"Why, Nal," she said demurely "this ain't you? You are acquainted with Mis' Root, I guess?"

Nal removed his cap with a flourish, and Mrs. Root, a large, lymphatic, prolific female, entreated him to ascend the wagon and sit down.

"You have a horse runnin', Mister Roberts?"

"Yes, marm, By-Jo."

"By what?"

"By Diamond," replied Rinaldo, glibly, "outer Cap Wilson's old Sally. She was by——"

"Mis' Root didn't catch the name right," interrupted Mandy. "It's By- Jo, Mis' Root—that's French."

"Mercy me, ain't that nice—quite toney. I hope he'll win if Mister Bobo's horse don't."

"Nal," whispered Mandy, "you've not been betting against Comet, have you?"

"That's what I have, Mandy. I've got my hull stack o' chips on this yere half-mile dash."

"But, Nal, Comet will win sure. Grandfather's crazy about the colt. He says he can't lose no-way."

"That's all right," said Nal. "I'm glad he feels so well about it. Set his heart on winnin', eh? That's good. Say, I guess I'll sit right here and see the race. It's handy to the judges' stand, and the horses are all on the track."

In fact, for some time the runners had been walking backwards and forwards, and were now grouped together near the starter. Mr. Bobo was in the timer's box, chuckling satanically. Fifteen hundred dollars, according to his own computation, were already added to a plethoric bank account.

"Yer feelin' well, Mister Bobo," said a bystander.

"I'm feelin' mighty well," he replied, "never was feelin' better, never. There's a heap o' fools in this yere world, but I ain't responsible for their mistakes—not much," and he cackled loudly.

After the usual annoying delay the horses were dismissed with an excellent start. Bijou jumped immediately to the front, and Nal threw his hat high into the air.

"Ain't she a cyclone?" he shouted, standing upon the wagon seat and waving his stop-watch.

"Look at her, I say, look at her!"

The people in his vicinity stared, smiled, and finally cheered. Most of them knew Nal and liked him well.

"Yer mare is winnin'," yelled a granger.

"You bet she is," retorted Mr. Roberts. "See her! Ain't she takin' the kinks out of her speed? Ain't that a clip? Sit still, ye fool," he cried lustily, apostrophising the boy who was riding; "if ye git a move on ye I'll kill ye. Oh, my lord! if she ain't a-goin' to distance them! Yes, sir, she's a shuttin' 'em out. Damn it—I ain't a swearin', Mis' Root—damn it, I say, she's a shuttin' 'em out! She's done it!! The race is won!!!"

He jumped from the wagon and plunged into the crowd, which respectfully made way for him.

* * * * *

"I've somethin' to tell ye, Mandy," said Mr. Roberts, some ten months later. I feel kind o' mean, too. But I done it for you; for love o' you, Mandy."

"Yes, Nal; what is it?"

They had been married a fortnight.

"Ye remember when the old man had the fit in the timer's box? Well, that knocked me galley-west. I felt a reg'ler murderer. But when he'd braced up, an began makin' himself hateful over our weddin', I felt glad that I'd done what I done."

"And what had you done, Nal, dear?"

"Hold on, Mandy, I'm tellin' this. Ye see, he promised to sell ye to me for two thousand dollars cash. But when I tendered him the coin, he went back on me. He was the meanest, the ornariest——"

"Hush, Nal, he's dead now."

"You bet he is, or we wouldn't be sittin' here."

They were comfortably installed upon the porch of the old adobe. A smell of paint tainted the air, and some shavings and odds and ends of lumber betrayed a recent visit from the carpenter. The house, in short, had been placed in thorough repair. A young woman with fifty thousand dollars in her own right can afford to spend a little money upon her home.

"He wouldn't take the coin," continued Nal, "he said I'd robbed him of it, an' so I had."

"Oh, Nal!"

"It was this way, Mandy. Ye remember the trial, an' how you give the snap away. Well I studied over it, an' finally I concluded to jest dig up the half-mile post, an' put it one hundred feet nearer home. I took considerable chances but not a soul suspicioned the change. The next night I put it back again. The old man timed the colt an' so did I. Fifty-one seconds! I knew my filly could do the whole half-mile in that. Comet's second dam was a bronco, an' that will tell! But I wanted to make your grandfather bet his wad. He never could resist a sure-shot bet, never. That's all."

Amanda looked deep into his laughing eyes.

"He was willing to sell me, his own flesh and blood," she murmured dreamily. "I think, Nal, you served him just about right, but I wish, don't get mad, Nal, I wish that—er—someone else had pulled up the post!"



XVII

MINTIE

Mintie stood upon the porch of the old adobe, shading her brown eyes from the sun, now declining out of stainless skies into the brush- hills to the west of the ranch. The hand shading the eyes trembled; the red lips were pressed together; faint lines upon the brow and about the mouth indicated anxiety, and possibly fear. A trapper would have recognised in the expression of the face a watchful intensity or apprehension common to all animals who have reason to know themselves to be the prey of others.

Suddenly a shot rang out, repeating itself in echoes from the canon behind the house. Mintie turned pale, and then laughed derisively.

"Gee!" she exclaimed. "How easy scairt I am!"

She sank, gaspingly, upon a chair, and began to fan herself with the skirt of her gown. Then, as if angry on account of a weakness, physical rather than mental, she stood up and smiled defiantly, showing her small white teeth. She was still trembling; and remarking this, she stamped upon the floor of the porch, and became rigid. Her face charmed because of its irregularity. Her skin was a clear brown, matching the eyes and hair. She had the grace and vigour of an unbroken filly at large upon the range. And, indeed, she had been born in the wilderness, and left it but seldom. Her father's ranch lay forty miles from San Lorenzo, high up in the foothills—a sterile tract of scrub—oak and cedar, of manzanita and chaparral, with here and there good grazing ground, and lower down, where the creek ran, a hundred acres of arable land. Behind the house bubbled a big spring which irrigated the orchard and garden.

Teamsters, hauling grain from the Carisa Plains to the San Lorenzo landing, a distance of nearly a hundred miles, would beguile themselves thinking of the apples which old man Ransom would be sure to offer, and the first big drink from the cold spring.

Mintie was about to enter the house, when she saw down the road a tiny reek of white dust. "Gee!" she exclaimed for the second time.

"Who's this?"

Being summer, the hauling had not yet begun. Mintie, who had the vision of a turkey-buzzard, stared at the reek of dust.

"Smoky Jack, I reckon," she said disdainfully. Nevertheless, she went into the house, and when she reappeared a minute later her hair displayed a slightly more ordered disorder, and she had donned a clean apron.

She expressed surprise rather than pleasure when a young man rode up, shifted in his saddle, and said:—

"How air you folks makin' it?"

"Pretty fair. Goin' to town?"

"I thought, mebbe, of goin' to town nex' week. I come over jest to pass the time o' day with the old man."

"Rode ten miles to pass the time o' day with—Pap?"

"Yas."

"Curiously fond men air of each other!"

"That's so," said Smoky admiringly. "An' livin' alone puts notions o' love and tenderness into my head that never comed thar when Maw was alive an' kickin'. I tell yer, its awful lonesome on my place."

He sat up in his saddle, a handsome young fellow, the vaquero rather than the cowboy, a distinction well understood in California. John Short had been nicknamed Smoky Jack because of his indefatigable efforts to clear his own brush-hills by fire. Across his saddle was a long-barrelled, old-fashioned rifle. Mintie glanced at it.

"Was that you who fired jest now?"

"Nit," said Smoky. "I heard a shot," he added. "'Twas the old man. I'd know the crack of his Sharp anywheres. 'Tis the dead spit o' mine. There'll be buck's liver for supper sure."

"Why are you carryin' a gun?"

"I thought I might run acrost a deer."

"No other reason?"

Beneath her steady glance his blue eyes fell. He replied with restraint—

"I wouldn't trust some o' these squatters any further than I could sling a bull by the tail. Your Pap had any more trouble with 'em?"

Mintie answered savagely:—

"They're a-huntin' trouble. Likely as not they'll find it, too."

Smoky grinned. Being the son of an old settler, he held squatters in detestation. Of late years they had invaded the foothills. Pap Ransom was openly at feud with them. They stole his cattle, cut his fences, and one of them, Jake Farge, had dared to take up a claim inside the old man's back-pasture.

Smoky stared at Mintie. Then he said abruptly—

"You look kinder peaky-faced. Anything wrong?"

"Nothing," replied Mintie.

"You ain't a-worryin' about your Pap, air ye? I reckon he kin take keer of himself."

"I reckon he kin; so kin his daughter."

"Shall I put my plug into the barn?"

"We're mighty short of hay," said Mintie inhospitably.

Smoky Jack stared at her and laughed. Then he slipped from the saddle, pulled the reins over the horse's head, and threw the ends on the ground. With a deprecating smile he said softly—

"Air you very extry busy, Mints?"

"Not very extry. Why?"

"I've a notion to read ye something. It come to me las' Sunday week in the middle of the night. An' now it's slicked up to the Queen's taste."

"Poetry?"

"I dunno as it's that—after the remarks you passed about that leetle piece I sent to the Tribune."

"You sent it? Of all the nerve——! Did they print it?"

Smoky Jack shook his head.

"Never expected they would," he admitted mournfully. "I won't deny that it was kind o'——"

"Slushy?" hazarded Mintie.

"Wal—yes. You'd made all sorts of a dodgasted fool outer me."

"Yer father and mother done that."

"I've said as much to Maw, many's the time. 'Maw' I'd say, 'I ain't a masterpiece—and I know it.' But las' Sunday night I was inspired."

He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. Mintie frowned. With a shy glance and heightened colour the man who had been inspired whispered softly—

"It's entitled, 'To My Own Brown Bird.'"

"And who's your brown bird?" demanded Mintie sharply.

"As if you didn't know."

"Meanin' me?"

"Couldn't naturally be nobody else."

"I'm not yours; and as for bein' brown, why, my skin is white as milk."

"I'll bet my life it is."

