Nevertheless, Plutina did not expect the boon of sleep, though she longed for it with aching intensity. In spite of this temporary respite, she could see no way of escape from the outlaw's power, except by death. The vagaries of a drunken mood had saved her to-night: they could not save her for long. And, then, even while she mourned the hopelessness of her case, oblivion fell on her, and she slept the reposeful, dreamless slumber of utter exhaustion.

A violent shaking of the bed of boughs startled the prisoner back to consciousness. For the fraction of a second, her mind was chaos. Then remembrance came, and rending fear. But there was one comfort—day had dawned: she could see. There was no one with her in the chamber. The moving branches warned that the intruder was still in the tunnel. There was time for her to gain the crevice, where she could forbid any approach, where if her command failed, she could throw herself from the cliff. She darted across the width of the room, and stood in the cleft, strained back against the rock, her eyes staring affrightedly toward the opposite wall. All her woman's terrors were crashing upon her now. She felt Death clawing at her over the brow of the ledge, fierce to drag her into the depths. One of the hands clutching at her bosom touched the fairy crystal, and she seized it despairingly, and clung to it, as if the secret spell of it might hold her back to life.

Abruptly, a broken cry of relief fluttered from her lips, for she saw the shock head of Garry Hawks thrust from the tunnel's mouth. Toward him, she felt no fear, only contempt. In the reaction, she trembled so that she could hardly stand, and for a few moments her eyes closed. Only the rock against which she leaned saved her from crumbling to the floor. The weakness passed very quickly, however, and she was again mistress of herself by the time Hawks had scrambled to his feet.

The fellow had little to say, answering surlily the questions put to him by Plutina. He plainly cherished animosity against the girl who had wounded him, which was natural enough. As plainly, he did not dare vent his spite too openly against the object of his chief's fondness. He brought with him a bag containing bread and a liberal allowance of cooked slices of bacon, and a jug of water. His information was to the effect that Hodges would not return until nightfall. He left in the fashion of his coming, by the tunnel. Plutina immediately replaced the boughs, and, when she had eaten and drunk, again seated herself on the rough bed. From time to time, she went to the crevice, and stared out over the wild landscape longingly. But the height gave her a vertigo if she stepped forth upon the ledge. For that reason, she did not venture outside the crevice after a single attempt, which set her brain reeling. She remained instead well within the cleft, where she was unaffected by the height, while able to behold the vast reaches of sunlit space before her. The area about the foot of the precipice was, however, cut off from her vision. So it came about that, though she went twice to the crevice and looked out during the intervals while the marshal, first with his men and afterward with her grandfather, was searching about the pool, she knew nothing concerning the nearness of aid. She could not see the men, and the din of the falls covered their voices.

Occasionally, the girl lapsed into a quietude that was half-stupor and half-sleep, the while she reclined on the boughs. These were blessed periods of rest for the over-strained nerves, and she strove to prolong them—always in vain. For the most part, she hurried about with febrile, aimless movements. She found herself wondering often if to-day were to be the last of her life. She could see no other issue. The night would bring Hodges, and the crisis of her fate. She could not hope for a second escape through a drunken vagary. There would be only the leap from the ledge to-night. As she stood in the crevice, and looked out on the smiling sylvan glory of the scene, as the soft summer breeze caressed her cheeks, and the balsamic air filled her bosom with its gently penetrant vigors, she realized as never before the miracle of life, its goodness and sweet savors. She cried out against the hideous thing that was come upon her. The every fiber of her being flamed in revolt against the idea of death. Every atom of her clamored for life and love. And there were only shame and death for her choice. She took out the fairy crystal, and prayed to the sacred sign it bore, beholding it dimly though scalding tears. But faith flickered and went out. Her soul sickened.... For her, there was nothing else—just shame and death. No—only death.

Plutina would have tried escape by the rope-ladder, but she found its weight too much for her strength, so sorely over-tried by racking emotions. Even had she been able to carry the burden it would have availed nothing, for the dizziness attacked her whenever she drew near the verge. In her desperation, she even crept the length of the tunnel a second time, on the faint chance that the exit might now be less secure. She found the rock barrier immovable as before, though the rim of light showed that here was, in very truth, the way to freedom, and she pushed frantically at the obstacle until utterly exhausted.

It was when evening drew down that, at last, there sounded the noise of a writhing body within the tunnel, and, from her point of refuge close to the crevice, she saw the outlaw crawl out of the passage, and stand before her like a demon of the darkness, leering at her fatuously.

"You-all is shore makin' quite a visit," he remarked, with heavy sarcasm.

"An' it kain't he'p ye none, Dan," Plutina retorted. "I hates ye, an' yer keepin' me hyar hain't goin' to do ye no good. If ye goes fer to lay a finger on me, I'll go over the cliff. I'm worse scairt o' yer touchin' me than I be o' the rocks down thar, Dan." Her voice was colorless, but an undertone of finality ran in it.

The outlaw regarded her sharply from his inflamed eyes. It may be that her sincerity impressed him. Yet, he betrayed no feeling as he answered, carelessly:

"Hain't no call fer ye to be so damned ornery. I hain't a-goin' to tech ye—yit. We'll be together quite a spell, I reckon—till I gits sick o' havin' ye round. If I wanted ye I could jump ye easy from hyar. I'm some spry, if I be big. But ye needn't be skeered, I'm tellin' ye. I hain't a-goin' to tech ye—yit."

The final monosyllable was charged with sinister import, but the man's assurance of her present safety was, somehow, convincing, and she accepted it with the emotional gratitude of one sentenced to death who receives a reprieve. She sank down on the stone bench near the crevice, and watched her jailer with unwavering attention, while he produced a candle from his pocket, and lighted it, and had recourse again to the stone jug of whiskey, which had remained by the bed of boughs.

