his souldesired. This ran over him like an electricshock as he stood before her, hat in hand,head bent a little, like a culprit, lookingrather stupid in his confusion.

"Were you looking for somebody?" sheasked, her handsome face sunning overwith a smile that invited his confidenceand dismissed his qualms.

"I was looking for the boss, ma'am."

"I'm the boss." She spoke

encouragingly, as to some timid creature,bending to brush off the milk that thestubborn calf had shaken from its muzzleover her skirt.

"My partner and I are strangers here—he's over there at the gate—passingthrough the country, and wanted yourpermission to look around the place alittle. They told us about it down atGlendora."

The animation of her face was cloudedinstantly as by a shadow ofdisappointment. She turned her head as ifto hide this from his eyes, answeringcarelessly, a little pettishly:

"Go ahead; look around till you'retired."

Lambert hesitated, knowing very wellthat he had raised expectations which hewas in no present mind to fill. She must besorely in need of help when she wouldbrighten up that way at the mere sight of acommon creature like a cow-puncher. Hehated to take away what he had seemed tocome there offering, what he had, in allearnestness, come to offer.

But she was not the girl. He hadfollowed a false lure that his ownunbridled imagination had lit. The onlything to do was back out of it as gracefullyas he could, and the poor excuse of"looking around" was the best one hecould lay his hand to in a hurry.

"Thank you," said he, rather emptily.

She did not reply, but bent again to her

task of teaching the little black calf to takeits breakfast out of the pail instead of thefashion in which nature intended it torefresh itself. Lambert backed off a little,for the way of the range had indeedbecome his way in that year of hisapprenticeship, and its crudities wereover him painfully. When off what heconsidered a respectful distance he put onhis hat, turning a look at her as if to furtherassure her that his invasion of herpremises was not a trespass.

She gave him no further notice,engrossed as she appeared to be with thecalf, but when he reached the gate andlooked back, he saw her standing straight,the bucket at her feet, looking after him asif she resented the fact that two free-

footed men should come there and flaunttheir leisure before her in the hour of herneed.

Taterleg was looking over the gate,trying to bring himself into the range of hereyes. He swept off his hat when shelooked that way, to be rewarded by animmediate presentation of her back. Suchcow-punchers as these were altogether toofine and grand in their independent airs,her attitude seemed to say.

"Did you take the job?" Taterleginquired.

"I didn't ask her about it."

"You didn't ask her? Well, what in thename of snakes did you come up herefor?"

The Duke led his horse away from thegate, back where she could not see him,and stood fiddling with his cinch a bit,although it required no attention at all.

"I got to thinkin' maybe I'd better go onwest a piece. If you want to stay, don't letme lead you off. Go on over and strike herfor a job; she needs men, I know, by theway she looked."

"No, I guess I'll go on with you till ourroads fork. But I was kind of thinkin' I'dlike to stay around Glendora a while."Taterleg sighed as he seemed to relinquishthe thought of it, tried the gate to see that itwas latched, turned his horse about."Well, where're we headin' for now?"

"I want to ride up there on that bench infront of the house and look around a little

at the view; then I guess we'll go back totown."

They rode to the top of the bench theDuke indicated, where the viewbroadened in every direction, that beingthe last barrier between the river and thedistant hills. The ranchhouse appeared bigeven in that setting of immensities, andperilously near the edge of the crumblingbluff which presented a face almost sheeron the river more than three hundred feetbelow.

"It must 'a' been a job to haul the lumberfor that house up here."

That was Taterleg's only comment. Therugged grandeur of nature presented to himonly its obstacles; its beauties did notmove him any more than they would have

affected a cow.

The Duke did not seem to hear him. Hewas stretching his gaze into the dim southup the river, where leaden hills rolledbillow upon billow, engarnitured withtheir sad gray sage. Whatever his thoughtswere, they bound him in a spell which thecreaking of Taterleg's saddle, as he shiftedin it impatiently, did not disturb.

"Couple of fellers just rode up to thegate in the cross-fence back of thebunkhouse," Taterleg reported.

The Duke grunted, to let it be knownthat he heard, but was not interested. Hewas a thousand miles away from the BadLands in his fast-running dreams.

"That old nigger seems to be havin'

some trouble with them fellers," cameTaterleg's further report. "There goes thatgirl on her horse up to the gate—say, lookat 'em, Duke! Them fellers is tryin' tomake her let 'em through."

Lambert turned, indifferently, to see.There appeared to be a controversy underway at the gate, to be sure. But rowsbetween employees and employer werecommon; that wasn't his fuss. Perhaps itwasn't an argument, as it seemed to befrom that distance, anyhow.

"Did you see that?" Taterleg started hishorse forward in a jump as he spoke,reining up stiffly at Lambert's side. "Oneof them fellers pulled his gun on that oldnigger—did you see him, Duke?"

"Ye-es, I saw him," said the Duke

speculatively, watching the squabble atthe distant gate keenly, turning his horse tohead that way by a pressure of his knee.

"Knocked him flat!" Taterleg set off in agallop as he spoke, the Duke right afterhim, soon ahead of him, old Whetstone ayellow streak across the mesa.

It wasn't his quarrel, but nobody couldcome flashing a gun in the face of a ladywhen he was around. That was theargument that rose in the Duke's thoughtsas he rode down the slope and up thefenced passage between the barns.

The gate at which the two horsemenwere disputing the way with the girl andher old black helper was a hundred yardsor more beyond the one at which Taterlegand the Duke had stopped a little while

before. It was in a cross-fence whichappeared to cut the house and otherbuildings from the range beyond.

As the Duke bent to open this first gatehe saw that the girl had dismounted andwas bending over the old negro, who waslying stretched on the ground. He hadfallen against the gate, on which one of theruffians was now pushing, trying to open itagainst the weight of his body. The girlspoke sharply to the fellow, bracing hershoulder against the gate. Lambert heardthe scoundrel laugh as he swung to theground and set his shoulder against theother side.

The man who remained mounted leanedover and added his strength to the struggle,together forcing the gate open, pushing the

resisting girl with it, dragging the oldnegro, who clutched the bottom plank andwas hauled brutally along. All concernedin the struggle were so deeply engrossedin their own affair that none noted theapproach of the Duke and Taterleg. Thefellow on the ground was leading hishorse through as Lambert galloped up.

At the sound of Lambert's approach thedismounted man leaped into his saddle.The two trespassers sat scowling insidethe gate, watching him closely for the firsthostile sign. Vesta Philbrook was trying tohelp the old negro to his feet. Blood wasstreaming down his face from a cut on hisforehead; he sank down again when she letgo of him to welcome this unexpectedhelp.

"These men cut my fence; they'retrespassing on me, trying to defy andhumiliate me because they know I'malone!" she said. She stretched out herhand toward Lambert as if in appeal to ajudge, her face flushed from the struggleand sense of outrage, her hat pushed backon her amber hair, the fire of righteousanger in her eyes. The realization of herbeauty seemed to sweep Lambert like aflood of sudden music, lifting his heart ina great surge, making him recklessly glad.

"Where do you fellers think you'regoin'?" he asked, following the speech ofthe range.

"We're goin' where we started to go,"the man who had just remounted replied,glaring at Lambert with insulting sneer.

This was a stocky man with bushy red-gray eyebrows, a stubble of roan beardover his blunt, common face. One footwas short in his boot, as if he had lost histoes in a blizzard, a mark not uncommonlyset by unfriendly nature on the men whodefied its force in that country. He wore aduck shooting-jacket, the pockets of itbulging as if with game.

His companion was a much youngerman, slender, graceful in the saddle, ratherhandsome in a swarthy, defiant way. Heranged up beside the spokesman as if totake full share in whatever was to come.Both of them were armed with revolvers,the elder of the two with a rifle inaddition, which he carried in a leatherscabbard black and slick with age, slung

on his saddle under his thigh.

"You'll have to get permission from thislady before you go through here," Lamberttold him calmly.

Vesta Philbrook had stepped back, as ifshe had presented her case and waitedadjudication. She stood by the old negrowhere he sat in the dust, her hand on hishead, not a word more to add to her case,seeming to have passed it on to this slim,confident, soft-spoken stranger with hisclear eyes and steady hand, who took holdof it so competently.

"I've been cuttin' this purty little fencefor ten years, and I'll keep on cuttin' it andgoin' through whenever I feel like it. Idon't have to git no woman's permission,and no man's, neither, to go where I want

to go, kid."

The man dropped his hand to hisrevolver as he spoke the last word with atwisting of the lip, a showing of hisscorbutic teeth, a sneer that was at once aninsult and a goad. The next moment he wasstraining his arms above his head as iftrying to pull them out of their sockets, andhis companion was displaying himself inlike manner, Lambert's gun down on them,Taterleg coming in deliberately a secondor two behind.

"Keep them right there," was the Duke'scaution, jerking his head to Taterleg in themanner of a signal understood.

Taterleg rode up to the fence-cuttersand disarmed them, holding his guncomfortably in their ribs as he worked

with swift hand. The rifle he handed downto the old negro, who was now on his feet,and who took it with a bow and a graveface across which a gleam of satisfactionflashed. The holsters with the revolvers inthem he passed to the Duke, who hungthem on his saddle-horn.

"Pile off," Taterleg ordered.

They obeyed, wrathful but impotent.Taterleg sat by, chewing gum, calm andsteady as if the thing had been rehearsed ahundred times. The Duke pointed to theold negro's hat.

"Pick it up," he ordered the youngerman; "dust it off and give it to him."

The fellow did as directed, with evilface, for it hurt his high pride, just as the

Duke intended that it should hurt. Lambertnodded to the man who had knocked theold fellow down with a blow of his heavyrevolver.

"Dust off his clothes," he said.

Vesta Philbrook smiled as shewitnessed this swift humbling of herancient enemy. The old negro turnedhimself arrogantly, presenting the rear ofhis broad and dusty pantaloons; but thebristling, red-faced rancher balked. Helooked up at Lambert, half choked on thebone of his rage.

"I'll die before I'll do it!" he declaredwith a curse.

Lambert beat down the defiant, red-balled glowering eyes with one brief,

straight look. The fence-cutter broke a tipof sage and set to work, the old man liftinghis arms like a strutting gobbler, his headheld high, the pain of his hurt forgotten inthe triumphant moment of his revenge.

"Have you got some wire and toolsaround here handy, Miss Philbrook?"Lambert inquired. "These men are going todo a little fence fixin' this morning for achange."

The old negro pranced off to get therequired tools, throwing a look back at thetwo prisoners now and then, covering hismouth with his hand to keep back theexplosion of his mirth. Badly as he washurt, his enjoyment of this unprecedentedsituation seemed to cure him completely.His mistress went after him, doubtful of

his strength, with nothing but a quick lookinto Lambert's eyes as she passed to tellhim how deeply she felt.

It was a remarkable procession for theBad Lands that set out from the cross-linefence a few minutes later, the two freerangers starting under escort to repair thedamage done to a despised fence-man'sbarrier. One of them carried a wire-stretcher, the chain of it wound round hissaddle-horn, the other a coil of barbedwire and such tools as were required.After they had proceeded a little way,Taterleg thought of something.

"Don't you reckon we might need acouple of posts, Duke?" he asked.

The Duke thought perhaps they mightcome in handy. They turned back,

accordingly, and each of the trespasserswas compelled to shoulder an oak post,with much blasphemy and threatening offuture adjustment. In that manner ofmarching, each free ranger carrying hiscross as none of his kind ever had carriedit before, they rode to the scene of theirlate depredations.

Vesta Philbrook stood at the gate andwatched them go, reproaching herself forher silence in the presence of this manwho had come to her assistance with suchsure and determined hand. She never hadfound it difficult before to thank anybodywho had done her a generous turn; buthere her tongue had lain as still as a harein its covert, and her heart had gonetrembling in the gratitude which it could

not voice.

A strong man he was, and full ofcommanding courage, but neither so strongnor so mighty that she had need to keep asquiet in his presence as a kitchen maidbefore a king. But he would have to passthat way coming back, and she could makeamends. The old negro stood by, chucklinghis pleasure at the sight drawing away intothe distance of the pasture where hismistress' cattle fed.

"Ananias, do you know who that manis," she asked.

"Laws, Miss Vesta, co'se I do. Didn'tyou hear his hoss-wrangler call himDuke?"

"I heard him call him Duke."

"He's that man they call Duke ofChimley Butte—I know that hoss he's a-ridin'; that hoss used to be Jim Wilder'sole outlaw. That Duke man killed Jim andtook that hoss away from him; that's whathe done. That was while you was gone;you didn't hear 'bout it."

"Killed him and took his horse? Surely,he must have had some good reason,Ananias."

"I don' know, and I ain't a-carin'. That'shim, and that's what he done."

"Did you ever hear of him killinganybody else?"

"Oh, plenty, plenty," said the old manwith easy generosity. "I bet he's killed ahun'ed men—maybe mo'n a hun'ed."

"But you don't know," she said, smilingat the old man's extravagantrecommendation of his hero.

"I don' know, but I bet he is," said he."Look at 'em!" he chuckled; "look at oldNick Ha'gus and his onery, low-downInjun-blood boy!"

CHAPTER X

GUESTS OF THE BOSSLADY

Vesta rode out to meet them as theywere coming back, to make sure of herthanks. She was radiant with gratitude,and at no loss any longer for words toexpress it. Before they had ridden togetheron the return journey half a mile, Taterlegfelt that he had known her all her life, andwas ready to cast his fortunes with her,win or lose.

Lambert was leaving the conversationbetween her and Taterleg, for the greaterpart. He rode in gloomy isolation, like aman with something on his mind, speakingonly when spoken to, and then as shortlyas politeness would permit. Taterleg, whohad words enough for a book, appeared tofeel the responsibility of holding them upto the level of gentlemen and citizens ofthe world. Not if talk could prevent itwould Taterleg allow them to be classedas a pair of boors who could not gobeyond the ordinary cow-puncher's rangein word and thought.

"It'll be some time, ma'am, before thatfeller Hargus and his boy'll try to make ashort cut to Glendora through your ranchag'in," said he.

"It was the first time they were evercaught, after old man Hargus had beencutting our fence for years, Mr. Wilson. Ican't tell you how much I owe you forhumiliating them where they thought thehumiliation would be on my side."

"Don't you mention it, ma'am; it's thegreatest pleasure in the world."

"He thought he'd come by the house andlook in the window and defy me because Iwas alone."

"He's got a mean eye; he's got a eye likea wolf."

"He's got a wolf's habits, too, in moreways than one, Mr. Wilson."

"Yes, that man'd steal calves, all right."

"We've never been able to prove it onhim, Mr. Wilson, but you've put yourfinger on Mr. Hargus' weakness like aphrenologist."

Taterleg felt his oats at this compliment.He sat up like a major, his chest out, hismustache as big on his thin face as aMameluke's. It always made Lambert thinkof the handlebars on that long-horn safetybicycle that he came riding into the BadLands.

"The worst part of it is, Mr. Wilson,that he's not the only one."

"Neighbors livin' off of you, are they?Yes, that's the way it was down in Texaswhen the big ranches begun to fence, theytell me—I never was there, ma'am, and Idon't know of my own knowledge and

belief, as the lawyers say. Fence-ridin'down there in them days was a job wherea man took his life in both hands and heldit up to be shot at."

"There's been an endless fight on thisranch, too. It's been a strain and a strugglefrom the first day, not worth it, not worthhalf of it. But father put the best years ofhis life into it, and established it wheremen boasted it couldn't be done. I'm notgoing to let them whip me now."

Lambert looked at her with a quickgleam of admiration in his eyes. She wasriding between him and Taterleg, as easyin their company, and as natural as if shehad known them for years. There had beenno heights of false pride or consequencefor her to descend to the comradeship of

these men, for she was as unaffected andingenuous as they. Lambert seemed towake to a sudden realization of this. Hisinterest in her began to grow, his reserveto fall away.

"They told us at Glendora that rustlerswere running your cattle off," said he."Are they taking the stragglers that getthrough where the fence is cut, or comingafter them?"

"They're coming in and running them offalmost under our eyes. I've only got oneman on the ranch beside Ananias; nobodyriding fence at all but myself. It takes me agood while to ride nearly seventy miles offence."

"Yes, that's so," Lambert seemed toreflect. "How many head have you got in

this pasture?"

"I ought to have about four thousand, butthey're melting away like snow, Mr.Lambert."

"We saw a bunch of 'em up there wherethem fellers cut the fence," Taterleg put in,not to be left out of the game which he hadstarted and kept going single-handed solong; "white-faced cattle, like they've gotin Kansas."

"Ours—mine are all white-faced. Theystand this climate better than any other."

"It must have been a bunch of strays wesaw—none of them was branded,"Lambert said.

"Father never would brand his calves,for various reasons, the humane above all

others. I never blamed him after seeing itdone once, and I'm not going to take up thebarbarous practice now. All otherconsiderations aside, it ruins a hide, youknow, Mr. Lambert."

"It seems to me you'd better lose thehide than the calf, Miss Philbrook."

"It does make it easy for thieves, andthat's the only argument in favor ofbranding. While we've—I've got the onlywhite-faced herd in this country, I can't gointo court and prove my property withouta brand, once the cattle are run outside ofthis fence. So they come in and take them,knowing they're safe unless they'recaught."

Lambert fell silent again. Theranchhouse was in sight, high on its

peninsula of prairie, like a lighthouse seenfrom sea.

"It's a shame to let that fine herd wasteaway like that," he said, ruminatively, asif speaking to himself.

"It's always been hard to get help here;cowboys seem to think it's a disgrace toride fence. Such as we've been able to getnearly always turned out thieves on theirown account in the end. The one out withthe cattle now is a farm boy from Iowa,afraid of his shadow."

"They didn't want no fence in here inthe first place—that's what set their teethag'in' you," Taterleg said.

"If I could only get some real menonce," she sighed; "men who could handle

them like you boys did this morning. Evenfather never seemed to understand whereto take hold of them to hurt them, the wayyou do."

They were near the house now. Lambertrode on a little way in silence. Then:

"It's a shame to let that herd go topieces," he said.

"It's a sin!" Taterleg declared.

She dropped her reins, looking fromone to the other, an eager appeal in herhopeful face.

"Why can't you boys stop here a whileand help me out?" she asked, saying at lastin a burst of hopeful eagerness what hadbeen in her heart to say from the first. Sheheld out her hand to each of them in a

pretty way of appeal, turning from one tothe other, her gray eyes pleading.

"I hate to see a herd like that broken upby thieves, and all of your investmentwasted," said the Duke, thoughtfully, as ifconsidering it deeply.

"It's a sin and a shame!" said Taterleg.

"I guess we'll stay and give you ahand," said the Duke.

She pulled her horse up short, and gavehim, not a figurative hand, but a warm, asoft and material one, from which shepulled her buckskin glove as if to level allthought or suggestion of a barrier betweenthem. She turned then and shook handswith Taterleg, warming him so with herglowing eyes that he patted her hand a

little before he let it go, in manner trulypatriarchal.

"You're all right, you're all right," hesaid.

Once pledged to it, the Duke wasanxious to set his hand to the work that hesaw cut out for him on that big ranch. Hewas like a physician who had enteredreluctantly into a case after otherpractitioners had left the patient indesperate condition. Every moment mustbe employed if disaster to that valuableherd was to be averted.

Vesta would hear of nothing but thatthey come first to the house for dinner. Sothe guests did the best they could atimproving their appearance at thebunkhouse after turning their horses over

to the obsequious Ananias, who appearedwith a large bandage, and a strong smellof turpentine, on his bruised head.

Beyond brushing off the dust of themorning's ride there was little to be done.Taterleg brought out his brightest necktiefrom the portable possessions rolled up inhis slicker; the Duke produced his calfskinvest. There was not a coat between themto save the dignity of their profession atthe boss lady's board. Taterleg's green-velvet waistcoat had suffered damageduring the winter when a spark from hispipe burned a hole in it as big as a dollar.He held it up and looked at it, concludingin the end that it would not serve.

With his hairy chaps off, Taterleg didnot appear so bow-legged, but he waddled

like a crab as they went toward the houseto join the companion of their ride. TheDuke stopped on the high ground near thehouse, turned, looked off over the greatpasture that had been Philbrook's battleground for so many years.

"One farmer from Iowa out there towatch four thousand cattle, and thieves allaround him! Eatin' looks like burnin'daylight to me."

"She'd 'a' felt hurt if we'd 'a' shied offfrom her dinner, Duke. You know a man'sgot to eat when he ain't hungry and drinkwhen he ain't dry sometimes in this worldto keep up appearances."

"Appearances!" The Duke looked himover with humorous eye, from hissomewhat clean sombrero to his

capacious corduroy trousers gathered intohis boot tops. "Oh, well, I guess it's allright."

Vesta was in excellent spirits, due tothe broadening of her prospects, whichhad appeared so narrow and unpromisingbut a few hours before. One of this pair,she believed, was worth three ordinarymen. She asked them about theiradventures, and the Duke solemnlyassured her that they never hadexperienced any.

Taterleg, loquacious as he might be onoccasion, knew when to hold his tongue.Lambert led her away from that groundinto a discussion of her own affairs, andconditions as they stood between herneighbors and herself.

"Nick Hargus is one of the mostpersistent offenders, and we might as welldispose of him first, since you've met theold wretch and know what he's like on theoutside," she explained. "Hargus was inthe cattle business in a hand-to-mouth waywhen we came here, and he raised abigger noise than anybody else about ourfences, claiming we'd cut him off fromwater, which wasn't true. We didn't cutanybody off from the river.

"Hargus is married to an Indian squaw,a little old squat, black-faced thing asmean as a snake. They've got a big broodof children, that boy you saw this morningis the senior of the gang. Old Hargususually harbors two or three cattle thieves,horse thieves or other crooks of that kind,

some of them just out of the pen, somepreparing their way to it. He does a sort ofgeneral rustling business, with this ranchas his main source of supply. We've had astanding fight on with him ever since wecame here, but today was the first time, asI told you, that he ever was caught.

"You heard what he said about cuttingthe fence this morning. That's the attitudeof the country all around. You couldn'tconvict a man for cutting a fence in thiscountry. So all a person can do is shootthem if you catch them at it. I don't knowwhat Hargus will do to get even with thismorning's humiliation."

"I think he'll leave that fence alone likeit was charged with lightnin'," Taterlegsaid.

"He'll try to turn something; he's wilyand vindictive."

"He needs a chunk of lead about themiddle of his appetite," Taterleg declared.

"Who comes next?" Lambert inquired.

"There's a man they call WalleyeBostian—his regular name is Jesse—onthe farther end of this place that's troubledwith a case of incurable resentmentagainst a barbed-wire fence. He's asheepman, one of the last that would do alawless deed, you'd think, from the look ofhim, but he's mean to the roots of his hair."

"All sheepmen's onery, ma'am, they tellme," said Taterleg, a cowman now fromcore to rind, and loyal to his callingaccordingly.

"I don't know about the rest of them, butWalleye Bostian is a mighty meansheepman. Well, I know I got a shot at himonce that he'll remember."

"You did?" Taterleg's face was asbright as a dishpan with admiration. Hechuckled in his throat, eying the Dukeslantingly to see how he took that piece ofnews.

The Duke sat up a little stiffer, his facegrew a shade more serious, and that wasall the change in him that Taterleg couldsee.

"I hope we can take that kind of workoff your hands in the future, MissPhilbrook," he said, his voice slow andgrave.

She lifted her grateful eyes with a lookof appreciation that seemed to himoverpayment for a service proposed,rather than done. She went on, then, with adescription of her interesting neighbors.

"This ranch is a long, narrow strip, onlyabout three miles wide by twenty deep,the river at this end of it, Walleye Bostianat the other. Along the sides there arevarious kinds of reptiles in human skin,none of them living within four or fivemiles of our fences, the average beingmuch farther than that, for people are notvery plentiful right around here.

"On the north of us Hargus is the worst,on the south a man named Kerr. Kerr is thebiggest single-handed cattleman aroundhere. His one grievance against us is that

we shut a creek that he formerly usedalong inside our fences that forced him torange down to the river for water. As thecreek begins and ends on our land—itempties into the river about a mile abovehere—it's hard for an unbiased mind tograsp Kerr's point of objection."

"Have you ever taken a shot at him?"the Duke asked, smiling a little dry smile.

"No-o," said she reflectively, "not atKerr himself. Kerr is what is usuallytermed a gentleman; that is, he's a man ofeducation and wears his beard cut like abanker's, but his methods of carrying on afeud are extremely low. Fighting isbeneath his dignity, I guess; he hires itdone."

"You've seen some fightin' in your time,

ma'am," Taterleg said.

"Too much of it," she sighed wearily."I've had a shot at his men more than once,but there are one or two in that Kerrfamily I'd like to sling a gun down on!"

It was strange to hear that gentle-mannered, refined girl talk of fighting as ifit were the commonest of everydaybusiness. There was no note of boasting,no color of exaggeration in her manner.She was as natural and sincere as the calmbreeze, coming in through the openwindow, and as wholesome and pure.There was not a doubt of that in the mindof either of the men at the table with her.Their admiration spoke out of their eyes.

"When you've had to fight all your life,"she said, looking up earnestly into

Lambert's face, "it makes you old beforeyour time, and quick-tempered andsavage, I suppose, even when you fight inself-defense. I used to ride fence when Iwas fourteen, with a rifle across mysaddle, and I wouldn't have thought anymore of shooting a man I saw cutting ourfence or running off our cattle than I woulda rabbit."

She did not say what her state of mindon that question was at present, but it wasso plainly expressed in her flushed cheeksand defiant eyes that it needed no words.

"If you'd 'a' had your gun on you thismorning when them fellers knocked thatold coon down I bet there'd 'a' been afuneral due over at old Hargus' ranch,"said Taterleg.

"I'd saddled up to go to the post office; Inever carry a gun with me when I go toGlendora," she said.

"A country where a lady has to carry agun at all ain't no country to speak of. Itneeds cleanin' up, ma'am, that's what itneeds."

"It surely does, Mr. Wilson: you've gotit sized up just right."

"Well, Taterleg, I guess we'd better behittin' the breeze," the Duke suggested,plainly uneasy between the duty ofcourtesy and the long lines of unguardedfence.

Taterleg could not accustom himself tothat extraordinary bunkhouse when theyreturned to it, on such short time. He

walked about in it, necktie in his hand,looking into its wonders, marveling overits conveniences.

"It's just like a regular human house,"said he.

There was a bureau with a glass to it inevery room, and there were rooms forseveral men. The Duke and Taterlegstowed away their slender belongings inthe drawers and soon were ready for thesaddle. As he put the calfskin vest away,the Duke took out the little handkerchief,from which the perfume of faint violet hadfaded long ago, and pressed it tenderlyagainst his cheek.

"You'll wait on me a little while longer,won't you?" he asked.

Then he laid it away between the foldsof his remarkable garment very carefully,and went out, his slicker across his arm, totake up his life in that strip of contentionand strife between Vesta Philbrook's far-reaching wire fences.

CHAPTER XI

ALARMS ANDEXCURSIONS

The news quickly ran over the countrythat Vesta Philbrook had hired thenotorious Duke of Chimney Butte and hisgun-slinging side partner to ride fence.What had happened to Nick Hargus andhis boy, Tom, seemed to prove that theywere men of the old school, quite adifferent type from any who had beenemployed on that ranch previously.

Lambert was troubled to learn that hisnotoriety had run ahead of him, increasingas it spread. It was said that his encounterwith Jim Wilder was only one of hismilder exploits; that he was a grim andbloody man from Oklahoma who hadmarked his miles with tombstones as hetraveled.

His first business on taking charge ofthe Philbrook ranch had been to do a pieceof fence-cutting on his own accountopposite Nick Hargus' ranch, throughwhich he had ridden and driven homethirty head of cattle lately stolen by thatenterprising citizen from VestaPhilbrook's herd. This act of open-handedrestoration, carried out in broad daylightalone, and in the face of Hargus, his large

family of sons, and the skulking refugeesfrom the law who chanced to be hidingthere at the time, added greatly to theDuke's fame.

It did not serve as a recommendationamong the neighbors who had preyed solong and notoriously on the Philbrookherd, and no doubt nothing would havebeen said about it by Hargus to even themost intimate of his ruffianly associates.But Taterleg and old Ananias took greatpains to spread the story in Glendora,where it passed along, with additions as itmoved. Hargus explained that the cattlewere strays which had broken out.

While this reputation of the Duke washighly gratifying to Taterleg, who foundhis own glory increased thereby, it was

extremely distasteful to Lambert, who hadno means of preventing its spread oropportunity of correcting its falsity. Heknew himself to be an inoffensive, ratherbackward and timid man, or at least thisw a s his own measure of himself. Thatfight with Jim Wilder always had been acloud over his spirits, although hisconscience was clear. It had sobered himand made him feel old, as Vesta Philbrookhad said fighting made a person feel. Hecould understand her better, perhaps, thanone whom violence had passedundisturbed.

There was nothing farther from hisdesire than strife and turmoil, gun-slingingand a fearful notoriety. But there he was,set up against his will, against his record,

as a man to whom it was wise to give theroad. That was a dangerous distinction, ashe well understood, for a time wouldcome, even opportunities would becreated, when he would be called upon todefend it. That was the discomfort of afighting name. It was a continual liability,bound sooner or later to draw upon a manto the full extent of his resources.

This reputation lost nothing in the resultof his first meeting with Berry Kerr, therancher who wore his beard like a bankerand passed for a gentleman in that country,where a gentleman was defined, at thattime, as a man who didn't swear. Thismeeting took place on the south line of thefence on a day when Lambert had been onthe ranch a little more than a week.

Kerr was out looking for strays, hesaid, although he seemed to overlook thejoke that he made in neglecting to statefrom whose herd. Lambert gave him thebenefit of the doubt and construed him tomean his own. He rode up to the fence,affable as a man who never had an evilintention in his life, and made inquiryconcerning Lambert's connection with theranch, making a pretense of not havingheard that Vesta had hired new men.