"As for bein' a bird, that ain't no compliment. Birds is first cousins to snakes. Never knew that, did ye?"

"Never—s'elp me! Is that really so?"

Covered with mortification, he put the paper back into his pocket.

"Read it," commanded the young lady. "Let's get it over an' done with. Then, mebbe, I'll help ye to rechristen the durned thing."

Emboldened by this gracious speech, Smoky began in a nasal, drawling voice—

"I've wandered far—I've wandered wide——"

"Ananias!" said Mintie. "You was born in these yere foothills, and raised in 'em; and you've never known enough to git out of 'em."

"Git out of 'em?"

"Git out of 'em," she repeated scornfully. "D'ye think if I was a man I'd stop in such a God-forsaken place as yours, with nothing but rattlesnakes and coyotes to keep me company? Go on!"

"I've wandered far—I've wandered wide— I've dwelt in many a stately tower; And now I turn me back to ride To my own brown bird in her humble bower."

"That'll do," said Mintie. "You ain't improved much. Bill Shakespeare can rest easy in his tomb. I've got my chores to do. 'Bout time you was doin' yours."

Smoky Jack, refusing to budge, said jocosely, "Things air fixed up to home. 'Twouldn't worry me any if I never got back till to-morrer."

Mintie frowned and went into the house. Smoky led his horse to the barn with perplexity and distress writ large upon his face.

"Notice to quit," he muttered. Then he grinned pleasantly. "Reckon a perfect gen'leman 'd take the hint and clear out. But I ain't a perfect gen'leman. What in thunder ails the girl?"

* * * * *

It was nearly seven when Pap Ransom reached his corral. Smoky had milked the cow and fed the pigs. In the kitchen Mintie was frying some potatoes and stirring the big pot full of beans and bacon. From time to time Smoky had caught a glimpse of her white apron as she whisked in and out of the kitchen. Although a singularly modest youth, he conceived the idea that Mintie was interested in his doings, whereas we must admit that she was more concerned about her father. However, when she saw Pap ascend the hill, carrying his rifle over his shoulder, her face resumed its ordinary expression, and from that minute she gave to the simple preparations for supper undivided attention.

"Whar's the liver?" said Smoky, as the old man nodded to him.

"Liver?"

"Heard a shot, jest one, and made certain a good buck was on his back."

"I never fired no shot," said Ransom slowly.

"Wal, I'm hanged! Is there another Sharp besides mine in these yere hills?"

"I dessay. I heard one shot myself, 'bout two hours ago."

"Guess it was one o' them derned squatters."

"Curse 'em!" said Ransom. He spat upon the ground and walked into the abode. Smoky nodded reflectively.

Supper was not a particularly cheery meal. Mintie, usually a nimble talker, held her tongue. Ransom aired his pet grievance—the advent of Easterners, who presumed to take up land which was supposed to belong to, or at least go with, the old Spanish grants. Smoky and Mintie knew well enough that the land was Uncle Sam's; but they knew also that Ransom had run his cattle over it during five-and-twenty years. If that didn't constitute a better title than a United States patent, there was no justice anywhere. Smoky, filled with beans and bacon, exclaimed vehemently—

"Shoot 'em on sight, that's what I say."

Mintie stared at his bright eyes and flushed cheeks.

"Do you allus mean jest what you say?" she inquired sarcastically.

"Wal," replied Smoky, more cautiously, "they ain't been monkeyin' with me; but if they did——"

"If they did——?" drawled Mintie, with her elbows on the table and her face between her hands.

"If they cut my fence as they've cut yours, and, after doo warnings, kep' on trespassin' and makin' trouble, why then, by Gosh! I'd shoot. Might give 'other feller a show, but there's trouble as only kin be settled with shootin' irons."

"That's so" said Mintie savagely.

After supper Mintie retired to the kitchen to wash up. Ransom put a jar of tobacco on the table, two glasses, and some whisky.

"Any call for ye to ride home to-night?"

"None," said Smoky.

"Reckon ye'd better camp here, then."

Smoky nodded and muttered—

"Don't keer if I do," a polite form of acceptance in the California foothills.

Presently Ransom went out. Smoky was left alone. He filled his corn- cob pipe, stretched out his legs, and smiled, thinking of his own brown bird. Suddenly a glint came into his bright blue eyes. In the corner of the room, against the wall, leaned the two Sharp rifles. Smoky glanced about him, rose, walked to the corner, bent down, and smelt the muzzle of Ransom's rifle. Then he slipped his forefinger into the barrel and smelt that.

"Sufferin' Moses!" he exclaimed.

His mouth was slightly twisted, as he picked up the rifle and opened the breech. He drew out a used cartridge, which he examined with another exclamation.

"Holy Mackinaw!"

He put the cartridge into his pocket and glanced round for the second time. He could hear Mintie washing-up in the kitchen. Ransom was feeding his horses. Smoky took a cleaning-rod, ran it through the rifle, and examined the bit of cloth, which was wet and greasy. Then he replaced the rifle and went back to the table, where Ransom found him when he returned a few minutes later. The two men smoked in silence. Presently Ransom said abruptly:—

"Dead struck on Mints, ain't ye?"

"I am," said Smoky laconically.

"Told her so—hay?"

"'Bout a million times."

"What does she say?"

Smoky blew some rings of smoke before he answered.

"She says—'Shucks!'"

"That don't sound encouragin'."

"It ain't. Fact is, she thinks me a clam."

"A clam?"

"That's right. She'd think a heap more o' me if I was to pull out o' these yere hills and try to strike it somewheres else."

"Wal, squatters have made this no kind o' country for a white man. Ye're white, John."

"I aim ter be."

"You air, sonnie. Say, if anything happened to me, would ye watch out for Mints?"

"I wonder!"

"S'pose, fer the sake of argyment, that one o' these sons o' guns did for me—hay?"

"'Tain't likely," said Smoky scornfully. "I'd bet my boots on you every time."

"They may do fer me," said Ransom slowly, "and, if so——"

"I'll watch out for Mints," said Smoky very fervently.

* * * * *

Presently Mintie joined them and, sitting down, began to darn some stockings. Apparently she was engrossed with her work, but Smoky stared at her, noticing that her fingers trembled. Ransom smoked and said nothing. Smoky talked, trying to challenge Mintie's interest and attention, but sensible of failure. Moreover, he had nothing to talk about except bad times and bad luck. Father and daughter listened grimly, well aware that their friend and neighbour was fighting against lack of water, a sterile soil, and a "plastered" ranch.

"Why don't you quit?" Ransom asked testily.

"I ain't a quitter."

"He don't know enough to let go," said Mintie.

"I could earn good money with my uncle in Los Angeles County. He wants me."

Mintie tossed her head.

"If he wants you, the sooner you skin outer this the better."

"Uncle's well fixed," said Smoky, "and an old bach. He wants a live young man to take aholt with his ranch, and a live young woman to run the shebang. If I was married——!"

"Pity you ain't," said Mintie, without looking up.

Ransom, who had conducted his courting upon Western principles, rose up slowly and disappeared. Left alone with his beloved, the young man blushed and held his tongue.

"You think a heap o' the old man?" he hazarded, after an interminable pause.

"I do. He's a man, is Pap."

"Meanin'?"

"Anything you please."

"You mean that I ain't a man?"

Mintie laughed softly; and at that moment the old dog, lying by the hearth, got up and growled. Rebuked by Mintie, he continued growling, while the hair upon his aged back began to bristle with rage.

"Hark!" exclaimed Mintie.

They could hear voices outside. The dog barked furiously as somebody hammered hard upon the door.

"Who can it be?" said Mintie nervously.

Smoky Jack opened the door; four or five men came in. At the door opposite appeared Ransom.

"What is it?" he asked harshly. "What brings you here at this time o' night?"

The leader of the party, a tall 'Piker,' answered as curtly—

"Business."

"What business?"

"I don't talk business afore wimmenfolks."

Mintie's face was white enough now, and her lips were quivering.

"Come you here, child," said her father.

He looked at her steadily.

"You go to bed an' stay there. Not a word! An' don't worry."

Mintie hesitated, opened her mouth and closed it. Then she walked quietly out of the room.

"What brings you here?" repeated Ransom.

"Murder."

"Murder? Whose murder?"

"This afternoon," replied the 'Piker,' "Jake Farge was shot dead on your land, not a quarter of a mile from this yere house. His widder found him and come to me."

"Wal?"

"She says the shot that killed him must ha' bin fired 'bout six. She heard it, an' happened to look at the clock."

"Wal?"

"She swears that you fired it."

Smoky burst in impetuously—

"At six I kin swear that Pap was a-talkin' to me in his own corral."

The squatters glanced at each other. The 'Piker' laughed derisively.

"In love with his darter, ain't ye?"

"I am—and proud of it!"

"Them your guns?" The spokesman addressed Ransom, indicating the two rifles.

"One of 'em is mine; t'other belongs to Smoky."

The 'Piker' crossed the room, examined the rifles, opened each, and peered down the barrels. He glanced at the other squatters, and said laconically—

"Quite clean—as might be expected."

Ransom betrayed his surprise very slightly. He had just remembered that he had left an empty cartridge in his rifle, and that it was not clean.

The 'Piker' turned to him again.

"You claim that you know nothing o' this job?"

"Not a thing."

"And you?"

The big 'Piker' stared superciliously at Smoky.

"Same here," said Smoky.

The visitors glanced at each other, slightly nonplussed. The big 'Piker' swore in his beard. "We'll arrest the hull outfit," he said decidedly, "and carry 'em in to San Lorenzy."

"You ain't, the sheriff nor his deputy," said Ransom. "What d'ye mean," he continued savagely, "by coming here with this ridic'lous song and dance? There's the door. Git!"

"You threatened to shoot Farge," said the 'Piker.' "An' it's my solid belief you done it in cold blood, too. We're five here, all heeled, and there's more outside. If you're innocent the sheriff'll let you off to-morrer; but, innocent or guilty, by Gosh, you're comin' with us to-night. Hold up yer hands! Quick!"

Ransom and Smoky held up their hands.