To-night, the fiery drams made him garrulous, and he discussed his affairs, his hopes, and plans, with a freedom that showed how complete was his expectation of retaining the girl in his power. Thus, Plutina learned of the search being made for her, which was now the active cause in changing the outlaw's purpose in the immediate disposal of his prisoner.

"I was aimin' to lay low with ye right hyar," he explained, after his fourth sup of the spirits. "But I reckon hit's a goin' to be a heap safer to skedaddle. I ain't a-wantin' no damned dawgs fer to chaw me up. So I'm goin' to mosey over Bull Head t'-morrer. You-all 'll go 'long, nice an' peaceable—er ye'll be drug." He spoke with a snarl now. "Ye'll know hit, when I once git ye cross the state line—cuss ye! Ye'll find I hain't so damned shy, arter all!"

Plutina cowered before the savage threat in the words. There was no mistaking the expression in the lustful eyes burning on her. His regard was in itself contamination. It was the prophecy of worse, of the final wickedness, to come. The afflicted girl thrilled with loathing before the satyr-like aspect of this man, foul of flesh and soul. But, along with abhorrence of the creature who held her in his keeping so ruthlessly, there was another emotion—that recurrent wonder concerning such delay in the base gratification craved by his passion. She could not doubt the fierce longing that seethed in his veins. It was like a visible thing flaming from him; and tangible, for she felt the impact of those brutal desires thronging against the white shield of her own purity, powerless to penetrate, yet nauseating her by the unclean impact. What, then, interposed to check him? What hidden force held him back from working his will against her? She could make no surmise. Certainly, here was no physical restraint to stay him. As certainly, no moral reason would be of effect. The thing was altogether mysterious. So, she marveled mightily, and was curious to understand, even while she thanked God for the further respite. And now, too, hope began to burn again. Surely, if she were to accompany him on the trails as he had said, there would come the opportunity for escape. He could not be on guard ceaselessly. Vigilance must relax on occasion. It would not be then as here in this dreadful cavern, perched 'twixt earth and sky.... She broke off to listen, for the outlaw, having filled his pipe and drained a deep draught of the liquor, was become loquacious again. This time, thanks to the drink, he waxed confidential, intimate even.

"I kin git away from hyar, an' no damned dawg kain't foller my tracks, nuther. Er if he does, he'll drap inter the Devil's Kittle. But I knows my way 'bout in these-hyar mountings. An' ye needn't be afeared o' losin' me, Honey. I'll hang onto ye good an' tight. When I git ye over the line, I'll have a parson, if ye want. I hain't a-keerin' one way, or t'other. But I got to have ye, willin' or not willin', parson or no parson. I'd hev ye t'-night if 'twan't fer jest one cussed thing. Hit's a'mighty hard to hev yer blood a-b'ilin', till ye're like to bust jest 'cause of a slip of a gal, what ye could smash in yer two han's—an' her so high an' mighty!" The querulous voice ceased, while he had recourse again to the stone jug.

When next he spoke, it was evident that his mood had changed. He was no longer harshly self-assertive, vainglorious, or brutally frank concerning the passion that consumed him. He was, instead, strangely reminiscent, with involuntary revelation of the weakness that preyed upon him. The girl was grateful for the change in him, but her bewilderment increased.

"I seen a feller hung once," Hodges said. His guttural, awed tones were hushed almost to a whisper. "They pulled a black cap down over 'is face, so's he couldn't see nothin' 'bout what he was up ag'inst. An' his han's was tied together behind 'is neck, with the knot up under his ear—'is left ear, I 'member hit was. I 'member partic'lar."

The speaker's gaze had been downcast; not once had he looked at Plutina. It was as if he had forgotten the girl's presence there with him, and communed aloud with his own gristly memories of the death-scene he had witnessed. His huge bulk seemed somehow shrunken—a physical shriveling in response to the craven fear in his soul. That gray, mottled purple of his face showed again. Plutina wondered, if, indeed, this same memory had been in his thoughts the night before. But, if so, it only made the thing the more inexplicable. Why should a hanging, long-past, thus haunt him? He was no nervous weakling, to be tortured by imaginary fears. Yet, now, he displayed unmistakable signs of terror, in his voice, his eyes, his whole mien, in the shaking haste that spilled the half of the drink he poured out.

"I seen 'im hung," he repeated, abjectly. "They let the trap drap from under his feet—an' 'im all tied, an' thet-thar black cap pulled down over 'is face to blind 'im. Hit were plumb awful fer to see 'im drap. An' then the rope stopped 'im right in the air. Hit were a drefful yank he got. They say, hit broke 'is neck, so's he didn't feel nothin' more. But I dunno. Hit looked like he felt a heap, fer he kicked an' squirmed like hell. Hit weren't purty fer to see. I've seen a big bull-frog what I've speared kick an' squirm jest like 'im. No, hit weren't purty. I'd shore hate fer to have my neck bruk thet-thar way. Damn the law, anyhow! They hadn't orter treat no white man thet-thar way. Hit must feel awful, a-standin' up thar, with thet-thar cap down over ye, shuttin' out everythin'—ferever; an' with thet-thar noose round yer neck, an' the knot a-ticklin' yer ear—yer left ear. I 'member specially. An' a-knowin' the noose is a-goin' to tighten, an' cut off yer breath—fer always. An' a-standin' on thet-thar trap, an' a-knowin' hit's goin' to drap—a-knowin' the bottom's a-goin' to drap right out o'—everythin'! I don't never want my neck bruk no sech way's thet. Hit hain't right."