"Well, she needs a couple of good menthat will stand by her steady," he said,with all the generosity of one who had herinterests close to his heart. "She's a goodgirl, and she's been havin' a hard time ofit. But if you want to do her the biggestfavor that a man ever did do under

circumstances of similar nature, persuadeher to tear this fence out, all around, andthrow the range open like it used to be.Then all this fool quarreling and shootingwill stop, and everybody in here will beon good terms again. That's the best wayout of it for her, and it will be the bestway out of it for you if you intend to stayhere and run this ranch."

While Kerr's manner seemed to bepatriarchal and kindly advisory, there wasa certain hardness beneath his words, acertain coldness in his eyes which madehis proposal nothing short of a threat. Itmade all the resentful indignation whichLambert had mastered and chained downin himself rise up and bristle. He took it asa personal affront, as a threat against his

own safety, and the answer that he gave toit was quick and to the point.

"There'll never be a yard of this fencetorn down on my advice, Mr. Kerr," hesaid. "You people around here will haveto learn to give it a good deal morerespect from now on than you have in thepast. I'm going to teach this crowd aroundhere to take off their hats when they cometo a fence."

Kerr was a slender, dry man, the nativemeanness of his crafty face largely maskedby his beard, which was beginning toshow streaks of gray in its brown. He waswearing a coat that day, although it washot, and had no weapon in sight. He satlooking Lambert straight in the eyes for amoment upon the delivery of this bill of

intentions, his brows drawn a bit, a cast ofconcentrated hardness in his gray-blueeyes.

"I'm afraid you've bit off more than youcan chew, much less swallow, youngman," he said. With that he rode away,knowing that he had failed in what heprobably had some hope of accomplishingin his sly and unworthy way.

Things went along quietly after that fora few weeks. Hargus did not attempt anyretaliatory move; on the side of Kerr'sranch all was quiet. The Iowa boy, underTaterleg's tutelage, was developing into atrustworthy and capable hand, the cattlewere fattening in the grassy valleys. Allcounted, it was the most peaceful spellthat Philbrook's ranch ever had known,

and the tranquility was reflected in theowner, and her house, and all within itswalls.

Lambert did not see much of Vesta inthose first weeks of his employment, forhe lived afield, close beside the fenceswhich he guarded as his own honor.Taterleg had a great pride in the matteralso. He cruised up and down his sectionwith a long-range rifle across his saddle,putting in more hours sometimes, he said,than there were in a day. Taterleg knewvery well that slinking eyes werewatching him from the covert of the sage-gray hills. Unceasing vigilance was theprice of reputation in that place, andTaterleg was jealous of his.

Lambert was beginning to grow restless

under the urge of his spirit to continue hisjourney westward in quest of the girl whohad left her favor in his hand. Theromance of it, the improbability of everfinding her along the thousand milesbetween him and the sea, among themultitudes of women in the cities andhamlets along the way, appealed to himwith a compelling lure.

He had considered many schemes forgetting trace of her, among the mostfavored being that of finding the brakemanwho stood on the end of the train that dayamong those who watched him ride andovertake it, and learning from him to whatpoint her ticket read. That was thesimplest plan. But he knew that conductorsand brakemen changed every few hundred

miles, and that this plan might not lead toanything in the end. But it was too simpleto put by without trying; when he set outagain this would be his first care.

He smiled sometimes as he rode hislonely beat inside the fence and recalledthe thrill that had animated him with thecertainty that Vesta Philbrook would turnout to be the girl, his girl. Thedisappointment had been so keen that hehad almost disliked Vesta that first day.She was a fine girl, modest andunaffected, honest as the middle of theday, but there was no appeal but theappeal of the weak to the strong from herto him. They were drawn into a commonsympathy of determination; he had pausedthere to help her because she was

outmatched, fighting a brave battle againstunscrupulous forces. He was taking payfrom her, and there could not be admittedany thought of romance under suchconditions.

But the girl whose challenge he hadaccepted at Misery that day was to beconsidered in a different light. There wasa pledge between them, a bond. Hebelieved that she was expecting him outthere somewhere, waiting for him tocome. Often he would halt on a hilltop andlook away into the west, playing with athousand fancies as to whom she might be,and where.

He was riding in one of these dreamsone mid-afternoon of a hot day about sixweeks after taking charge of affairs on the

ranch, thinking that he would tell Vesta ina day or two that he must go. Taterlegmight stay with her, other men could behired if she would look about her. Hewanted to get out of the business anyway;there was no offering for a man in itwithout capital. So he was thinking, hishead bent, as he rode up a long slope ofgrassy hill. At the top he stopped to blowold Whetstone a little, turning in thesaddle, running his eyes casually along thefence.

He started, his dreams gone from himlike a covey of frightened quail. The fencewas cut. For a hundred yards or morealong the hilltop it was cut at every post,making it impossible to piece.

Lambert could not have felt his

resentment burn any hotter if it had beenhis own fence. It was a fence under hischarge; the defiance was directed at him.He rode along to see if any cattle hadescaped, and drew his breath again withrelief when he found that none had passed.

There was the track of but one horse;the fence-cutter had been alone, probablynot more than an hour ahead of him. Thejob finished, he had gone boldly in thedirection of Kerr's ranch, on whose sidethe depredation had been committed.Lambert followed the trail some distance.It led on toward Kerr's ranch, defiance inits very boldness. Kerr himself must havedone that job.

One man had little chance of stoppingsuch assaults, now they had begun, on a

front of twenty miles. But Lambert vowedthat if he ever did have the good fortune tocome up on one of these sneaks while hewas at work, he'd fill his hide so full oflead they'd have to get a derrick to loadhim into a wagon.

It didn't matter so much about the fence,so long as they didn't get any of the stock.But stragglers from the main herd wouldfind a big gap like that in a few hours, andthe rustlers lying in wait would hurry themaway. One such loss as that and he wouldbe a disgraced man in the eyes of VestaPhilbrook, and the laughing-stock of therascals who put it through. He rode insearch of the Iowa boy who was with thecattle, his job being to ride among themcontinually to keep them accustomed to a

man on horseback. Luckily he found himbefore sundown and sent him for wire.Then he stood guard at the cut until thedamage was repaired.

After that fence-cutting became aregular prank on Kerr's side of the ranch.Watch as he might, Lambert could notprevent the stealthy excursions, thevindictive destruction of the hated barrier.All these breaches were made within amile on either side of the first cut,sometimes in a single place, again along astretch, as if the person using the nippersknew when to deliberate and when tohasten.

Always there was the trace of but onerider, who never dismounted to cut eventhe bottom wire. That it was the work of

the same person each time Lambert wasconvinced, for he always rode the samehorse, as betrayed by a broken hind hoof.

Lambert tried various expedients fortrapping this skulker during a period oftwo weeks. He lay in wait by day andmade stealthy excursions by night, all tono avail. Whoever was doing it had someway of keeping informed on hismovements with exasperating closeness.

The matter of discovering and punishingthe culprit devolved on Lambert alone. Hecould not withdraw Taterleg to help him;the other man could not be spared from thecattle. And now came the crowning insultof all.

It was early morning, after an all-nightwatch along the three miles of fence

where the wire-cutter always worked,when Lambert rode to the top of the ridgewhere the first breach in his line had beenmade. Below that point, not more than halfa mile, he had stopped to boil hisbreakfast coffee. His first discovery onmounting the ridge was a panel of fencecut, his next a piece of white papertwisted to the end of one of the curlingwires.

This he disengaged and unfolded. It wasa page torn from a medicine memorandumbook such as cow-punchers usually carrytheir time in, and the addresses of friends.

Why don't you come and get me, Mr.Duke?

This was the message it bore.

The writing was better, the spellingmore exact than the output of the ordinarycow-puncher. Kerr himself, Lambertthought again. He stood with the tauntingmessage in his fingers, looking toward theKerr ranchhouse, some seven or eightmiles to the south, and stood so quite awhile, his eyes drawn small as if helooked into the wind.

"All right; I'll take you up on that," hesaid.

He rode slowly out through the gap,following the fresh trail. As before, it wasmade by the horse with the notch in its lefthind hoof. It led to a hill three-quarters ofa mile beyond the fence. From this point itstruck a line for the distant ranchhouse.

Lambert did not go beyond the hill.

Dismounting, he stood surveying thecountry about him, struck for the first timeby the view that this vantage-pointafforded of the domain under his care.Especially the line of fence was plainlymarked for a long distance on either sideof the little ridge where the last cut hadbeen made. Evidently the skulkerconcealed himself at this very point andwatched his opening, playing entirely safe.That accounted for all the cutting havingbeen done by daylight, as he was sure hadbeen the case.

He looked about for trace of where thefellow had lain behind the fringe of sage,but the ground was so hard that it wouldnot take a human footprint. As he lookedhe formulated a plan of his own. Half a

mile or more beyond this hill, in thedirection of the Kerr place, a small buttestood, its steep sides grassless, its flat topbare. That would be his watchtower fromthat day forward until he had his hand onthis defiant rascal who had time, in hissecurity, to stop and write a note.

That night he scaled the little butte aftermending the fence behind him, leaving hishorse concealed among the huge blocks ofrock at its foot. Next day, and the onefollowing, he passed in the blazing sun,but nobody came to cut the fence. At nighthe went down, rode his horse to water,turned him to graze, and went back to hisperch among the ants and lizards on top ofthe butte.

The third day was cloudy and

uneventful; on the fourth, a little beforenine, just when the sun was squaring off toshrivel him in his skin, Lambert sawsomebody coming from the direction ofKerr's ranch.

The rider made straight for the hillbelow Lambert's butte, where he reined upbefore reaching the top, dismounted andwent crawling to the fringe of sage at thefarther rim of the bare summit. Lambertwaited until the fellow mounted and rodetoward the fence, then he slid down theshale, starting Whetstone from his doze.

Lambert calculated that he was morethan a mile from the fence. He wanted toget over there near enough to catch thefellow at work, so there would be fulljustification for what he intended to do.

Whetstone stretched himself to the task,coming out of the broken ground and upthe hill from which the fence-cutter hadridden but a few minutes before while themarauder was still a considerabledistance from his objective. The man wasriding slowly, as if saving his horse for achance surprise.

Lambert cut down the distance betweenthem rapidly, and was not more than threehundred yards behind when the fellowbegan snipping the wire with a pair ofnippers that glittered in the sun.

Lambert held his horse back,approaching with little noise. The fence-cutter was rising back to the saddle aftercutting the bottom wire of the secondpanel when he saw that he was trapped.

Plainly unnerved by this coup of thedespised fence-guard, he sat clutching hisreins as if calculating his chance ofdashing past the man who blocked hisretreat. Lambert slowed down, not morethan fifty yards between them, waiting forthe first move toward a gun. He wanted asmuch of the law on his side, even thoughthere was no witness to it, as he couldhave, for the sake of his conscience andhis peace.

Just a moment the fence-cutter hesitated,making no movement to pull a gun, then heseemed to decide in a flash that he couldnot escape the way that he had come. Heleaned low over his horse's neck, as if heexpected Lambert to begin shooting, rodethrough the gap that he had cut in the fence,

and galloped swiftly into the pasture.

Lambert followed, sensing the schemeat a glance. The rascal intended to eitherride across the pasture, hoping to outrunhis pursuer in the three miles of up-and-down country, or turn when he had a safelead and go back. As the chase led away,it became plain that the plan was to makea run for the farther fence, cut it and getaway before Lambert could come up. Thatarrangement suited Lambert admirably; itwould seem to give him all the law on hisside that any man could ask.

There was a scrubby growth of brushon the hillsides, and tall red willowsalong the streams, making a covert hereand there for a horse. The fleeing mantook advantage of every offering of this

nature, as if he rode in constant fear of thebullet that he knew was his due. Added tothis cunning, he was well mounted, hishorse being almost equal in speed toWhetstone, it seemed, at the beginning ofthe race.

Lambert pushed him as hard as hethought wise, conserving his horse for theadvantage that he knew he would havewhile the fence-cutter stopped to makehimself an outlet. The fellow rode hard,unsparing of his quirt, jumping his long-legged horse over rocks and acrossravines.

It was in one of these leaps thatLambert saw something fall from thesaddle holster. He found it to be thenippers with which the fence had been cut,

lying in the bottom of the deep arroyo. Herode down and recovered the tool, in nohurry now, for he was quite certain thatthe fence-cutter would not have another.He would discover his loss when he cameto the fence, and then, if he was notentirely the coward and sneak that hisactions seemed to brand him, he wouldhave recourse to another tool.

It did not take them long to finish thethree-mile race across the pasture, and itturned out in the end exactly as Lambertthought it would. When the fugitive camewithin a few rods of the fence he put hishand down to the holster for his nippers,discovering his loss. Then he looked backto see how closely he was pressed, whichwas very close indeed.

Lambert felt that he did not want to bethe aggressor, even on his own land, inspite of the determination he had reachedfor such a contingency as this. He recalledwhat Vesta had said about theimpossibility of securing a conviction forcutting a fence. Surely if a man could notbe held responsible for this act in thecourts of the country, it would fare hardwith one who might kill him in thecommission of the outrage. Let him drawfirst, and then——

The fellow rode at the fence as if heintended to try to jump it. His horsebalked at the barrier, turned, raced alongit, Lambert in close pursuit, comingalongside him as he was reaching to drawhis pistol from the holster at his saddle

bow. And in that instant, as the fleeingrider bent tugging at the gun which seemedto be strapped in the holster, Lambert sawthat it was not a man.

A strand of dark hair had fallen fromunder the white sombrero; it was droppinglower and lower as it uncoiled from itsanchorage. Lambert pressed his horseforward a few feet, leaned far over andsnatched away the hand that struggled tounbuckle the weapon.

She turned on him, her face scarlet in itsfury, their horses racing side by side, theirstirrups clashing. Distorted as her featureswere by anger and scorn at the touch ofone so despised, Lambert felt his heartleap and fall, and seem to stand still in hisbosom. It was not only a girl; it was his

girl, the girl of the beckoning hand.

CHAPTER XII

THE FURY OF DOVES

Lambert released her the moment thathe made his double discovery, foolishlyshaken, foolishly hurt, to realize that shehad been afraid to have him know it was awoman he pursued. He caught her rein andchecked her horse along with his own.

"There's no use to run away from me,"he said, meaning to quiet her fear. Shefaced him scornfully, seemingly tounderstand it as a boast.

"You wouldn't say that to a man, youcoward!"

Again he felt a pang, like a blow froman ungrateful hand. She was breathing fast,her dark eyes spiteful, defiant, her faceeloquent of the scorn that her words hadonly feebly expressed. He turned his head,as if considering her case and revolving inhis mind what punishment to apply.

She was dressed in riding breeches,with Mexican goatskin chaps, a heavygray shirt such as was common tocowboys, a costly white sombrero, itscrown pinched to a peak in the Mexicanfashion. With the big handkerchief on herneck flying as she rode, and the crouchingposture that she had assumed in the saddleevery time her pursuer began to close up

on her in the race just ended, Lambert'sfailure to identify her sex was not soinexcusable as might appear. And he wasthinking that she had been afraid to havehim know she was a girl.

His discovery had left him dumb, hismind confused by a cross-current ofemotions. He was unable to relate herwith the present situation, although shewas unmistakably before his eyes, herdisguise ineffectual to change one line ofher body as he recalled her leaning overthe railing of the car, her anger unable toefface one feature as pictured in hismemory.

"What are you going to do about it?"she asked him defiantly, not a hint in herbearing of shame for her discovery, or

contrition for her crime.

"I guess you'd better go home."

He spoke in gentle reproof, as to a childcaught in some trespass well-nighunforgivable, but to whose offense he hadclosed his eyes out of considerationswhich only the forgiving understand. Helooked her full in the eyes as he spoke, thedisappointment and pain of his discoveryin his face. The color blanched out of hercheeks, she stared at him a moment inwaking astonishment, her eyes just as heremembered them when they drew him onin his perilous race after the train.

Such a flame rose in him that he felt itmust make him transparent, and lay hisdeepest sentiments bare before her gaze.So she looked at him a moment, eye to

eye, the anger gone out of her face, theflash of scorn no longer glinting in thedark well of her eye. But if she recognizedhim she did not speak of it. Almost at onceshe turned away, as from the face of astranger, looking back over the way thatshe had ridden in such headlong flight.

He believed she was ashamed to havehim know she recognized him. It was notfor him to speak of the straining little actthat romance had cast them for at their firstm e e t i n g . Perhaps under happiercircumstances she would have recalled it,and smiled, and given him her hand.Embarrassment must attend her here, nomatter how well she believed herself tobe justified in her destructive raids againstthe fence.

"I'll have to go back the way I came,"she said.

"There is no other way."

They started back in silence, riding sideby side. Wonder filled the door of hismind; he had only disconnected,fragmentary thoughts, upon the current ofwhich there rose continually therealization, only half understood, that hestarted out to search the world for thiswoman, and he had found her.

That he had discovered her in the partof a petty, spiteful lawbreaker, dressed inan outlandish and unbecoming garb, didnot trouble him. If he was conscious of itat all, indeed, the hurrying turmoil of histhoughts pushed it aside like drifted leavesby the way. The wonderful thing was that

he had found her, and at the end of apursuit so hot it might have been acontinuation of his first race for the trophyof white linen in her hand.

Presently this fog cleared; he came backto the starting-point of it, to the coldnessof his disappointment. More than once inthat chase across the pasture his hand haddropped to his pistol in the sober intentionof shooting the fugitive, despised as onelower than a thief. She seemed to soundhis troubled thoughts, riding there by hisside like a friend.

"It was our range, and they fenced it!"she said, with all the feeling of a feudist.

"I understand that Philbrook bought theland; he had a right to fence it."

"He didn't have any right to buy it; theydidn't have any right to sell it to him! Thiswas our range; it was the best range in thecountry. Look at the grass here, and lookat it outside of that fence."

"I think it's better here because it's beenfenced and grazed lightly so long."

"Well, they didn't have any right tofence it."

"Cutting it won't make it any betternow."

"I don't care, I'll cut it again! If I had myway about it I'd drive our cattle in herewhere they've got a right to be."

"I don't understand the feeling of youpeople in this country against fences; Icame from a place where everybody's got

them. But I suppose it's natural, if youcould get down to the bottom of it."

"If there's one thing unnatural, it's afence," she said.

They rode on a little way, sayingnothing more. Then she:

"I thought the man they call the Duke ofChimney Butte was working on this sideof the ranch?"

"That's a nickname they gave me over atthe Syndicate when I first struck thiscountry. It doesn't mean anything at all."

"I thought you were his partner," shesaid.

"No, I'm the monster himself."

She looked at him quickly, very close to

smiling.

"Well, you don't look so terrible, afterall. I think a man like you would beashamed to have a woman boss over him."

"I hadn't noticed it, Miss Kerr."

"She told you about me," she charged,with resentful stress.

"No."

So they rode on, their thoughts betweenthem, a word, a silence, nothing worthwhile said on either side, comingpresently to the gap she had made in thewire.

"I thought you'd hand me over to thesheriff," she told him, between banter anddefiance.

"They say you couldn't get a convictionon anything short of cattle stealing in thispart of the country, and doubtful on that.But I wouldn't give you over to the sheriff,Miss Kerr, even if I caught you driving offa cow."

"What would you do?" she asked, herhead bent, her voice low.

"I'd try to argue you out of the cow first,and then teach you better," he said, withsuch evident seriousness that she turnedher face away, he thought to hide a smile.

She stopped her horse between thedangling ends of wire. Her long braid ofblack hair was swinging down her back toher cantle, her hard ride havingdisarranged its cunning deceit beneath herhat until it drooped over her ears and

blew in loose strands over her dark,wildly piquant face, out of which the hardlines of defiance had not quite melted.

She was not as handsome as VestaPhilbrook, he admitted, but there wassomething about her that moved emotionsin him which slept in the other's presence.Perhaps it was the romance of their firstmeeting; perhaps it was the power of herdark, expressive eyes. Certainly Lamberthad seen many prettier women in his shortexperience, but none that ever made hissoul vibrate with such exquisite, sweetpain.

"If you owned this ranch, Mr.——"

"Lambert is my name, Miss Kerr."

"If you owned it, Mr. Lambert, I believe

we could live in peace, even if you keptthe fence. But with that girl—it can't bedone."

"Here are your nippers, Miss Kerr; youlost them when you jumped that arroyo.Won't you please leave the fence-cuttingto the men of the family, if it has to bedone, after this?"

"We have to use them on the range sincePhilbrook cut us off from water," sheexplained, "and hired men don't take muchinterest in a person's family quarrels.They're afraid of Vesta Philbrook,anyhow. She can pick a man off a milewith her rifle, they believe, but she can't.I'm not afraid of her; I never was afraid ofold Philbrook, the old devil."

Even though she concluded with that

spiteful little stab, she gave theexplanation as if she believed it dueLambert's generous leniency andcourteous behavior.

"And there being no men of the familywho will undertake it, and no hired menwho can be interested, you have to cut thefence yourself," he said.

"I know you think I ought to be ashamedof cutting her fence," she said, her headbent, her eyes veiled, "but I'm not."

"I expect I'd feel it that way if it was myquarrel, too."

"Any man like you would. I've beenwhere they have fences, too, and signs tokeep off the grass. It's different here."

"Can't we patch up a truce between us

for the time I'm here?"

He put out his hand in entreaty, his leanface earnest, his clear eyes pleading. Shecolored quickly at the suggestion, andframed a hot reply. He could see itforming, and went on hurriedly to forestallit.

"I don't expect to be here always! Ididn't come here looking for a job. I wasgoing West with a friend; we stopped offon the way through."

"Riding fence for a woman boss is alow-down job."

"There's not much to it for a man thatlikes to change around. Maybe I'll not stayvery long. We'd just as well have peacewhile I'm here."

"You haven't got anything to do with it—you're only a fence-rider! The fight'sbetween me and that girl, and I'll cut herfence—I'll cut her heart out if she gets inmy road!"

"Well, I'm going to hook up this panel,"he said, leaning and taking hold of thewire end, "so you can come here and let itdown any time you feel like you have tocut the fence. That will do us about thesame damage, and you every bit as muchgood."

She was moved out of her sullen humorby this proposal for giving vent to herpassion against Vesta Philbrook. Itseemed as if he regarded her as a child,and her part in this fence-feud a piece ofirresponsible folly. It was so absurd in her

eyes that she laughed.

"I suppose you're in earnest, but if youknew how foolish it sounds!"

"That's what I'm going to do, anyway.You know I'll just keep on fixing the fencewhen you cut it, and this arrangement willsave both of us trouble. I'll put a can orsomething on one of the posts to mark thespot for you."

"This fence isn't any joke with us, Mr.Lambert, funny as you seem to think it. It'smore than a fence, it's a symbol of all thatstands between us, all the wrongs we'vesuffered, and the losses, on account of it. Iknow it makes her rave to cut it, and Iexpect you'll have a good deal of fixing todo right along."

She started away, stopped a few rodsbeyond the fence, came back.

"There's always a place for a good manover at our ranch," she said.

He watched her braid of hair swingingfrom side to side as she galloped away,with no regret for his rejected truce of thefence. She would come back to cut itagain, and again he would see her.Disloyal as it might be to his employer, hehoped she would not delay the nextexcursion long.

He had found her. No matter for theconditions under which the discovery hadbeen made, his quest was at an end, hislong flights of fancy were done. It was amarvelous thing for him, more wonderfulthan the realization of his first

expectations would have been. This wildspirit of the girl was well in accord withthe character he had given her in hisimagination. When he watched her awaythat day at Misery he knew she was thekind of woman who would exact much ofa man; as he looked after her anew herealized that she would require more.

The man who found his way to her heartwould have to take up her hatreds,champion her feuds, ride in her forays,follow her wild will against her enemies.He would have to sink the refinements ofhis civilization, in a measure, discard allpreconceived ideas of justice and honor.He would have to hate a fence.

The thought made him smile. He was sohappy that he had found her that he could

have absolved her of a deeper blame thanthis. He felt, indeed, as if he had come tothe end of vast wanderings, a peace as ofthe cessation of turmoils in his heart.Perhaps this was because of the immensityof the undertaking which so lately had lainbefore him, its resumption put off fromday to day, its proportions increasing witheach deferment.

He made no movement to dismount andhook up the cut wires, but sat looking afterher as she grew smaller between him andthe hill. He was so wrapped in his newand pleasant fancies that he did not hearthe approach of a horse on the slope of therise until its quickened pace as it reachedthe top brought Vesta Philbrook suddenlyinto his view.

"Who is that?" she asked, ignoring hissalutation in her excitement.

"I think it must be Miss Kerr; shebelongs to that family, at least."

"You caught her cutting the fence?"

"Yes, I caught her at it."

"And you let her get away?"

"There wasn't much else that I coulddo," he returned, with thoughtful gravity.

Vesta sat in her saddle as rigid anderect as a statue, looking after thedisappearing rider. Lambert contrasted thetwo women in mental comparison, struckby the difference in which rage manifesteditself in their bearing. This one seemed ascold as marble; the other had flashed and

glowed like hot iron. The cold rigiditybefore his eyes must be the slow wrathagainst which men are warned.

The distant rider had reached the top ofthe hill from which she had spied out theland. Here she pulled up and looked back,turning her horse to face them when shesaw that Lambert's employer had joinedhim. A little while she gazed back at them,then waved her hat as in exultantchallenge, whirled her horse, andgalloped over the hill.

That was the one taunt needed to set offthe slow magazine of Vesta Philbrook'swrath. She cut her horse a sharp blowwith her quirt and took up the pursuit soquickly that Lambert could not interposeeither objection or entreaty.

Lambert felt like an intruder who hadwitnessed something not intended for hiseyes. He had no thought at that moment offollowing and attempting to prevent whatmight turn out a regretful tragedy, but satthere reviling the land that nursed womenon such a rough breast as to inspire thesesavage passions of reprisal and revenge.

Vesta was riding a big brown gelding,long-necked, deep-chested, slim ofhindquarters as a hound. Unless roughground came between them she wouldoverhaul that Kerr girl inside of fourmiles, for her horse lacked the wind for along race, as the chase across the pasturehad shown. In case that Vesta overtookher, what would she do? The answer tothat was in Vesta's eyes when she saw the

cut wire, the raider riding free across therange. It was such an answer that it shotthrough Lambert like a lightning-stroke.

Yet, it was not his quarrel; he could notinterfere on one side or the other withoutdrawing down the displeasure ofsomebody, nor as a neutral withoutincurring the wrath of both. This view of itdid not relieve him of anxiety to knowhow the matter was going to terminate.

He gave Whetstone the reins andgalloped after Vesta, who was alreadyover the hill. As he rode he began torealize as never before the smallness ofthis fence-cutting feud, the reallyworthless bone at the bottom of thecontention. Here Philbrook had fenced incertain lands which all men agreed he had

been cheated in buying, and here uprosethose who scorned him for his gullibility,and lay in wait to murder him for shuttingthem out of his admittedly worthlessdomain. It was a quarrel beyond reason toa thinking man.

Nobody could blame Philbrook fordefending his rights, but they seemed suchworthless possessions to stake one's lifeagainst day by day, year after year. Thefeud of the fence was like a cancerousinfection. It spread to and poisoned allthat the wind blew on around the bordersof that melancholy ranch.

Here were these two women ridingbreak-neck and bloody-eyed to pull gunsand fight after the code of the roughest.Both of them were primed by the

accumulated hatred of their young lives todeeds of violence with no thought ofconsequences. It was a hard and bitterland that could foster and feed suchpassions in bosoms of so much nativeexcellence; a rough and boisterous land,unworthy the labor that men lavished on itto make therein their refuge and theirhome.

The pursued was out of sight whenLambert gained the hilltop, the pursuerjust disappearing behind a growth ofstunted brushwood in the winding dryvalley beyond. He pushed after them, hisanxiety increasing, hoping that he mightovertake Vesta before she came withinrange of her enemy. Even should hesucceed in this, he was at fault for some

way of stopping her in her passionatedesign.

He could not disarm her withoutbringing her wrath down on himself, orattempt to persuade her without rousingher suspicion that he was leagued with herdestructive neighbors. On the other hand,the fence-cutting girl would believe thathe had wittingly joined in an unequal andunmanly pursuit. A man's dilemmabetween the devil and the deep waterwould be simple compared to his.

All this he considered as he gallopedalong, leaving the matter of keeping thetrail mainly to his horse. He emerged fromthe hemming brushwood, entering a stretchof hard tableland where the parched grasswas red, the earth so hard that a horse

made no hoofprint in passing. Across thishe hurried in a ferment of fear that hewould come too late, and down a longslope where sage grew again, the earthdry and yielding about its unlovelyclumps.

Here he discovered that he had left toomuch to his horse. The creature had laid acourse to suit himself, carrying him off thetrail of those whom he sought in suchbreathless state. He stopped, lookinground him to fix his direction, discoveringto his deep vexation that Whetstone hadveered from the course that he had laid forhim into the south, and was headingtoward the river.

On again in the right direction,swerving sharply in the hope that he

would cut the trail. So for a mile or more,in dusty, headlong race, coming then to therim of a bowl-like valley and the sound ofrunning shots.

Lambert's heart contracted in aparoxysm of fear for the lives of boththose flaming combatants as he rodeprecipitately into the little valley. Theshooting had ceased when he came intothe clear and pulled up to look for Vesta.

The next second the two girls sweptinto sight. Vesta had not only overtakenher enemy, but had ridden round her andcut off her retreat. She was driving herback toward the spot where Lambertstood, shooting at her as she fled, withwhat seemed to him a cruel and deliberatehand.

CHAPTER XIII

"NO HONOR IN HERBLOOD"

Vesta was too far behind the other girlfor anything like accurate shooting with apistol, but Lambert feared that a chanceshot might hit, with the most melancholyconsequences for both parties concerned.No other plan presenting, he rode downwith the intention of placing himselfbetween them.