"Search 'em," commanded the 'Piker.'

This was done effectively. A Derringer doesn't take up much room in a man's pocket, but it has been known to turn the tables upon larger weapons. Ransom and Smoky, however, were unarmed; but the squatter who ran his hand over Smoky's pockets encountered a small cylinder, which he held up to the public gaze.

It was an empty cartridge.

To understand fully what this meant one must possess a certain knowledge of Western ways and sentiment. Pistols and rifles belonging to the pioneers, for example, often exhibit notches, each of which bears silent witness to the shedding of blood. The writer knew intimately a very mild, kindly old man who had a strop fashioned out of several thicknesses of Apache skins. The Apaches had inflicted unmentionable torments upon him and his, and the strop was his dearest possession. The men and women of the wilderness are primal in their loves and hates.

The big 'Piker' examined the long brass cylinder, small of bore and old-fashioned in shape. He slipped it into the Sharp rifle, and laughed grimly as he said—

"A relic!"

Ransom's face was impassive; Smoky Jack exhibited a derisive defiance. Inwardly he was cursing himself for a fool in having kept the cartridge. He had intended to throw it away as soon as he found himself outside. But from the first he had wanted Mintie's father to know that he knew! Primal again. Pap would not forget to clean his rifle at the first opportunity; and then, without a word on either side, he would realise that the man who wanted his daughter was a true friend.

We may add that the breaking of the sixth commandment in no wise affected Smoky. Jake Farge had been warned that he would be shot on sight if he made "trouble." Everybody in San Lorenzo County was well aware that it was no kind of use "foolin'" with Pap Ransom. Jake—in a word—deserved what he had got. Smoky would have drawn as true a bead upon a squatter disputing title to his land. We don't defend Mr. Short's ethics, we simply state them.

The 'Piker' said quietly—

"Anything to say, young feller?"

Smoky Jack made a gallant attempt to bluff a man who had played his first game of poker before Smoky was born.

"Yer dead right. It is a relic of a big buck I killed with that ther gun las' week. Flopped into a mare's nest, you hev!"

"That shell was fired to-day," said the 'Piker,' authoritatively. "The powder ain't dry in it. Boys,"—he glanced round at the circle of grim faces—"let's take the San Lorenzy road."

* * * * *

The squatters, reinforced by half a dozen men who had not entered the adobe, escorted their prisoners down the hill till they came to a large live oak, a conspicuous feature of the meadow beyond the creek. The moon shone at the full as she rose majestically above the pines which fringed the eastern horizon. In the air was a smell of tar-weed, deliciously aromatic; and the only sounds audible were the whispering of the tremulous leaves of the cottonwoods and the tinkle of the creek on its way to the Pacific.

Smoky inhaled the fragrance of the tar-weed, and turned his blue eyes to the left, where, in the far distance, a tall pine indicated the north-west corner of his ranch. Neither he nor Ransom expected to reach San Lorenzo that night. They were setting out on a much longer journey.

Under the live oak Judge Lynch opened his court. No time was wasted. The squatters were impressed with the necessity of doing what had to be done quickly. The big 'Piker' spoke first.

"Boys, ain't it true that in this yere county there ain't bin a single man executed by the law fer murder in the first degree?"

"That's right. Not a one!"

"And if a man has a bit o' dough behind him, isn't it a fact that he don't linger overly long in San Quentin?"

"Dead sure snap."

"Boys, this is our affair. We're pore; we've neither money nor time to waste in law courts, but we've got to show some o' these fellers as is holding land as don't belong to 'em that we mean business first, last, and all the time."

There was a hoarse murmur of assent.

"The cold facts are these," continued the speaker. "We all know that Ransom and Jake Farge hev had trouble over the claim that Farge staked out inside o' Ransom's fence; an' we know that Ransom has no more right to the land he fenced than the coyotes that run on it. For twenty years he's enjoyed the use of what isn't his'n, an' I say he'd oughter be thankful. Anyways, we come down to the events of yesterday and to-day. Yesterday he tole Jake that he'd shoot him on sight if he, Jake, come on to the land which Uncle Sam says is his. Do you deny that?"

"That's 'bout what I tole him," drawled Ransom.

"To-day Jake was shot dead like a dog by somebody who was a-waitin' for him, hidden in the brush. The widder, pore soul, suspicioning trouble, follered Jake, and found him with a bullet plumb through his heart. She heard the shot, and she swore that it come from Ransom's side o' the fence. And she knows and we know that there isn't a man 'twixt Maine and Californy with a grudge agen Jake, always exceptin' this yere Ransom."

"That's so," growled the Court.

"Boys, Jake was murdered with a bullet of small bore—not with a bullet outer a Winchester, sech as most of us carry. Whar did that ther bullet come from, boys?"

"Outer a Sharp rifle."

"Jest so. Who fired it? Mebbe we'll never know that. But we know this. 'Twas fired by one o' these yere men. One was and is accessory to t'other. The boy admits he's sweet on Ransom's gal; an' mebbe he did this dirt to win her. And he swears that Pap was in his corral at six. That's a lie or it ain't, as may be. If he was in the corral, t'other wasn't. Boys—I won't detain ye any longer. Those in favour of hangin' Thomas Ransom an' John Short here and now hold up their hands!"

The men present held up their hands. One or two of the more bloodthirsty held up both hands.

"That'll do. Those in favour of takin' the prisoners to San Lorenzy hold up their hands. Nary a hand! Prisoners ye've bin tried by yer feller-men, and found guilty o' murder in the first degree. Have ye anything to say?"

Smoky answered huskily: "Nothin', 'cept that I'm not guilty."

"An' you, Mr. Ransom?" said the 'Piker,' with odd politeness.

"I've a lot ter say," drawled the old man. "Seemingly murder has been done, but Smoky here never done it; nor did I. I fired at a buck an' missed it. There ain't overly much o' the fool in me, but there's enough to make me hate ownin' up to a clean miss. When I got to the corral this evening, Smoky had bin there an hour or so at least. He arst me if I'd killed a buck and said he'd heard a shot. Wal, I lied, but I saw that he suspicioned me. Afterwards, I reckon he'd a look at the old gun, and found the shell in it. He must ha' got it into his fool head that he was God's appointed instrument to save me. He's as innercent as Mary's little lamb, and so am I."

The squatters gazed at each other in stupefaction. Not a man present but could lie fearlessly on occasion, but not with such consummate art as this.

"Anything more ter say?" inquired the 'Piker.'

"Wal, there's this: I tole Jake Farge that I'd shoot him on sight, and I'm mighty glad that someone else has saved me the trouble. You mean to do me up; I see that plain. I hated yer comin' into a country that won't support a crowd, and I've made things hot for more'n one of ye. But I wasn't thinkin' o' land when I warned Jake Farge not to set foot on my ranch."

"What was you thinkin' of?"

"Of my Mintie. That feller—a married man—has bin after her—and some of you know it. She kin take keer of herself can my Mints, but some things is a man's business. I meant to shoot him, but I didn't. I'm glad the low-down cuss is dead, but the bullet that stopped his crawlin' to my gal never come outer my rifle. Now string me up, and be derned to ye, but let this young feller go back to look after my daughter. That's all."

He faced them with a derisive smile upon his weather-beaten face.

Obviously, the Court was impressed, but the fact remained that Jake Farge was dead, and that someone must have killed him.

"What d'ye say, boys?"

"I say he's lyin'," observed a squatter, whom Thomas Ransom had discovered ear-marking an unbranded calf.

"Smoky knows that Pap done it," remarked another.

This bolt went home. Smoky's face during the preceding five minutes had been worth studying. He was quite sure that the old man was lying, and upon his ingenuous countenance such knowledge, illuminated by admiration and amazement, was duly inscribed.

"Pap's yarn is too thin," said a gaunt Missourian.

"It's thin as you air," said Ransom contemptuously. "Do you boys think that I'd spring so thin a tale on ye, if it wasn't true?"

At this they wriggled uneasily. The 'Piker,' with some experience of fickle crowds, said peremptorily—

"The old man done it, and the young 'un knows he done it. They're jest two of a kind. Those in favour of hangin' 'em both hold up their hands. One hand apiece will do."

Slowly, inexorably, the hands went up. The judge pronounced sentence—

"Ye've five minutes. Say yer prayers, if ye feel like it."

The simple preparations were made swiftly. Two raw-hide lariats were properly adjusted. The prisoners looked on with the stoical indifference of Red Indians. It might have been said of the pair that neither had known how to live, but each knew how to die.

"Ready?" said the 'Piker.'

"Hold on!" replied a high-pitched voice.

The crowd turned to behold Mintie. She had crawled up silently and stealthily. But now she stood upright, her small head thrown back, her eyes glittering in the moonlight.

"Got a rope fer me?" she asked. "I've heard everything."

Nobody answered. The girl laughed; then she said slowly—

"I shot Jake Farge—with this."

She threw a small revolver at the 'Piker,' who picked it up. "I killed him at five this afternoon. I knew that if I didn't do it Pap would, and that you'd hang him. Jake came after me agen an' agen, an' each time I warned him. To-day he came fer the last time. He was half- crazy, and I had to kill the beast to save myself. I did it, and"— she looked steadfastly at Smoky Jack—"I ain't ashamed of it, neither. There's only one man in all the world can make love to me. I never knowed that I keered for him till to-night."

She pointed at Smoky, who remarked deprecatingly—

"I allus allowed you was a daughter o' the Golden West."

"If you ain't goin' to hang me," said Mintie, "don't you think you'd better skip?"

She laughed scornfully, and the men, without a word, skipped. Smoky, his hands loosed, seized Mintie in his arms, as the moon slipped discreetly behind a cloud.