Plutina, staring wide-eyed, saw to her stupefaction that tears trickled from the eyes of the maudlin man; she heard him whimpering. Once more, he poured himself a drink. He mumbled unintelligibly for a little. Then, of a sudden, his voice rose in a last flare of energy, before he rolled on the boughs in sodden slumber.

"Damn the law in this-hyar state! Hit hain't right, nohow. Jest 'cause a feller loves a gal—to hang 'im! I hain't afeared o' nothin' else, s'fur's I knows, but I'd hate fer to have my neck bruk like his'n was. I hain't a-takin' no chancet o' thet. I'll wait till I'm over the line. But hit's hell to crave a woman!"

Raucous snores told the girl that the man slept, that again she had passed through the ordeal in safety. And now, at last, she knew the cause of her escape thus far. The mystery that had baffled her was a mystery no longer. Out of the creature's own mouth had come the explanation. Driven on by gusty passion as he was, a yet stronger emotion triumphed over lust. Of imagination he had little, but he had seen a man hanged. His memory of that death had been her salvation, for such is the punishment meted to the violator of a woman in North Carolina. In Dan Hodges, that master emotion, lust, had met a mightier—fear. Because he was a coward, he had not ventured even the least caress, lest passion seize him and make him mad—forgetful of how that other man died so horribly. She had been spared because between him and her a scaffold loomed.



CHAPTER XXI

The full-throated baying of a hound. Men, far in the valleys below Stone Mountain, looked up, and listened, wondering. But those on the mountain heard and understood: Dan Hodges was being run to earth.

The clew offered by the wet place on the cliff had sufficed for the three men who accompanied the stag-hound. They had marked the spot carefully in memory by its distance from a certain stunted pine growing above it and a rift in the precipice to one side. Then they had ascended a furlong to the north, where the ascent was gradual and broken. When they had made sure that they were at the proper level, they searched for an approach to the desired ledge. The dog found the scent by the tunnel, but Brant did not loose the animal. Stone's eyes caught traces of where a bowlder had been moved. A little more searching revealed the opening covered by the stone, which they rolled aside.

"But he's not there, now," Brant declared, as he restrained the eager dog. "Jack is wild to be off, and he wouldn't take a back track."

Uncle Dick, eager to make sure, would have attempted the passage, but Stone interposed.

"I'll go," he declared. "It's my right—my prisoner, you know. Anyhow, it'll be a snug-enough fit for me, and I'm smaller than you, Uncle Dick."

The old man grudgingly admitted the fact, and made way for the marshal. In five minutes, Stone was back.

"Nobody there," he announced.

"Then it's up to Jack," Brant exclaimed, and slipped the leash.

The hound shot forward in full cry. The men hurried after at top speed. Almost immediately, the dog vanished among the thickets. There came a clatter of sliding stones, as the big beast went galloping up the rise toward the crest of the mountain. The men followed as best they might, guided by the baying. Uncle Dick listened with bloodthirsty hopefulness for the crack of Zeke's rifle, which he would recognize.

The fugitive himself heard the hound's sonorous summons, and wasted breath in cursing. He cursed his potations over-night, which had led him to sleep beyond the sunrise. But for such drunken folly, he would have had the trailer hopelessly at fault. Now, at best, it would be a close race—and there was the girl to hamper and hinder. She was running at his side, obedient to the pressure of his hands. He had replaced the cowhide thong, with her hands in front of her, and with play enough for free movement. So far, she had made no resistance to his commands. But the barking of the dog would warn her. If she should turn balky—

What the outlaw feared, came to pass. The hoarse baying sounded to Plutina's ears like sweetest music. The first note told her that friends were at hand for a rescue from the monster by her side. Her heart leaped in the joy of it. A new courage surged in her—courage to defy this creature that held her in thrall.

They were come already across the most of the plain of naked rock that is the top of the mountain. They had rushed without pause through the little grove of dwarf pines that grows near the Devil's Slide, above the Cauldron. They were come, indeed, to the very edge of the Slide itself before Plutina acted. After all, it was not the new courage, but a newer fear, that forced her. She had one swift glimpse of the valley spread a thousand feet below, the giant trees like tiniest saplings, so far away—that dear, adorable valley, where were home and peace and love. But, between her and it, the precipice fell; between her and it, the Devil's Pot boiled; between her and it was this man, who drove her with curses. She looked away from the beloved valley into the loathsome face, and she saw the fear in his eyes—fear, and something else that terrified her. She realized suddenly that she was on the very verge of the Slide, where none might venture and live. There, just beyond, was the darkened surface of the rock where the shallow stream went slithering down into the Cauldron. An hysteria of fear gripped her, as he dragged her forward, out upon the sloping stone that dipped toward the abyss. She believed that he meant to hurl her from the height. Thus, there would be left no evidence of his crime. His passion for her was nothing now—only his passion for life.

"Quick, damn ye!" Hodges rasped. "I know the way in the dark. Ye needn't be skeered none with me."

He meant it; but the girl did not believe. She thought it a ruse to get her closer to the edge. She shrieked in despair, and sprang away from him. His clutch on the thong checked her. He jerked her back to him, hardly pausing in his stride. She struck at his face furiously, but he dragged her on toward the brink, mouthing at her with foul oaths. She fell to her knees, and hung, screaming, a dead weight. The baying of the hound sounded closer. Hodges threw a glance over his shoulder, and saw the dog charging from the grove. He would have fired, but the girl was in the way. With a final blasphemy, he dropped his rifle, and struck at her—full in the face. She sank down limply, unconscious. Her body slid away slowly, yet with a quickening movement, toward the gulf.