Now the Kerr girl had her gun out, and

had turned, offering battle. She was still aconsiderable distance beyond him, withwhat appeared from his situation to besome three or four hundred yards betweenthe combatants, a safe distance for both ofthem if they would keep it. But Vesta hadno intention of making it a long-rangeduel. She pulled her horse up andreloaded her gun, then spurred ahead,holding her fire.

Lambert saw all this as he swept downbetween them like an eagle, old Whetstonehardly touching the ground. He cut the linebetween them not fifty feet from the Kerrgirl's position, as Vesta galloped up.

He held up his hand in an appeal forpeace between them. Vesta charged up tohim as he shifted to keep in the line of

their fire, coming as if she would ride himdown and go on to make an end of thatchapter of the long-growing feud. TheKerr girl waited, her pistol hand crossedon the other, with the deliberate coolnessof one who had no fear of the outcome.

Vesta waved him aside, her face whiteas ash, and attempted to dash by. Hecaught her rein and whirled her horsesharply, bringing her face to face withhim, her revolver lifted not a yard fromhis breast.

For a moment Lambert read in her eyesan intention that made his heart contract.He held his breath, waiting for the shot. Amoment; the film of deadly passion thatobscured her eyes like a smoke cleared,the threatening gun faltered, drooped, was

lowered. He twisted in his saddle andcommanded the Kerr girl with a swing ofthe arm to go.

She started her horse in a bound, anda g a i n the soul-obscuring curtain ofmurderous hate fell over Vesta's eyes. Shelifted her gun as Lambert, with a quickmovement, clasped her wrist.

"For God's sake, Vesta, keep your soulclean!" he said.

His voice was vibrant with a deepearnestness that made him as solemn as apriest. She stared at him with wideningeyes, something in his manner and voicethat struck to reason through the insulationof her anger. Her fingers relaxed on theweapon; she surrendered it into his hand.

A little while she sat staring after thefleeing girl, held by what thoughts hecould not guess. Presently the riderwhisked behind a point of sage-dotted hilland was gone. Vesta lifted her handsslowly and pressed them to her eyes,shivering as if struck by a chill. Twice orthrice this convulsive shudder shook her.She bowed her head a little, the sound of asob behind her pressing hands.

Lambert put her pistol back into theholster which dangled on her thigh fromthe cartridge-studded belt round herpliant, slender waist.

"Let me take you home, Vesta," he said.

She withdrew her hands, discoveringtears on her cheeks. Saying nothing, shestarted to retrace the way of that mad,

murderous race. She did not resent hisfamiliar address, if conscious of it at all,for he spoke with the sympathetictenderness one employs toward a sufferingchild.

They rode back to the fence without aword between them. When they came tothe cut wires he rode through as if heintended to continue on with her to theranchhouse, six or seven miles away.

"I can go on alone, Mr. Lambert," shesaid.

"My tools are down here a mile or so.I'll have to get them to fix this hole."

A little way again in silence. Althoughhe rode slowly she made no effort toseparate from his company and go her way

alone. She seemed very weary anddepressed, her sensitive face reflecting thestrain of the past hour. It had borne on herwith the wearing intensity of sleeplessnights.

"I'm tired of this fighting and contendingfor evermore!" she said.

Lambert offered no comment. Therewas little, indeed, that he could frame onhis tongue to fit the occasion, it seemed tohim, still under the shadow of the dreadfulthing that he had averted but a little whilebefore. There was a feeling over him thathe had seen this warm, breathing woman,with the best of her life before her,standing on the brink of a terrifying chasminto which one little movement wouldhave precipitated her beyond the help of

any friendly hand.

She did not realize what it meant to takethe life of another, even with fulljustification at her hand; she never had feltthat weight of ashes above the heart, or thepresence of the shadow that tinctured alllife with its somber gloom. It was onething for the law to absolve a slayer;another to find absolution in his ownconscience. It was a strain that tried aman's mind. A woman like VestaPhilbrook might go mad under theunceasing pressure and chafing of thatload.

When they came to where his tools andwire lay beside the fence, she stopped.Lambert dismounted in silence, tied a coilof wire to his saddle, strung the chain of

the wire-stretcher on his arm.

"Did you know her before you camehere?" she asked, with such abruptness,such lack of preparation for the question,that it seemed a fragment of what had beenrunning through her mind.

"You mean——?"

"That woman, Grace Kerr."

"No, I never knew her."

"I thought maybe you'd met her, she'sbeen away at school somewhere—Omaha,I think. Were you talking to her long?"

"Only a little while."

"What did you think of her?"

"I thought," said he, slowly, his face

turned from her, his eyes on somethingmiles away, "that she was a girl somethingcould be made out of if she was taken holdof the right way. I mean," facing herearnestly, "that she might be reasoned outof this senseless barbarity, this raidingand running away."

Vesta shook her head. "The devil's inher; she was born to make trouble."

"I got her to half agree to a truce," saidh e reluctantly, his eyes studying theground, "but I guess it's all off now."

"She wouldn't keep her word with you,"she declared with great earnestness, a sad,rather than scornful earnestness, puttingout her hand as if to touch his shoulder.Half way her intention seemed to falter;her hand fell in eloquent expression of her

heavy thoughts.

"Of course, I don't know."

"There's no honor in the Kerr blood.Kerr was given many a chance by father tocome up and be a man, and square thingsbetween them, but he didn't have it in him.Neither has she. Her only brother waskilled at Glendora after he'd shot a man inthe back."

"It ought to have been settled, long ago,without all this fighting. But if peoplerefuse to live by their neighbors and bedecent, a good man among them has a hardtime. I don't blame you, Vesta, for the wayyou feel."

"I'd have been willing to let this feuddie, but she wouldn't drop it. She began

cutting the fence every summer as soon asI came home. She's goaded me out of mysenses, she's put murder in my heart!"

"They've tried you almost pastendurance, I know. But you've neverkilled anybody, Vesta. All there is hereisn't worth that price."

"I know it now," she said, wearily.

"Go home and hang your gun up, and letit stay there. As long as I'm here I'll do thefighting when there's any to be done."

"You didn't help me a little while ago.All you did was for her."

"It was for both of you," he said, ratherindignant that she should take such anunjust view of his interference.

"You didn't ride in front of her and stopher from shooting me!"

"I came to you first—you saw that."

Lambert mounted, turned his horse to goback and mend the fence. She rode afterhim, impulsively.

"I'm going to stop fighting, I'm going totake my gun off and put it away," she said.

He thought she never had appeared sohandsome as at that moment, a soft light inher eyes, the harshness of strain and angergone out of her face. He offered her hishand, the only expression of hisappreciation for her generous decisionthat came to him in the gratefulness of themoment. She took it as if to seal a compactbetween them.

"You've come back to be a womanagain," he said, hardly realizing howstrange his words might seem to her,expressing the one thought that came to thefront.

"I suppose I didn't act much like awoman out there a while ago," sheadmitted, her old expression of sadnessdarkening in her eyes.

"You were a couple of wildcats," hetold her. "Maybe we can get on here nowwithout fighting, but if they comecrowding it on let us men-folks take careof it for you; it's no job for a girl."

"I'm going to put the thought of it out ofmy mind, feud, fences, everything—andturn it all over to you. It's asking a lot ofyou to assume, but I'm tired to the heart."

"I'll do the best by you I can as long asI'm here," he promised, simply. He startedon; she rode forward with him.

"If she comes back again, what will youdo?"

"I'll try to show her where she's wrong,and maybe I can get her to hang up hergun, too. You ought to be friends, it seemsto me—a couple of neighbor girls likeyou."

"We couldn't be that," she said, loftily,her old coldness coming over hermomentarily, "but if we can live apart inpeace it will be something. Don't trust her,Mr. Lambert, don't take her word foranything. There's no honor in the Kerrblood; you'll find that out for yourself. Itisn't in one of them to be even a

disinterested friend."

There was nothing for him to say to this,spoken so seriously that it seemed almosta prophecy. He felt as if she had lookedinto the window of his heart and read hissecret and, in her old enmity for this slimgirl of the dangling braid of hair, wasworking subtly to raise a barrier ofsuspicion and distrust between them.

"I'll go on home and quit botheringyou," she said.

"You're no bother to me, Vesta; I like tohave you along."

She stopped, looked toward the placewhere she had lately ridden through thefence in vengeful pursuit of her enemy, hereyes inscrutable, her face sad.

"I never felt it so lonesome out here asit is today," she said, and turned her horse,and left him.

He looked back more than once as herode slowly along the fence, a mist beforehis perception that he could not pierce.What had come over Vesta to change herso completely in this little while? Hebelieved she was entering the shadow ofsome slow-growing illness, which boredown her spirits in an uninterpretedforeboding of evil days to come.

What a pretty figure she made in thesaddle, riding away from him in that slowcanter; how well she sat, how she swayedat the waist as her nimble animal cut inand out among the clumps of sage. Amighty pretty girl, and as good as they

grew them anywhere. It would be acalamity to have her sick. From theshoulder of the slope he looked backagain. Pretty as any woman a man everpictured in his dreams.

She passed out of sight without lookingback, and there rose a picture in histhoughts to take her place, a picture ofdark, defiant eyes, of telltale hair fallingin betrayal of her disguise, as ifdiscovering her secret to him who had aright to know.

The fancy pleased him; as he worked torepair the damage she had wrought, hesmiled. How well his memory retainedher, in her transition from anger to scorn,scorn to uneasy amazement, amazement torelief. Then she had smiled, and the

recognition not owned in words butspoken in her eyes, had come.

Yes, she knew him; she recalled herchallenge, his acceptance and victory.Even as she rode swiftly to obey him outof that mad encounter in the valley overthere, she had owned in her quick act thatshe knew him, and trusted him as she spedaway.

When he came to the place where shehad ridden through, he pieced the wire andhooked the ends together, as he had toldher he would do. He handled even thestubborn wire tenderly, as a man might theappurtenances to a rite. Perhaps he waslinking their destinies in that simple act,he thought, sentimentally unreasonable; itmight be that this spot would mark the

second altar of his romance, even as thelittle station of Misery was lifted up in hisheart as the shrine of its beginning.

There was blood on his knuckles wherethe vicious wire had torn him. He dashedit to the ground as a libation, smiling likeone moonstruck, a flood of soft fanciesmaking that bleak spot dear.

CHAPTER XIV

NOTICE IS SERVED

Taterleg was finding things easier onhis side of the ranch. Nick Hargus waslying still, no hostile acts had beencommitted. This may have been due to thefierce and bristling appearance ofTaterleg, as he humorously declared, orbecause Hargus was waitingreenforcements from the penal institutionsof his own and surrounding states.

Taterleg had a good many nights to

himself, as a consequence of the securitywhich his grisly exterior had brought.These he spent at Glendora, mainly on theporch of the hotel in company of AltaWood, chewing gum together as if theywove a fabric to bind their lives inadhesive amity to the end.

Lambert had a feeling of security for hisline of fence, also, as he rode home on theevening of his adventurous day. He hadleft a note on the pieced wire remindingGrace Kerr of his request that she ease herspite by unhooking it there instead ofcutting it in a new place. He also addedthe information that he would be there on acertain date to see how well she carriedout his wish.

He wondered whether she would read

his hope that she would be there at thesame hour, or whether she might be afraidto risk Vesta Philbrook's fury again. Therewas an eagerness in him for the hasteningof the intervening time, a joyous lightnesswhich tuned him to such harmony with theworld that he sang as he rode.

Taterleg was going to Glendora thatnight. He pressed Lambert to join him.

"A man's got to take a day offsometimes to rest his face and hands," heargued. "Them fellers can't run off anystock tonight, and if they do they can't gitvery far away with 'em before we'd be ontheir necks. They know that; they're as safeas if we had 'em where they belong."

"I guess you're right on that, Taterleg.I've got to go to town to buy me a pair of

clothes, anyhow, so I'll go you."

Taterleg was as happy as a cricket,humming a tune as he went along. He hadmade liberal application of perfume to hishandkerchief and mustache, and ofbarber's pomatum to his hair. He had fixedhis hat on carefully, for the protection ofthe cowlick that came down over his lefteyebrow, and he could not be stirredbeyond a trot all the way to Glendora forfear of damage that might result.

"I had a run-in with that feller the othernight," he said.

"What feller do you mean?"

"Jedlick, dern him."

"You did? I didn't notice any of yourears bit off."

"No, we didn't come to licks. He triedto horn in while me and Alta was out onthe porch."

"What did you do?"

"I didn't have a show to do anything buthand him a few words. Alta she got me bythe arm and drug me in the parlor andslammed the door. No use tryin' to breakaway from that girl; she could pull aelephant away from his hay if she took anotion."

"Didn't Jedlick try to hang on?"

"No, he stood out in the office rumblin'to the old man, but that didn't bother me nomore than the north wind when you're inbed under four blankets. Alta she playedme some tunes on her git-tar and sung me

some songs. I tell you, Duke, I just laidback and shut my eyes. I felt as easy as if Iowned the railroad from here to Omaha."

"How long are you going to keep it up?"

"Which up, Duke?"

"Courtin' Alta. You'll have to show offyour tricks pretty regular, I think, if youwant to hold your own in that ranch."

Taterleg rode along considering it.

"Ye-es, I guess a feller'll have to act ifhe wants to hold Alta. She's young, and theyoung like change. 'Specially the girls. Aman to keep Alta on the line'll have tomarry her and set her to raisin' children.You know, Duke, there's something new toa girl in every man she sees. She likes tohave him around till she leans ag'in' him

and rubs the paint off, then she's outshootin' eyes at another one."

"Are there others besides Jedlick?"

"That bartender boards there at the ho-tel. He's got four gold teeth, and he picks'em with a quill. Sounds like somebodyslappin' the crick with a fishin'-pole. Butthem teeth give him a standin' in society;they look like money in the bank. Nothingto his business, though, Duke; no sentimentor romance or anything."

"Not much. Who else is there sitting inthis Alta game?"

"Young feller with a neck like a bottle,off of a ranch somewhere back in thehills."

Taterleg mentioned him as with

consideration. Lambert concluded that hewas a rival to be reckoned with, but gaveTaterleg his own way of coming to that.

"That feller's got a watch with a musicbox in the back of it, Duke. Ever see oneof 'em?"

"No, I never did."

"Well, he's got one of 'em, all right. Hestarts that thing up about the time he hitsthe steps, and comes in playin' 'SweetVilelets' like he just couldn't help bustin'out in music the minute he comes in sightof Alta. That feller gives me a pain!"

The Duke smiled. To every man hisown affair is romance; every other man's afolly or a diverting comedy, indeed.

"She's a little too keen on that feller to

suit me, Duke. She sets out there with him,and winds that fool watch and plays themtwo tunes over till you begin to sag,leanin' her elbow on his shoulder like shehad him paid for and didn't care whetherhe broke or not."

"What is the other tune?"

"It's that one that goes:

A heel an' a toe and a po'ky-o,

A heel an' a toe and a po'ky-o

—you know that one."

"I've heard it. She'll get tired of thatwatch after a while, Taterleg."

"Maybe. If she don't, I guess I'll have to

figger some way to beat it."

"What are Jedlick's attractions? Surelynot good looks."

"Money, Duke; that's the answer to him—money. He's got a salt barrel full of it;the old man favors him for that money."

"That's harder to beat than a music boxin a watch."

"You can't beat it, Duke. What's goodlooks by the side of money? Or brains?Well, they don't amount to cheese!"

"Are you goin' to sidestep in favor ofJedlick? A man with all your experienceand good clothes!"

"Me? I'm a-goin' to lay that feller out ona board!"

They hitched at the hotel rack, thatlooking more respectable, as Taterlegsaid, than to leave their horses in front ofthe saloon. Alta was heard singing in theinterior; there were two railroad menbelonging to a traveling paint gang on theporch smoking their evening pipes.

Lambert felt that it was his duty to buycigars in consideration of the use of thehitching-rack. Wood appeared in theoffice door as they came up the steps, andput his head beyond the jamb, looking thisway and that, like a man considering asortie with enemies lying in wait.

Taterleg went into the parlor to offerthe incense of his cigar in the presence ofAlta, who was cooing a sentimental balladto her guitar. It seemed to be of parting,

and the hope of reunion, involving onenamed Irene. There was a run in thechorus accompaniment which Alta haddown very neatly.

The tinkling guitar, the simple, plaintivemelody, sounded to Lambert as refreshingas the plash of a brook in the heat of theday. He stood listening, his elbow on theshow case, thinking vaguely that Alta hada good voice for singing babies to sleep.

Wood stood in the door again, hisstump of arm lifted a little with analertness about it that made Lambert thinkof a listening ear. He looked up and downthe street in that uneasy, inquiring way thatLambert had remarked on his arrival, thencame back and got himself a cigar. Hestood across the counter from Lambert a

little while, smoking, his brows drawn introuble, his eyes shifting constantly to thedoor.

"Duke," said he, as if with an effort,"there's a man in town lookin' for you. Ithought I'd tell you."

"Lookin' for me? Who is he?"

"Sim Hargus."

"You don't mean Nick?"

"No; he's Nick's brother. I don'tsuppose you ever met him."

"I never heard of him."

"He's only been back from Wyoming aweek or two. He was over there sometime—several years, I believe."

"In the pen over there?"

Wood took a careful survey of the doorbefore replying, working his cigar over tothe other side of his mouth in the way thata one-armed man acquires the trick.

"I—they say he got mixed up in a cattledeal down there."

Lambert smoked in silence a littlewhile, his head bent, his face thoughtful.Wood shifted a little nearer, standingstraight and alert behind his counter as ifprepared to act in some suddenemergency.

"Does he live around here?" Lambertasked.

"He's workin' for Berry Kerr, foremanover there. That's the job he used to have

before he—left."

Lambert grunted, expressing that heunderstood the situation. He stood in hisleaning, careless posture, arm on the showcase, thumb hooked in his belt near hisgun.

"I thought I'd tell you," said Wooduneasily.

"Thanks."

Wood came a step nearer along thecounter, leaned his good arm on it,watching the door without a break.

"He's one of the old gang that used togive Philbrook so much trouble—he'scarryin' lead that Philbrook shot into himnow. So he's got it in for that ranch, andeverybody on it. I thought I'd tell you."

"I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Wood,"said Lambert heartily.

"He's one of these kind of men you wantto watch out for when your back's turned,Duke."

"Thanks, old feller; I'll keep in mindwhat you say."

"I don't want it to look like I was on oneside or the other, you understand, Duke;but I thought I'd tell you. Sim Hargus isone of them kind of men that a womandon't dare to show her face around wherehe is without the risk of bein' insulted.He's a foul-mouthed, foul-minded man, thekind of a feller that ought to be treated likea rattlesnake in the road."

Lambert thanked him again for his

friendly information, understanding atonce his watchful uneasiness and theabsence of Alta from the front of thehouse. He was familiar with that type ofman such as Wood had described Hargusas being; he had met some of them in theBad Lands. There was nothing holy tothem in the heavens or the earth. They didnot believe there was any such thing as avirtuous woman, and honor was a wordthey never had heard defined.

"I'll go out and look him up," Lambertsaid. "If he happens to come in here askin'about me, I'll be in either the store or thesaloon."

"There's where he is, Duke—in thesaloon."

"I supposed he was."

"You'll kind of run into him natural,won't you, Duke, and not let him think Itipped you off?"

"Just as natural as the wind."

Lambert went out. From the hitching-rack he saw Wood at his post of vigil inthe door, watching the road with anxiousmien. It was a Saturday night; the townwas full of visitors. Lambert went on tothe saloon, hitching at the long rack infront where twenty or thirty horses stood.

The custom of the country made italmost an obligatory courtesy to go in andspend money when one hitched in front ofa saloon, an excuse for entering thatLambert accepted with a grim feeling ofsatisfaction. While he didn't want it toappear that he was crowding a quarrel

with any man, the best way to meet afellow who had gone spreading it abroadthat he was out looking for one was to gowhere he was to be found. It wouldn't lookright to leave town without giving Hargusa chance to state his business; it would bea move subject to misinterpretation, anddamaging to a man's good name.

There was a crowd in the saloon, whichhad a smoky, blurred look through theopen door. Some of the old gambling gearhad been uncovered and pushed out fromthe wall. A faro game was running, with adozen or more players, at the end of thebar; several poker tables stretched acrossthe gloomy front of what had been theballroom of more hilarious days. Theseplayers were a noisy outfit. Little money

was being risked, but it was going withenough profanity to melt it.

Lambert stood at the end of the bar nearthe door, his liquor in his hand, loungingin his careless attitude of abstraction. Butthere was not a lax fiber in his body;every faculty was alert, every nerve setfor any sudden development. The scenebefore him was disgusting, rather thandiverting, in its squalid imitation of therough-and-ready times which had passedbefore many of these men were old enoughto carry the weight of a gun. It was just asporadic outburst, a pustule come to asudden head that would burst beforemorning and clear away.

Lambert ran his eye among the twenty-five or thirty men in the place. All

appeared to be strangers to him. He beganto assort their faces, as one searches forsomething in a heap, trying to fix on onethat looked mean enough to belong to aHargus. A mechanical banjo suddenlyadded its metallic noise to the din, fitmusic, it seemed, for such obscenecompany. Some started to dancelumberingly, with high-lifted legs andludicrous turkey struts.

Among these Lambert recognized TomHargus, the young man who had made theungallant attempt to pass VestaPhilbrook's gate with his father. He hadmore whisky under his dark skin than hecould take care of. As he jigged on limberlegs he threw his hat down with a whoop,his long black hair falling around his ears

and down to his eyes, bringing out theIndian that slept in him sharper than theliquor had done it.

His face was flushed, his eyes wereheavy, as if he had been under headway agood while. Lambert watched him as hepranced about, chopping his steps withfeet jerked up straight like a string-halthorse. The Indian was working, trying toexpress itself in him through thisexaggerated imitation of his ancestraldances. His companions fell back inadmiration, giving him the floor.

A cowboy was feeding money into themusic box to keep it going, giving it acoin, together with certain grave, drunkenadvice, whenever it showed symptom of apause. Young Hargus circled about in the

middle of the room, barking in little shortyelps. Every time he passed his hat hekicked at it, sometimes hitting, oftenermissing it, at last driving it over againstLambert's foot, where it lodged.

Lambert pushed it away. A man besidehim gave it a kick that sent it spinningback into the trodden circle. Tom was atthat moment rounding his beat at thefarther end. He came face about just as thehat skimmed across the floor, stopped,jerked himself up stiffly, looked atLambert with a leap of anger across hisdrunken face.

Immediately there was silence in thecrowd that had been assisting on the sidelines of his performance. They saw thatTom resented this treatment of his hat by

any foot save his own. The man who hadkicked it had fallen back with shoulders tothe bar, where he stood presenting the faceof innocence. Tom walked out to the hat,kicked it back within a few feet ofLambert, his hand on his gun.

He was all Indian now; the streak ofsmoky white man was engulfed. Hishandsome face was black with the surgeof his lawless blood as he stopped a littleway in front of Lambert.

"Pick up that hat!" he commanded,smothering his words in an avalanche ofprofanity.

Lambert scarcely changed his position,save to draw himself erect and stand clearof the bar. To those in front of him heseemed to be carelessly lounging, like a

man with time on his hands, peace beforehim.

"Who was your nigger last year, youngfeller?" he asked, with good-humor in hiswords. He was reading Tom's eyes as aprize fighter reads his opponent's,watching every change of feature, everystrain of facial muscle. Before youngHargus had put tension on his sinews todraw his weapon, Lambert had read hisintention.

The muzzle of the pistol was scarcelyfree of the scabbard when Lambertcleared the two yards between them in onestride. A grip of the wrist, a twist of thearm, and the gun was flung across theroom. Tom struggled desperately, not aword out of him, striking with his free

hand. Sinewy as he was, he was only a toyin Lambert's hands.

"I don't want to have any trouble withyou, kid," said Lambert, capturing Tom'sother hand and holding him as he wouldhave held a boy. "Put on your hat and gohome."

Lambert released him, and turned as ifhe considered the matter ended. At hiselbow a man stood, staring at him withinsolent, threatening eyes. He wassomewhat lower of stature than Lambert,thick in the shoulders, firmly set on thefeet, with small mustache, almostcolorless and harsh as hog bristles. Histhin eyebrows were white, his hair but ashade darker, his skin light for an outdoorsman. This, taken with his pale eyes, gave

him an appearance of bloodless crueltywhich the sneer on his lip seemed todeepen and express.

Behind Lambert men were holding TomHargus, who had made a lunge to recoverhis gun. He heard them trying to quiet him,while he growled and whined like a wolfin a trap. Lambert returned the stranger'sstare, withholding anything from his eyesthat the other could read, as some menborn with a certain cold courage are ableto do. He went back to the bar, the mangoing with him shoulder to shoulder,turning his malevolent eyes to continue hisunbroken stare.

"Put up that gun!" the fellow said,turning sharply to Tom Hargus, who hadwrenched free and recovered his weapon.

Tom obeyed him in silence, picked up hishat, beat it against his leg, put it on.

"You're the Duke of Chimney Butte, areyou?" the stranger inquired, turning againwith his sneer and cold, insulting eyes toLambert, who knew him now for SimHargus, foreman for Berry Kerr.

"If you know me, there's no need for usto be introduced," Lambert returned.

"Duke of Chimney Butte!" said Harguswith immeasurable scorn. He grunted hiswords with such an intonation of insultthat it would have been pardonable toshoot him on the spot. Lambert was slowto kindle. He put a curb now on even hisnaturally deliberate vehicle of wrath,looking the man through his shallow eyesdown to the roots of his mean soul.

"You're the feller that's come here toteach us fellers to take off our hats whenwe see a fence," Hargus said, lookingmeaner with every breath.

"You've got it right, pardner," Lambertcalmly replied.

"Duke of Chimney Butte! Well, pardner,I'm the King of Hotfoot Valley, and I'vegot travelin' papers for you right here!"

"You seem to be a little sudden aboutit," Lambert said, a lazy drawl to hiswords that inflamed Hargus like a blow.

"Not half as sudden as you'll be, kid.This country ain't no place for you, youngfeller; you're too fresh to keep in this hotclimate, and the longer you stay the hotterit gits. I'll give you just two days to make

your gitaway in."

"Consider the two days up," saidLambert with such calm and such coolnessof head that men who heard him felt athrill of admiration.

"This ain't no joke!" Hargus correctedhim.

"I believe you, Hargus. As far as itconcerns me, I'm just as far from thiscountry right now as I'll be in two days, ormaybe two years. Consider your limit up."

It was so still in the barroom that onecould have heard a match burn. Lamberthad drawn himself up stiff and straightbefore Hargus, and stood facing him withdefiance in every line of his stern, strongface.

"I've give you your rope," Hargus said,feeling that he had been called to show hishand in an open manner that was not hisstyle, and playing for a footing to save hisface. "If you ain't gone in two days you'llsettle with me."

"That goes with me, Hargus. It's yourmove."

Lambert turned, contempt in hiscourageous bearing, and walked out of theplace, scorning to throw a glance behindto see whether Hargus came after him, orwhether he laid hand to his weapon in thetreachery that Lambert had read in hiseyes.

CHAPTER XV

WOLVES OF THE RANGE

Lambert left his horse at the saloonhitching-rack while he went to the store.Business was brisk in that place, also,requiring a wait of half an hour before histurn came. In a short time thereafter hecompleted his purchases, tied his packageto his saddle, and was ready to go home.

The sound of revelry was goingforward again in the saloon, themechanical banjo plugging away on its

tiresome tune. There was a gap here andthere at the rack where horses had beentaken away, but most of them seemed to beanchored there for the night, standingdejectedly with drooping heads.

The tinkle of Alta's guitar soundedthrough the open window of the hotelparlor as he passed, indicating thatTaterleg was still in that harbor. It wouldbe selfish to call him, making the most ashe was of a clear field. Lambert smiled ashe recalled the three-cornered rivalry forAlta's bony hand.

There was a lemon-rind slice of newmoon low in the southwest, giving a duskylight, the huddling sage clumps at theroadside blotches of deepest shadow.Lambert ruminated on the trouble that had

been laid out for him that night as he rodeaway from town, going slowly, in no hurryto put walls between him and the soft,pleasant night.

He was confronted by the disadvantageof an unsought notoriety, or reputation, orwhatever his local fame might be called.A man with a fighting name must live up toit, however distasteful the strife andturmoil, or move beyond the circle of hisfame. Move he would not, could not,although it seemed a foolish thing, onreflection, to hang on there in the lure ofGrace Kerr's dark eyes.

What could a man reasonably expect ofa girl with such people as Sim Hargus asher daily associates? Surely she had beenschooled in their warped view of justice,

as her act that day proved. No matter forOmaha and its refinements, she must be asavage under the skin. But gentle orsavage, he had a tender regard for her, afeeling of romantic sympathy that had beengroping out to find her as a plant in a pitstrains toward the light. Now, in thesunshine of her presence, would it flourishand grow green, or wither in its mistakenworship and die?

Vesta had warned him, not knowinganything of the peculiar circumstanceswhich brought him to that place, or of hisdiscovery, which seemed a revelation offate, the conjunction of events shapedbefore his entry upon the stage, indeed.She had warned him, but in the face ofthings as they had taken place, what would

it avail a man to turn his back on thearrangements of destiny? As it waswritten, so it must be lived. It was not inhis hand or his heart to change it.

Turning these things in his mind,flavoring the bitter in the prospect with thesweet of romance, he was drawn out ofhis wanderings by the sudden starting ofhis horse. It was not a shying start, but astiffening of attitude, a leap out of laxityinto alertness, with a lifting of the head, afixing of the ears as if on some objectahead, of which it was at once curious andafraid.

Lambert was all tension in a breath.Ahead a little way the road branched atthe point of the hill leading to thePhilbrook house. His road lay to the right

of the jutting plowshare of hill whichseemed shaped for the mere purpose ofsplitting the highway. The other branch ledto Kerr's ranch, and beyond. The horsewas plainly scenting something in thislatter branch of the road, still hidden bythe bushes which grew as tall there as thehead of a man on horseback.