XVIII

ONE WHO DIED

He was a remittance man, who received each month from his father, a Dorset parson, a letter and a cheque. The letter was not a source of pleasure to the son, and does not concern us; the cheque made five pounds payable to the order of Richard Beaumont Carteret, known to many men in San Lorenzo county, and some women, as Dick. Time was when Mr. Carteret cut what is called a wide swath, when indeed he was kowtowed to as Lord Carteret, who drove tandem, shot pigeons, and played all the games, including poker and faro. But the ten thousand pounds he inherited from his mother lasted only five years, and when the last penny was spent Dick wrote to his father and demanded an allowance. He knew that the parson was living in straitened circumstances, with two daughters to provide for, and he knew also that his mother's fortune should in equity have been divided among the family; but, as he pointed out to his dear old governor, a Carteret mustn't be allowed to starve; so the parson, who loved the handsome lad, put down his hack and sent the prodigal a remittance. He had better have sent him a hempen rope, for necessity might have made a man out of Master Dick; the remittance turned him into a moral idiot.

A Carteret, as you know, cannot do himself justice upon five pounds a month, so Dick was constrained to play the part of Mentor to sundry youthful compatriots, teaching them a short cut to ruin, and sharing the while their purses and affections. But, very unhappily for Dick, the supply of fools suddenly failed, and, lo! Dick's occupation was gone. Finally, in despair, he allied himself to another remittance man, an ex-deacon of the Church of England, and the two drifted slowly out of decent society upon a full tide of Bourbon whisky.

Tidings must have come to the parson of his son's unhappy condition, or possibly he decided that the Misses Carteret were entitled to the remittance. It is certain that one dreadful day Dick's letter contained nothing but a sheet of note-paper.

"I can send you no more cheques" (wrote the parson), "not another penny will you receive from me. I pray to God that He may see fit to turn your heart, for He alone can do it. I have failed ..."

Dick showed this letter to his last and only friend, the ex-deacon, the Rev. Tudor Crisp, known to many publicans and sinners as the 'Bishop.' The two digested the parson's words in a small cabin situated upon a pitiful patch of ill-cultivated land; land irreclaimably mortgaged to the hilt, which the 'Bishop' spoke of as "my place." Dick (he had a sense of humour) always called the cabin the rectory. It contained one unplastered, unpapered room, carpetless and curtainless; a bleak and desolate shelter that even a sheep-herder would be loth to describe as home. In the corners were two truckle beds, a stove, and a large demijohn containing some cheap and fiery whisky; in the centre of the floor was a deal table; on the rough redwood walls were shelves displaying many dilapidated pairs of boots and shoes, also some fly-specked sporting prints, and, upon a row of nails, a collection of shabby discoloured garments, ancient "hartogs," manifesting even in decay a certain jaunty, dissolute air, at once ludicrous and pathetic. Outside, in front, the 'Bishop' had laid out a garden wherein nothing might be found save weeds and empty beer bottles, dead men denied decent interment. Behind the cabin was the dust-heap, an interesting and historical mound, an epitome, indeed, of the 'Bishop's' gastronomical past, that emphasised his descent from Olympus to Hades; for on the top was a plebeian deposit of tomato and sardine cans, whereas below, if you stirred the heap, might be found a nobler stratum of terrines, once savoury with foie gras and Strasbourg pate, of jars still fragrant of fruits embedded in liqueur, of bottles that had contained the soups that a divine loves— oxtail, turtle, mulligatawny, and the like. Upon rectory, glebe, and garden was legibly inscribed the grim word—ICHABOD.

"He means what he says," growled Dick. "So far as he's concerned I'm dead."

"You ought to be," said the 'Bishop,' "but you aren't; what are you going to do?"

This question burned its insidious way to Dick's very vitals. What could he do? Whom could he do? After a significant pause he caught the 'Bishop's' eye, and, holding his pipe as it might be a pistol, put it to his head, and clicked his tongue.

"Don't," said the 'Bishop' feebly.

The two smoked on in silence. The Rev. Tudor Crisp reflected mournfully that one day a maiden aunt might withdraw the pittance that kept his large body and small soul together. This unhappy thought sent him to the demijohn, whence he extracted two stiff drinks.

"No," said Dick, pushing aside the glass. "I want to think, to think. Curse it, there must be a way out of the wood. If I'd capital we could start a saloon. We know the ropes, and could make a living at it, more, too, but now we can't even get one drink on credit. Why don't you say something, you stupid fool?"

He spoke savagely. The past reeled before his eyes, all the cheery happy days of youth. He could see himself at school, in the playing fields, at college, on the river, in London, at the clubs. Other figures were in the picture, but he held the centre of the stage. God in heaven, what a fool he had been!

The minutes glided by, and the 'Bishop' refilled his glass, glancing from time to time at Dick. He was somewhat in awe of Carteret, but the whisky warmed him into speech.

"Look here," he said with a spectral grin, "what's enough for one is enough for two. We'll get along, old man, on my money, till the times mend."

Dick rose, tall and stalwart; and then he smiled, not unkindly, at the squat, ungainly 'Bishop.'

"You're a good chap," he said quietly. "Shake hands, and-good-bye."

"Why, where are you going?"

"Ah! Who knows? If the fairy tales are true, we may meet again later."

Crisp stared at the speaker in horror. He had reason to know that Dick was reckless, but this dare-devil despair apalled him. Yet he had wit enough to attempt no remonstrance, so he gulped down his, whisky and waited.

"It's no use craning at a blind fence," continued Dick. "Sooner or later we all come to the jumping-off place. I've come to it to-night. You can give me a decent funeral—the governor will stump up for that —and there will be pickings for you. You can read the service, 'Bishop.' Gad! I'd like to see you in a surplice."

"Please, don't," pleaded the Rev. Tudor.

"He'll be good for a hundred sovs.," continued Dick. "You can do the thing handsomely for half that."

"For God's sake, shut up."

"Pooh! why shouldn't you have your fee? That hundred would start us nicely in the saloon business, and——"

He was walking up and down the dusty, dirty floor. Now he stopped, and his eyes brightened; but Crisp noted that his hands trembled.

"Give me that whisky," he muttered. "I want it now."

The 'Bishop' handed him his glass. Dick drained it, and laughed.

"Don't," said the 'Bishop' for the third time. Dick laughed again, and slapped him on the shoulder. Then the smile froze on his lips, and he spoke grimly.

"What does the apostle say—hey? We must die to live. A straight tip! Well—! I shall obey the apostolic injunction gladly. I'm going to die to-night. Don't jump like that, you old ass; let me finish. I'm going to die to-night, but you and I are going into the saloon business all the same. Yes, my boy, and we'll tend bar ourselves, and keep our eyes on the till, and have our own bottle of the best, and be perfect gentlemen. Come on, let's drink to my resurrection. Here's to the man who was, and is, and is to be."

"You're a wonder," replied the 'Bishop' fervently. "I understand. You mean to be your own undertaker."

"I do, my lord. Now give me the baccy, some ink and paper, and an hour's peace."

But the hour passed and found Dick still composing. The 'Bishop' watched his friend with spaniel-like patience. At last the scribe flung down his pen, and read aloud, as follows—

"The Rectory, San Lorenzo,

"September 1,

"To the Rev. George Carteret.

"Dear Sir,—I beg to advise you, with sincere regret on my part, of the sudden demise of your son, Richard Beaumont Carteret, who died at my house just three days ago of heart failure, quite painlessly. You will find enclosed the doctor's certificate, the coroner's report, and the undertaker's bill paid and receipted.

"I had a very honest friendship for your son, although I deplored a misspent youth. But I rejoice to say that poor Dick lived long enough to heartily repent him of his sins, which after all were sins against himself. He often talked of home and you, alluding feelingly to the sacrifices you had made on his behalf—sacrifices that he confessed were far greater than his deserts.

"I am a poor man, but I felt impelled to give your son the funeral of a gentleman. The bills I have paid, as you will observe, in full, including the purchase in perpetuity of a lot in the cemetery. Should you see fit to refund me these amounts, I shall not refuse the money; if, on the other hand, you repudiate the claim, I shall let the matter drop. I could not permit my friend to be buried as a pauper.

"It is possible that you may wish a stone placed at the head of the grave. A suitable cross of plain white marble would cost about two hundred dollars. If you care to entrust me with the sad commission, I will give it my earnest attention.

"I refer you to my aunt, Miss Janetta Crisp, of Montpelier Road, Brighton, and also to the Clergy List.

"Very truly yours,

"Tudor Crisp (The Rev.)."

"There," exclaimed Mr. Carteret, "that will do the trick. The bills and other documents we'll forge at our leisure to-morrow."

"I don't quite like the use of my name," protested the Rev. Tudor Crisp.

Dick explained that his reverence would be entitled to half the plunder, and that discovery was almost impossible. Still, despite Dick's eloquence, the 'Bishop' submitted that such a cruel fraud was "tough" on the old gentleman.

"On the contrary," retorted the other. "He will assume that I died in the odour of sanctity, in the atmosphere of a rectory, in the arms of a parson. He'll worry no more, poor old chap, about my past or my future. This is the turning-point of our fortunes. Don't look so glum, man. Here—hit the demijohn again."

But the 'Bishop' declined this invitation, and betook himself to his blankets, muttering inarticulate nothings. Dick relighted his pipe, and refilled his glass. Then he walked to the mantelshelf and gazed long and critically at three framed photographs of his father and two sisters. These were almost the only property he possessed. It is significant from an ethical point of view that Dick kept these pictures where he could see them. The 'Bishop' had photos also, but they lay snug at the bottom of an old portmanteau. His reverence was sensible that he was not worthy to keep company with even the pictures of honourable and respectable persons. No such qualms affected Dick. He regarded these photos as credentials. His father had a charming face—one of those human documents whereon are inscribed honour, culture, benevolence, and the wisdom that is not of this world. The sisters, too, had comely features; and strangers introduced to the family group always felt more kindly disposed to the prodigal so far from such nice people. Dick had impetrated more than one loan, using these portraits as collateral security. Did his heart soften as he bade them farewell? Who can tell?