Hodges gave not even a look to his victim. He heard the challenge of the hound, now fairly upon him. There was no time to shoot. He used cunning instead. A mighty jump carried him over the moist surface where the stream flowed. He alighted on the dry rock. His bare feet clutched and held on the sloping surface.... No instinct warned the hound. Its leap brought it down in the wet run-way. Its feet shot from under. The force of its rush finished the work. The outlaw turned just in time to see the hound disappear over the cliff.

Before he had time for exultation over this victory, before he could look to see how fared the girl whom he had struck down so ruthlessly, before he guessed the new peril, another enemy was upon him.

Zeke, too, had heard the baying of the hound. Trembling with eagerness, where he lurked behind a screen of bushes at the south of the grove, he knew that the dog was hot on the trail. He went racing toward the sound, with the bull-terrier at his heels. He had just entered among the trees, when he saw the hound careen past him. He followed, and, as he issued into the open, saw the man and the girl struggling on the edge of the precipice. He sickened at the spectacle, but there was no faltering. With every atom of energy in speed, he darted down the slope. He saw the blow that crumpled Plutina to the rock. He saw it through a veil of red. What he did not see was the low, stealthy, yet quickening, slide of her body toward the brim of the abyss. So, all unconscious of that peril to the one he loved, he sprang to attack his enemy. He saw the hound's fate, and understood the cause of it. He, in turn, cleared the treacherous wet surface by a mighty leap. That leap brought him full on the outlaw's back. The two men went down together.

The crash of Hodges' head on the rock had well been enough to crack an ordinary skull. But his was strong, and the unkempt thatch of hair cushioned it, so that he got no serious hurt. A little dazed by the blow, and by the unexpectedness of the onslaught—nothing more. And he had the bravery of triumphant physical strength. In the instant of attack, he fought back viciously, with blind thrust and clutch. A long, powerful arm writhed around Zeke like a band of steel, and held the assailant immovable. Lying there on his back, the outlaw looked up into Zeke's face, and recognized it, and cursed this unexpected foe obscenely.

Zeke wasted no energy in words. He was mad with rage against the man he hated. His one desire was to kill. He twined his fingers in the tangled hair, and beat the head upon the stone floor again and again. But the leverage of his arms was cut down too much. He could not even stun the outlaw, much less kill. He could not reach his rifle, which he had dropped when he sprang to the attack. He could not draw his revolver by reason of the encircling arms. He could only hammer his enemy's head on the rock, with a cruel lust for slaughter that availed nothing except to madden him by its futility. His strength, great though it was, was not enough against the man he fought.

Hodges proved the fact presently, for by a tremendous effort, he turned, and pinned Zeke underneath. The force of the impact under the outlaw's heavy weight laid the lad unconscious. The fingers unclenched from his adversary's hair; he lay limp. Hodges rose to his feet, with shambling haste. But, if he meant to kill, fate thwarted him. One foot was placed on the treacherous dampened rock. It slid from under him. He was thrown from his balance, and sprawled at length. He scrambled on all fours toward the other side of the run-way with desperate haste. He did not attempt to rise. A moment later, he slipped slowly over the brow of the cliff.

Seth Jones, just issuing from the grove, saw the vanishing of the outlaw, but, at the distance, he could not distinguish the man's identity or that of the other, lying motionless on the sloping rock. For the instant, however, he gave no heed to either for sheer horror of something else he saw—the unconscious girl, moving so inexorably to her doom. He shouted in despair, as he raced toward her. But he knew he must be too late. He was powerless to stay her fall—as was the bull-terrier, which had seized her skirt and still clung, only to be dragged down with her into the void. Before he was come to the beginning of the Slide, girl and dog had traversed it—had shot out into the emptiness of space.



CHAPTER XXII

The veteran gazed down at the sloping expanse of stone that curved to the sheer drop of the precipice. He was absolutely helpless in the face of the catastrophe he had witnessed. A man, a girl and a dog had gone to their death in this frightful place within the minute. Already, the corpses were stewing in the Devil's Pot half-a-thousand feet below, he reflected grimly. There was nothing to be done for them now, or ever. He felt a whirl of nausea within him, but fought back the weakness. He shuddered, as he thought of the man behind him, lying senseless on the edge of the Slide. Was it Hodges whom he had seen plunge into the depths, or was it—Zeke? It was with fearful apprehension that he turned at last to learn as to which remained.

A little cry of relief escaped him, for at a glance he recognized Zeke. He sprang forward, and, in a moment, had assured himself that the young man was not dead, was not even seriously wounded. He guessed that a fall on the rocks had merely stunned. As best he could with one hand, he got out his pocket-flask, and finally managed to force a little of the liquor between the clenched teeth. Presently, it took effect. The color came back into Zeke's face, and he stirred, and groaned. Then he sat up, resting against the veteran's arm.

Before there was time for any interchange of words between the two, a shout aroused them to look toward the grove. They saw the marshal dashing down the slope. Close behind him ran Cyclone Brant. Uncle Dick lagged a little, the burden of years pressing too heavily at last. The three came swiftly and gathered about the two on the edge of the Slide. Dismay was writ large on their faces. The silence of the hound, Zeke stricken and alone with the veteran, aroused their suspicion of disaster.

"Where's Jack?" Brant demanded. His heart was in the question. The fate of the others was of less concern to him than that of the animal he loved.

Zeke answered, strongly enough, for now energy was flowing back into him.

"The hound went over," he said, regretfully. "I saw him. He slipped an' fell, an' was gone like a flash."

Brant turned away to hide his distress.

But in Zeke recollection welled. He clutched at the marshal, and drew himself to his feet, where, after an instant, he stood firmly. His eyes went searchingly over the barren surface of the Slide. They dilated. Fright lined his face—then, horror. He stared wildly, his gaze roving over all the mountain-top, once and again—and again. When words came, they were broken, surcharged with the horrid fear that was on him.