As the horse trotted on, Lambert madeout something lying in the road whichlooked, at that distance, like the body of aman. Closer approach proved this to bethe case, indeed. Whether the man wasalive or dead, it was impossible todetermine from the saddle, but he lay in ahuddled heap as if he had been thrownfrom a horse, his hat in the road some feetbeyond.

Whetstone would not approach nearerthan ten or twelve feet. There he stood,swelling his sides with long-drawnbreaths, snorting his warning, it seemed,expressing his suspicion in the bestmanner that he could command. Lambertspoke to him, but could not quiet his fear.He could feel the sensitive creaturetremble under him, and took it as certainthat the man must be dead.

Dismounting, he led the horse and bentover the man in the road. He could see thefellow's shoulder move as he breathed,and straightened up with a creeping ofapprehension that this might be a trap todraw him into just such a situation as hefound himself that moment. Thenervousness of his horse rather increased

than quieted, also, adding color to hisfear.

His foot was in the stirrup when a quickrush sounded behind him. He saw the manon the ground spring to his feet, and quickon the consciousness of that fact therecame a blow that stretched him as stiff asa dead man.

Lambert came to himself with a half-drowned sense of suffocation. Water wasfalling on his head, pouring over his face,and there was the confused sound ofhuman voices around him. As he clearedhe realized that somebody was standingover him, pouring water on his head. Hestruggled to get from under the drowningstream. A man laughed, shook him, cursedhim vilely close to his ear.

"Wake up, little feller, somebody's a-cuttin' your fence!" said another, takinghold of him from the other side.

"Don't hurt him, boys," admonished athird voice, which he knew for BerryKerr's—"this is the young man who hascome to the Bad Lands with a mission.He's going to teach people to take off theirhats to barbed-wire fences. I wouldn'thave him hurt for a keg of nails."

He came near Lambert now, put a handon his shoulder, and asked him with agentle kindness how he felt.

Lambert did not answer him, for he hadno words adequate to describe hisfeelings at that moment to a friend, muchless an enemy whose intentions wereunknown. He sat, fallen forward, in a limp

and miserable heap, drenched with water,clusters of fire gathering and breaking likeshowers of a rocket before his eyes. Hishead throbbed and ached in maddeningpain. This was so great that it seemed tosubmerge every faculty save that ofhearing, to paralyze him so entirely that hecould not lift a hand. That blow had all butkilled him.

"Let him alone—he'll be all right in aminute," said Kerr's voice, sounding closeto his ear as if he stooped to examine him.

One was standing behind Lambert,knees against his back to prevent his entirecollapse. The others drew off a little way.There followed the sound of horses, as ifthey prepared to ride. It seemed as if thegreat pain in Lambert's head attended the

return of consciousness, as it attends thereturn of circulation. It soon began togrow easier, settling down to a throb witheach heartbeat, as if all his life forcesrushed to that spot and clamored againsthis skull to be released. He stiffened, andsat straight.

"I guess you can stick on your horsenow," said the man behind him.

The fellow left him at that. Lambertcould see the heads and shoulders of men,the heads of horses, against the sky, as ifthey were below the river bank. He feltfor his gun. No surprise was in store forhim there; it was gone.

He was unable to mount when theybrought his horse. He attempted it, inconfusion of senses that made it seem the

struggle of somebody whom he watchedand wanted to help, but could not. Theylifted him, tied his feet under the horse, hishands to the saddle-horn. In this fashionthey started away with him, one ridingahead, one on either hand. He believedthat one or more came following, but ofthis he was not sure.

He knew it would be useless to makeinquiry of their intentions. That wouldbring down on him derision, after theirsavage way. Stolidly as an Indian he rodeamong them to what end he could notimagine; but at the worst, he believed theywould not go beyond some further tortureof him to give him an initiation into whathe must expect unless he accepted theirdecree that he quit the country forthwith.

As his senses cleared Lambertrecognized the men beside him as SimHargus and the half-Indian, Tom. Behindhim he believed Nick Hargus rode,making it a family party. In such hands,with such preliminary usage, it began tolook very grave for him.

When they saw there was no danger ofhis collapse, they began to increase theirpace. Bound as he was, every step of thehorse was increased torture to Lambert.He appealed to Sim Hargus to release hishands.

"You can tie them behind me if you'reafraid," he suggested.

Hargus cursed him, refusing to ease hissituation. Kerr turned on hearing thisoutburst and inquired what it meant.

Hargus repeated the prisoner's requestwith obscene embellishment. They madeno secret of each other's identity, speakingfamiliarly, as if in the presence of onewho would make no future charges. Kerrfound the request reasonable, and orderedHargus to tie Lambert's hands at his back.

"I guess you might as well take your lastride comfortable, kid," Harguscommented, as he shifted the bonds.

They proceeded at a trot, keeping it upfor two hours or more. Lambert knew itwas about ten o'clock when he stopped toinvestigate the man in the road. There wasa feel in the air now that told him it wasfar past the turn of night. He knew aboutwhere they were in relation to the ranchby this time, for a man who lives in the

open places develops his sense ofdirection until it serves him as a mole's inits underground tunneling.

There was no talking among hisconductors, no sound but the tramp of thehorses in unceasing trot, the scraping ofthe bushes on the stirrups as they passed.Lambert's legs were drawn close to hishorse's belly, his feet not in the stirrups,and tied so tightly that he rode in painfulrigidity. The brush caught the loosestirrups and flung them againstWhetstone's sides, treatment that heresented with all the indignation of agenuine range horse. The twisting andjumping made Lambert's situation doublyuncomfortable. He longed for the end ofthe journey, no matter what awaited him at

its conclusion.

For some time Lambert had noticed aglow as of a fire directly ahead of them. Itgrew and sank as if being fed irregularly,or as if smoke blew before it from time totime. Presently they rounded the base of ahill and came suddenly upon the fire,burning in a gulch, as it seemed, coveringa large area, sending up a vast volume ofsmoke.

Lambert had seen smoke in thisdirection many times while riding fence,but could not account for it then any morethan he could now for a little while as hestood facing its origin. Then he understoodthat this was a burning vein of lignite, suchas he had seen traces of in the gorgeouslycolored soil in other parts of the Bad

Lands where the fires had died out andcooled long ago.

These fires are peculiar to the BadLands, and not uncommon there, owingtheir origin to forest or prairie blazeswhich spread to the exposed veins of coal.As these broad, deep deposits of lignitelie near the surface, the fire can be seenthrough crevasses and fallen sections ofcrust. Sometimes they burn for years.

At the foot of the steep bank on whichLambert and his captors stood the crusthad caved, giving the fire air to hasten itsravages. The mass of slow-moving fireglowed red and intense, covered in placesby its own ashes, now sending up suddenclouds of smoke as an indraft of airlivened the combustion, now smoldering

in sullen dullness, throwing off a heat thatmade the horses draw back.

Kerr drew aside on arriving at the fire,and sat his horse looking at it, the light onhis face. Sim Hargus pointed to theglowing pit.

"That's our little private hell. What doyou think of it, kid?" he said, with hisgrunting, insulting sneer.

The fire was visible only in front ofthem, in a jagged, irregular strip markingthe cave-in of the crust. It ranged from ayard to ten yards across, and appeared toextend on either hand a long distance. Thebank on which Lambert's horse stoodformed one shore of this fiery stream,which he estimated to be four yards ormore across at that point. On the other

side a recent settling of earth had exposedthe coal, which was burning brightly in afringe of red flame. Whether the fireunderlay the ground beyond that pointLambert could not tell.

"Quite a sight by night, isn't it?" saidKerr. "It covers several acres," heexplained, as if answering the speculationthat rose, irrelevantly in the face of hispain, humiliation and anxiety, in Lambert'smind. What did it matter to him how muchground it covered, or when it began, orwhen it would die, when his own life wasas uncertain that minute as a match-flamein the wind.

Why had they brought him there to showhim that burning coal-pit? Not out of anydesire to display the natural wonders of

the land. The answer was in the fact itself.Only the diabolism of a savage mindcould contrive or countenance suchbarbarity as they had come to submit himto.

"I lost several head of stock downbelow here a little way last winter," saidKerr. "They crowded out over the fire in ablizzard and broke through. If a man wasto ride in there through ignorance I doubtif he'd ever be able to get out."

Kerr sat looking speculatively into theglowing pit below, the firelight red overhim in strong contrast of gleam andshadow. Sim Hargus leaned to lookLambert in the face.

"You said I was to consider the twodays I give you was up," said he.

"You understood it right," Lambert toldhim.

Hargus drew back his fist. Kerrinterposed, speaking sharply.

"You'll not hit a man with his arms tiedwhile I'm around, Sim," he said.

"Let him loose, then—put him downbefore me on his feet!"

"Leave the kid alone," said Kerr, in hiseven, provoking voice. "I think he's thekind of a boy that will take friendly adviceif you come up on the right side of him."

"Don't be all night about it," said NickHargus from his place behind Lambert,breaking silence in sullen voice.

Kerr rode up to Lambert and took hold

of his reins, stroking old Whetstone's neckas if he didn't harbor an unkind thought foreither man or beast.

"It's this way, Duke," he said. "You're astranger here; the customs of this countryare not the customs you're familiar with,and it's foolish, very foolish, and maybedangerous, for you to try to change thingsaround single-handed and alone. We'veused you a little rougher than I intendedthe boys to handle you, but you'll get overit in a little while, and we're going to letyou go this time.

"But we're going to turn you loose withthe warning once more to clear out of thiscountry in as straight a line as you candraw, starting right now, and keeping ontill you're out of the state. You'll excuse us

if we keep your gun; you can send me youraddress when you land, and I'll ship it toyou. We'll have to start you off tied up,too, much as I hate to do it. You'll findsome way to get loose in a little while, Iguess, a man that's as resourceful andoriginal as you."

Tom Hargus had not said a word sincethey left the river. Now he leaned overand peered into Lambert's face with anexpression of excited malevolence, hiseyes glittering in the firelight, his nostrilsflaring as if he drew exhilaration withevery breath. He betrayed more of theirintentions than Kerr had discovered in hiswords; so much, indeed, that Lambert'sheart seemed to gush its blood and fallempty and cold.

Lambert forgot his throbbing head andtortured feet, and hands gorged with bloodto the strain of bursting below his tight-drawn bonds. The realization of hishopeless situation rushed on him; helooked round him to seize even the mostdoubtful opening that might lead him out oftheir hands.

There was no chance. He could notwheel his horse without hand on rein, nomatter how well the willing beast obeyedthe pressure of his knees while gallopingin the open field.

He believed they intended to kill himand throw his body in the fire. Old NickHargus and his son had it in their power atlast to take satisfaction for the humiliationto which he had bent them. A thousand

regrets for his simplicity in falling intotheir trap came prickling him with theirmomentary torture, succeeded by wildgropings, frantic seekings, for some planto get away.

He had no thought of making an appealto them, no consideration of a surrender ofhis manhood by giving his promise toleave the country if they would set himfree. He was afraid, as any healthy humanis afraid when he stands before a dangerthat he can neither defend against norassail. Sweat burst out on him; his heartlabored and heaved in heavy strokes.

Whatever was passing in his mind, notrace of it was betrayed in his bearing. Hesat stiff and erect, the red glow of theintense fire on his face. His hat-brim was

pressed back as the wind had held it in hisride, the scar of Jim Wilder's knife ashadow adding to the grim strength of hislean face. His bound arms drew hisshoulders back, giving him a defiant pose.

"Take him out there and head him theright way, boys," Kerr directed.

Tom Hargus rode ahead, leadingWhetstone by the reins. Kerr was notfollowing. At Lambert's last sight of himhe was still looking into the fire, as iffascinated by the sight of it.

A hundred yards or less from the firethey stopped. Tom Hargus turnedWhetstone to face back the way they hadcome, threw the reins over the saddle-horn, rode up so close Lambert could feelhis breath in his face.

"You made me brush off a nigger's hatwhen you had the drop on me, and carry apost five miles. That's the shoulder Icarried it on!"

He drove his knife into Lambert's rightshoulder with the words. The steel gratedon bone.

"I brushed a nigger off under your gunone time," said old Nick Hargus, spurringup on the other side. "Now I'll brush you alittle!"

Lambert felt the hot streak of a knife-blade in the thick muscle of his back.Almost at the same moment his horseleaped forward so suddenly that itwrenched every joint in his bound, stiffbody, squealing in pain. He knew that oneof them had plunged a knife in the animal's

haunch. There was loud laughter, thesudden rushing of hooves, yells, andcurses as they came after him.

But no shots. For a moment Lamberthoped that they were to content themselveswith the tortures already inflicted and lethim go, to find his way out to help orperish in his bonds, as it might fall. For amoment only, this hope. They camepressing after him, heading his horsedirectly toward the fire. He struggled tobring pressure to old Whetstone's ribs inthe signal that he had answered a thousandtimes, but he was bound so rigidly that hismuscles only twitched on the bone.

Whetstone galloped on, mad in the painof his wound, heading straight toward thefire.

Lambert believed, as those who urgedhim on toward it believed, that nohorseman ever rode could jump that fierygorge. On the brink of it his pursuerswould stop, while he, powerless to checkor turn his horse, would plunge over toperish in his bonds, smothered under hisstruggling beast, pierced by thetranscendent agonies of fire.

This was the last thought that rosecoherently out of the turmoil of his sensesas the firepit opened before his eyes. Heheard his horse squeal again in the pain ofanother knife thrust to madden it to itsdestructive leap. Then a swirl of theconfused senses as of released waters, thelift of his horse as it sprang, the heat of thefire in his face.

The healthy human mind recoils fromdeath, and there is no agency among thedestructive forces of nature whichthreatens with so much terror as fire. Thesenses disband in panic before it, reasonflees, the voice appeals in its distress witha note that vibrates horror. In the threat ofdeath by fire, man descends to his primallevels; his tongue speaks again theuniversal language, its note lending itshorrified thrill to the lowest thing thatmoves by the divine force of life.

As Lambert hung over the fire in thatmighty leap, his soul recoiled. Hisstrength rushed into one great cry, whichstill tore at his throat as his horse struck,racking him with a force that seemed totear him joint from joint.

The shock of this landing gathered hisdispersed faculties. There was fire aroundhim, there was smoke in his nostrils, buthe was alive. His horse was on its feet,struggling to scramble up the bank onwhich it had landed, the earth breakingunder its hinder hoofs, threatening toprecipitate it back into the fire that itstremendous leap had cleared.

CHAPTER XVI

WHETSTONE COMESHOME

Lambert saw the fire leaping aroundhim, but felt no sting of its touch, keyed ashe was in that swift moment of adjustment.From a man as dead he was transformedin a breath back to a living, panting,hoping, struggling being, strong in thetenacious purpose of life. He leaned overhis horse's neck, shouting encouragement,speaking endearments to it as to a woman

in travail.

There was silence on the bank behindhim. Amazement over the leap that hadcarried Whetstone across the place whichthey had designed for the grave of bothman and horse, held the four scoundrelsbreathless for a spell. Fascinated by theheroic animal's fight to draw himself clearof the fire which wrapped his hinderquarters, they forgot to shoot.

A heave, a lurching struggle, a groan asif his heart burst in the terrific strain, andWhetstone lunged up the bank, staggeredfrom his knees, snorted the smoke out ofhis nostrils, gathered his feet under him,and was away like a bullet. The sound ofshots broke from the bank across the fierycrevasse; bullets came so close to

Lambert that he lay flat against his horse'sneck.

As the gallant creature ran, sensible ofhis responsibilities for his master's life, itseemed, Lambert spoke to himencouragingly, proud of the tremendousthing that he had done. There was nosound of pursuit, but the shooting hadstopped. Lambert knew they would followas quickly as they could ride round thefield of fire.

After going to this length, they could notallow him to escape. There would havebeen nothing to explain to any living manwith him and all trace of him obliteratedin the fire, but with him alive and fleeing,saved by the winged leap of his splendidhorse, they would be called to answer,

man by man.

Whetstone did not appear to be badlyhurt. He was stretching away like a hare,shaping his course toward the ranch astrue as a pigeon. If they overtook him theywould have to ride harder than they everrode in their profitless lives before.

Lambert estimated the distance betweenthe place where they had trapped him andthe fire as fifteen miles. It must be nine orten miles across to the Philbrook ranch, inthe straightest line that a horse couldfollow, and from that point many milesmore to the ranchhouse and release fromhis stifling ropes. The fence would be nosecurity against his pursuing enemies, butit would look like the boundary of hope.

Whether they lost so much time in

getting around the fire that they missedhim, or whether they gave it up after a trialof speed against Whetstone, Lambertnever knew. He supposed that their beliefwas that neither man nor horse would liveto come into the sight of men again.However it fell, they did not approachwithin hearing if they followed, and werenot in sight as dawn broke and broadenedinto day.

Whetstone made the fence withoutslackening his speed. There Lambertchecked him with a word and looked backfor his enemies. Finding that they were notnear, he proceeded along the fence ateasier gait, holding the animal's strengthfor the final heat, if they should make asudden appearance. Somewhere along that

miserable ride, after daylight had brokenand the pieced wire that Grace Kerr hadcut had been passed, Lambert fellunconscious across the horn of his saddlefrom the drain of blood from his woundsand the unendurable pain of his bonds.

In this manner the horse came bearinghim home at sunrise. Taterleg was awayon his beat, not uneasy over Lambert'sabsence. It was the exception for him tospend a night in the bunkhouse in thatsummer weather. So old Whetstone,jaded, scorched, bloody from his own andhis master's wounds, was obliged to standat the gate and whinny for help when hearrived.

It was hours afterward that the fencerider opened his eyes and saw Vesta

Philbrook, and closed them again,believing it was a delirium of his pain.Then Taterleg spoke on the other side ofthe bed, and he knew that he had comethrough his perils into gentle hands.

"How're you feelin', old sport?"Taterleg inquired with anxious tenderness.

Lambert turned his head toward thevoice and grinned a little, in the teeth-baring, hard-pulling way of a man whohas withstood a great deal more than thehuman body and mind ever were designedto undergo. He thought he spoke toTaterleg; the words shaped on his tongue,his throat moved. But there was such aroaring in his ears, like the sound of atrain crossing a trestle, that he could nothear his own voice.

"Sure," said Taterleg, hopefully, "you'reall right, ain't you, old sport?"

"Fine," said Lambert, hearing his voicesmall and dry, strange as the voice of aman to him unknown.

Vesta put her arm under his head, liftedhim a little, gave him a swallow of water.It helped, or something helped. Perhaps itwas the sympathetic tenderness of hergood, honest eyes. He paid her withanother little grin, which hurt her more tosee than him to give, wrenched eventhough it was from the bottom of his soul.

"How's old Whetstone?" he asked, hisvoice coming clearer.

"He's all right," she told him.

"His tail's burnt off of him, mostly, and

he's cut in the hams in a couple of places,but he ain't hurt any, as I can see,"Taterleg said, with more truth thandiplomacy.

Lambert struggled to his elbow, theconsciousness of what seemed hisingratitude to this dumb savior of his lifesmiting him with shame.

"I must go and attend to him," he said.

Vesta and Taterleg laid hands on him atonce.

"You'll bust them stitches I took in yourback if you don't keep still, young feller,"Taterleg warned. "Whetstone ain't as badoff as you, nor half as bad."

Lambert noticed then that his handswere wrapped in wet towels.

"Burned?" he inquired, lifting his eyesto Vesta's face.

"No, just swollen and inflamed. They'llbe all right in a little while."

"I blundered into their hands like ablind kitten," said he, reproachfully.

"They'll eat lead for it!" said Taterleg.

"It was Kerr and that gang," Lambertexplained, not wanting to leave any doubtbehind if he should have to go.

"You can tell us after a while," shesaid, with compassionate tenderness.

"Sure," said Taterleg, cheerfully, "youlay back there and take it easy. I'll keepmy eye on things."

That evening, when the pain had eased

out of his head, Lambert told Vesta whathe had gone through, sparing nothing of thecuriosity that had led him, like a calf, intotheir hands. He passed briefly over theirattempt to herd him into the fire, except togive Whetstone the hero's part, as he sowell deserved.

Vesta sat beside him, hearing him to theend of the brief recital that he made of it insilence, her face white, her figure erect.When he finished she laid her hand on hisforehead, as if in tribute to the manhoodthat had borne him through such inhumantorture, and the loyalty that had been thecause of its visitation. Then she went tothe window, where she stood a long timelooking over the sad sweep of brokencountry, the fringe of twilight on it in

somber shadow.

It was not so dark when she returned toher place at his bedside, but he could seethat she had been weeping in the silentpain that rises like a poison distillationfrom the heart.

"It draws the best into it and breaksthem," she said in great bitterness,speaking as to herself. "It isn't worth theprice!"

"Never mind it, Vesta," he soothed,putting out his hand. She took it betweenher own, and held it, and a great comfortcame to him in her touch.

"I'm going to sell the cattle as fast as Ican move them, and give it up, Duke," shesaid, calling him by that name with the

easy unconsciousness of a familiar habit,although she never had addressed him sobefore.

"You're not going away from herewhipped, Vesta," he said with a firmnessthat gave new hope and courage to her sadheart. "I'll be out of this in a day or two,then we'll see about it—about severalthings. You're not going to leave thiscountry whipped; neither am I."

She sat in meditation, her face to thewindow, presenting the soft turn of hercheek and chin to Lambert's view. Shewas too fine and good for that country, hethought, too good for the best that it evercould offer or give, no matter howgenerously the future might atone for thehardships of the past. It would be better

for her to leave it, he wanted her to leaveit, but not with her handsome head bowedin defeat.

"I think if you were to sift the earth andscreen out its meanest, they wouldn't be amatch for the people around here," shesaid. "There wouldn't be a bit of usetaking this outrage up with the authorities;Kerr and his gang would say it was a joke,and get away with it, too."

"I wouldn't go squealing to the countyauthorities, Vesta, even if I knew I'd getresults. This is something a man has tosquare for himself. Maybe they intended itfor a joke, too, but it was a little rougherthan I'm used to."

"There's no doubt what their intentionwas. You can understand my feelings

toward them now, Duke; maybe I'll notseem such a savage."

"I've got a case with you against themall, Vesta."

He made no mental reservation as hespoke; there was no pleading forexception in Grace Kerr's dark eyes thathe could grant. Long as he had nestled theromance between them in his breast, longas he had looked into the West and senthis dream out after her, he could not, inthis sore hour, forgive her the taint of herblood.

He felt that all tenderness in him towardany of her name was dead. It had been apretty fancy to hold, that thought of findingher, but she was only swamp-fire that hadlured him to the door of hell. Still the

marvel of his meeting her, the violet scentof his old dream, lingered sweetly withhim like the perfume that remains after abeautiful woman whose presence hasilluminated a room. So hard does romancedie.

"I think I'll have to break my word toyou and buckle on my gun again for a littlewhile," she said. "Mr. Wilson can't ridethe fence alone, capable and willing as heis, and ready to go day and night."

"Leave it to him till I'm out again,Vesta; that will only be a day or two——"

"A day or two! Three or four weeks, ifyou do well."

"No, not that long, not anything like thatlong," he denied with certainty. "They

didn't hurt me very much."

"Well, if they didn't hurt you much theydamaged you considerably."

He grinned over the serious distinctionthat she made between the words. Then hethought, pleasantly, that Vesta's voiceseemed fitted to her lips like the tone ofsome beautiful instrument. It was even andsoft, slow and soothing, as her mannerwas deliberate and well calculated, herpresence a comfort to the eye and the mindalike.

An exceptional combination of a girl,he reflected, speculating on what sort ofman would marry her. Whoever he was,whatever he might be, he would be onlysecondary to her all through the compact.That chap would come walking a little

way behind her all the time, with acontented eye and a certain pride in hissituation. It was a diverting fancy as he laythere in the darkening room, Vesta comingdown the years a strong, handsome, proudfigure in the foreground, that man just farenough behind her to give the impressionas he passed that he belonged to herentourage, but never quite overtaking her.

Even so, the world might well envy theman his position. Still, if a man shouldhappen along who could take the lead—but Vesta wouldn't have him; she wouldn'tsurrender. It might cost her pain to go herway with her pretty head up, her eyes onthe road far beyond, but she would goalone and hide her pain rather thansurrender. That would be Vesta

Philbrook's way.

Myrtle, the negro woman, came in withchicken broth. Vesta made a light for himto sup by, protesting when he would sit upto help himself, the spoon impalpable inhis numb fingers, still swollen and purplefrom the long constriction of his bonds.

Next morning Vesta came in arrayed inher riding habit, her sombrero on, as shehad appeared the first time he saw her.Only she was so much lovelier now, withthe light of friendship and tender concernin her face, that he was gladdened by herpresence in the door. It was as of a suddenburst of music, or the voice of someonefor whom the heart is sick.

He was perfectly fine, he told her,although he was as sore as a burn. In about

two days he would be in the saddle again;she didn't need to bother about ridingfence, it would be all right, he knew. Hisdeclaration didn't carry assurance. Hecould see that by the changing cast of herface, as sensitive as still water to abreathing wind.

She was wearing her pistol, andappeared very competent with it on herhip, and very high-bred and above thatstation of contention and strife. He wastroubled not a little at sight of her thusprepared to take up the battles which shehad renounced and surrendered into hishands only yesterday. She must have readit in his eyes.

"I'm only going to watch the fence andrepair it to keep the cattle in if they cut it,"

she said. "I'll not take the offensive, evenif I see her—them cutting it; I'll only acton the defensive, in any case. I promiseyou that, Duke."

She left him with that promise, beforehe could commend her on the wisdom ofher resolution, or set her right on thematter of Grace Kerr. From the way Vestaspoke, a man would think she believed hehad some tender feeling for that wild girl,and the idea of it was so preposterous thathe felt his face grow hot.

He was uneasy for Vesta that day, inspite of her promise to avoid trouble, andfretted a good deal over his incapacitatedstate. His shoulder burned where TomHargus' knife had scraped the bone, hiswounded back was stiff.

Without this bodily suffering he wouldhave been miserable, for he had the sweatof his humiliation to wallow in, the blackcloud of his contemplated vengeanceacross his mind in ever-deepeningshadow. On his day of reckoning hecogitated long, planning how he was tobring it about. The law would not justifyhim in going out to seek these men andshooting them down where overtaken.Time and circumstance must be ready tohis hand before he could strike and wipeout that disgraceful score.

It was not to be believed that theywould allow the matter to stand where itwas; that was a comforting thought. Theywould seek occasion to renew the trouble,and push it to their desired conclusion.

That was the day to which he lookedforward in hot eagerness. Never againwould he be taken like a rabbit in a trap.He felt that, to stand clear before the law,he would have to wait for them to pushtheir fight on him, but he vowed they neverwould find him unprepared, asleep orawake, under roof or under sky.

He would get Taterleg to oil up a pairof pistols from among the number aroundthe bunkhouse and leave them with himthat night. There was satisfaction in theanticipation of these preparations.Dwelling on them he fell asleep. He wokelate in the afternoon, when the sun wasyellow on the wall, the shadow of thecottonwood leaves quivering likedragonflies' wings.

On the little table beside his bed, nearhis glass, a bit of white paper lay. Helooked at it curiously. It bore writing inink and marks as of a pin.

Just to say hello, Duke.That was the message, unsigned, folded

as it had been pinned to the wire. Vestahad brought it and left it there while heslept.

He drew himself up with stiffcarefulness and read it again, holding it inhis fingers then and gazing in abstractionout of the window, through which he couldpick up the landscape across the river,missing the brink of the mesa entirely.

A softness, as of the rebirth of his oldromance, swept him, submerging the bitter

thoughts and vengeful plans which hadbeen his but a few hours before, the leesof which were still heavy in him. Thislittle piece of writing proved that Gracewas innocent of anything that had befallenhim. In the friendly good-will of her heartshe thought him, as she doubtless wishedhim, unharmed and well.

There was something in that girl betterthan her connections would seem toguarantee; she was not intractable, shewas not beyond the influence ofgenerosity, nor deaf to the argument ofhonor. It would be unfair to hold her birthand relationship against her. Nobility hadsprung out of baseness many times in thepainful history of human progress. If shewas vengeful and vindictive, it was what

the country had made her. She should notbe judged for this in measure harsher thanVesta Philbrook should be judged. Theacts of both were controlled by what theybelieved to be the right.

Perhaps, and who knows, and why not?So, a train of dreams starting and blowingfrom him, like smoke from a censer,perfumed smoke, purging the place ofdemons which confuse the lines of men'sand women's lives and set them counterwhere they should go in amity, warm handin warm hand, side by side.

CHAPTER XVII

HOW THICK IS BLOOD?

No sterner figure ever rode the BadLands than Jeremiah Lambert appearedeight days after his escape out of hisenemies' hands. The last five days of hisinternment he had spent in his ownquarters, protesting to Vesta that he wasno longer an invalid, and that furtherreceipt of her tender ministrations wouldamount to obtaining a valuableconsideration by false pretense.

This morning as he rode about his dutythe scar left by Jim Wilder's knife in hischeek never had appeared so prominent. Itcast over all his face a shadow ofgrimness, and imparted to it an aged andseasoned appearance not warranted byeither his experience or his years.Although he had not carried anysuperfluous flesh before his night oftorture, he was lighter now by manypounds.

Not a handsome man that day, not muchabout him to recall the red-faced, full-blooded agent of the All-in-One who hadpushed his bicycle into the Syndicatecamp that night, guided by Taterleg's song.But there was a look of confidence in hiseyes that had not been his in those days,

which he considered now as far distantand embryonic; there was a certainty inhis hand that made him a man in a man'splace anywhere in the extreme exactionsof that land.

Vesta was firm in her intention ofgiving up the ranch and leaving the BadLands as soon as she could sell the cattle.With that program ahead of him, Lambertwas going this morning to look over theherd and estimate the number of cattleready for market, that he might place hisorder for cars.