* * * * *

Within six weeks the Rev. Tudor Crisp received a cheque from distant Dorset, and the proceeds were duly invested in a saloon in San Clemente, a town some twenty miles from San Lorenzo. Moreover, the business prospered from the start. The partners, Crisp and Cartwright (Dick deemed it wise to alter his name), kept no assistants, so there was no leakage from the till. They understood that this liquor traffic was a shameful trade, but they pronounced themselves unable to follow any other. Curiously enough the work proved a tonic to the 'Bishop.' He allowed himself so many drinks a day, and observed faithfully other rules to his physical and financial betterment. He started a reading- room in connection with the bar, for he had had experience in such matters when a curate at home; and the illustrated papers sent regularly by his maiden aunt were in great demand. Indeed, the mere reading about football matches and the like created an unquenchable thirst in cowboys and sheep-herders. Moreover the 'Bishop' enforced order and decorum, being a muscular Christian, and the boys learned to curb obscene tongues in his presence. Dick marvelled at the change in his partner, but he was shrewd enough to see that it brought grist to the gin-mill.

"Once a parson, always a parson," Dick would say; and the Rev. Tudor would blush and sigh. He never spoke of his clerical days, but once Dick caught him furtively examining a picture of himself in surplice and cassock. Each week a division of the profits was made. The 'Bishop's' share was deposited in the local bank, but where Dick's dollars went it would be indiscreet to tell. He had no stomach for economies, and observed no rules. When he apprehended the general drift of things he was content to let the 'Bishop' have his way and say in regard to the conduct of the business. His reverence bought the cigars and liquors. Dick could hardly be called a sleeping partner, for he took the night watch, but the 'Bishop' did most of the work, and kept the books. Before two years had passed a capital restaurant was added to the reading-room, where the best of steaks and chops might be had, hot and hot, at all hours and at a reasonable price. Dick never knew it, but the 'Bishop' wrote to Miss Janetta Crisp and begged her to send no more cheques. He told his kind auntie very modestly that he had a bank account of his own, and that he hoped one day to thank her in person for all she had done for him.

Towards the close of the third year the 'Bishop' told Dick that it would be well for them to leave their saloon, and to purchase a small hotel then offered for sale. Dick told his old friend to go ahead. His reverence supplied Dick's share of the purchase-money, and the saloon knew them no more. But the hotel, under the 'Bishop's' management, proved a tiny gold mine.

All this time, however, the memory of that dirty trick he had helped to play upon an honest gentleman, festered in his memory. He feared that Nemesis would overtake him, and time justified these fears; for in the spring of 1898 came a second letter to the Rev. Tudor Crisp, of The Rectory, San Lorenzo, a letter that the poor 'Bishop' read with quickening pulses, and then showed to Dick.

"My very dear Sir" (it began), "a curious change in my fortunes enables me to carry out a long-cherished plan. I purpose, D.V., to pay a pilgrimage to my poor son's grave, and shall start for California immediately. Perhaps you will be good enough to let me spend a couple of days at the rectory. It will be a mournful pleasure to me to meet one who was kind to my dear lad.

"I will write to you again from San Francisco.

"Very gratefully yours,

"George Carteret."

If the hotel, uninsured, had suddenly burst into flames, the 'Bishop' would have manifested far less consternation. He raved incoherently for nearly ten minutes, while Dick sat silent and nervous beneath a storm of remorse.

"I'll meet your father in San Francisco," said the unhappy Crisp, "and make a clean breast of it." "That spells ruin," said Dick coldly. "The governor is a dear old gentleman, but he has the Carteret temper. He would make this place too hot for you and too hot for me. I've a voice in this matter, and for once," he added, with unnecessary sarcasm, "I propose to be heard."

"What do you mean to do?"

"If necessary I'll resurrect myself. I'll play the hand alone. You've no more tact than a hippopotamus. And I'll meet the governor. Don't stare. Do you think he'll know me? Not much! I left Dorset a smooth- faced boy; to-day I'm bearded like the pard. My voice, my figure, the colour of my hair, my complexion are quite unrecognisable. It may be necessary to show the governor my grave, but I shan't bring him down here. Now, I must commit murder as well as suicide."

"What?"

"I must kill you, you duffer! Do you think my father would return to England without thanking the man who was kind to his dear lad? And you would give the whole snap away. Yes; I'll call upon him as Cartwright, the administrator of the late Tudor Crisp's estate. If it were not for that confounded grave and marble cross, I could fix him in ten minutes. Don't frown. I tell you, 'Bishop,' you're not half the fellow you were."

"Perhaps not," replied his reverence humbly.

But when Dick was alone he muttered to himself: "Now what the deuce did the governor mean by a curious change in his fortunes?"

* * * * *

The Rev. George Carteret was sitting at ease in his comfortable rooms at the Acropolis Hotel. The luxury of them was new to him, yet not unpleasing after many years of rigorous self-denial and poverty. It seemed strange, however, that in the evening of life riches should have come to him—riches from a distant kinsman who, living, had hardly noticed the obscure scholar and parson. Five thousand pounds a year was fabulous wealth to a man whose income heretofore had numbered as many hundreds. And—alas! his son was dead. Not that the parson loved his daughters the less because they were girls, but as the cadet of an ancient family he had a Tory squire's prejudice in favour of a Salique Law. With the thousands went a charming grange in the north country and many fat acres which should of right be transmitted to a male Carteret. If—futile thought—Dick had only been spared!

Thus reflecting, the bellboy brought him a card. The parson placed his glasses upon a fine aquiline nose.

"Ahem! Mr.—er—Cartwright. The name is not familiar to me, but I'll see the gentleman."

And so, after many years, father and son met as strangers. Dick fluently explained the nature of his errand. Mr. Carteret's letter had been given to him as the administrator of the late Mr. Tudor Crisp's estate. He happened to be in San Francisco, and, seeing Mr. Carteret's name in the morning paper, had ventured to call.

"And you, sir," said the father softly, "did you know my son?"

Dick admitted that he had known himself—slightly.

"A friend, perhaps? You are an Englishman." Dick pulled his beard.

"Ah!" sighed the father, "I understand. My poor lad was not one, I fear, whom anyone would hasten to call a friend. But if I'm not trespassing too much upon your time and kindness, tell me what you can of him. What good, I mean."

Dick kept on pulling his beard.

"Was there no good?" said the father, very sorrowfully. "His friend, Mr. Crisp, wrote kindly of him. He said Dick had no enemies but himself."

Dick was sensible that his task was proving harder than he had expected. He could not twist his tongue to lie about himself. Men are strangely inconsistent. Dick had prepared other lies, a sackful of them; and he knew that a few extra ones would make no difference to him, and be as balm to the questioning spirit opposite; yet he dared not speak good of the man whom he counted rotten to the core. The parson sighed and pressed the matter no further. He desired, he said, to see Dick's grave. Then he hoped to return to England.

Now Dick had made his plans. In a new country, where five years bring amazing changes, it is easy to play pranks, even in churchyards. In the San Lorenzo cemetery were many nameless graves, and the sexton chanced to be an illiterate foreigner who could neither read nor write. So Dick identified a forlorn mound as his last resting-place, and told the sexton that a marble cross would be erected there under his (Dick's) direction. Then he tipped the man, and bought a monument, taking care to choose one sufficiently time-stained. There are scores of such in every marble-worker's yard. Upon it were cut Dick's initials, a date, and an appropriate text. Within three days of the receipt of Mr. Carteret's letter, the cross was standing in the cemetery. None knew or cared whence it came. Moreover, Dick had passed unrecognised through the town where he had once ruffled it so gaily as Lord Carteret. He had changed greatly, as he said, and for obvious reasons he had never visited the mission town since his bogus death and burial.

Thus it came to pass that Dick and his father travelled together to San Lorenzo, and together stood beside the cross in the cemetery. Presently Dick walked away; and then the old man knelt down, bareheaded, and prayed fervently for many minutes. Later, the father pointed a trembling finger at the initials. "Why," he demanded querulously, "did they not give the lad his full name?" And to this natural question Dick had nothing to say.

"It seems," murmured the old man mournfully, "that Mr. Crisp, with all his kindness, felt that the name should perish also. Well, amen, amen. Will you give me your arm, sir?"

So, arm in arm, they passed from the pretty garden of sleep. Dick was really moved, and the impulse stirred within him to make full confession there and then. But he strangled it, and his jaw grew set and hard. As yet he was in ignorance of the change in his father's fortunes. Mr. Carteret assumed none of the outward signs of prosperity. He wore the clothes of a poor parson, and his talk flowed along the old channels, a limpid stream not without sparkle, but babbling of no Pactolian sands. And then, quite suddenly and simply, he said that he had fallen heir to a large estate, and that he wished to set aside so much money as a memorial of his son, to be expended as the experience of the bishop of the diocese might direct.

"You—you are a rich man?" faltered Dick.

"My son, sir, had he lived, would have been heir to five thousand a year."

Dick gasped, and a lump in his throat stifled speech for a season. Presently he asked politely the nature of Mr. Carteret's immediate plans, and learned that he was leaving San Lorenzo for Santa Barbara on the morrow. Dick had determined not to let his father stray from his sight till he had seen him safe out of the country, but he told himself that he must confer with the 'Bishop' at once. The 'Bishop' must act as go-between; the 'Bishop,' by Jove! should let the cat out of the bag; the 'Bishop' would gladly colour the facts and obscure the falsehoods. So he bade his father good-bye, and the old gentleman thanked him courteously and wished him well. To speak truth, Mr. Carteret was not particularly impressed with Mr. Cartwright, nor sorry to take leave of him. Dick soon secured a buggy, and drove off. En route he whistled gaily, and at intervals burst into song. He really felt absurdly gay.

The 'Bishop,' however, pulled a long face when he understood what was demanded of him. "It's too late," said he.

"Do you funk it?" asked Dick angrily.

"I do," replied his reverence.

"Well, he must be told the facts before he goes south."