"Whar—whar is she—Tiny?"

His look went to the four men in turn, piteously pleading. Each of the three met the look and answered it by a shake of the head. But the veteran could not endure the anguish in the lover's eyes. His own dropped. He did not shake his head. Zeke strove for courage.

"Whar is she?" he demanded, at length. His voice was more composed now, but his eyes were flaming.

The veteran answered very softly, but without any attempt at evasion.

"I saw her go, Zeke—over the cliff. Thet little dawg o' your'n had a holt on her skirt. But he hadn't the heft to keep her from goin'. The dawg did the best he knew how. But 'twa'n't no use, an' he went, too. I was too fur off to grab her. I reckon she fainted. She didn't scream, ner move none to save herself."

There was a little period of silence. These men were schooled to the concealment of deepest emotions. There was no frantic outburst from the bereaved lover, from the afflicted grandfather. There was not even comment or further questioning. Of what avail? The thing was done. The girl was lost forever, dead. But the other men looked away, lest they see the agony in Zeke's face.

Abruptly, the young man started walking down the slope. He wore shoes, and they slipped a little on the smooth stone. Straight down toward the brink he strode. The curve of the dome made every step more perilous. It was a natural, an irresistible impulse to look on the precise place where the loved one had perished, but it appeared as if he walked to his death. Indeed, his danger was grave, for he had forgotten the shoes he wore.... Or, perhaps, he did not care! Uncle Dick uttered an oath, and leaped in pursuit. It was only a matter of seconds to overtake the young man, seize him, turn him about and march him back with fierce expostulations that were a welcome vent to emotion.

Zeke obeyed readily, aware of his momentary folly. Then, as he rejoined the group, hate flared again. Memory of the fight was confused by the blow on his head. He questioned Seth Jones harshly, with a single word:

"Hodges?"

The veteran permitted himself a faint smile. The cruelty of the soldier, accustomed to violent deaths, was in it. There was, too, a curious smugness, a secret complacency.

"I 'low yer wits are some shook up yit, bein' as how ye disremember," he remarked easily. "Ye trun Hodges over the cliff, Zeke, jest as ye went down. Hit were nip an' tuck atween ye, an' ye bested 'im." The kindly veteran believed the lie would be a life-long source of satisfaction to the lad, who had been so fearfully despoiled. Now, his belief was justified by the fierce pleasure that showed for a moment in Zeke's pain-drawn face.

"I kain't seem to remember," he said, perplexedly. "But I'm shore glad I killed him."

Then, again, silence fell. There could be no triumph really over the death of Hodges, because it had involved the destruction of Plutina as well. The five men stood about awkwardly. The solemnity of death lay like a pall over them. In the stress of suffering, Zeke had moved on from youth to the full stature of manhood. Uncle Dick had added a score of years to his apparent age. Brant grieved much, if less seriously. Only the veteran and the marshal had escaped personal loss, though they, too, mourned deeply. None ventured to suggest leaving the doomed spot. It seemed as if a sinister spell held them there, vaguely expectant, though wistful to flee.

Rather, perhaps, it was their sadness that made seem sinister a spell actually benignant. For, of a sudden, while they still stood mute, Brant raised a hand to command attention, and pointed toward the verge of the precipice.

"Hark!" he commanded.

They listened intently. Then, all heard a faint, tremulous, whimpering note, long drawn-out, querulously appealing. Zeke started and stared in the direction of the sound with an incredulous frown. Brant shook his head sorrowfully: it was not the voice of Jack. The others were merely bewildered by this unexpected development.

The whining continued, grew louder. Came a plaintive yelp. Out of the abyss was thrust a clinging paw, another. The squat face of the bull-terrier peered at them from over the top of the cliff. Next instant, the dog had scrambled safely on the Slide. It raced to Zeke with shrill cries of delight, leaped high to its master's breast, where it was caught and held closely. The slavering tongue lavished caresses. Zeke felt a warm glow of comfort in the creature's return. Yet, it did but render more frightful the loss of that being so infinitely more precious. He hardly heard Uncle Dick speaking.

"Hit's dum curi's," the old man said, lowering on Seth Jones. "I thought as how ye said the pup was a-hangin' on to Tiny's dress."

"It was so," the veteran answered. "I 'low the dawg must 'a' let loose when hit got in the air."

"Hit's dum curi's," Uncle Dick repeated, and turned to regard the bull-terrier with bent brows.

Zeke himself put a term to the mystification that had gripped him as well as the others. He raised a hand to the dog's throat, to restrain the too eager demonstrations of affection. At the collar he felt something unaccustomed. He looked, idly enough, and saw that a leathern thong had been tied firmly in the ring. To the thong was attached a little leather bag. The things were strange to him, yet they moved him profoundly. He found himself trembling—why, he knew not.

He fumbled at the draw-strings of the pouch, loosened them. He thrust a finger within the opening, and touched something smooth and hard. It seemed to him that he already knew what this thing must be. He turned the bag upside down over his hand. In his palm lay a small coffee-colored piece of stone. It bore in darker shade the clear tracery of a cross. Zeke, looking down, saw the sacred symbol subtly effulgent, a holy promise of safety for her whom he loved. He lifted a radiant face to the others, who had crowded about with marveling exclamations.

"Hit's the fairy cross I give Tiny," Zeke cried. His voice was joyous now, though throbbing with anxiety. "She hain't dead. She's kotched somehow thar on the rocks. She kain't climb up. So, she sent the cross by Chubbie, to show she was alive. I'll go down fer her."

The listening group readily understood the wonder that had befallen. Whatever her present peril, whatever her injuries, Plutina still lived. The blessed fact stirred them to joy and to orderly action.