He didn't question the wisdom ofreducing the herd, for that was goodbusiness; but it hurt him to have Vestaleave there with drooping feathers,acknowledging to the brutal forces which

had opposed the ranch so long that shewas beaten. He would have her go aftervictory over them, for it was no place forVesta. But he would like for her to stayuntil he had broken their opposition, andcompelled them to take off their hats to herfence.

He swore as he rode this morning thathe would do it. Vesta should not clean outthe cattle, lock the lonesome ranchhouse,abandon the barns and that vast investmentof money to the skulking wolves whowaited only such a retreat to sneak in anddespoil the place. He had fixed in hismind the intention, firm as a rock in thedesert that defied storm and disintegration,to bring every man of that gang up to thewire fence in his turn and bend him before

it, or break him if he would not bend.

This accomplished, the right of thefence established on such terms that itwould be respected evermore, Vestamight go, if she desired. Surely it wouldbe better for her, a pearl in those darkwaters where her beauty would corrodeand her soul would suffer in the isolationtoo hard for one of her fine harmony tobear. Perhaps she would turn the ranchover to him to run, with a band of sheepwhich he could handle and increase onshares, after the custom of that business, tothe profit of both.

He had speculated on this eventualitynot a little during the days of his enforcedidleness. This morning the thought was sostrong in him that it amounted almost to a

plan. Maybe there was a face in thesecalculations, a face illumined by clear,dark eyes, which seemed to strain over thebrink of the future and beckon him on.Blood might stand between them, anddifferences almost irreconcilable, but theface withdrew never.

It was evening before he workedthrough the herd and made it round to theplace where Grace Kerr had cut the fence.There was no message for him. Withoutfoundation for his disappointment, he wasdisappointed. He wondered if she hadbeen there, and bent in his saddle toexamine the ground across the fence.

There were tracks of a horse, butwhether old or new he was not educatedenough yet in range-craft to tell. He

looked toward the hill from which he hadwatched her ride to cut the fence, hopingshe might appear. He knew that this hopewas traitorous to his employer, he felt thathis desire toward this girl was unworthy,but he wanted to see her and hear herspeak.

Foolish, also, to yield to that desire tolet down the fence where he had hookedthe wire and ride out to see if he couldfind her. Still, there was so littleprobability of seeing her that he was notashamed, only for the twinge of a disloyalact, as he rode toward the hill, his longshadow ambling beside him, a gianthorseman on a mammoth steed.

He returned from this little sentimentalexcursion feeling somewhat like a sneak.

The country was empty of Grace Kerr. Ingoing out to seek her in the folly of aromance too trivial for a man of hisserious mien, he was guilty of anindiscretion deserving Vesta Philbrook'sdeepest scorn. He burned with his ownshame as he dismounted to adjust the wire,like one caught in a reprehensible deed,and rode home feeling foolishly small.Kerr! He should hate the name.

But when he came to shaving bylamplight that night, and lifted out his piedcalfskin vest to find his strop, the littlehandkerchief brought all the oldremembrances, the old tenderness, back ina sentimental flood. He fancied there wasstill a fragrance of violet perfume about itas he held it tenderly and pressed it to his

cheek after a furtive glance around. Hefolded it small, put it in a pocket of thegarment, which he hung on the foot of hisbed.

An inspiration directed the act.Tomorrow he would ride forth clothed inthe calfskin vest, with the brighthandkerchief that he had worn on theSunday at Misery when he won GraceKerr's scented trophy. For sentimentalreasons only; purely sentimental reasons.

No, he was not a handsome man anylonger, he confessed, grinning at theadmission, rather pleased to have it as itwas. That scar gave him a cast of ferocitywhich his heart did not warrant, for,inwardly, he said, he knew he was asgentle as a dove. But if there was any

doubt in her mind, granted that he hadchanged a good deal since she first sawhim, the calfskin vest and the handkerchiefwould settle it. By those signs she wouldknow him, if she had doubted before.

Not that she had doubted. As her angerand fear of him had passed that morning,recognition had come, and withrecognition, confidence. He would take alook out that way in the morning. Surely aman had a right to go into the enemy'scountry and get a line on what was goingon against him. So as he shaved heplanned, arguing loudly for himself todrown the cry of treason that hisconscience raised.

Tomorrow he would take a further lookthrough the herd and conclude his

estimate. Then he'd have to go to Glendoraand order cars for the first shipment. Vestawouldn't be able to get all of them off formany weeks. It would mean several tripsto Chicago for him, with a crew of men totake care of the cattle along the road. Itmight be well along into the early fallbefore he had them thinned down to calvesand cows not ready for market.

He shaved and smoothed his weatheredface, turning his eyes now and again to hishairy vest with a feeling of affection inhim for the garment that neither its worthnor its beauty warranted. Sentimentalreasons always outweigh sensible ones aslong as a man is young.

He rode along the fence next morningon his way to the herd, debating whether

he should leave a note on the wire. Hewas not in such a soft and sentimentalmood this morning, for sense had ralliedto him and pointed out the impossibility ofharmony between himself and one sonearly related to a man who had attemptedto burn him alive. It seemed to him nowthat the recollection of those poignantmoments would rise to stand betweenthem, no matter how gentle or far removedfrom the source of her being she mightappear.

These gloomy speculations rose and lefthim like a flock of somber birds as helifted the slope. Grace Kerr herself wasriding homeward, just mounting the hillover which she must pass in a moment anddisappear. He unhooked the wire and rode

after her. At the hilltop she stopped,unaware of his coming, and looked back.He waved his hat; she waited.

"Have you been sick, Duke?" sheinquired, after greetings, looking him overwith concern.

"My horse bit me," said he, passing itoff with that old stock pleasantry of therange, which covered anything andeverything that a man didn't want toexplain.

"I missed you along here," she said. Sheswept him again with that slow, puzzledlook of inquiry, her eyes coming back tohis face in a frank, unembarrassed stare."Oh, I know what it is now! You'redressed like you were that day at Misery. Icouldn't make it out for a minute."

She was not wearing her mannish garbthis morning, but divided skirts ofcorduroy and a white waist with a bit ofbright color at the neck. Her whitesombrero was the only masculine touchabout her, and that rather added to herquick, dark prettiness.

"You were wearing a white waist thefirst time I saw you," he said.

"This one," she replied, touching it withsimple motion of full identification.

Neither of them mentioned the mutualrecognition on the day she had been caughtcutting the fence. They talked ofcommonplace things, as youth isconstrained to do when its heart and mindare centered on something else whichburns within it, the flame of which it

cannot cover from any eyes but its own.Life on the range, its social disadvantages,its rough diversions, these they spoke of,Lambert's lips dry with his eagerness totell her more.

How quickly it had laid hold of himagain at sight of her, this unreasonablelonging! The perfume of his romancesuffused her, purging away all that wasunworthy.

"I trembled every second that day forfear your horse would break through theplatform and throw you," she said,suddenly coming back to the subject thathe wanted most to discuss.

"I didn't think of it till a good whileafterward," he said in slow reflection.

"I didn't suppose I'd ever see you again,and, of course, I never once thought youwere the famous Duke of Chimney Butte Iheard so much about when I got home."

"More notorious than famous, I'mafraid, Miss Kerr."

"Jim Wilder used to work for us; Iknew him well."

Lambert bent his head, a shadow ofdeepest gravity falling like a cloud overthe animation which had brightened hisfeatures but a moment before. He sat incontemplative silence a little while, hisvoice low when he spoke.

"Even though he deserved it, I'vealways been sorry it happened."

"Well, if you're sorry, I guess you're the

only one. Jim was a bad kid. Where's thathorse you raced the train on?"

"I'm resting him up a little."

"You had him out here the other day."

"Yes. I crippled him up a little sincethen."

"I'd like to have that horse. Do you wantto sell him, Duke?"

"There's not money enough made to buyhim!" Lambert returned, lifting his headquickly, looking her in the eyes so directlythat she colored, and turned her head tocover her confusion.

"You must think a lot of him when youtalk like that."

"He's done me more than one good turn,

Miss Kerr," he explained, feeling that shemust have read his harsh thoughts. "Hesaved my life only a week ago. But that'slikely to happen to any man," he addedquickly, making light of it.

"Saved your life?" said she, turning herclear, inquiring eyes on him again in thatexpression of wonder that was so vast inthem. "How did he save your life, Duke?"

"I guess I was just talking," said he,wishing he had kept a better hold on histongue. "You know we have a fool way ofsaying a man's life was saved in verytrivial things. I've known people todeclare that a drink of whisky did that forthem."

She lifted her brows as she studied hisface openly and with such a directness that

he flushed in confusion, then turned hereyes away slowly.

"I liked him that day he outran the flier;I've often thought of him since then."

Lambert looked off over the wildlandscape, the distant buttes softened inthe haze that seemed to presage theadvance of autumn, considering much.When he looked into her face again it waswith the harshness gone out of his eyes.

"I wouldn't sell that horse to any man,but I'd give him to you, Grace."

She started a little when he pronouncedher name, wondering, perhaps, how heknew it, her eyes growing great in thepleasure of his generous declaration. Sheurged her horse nearer with an impetuous

movement and gave him her hand.

"I didn't mean for you to take it thatway, Duke, but I appreciate it more than Ican tell you."

Her eyes were earnest and soft with amist of gratitude that seemed to rise out ofher heart. He held her hand a moment,feeling that he was being drawn nearer toher lips, as if he must touch them, and riserefreshed to face the labors of his life.

"I started out on him to look for you,expecting to ride him to the Pacific, andmaybe double back. I didn't know whereI'd have to go, but I intended to go on till Ifound you."

"It seemed almost a joke," she said,"that we were so near each other and you

didn't know it."

She laughed, not seeming to feel theseriousness of it as he felt it. It is thewoman who laughs always in these littlelife-comedies of ours.

"I'll give him to you, Grace, when hepicks up again. Any other horse will dome now. He carried me to the end of myroad; he brought me to you."

She turned her head, and he hadn't thecourage in him to look and see whether itwas to hide a smile.

"You don't know me, Duke; maybe youwouldn't—maybe you'll regret you everstarted out to find me at all."

His courage came up again; he leaned alittle nearer, laying his hand on hers where

it rested on her saddle-horn.

"You wanted me to come, didn't you,Grace?"

"I hoped you might come sometime,Duke."

He rode with her when she set out toreturn home to the little valley where hehad interposed to prevent a tragedybetween her and Vesta Philbrook. Neitherof them spoke of that encounter. It wasavoided in silence as a thing of whichboth were ashamed.

"Will you be over this way again,Grace?" he asked when he stopped to part.

"I expect I will, Duke."

"Tomorrow, do you think?"

"Not tomorrow," shaking her head inthe pretty way she had of doing it whenshe spoke in negation, like an earnestchild.

"Maybe the next day?"

"I expect I may come then, Duke—orwhat is your real name?"

"Jeremiah. Jerry, if you like it better."

She pursed her lips in comicalseriousness, frowning a little as ifconsidering it weightily. Then she lookedat him in frank comradeship, her dark eyesserious, nodding her head.

"I'll just call you Duke."

He left her with the feeling that he hadknown her many years. Blood between

them? What was blood? Thicker thanwater? Nay, impalpable as smoke.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE RIVALRY OF COOKS

Taterleg said that he would go toGlendora that night with Lambert, whenthe latter announced he was going down toorder cars for the first shipment of cattle.

"I've been layin' off to go quite awhile," Taterleg said, "but that scrape yourun into kind of held me around nights.You know, that feller he put a letter in thepost office for me, servin' notice I was tokeep away from that girl. I guess he thinks

he's got me buffaloed and on the run."

"Which one of them sent you a letter?"

"Jedlick, dern him. I'm goin' down therefrom now on every chance I get and set upto that girl like a Dutch uncle."

"What do you suppose Jedlick intendsto do to you?"

"I don't care what he aims to do. If hemakes a break at me, I'll lay him on aboard, if they can find one in the BadLands long enough to hold him."

"He's got a bad eye, a regular mule eye.You'd better step easy around him and notstir him up too quick."

Lambert had no faith in the valor ofJedlick at all, but Taterleg would fight, as

he very well knew. But he doubtedwhether there was any great chance of thetwo coming together with Alta Wood onthe watch between them. She'd pat one andshe'd rub the other, soothing them anddrawing them off until they forgot theirwrath. Still, he did not want Taterleg to berunning any chance at all of makingtrouble.

"You'd better let me take your gun," hesuggested as they approached the hotel.

"I can take care of it," Taterlegreturned, a bit hurt by the suggestion, loftyand distant in his declaration.

"No harm intended, old feller. I justdidn't want you to go pepperin' old Jedlickover a girl that's as fickle as you say AltaWood is."

"I ain't a-goin' to pull a gun on no mantill he gives me a good reason, Duke, butif he gives me the reason, I want to beheeled. I guess I was a little hard on Altathat time, because I was a little sore. She'snot so foolish fickle as some."

"When she's trying to hold three men inline at once it looks to me she must beplayin' two of 'em for suckers. But go to it,go to it, old feller; don't let me scare youoff."

"I never had but one little fallin' outwith Alta, and that was the time I wassore. She wanted me to cut off mymustache, and I told her I wouldn't do thatfor no girl that ever punched a piller."

"What did she want you to do that for,do you reckon?"

"Curiosity, Duke, plain curiosity. Sheworked old Jedlick that way, but shecouldn't throw me. Wanted to see how it'dchange me, she said. Well, I know,without no experimentin'."

"I don't know that it'd hurt you much tolose it, Taterleg."

"Hurt me? I'd look like one of them flatChristmas toys they make out of tinwithout that mustache, Duke. I'd be sosharp in the face I'd whistle in the windevery time my horse went out of a walk.I'm a-goin' to wear that mustache to mygrave, and no woman that ever hung herstockin's out of the winder to dry's goin' tofool me into cuttin' it off."

"You know when you're comfortable,old feller. Stick to it, if that's the way you

feel about it."

They hitched at the hotel rack. Taterlegsaid he'd go on to the depot with Lambert.

"I'm lookin' for a package of expressgoods I sent away to Chicago for," heexplained.

The package was on hand, according toexpectation. It proved to be a five-poundbox of chewing gum, "All kinds and allflavors," Taterleg said.

"You've got enough there to stick you toher so tight that even death can't part you,"Lambert told him.

Taterleg winked as he worked undoingthe cords.

"Only thing can beat it, Duke—money.

Money can beat it, but a man's got to havea lick or two of common sense to go withit, and some good looks on the side, if hepicks off a girl as wise as Alta. WhenJedlick was weak enough to cut off hismustache, he killed his chance."

"Is he in town tonight, do you reckon?"

"I seen his horse in front of the saloon.Well, no girl can say I ever went and setdown by her smellin' like a bunghole on ahot day. I don't travel that road. I'll goover there smellin' like a fruit-store, andI'll put that box in her hand and tell her tochaw till she goes to sleep, an then I'llpull her head over on my shoulder and patthem bangs. Hursh, oh, hursh!"

It seemed that the effervescent fellowcould not be wholly serious about

anything. Lambert was not certain that hewas serious in his attitude toward Jedlickas he went away with his sweet-scentedbox under his arm.

By the time Lambert had finished hisarrangements for a special train to carrythe first heavy shipment of the Philbrookherd to market it was long after dark. Hewas in the post office when he heard theshot that, he feared, opened hostilitiesbetween Taterleg and Jedlick. He hurriedout with the rest of the customers and wenttoward the hotel.

There was some commotion on thehotel porch, which it was too dark tofollow, but he heard Alta scream, afterwhich there came another shot. The bulletstruck the side of the store, high above

Lambert's head.

CHAPTER XIX

THE SENTINEL

There appeared in the light of the hoteldoor for a moment the figures of strugglingmen, followed by the sound of feet inflight down the steps, and somebodymounting a horse in haste at the hotelhitching-rack. Whoever this was rodeaway at a hard gallop.

Lambert knew that the battle was over,and as he came to the hitching-rack he sawthat Taterleg's horse was still there. So he

had not fled. Several voices sounded fromthe porch in excited talk, among themTaterleg's, proving that he was sound anduntouched.

His uneasiness gone, Lambert stood alittle while in front, well out in the dark,trying to pick up what was being said, butwith little result, for people were arrivingwith noise of heavy boots to learn thecause of the disturbance.

Taterleg held the floor for a little while,hi s voice severe as if he laid down thelaw. Alta replied in what appeared to beindignant protest, then fell to crying. Therewas a picture of her in the door a momentbeing led inside by her mother, blubberinginto her hands. The door slammed afterthem, and Taterleg was heard to say in

loud, firm voice:

"Don't approach me, I tell you! I'd hit ablind woman as quick as I would a one-armed man!"

Lambert felt that this was the place tointerfere. He called Taterleg.

"All right, Duke; I'm a-comin',"Taterleg answered.

The door opened, revealing the one-armed proprietor entering the house;revealing a group of men and women,bare-headed, as they had rushed to thehotel at the sound of the shooting;revealing Taterleg coming down the steps,his box of chewing gum under his arm.

Wood fastened the door back in itsaccustomed anchorage. His neighbors

closed round where he stood explainingthe affair, his stump of arm lifting andpointing in the expressionless gesturescommon to a man thus maimed.

"Are you hurt?" Lambert inquired.

"No, I ain't hurt none, Duke."

Taterleg got aboard of his horse withnothing more asked of him or volunteeredon his part. They had not proceeded farwhen his indignation broke bounds.

"I ain't hurt, but I'm swinged like a foolmiller moth in a lamp chimley," hecomplained.

"Who was that shootin' around sodarned careless?"

"Jedlick, dern him!"

"It's a wonder he didn't kill somebodyupstairs somewhere."

"First shot he hit a box of t'backer backof Wood's counter. I don't know what hehit the second time, but it wasn't me."

"He hit the side of the store."

Taterleg rode along in silence a littleway. "Well, that was purty good for him,"he said.

"Who was that hopped a horse like hewas goin' for the doctor, and tore off?"

"Jedlick, dern him!"

Lambert allowed the matter to rest atthat, knowing that neither of them had beenhurt. Taterleg would come to the telling ofit before long, not being built so that he

could hold a piece of news like thatwithout suffering great discomfort.

"I'm through with that bunch downthere," he said in the tone of deep,disgustful renunciation. "I never was ledon and soaked that way before in my life.No, I ain't hurt, Duke, but it ain't no faultof that girl I ain't. She done all she couldto kill me off."

"Who started it?"

"Well, I'll give it to you straight, Duke,from the first word, and you can judge foryourself what kind of a woman that girl'sgoin' to turn out to be. I never would 'a'believed she'd 'a' throwed a man that way,but you can't read 'em, Duke; no man canread 'em."

"I guess that's right," Lambert allowed,wondering how far he had read in certaindark eyes which seemed as innocent as achild's.

"It's past the power of any man to do it.Well, you know, I went over there withmy fresh box of gum, all of the fruitflavors you can name, and me and her weset out on the porch gabbin' and samplin'that gum. She never was so leanin' andlovin' before, settin' up so clost to me youcouldn't 'a' put a sheet of writin' paperbetween us. Shucks!"

"Rubbin' the paint off, Taterleg. Youought 'a' took the tip that she was aboutdone with you."

"You're right; I would 'a' if I'd 'a' had asmuch brains as a ant. Well, she told me

Jedlick was layin' for me, and begged menot to hurt him, for she didn't want to seeme go to jail on account of a feller likehim. She talked to me like a Dutch uncle,and put her head so clost I could feel thembangs a ticklin' my ear. But that's donewith; she can tickle all the ears she wantsto tickle, but she'll never tickle mine nomore. And all the time she was talkin' tome like that, where do you reckon thatJedlick feller was at?"

"In the saloon, I guess, firin' up."

"No, he wasn't, Duke. He was settin'right in that ho-tel, with his old flat feetunder the table, shovelin' in pie. He comeout pickin' his teeth purty soon, standin'there by the door, dern him, like he ownedthe dump. Well, he may, for all I know.

Alta she inched away from me, and shesays to him: 'Mr. Jedlick, come over hereand shake hands with Mr. Wilson.'

"'Yes,' he says, 'I'll shake insect powderon his grave!'

"'I see you doin' it,' I says, 'you long-hungry and half-full! If you ever make apass at me you'll swaller wind so fastyou'll bust.' Well, he begun to shuffle andprance and cut up like a boy makin' faces,and there's where Alta she ducked inthrough the parlor winder. 'Don't hurt him,Mr. Jedlick,' she says; 'please don't hurthim!'

"'I'll chaw him up as fine as cat hair andblow him out through my teeth,' Jedlicktold her. And there's where I started afterthat feller. He was standin' in front of the

door all the time, where he could duckinside if he saw me comin', and I guess hewould 'a' ducked if Wood hadn't 'a' beenthere. When he saw Wood, old Jedlickpulled his gun.

"I slung down on him time enough toblow him in two, and pulled on mytrigger, not aimin' to hurt the old sooner,only to snap a bullet between his toes, butshe wouldn't work. Old Jedlick he was sorattled at the sight of that gun in my handhe banged loose, slap through the winderinto that box of plug back of the counter. Ipulled on her and pulled on her, but shewouldn't snap, and I was yankin' at thehammer to cock her when he tore loosewith that second shot. That's when I foundout what the matter was with that old gun

of mine."

Taterleg was so moved at this passagethat he seemed to run out of words. Herode along in silence until they reachedthe top of the hill, and the house on themesa stood before them, dark andlonesome. Then he pulled out his gun andhanded it across to the Duke.

"Run your thumb over the hammer ofthat gun, Duke," he said.

"Well! What in the world—it feels likechewin' gum, Taterleg."

"It is chewin' gum, Duke. A wad of it asbig as my fist gluin' down the hammer ofthat gun. That girl put it on there, Duke.She knew Jedlick wouldn't have no moreshow before me, man to man, than a

rabbit. She done me that trick, Duke; shewanted to kill me off."

"There wasn't no joke about that, oldfeller," the Duke said seriously, gratefulthat the girl's trick had not resulted in anygreater damage to his friend than the shockto his dignity and simple heart.

"Yes, and it was my own gum. That'sthe worst part of it, Duke; she wasn't evenusin' his gum, dang her melts!"

"She must have favored Jedlick prettystrong to go that far."

"Well, if she wants him after what she'ssaw of him, she can take him. I clinchedhim before he could waste any moreammunition, and twisted his gun awayfrom him. I jolted him a couple of jolts

with my fist, and he broke and run. Youseen him hop his horse."

"What did you do with his gun?"

"I walked over to the winder where thatgirl was lookin' out to see Jedlick wipe upthe porch with me, and I handed her thegun, and I says: 'Give this to Mr. Jedlickwith my regards,' I says, 'and tell him if hewants any more to send me word.' Well,she come out, and I called her on what shedone to my gun. She swore she didn'tmean it for nothin' but a joke. I said if thatwas her idear of a joke, the quicker weparted the sooner. She began to bawl, andthe old man and old woman put in, and I'd'a' slapped that feller, Duke, if he'd 'a' hadtwo arms on him. But you can't slap a halfof a man."

"I guess that's right."

"I walked up to that girl, and I said:'You've chawed the last wad of my gumyou'll ever plaster up ag'in' your old leanjawbone. You may be some figger inGlendora,' I says, 'but anywheres else youwouldn't cut no more ice than a cracker.'Wood he took it up ag'in. That's when Icome away."

"It looks like it's all off between youand Alta now."

"Broke off, short up to the handle.Serves a feller right for bein' a fool. Imight 'a' knowed when she wanted me toshave my mustache off she didn't have nomore heart in her than a fish."

"That was askin' a lot of a man, sure as

the world."

"No man can look two ways at oncewithout somebody puttin' something downhis back, Duke."

"Referrin' to the lady in Wyoming.Sure."

"She was white. She says: 'Mr. Wilson,I'll always think of you as a gentleman.'Them was her last words, Duke."

They were walking their horses past thehouse, which was dark, careful not towake Vesta. But their care went fornothing; she was not in bed. Around theturn of the long porch they saw herstanding in the moonlight, looking acrossthe river into the lonely night. It seemed asif she stood in communion with distant

places, to which she sent her longing outof a bondage that she could not flee.

"She looks lonesome," Taterleg said."Well, I ain't a-goin' to go and pet andconsole her. I'm done takin' chances."

Lambert understood as never beforehow melancholy that life must be for her.She turned as they passed, her face clearin the bright moonlight. Taterleg swept offhis hat with the grand air that took him sofar with the ladies, Lambert saluting withless extravagance.

Vesta waved her hand inacknowledgment, turning again to herwatching over the vast, empty land, as ifshe waited the coming of somebody whowould quicken her life with the cheer thatit wanted so sadly that calm summer night.

Lambert felt an unusual restlessness thatnight—no mood over him for his bed. Itseemed, in truth, that a man would bewasting valuable hours of life by lockinghis senses up in sleep. He put his horseaway, sated with the comedy of Taterleg'sadventure, and not caring to pursue itfurther. To get away from the discussionof it that he knew Taterleg would keepgoing as long as there was an ear open tohear him, he walked to the near-by hilltopto view the land under this translatingspell.

This was the hilltop from which he hadridden down to interfere between Vestaand Nick Hargus. With that adventure hehad opened his account of trouble in theBad Lands, an account that was growing

day by day, the final balancing of whichhe could not foresee.

From where he stood, the house wasdark and lonely as an abandonedhabitation. It seemed, indeed, that brightand full of youthful light as VestaPhilbrook was, she was only one warmcandle in the gloom of this great andmelancholy monument of her father'smisspent hopes. Before she could warm itinto life and cheerfulness, it wouldencroach upon her with its chilling gloom,like an insidious cold drift of sand,smothering her beauty, burying her quickheart away from the world for which itlonged, for evermore.

It would need the noise of little feetacross those broad, empty, lonesome

porches to wake the old house; theshouting and laughter and gleam of merryeyes that childhood brings into thisworld's gloom, to drive away the shadowsthat draped it like a mist. Perhaps Vestastood there tonight sending her soul out ina call to someone for whom she longed,these comfortable, natural, womanlyhopes in her own good heart.

He sighed, wishing her well of suchhope if she had it, and forgot her in amoment as his eyes picked up a light faracross the hills. Now it twinkled brightly,now it wavered and died, as if its beamwas all too weak to hold to the continuedeffort of projecting itself so far. That mustbe the Kerr ranch; no other habitation layin that direction. Perhaps in the light of

that lamp somebody was sitting, bending adark head in pensive tenderness with athought of him.

He stood with his pleasant fancy, hisdream around him like a cloak. All thetrouble that was in the world for him thathour was near the earth, like theprecipitation of settling waters. Over it hegazed, superior to its ugly murk, carelessof whether it might rise to befoul the clearcurrent of his hopes, or sink and settle toobscure his dreams no more.

There was a sound of falling shale onthe slope, following the disturbance of aquick foot. Vesta was coming. Unseen andunheard through the insulation of histhoughts, she had approached within tenrods of him before he saw her, the

moonlight on her fair face, glorious in heruncovered hair.

CHAPTER XX

BUSINESS, AND MORE

"You stand out like an Indian watermonument up here," she said reprovingly,as she came scrambling up, taking thehand that he hastened forward to offer andboost her over the last sharp face ofcrumbling shale.

"I expect Hargus could pick me off frombelow there anywhere, but I didn't think ofthat," he said.

"It wouldn't be above him," seriously,

discounting the light way in which hespoke of it; "he's done things just ascowardly, and so have others you've met."

"I haven't got much opinion of the valorof men who hunt in packs, Vesta. Some ofthem might be skulking around, glad totake a shot at us. Don't you think we'dbetter go down?"

"We can sit over there and be off thesky-line. It's always the safe thing to doaround here."

She indicated a point where aninequality in the hill would be above theirheads sitting, and there they composedthemselves—the sheltering swell ofhilltop at their backs.

"It's not a very complimentary

reflection on a civilized community thatone has to take such a precaution, but it'snecessary, Duke."

"It's enough to make you want to leaveit, Vesta. It's bad enough to have to dodgedanger in a city, but out here, with all thislonesomeness around you, it's worse."

"Do you feel it lonesome here?" Sheasked it with a curious soft slowness, aspeculative detachment, as if she only halfthought of what she said.

"I'm never lonesome where I can seethe sun rise and set. There's a lot ofcompany in cattle, more than in anyamount of people you don't know."

"I find it the same way, Duke. I neverwas so lonesome as when I was away

from here at school."

"Everybody feels that way about home,I guess. But I thought maybe you'd like itbetter away among people like yourself."

"No. If it wasn't for this endlessstraining and watching, quarreling andcontending, I wouldn't change this for anyplace in the world. On nights like this,when it whispers in a thousand inaudiblevoices, and beckons and holds one close, Ifeel that I never can go away. There's acall in it that is so subtle and tender, sofull of sympathy, that I answer it withtears."

"I wish things could be cleared up soyou could live here in peace and enjoy it,but I don't know how it's going to comeout. It looks to me like I've made it

worse."

"It was wrong of me to draw you into it,Duke; I should have let you go your way."

"There's no regrets on my side, Vesta. Iguess it was planned for me to come thisfar and stop."

"They'll never rest till they've drawnyou into a quarrel that will give them anexcuse for killing you, Duke. They'redoubly sure to do it since you got awayfrom them that night. I shouldn't havestopped you; I should have let you go onthat day."

"I had to stop somewhere, Vesta," helaughed. "Anyway, I've found here what Istarted out to find. This was the end of myroad."

"What you started to find, Duke?"

"A man-sized job, I guess." He laughedagain, but with a colorless artificiality,sweating over the habit of solitude thatleads a man into thinking aloud.

"You've found it, all right, Duke, andyou're filling it. That's some satisfaction toyou, I know. But it's a man-using job, alife-wasting job," she said sadly.

"I've only got myself to blame foranything that's happened to me here, Vesta.It's not the fault of the job."

"Well, if you'll stay with me till I sellthe cattle, Duke, I'll think of you as thenext best friend I ever had."

"I've got no intention of leaving you,Vesta."