Dick little knew, as he spoke so authoritatively, that his father was already in possession of these facts. Within an hour of Dick's departure, Mr. Carteret was walking through the old mission church, chatting with my brother Ajax. From Ajax he learned that at San Clemente, not twenty miles away, was another mission of greater historical interest and in finer preservation than any north of Santa Barbara. Ajax added that there was an excellent hotel at San Clemente, kept by two Englishmen, Cartwright and Crisp. Of course the name Crisp tickled the parson's curiosity, and he asked if this Crisp were any relation to the late Tudor Crisp, who had once lived in or near San Lorenzo. My brother said promptly that these Crisps were one and the same, and was not to be budged from that assertion by the most violent exclamations on the part of the stranger. A synopsis of the Rev. Tudor's history followed, and then the inevitable question: "Who is Cartwright?" Fate ordained that this question was answered by a man who knew that Cartwright was Carteret; and so, at last, the unhappy father realised how diabolically he had been hoaxed. Of his suffering it becomes us not to speak; of his just anger something remains to be said.

He drove up to the San Clemente Hotel as the sun was setting, and both Dick and the 'Bishop' came forward to welcome him, but fell back panic-stricken at sight of his pale face and fiery eyes. Dick slipped aside; the 'Bishop' stood still, rooted in despair.

"Is your name Crisp?"

"Yes," faltered the 'Bishop.'

"The Rev. Tudor Crisp?"

"I—er—once held deacon's orders."

"Can I see you alone?"

The 'Bishop' led the way to his own sanctum, a snug retreat, handy to the bar, and whence an eye could be kept on the bar-tender. The 'Bishop' was a large man, but he halted feebly in front of the other, who, dilated in his wrath, strode along like an avenging archangel, carrying his cane as it might be a flaming sword.

"Now, sir," said Dick's father, as soon as they were alone, "what have you to say to me?"

The 'Bishop' told the story from beginning to end, not quite truthfully.

"You dare to tell me that you hatched this damnable plot?"

The 'Bishop' lied: "Yes—I did."

"And with the money obtained under false pretences you bought a saloon, you, a deacon of the Church of England?"

The 'Bishop' lied: "Yes—I did."

"The devil takes care of his own," said the parson, looking round, and marking the comfort of the room.

"Not always," said the 'Bishop,' thinking of Dick.

"Well, sir," continued the parson, "I'm told that money can work miracles in this country. And, by God! if my money can sent you to gaol, you shall go there, as sure as my name is George Carteret."

"All right," said the 'Bishop.' "I—er—I don't blame you. I think you're behaving with great moderation."

"Moderation! Confound it! sir, are you laughing at me?"

"The Lord forbid!" ejaculated Crisp.

"Men have been shot for less than this."

"There's a pistol in that drawer," said the 'Bishop' wearily. "You can shoot if you want to. Your money can put me into gaol, as you say, and keep you out of it, if—if you use that pistol."

Mr. Carteret stared. The 'Bishop' was beginning to puzzle him. He stared still harder, and the 'Bishop' blushed; an awkward habit that he had never rid himself of. Now a country parson, who is also a magistrate, becomes in time a shrewd judge of men.

"Will you kindly send for my—for your partner?" he said suddenly. "Please sit or stand where you are. I think you'll admit that I have a right to conduct this inquiry in my own way."

Accordingly, Dick was sent for, and soon he took his stand beside the 'Bishop,' facing the flaming blue eyes of his father. Then Mr. Carteret asked him point blank the questions he had put to the other, and received the same answers, the 'Bishop' entering an inarticulate demurrer.

"It appears," said Mr. Carteret, "that there are two ways of telling this story. One of you, possibly, has told the truth; the other has unquestionably lied. I confess," he added dryly, "that my sympathies are with the liar. He is the honester man."

"Yes," said Dick. "I'm about as big a blackguard as you'll find anywhere, but I'm your son all the same. Father—forgive me."

One must confess that Dick played his last trump in a masterly fashion. He knew that whining wouldn't avail him, or any puling hypocrisy. So he told the truth.

"Is that what you want?" said the father sarcastically. "Only that: my forgiveness and my blessing?"

Dick's bold eyes fell beneath this thrust.

"The man who drove me here," continued the father, "told me a curious story. It seems that Mr. Crisp here has toiled and moiled for many years, keeping you in comparative luxury and idleness. Not a word, sir. It's an open secret. For some occult reason he likes to pay this price for your company. Having supported you so long, I presume he is prepared to support you to the end?"

"He's my friend," said the 'Bishop' stoutly.

"My son," said the old man solemnly, "died six years ago, and he can never, never," the second word rang grimly out, "be raised from the dead. That man there," his voice faltered for the first time, "is another son whom I do not know—whom I do not want to know—let him ask himself if he is fit to return with me to England, to live with those gentlewomen, his sisters, to inherit the duties and responsibilities that even such wealth as mine bring in their train. He knows that he is not fit. Is he fit to take my hand?"

He stretched forth his lean white hand, the hand that had signed so many cheques. Dick did not try to touch it. The 'Bishop' wiped his eyes. The poor fellow looked the picture of misery.

"If there be the possibility of atonement for such as he," continued the speaker—"and God forbid that I should dare to say there is not—let that atonement be made here where he has sinned. It seems that the stoppage of his allowance tempted him to commit suicide. I did not know my son was a coward. Now, to close for ever that shameful avenue down which he might slink from the battle, I pledge myself to pay again that five pounds a month during my life, and to secure the same to Richard Cartwright after my death, so long as he shall live. That, I think, is all."

He passed with dignity out of the room and into the street, where the buggy awaited him. Dick remained standing, but the 'Bishop' followed the father, noting how, as soon as he had crossed the threshold, his back became bowed and his steps faltered. He touched the old man lightly on the shoulder.

"May I take your hand?" he asked. "I am not fit, no fitter than Dick, but——"

Mr. Carteret held out his hand, and the 'Bishop' pressed it gently.

"I believe," said Mr. Carteret after a pause, "that you, sir, may live to be an honest man."

"I'll look after Dick," blubbered the 'Bishop,' sorely affected. "Dick will pan out all right—in the end."

But Dick's father shuddered.

"It's very chilly," he said, with a nervous cough. "Good-night, Mr. Crisp. Good-night, and God bless you."



XIX

A RAGAMUFFIN OF THE FOOTHILLS

Jeff looked ruefully at the hot dusty road which curled upward and in front of him like a great white snake. At the top of the grade, where some pines stood out against the blue sky, hung a small reek of dust concealing the figure of his late companion. As Jeff gazed, the reek melted away. The young man told himself that he was alone in the brush foothills, with a lame horse, and a body (his own) so bruised and battered that it seemed to belong to somebody else.

"Hello!" said a voice.

Jeff stared into the chaparral. Wild lilac and big sage bushes, flowering lupins and gilias, bordered the road, for spring was abroad in San Lorenzo county. A boy slipped through the lilacs.

"Jee-whiz!" said the boy. "You've hurt yourself."

"That's right," Jeff replied.

"How did it happen?"

"The plug crossed his feet in the dip yonder, and rolled plum over me. Say—do you want to earn an honest dollar?"

The adjective was emphasised, for none knew better than Jeff that the foothills harboured queer folk. The boy nodded.

"You must get a buggy, sonny."

"A buggy? Anything else? As if buggies grew in the brush-hills!"

Just then Jeff's sanguine complexion turned grey, and his eyes seemed to slip back into his head. The boy perceived a bulging pocket, out of which he whipped a flask. Jeff took a long drink; then he gasped out: "Thunder! you was smart to find that flask. Ah-h-h!"

"You're in a real bad fix," said the boy.

"I am in bad shape," Jeff admitted. "If I'd known I was going to lose the use o' myself like this, I wouldn't ha' been so doggoned keen about my friend leavin' me."

"Your friend must be in a partic'lar hurry."

"He was that," Jeff murmured. A queer buzzing in his ears and an overpowering feeling of giddiness made him close his eyes. When he opened them, the boy had disappeared. Jeff saw that his horse had been tied up in the shade of a scrub-oak.

"That boy seems to have some sense," he reflected. "This is a knock- out, sure."

Again he closed his eyes. A blue jay began to chatter; and when he had finished his screed, a cock-quail challenged the silence. Very soon the wilderness was uttering all its familiar sounds. Jeff, lying flat on his back, could hear the rabbits scurrying through the chaparral. After an interminable delay his ears caught the crackle of dry twigs snapped beneath a human foot.

"Feelin' lonesome?"

"I'm mighty glad to see you again," Jeff admitted. "Ah, water! That's a sight better'n whisky."

He drank thirstily, for the sun was high in the heavens, and the road as hot as an oven.

"I reckoned you'd come back," Jeff continued.

"Why?"

"To earn that dollar." He eyed the lad's somewhat ragged overalls. "Say—what do they call ye to home?"

"Bud."

"Bud, eh? Short for brother. Folks got a fam'ly." He reflected that Bud's sister, if he had one, might be nice-looking. "Well, Bud, I'm under obligations to ye, for hitchin' up the plug in the shade. 'Twas thoughtful. Where ha' ye been?"

"I've been hunting Dad. But he's off in the hills. If I could get ye to our camp——"

"The plug'll have to do it. Unhitch him."

Bud untied the animal, who limped even more acutely than his master. Perhaps he lacked his master's grit. Jeff was the colour of parchment when he found himself in the saddle, whereon he sat huddled up, gripping the horn.

"Freeze on," said the boy.

"You bet," Jeff replied laconically.

Bud led the horse a few yards down the road, passing from it into the chaparral. Thence, through a tangled wilderness of scrub-oak and manzanita, down a steep slope, into a pretty canon.

"Here we are."

A sudden turn of the trail revealed a squatter's hut built of rough lumber, and standing beneath a live-oak. A small creek was babbling its way to the Salinas River. The clearing in front of the hut was strewn with empty tins. A tumble-down shed encircled by a corral was on the other side of the creek. Jeff knew at once that he was looking at one of the innumerable mountain-claims taken up by Eastern settlers in the days of the great land boom, and forsaken by them a couple of years afterwards.

Jeff slid from the saddle on to his sound leg; then, counting rapidly the shining tins, he said reflectively:—

"Bin here about a month, I reckon."

"Yes—Mister—Sherlock—Holmes."