"Ye kain't he'p Tiny none by fallin' into the Kittle yerself," Uncle Dick declared, with the voice of authority. "Jest hold yer hosses, an' we'll he'p ye git 'er up safe an' sound. They's grape-vines 'nough in the grove. I suspicion she hain't so fer down. Mebby we could hear 'er if the wind wa'n't blowin' to the no'th."

They dared not take time for descent into the valley after rope. Moreover, Uncle Dick was confident that his knots would hold securely the weight of a single person. With all speed, strands of vine were brought and spliced most carefully. In a surprisingly brief time, there were some seventy-five feet in readiness. More would be added, if this length should not suffice. When the rope was completed, an end was securely fastened about Zeke's body with knots that would neither tighten nor slip.

The young man had removed shoes and stockings, and now walked boldly down the sloping surface toward the brink. Behind him went Uncle Dick, who was to advance as far as his foothold should be secure. On the level above the Slide, the three other men held the rope, ready to pay it out, or to haul it in. Uncle Dick's duty was to save it, so far as might be, from being frayed on the rocks. It was to be let out to its full length, or until the lightened weight showed that Zeke had found support. It was to be pulled in, in the latter case, after three tugs on it by him. Zeke went boldly, it is true, but now, since he had appreciated Uncle Dick's warning, he went with painstaking carefulness as well. He realized that on his care might now depend the life of the girl he loved. So, he moved downward with increasing slowness, as the curve of the rock grew more pronounced. At each step, he made sure that his feet still clung. Then, when still two yards from the edge, he found the footing too precarious for further walking, even with the rope. A glance over his shoulder showed that Uncle Dick had halted a rod above. He looked closely and saw that the brim of the cliff was smooth a little to the right. To save the rope as much as possible, he moved in this direction, Uncle Dick above making the like change. Then, he seated himself on the rock and, while the men above paid out the vine, he went gently sliding downward toward the abyss.

Presently, his feet reached the brow of the cliff, passed beyond it, hung in space. The men watching from above, let the rope slide still more slowly. Now his middle was at the brink. He held to the rope with his right hand. With his left he fended himself from the cliff. He looked down. For an instant, accustomed though he was to the high places among the mountain crags, his senses reeled before the impression of unsubstantial vastness. Out beyond him was nothingness for what seemed endless distance. Straight below was the sheer wall of the precipice, with hardly a rift for five hundred feet. There a ledge showed dimly. Then, again, a half-thousand feet of vertical rocks to the valley.

But the vertigo passed in that single instant. His vision cleared. And he saw her. He heard her, too, in the same moment. Here, the cliff was not quite perpendicular. She had slid, rather than fallen, to a resting place. She was not seriously injured. It was hardly a score of feet from the top of the cliff to the tiny shelf of rock on which she lay. This was less than a yard in width. A bit of pine shrub jutted from it courageously, held by its roots burrowing in secret fissures of the rock. A log, rolled down by some amusement-seeker on the crest, had lodged on the outer edge of the shelf. The miniature pine held one end of it; the other was wedged in a crack of the precipice. The log lay like a paling to the narrow shelf. Within that meager shelter, Plutina crouched. Beyond her the ledge narrowed, and ascended to where the cliff was broken. Thus the dog had mounted.

The girl's face was uplifted, pallid, with burning eyes fast on the lover who descended to her. Her expression showed rapture, but no surprise that this rescuer should be her beloved. The fairy crystal was competent to work any wonder. Zeke, spinning slowly with the twisting vine, thus swinging in the void between heaven and earth, felt, nevertheless, the thrill of passionate adoration. She was even more beautiful than he remembered her.

The shelf, though narrowing, ran toward him. Soon, his feet touched it. At the relief from his weight, the rope was no longer paid out, though held taut. With its aid he traversed the ledge, and reached the shelf where the girl knelt. He knelt beside her, and, without a word, their lips met and clung. There, amid the perils of the precipice, they were in heaven.

For that matter, little speech passed between them afterward. They needed none. Zeke adjusted the rope about her, kissed her, and gave the signal to haul away.

With his heart in his eyes, he watched the swaying form rise, and was inexpressibly relieved when he saw her clear the brim safely. There was a short interval. Then the rope came dangling down, and drew him back to safety. Again the lovers were in each other's arms. The terror and the agony were forgotten. The bliss remained.



CHAPTER XXIII.

Marshal Stone and Brant were to return together to North Wilkesboro' where the latter would take the train for home. Uncle Dick had offered them horses for the ride. The two men, somewhat in advance of the remainder of the party after the descent of Stone Mountain, had come near the Higgins' cabin, when the marshal spoke with a display of embarrassment:

"I've got to go a little out of our way. It's a chore I oughtn't ever to have put off for a minute, but I plumb forgot it."

"What is it?" Brant asked indifferently.

But his interest was aroused as the marshal hesitated before answering, and exhibited an increasing confusion.

"I'm right ashamed to tell of it," Stone said, finally. "There's no excuse for such carelessness. Plutina got into all this mess because she was afraid something dreadful might happen, and it might have—on account of my forgetfulness."

"What's it all about?" Brant demanded, now distinctly curious.

"It's bear-traps!" was the morose answer.

"Bear-traps?"

The marshal nodded.

"Those infernal traps Hodges set along Thunder Branch—that made Plutina turn informer.... Well, I just naturally forgot all about 'em."

Brant uttered an ejaculation of dismay.

"You mean, they're still there, and set?"

Stone nodded.

"Just that. I took Hodges and York down another way. I've never thought of the traps since, till to-day."

"Risky, of course," Brant admitted. "But nobody got caught, or they'd have been missed," he added comfortingly. "Nobody in the neighborhood's disappeared, has there?"