"Thank you, Duke."

Lambert sat turning over in his mindsomething that he wanted to say to her, butwhich he could not yet shape to his tongue.She was looking in the direction of thelight that he had been watching, a gleam ofwhich showed faintly now and then, as ifbetween moving boughs.

"I don't like the notion of your leavingthis country whipped, Vesta," he said,coming to it at last.

"I don't like to leave it whipped, Duke."

"That's the way they'll look at it if yougo."

Silence again, both watching the far-distant, twinkling light.

"I laid out the job for myself of bringingthese outlaws around here up to your fencewith their hats in their hands, and I hate togive it up before I've made good on myword."

"Let it go, Duke; it isn't worth the fight."

"A man's word is either good for all heintends it to be, or worth no more than thelowest scoundrel's, Vesta. If I don't put upworks to equal what I've promised, I'llhave to sneak out of this country betweentwo suns."

"I threw off too much on the shouldersof a willing and gallant stranger," shesighed. "Let it go, Duke; I've made up mymind to sell out and leave."

He made no immediate return to this

declaration, but after a while he said:

"This will be a mighty bleak spot withthe house abandoned and dark on winternights and no stock around the barns."

"Yes, Duke."

"There's no place so lonesome as onewhere somebody's lived, and put hishopes and ambitions into it, and goneaway and left it empty. I can hear thewinter wind cuttin' around the house downyonder, mournin' like a widow woman inthe night."

A sob broke from her, a sudden, sharp,struggling expression of her sorrow for thedesolation that he pictured in his simplewords. She bent her head into her handsand cried. Lambert was sorry for the pain

that he had unwittingly stirred in herbreast, but glad in a glowing tenderness tosee that she had this human strain so nearthe surface that it could be touched by asentiment so common, and yet so precious,as the love of home. He laid his hand onher head, stroking her soft, wavy hair.

"Never mind, Vesta," he petted, as ifcomforting a child. "Maybe we can fixthings up here so there'll be somebody totake care of it. Never mind—don't yougrieve and cry."

"It's home—the only home I ever knew.There's no place in the world that can beto me what it has been, and is."

"That's so, that's so. I remember, Iknow. The wind don't blow as soft, thesun don't shine as bright, anywhere else as

it does at home. It's been a good whilesince I had one, and it wasn't much to see,but I've got the recollection of it by mealways—I can see every log in the walls."

He felt her shiver with the sobs shestruggled to repress as his hand rested onher hair. His heart went out to her in asurge of tenderness when he thought of allshe had staked in that land—her youth andthe promise of life—of all she had seenplanned in hope, built in expectation, andall that lay buried now on the bleak mesamarked by two white stones.

And he caressed her with gentle hand,looking away the while at the spark oflight that came and went, came and went,as if through blowing leaves. So it flashedand fell, flashed and fell, like a slow,

slow pulse, and died out, as a spark intinder dies, leaving the far night blank.

Vesta sat up, pushed her hair back fromh e r forehead, her white hand lingeringthere. He touched it, pressed itcomfortingly.

"But I'll have to go," she said, calm invoice, "to end this trouble and strife."

"I've been wondering, since I'm kind ofpledged to clean things up here, whetheryou'd consider a business proposal fromme in regard to taking charge of the ranchfor you while you're gone, Vesta."

She looked up with a quick start ofeagerness.

"You mean I oughtn't sell the cattle,Duke?"

"Yes, I think you ought to clean themout. The bulk of them are in as highcondition as they'll ever be, and themarket's better right now that it's been inyears."

"Well, what sort of a proposal wereyou going to make, Duke?"

"Sheep."

"Father used to consider turning aroundto sheep. The country would come to it, hesaid."

"Coming to it more and more every day.The sheep business is the big future thingin here. Inside of five years everybodywill be in the sheep business, and that willmean the end of these rustler camps that gounder the name of cattle ranches."

"I'm willing to consider sheep, Duke.Go ahead with the plan."

"There's twice the money in them, andnot half the expense. One man can takecare of two or three thousand, and you canget sheepherders any day. There can't beany possible objection to them inside yourown fence, and you've got range for ten orfifteen thousand. I'd suggest about athousand to begin with, though."

"I'd do it in a minute, Duke—I'll do itwhenever you say the word. Then I couldleave Ananias and Myrtle here, and Icould come back in the summer for a littlewhile, maybe."

She spoke with such eagerness, suchappeal of loneliness, that he knew itwould break her heart ever to go at all. So

there on the hilltop they planned andagreed on the change from cattle to sheep,Lambert to have half the increase,according to the custom, with herder'swages for two years. She would havebeen more generous in the matter of pay,but that was the basis upon which he hadmade his plans, and he would admit nochange.

Vesta was as enthusiastic over it as achild, all eagerness to begin, seeing in thechange a promise of the peace for whichshe had so ardently longed. She appearedto have come suddenly from under a cloudof oppression and to sparkle in the sun ofthis new hope. It was only when they cameto parting at the porch that the ghost of herold trouble came to take its place at her

side again.

"Has she cut the fence lately over there,Duke?" she asked.

"Not since I caught her at it. I don't thinkshe'll do it again."

"Did she promise you she wouldn't cutit, Duke?"

She did not look at him as she spoke,but stood with her face averted, as if shewould avoid prying into his secret toodirectly. Her voice was low, a note ofweary sadness in it that seemed aconfession of the uselessness of turningher back upon the strife that she wouldforget.

"No, she didn't promise."

"If she doesn't cut the fence she'll planto hurt me in some other way. It isn't in herto be honest; she couldn't be honest if shetried."

"I don't like to condemn anybodywithout a trial, Vesta. Maybe she'schanged."

"You can't change a rattlesnake. Youseem to forget that she's a Kerr."

"Even at that, she might be differentfrom the rest."

"She never has been. You've had a tasteof the Kerr methods, but you're notsatisfied yet that they're absolutely baseand dishonorable in every thought anddeed. You'll find it out to your cost, Duke,if you let that girl lead you. She's a will-

o'-the-wisp sent to lure you from the trail."

Lambert laughed a bit foolishly, as aman does when the intuition of a womanuncovers the thing that he prided himselfwas so skilfully concealed that mortaleyes could not find it. Vesta was readingthrough him like a piece of greasedparchment before a lamp.

"I guess it will all come out right," hesaid weakly.

"You'll meet Kerr one of these dayswith your old score between you, and he'llkill you or you'll kill him. She knows it aswell as I do. Do you suppose she can besincere with you and keep this thingcovered up in her heart? You seem to haveforgotten what she remembers and plotson every minute of her life."

"I don't think she knows anything aboutwhat happened to me that night, Vesta."

"She knows all about it," said Vestacoldly.

"I don't know her very well, of course;I've only passed a few words with her,"he excused.

"And a few notes hung on the fence!"she said, not able to hide her scorn. "She'sgone away laughing at you every time."

"I thought maybe peace and quiet couldbe established through her if she could bemade to see things in a civilized way."

Vesta made no rejoinder at once. Sheput her foot on the step as if to leave him,withdrew it, faced him gravely.

"It's nothing to me, Duke, only I don'twant to see her lead you into another fire.Keep your eyes open and your hand closeto your gun when you're visiting with her."

She left him with that advice, given sogravely and honestly that it amounted tomore than a warning. He felt that therewas something more for him to say tomake his position clear, but could notmarshal his words. Vesta entered thehouse without looking back to where hestood, hat in hand, the moonlight in his fairhair.

CHAPTER XXI

A TEST OF LOYALTY

Lambert rode to his rendezvous withGrace Kerr on the appointed day,believing that she would keep it, althoughher promise had been inconclusive. Shehad only "expected" she would be there,but he more than expected she wouldcome.

He was in a pleasant mood thatmorning, sentimentally softened to suchextent that he believed he might even call

accounts off with Sim Hargus and the restof them if Grace could arrange a peace.Vesta was a little rough on her, hebelieved. Grace was showing a spirit thatseemed to prove she wanted only gentleguiding to abandon the practices ofviolence to which she had been bred.

Certainly, compared to Vesta, sheseemed of coarser ware, even though shewas as handsome as heart could desire.This he admitted without prejudice, notbeing yet wholly blind. But there was nobond of romance between Vesta and him.There was no place for romance betweena man and his boss. Romance bound himto Grace Kerr; sentiment enchained him. Itwas a sweet enslavement, and one to beprolonged in his desire.

Grace was not in sight when he reachedtheir meeting-place. He let down the wireand rode to meet her, troubled as beforeby that feeling of disloyalty to thePhilbrook interests which caused him tostop more than once and debate whetherhe should turn back and wait inside thefence.

The desire to hasten the meeting withGrace was stronger than this question ofhis loyalty. He went on, over the hill fromwhich she used to spy on his passing, intothe valley where he had interferedbetween the two girls on the day that hefound Grace hidden away in thisunexpected place. There he met hercoming down the farther slope.

Grace was quite a different figure that

day from any she had presented before,wearing a perky little highland bonnetwith an eagle feather in it, and a skirt andblouse of the same plaid. His eyesannounced his approval as they met,leaning to shake hands from the saddle.

Immediately he brought himself to taskfor his late admission that she was inferiorin the eyes to Vesta. That misappraisementwas due to the disadvantage under whichhe had seen Grace heretofore. Thismorning she was as dainty as a fresh-blown pink, and as delicately sweet. Heswung from the saddle and stood offadmiring her with so much speaking fromhis eyes that she grew rosy in their fire.

"Will you get down, Grace? I've neverhad a chance to see how tall you are—I

couldn't tell that day on the train."

The eagle feather came even with hisear when she stood beside him, slenderand strong, health in her eyes, herwomanhood ripening in her lips. Not astall as Vesta, not as full of figure, he beganin mental measurement, burning with self-reproof when he caught himself at it. Whyshould he always be drawing comparisonsbetween her and Vesta, to herdisadvantage in all things? It wasunwarranted, it was absurd!

They sat on the hillside, their horsesnipping each other in introductorypreliminaries, then settling down toimmediate friendship. They were farbeyond sight of the fence. Lambert hoped,with an uneasy return of that feeling of

disloyalty and guilt, that Vesta would notcome riding up that way and find the openstrands of wire.

This thought passed away and troubledhim no more as they sat talking of thestrange way of their "meeting on the run,"as she said.

"There isn't a horse in a thousand thatcould have caught up with me that day."

"Not one in thousands," he amended,with due gratitude to Whetstone.

"I expected you'd be riding him today,Duke."

"He backed into a fire," said heuneasily, "and burned off most of his tail.He's no sight for a lady in his presentshape."

She laughed, looking at him shrewdly,as if she believed it to be a joke to coversomething that he didn't want her to know.

"But you promised to give him to me,Duke, when he rested up a little."

"I will," he declared earnestly, gettinghold of her hand where it lay in the grassbetween them. "I'll give you anything I'vegot, Grace, from the breath in my body tothe blood in my heart!"

She bent her head, her face rosy withher mounting blood.

"Would you, Duke?" said she, so softlythat it was not much more than the flutterof the wings of words.

He leaned a little nearer, his heartclimbing, as if it meant to smother him and

cut him short in that crowning moment ofhis dream.

"I'd have gone to the end of the world tofind you, Grace," he said, his voiceshaking as if he had a chill, his handscold, his face hot, a tingling in his body, asound in his ears like bells. "I want to tellyou how——"

"Wait, Duke—I want to hear it all—butwait a minute. There's something I want toask you to do for me. Will you do me afavor, Duke, a simple favor, but one thatmeans the world and all to me?"

"Try me," said he, with boundlessconfidence.

"It's more than giving me your horse,Duke; a whole lot more than that, but it'll

not hurt you—you can do it, if you will."

"I know you wouldn't ask me to doanything that would reflect on my honestyor honor," he said, beginning to do a littlethinking as his nervous chill passed.

"A man doesn't—when a man cares—"She stopped, looking away, a littleconstriction in her throat.

"What is it, Grace?" pressing her handencouragingly, master of the situationnow, as he believed.

"Duke"—she turned to him suddenly,her eyes wide and luminous, her heartgoing so he could see the tremor of itsvibrations in the lace at her throat—"Iwant you to lend me tomorrow morning,for one day, just one day, Duke—five

hundred head of Vesta Philbrook's cattle."

"That's a funny thing to ask, Grace,"said he uneasily.

"I want you to meet me over therewhere I cut the fence before sunup in themorning, and have everybody out of theway, so we can cut them out and drivethem over here. You can manage it, if youwant to, Duke. You will, if you—if youcare."

"If they were my cattle, Grace, Iwouldn't hesitate a second."

"You'll do it, anyhow, won't you, Duke,for me?"

"What in the world do you want themfor, just for one day?"

"I can't explain that to you now, Duke,but I pledge you my honor, I pledge youeverything, that they'll be returned to youbefore night, not a head missing, nothingwrong."

"Does your father know—does he——"

"It's for myself that I'm asking this ofyou, Duke; nobody else. It means—itmeans—everything to me."

"If they were my cattle, Grace, if theywere my cattle," said he aimlessly,amazed by the request, groping for theanswer that lay behind it. What could agirl want to borrow five hundred head ofcattle for? What in the world would sheget out of holding them in her possessionone day and then turning them back intothe pasture? There was something back of

i t ; she was the innocent emissary of acrafty hand that had a trick to play.

"We could run them over here, just youand I, and nobody would know anythingabout it," she tempted, the color back inher cheeks, her eyes bright as in thepleasure of a request already granted.

"I don't like to refuse you even that,Grace."

"You'll do it, you'll do it, Duke?" Herhand was on his arm in beguiling caress,her eyes were pleading into his.

"I'm afraid not, Grace."

Perhaps she felt a shading of coldnessin his denial, for distrust and suspicionwere rising in his cautious mind. It did notseem to him a thing that could be asked

with any honest purpose, but for whatdishonest one he had no conjecture to fit.

"Are you going to turn me down on thefirst request I ever made of you, Duke?"She watched him keenly as she spoke,making her eyes small, an inflection ofsorrowful injury in her tone.

"If there's anything of my own you want,if there's anything you can name for me todo, personally, all you've got to do is hintat it once."

"It's easy to say that when there'snothing else I want!" she said, snapping itat him as sharp as the crack of a littlewhip.

"If there was anything——"

"There'll never be anything!"

She got up, flashing him an indignantlook. He stood beside her, despising thepoverty of his condition which would notallow him to deliver over to her, out ofhand, the small matter of five hundredbeeves.

She went to her horse, mightily put outand impatient with him, as he could see,threw the reins over her pommel, as if sheintended to leave him at once. She delayedmounting, suddenly putting out her handsin supplication, tears springing in hereyes.

"Oh, Duke! If you knew how much itmeans to me," she said.

"Why don't you tell me, Grace?"

"Even if you stayed back there on the

hills somewhere and watched them youwouldn't do it, Duke?" she appealed,evading his request.

He shook his head slowly, while thethoughts within it ran like wildfire,seeking the thing that she covered.

"It can't be done."

"I give you my word, Duke, that if you'lldo it nobody will ever lift a hand againstthis ranch again."

"It's almost worth it," said he.

She quickened at this, enlarging herguarantee.

"We'll drop all of the old feud and letVesta alone. I give you my word for all ofthem, and I'll see that they carry it out.

You can do Vesta as big a favor as you'llbe doing me, Duke."

"It couldn't be done without her consent,Grace. If you want to go to her with thissame proposal, putting it plainly like youhave to me, I think she'll let you have thecattle, if you can show her any goodreason for it."

"Just as if I'd be fool enough to askher!"

"That's the only way."

"Duke," said she coaxingly, "wouldn't itbe worth something to you, personally, tohave your troubles settled without a fight?I'll promise you nobody will ever lift ahand against you again if you'll do this forme."

He started, looked at her sternly,approaching her a step.

"What do you know about anythingthat's happened to me?" he demanded.

"I don't know anything about what'shappened, but I know what's due tohappen if it isn't headed off."

Lambert did some hard thinking for alittle while, so hard that it wrenched himto the marrow. If he had had suspicion ofher entire innocence in the solicitation ofthis unusual favor before, it had sprung ina moment into distrust. Such a quickreversion cannot take place in thesentiment without a shock. It seemed toLambert that something valuable had beensnatched away from him, and that he stoodin bewilderment, unable to reach out and

retrieve his loss.

"Then there's no use in discussing it anymore," he said, groping back, trying toanswer her.

"You'd do it for her!"

"Not for her any quicker than for you."

"I know it looks crooked to you, Duke—I don't blame you for your suspicions,"she said with a frankness that seemedmore like herself, he thought. She evenseemed to be coming back to him in thatapproach. It made him glad.

"Tell me all about it, Grace," he urged.

She came close to him, put her armabout his neck, drew his head down as ifto whisper her confidence in his ear. Her

breath was on his cheek, his heart wasafire in one foolish leap. She put up herlips as if to kiss him, and he, reeling in theecstasy of his proximity to her radiantbody, bent nearer to take what she seemedto offer.

She drew back, her hand interposedbefore his eager lips, shaking her head,denying him prettily.

"In the morning, I'll tell you all in themorning when I meet you to drive thecattle over," she said. "Don't say a word—I'll not take no for my answer." Sheturned quickly to her horse and swunglightly into the saddle. From this perch sheleaned toward him, her hand on hisshoulder, her lips drawing him in theirfiery lure again. "In the morning—in the

morning—you can kiss me, Duke!"

With that word, that promise, she turnedand galloped away.

It was late afternoon, and Lambert hadfaced back toward the ranchhouse,troubled by all that he could notunderstand in that morning's meeting,thrilled and fired by all that was sweet toremember, when he met a man who cameriding in the haste of one who hadbusiness ahead of him that could not wait.He was riding one of Vesta Philbrook'shorses, a circumstance that sharpenedLambert's interest in him at once.

As they closed the distance betweenthem, Lambert keeping his hand in the easyneighborhood of his gun, the man raisedhis hand, palm forward, in the Indian sign

of peace. Lambert saw that he wore ashoulder holster which supported twoheavy revolvers. He was a solemn-looking man with a narrow face, amustache that crowded Taterleg's for thechampionship, a buckskin vest with pearlbuttons. His coat was tied on the saddle athis back.

"I didn't steal this horse," he explainedwith a sorrowful grin as he drew upwithin arm's length of Lambert, "Irequisitioned it. I'm the sheriff."

"Yes, sir?" said Lambert, not quitetaking him for granted, no intention ofletting him pass on with that explanation.

"Miss Philbrook said I'd run across youup this way."

The officer produced his badge, hiscommission, his card, his letterhead, hiscredentials of undoubted strength. On theproof thus supplied, Lambert shook handswith him.

"I guess everybody else in the countyknows me—this is my second term, and Inever was taken for a horse thief before,"the sheriff said, solemn as a crow, as heput his papers away.

"I'm a stranger in this country, I don'tknow anybody, nobody knows me, soyou'll not take it as a slight that I didn'trecognize you, Mr. Sheriff."

"No harm done, Duke, no harm done.Well, I guess you're a little wider knownthan you make out. I didn't bring a manalong with me because I knew you were

up here at Philbrook's. Hold up your handand be sworn."

"What's the occasion?" Lambertinquired, making no move to comply withthe order.

"I've got a warrant for this man Kerrover south of here, and I want you to gowith me. Kerr's a bad egg, in a nest of badeggs. There's likely to be too much troublefor one man to handle alone. You dosolemnly swear to support the constitutionof the——"

"Wait a minute, Mr. Sheriff," Lambertdemurred; "I don't know that I want to mixup in——"

"It's not for you to say what you want todo—that's my business," the sheriff said

sharply. He forthwith deputized Lambert,and gave him a duplicate of the warrant."You don't need it, but it'll clear yourmind of all doubt of your power," heexplained. "Can we get through thisfence?"

"Up here six or seven miles, aboutopposite Kerr's place. But I'd like to go onto the house and change horses; I've rodethis one over forty miles today already."

The sheriff agreed. "Where's thatoutlaw you won from Jim Wilder?" heinquired, turning his eyes on Lambert infriendly appreciation.

"I'll ride him," Lambert returnedbriefly. "What's Kerr been up to?"

"Mortgaged a bunch of cattle he's got

over there to three different banks. He wasdown a couple of days ago tryin' to putthrough another loan. The investigationthat banker started laid him bare. Hepromised Kerr to come up tomorrow andlook over his security, and passed theword on to the county attorney. Kerr saidhe'd just bought five hundred head ofstock. He wanted to raise the loan onthem."

"Five hundred," said Lambert,mechanically repeating the sheriff'swords, doing some calculating of his own.

"He ain't got any that ain't blanketedwith mortgage paper so thick alreadythey'd go through a blizzard and neverknow it. His scheme was to raise five orsix thousand dollars more on that outfit

and skip the country."

And Grace Kerr had relied on hisinfatuation for her to work on him for theloan of the necessary cattle. Lambertcould not believe that it was all herscheme, but it seemed incredible that aman as shrewdly dishonest as Kerr wouldentertain a plan that promised so littleoutlook of success. They must havebelieved over at Kerr's that they had himpretty well on the line.

But Kerr had figured too surely onhaving his neighbor's cattle to show thebanker to stake all on the chance of Gracebeing able to wheedle him into thescheme. If he couldn't get them byseduction, he meant to take them in a raid.Grace never intended to come to meet him

in the morning alone.

One crime more would amount to littlein addition to what Kerr had done already,and it would be a trick on which he wouldpride himself and laugh over all the rest ofhis life. It seemed certain now that Grace'sfriendliness all along had been laid on afalse pretense, with the one intention ofbeguiling him to his disgrace, hisdestruction, if disgrace could not beaccomplished without it.

As he rode Whetstone—now quiterecovered from his scorching, save for thehair of his once fine tail—beside thesheriff, Lambert had some uneasycogitations on his sentimental blindness ofthe past; on the good, honest advice thatVesta Philbrook had given him. Blood

was blood, after all. If the source of it wasbase, it was too much to hope that a littleremoval, a little dilution, would ennobleit. She had lived there all her life theassociate of thieves and rascals; her wayof looking on men and property mustnaturally be that of the depredator, thepillager, and thief.

"And yet," thought he, thumb in thepocket of his hairy vest where the littlehandkerchief lay, "and yet——"

CHAPTER XXII

THE WILL-O'-THE-WISP

The Kerr ranch buildings were morethan a mile away from the point whereLambert and the sheriff halted to lookdown on them. The ranchhouse was astructure of logs from which the bark hadbeen stripped, and which had weatheredwhite as bones. It was long and low,suggesting spaciousness and comfort, andenclosed about by a white picket fence.

A winding trace of trees and

brushwood marked the course of thestream that ran behind it. On the brink ofthis little water, where it flashed free ofthe tangled willows, there was a corraland stables, but no sign of either animal orhuman life about the place.

"He may be out with the cattle,"Lambert suggested.

"We'll wait for him to come back, if heis. He's sure to be home between now andtomorrow."

So that was her home, that was the roofthat had sheltered her while she grew inher loveliness. The soft call of hisromance came whispering to him again.Surely there was no attainder of blood torise up against her and make her unclean;he would have sworn that moment, if put

to the test, that she was innocent of anyknowing attempt to involve him to hisdisgrace. The gate of the world stoodopen to them to go away from that harshland and forget all that had gone before, asthe gate of his heart was open for all thelove that it contained to rush out andembrace her, and purge her of theunfortunate accident of her birth.

After this, poor child, she would need afriend, as never before, with only herstep-mother, as she had told him, in theworld to befriend her. A man's hand, aman's heart——

"I'll take the front door," said thesheriff. "You watch the back."

Lambert came out of his softeningdream, down to the hard facts in the case

before him with a jolt. They were withinhalf a mile of the house, approaching itfrom the front. He saw that it was built inthe shape of an L, the base of the letter tothe left of them, shutting off a view of theangle.

"He may see us in time to duck," thesheriff said, "and you can bank on it he'sgot a horse saddled around there at theback door. If he comes your way, don'tfool with him; let him have it where helives."

They had not closed up half the distancebetween them and the house when twohorsemen rode suddenly round the cornerof the L and through the wide gate in thepicket fence. Outside the fence theyseparated with the suddenness of a

preconcerted plan, darting away inopposite directions. Each wore a whitehat, and from that distance they appearedas much alike in size and bearing as a manand his reflection.

The sheriff swore a surprised oath atsight of them, and their cunning plan toconfuse and divide the pursuing force.

"Which one of 'em's Kerr?" he shoutedas he leaned in his saddle, urging hishorse on for all that it could do.

"I don't know," Lambert returned.

"I'll chance this one," said the sheriff,pointing. "Take the other feller."

Lambert knew that one of them wasGrace Kerr. That he could not tell which,he upbraided himself, not willing that she

should be subjected to the indignity ofpursuit. It was a clever trick, but thepreparation for it and the readiness withwhich it was put into play seemed toreflect a doubt of her entire innocence inher father's dishonest transactions. Still, itwas no more than natural that she shouldbend every faculty to the assistance of herfather in escaping the penalty of hiscrimes. He would do it himself under likeconditions; the unnatural would be theother course.

These things he thought as he rode intothe setting sun in pursuit of the fugitivedesignated by the sheriff. Whetstone wasfresh and eager after his long rest, in spiteof the twelve or fifteen miles which hehad covered already between the two

ranches. Lambert held him in, doubtfulwhether he would be able to overtake thefleeing rider before dark with theadvantage of distance and a fresh horsethat he or she had.

If Kerr rode ahead of him, then he mustbe overtaken before night gave himsanctuary; if Grace, it was only necessaryto come close enough to her to make sure,then let her go her way untroubled. Heheld the distance pretty well between themtill sundown, when he felt the time hadcome to close in and settle the doubt.Whetstone was still mainly in reserve,tireless, deep-winded creature that hewas.

Lambert leaned over his neck, caressedhim, spoke into the ear that tipped

watchfully back. They were in fairlysmooth country, stretches of thingrasslands and broken barrens, but beyondthem, a few miles, the hills rose, treelessand dun, offering refuge for the one whofled. Pursuit there would be difficult byday, impossible by night.

Whetstone quickened at his master'sencouragement, pushing the race hard forthe one who led, cutting down the distanceso rapidly that it seemed the other must bepurposely delaying. Half an hour more ofdaylight and it would be over.

The rider in the lead had driven his orher horse too hard in the beginning,leaving no recovery of wind. Lambertremarked its weariness as it took the nexthill, laboring on in short, stiff jumps. At

the top the rider held in, as if to let theanimal blow. It stood with nose close tothe ground, weariness in every line.

The sky was bright beyond horse andrider, cut sharply by the line of the hill.Against it the picture stood, black as ashadow, but with an unmistakable pose inthe rider that made Lambert's heart jumpand grow glad.

It was Grace; chance had been kind tohim again, leading him in the way his heartwould have gone if it had been given thechoice. She looked back, turning with ahand on the cantle of her saddle. Hewaved his hand, to assure her, but she didnot seem to read the friendly signal, forshe rode on again, disappearing over thehill before he reached the crest.

He plunged down after her, not sparinghis horse where he should have sparedhim, urging him on when they struck thelevel again. There was no thought in himof Whetstone now—only of Grace.

He must overtake her in the quickestpossible time, and convince her of hisfriendly sympathy; he must console andcomfort her in this hour of her need. Bravelittle thing, to draw him off that way, tokeep on running into the very edge ofnight, that wild country ahead of her, forfear he would come close enough torecognize her and turn back to help thesheriff on the true trail. That's what was inher mind; she thought he hadn't recognizedher, and was still fleeing to draw him asfar away as possible by dark. When he

could come within shouting distance ofher, he could make his intention plain. Tothat end he pushed on. Her horse hadshown a fresh impulse of speed, carryingher a little farther ahead. They weredrawing close to the hills now, with agrowth of harsh and thorny brushwood inthe low places along the runlets of drystreams.

Poor little bird, fleeing from him, luringhim on like a trembling quail that fluttersbefore one's feet in the wheat to draw himaway from her nest. She didn't know thecompassion of his heart, the tenderness inwhich it strained to her over theintervening space. He forgot all, heforgave all, in the soft pleading ofromance which came back to him like a

well-loved melody.

He fretted that dusk was falling so fast.In the little strips of valley, growingnarrower as he proceeded between theabrupt hills, it was so nearly dark alreadythat she appeared only dimly ahead ofhim, urging her horse on with unsparinghand. It seemed that she must have someobjective ahead of her, some refuge whichshe strained to make, some help that shehoped to summon.

He wondered if it might be the cow-camp, and felt a cold indraft on the hottenderness of his heart for a moment. But,no; it could not be the cow-camp. Therewas no sign that grazing herds had beenthere lately. She was running because shewas afraid to have him overtake her in the

dusk, running to prolong the race until shecould elude him in the dark, afraid of him,who loved her so!

They were entering the desolation of thehills. On the sides of the thin strip ofvalley, down which he pursued her, therewere great, dark rocks, as big as cottagesalong a village street. He shouted, callingher name, fearful that he should lose her inthis broken country in the fast-deepeningnight. Although she was not more than twohundred yards ahead of him now, she didnot seem to hear. In a moment she turnedthe base of a great rock, and there he losther.

The valley split a few rods beyond thatpoint, broadening a little, still set with itsfantastic black monuments of splintered

rock. It was impossible to see among themin either direction as far as Grace hadbeen in the lead when she passed out ofhis sight. He pulled up and shouted again,an appeal of tender concern in her name.There was no reply, no sound of herfleeing horse.

He leaned to look at the ground fortracks. No trace of her passing on the hardearth with its mangy growth of grass. On alittle way, stopping to call her once more.His voice went echoing in that quiet place,but there was no reply.

He turned back, thinking she must havegone down the other branch of the valley.Whetstone came to a sudden stop, liftedhis head with a jerk, his ears set forward,snorting an alarm. Quick on his action

there came a shot, close at hand.Whetstone started with a quivering bound,stumbled to his knees, struggled to rise,then floundered with piteous groans.