Jeff stared. The ragamuffins of the foothills are not in the habit of reading fiction, although lying comes easy to them.

"Kin you read?" said Jeff.

"I—kin," replied Bud, grinning (he had nice teeth). "Kin you?"

"I can cuff a cheeky kid," said Jeff, scowling.

"But you've got to catch him first."

The boy laughed gaily, and ran into the house, as Jeff sat down propping his broad back against a tree.

"Things here are not what they seem," Jeff murmured to his horse, who twitched an intelligent ear, as if he, too, was well aware that this was no home of squatter or miner. And who else of honest men would choose to live in such a desolate spot?

Presently the boy came back, carrying a feed of crushed barley. Then he unsaddled the horse, watered him, and fed him. Jeff grunted approval.

"You're earnin' that dollar—every cent of it." A delightful fragrance of bacon floated to Jeff's nostrils. Evidently provision had been made for man as well as beast.

"That smells mighty good," said Jeff.

Bud helped him to rise, but after one effort Jeff sank back, groaning.

"It's my boot," he explained. "See—I'm wearing a number eight on a number fifteen hoof. W-w-what? Pull it off? Not for ten thousand dollars. We'll cut it off."

Jeff produced a knife and felt its edge.

"It's sharp," he said, "sharp as you, Bud; but-doggone it! I can't use it."

Bud saw the sweat start on his skin as he tried to pull the injured foot towards him.

"S'pose I do it?" the boy suggested.

"You've not got the nerve, Bud. Why, you're yaller as cheese, you poor little cuss."

"I'm not," said the boy, flushing suddenly.

He took the knife and began to cut the tough leather: a delicate operation, for Jeff's leg from knee to ankle was terribly swollen. Slowly and delicately the knife did its work. Finally, a horribly contused limb was revealed.

"Cold water—and plenty of it," murmured Jeff.

"Or hot?"

"Mebbee hot'd be better."

Bud disappeared, whistling.

"That boy's earning a five-dollar bill," said Jeff. "I'm a liar if he ain't as bright as they make 'em."

The hot water was brought and some linen.

"I feel a heap better," Jeff declared presently.

"How about dinner?"

"Bud, if ever I hev a son I hope he'll be jest like you. Say—you're earning big money—d'ye know it?—and my everlastin' gratitude."

"That's all right. Hadn't I better bring the grub out here? It's nice and cool under this tree."

Jeff nodded. The bacon and beans were brought out and consumed. Bud, however, refused to eat. He preferred to wait for his father. Jeff asked some questions, as he stowed away the bacon and beans.

"Your dad must be an awful nice man," said he.

"He's the best and smartest man in the State," said Bud proudly.

"Is he! And you two are campin' out for yer health—eh? Ye can't fool me, Bud."

"Oh!"

"I sized you up at once as a city boy."

"You're more than half right."

"I'm all right, Bud. In my business I have to be all right. Bless you, it don't do to make mistakes in my business."

"And what is your business?"

Jeff beamed. He was certainly a good-looking fellow, and warmed by food and, comparatively speaking, free from pain, he was worthy of more than a passing glance.

"I'm deputy-sheriff of San Lorenzo County," he declared, "and mighty proud of it."

"Proud of this yere county?" said the boy, "or proud of being dep'ty- sheriff?"

"By Jing! I'm proud o' both. The county's comin' along fine, and so'm I, Bud. It's a fact, sonny, that I'm held in high esteem as an officer. Why, my boss said to me this very day: 'Jeff,' says he, 'yer makin' a record.'"

"What sort o' record?"

Jeff flushed slightly. He was not in the habit of "tooting his own horn," as he would have put it, but the boy's face invited confidence.

"A record for dooin' my duty," he answered slowly. "'Tain't as easy as you might think for."

"No?"

"Not by no means. Ye see, Bud, in a new country 'tisn't only the real bad eggs that worries us. The community can deal with them. No, no, it's the good fellers gone wrong, the straight 'uns grown crooked, who keep us stirrin'. And, sometimes, when a friend, a neighbour, flies the track, an officer is kind o' tempted to look the other way. See?"

"And you don't look the other way?"

Jeff's strong chin stuck out, and his eyes sparkled "You bet I don't."

The boy eyed him attentively. The qualities conspicuous in the pioneer—energy, fortitude, grit, patience—shone finely out of Jeff's eyes.

"I like you, Jeff," said the boy, almost shyly.

"Shake," said Jeff. "I like you, Bud."

The two shook hands solemnly.

"Although I am a city boy," said Bud.

"But it beats me what yer doing—here?"

"Just camping. Dad's a botanist and an entomologist."

"Is that so?" Jeff's face shone. The presence of these strangers in the wild foothills was adequately explained. Then he laughed, showing strong, even teeth. "I'd like to meet your dad first-rate, and, Bud, I'd like even better to meet your sister."

He punched the boy in the ribs, chuckling to himself. The boy laughed too, freshly and frankly.

"Something like you, I reckon," said Jeff, "only cleaner and——"

"I'm as clean as they make 'em," Bud declared angrily.

"Keep your hair on, sonny. I'll allow yer as clean as they make boys, mebbee cleaner, but we're speaking o' girls. Have ye got her picture?"

"Whose picture?"

"Your sister's."

"Well, I declare! How do you know I've got a sister?"

"I know it," said Jeff. "Call it instinct. Didn't I tell ye that in my business I've got to jest naturally know things? I jump, Bud, where the ordinary citizen might, so ter speak, crawl."

The boy laughed gaily. Then he ran off, returning in a minute with a small leather case. Out of this he took a cabinet photograph, which he handed to Jeff. That gentleman became excited at once.

"I knew it—I knew it!" he exclaimed. "She's a—peach! Bud, I'm mighty glad ye showed me this. Jee—whiz! Yes, and like you, only ten thousand times better-lookin'. What's her name, Bud?"

"You don't want to know her name."

"I want to—the worst kind. My! Look at that cunning little curl! And her shape! You know nothing o' that yet, Bud, but I tell ye, sir, yer sister is put up just right according to my notions. Not too tall. Them strung-out, trained-to-a-hair, high-falutin girls never did fetch me. I like 'em round, and soft, and innocent. What's her name, sonny?"

"Sarah."

"Sairy! Bud, I don't believe that. Sairy! I never did cotton to Sairy. Yer pullin' my leg, ye young scallywag. The nerve! No—ye don't."

Jeff had stretched out a long, lean arm, and seized the boy by the shoulder in a grasp which tightened cruelly.

"Oh—oh!"

"Tell me her right name, ye little cuss, or I'll squeeze ye into pulp."

"Lemmee go! Dad calls her Sadie."

Jeff released the shoulder, grinning.

"Sadie—that's a heap better. I—I could love to—to distraction a girl o' the name o' Sadie."

"If Sadie were here——" Bud had removed himself to a respectful distance, and was now glaring at Jeff, and rubbing his bruised shoulder.

"I wish she was, I wish she was. You were saying, Bud——"

"I was saying that if Sadie were here, she'd fix you mighty quick."

"Would she? God bless her!" He stared sentimentally at the photograph.

"Yes, she would. She'd let you know that a girl may be round—an' soft—an' innocent—and a holy terror, too, when a big, blundering galoot of a dep'ty-sheriff talks o' loving somebody to whom he's never been introduced, and never likely to be, neither."

Jeff looked up in amazement.

"Why, Bud; why, sonny—ye're real mad! Why, you silly little whipper- snapper, ye don't think I'd talk that way if the young lady was around. Great Scot! Look ye here! Now—now I ain't goin' to hurt ye any. Come nearer. Ye won't? Well, then, don't! But, strictly between ourselves, I'll tell ye something, although it's agen myself. If your sister was here, right now, I—I'm so doggoned bashful—I wouldn't have a word to say—that's a fact."

"I wish she were here," said Bud, savagely.

"Now, Bud; that's a real nasty one. Ye don't mean that. Did I hurt yer shoulder, sonny?"

"Hurt it? I'll bet it's black and blue most already."

"I'll bet it ain't. Pull down your shirt, an' let's see. Black and blue? You air a little liar."

Bud slowly pulled up the sleeve of his faded blue jumper. Hand and wrist were burnt brown by the sun, but above, the flesh was white and soft. Just below the elbow flamed the red and purple marks left by Jeff's fingers.

"The shoulder's a sight worse than that," said Bud sulkily. Jeff displayed honest concern.

"Pore little Bud," said he, patting the boy's hand which lay in his own. "It is lucky fer me Miss Sadie ain't round. I reckon she would fix me for this. And I shouldn't have a word for her, as I was tellin' ye. She'd think me the biggest kind of a mug."

So speaking, he picked up the photograph and half slipped it into the case.

"Twon't do fer me to look at her," he murmured; "but if ever there was a case——"

"Eh?"

"Never mind."

"What were you going to say?"

"Somethin' very fullish."

"Say it, Jeff. I'll not give ye away to Sadie. Honest, I won't."

"I believe," said Jeff solemnly, "that I've got it where the bottle got the cork. It's a curious sort o' feeling, not unpleasant, but kind o' squirmy."

"What in thunder are you at?"

"It's love, Bud—love at first sight. Now, mind—yer not to give me away. I'm in love end over end with your sister. Don't git mad! She'll never know it."

"Are you often taken this way?"

"Never before, by Jing! That's what's so queer. Mebbee I pitched on my head. Mebbee I'm delirious."

"Mebbee you always were—half-baked. Looks like it, I must say. Give me the case."

"Any more sisters, Bud? I reckon not. The mould must ha' been broke when Miss Sadie was born. One'll make trouble enough for we men. Is there another, Bud?"

"No."

"There's another picture in there."

"Yes—Dad's."

Now it chanced that as Jeff drew the portrait of Bud's father from the case the boy had turned, and so missed the amazing expression of surprise, dismay, horror, that flitted into Jeff's honest face, and for the moment distorted it. But when he spoke his voice was the same, and his features were composed.

"This is your—dad?"

"Yes. I call him a peach." "It's a fine head—sure," murmured Jeff.