"Not that I've heard of," Stone replied. "But it's luck, not my deserts, if no harm's been done."

"I'll go along with you," Brant offered. "We'll have that trouble off your mind in a jiffy."

So, the two men turned, and took the trail past the Higgins' clearing and on until they came to Thunder Branch, where Plutina had made her discovery. They followed the course of the stream upward, the marshal in the lead. As he came to the bend, where the rocky cliffs began, Stone turned and called over his shoulder:

"They're just beyond." Then, he went forward, with quick, nervous strides, and disappeared beyond the bend. A moment later, a great cry brought Brant running.

It was, in truth, a ghastly scene that showed there, lighted brilliantly by the noontide sun. In the midst of the little space of dry ground bordering the stream, where the lush grass grew thick and high, the body of a man was lying. It was contorted grotesquely, sprawling at length on its face, in absolute stillness—the stillness of death. Brant, himself horrified, looked pityingly at the white, stricken face of the marshal, and turned away, helplessly. He could find no words to lessen the hideousness of this discovery for the man through whose fault the tragedy had come.

Then, presently, as Stone seemed paralyzed by the disaster, Brant went closer to examine the gruesome thing.

The victim had been caught by both traps. Evidently, he had stepped fairly into the first. Then, as the great jaws snapped shut on his leg, he had lurched forward and fallen. His arms were outspread wide. But his head was within the second trap. The jaws of it had clamped on the neck. The steel fangs were sunk deep into the flesh. Blood from the wounds was caked black on the skin.

"He didn't suffer any to speak of," Brant remarked, at last. He observed, with some surprise, that his voice was very thin. He was not a squeamish man, and he had seen many evil sights. But this—

With repugnance, he set himself to the task of releasing the trap that held the dead man's head. He had the delicacy not to call on his distressed companion for aid. The task was very difficult, and very gruesome, for it required harsh handling of the head, which was in the way. Finally, however, the thing was accomplished. The savage jaws were freed from the flesh they had mangled, and were locked open. Then, Brant turned the body over, and gazed curiously, with strong repulsion, into the ugly, distorted dead face.

"Providence picked out somebody who could be spared," he mused grimly.

There came another cry from Stone. In it were wonder, incredulity, relief.

Brant regarded the marshal in amazement. The man was transformed. The motionless figure of desolation was become one of wild, quivering excitement. The face was suffused with blood, the eyes shining fiercely.

"What the devil!" Brant demanded, aghast.

Stone looked toward his questioner gravely, and nodded with great emphasis. His voice was low, tense with emotion.

"It is the devil!" he answered solemnly. He paused, clearing his throat, and stared again at the dead man. Then, his eyes went back to Brant, as he added:

"It's Hodges."

There was a little silence. Brant could not understand, could not believe this startling assertion flung in his face.

"But Hodges was thrown over the precipice," he said, at last.

The marshal shook his head. There was defiance now in his aspect—defiance, and a mighty joy.

"It doesn't make any difference about that," he announced. "This is Hodges!"

Then, his exultation burst in words:

"Hodges caught in his own traps! His neck broken, as it should have been broken by the rope for the murders he's done! It was my carelessness did it, yes. But I don't care now, so long as it's Hodges who's got caught. Hodges set those traps, and—there he is!... I read about something like that once in a story. They called it 'poetic justice.'"

"He don't look like a poem," Brant remarked. He turned from the gory corpse with a shudder of disgust.

"Thank God, it was Hodges!" the marshal said, reverently. "Anybody else would have haunted me for life. But Hodges! Why, I'm glad!"

* * * * *

The affair was easily explicable in the light of what Plutina had to tell. Hodges, undoubtedly, had knowledge of some secret, hazardous path down the face of the precipice past the Devil's Cauldron, and on to the valley. He had meant to flee by it with Plutina, thus to escape the hound. By it, he had fled alone. Perhaps, he had had a hiding-place for money somewhere about the raided still. Or, perhaps, he had merely chosen this route along Thunder Branch on his way to an asylum beyond Bull Head Mountain. What was certain was that he had blundered into his own pitiless snares. Naturally, he would have had no suspicion that the traps remained. In his mad haste, he had rushed heedlessly upon destruction. The remorseless engines of his own devising had taken full toll of him. By his own act, he paid with his life the penalty for crime. There was propriety in the marshal's reference to poetic justice.

A certain vindictiveness showed in Plutina's comment concerning the death of the man at whose hands she had so suffered.



"His bein' so afeared o' thet-thar thing kep' 'im from hurtin' me," she said, reflectively. "He was shorely sot ag'inst havin' 'is neck bruk, an', arter all, thet's jest what he got." She smiled, contentedly. For Plutina was a primitive woman, strong in her love, and strong in her hate.

* * * * *

It was a day of early autumn. The timber rights had been secured to the satisfaction of Sutton. The tree-nail factory was being built. Zeke was become a man of importance in the region.

The lover's wedding-day was less than a month distant. To-day, Plutina had been for a visit to the Widow Higgins, and now Zeke was walking home with her. They paused at the place where had been their meeting on the morning of the lad's first adventuring into the world. Memories flooded them, as they looked across the valley to the bleak cliffs of Stone Mountain, which rose in aged, rugged grandeur, softened in this hour by the veils of haze, warmed with the lambent hues of sunset.

In answer to Plutina, Zeke shook his head perplexedly.

"I kain't quite stomach thet-thar yarn o' Seth Jones's," he said. "As I remember, Dan Hodges threw me—hard!" He grinned wryly at the recollection. "I don't see how I could have thrown him off the Slide."

"But of course you did!" Plutina asserted, with great spirit. "Pooh! Ye could lick Dan Hodges any day in the week. An' Seth saw ye—that settles hit!"