CHAPTER XXIII

UNMASKED

Lambert was out of the saddle at thesound of the shot. He sprang to the shelterof the nearest rock, gun in hand, thinkingwith a sweep of bitterness that Grace Kerrhad led him into a trap. Whetstone waslying still, his chin on the ground, oneforeleg bent and gathered under him, not inthe posture of a dead horse, althoughLambert knew that he was dead. It was asif the brave beast struggled even after lifeto picture the quality of his unconquerable

will, and would not lie in death as otherhorses lay, cold and inexpressive ofanything but death, with stiff limbsstraight.

Lambert was incautious of his ownsafety in his great concern for his horse.He stepped clear of his shelter to look athim, hoping against his conviction that hewould rise. Somebody laughed behind therock on his right, a laugh that plucked hisheart up and cast it down, as a drunkenhand shatters a goblet upon the floor.

"I guess you'll never race me on thathorse again, fence-rider!"

There was the sound of movementbehind the rock; in a moment Grace Kerrrode out from her concealment, not morethan four rods beyond the place where his

horse lay. She rode out boldly andindifferently before his eyes, turned andlooked back at him, her face white as anevening primrose in the dusk, as if to tellhim that she knew she was safe, evenwithin the distance of his arm, much as shedespised his calling and his kind.

Lambert put his gun back in its sheath,and she rode on, disappearing again fromhis sight around the rock where the blastedvalley of stones branched upon its aridway. He took the saddle from his deadhorse and hid it behind a rock, not caringmuch whether he ever found it again, hisheart so heavy that it seemed to bow himto the ground.

So at last he knew her for what VestaPhilbrook had told him she was—bad to

the core of her heart. Kindness could notregenerate her, love could not purge awaythe vicious strain of blood. She might havescorned him, and he would have bent hishead and loved her more; struck him, andhe would have chided her with a look oflove. But when she sent her bullet intopoor old Whetstone's brain, she placedherself beyond any absolution that evenhis soft heart could yield.

He bent over Whetstone, caressing hishead, speaking to him in his old terms ofendearment, thinking of the many fruitlessraces he had run, believing that his ownrace in the Bad Lands had come to an end.

If he had but turned back from the footof the hill where he recognized her, asduty demanded of him that he turn, and not

pressed on with his simple intention offriendliness which she was too shallow toappreciate or understand, this heavy losswould have been spared him. For thisdead animal was more to him thancomrade and friend; more than any manwho has not shared the good and eviltimes with his horse in the silent placescan comprehend.

He could not fight a woman; there wasno measure of revenge that he could takeagainst her, but he prayed that she mightsuffer for this deed of treachery to himwith a pang intensified a thousand timesgreater than his that hour. Will-o'-the-wispshe had been to him, indeed, leading him afool's race since she first came twinklinginto his life.

Bitter were his reflections, somber washis heart, as he turned to walk the thirtymiles or more that lay between him andthe ranch, leaving old Whetstone to thewolves.

Lambert was loading cattle nearly aweek later when the sheriff returnedVesta's horse, with apologies for itsfootsore and beaten state. He hadfollowed Kerr far beyond his jurisdiction,pushing him a hard race through the hills,but the wily cattleman had evaded him inthe end.

The sheriff advised Lambert to put in abill against the county for the loss of hishorse, a proposal which Lambertconsidered with grave face and in silence.

"No," he said at last, "I'll not put in abill. I'll collect in my own way from theone that owes me the debt."

CHAPTER XXIV

USE FOR AN OLD PAPER

Lambert was a busy man for severalweeks after his last race with the will-o'-the-wisp, traveling between Glendora andChicago, disposing of the Philbrook herd.On this day he was jolting along with thelast of the cattle that were of marketablecondition and age, twenty cars of them,glad that the wind-up of it was in sight.

Taterleg had not come this time onaccount of the Iowa boy having quit his

job. There remained several hundredcalves and thin cows in the Philbrookpasture, too much of a temptation to oldNick Hargus and his precious brother Simto be left unguarded.

Sitting there on top of a car, his prod-pole between his knees, in his high-heeledboots and old dusty hat, the Duke was atypical figure of the old-time cow-punchersuch as one never meets in these timesaround the stockyards of the Middle West.There are still cow-punchers, but they aremainly mail-order ones who would shyfrom a gun such as pulled down onLambert's belt that day.

He sat there with the wind slamming thebrim of his old hat up against the side ofhis head, a sober, serious man, such as

one would choose for a business like thisintrusted to him by Vesta Philbrook andnever make a mistake. Already he hadsold more than eighty thousand dollars'worth of cattle for her, and carried hometo her the drafts. This time he was to takeback the money, so they would have thecash to buy out Walleye, the sheepman,who was making a failure of the businessand was anxious to quit.

The Duke wondered, with a lonesomesort of pleasure, how things were going onthe ranch that afternoon, and whetherTaterleg was riding the south fence nowand then, as he had suggested, or stickingwith the cattle. That was a pleasantcountry which he was traveling through,green fields and rich pastures as far as the

eye could reach, a land such as he hadspent the greater part of his life in, such ass o me people who are provincial anduntraveled call "God's country," and arefully satisfied with in their way.

But there seemed something lacking outof it to Lambert as he looked across theverdant flatness with pensive eyes, thatgreat, gray something that took hold of aman and drew him into its larger life,smoothed the wrinkles out of him, andstood him upright on his feet with thebreath deeper in him than it ever had gonebefore. He felt that he never would becontent to remain amongst the visibleplentitude of that fat, complacent, finishedland again.

Give him some place that called for a

fight, a place where the wind blew with adifferent flavor than these domestic scentsof hay and fresh-turned furrows in thewheatlands by the road. In his vision hepictured the place that he liked best—arough, untrammeled country leading backto the purple hills, a long line of fencediminishing in its distance to a thread. Hesighed, thinking of it. Dog-gone his melts,he was lonesome—lonesome for a fence!

He rolled a cigarette and felt abouthimself abstractedly for a match, in thispocket, where Grace Kerr's littlehandkerchief still lay, with no explanationor defense for its presence contrived orattempted; in that pocket, where his thumbencountered a folded paper.

Still abstracted, his head turned to save

his cigarette from the wind, he drew outthis paper, wondering curiously when hehad put it there and forgotten it. It was thewarrant for the arrest of Berry Kerr. Heremembered now having folded the paperand put it there the day the sheriff gave itto him, never having read a word of itfrom that day to this. Now he repaired thatomission. It gave him quite a feeling ofimportance to have a paper about him withthat severe legal phraseology in it. Hefolded it and put it back in his pocket,wondering what had become of BerryKerr, and from him transferring histhoughts to Grace.

She was still there on the ranch, heknew, although Kerr's creditors hadcleaned out the cattle, and doubtless were

at law among themselves over theproceeds by now. How she would live,what she would do, he wondered. PerhapsKerr had left some of the money he hadmade out of his multimortgagetransactions, or perhaps he would send forGrace and his wife when he had struck agait in some other place.

It didn't matter one way or another. Hisinterest in her was finished, his last gentlethought of her was dead. Only he hopedthat she might live to be as hungry for afriendly word as his heart had been hungryof longing after her in its day; that shemight moan in contrition and burn inshame for the cruelty in which she brokethe vessel of his friendship and threw thefragments in his face. Poor old Whetstone!

his bones all scattered by the wolves bynow over in that lonely gorge.

Vesta Philbrook would not have beencapable of a vengeance so mean. Strangehow she had grown so gentle and so goodunder the constant persecution of thisthieving gang! Her conscience was asclear as a windowpane; a man could lookthrough her soul and see the worldundisturbed by a flaw beyond it. A goodgirl; she sure was a good girl. And aspretty a figure on a horse as man's eyeever followed.

She had said once that she felt itlonesome out there by the fence. Not halfas lonesome, he'd gamble, as he was thatminute to be back there riding her milesand miles of wire. Not lonesome on

account of Vesta; sure not. Just lonesomefor that dang old fence.

Simple he was, sitting there on top ofthat hammering old cattle car that sunnyafternoon, the dust of the road in his three-day-old beard, his barked willow prod-pole between his knees; simple as aballad that children sing, simple as ahomely tune.

Well, of course he had kept GraceKerr's little handkerchief, for reasons thathe could not quite define. Maybe becauseit seemed to represent her as he wouldhave had her; maybe because it was thepoor little trophy of his first tenderness,his first yearning for a woman's love. Buthe had kept it with the dim intention ofgiving it back to her, opportunity

presenting.

"Yes, I'll give it back to her," henodded; "when the time comes I'll hand itto her. She can wipe her eyes on it whenshe opens them and repents."

Then he fell to thinking of business, andwhat was best for Vesta's interests, and ofhow he probably would take up PatSullivan's offer for the calves, thuscleaning up her troubles and making anend of her expenses. Pat Sullivan, therancher for whom Ben Jedlick was cook;he was the man. The Duke smiled throughhis grime and dust when he rememberedJedlick lying back in the barber's chair.

And old Taterleg, as good as gold andhonest as a horse, was itching to be hittingthe breeze for Wyoming. Selling the

calves would give him the excuse that hehad been casting about after for a month.He was writing letters to Nettie; she hadsent her picture. A large-breasted, calf-faced girl with a crooked mouth. Taterlegmight wait a year, or even four yearsmore, with perfect safety. Nettie wouldnot move very fast on the market, even inWyoming, where ladies were said to bescarce.

And so, pounding along, mile after milethrough the vast green land where thebread of a nation grew, arriving atmidnight among squeals and moans,trembling bleat of sheep, pitiful, hungrycrying of calves, high, lonesome tenornotes of bewildered steers. That was theend of the journey for him, the beginning

of the great adventure for the creaturesunder his care.

By eleven o'clock next morning,Lambert had a check for the cattle in hispocket, and bay rum on his face where thedust, the cinders and the beard had beenbut a little while before. He bought a littlehand satchel in a second-hand store tocarry the money home in, cashed his checkand took a turn looking around, his big gunon his leg, his high-heeled boots makinghim toddle along in a rather ridiculous gaitfor an able-bodied cow-puncher from theBad Lands.

There was a train for home at six, thatsame flier he once had raced. Therewould be time enough for a man to lookinto the progress of the fine arts as

represented in the pawn-shop windows ofthe stockyards neighborhood, beforestriking a line for the Union Station to naildown a seat in the flier. It was whileengaged in this elevating pursuit thatLambert glimpsed for an instant in thepassing stream of people a figure thatmade him start with the prickling alertnessof recognition.

He had caught but a flash of the hurryingfigure but, with that eye for singling acertain object from a moving mass thatexperience with cattle sharpens, herecognized the carriage of the head, the setof the shoulders. He hurried after,overtaking the man as he was entering ahotel.

"Mr. Kerr, I've got a warrant for you,"

he said, detaining the fugitive with a handlaid on his shoulder.

Kerr was taken so unexpectedly that hehad no chance to sling a gun, even if hecarried one. He was completely changedin appearance, even to the sacrifice of hisprized beard, so long his aristocraticdistinction in the Bad Lands. He wasdressed in the city fashion, with a littlestraw hat in place of the eighteen-inchsombrero that he had worn for years.Confident of this disguise, he affectedastonished indignation.

"I guess you've made a mistake in yourman," said he.

Lambert told him with polite firmnessthat there was no mistake.

"I'd know your voice in the dark—I'vegot reason to remember it," he said.

He got the warrant out with one hand,keeping the other comfortably near hisgun, the little hand bag with its richesbetween his feet. Kerr was so vehementlyindignant that attention was drawn to them,which probably was the fugitivecattleman's design, seeing in numbers achance to make a dash.

Lambert had not forgotten theexperience of his years at the Kansas CityStockyards, where he had seen confidencemen and card sharpers play the samescheme on policemen, clamoring theirinnocence until a crowd had beenattracted in which the officer would notdare risk a shot. He kept Kerr within

reaching distance, flashed the warrantbefore his eyes, passed it up and down infront of his nose, and put it away again.

"There's no mistake, not by a thousandmiles. You'll come along back toGlendora with me."

A policeman appeared by this time, andKerr appealed to him, protesting mistakenidentity. The officer was a heavy-headedman of the slaughter-house school, andLambert thought for a while that Kerr'sargument was going to prevail with him.To forestall the policeman's decision,which he could see forming behind hisclouded countenance, Lambert said:

"There's a reward of nine hundreddollars standing for this man. If you've gotany doubt of who he is, or my right to

arrest him, take us both to headquarters."

That seemed to be a worthy suggestionto the officer. He acted on it without moredrain on his intellectual reserve. There,after a little course of sprouts by the chiefof detectives, Kerr admitted his identity,but refused to leave the state withoutrequisition. They locked him up, andLambert telegraphed the sheriff for thenecessary papers.

Going home was off for perhapsseveral days. Lambert gave his littlesatchel to the police to lock in the safe.The sheriff's reply came back like apitched ball. Hold Kerr, he requested thepolice; requisition would be made forhim. He instructed Lambert to wait till thepapers came, and bring the fugitive home.

Kerr got in telegraphic touch with alawyer in the home county. Morningshowed a considerable change oftemperature in the frontier financier. Heannounced that, acting on legal advice, hewould waive extradition. Lamberttelegraphed the sheriff the news,requesting that he meet him at Glendoraand relieve him of his charge.

Lambert prepared for the home-goingby buying another revolver, and a pair ofhandcuffs for attaching his prisonercomfortably and securely to the arm of theseat. The little black bag gave him noworry. It wasn't half the trouble to watchmoney, when you didn't look as if you hadany, as a man who had swindled peopleout of it and wanted to hide his face.

The police joked Lambert about the sizeof his bag when they gave it back to himas he was starting with his prisoner for thetrain.

"What have you got in that alligator,Sheriff, that you're so careful not to set itdown and forget it?" the chief asked him.

"Sixteen thousand dollars," saidLambert, modestly, opening it and flashingits contents before their eyes.

CHAPTER XXV

"WHEN SHE WAKES UP"

It was mid-afternoon of a bright autumnday when Lambert approached Glendorawith Kerr chained to the seat beside him.As the train rapidly cut down the last fewmiles, Lambert noted a change in hisprisoner's demeanor. Up to that time hiscarriage had been melancholy and morose,as that of a man who saw no gleam ofhope ahead of him. He had spoken butseldom during the journey, asking nofavors except that of being allowed to

send a telegram to Grace from Omaha.

Lambert had granted that requestreadily, seeing nothing amiss in Kerr'sdesire to have his daughter meet him andlighten as much as she could his load ofdisgrace. Kerr said he wanted her to gowith him to the county seat and arrangebond.

"I'll never look through the bars of a jailin my home county," he said. That was hisone burst of rebellion, his one boast, hisone approach to a discussion of hisserious situation, all the way.

Now as they drew almost within sightof Glendora, Kerr became fidgety andnervous. His face was strained andanxious, as if he dreaded stepping off thetrain into sight of the people who had

known him so long as a man ofconsequence in that community.

Lambert began to have his own worriesabout this time. He regretted the kindnesshe had shown Kerr in permitting him tosend that telegram to Grace. She might tryto deliver him on bail of another kind.Kerr's nervous anxiety would seem toindicate that he expected something tohappen at Glendora. It hadn't occurred toLambert before that this might be possible.It seemed a foolish oversight.

His apprehension, as well as Kerr'sevident expectation, seemed groundless ashe stepped off the train almost directly infront of the waiting-room door, givingKerr a hand down the steps. There wasnobody in sight but the postmaster with the

mail sack, the station agent, and the fewcitizens who always stood around thestation for the thrill of seeing the flier stopto take water.

Few, if any, of these recognized Kerr asLambert hurried him across the platformand into the station, his hands manacled athis back. Kerr held back for one quicklook up and down the station platform,then stumbled hastily ahead under theforce of Lambert's hand. The door of thetelegraph office stood open; Lambertpushed his prisoner within and closed it.

The station agent came in as the trainpulled away, and Lambert made inquiry ofhim concerning the sheriff. The agent hadnot seen him there that day. He turnedaway with sullen countenance, looking

with disfavor on this intrusion upon hissacred precincts. He stood in front of hischattering instruments in the bow window,looking up and down the platform withanxious face out of which his naturalhuman color had gone, leaving even hislips white.

"You don't have to keep him in here, Iguess, do you?" he said, still sweeping theplatform up and down with his uneasyeyes.

"No. I just stepped in to ask you to putthis satchel in your safe and keep it for mea while."

Lambert's calm and confident mannerseemed to assure the agent, and mollifyhim, and repair his injured dignity. Hebeckoned with a jerk of his head, not for

one moment quitting his leaning, watchfulpose, or taking his eyes from their watchon the platform. Lambert crossed the littleroom in two strides and looked out. Notseeing anything more alarming than a knotof townsmen around the postmaster, whostood with the lean mail sack across hisshoulder, talking excitedly, he inquiredwhat was up.

"They're layin' for you out there," theagent whispered.

"I kind of expected they would be,"Lambert told him.

"They're liable to cut loose any minute,"said the agent, "and I tell you, Duke, I'vegot a wife and children dependin' on me!"

"I'll take him outside. I didn't intend to

stay here only a minute. Here, lock this up.It belongs to Vesta Philbrook. If I have togo with the sheriff, or anything, send herword it's here."

As Lambert appeared in the door withhis prisoner the little bunch of excitedgossips scattered hurriedly. He stood nearthe door a little while, considering thesituation. The station agent was not toblame for his desire to preserve hisvaluable services for the railroad and hisfamily; Lambert had no wish to shelterhimself and retain his hold on the prisonerat the trembling fellow's peril.

It was unaccountable that the sheriffwas not there to relieve him of thisresponsibility; he must have received thetelegram two days ago. Pending his

arrival, or, if not his arrival, the coming ofthe local train that would carry himselfand prisoner to the county seat, Lambertcast about him for some means of securinghis man in such manner that he couldwatch him and defend against anyattempted rescue without being hampered.

A telegraph pole stood beside theplatform some sixty or seventy feet fromthe depot, the wires slanting down from itinto the building's gable end. To thisLambert marched his prisoner, the eyes ofthe town on him. He freed one of Kerr'shands, passed his arms round the pole sohe stood embracing it, and locked himthere.

It was a pole of only medium thickness,allowing Kerr ample room to encircle it

with his chained arms, even to sit on theedge of the platform when he shouldweary of his standing embrace. Lambertstood back a pace and looked at him, thusignominiously anchored in public view.

"Let 'em come and take you," he said.

He laid out a little beat up and down theplatform at Kerr's back, rolled a cigarette,settled down to wait for the sheriff, thetrain, the rush of Kerr's friends, orwhatever the day might have in store.

Slowly, thoughtfully, he paced that beatof a rod behind his surly prisoner's back,watching the town, watching the roadleading into it. People stood in the doors,but none approached him to make inquiry,no voice was lifted in pitch that reachedhim where he stood. If anybody else in

town besides the agent knew of thecontemplated rescue, he kept it selfishly tohimself.

Lambert did not see any of Kerr's menabout. Five horses were hitched in front ofthe saloon; now and then he could see thetop of a hat above the latticed half-door,but nobody entered, nobody left. Thestation agent still stood in his window,working the telegraph key as if reportingthe clearing of the flier, watchinganxiously up and down the platform.

Lambert hoped that Sim Hargus andyoung Tom, and the old stub-footedscoundrel who was the meanest of themall who had lashed him into the fire thatnight, would swing the doors of the saloonand come out with a declaration of their

intentions. He knew that some of them, ifnot all, were there. He had tied Kerr outbefore their eyes like wolf bait. Let themcome and get him if they were men.

This seemed the opportunity which hehad been waiting for time to bring him. Ifthey flashed a gun on him now he couldclean them down to the ground with alllegal justification, no questions asked.

Two appeared far down the road,riding for Glendora in a swinging gallop.The sheriff, Lambert thought; missed thetrain, and had ridden the forty and moremiles across. No; one was Grace Kerr.Even at a quarter of a mile he never couldmistake her again. The other was SimHargus. They had miscalculated in theirintention of meeting the train, and were

coming in a panic of anxiety.

They dismounted at the hotel, andstarted across. Lambert stood near hisprisoner, waiting. Kerr had been sitting onthe edge of the platform. Now he got up,moving around the pole to show them thathe was not to be counted on to take a handin whatever they expected to start.

Lambert moved a little nearer hisprisoner, where he stood waiting. He hadnot shaved during the two days betweenChicago and Glendora; the dust of theroad was on his face. His hat was tippedforward to shelter his eyes against theafternoon glare, the leather thong at theback rumpling his close-cut hair. He stoodlean and long-limbed, easy and indifferentin his pose, as it would seem to look at

him as one might glance in passing, thesmoke of his cigarette rising straight fromits fresh-lit tip in the calm air of thesomnolent day.

As Hargus and Grace advanced, comingin the haste and heat of indignation thatKerr's humiliating situation inflamed, twomen left the saloon. They stopped at thehitching-rack as if debating whether totake their horses, and so stood, watchingthe progress of the two who were cuttingthe long diagonal across the road. WhenGrace, who came a little ahead of hercompanion in her eagerness, was withinthirty feet of him, Lambert lifted his handin forbidding signal.

"Stop there," he said.

She halted, her face flaming with fury.

Hargus stopped beside her, his armcrooked to bring his hand up to his belt,sawing back and forth as if in indecisionbetween drawing his gun and waiting forthe wordy preliminaries to pass. Kerrstood embracing the pole in a pose ofridiculous supplication, the bright chain ofthe new handcuffs glistening in the sun.

"I want to talk to my father," saidGrace, lashing Lambert with a look ofscornful hate.

"Say it from there," Lambert returned,inflexible, cool; watching every movementof Sim Hargus' sawing arm.

"You've got no right to chain him uplike a dog!" she said.

"You ain't got no authority, that anybody

ever heard of, to arrest him in the firstp l ace , " Hargus added, his swinging,indecisive arm for a moment still.

Lambert made no reply. He seemed tobe looking over their heads, back alongthe road they had come, from the lift of hischin and the set of his close-gatheredbrows. He seemed carelessly indifferentto Hargus' legal opinion and presence, alittle fresh plume of smoke going up fromhis cigarette as if he breathed into itgently.

Grace started forward with impatientexclamation, tossing her head in disdainfuldefiance of this fence-rider's authority.

"Go back!" Kerr commanded, his voicehoarse with the fear of something that she,in her unreasoning anger, had not seen

behind the calm front of the man she faced.

She stopped, turning back again towhere Hargus waited. Along the streetmen were drawing away from their doors,in cautious curiosity, silent suspense.Women put their heads out for a moment,plucked curtains aside for one swiftsurvey, vanished behind the safety ofwalls. At the hitching-rack the two men—one of them Tom Hargus, the otherunknown—stood beside their horses, as ifin position according to a previous plan.

"We want that man," said Hargus, hishand hovering over his gun.

"Come and take him," Lambert invited.

Hargus spoke in a low voice to Grace;she turned and ran toward her horse. The

two at the hitching-rack swung into theirsaddles as Hargus, watching Grace overhis shoulder as she sped away, began toback off, his hand stealing to his gun as ifmoved by some slow, precise machinerywhich was set to time it according to thefleeing girl's speed.

Lambert stood without shifting a foot,his nostrils dilating in the slow, deepbreath that he drew. Yard by yard Hargusdrew away, his intention not quite clear,as if he watched his chance to break awaylike a prisoner. Grace was in front of thehotel door when he snapped his revolverfrom its sheath.

Lambert had been waiting this. He firedbefore Hargus touched the trigger, hiselbow to his side as he had seen Jim

Wilder shoot on the day when tragedy firstcame into his life. Hargus spun on his heelas if he had been roped, spread his arms,his gun falling from his hand; pitched tohis face, lay still. The two on horsesgalloped out and opened fire.

Lambert shifted to keep them guessing,but kept away from the pole where Kerrwas chained, behind which he might havefound shelter. They had separated to flankhim, Tom Hargus over near the corner ofthe depot, the other ranging down towardthe hotel, not more than fifty yardsbetween Lambert and either of them.

Intent on drawing Tom Hargus from theshelter of the depot, Lambert ran along theplatform, stopping well beyond Kerr.Until that moment he had not returned their

fire. Now he opened on Tom Hargus,bringing his horse down at the third shot,swung about and emptied his first gunineffectually at the other man.

This fellow charged down on him asLambert drew his other gun, Tom Hargus,free of his fallen horse, shooting from theshelter of the rain barrel at the corner ofthe depot. Lambert felt something strikehis left arm, with no more apparent force,no more pain, than the flip of a branchwhen one rides through the woods. But itswung useless at his side.

Through the smoke of his own gun, andthe dust raised by the man on horseback,Lambert had a flash of Grace Kerr ridingacross the middle background betweenhim and the saloon. He had no thought of

her intention. It was not a moment forspeculation with the bullets hitting his hat.

The man on horseback had come withinten yards of him. Lambert could see histeeth as he drew back his lips when hefired. Lambert centered his attention onthis stranger, dark, meager-faced, markedby the unmistakable Mexican taint. His hatflew off at Lambert's first shot as if it hadbeen jerked by a string; at his second, thefellow threw himself back in the saddlewith a jerk. He fell limply over the highcantle and lay thus a moment, his frantichorse running wildly away. Lambert sawhim tumble into the road as a man camespurring past the hotel, slinging his gun ashe rode.

Nearer approach identified the belated

sheriff. He shouted a warning to Lambertas he jerked his gun down and fired. TomHargus rose from behind the rain barrel,staggered into the road, going like adrunken man, his hat in one hand, the otherpressed to his side, his head hanging, hislong black hair falling over his bloodyface.

In a second Lambert saw this, and theshouting, shooting officer bearing downtoward him. He had the peculiarimpression that the sheriff was submergedin water, enlarging grotesquely as heapproached. The slap of another bullet onhis back, and he turned to see Grace Kerrfiring at him with only the width of theplatform between them.

It was all smoke, dust, confusion around

him, a sickness in his body, a dimness inhis mind, but he was conscious of herhorse rearing, lifting its feet high—one ofthem a white-stockinged foot, as hemarked with painful precision—andfalling backward in a clatter of shod hoofson the railroad.

When it cleared a little, Lambert foundthe sheriff was on the ground beside him,supporting him with his arm, looking intohis face with concern almost comical,speaking in anxious inquiry.

"Lay down over there on the platform,Duke, you're shot all to pieces," he said.

Lambert sat on the edge of the platform,and the world receded. When he felthimself sweep back to consciousnessthere were people about him, and he was

stretched on his back, a feeling in hisnostrils as if he breathed fire. Somebodywas lying across from him a little way; hestruggled with painful effort to lift himselfand see.

It was Grace Kerr. Her face was whitein the midst of her dark hair, and she wasdead.

It was not right for her to be lying there,with dead face to the sky, he thought. Theyshould do something, they should carry heraway from the stare of curious, shockedeyes, they should—He felt in the pocket ofhis vest and found the little handkerchief,and crept painfully across to her, heedlessof the sheriff's protest, defiant of hisrestraining, kindly hand.

With his numb left arm trailing by his

side, a burning pain in his breast, as if ahot rod had been driven through him, thetrack of her treacherous bullet, he knew,he fumbled to unfold the bit of soft whitelinen, refusing the help of manysympathetic hands that were out-stretched.

When he had it right, he spread it overher face, white again as an eveningprimrose, as he once had seen it throughthe dusk of another night. But out of thisnight that she had entered she would rideno more. There was a thought in his heartas tender as his deed as he thus maskedher face from the white stare of day:

"She can wipe her eyes on it when shewakes up and repents."

CHAPTER XXVI

OYSTERS ANDAMBITIONS

"If you'd come on and go to Wyomingwith me, Duke, I think it'd be better foryou than California. That low country ain'tgood for a feller with a tender place in hislights."

"Oh, I think I'm all right and as good asever now, Taterleg."

"Yes, it looks all right to you, but if yougit dampness on that lung you'll take the

consumption and die. I knew a feller oncethat got shot that way through the lights ina fight down on the Cimarron. Him andanother feller fell out over——"

"Have you heard from Nettie lately?"Lambert broke in, not caring to hear thestory of the man who was shot on theCimarron, or his subsequentmiscalculations on the state of his lights.

Taterleg rolled his eyes to look at him,n o t turning his head, reproach in theglance, mild reproof. But he let it pass inhis good-natured way, brightening to thesubject nearest his heart.

"Four or five days ago."

"All right, is she?"

"Up and a-comin', fine as a fiddle."

"You'll be holdin' hands with her beforethe preacher in a little while now."

"Inside of a week, Duke. My troubles isnearly all over."

"I don't know about that, but I hope it'llturn out that way."

They were on their way home fromdelivering the calves and the clean-up ofthe herd to Pat Sullivan, some weeks afterLambert's fight at Glendora. Lambert stillshowed the effects of his long confinementand drain of his wounds in the paleness ofhis face. But he sat his saddle as straightas ever, not much thinner, as far as the eyecould weigh him, nothing missing fromhim but the brown of his skin and theblood they had drawn from him that day.

There was frost on the grass thatmorning, a foretaste of winter in the sharpwind. The sky was gray with the threat ofsnow, the somber season of hardship onthe range was at hand. Lambert thought, ashe read these signs, that it would be a hardwinter on livestock in that unshelteredcountry, and was comfortable in mindover the profitable outcome of hisdealings for his employer.

As for himself, his great plans were atan end on the Bad Lands range. The fightat Glendora had changed all that. Thedoctor had warned him that he must notattempt another winter in the saddle withthat tender spot in his lung, his bloodthinned down that way, his flesh soft frombeing housebound for nearly six weeks.

He advised a milder climate for severalmonths of recuperation, and was verygrave in his advice.

So the sheep scheme was put aside. Thecattle being sold, there was nothing aboutthe ranch that old Ananias could not do,and Lambert had planned to turn his faceagain toward the West. He could not liearound there in the bunkhouse and growstrong at Vesta's expense, although thatwas what she expected him to do.

He had said nothing to her of hisdetermination to go, for he had wavered init from day to day, finding it hard to tearhimself away from that bleak land that hehad come to love, as he never had lovedthe country which claimed him by birth.He had been called on in this place to

fight for a man's station in it; he hadtrampled a refuge of safety for thedefenseless among its thorns.