Bud bent over him, eager to sing the praises of his sire. But, for the first time since man and boy had met, Jeff's face assumed a hard, professional look. Bud eyed him interrogatively.

"Does your leg hurt any?"

"N-n-o."

"I'll fetch some more hot water, if you say so."

"I'm feelin' a heap easier—in my leg."

He put the two photographs into the case, closed it, and handed it to Bud with a sigh.

"Maybe you will meet Sadie some day," said Bud, taking the case.

"Maybe," Jeff replied, with an indifference which made the boy stare. Jeff was gazing across the foothills with a queer steely glint in his blue eyes. Bud ran into the house.

Instantly, Jeff was alert. He pulled a tattered handbill from his pocket, smoothed it out, and read it with darkening brows. The bill offered a handsome reward for any information which would lead to the arrest of one Sillett, a defaulting assistant-cashier of a Santa Barbara bank. Sillett and his daughter had disappeared in a springboard, drawn by a buckskin horse, and were supposed to have travelled south, in the hope of crossing the border into Mexico. At the head of the bill was a rough woodcut of Sillett. Jeff crumpled up the sheet of paper, and stuffed it into his pocket.

"It's him—sure 'nough," he growled. Then he gasped suddenly, "Jee- roosalem! Bud is a rosebud!"

He smiled, frowned, and tugged at his moustache as Bud appeared with some more hot water. Jeff blushed.

"You're real kind, but I hate to give ye all this trouble."

Bud, after bathing the swollen leg, glanced up sharply.

"You're as red as the king of hearts. You ain't going to have a fever?"

"I do feel kind o' feverish," Jeff admitted.

Bud lightly touched his forehead.

"Why, it's burning hot, I do declare."

Jeff closed his eyes, murmuring confusedly, "I b'lieve it'd help me some if you was to stroke my derned head."

Bud obediently smoothed his crisp curls. Jeff's forehead was certainly hot, and it grew no cooler beneath the touch of Bud's fingers.

"Hello!" exclaimed Bud, a few minutes later.

"Here's Dad coming across the creek."

* * * * *

Sillett advanced leisurely, not seeing the figures under the live-oak. He carried a tin box and a butterfly-net. He was dressed in the brown over-alls of Southern California, stained and discoloured by sun and tar-weed. His face, brown as the over-alls, had, however, a pinched look, and in his eyes lay a curious tenseness familiar enough to deputy-sheriffs. For the rest, he had a mild forehead, which he was wiping as he crossed the creek, a pleasant mouth, and a chin a thought too delicately modelled for a man. He walked soberly, with the dragging stride of a tired pedestrian. He was tall, thin, and angular.

Bud ran to meet him.

"We've comp'ny," he cried, indicating Jeff. Sillett quickened his step.

"Company?"

Sillett met Jeff's glance with a simple bow, and the inevitable remark, "Hurt yourself?"

Jeff explained. While describing his misadventure he decided that Bud could not be a party to the father's crime. Sillett asked for permission to examine the wounded leg Presently he asked Jeff to stand up.

"Oh, Dad!" protested Bud.

Jeff obeyed, glad to discover that he could stand upon the injured foot.

"Same thing happened to me once," Sillett remarked. "The tight boot caused more than half the trouble. Sit down, Mr.——?"

"Wells. Jefferson Wells."

"Thank you. My name is—of no service to you. And this is my daughter —Sarah. Run away, Sadie."

Jeff, watching the daughter, thought her confusion the prettiest thing he had ever seen.

"You are a cowboy, I presume?" said Sillett, as Bud disappeared. Not waiting for Jeff's answer, he went on fluently: "I'm sure I can trust you; you have an honest face, sir. I'm collecting certain plants and butterflies, but—I have other reasons for camping out. My daughter has played the boy, because a boy is safe in these wild hills; an unprotected girl might be molested. We will do what we can for you. You, I am sure, will respect this confidence."

Sillett played his trumps boldly, not knowing that he was speaking to a deputy-sheriff. Jeff said nothing. Sillett, after asking if the horse had been fed and watered, followed his daughter into the hut. Jeff groaned to himself. "Mighty soon I'll be wishing I'd never been born!"

However, assured that he was alone, he carefully examined his six- shooter, and began to reckon what chances there were for and against arresting Sillett single-handed. Ordinarily, he was quick enough at such calculations, but Bud introduced confusion into every sum. "I'm in an awful hole," reflected the unhappy Jeff.

The hole became a bottomless pit when Bud appeared in a pretty linen frock, and asked him demurely how he fared.

"You're looking worse," she said.

Changing her dress, she had cast off with the rough overalls such rugosities of manner, speech, and intonation as belonged to the ragamuffin of the foothills. Poor Jeff assumed his "society" manner and accent.

"If I'd only known," he began lamely.

"You never suspected?"

A note of anxiety escaped Jeff's ears.

"N-n-no. Of course not. Why, think how I handled you."

Sadie blushed.

"I'll forget everything," she whispered, showing a couple of dimples, "and we'll begin all over again, Mr.—Wells."

His confusion, which she attributed to bashfulness, encouraged the shameless coquette to add: "Maybe you liked me better as Bud?" Jeff was scarlet as he replied: "I liked Bud first-rate, but Bud'll remember what I said about his sister." Then he quite spoiled the effect of this happy phrase by adding hurriedly: "Say, I'd just as lief you didn't tell your father that I am a deputy-sheriff."

Sadie raised her dark brows.

"I thought you were so proud of that."

"I tooted my own horn, like a tenderfoot."

"But I liked what you said, Mr. Wells. That's the part I shan't forget. About doing your duty, you know. Dad would like that too. He's done his duty, has Dad—always."

"I'll allow he's done his duty by you."

She laughed gaily; then, seeing with a woman's quick eyes that the man was in pain, she said for the second time, "I know you're feeling worse, Mr. Wells."

A wiser than Jeff would have assented to this. Jeff rose hastily and walked a few paces.

"I'm most well," he declared irritably.

"Then what ails you?"

Jeff sat down again, smiling nervously.

"Well, Miss Sadie, I was thinking of the cruellest thing in this cruel world."

"My! What's that?"

"Why do the innocent suffer for the sins o' the guilty?"

"You do fly the track." She paused, gazing first at Jeff's troubled face, and then at the scene about them. The enchantress, Spring, had touched all things with her magical fingers The time had come when

"Half of the world a bridegroom is, And half of the world a bride."

Very soon—within a month at most—the creek which ran so joyfully to the great ocean yonder would have run altogether out of sight, leaving a parched and desolate watercourse in its place. The grass, now a vivid green, bespangled with brilliant poppies, would fade into premature age and ugliness. The trees would have assumed the dust- covered livery of summer. The birds would be mute.

Sadie shrugged, protestingly, her slender shoulders.

"Suppose we talk of something else this lovely day?"

But Jeff paid no attention. In a crude, boyish fashion he had come to a decision.

"Shall I tell you a story?"

"Oh, please!"

"It happened to a friend of mine, a man I knew real well."

"A love story, Mr. Wells?"

"There's love in it, Miss Sadie."

"I'm glad of that."

"This man, my friend, he was a brother deputy o' mine, came to be twenty-six without ever falling in love."

"My! He must have been hard-hearted—your friend."

"Mebbee. Well, one fine day he met his mate——"

"What was she like?"

"Like? Why, she was the sweetest thing on earth. I'd as lief try to describe a day such as this——"

"Oh! I know what's coming. You fell in love with your friend's sweetheart. Poor Mr. Wells!"

Jeff ignored this interruption.

"I was saying that my friend met his mate, nobody's else's, and though he'd never met her before, by Jing! he knew right off she was his mate."

"Love at first sight."

"That's right. Love at first sight."

Sadie's face and figure perceptibly relaxed. Her eyes softened delightfully. With parted lips she seemed to hang upon Jeff's next words.

"Unfortunately, she was the daughter of a thief."

"A thief!"

"That ain't the right word. Embezzler, I reckon, would fit better. Leastwise, he'd made away with other folks' money, meanin' to put it back, no doubt, if he happened to strike the right lead. Luck was dead against him. Mind ye, he was a good citizen enough, as Westerners go. I don't deny that he'd average up as well as most. I remember the case well, because I read about it in the papers. The dry years had bust him, and the most of his friends too. Some o' these friends he'd helped. He was on their notes of hand, ye understand?"

He glanced at her sharply. Would she understand? Would she guess? No. In the pure, clear eyes upturned to his he read pity, sympathy interest—nothing more. She nodded.

"When times mended in Southern California he thought he saw his chance to get back all he'd lost: just one o' those dead sure shots which will miss fire. He'd not a cent of his own, so he borrowed, without askin' leave, a few hundreds, that was all, jest a few hundreds from somebody else."

"He was a—thief," said Sadie calmly.

"It's too hard a word that. Now then, I'm getting to the point. My friend, deputy-sheriff like me, found himself in this hell of—I mean in this terrible tight place. He was sent to arrest the father of the girl he loved."

"Oh-h-h!"

This prolonged exclamation sadly puzzled Jeff, whose claim to consideration at the hands of many friends was a guileless transparency of purpose, a candour and simplicity unhappily too rare. Now, his climax, so artfully introduced, provoked nothing more satisfactory than this "Oh-h-h!"

"Well," continued Jeff, gazing almost fiercely into Sadie's eyes, "my friend found the father, and he knew that he could arrest him, or he could earn the everlastin' gratitude of the girl by letting him escape—and helping him to escape."

"And what did your friend do?" Sadie asked quietly.

"What do you think he did, Miss Sadie?"

"Did the girl know that her father was a thief?"

"She was as innocent as Mary's little lamb."

"I don't know what your friend did," said Sadie, in a clear, emphatic voice, "but I do know what he ought to have done. His first duty was to his State."

Jeff stared, and then laughed.

"To his State. That's so. Yes, yes; and that's how my friend acted. He did arrest the father, and the daughter—why, o' course, she never spoke to him again."

"It's a sad story," said Sadie, after a pause. "I'm sorry you told it to me to-day, because——" her voice faltered.