"I suppose so," Zeke conceded. "But Dan Hodges was a powerful fighter. After all, I didn't do anything much for ye, Tiny," he added, with regret in his voice.

The girl was all indignation.

"Why, Zeke!" she cried. "The idea! Ye did hit all. Ye banged the love o' ye into thet-thar dawg, what hung on to me an' brung up the fairy cross fer a message." Chubbie, as if understanding, leaped to lick her hand. "An' ye give me the cross, Zeke. Mebby, thet's what saved me, all the time—thar on the precipice, an'—an' back thar—in the cave—with him. An' then ye threw Dan Hodges right offen the mounting. Seth Jones seen ye do hit!"

It seemed to Zeke that he must perforce accept the heroism thrust upon him, though a doubt still lingered. Still, his memory of the fight was confused. Perhaps, after all, he had—.

Zeke broke off, and drew the girl close. Their lips met gently, tenderly, with the clinging of passion. What mattered the history of evil days? They were past. Before them lay the future, radiant with rosy promise. In this blessed present, they were together. Love thrilled exquisitely on their lips; more exquisitely in their souls. That love was, and it would remain, a noble and precious thing, great and very beautiful, as mighty and firm as the mountain looming yonder in immutable serenity and strength, as loyal, as enduring.... They walked on together, infinitely content.



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JOHN FOX, JR'S.

STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.



TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE.

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

The "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. The fame of the pine lured a young engineer through Kentucky to catch the trail, and when he finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the footprints of a girl. And the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder chase than "the trail of the lonesome pine."

THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

This is a story of Kentucky, in a settlement known as "Kingdom Come." It is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which often springs the flower of civilization.

"Chad," the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence he came—he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood, seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery—a charming waif, by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in the mountains.

A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND.

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

The scenes are laid along the waters of the Cumberland, the lair of moonshiner and feudsman. The knight is a moonshiner's son, and the heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "The Blight." Two impetuous young Southerners fall under the spell of "The Blight's" charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in the love making of the mountaineers.

Included in this volume is "Hell fer-Sartain" and other stories, some of Mr. Fox's most entertaining Cumberland valley narratives.

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STORIES OF WESTERN LIFE

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE, By Zane Grey.

Illustrated by Douglas Duer.

In this picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago, we are permitted to see the unscrupulous methods employed by the invisible hand of the Mormon Church to break the will of those refusing to conform to its rule.

FRIAR TUCK, By Robert Alexander Wason.

Illustrated by Stanley L. Wood.

Happy Hawkins tells us, in his humorous way, how Friar Tuck lived among the Cowboys, how he adjusted their quarrels and love affairs and how he fought with them and for them when occasion required.

THE SKY PILOT, By Ralph Connor.

Illustrated by Louis Rhead.

There is no novel, dealing with the rough existence of cowboys, so charming in the telling, abounding as it does with the freshest and the truest pathos.

THE EMIGRANT TRAIL, By Geraldine Bonner.

Colored frontispiece by John Rae.

The book relates the adventures of a party on its overland pilgrimage, and the birth and growth of the absorbing love of two strong men for a charming heroine.

THE BOSS OF WIND RIVER, By A. M. Chisholm.

Illustrated by Frank Tenney Johnson.

This is a strong, virile novel with the lumber industry for its central theme and a love story full of interest as a sort of subplot.

A PRAIRIE COURTSHIP, By Harold Bindloss.

A story of Canadian prairies in which the hero is stirred, through the influence of his love for a woman, to settle down to the heroic business of pioneer farming.

JOYCE OF THE NORTH WOODS, By Harriet T. Comstock.

Illustrated by John Cassel.

A story of the deep woods that shows the power of love at work among its primitive dwellers. It is a tensely moving study of the human heart and its aspirations that unfolds itself through thrilling situations and dramatic developments.

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B. M. BOWER'S NOVELS

Thrilling Western Romances

Large 12 mos. Handsomely bound in cloth. Illustrated.

CHIP, OF THE FLYING U

A breezy wholesome tale, wherein the love affairs of Chip and Delia Whitman are charmingly and humorously told. Chip's jealousy of Dr. Cecil Grantham, who turns out to be a big, blue eyed young woman is very amusing. A clever, realistic story of the American Cow-puncher.

THE HAPPY FAMILY

A lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen jovial, big hearted Montana cowboys. Foremost amongst them, we find Ananias Green, known as Andy, whose imaginative powers cause many lively and exciting adventures.

HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT

A realistic story of the plains, describing a gay party of Easterners who exchange a cottage at Newport for the rough homeliness of a Montana ranch-house. The merry-hearted cowboys, the fascinating Beatrice, and the effusive Sir Redmond, become living, breathing personalities.

THE RANGE DWELLERS

Here are everyday, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist. Spirited action, a range feud between two families, and a Romeo and Juliet courtship make this a bright, jolly, entertaining story, without a dull page.

THE LURE OF DIM TRAILS

A vivid portrayal of the experience of an Eastern author, among the cowboys of the West, in search of "local color" for a new novel. "Bud" Thurston learns many a lesson while following "the lure of the dim trails" but the hardest, and probably the most welcome, is that of love.

THE LONESOME TRAIL

"Weary" Davidson leaves the ranch for Portland, where conventional city life palls on him. A little branch of sage brush, pungent with the atmosphere of the prairie, and the recollection of a pair of large brown eyes soon compel his return. A wholesome love story

THE LONG SHADOW

A vigorous Western story, sparkling with the free, outdoor, life of a mountain ranch. Its scenes shift rapidly and its actors play the game of life fearlessly and like men. It is a fine love story from start to finish.

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