Vesta had said nothing further of herown plans, but they took it for granted thatshe would be leaving, now that the last ofthe cattle were sold. Ananias had toldthem that she was putting things away inthe house, getting ready to close most of itup.

"I don't blame you for leavin'," saidTaterleg, returning to the original thread ofdiscussion, "it'll be as lonesome as sin upthere at the ranch with Vesta gone away.When she's there she fills that place uplike the music of a band."

"She sure does, Taterleg."

"Old Ananias'll have a soft time of it,eatin' chicken and rabbit all winter,nothing to do but milk them couple ofcows, no boss to keep her eye on him in athousand miles."

"He's one that'll never want to leave."

"Well, it's a good place for a man,"Taterleg sighed, "if he ain't got nothin' elseto look ahead to. I kind o' hate to leavemyself, but at my age, you know, Duke, aman's got to begin to think of marryin' andsettlin' down and fixin' him up a home, asI've said before."

"Many a time before, old feller, somany times I've got it down by heart."

Taterleg looked at him again with thatqueer turning of the eyes, which he could

accomplish with the facility of a fish, androde on in silence a little way afterchiding him in that manner.

"Well, it won't do you no harm," hesaid.

"No," sighed the Duke, "not a bit ofharm."

Taterleg chuckled as he rode along,hummed a tune, laughed again in his dry,clicking way, deep down in his throat.

"I met Alta the other day when I wasdown in Glendora," he said.

"Did you make up?"

"Make up! That girl looks to me like atin cup by the side of a silver shavin' mugnow, Duke. Compare that girl to Nettie,

and she wouldn't take the leather medal.She says: 'Good morning, Mr. Wilson,'she says, and I turned my head quick, likeI was lookin' around for him, and neverkep' a-lettin' on like I knew she meantme."

"That was kind of rough treatment for alady, Taterleg."

"It would be for a lady, but for that girlit ain't. It's what's comin' to her, and whatI'll hand her ag'in, if she ever's got the gallto speak to me."

The Duke had no further comment onTaterleg's rules of conduct. They wentalong in silence a little way, but that was astate that Taterleg could not long endure.

"Well, I'll soon be in the oyster parlor

up to the bellyband," he said, full of thecheer of his prospect. "Nettie's got theplace picked out and nailed down—I senther the money to pay the rent. I'll behandin' out stews with a slice of pickle onthe side of the dish before another weekgoes by, Duke."

"What are you goin' to make oysters outof in Wyoming?" the Duke inquiredwonderingly.

"Make 'em out of? Oysters, of course.What do you reckon?"

"There never was an oyster within athousand miles of Wyoming, Taterleg.They wouldn't keep to ship that far, muchless till you'd used 'em up."

"Cove oysters, Duke, cove oysters,"

corrected Taterleg gently. "You couldn'thire a cowman to eat any other kind, youcouldn't put one of them slick fresh fellersdown him with a pair of tongs."

"Well, I guess you know, old feller."

Taterleg fell into a reverie, from whichhe started presently with a vehementexclamation of profanity.

"If she's got bangs, I'll make her cut 'emoff!" he said.

"Who cut 'em off?" Lambert asked,viewing this outburst of feeling insurprise.

"Nettie! I don't want no bangs aroundme to remind me of that snipe-legged AltaWood. Bangs may be all right for fellerswith music boxes in their watches, but

they don't go with me no more."

"I didn't see Jedlick around the ranch upthere; what do you suppose become ofhim?"

"Well, from what the boys told me, ifhe's still a-goin' like he was when theyseen him last, he must be up aroundMedicine Hat by now."

"It was a sin the way you threw a scareinto that man, Taterleg."

"I'm sorry I didn't lay him out on aboard, dern him!"

"Yes, but you might as well let himhave Alta."

"He can come back and take her anytime he wants her, Duke."

The Duke seemed to reflect this simpleexposition of Jedlick's present case.

"Yes, I guess that's so," he said.

For a mile or more there was no soundbut the even swing of their horses' hoofsas they beat in the long, easy gallop whichthey could hold for a day without a break.Then Lambert:

"Plannin' to leave tonight, are youTaterleg?"

"All set for leavin', Duke."

On again, the frost-powdered grassbrittle under the horses' feet.

"I think I'll pull out tonight, too."

"Why, I thought you was goin' to staytill Vesta left, Duke?"

"Changed my mind."

"Don't you reckon Vesta she'll be alittle put out if you leave the ranch aftershe'd figgered on you to stay and pick upand gain and be stout and hearty to go inthe sheep business next spring?"

"I hope not."

"Yeh, but I bet she will. Do you reckonshe'll ever come back to the ranch anymore when she goes away?"

"What?" said Lambert, starting as if hehad been asleep.

"Vesta; do you reckon she'll ever comeback any more?"

"Well," slowly, thoughtfully, "there's notellin', Taterleg."

"She's got a stockin' full of money now,and nobody dependin' on her. She's just aslikely as not to marry some lawyer orsome other shark that's after her dough."

"Yes, she may."

"No, I don't reckon much she'll evercome back. She ain't got nothing to lookback to here but hard times and shootin'scrapes—nobody to 'sociate with andwear low-neckid dresses like women withmoney want to."

"Not much chance for it here—you'reright."

"You'd 'a' had it nice and quiet therewith them sheep if you'd 'a' been able togo pardners with Vesta like you planned,old Nick Hargus in the pen and the rest of

them fellers cleaned out."

"Yes, I guess there'll be peace aroundthe ranch for some time to come."

"Well, you made the peace aroundthere, Duke; if it hadn't 'a' been for youthey'd 'a' broke Vesta up and run her outby now."

"You had as much to do with bringin'them to time as I did, Taterleg."

"Me? Look me over, Duke; feel of myhide. Do you see any knife scars in me, orfeel any bullet holes anywhere? I neverdone nothing but ride along that fence,hopin' for a somebody to start something.They never done it."

"They knew you too well, old feller."

"Knowed me!" said Taterleg. "Huh!"

On again in quiet, Glendora in sightwhen they topped a hill. Taterleg seemedto be thinking deeply; his face wassentimentally serious.

"Purty girl," he said in a pleasant veinof musing.

"Which one?"

"Vesta. I like 'em with a little more of afigger, a little thicker in some places andwider in others, but she's trim and she'stasty, and her heart's pure gold."

"You're right it is, Taterleg," Lambertagreed, keeping his eyes straight ahead asthey rode on.

"You're aimin' to come back in the

spring and go pardners with her on thesheep deal, ain't you, Duke?"

"I don't expect I'll ever come back,Taterleg."

"Well," said Taterleg abstractedly, "Idon't know."

They rode past the station, the bullet-scarred rain barrel behind which TomHargus took shelter in the great battle stillstanding in its place, and past the saloon,the hitching-rack empty before it, for thiswas the round-up season—nobody was intown.

"There's that slab-sided, spider-leggedAlta Wood standin' out on the porch," saidTaterleg disgustedly, falling behindLambert, reining around on the other side

to put him between the lady and himself.

"You'd better stop and bid her good-bye," Lambert suggested.

Taterleg pulled his hat over his eyes toshut out the sight of her, turned his head,ignoring her greeting. When they weresafely past he cast a cautious look behind.

"I guess that settled her hash!" he said."Yes, and I'd like to wad a handful ofchewin' gum in them old bangs before Ileave this man's town!"

"You've broken her chance for a happymarried life with Jedlick, Taterleg. Yourheart's as hard as a bone."

"The worst luck I can wish her is thatJedlick'll come back," he said, turning tolook at her as he spoke. Alta waved her

hand.

"She's a forgivin' little soul, anyway,"Lambert said.

"Forgivin'! 'Don't hurt him, Mr. Jedlick,'she says, 'don't hurt him!' Huh! I had tobuild a fire under that old gun of mine tomelt the chawin' wax off of her. I wouldn'tgive that girl a job washin' dishes in theoyster parlor if she was to travel fromhere to Wyoming on her knees."

So they arrived at the ranch from theirlast expedition together. Lambert gaveTaterleg his horse to take to the barn,while he stopped in to deliver PatSullivan's check to Vesta and straighten upthe final business, and tell her good-bye.

CHAPTER XXVII

EMOLUMENTS ANDREWARDS

Lambert took off his hat at the door andsmoothed his hair with his palm, tightenedup his necktie, looked himself over fromchest to toes. He drew a deep breath then,like a man fortifying himself for a trial thatcalled for the best that was in him to comeforward. He knocked on the door.

He was wearing a brown duck coatwith a sheepskin collar, the wool of which

had been dyed a mottled saffron, andcorduroy breeches as roomy of leg asTaterleg's state pair. These were lacedwithin the tall boots which he had boughtin Chicago, and in which he took asingular pride on account of their noveltyon the range.

It was not a very handsome outfit, butthere was a rugged picturesqueness in itthat the pistol belt and chafed scabbardenhanced, and he carried it like a manwho was not ashamed of it, and graced itby the worth that it contained.

The Duke's hair had grown long; shearshad not touched his head since his fightwith Kerr's men. Jim Wilder's old scarwas blue on his thin cheek that day, for thewind had been cold to face. He was so

solemn and severe as he stood waiting atthe door that it would seem to be atriumph to make him smile.

Vesta came to the door herself, withsuch promptness that seemed to tell shemust have been near it from the momenthis foot fell on the porch.

"I've come to settle up with you on ourlast deal, Vesta," he said.

She took him to the room in which theyalways transacted business, which was alibrary in fact as well as name. It had beenPhilbrook's office in his day. Lambertonce had expressed his admiration for theroom, a long and narrow chamber withantlers on the walls above the bookcases,a broad fireplace flanked by leadedcasement windows. It was furnished with

deep leather chairs and a great, dark oaktable, which looked as if it had stood insome English manor in the days of otherkings. The windows looked out upon theriver.

A pleasant place on a winter night,Lambert thought, with a log fire on thedogs, somebody sitting near enough thatone could reach out and find her handwithout turning his eyes from the book, thelast warm touch to crown the comfort ofhis happy hour.

"You mean our latest deal, not our last,I hope, Duke," she said, sitting at the table,with him at the head of it like a baronreturned to his fireside after a foray in thefield.

"I'm afraid it will be our last; there's

nothing left to sell but the fence."

She glanced at him with relief in hereyes, a quick smile coming happily to herlips. He was busy with the account ofcalves and grown stock which he haddrawn from his wallet, the check lying byhis hand. His face taken as an index to it,there was not much lightness in his heart.Soon he had acquitted himself of hisstewardship and given the check into herhand. Then he rose to leave her. For amoment he stood silent, as if turning histhoughts.

"I'm going away," he said, looking outof the window down upon the tops of thenaked cottonwoods along the river.

Just around the corner of the table shewas standing, half facing him, looking at

him with what seemed almostcompassionate tenderness, so sympatheticwere her eyes. She touched his handwhere it lay with fingers on his hat-brim.

"Is it so hard for you to forget her,Duke?"

He looked at her frankly, no deceit inhis eyes, but a mild surprise to hear herchide him so.

"If I could forget of her what noforgiving soul should remember, I'd feelmore like a man," he said.

"I thought—I thought—" she stammered,bending her head, her voice soft and low,"you were grieving for her, Duke. Forgiveme."

"Taterleg is leaving tonight," he said,

overlooking her soft appeal. "I thought I'dgo at the same time."

"It will be so lonesome here on theranch without you, Duke—lonesome as itnever was lonesome before."

"Even if there was anything I could doaround the ranch any longer, with thecattle all gone and nobody left to cut thefence, I wouldn't be any use, dodging infor every blizzard that came along, as thedoctor says I must."

"I've come to depend on you as I neverdepended on anybody in my life."

"And I couldn't do that, you know, anymore than I'd be content to lie arounddoing nothing."

"You've been square with me on

everything, from the biggest to the least. Inever knew before what it was to liedown in security and get up in peace.You've fought and suffered for me here ina measure far in excess of anything thatcommon loyalty demanded of you, and I'vegiven you nothing in return. It will be likelosing my right hand, Duke, to see you go."

"Taterleg's going to Wyoming to marrya girl he used to know back in Kansas. Wecan travel together part of the way."

"If it hadn't been for you they'd haverobbed me of everything by now—killedme, maybe—for I couldn't have foughtthem alone, and there was no other help."

"I thought maybe in California an oldhalf-invalid might pick up and get someblood put into him again."

"You came out of the desert, as if Godsent you, when my load was heavier than Icould bear. It will be like losing my righteye, Duke, to see you go."

"A man that's a fool for only a littlewhile, even, is bound to leave falseimpressions and misunderstandings ofhimself, no matter how wide his own eyeshave been opened, or how long. So I'veresigned my job on the ranch here withyou, Vesta, and I'm going away."

"There's no misunderstanding, Duke—it's all clear to me now. When I look inyour eyes and hear you speak I know youbetter than you know yourself. It will belike losing the whole world to have yougo!"

"A man couldn't sit around and eat out

of a woman's hand in idleness and everrespect himself any more. My work'sfinished——"

"All I've got is yours—you saved it tome, you brought it home."

"The world expects a man that hasn'tgot anything to go out and make it beforehe turns around and looks—before he letshis tongue betray his heart and maybe bemisunderstood by those he holds mostdear."

"It's none of the world's business—there isn't any world but ours!"

"I thought with you gone away, Vesta,and the house dark nights, and me nothearing you around any more, it would beso lonesome and bleak here for an old

half-invalid——"

"I wasn't going, I couldn't have beendriven away! I'd have stayed as long asyou stayed, till you found—till you knew!Oh, it will tear—tear—my heart—myheart out of—my breast—to see you go!"

Taterleg was singing his old-timesteamboat song when Lambert went downto the bunkhouse an hour before sunset.There was an aroma of coffee minglingwith the strain:

Oh, I bet my money on a bob-tailed hoss,

An' a hoo-dah, an' ahoo-dah;

I bet my money on a bob-

tailed hoss,An' a hoo-dah bet on the

bay.

Lambert smiled, standing beside thedoor until Taterleg had finished. Taterlegcame out with his few possessions in abran sack, giving Lambert a questioninglook up and down.

"It took you a long time to settle up," hesaid.

"Yes. There was considerable todispose of and settle," Lambert replied.

"Well, we'll have to be hittin' thebreeze for the depot in a little while. Areyou ready?"

"No. Changed my mind; I'm going tostay."

"Goin' in pardners with Vesta?"

"Pardners."

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Matt Peasley, the boy he tried to breakbecause he knew the acid test was good

for his soul.

WEBSTER: MAN'S MANIn a little Jim Crow Republic in Central

America, a man and a woman, hailingfrom the "States," met up with a revolutionand for a while adventures and excitementcame so thick and fast that their love affairhad to wait for a lull in the game.

CAPTAIN SCRAGGSThis sea yarn recounts the adventures of

three rapscallion sea-faring men—aCaptain Scraggs, owner of the greenvegetable freighter Maggie, Gibney themate and McGuffney the engineer.

THE LONG CHANCEA story fresh from the heart of the West,

of San Pasqual, a sun-baked desert town,of Harley P. Hennage, the best gambler,the best and worst man of San Pasqual andof lovely Donna.

JACKSON GREGORY'S NOVELSMay be had wherever books are sold. Ask

for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

THE EVERLASTING WHISPERThe story of a strong man's struggle

against savage nature and humanity, and ofa beautiful girl's regeneration from aspoiled child of wealth into a courageousstrong-willed woman.

DESERT VALLEYA college professor sets out with his

daughter to find gold. They meet a rancherwho loses his heart, and become involvedin a feud. An intensely exciting story.

MAN TO MANEncircled with enemies, distrusted,

Steve defends his rights. How he won hisgame and the girl he loved is the storyfilled with breathless situations.

THE BELLS OF SAN JUANDr. Virginia Page is forced to go with

the sheriff on a night journey into thestrongholds of a lawless band. Thrills andexcitement sweep the reader along to theend.

JUDITH OF BLUE LAKE RANCHJudith Sanford part owner of a cattle

ranch realizes she is being robbed by herforeman. How, with the help of Bud Lee,she checkmates Trevor's scheme makesfascinating reading.

THE SHORT CUTWayne is suspected of killing his

brother after a violent quarrel. Financialcomplications, villains, a horse-race andbeautiful Wanda, all go to make up athrilling romance.

THE JOYOUS TROUBLE MAKERA reporter sets up housekeeping close

to Beatrice's Ranch much to her chagrin.There is "another man" who complicatesmatters, but all turns out as it should inthis tale of romance and adventure.

SIX FEET FOUR

Beatrice Waverly is robbed of $5,000and suspicion fastens upon Buck Thornton,but she soon realizes he is not guilty.Intensely exciting, here is a real story ofthe Great Far West.

WOLF BREEDNo Luck Drennan had grown hard

through loss of faith in men he had trusted.A woman hater and sharp of tongue, hefinds a match in Ygerne whose cleverfencing wins the admiration and love ofthe "Lone Wolf."

EDGAR RICE BURROUGH'SNOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Askfor Grosset & Dunlap's list.

TARZAN AND THE GOLDEN LIONA tale of the African wilderness which

appeals to all readers of fiction.

TARZAN THE TERRIBLEFurther thrilling adventures of Tarzan

while seeking his wife in Africa.

TARZAN THE UNTAMEDTells of Tarzan's return to the life of the

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JUNGLE TALES OF TARZANRecords the many wonderful exploits

by which Tarzan proves his right to apekingship.

AT THE EARTH'S CORE

An astonishing series of adventures in aworld located inside of the Earth.

THE MUCKERThe story of Billy Byrne—as

extraordinary a character as the famousTarzan.

A PRINCESS OF MARSForty-three million miles from the earth

—a succession of the weirdest and mostastounding adventures in fiction.

THE GODS OF MARSJohn Carter's adventures on Mars,

where he fights the ferocious "plant men,"and defies Issus, the Goddess of Death.

THE WARLORD OF MARS

Old acquaintances, made in two otherstories, reappear, Tars Tarkas, TardosMors and others.

THUVIA, MAID OF MARSThe story centers around the adventures

of Carthoris, the son of John Carter andThuvia, daughter of a Martian Emperor.

THE CHESSMEN OF MARSThe adventures of Princess Tara in the

land of headless men, creatures with thepower of detaching their heads from theirbodies and replacing them at will.

RUBY M. AYRE'S NOVELSMay be had wherever books are sold. Ask

for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

RICHARD CHATTERTONA fascinating story in which love and

jealousy play strange tricks with women'ssouls.

A BACHELOR HUSBANDCan a woman love two men at the same

time?

In its solving of this particular varietyof triangle "A Bachelor Husband" willparticularly interest, and strangely enough,without one shock to the mostconventional minded.

THE SCARWith fine comprehension and insight the

author shows a terrific contrast betweenthe woman whose love was of the flesh

and one whose love was of the spirit.

THE MARRIAGE OF BARRYWICKLOW

Here is a man and woman who,marrying for love, yet try to build theirwedded life upon a gospel of hate for eachother and yet win back to a greater lovefor each other in the end.

THE UPHILL ROADThe heroine of this story was a consort

of thieves. The man was fine, clean, freshfrom the West. It is a story of strength andpassion.

WINDS OF THE WORLDJill, a poor little typist, marries the

great Henry Sturgess and inherits millions,

but not happiness. Then at last—but wemust leave that to Ruby M. Ayres to tellyou as only she can.

THE SECOND HONEYMOONIn this story the author has produced a

book which no one who has loved orhopes to love can afford to miss. The storyfairly leaps from climax to climax.

THE PHANTOM LOVERHave you not often heard of someone

being in love with love rather than theperson they believed the object of theiraffections? That was Esther! But shepasses through the crisis into a deep andprofound love.

ETHEL M. DELL'S NOVELSMay be had wherever books are sold. Ask

for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

CHARLES REXThe struggle against a hidden secret and

the love of a strong man and a courageouswoman.

THE TOP OF THE WORLDTells of the path which leads at last to

the "top of the world," which it is given tofew seekers to find.

THE LAMP IN THE DESERTTells of the lamp of love that continues

to shine through all sorts of tribulations tofinal happiness.

GREATHEARTThe story of a cripple whose deformed

body conceals a noble soul.

THE HUNDREDTH CHANCEA hero who worked to win even when

there was only "a hundredth chance."

THE SWINDLERThe story of a "bad man's" soul

revealed by a woman's faith.

THE TIDAL WAVETales of love and of women who

learned to know the true from the false.

THE SAFETY CURTAINA very vivid love story of India. The

volume also contains four other long

stories of equal interest.

ELEANOR H. PORTER'S NOVELSMay be had wherever books are sold. Ask

for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

JUST DAVIDThe tale of a loveable boy and the place

he comes to fill in the hearts of the grufffarmer folk to whose care he is left.

THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDINGA compelling romance of love and

marriage.

OH, MONEY! MONEY!Stanley Fulton, a wealthy bachelor, to

test the dispositions of his relatives, sends

them each a check for $100,000, and thenas plain John Smith comes among them towatch the result of his experiment.

SIX STAR RANCHA wholesome story of a club of six

girls and their summer on Six Star Ranch.

DAWNThe story of a blind boy whose courage

leads him through the gulf of despair into afinal victory gained by dedicating his lifeto the service of blind soldiers.

ACROSS THE YEARSShort stories of our own kind and of our

own people. Contains some of the bestwriting Mrs. Porter has done.

THE TANGLED THREADS

In these stories we find the concentratedcharm and tenderness of all her otherbooks.

THE TIE THAT BINDSIntensely human stories told with Mrs.

Porter's wonderful talent for warm andvivid character drawing.

FLORENCE L. BARCLAY'S NOVELSMay be had wherever books are sold. Ask

for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

THE WHITE LADIES OFWORCESTER

A novel of the 12th Century. Theheroine, believing she had lost her lover,enters a convent. He returns, and

interesting developments follow.

THE UPAS TREEA love story of rare charm. It deals

with a successful author and his wife.

THROUGH THE POSTERN GATEThe story of a seven day courtship, in

which the discrepancy in ages vanishedinto insignificance before the convincingdemonstration of abiding love.

THE ROSARYThe story of a young artist who is

reputed to love beauty above all else inthe world, but who, when blinded throughan accident, gains life's greatesthappiness. A rare story of the greatpassion of two real people superbly

capable of love, its sacrifices and itsexceeding reward.

THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONEThe lovely young Lady Ingleby, recently

widowed by the death of a husband whonever understood her, meets a fine, cleanyoung chap who is ignorant of her title andthey fall deeply in love with each other.When he learns her real identity asituation of singular power is developed.

THE BROKEN HALOThe story of a young man whose

religious belief was shattered inchildhood and restored to him by the littlewhite lady, many years older than himself,to whom he is passionately devoted.

THE FOLLOWING OF THE STARM

The story of a young missionary, who,about to start for Africa, marries wealthyDiana Rivers, in order to help her fulfillthe conditions of her uncle's will, and howthey finally come to love each other andare reunited after experiences that softenand purify.

BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELSMay be had wherever books are sold. Ask

for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by ArthurWilliam Brown.

No one but the creator of Penrod couldhave portrayed the immortal young peopleof this story. Its humor is irresistible andreminiscent of the time when the reader

was Seventeen.

PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant.

This is a picture of a boy's heart, full ofthe lovable, humorous, tragic things whichare locked secrets to most older folks. It isa finished, exquisite work.

PENROD AND SAM. Illustrated byWorth Brehm.

Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen," thisbook contains some remarkable phases ofreal boyhood and some of the best storiesof juvenile prankishness that have everbeen written.

THE TURMOIL. Illustrated by C. E.Chambers.

Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy,

imaginative youth, who revolts against hisfather's plans for him to be a servitor ofbig business. The love of a fine girl turnsBibb's life from failure to success.

THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA.Frontispiece.

A story of love and politics,—moreespecially a picture of a country editor'slife in Indiana, but the charm of the booklies in the love interest.

THE FLIRT. Illustrated by Clarence F.Underwood.

The "Flirt," the younger of two sisters,breaks one girl's engagement, drives oneman to suicide, causes the murder ofanother, leads another to lose his fortune,and in the end marries a stupid and

unpromising suitor, leaving the reallyworthy one to marry her sister.

Ask for Complete free list of G. & D.Popular Copyrighted Fiction

KATHLEEN NORRIS' STORIESMay be had wherever books are sold. Ask

for Grosset & Dunlap's list

SISTERS. Frontispiece by Frank Street.

The California Redwoods furnish thebackground for this beautiful story ofsisterly devotion and sacrifice.

POOR, DEAR, MARGARET KIRBY.Frontispiece by George Gibbs.

A collection of delightful stories,

including "Bridging the Years" and "TheTide-Marsh." This story is now shown inmoving pictures.

JOSSELYN'S WIFE. Frontispiece by C.Allan Gilbert.

The story of a beautiful woman whofought a bitter fight for happiness andlove.

MARTIE, THE UNCONQUERED.Illustrated by Charles E. Chambers.

The triumph of a dauntless spirit overadverse conditions.

THE HEART OF RACHAEL.Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers.

An interesting story of divorce and the

problems that come with a secondmarriage.

THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE.Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert.

A sympathetic portrayal of the quest ofa normal girl, obscure and lonely, for thehappiness of life.

SATURDAY'S CHILD. Frontispiece byF. Graham Cootes.

Can a girl, born in rather sordidconditions, lift herself through sheerdetermination to the better things forwhich her soul hungered?

MOTHER. Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

A story of the big mother heart thatbeats in the background of every girl's

life, and some dreams which came true.

Ask for Complete free list of G. & D.Popular Copyrighted Fiction

STORIES OF RARE CHARM BYGENE STRATTON-PORTER

May be had wherever books are sold. Askfor Grosset & Dunlap's list.

HER FATHER'S DAUGHTER.Illustrated.

This story is of California and tells ofthat charming girl, Linda Strong,otherwise known as "Her Father'sDaughter."

A DAUGHTER OF THE LAND.Illustrated.

Kate Bates, the heroine of this story, isa true "Daughter of the Land," and to readabout her is truly inspiring.

MICHAEL O'HALLORAN. Illustratedby Frances Rogers.

Michael is a quick-witted little Irishnewsboy, living in Northern Indiana. Headopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. Healso aspires to lead the entire ruralcommunity upward and onward.

LADDIE. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.

This is a bright, cheery tale with thescenes laid In Indiana. The story is told byLittle Sister, the youngest member of alarge family, but it is concerned not somuch with childish doings as with the loveaffairs of older members of the family.

THE HARVESTER. Illustrated by W. L.Jacobs.

"The Harvester," is a man of the woodsand fields, and is well worth knowing, butwhen the Girl comes to his "MedicineWoods," there begins a romance of therarest idyllic quality.

FRECKLES. Illustrated.

Freckles is a nameless waif when thetale opens, but the way in which he takeshold of life; the nature friendships heforms; and his love-story with "TheAngel" are full of real sentiment.

A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST.Illustrated.

The story of a girl of the Michiganwoods; a buoyant, loveable type of the

self-reliant American. Her philosophy isone of love and kindness toward allthings; her hope is never dimmed.

AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW.Illustrations in colors.

The scene of this charming love story islaid in Central Indiana. It is one ofdevoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love.

THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL.Profusely Illustrated.

A love ideal of the Cardinal bird andhis mate, told with delicacy and humor.

ZANE GREY'S NOVELSMay be had wherever books are sold. Ask

for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

TO THE LAST MANTHE MYSTERIOUS RIDERTHE MAN OF THE FORESTTHE DESERT OF WHEATTHE U. P. TRAILWILDFIRETHE BORDER LEGIONTHE RAINBOW TRAILTHE HERITAGE OF THE DESERTRIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGETHE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARSTHE LAST OF THE PLAINSMENTHE LONE STAR RANGERDESERT GOLDBETTY ZANE

LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTSThe life story of "Buffalo Bill" by his

sister Helen Cody Wetmore, withForeword and conclusion by Zane Grey.

ZANE GREY'S BOOKS FOR BOYSKEN WARD IN THE JUNGLETHE YOUNG LION HUNTERTHE YOUNG FORESTERTHE YOUNG PITCHERTHE SHORT STOPTHE RED-HEADED OUTFIELD ANDOTHER BASEBALL STORIES

JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD'SSTORIES OF ADVENTURE

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask

for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

THE RIVER'S ENDA story of the Royal Mounted Police.

THE GOLDEN SNAREThrilling adventures in the Far

Northland.

NOMADS OF THE NORTHThe story of a bear-cub and a dog.

KAZANThe tale of a "quarter-strain wolf and

three-quarters husky" torn between thecall of the human and his wild mate.

BAREE, SON OF KAZANThe story of the son of the blind Grey

Wolf and the gallant part he played in thelives of a man and a woman.

THE COURAGE OF CAPTAIN PLUMThe story of the King of Beaver Island,

a Mormon colony, and his battle withCaptain Plum.

THE DANGER TRAILA tale of love, Indian vengeance, and a

mystery of the North.

THE HUNTED WOMANA tale of a great fight in the "valley of

gold" for a woman.

THE FLOWER OF THE NORTHThe story of Fort o' God, where the

wild flavor of the wilderness is blended

with the courtly atmosphere of France.

THE GRIZZLY KINGThe story of Thor, the big grizzly.

ISOBELA love story of the Far North.

THE WOLF HUNTERSA thrilling tale of adventure in the

Canadian wilderness.

THE GOLD HUNTERSThe story of adventure in the Hudson

Bay wilds.

THE COURAGE OF MARGEO'DOONE

Filled with exciting incidents in the

land of strong men and women.

BACK TO GOD'S COUNTRYA thrilling story of the Far North. The

great Photoplay was made from this book.

Grosset & Dunlap,Publishers, New York

Transcriber's Note

Typographical

errors corrected inthe text:

Page 120 tightchanged to rightPage 177 newchanged to anewPage 352 letchanged to litPage 385 wierdestchanged to weirdest

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