"Another point needs clearing up," Bill said sharply. "What about Red Kimball's charge? DID you belong to his gang? ARE you a highwayman?"

Brick waved impatiently toward the letter that still gleamed in the young man's hand. "We goes on document'ry evidence," he said. "I takes a bold and open stand on the general plea of 'Not guilty' to nothing. That's technical, and it's arbitrary. Should you be asked had I ever expressed an opinion as to being a highwayman, or a lowwayman, you can report me as saying 'Not guilty,' according."

"Brick," interposed Wilfred, returning him the letter, "you're making a mistake not to trust us with the whole truth. If you wait for Lahoma's letters and only admit what she discovers, Bill and I can't form any plan of protecting you. While her information is coming, bit by bit, the man who wants you hanged is liable to show up—"

"Let 'im come!" growled Brick. "He can't get no closer to me than I'll be to him. I'm not going to air my past history. What Lahoma finds out, I admits frank and open; otherwise I stands firm as not guilty, being on safe ground, technical and arbitrary."

"But if Red Kimball brings the sheriff—it's only a matter of time—your plea of not guilty won't save you from arrest. And he'll have any number of rascals to prove what he pleases, whether it's the truth or not. If Gledware comes as a witness, his position will give him great influence against you—and the fact that he'd testify after you'd saved his life, would make a pretty hard hit with the jury."

"Jury nothing!" retorted Brick. "This case ain't never going to a jury. Such things is settled man to man, in these parts."

"But as surely as the sheriff serves his writ, you'll be landed in jail. And I happen to know the sheriff; he's a man that couldn't be turned from his duty—good friend of mine, too."

"Is, eh? Then you'd better advise with him for his good."

"Think of Lahoma. If you killed a man—whether the sheriff, or this Red Kimball—Lahoma could never feel toward you as she does today."

"And how would she feel toward me if I was hanged, uh? I guess she'd druther I laid my man low than that I swung high." Willock started up impatiently. "We're wasting words," he said, roughly. "There is but the two alternatives: I'm one of 'em, and Red Kimball is the other. It's simply a question of which gets which. I tries to make it plain, for there's no going back. Now are you with me, or not? If not, I'll fight it out along as I always done in times past and gone—and bedinged to 'em! I'm sorry my young days was as they was, and for Lahoma's sake I'd cut off this right arm—" he held it out, rigidly—"if that'd change the past. But the past—and bedinged TO it—can't be changed. It's there, right over your shoulder, out of reach. This mountain might as well say, 'I don't like being a big chunk of granite where all the rest of the country is a smooth prairie; I'm sorry I erupted; and I guess I'll go back into the heart of the earth where I come from.' A mountain that's erupted is erupted till kingdom come, and a man that's did a deed, has did it till the stars fall. But you CAN imagine this mountain saying, with some sense, too, 'Now, since I HAS erupted, I'll do my best to cover my nakedness with pretty cedars for to stay green in season and out of season, and I'll embroider myself with flowers and grasses, and send little mountain-streams down to make soft water in people's wells so they won't all-time be fretting because I takes up so much of good plowing-land,' says the mountain. I may not be a mountain, but I've got a good top to me which reasons against the future and forgets the past. I know Red Kimball—and now that he's learned where I live, one of us is too many, considering the hard times. I mean to keep hiding, not to be took by surprise; but I 'lows to come forth one of these days and walk about free and disposed, all danger having been removed."

"What about the law?" demanded Bill. "Do you think IT'S going to let you walk about free and disposed, after you've removed Red Kimball?"

"I hopes the law and me can get on peaceable together," returned the other grimly. "I've never had nothing to do with it, and I hopes to be let alone."

Wilfred spoke with sudden decision: "Brick, I'm with you to the end, and so is Bill. I have nothing to do with your purposes or plans except to offer the best advice I know—you've rejected it, but I'm with you just the same. It strikes me I can help you by going to Kansas City—for you need only Bill in the cove,—he can bring you Lahoma's letters. I'll hurry to Lahoma; and if she decides to come back, as I'm sure she will very soon—well, she'll need a protector. I'll bring her home. She asks in her letter what I'm here for. Wouldn't that be a good answer?"

Brick Willock laid his hand on the other's shoulder and stared into his face with troubled eyes. Gradually his countenance cleared and something of his old geniality returned. "A first-class answer, son! I believe you'll do it." He grasped Wilfred's hand. "These are troublous times, and it's good to feel a hand like this that's steady and true. Now I ain't going to drag you into nothing that could hurt you nor Bill, or make you feel sore over past days. I don't need nobody to lean on—but Lahoma does; and if Red Kimball pops it to me before I get a chance to keel him over, you two must look out for her."

"I'll look out for her myself, single-handed," said Bill gruffly.

"I know you would, old tap, as long as you lasts," said Willock with an unwonted note of gentleness. Bill was so embarrassed by the tone that he cringed awkwardly. After a pause, Willock suggested that Wilfred wait for one more letter from Lahoma, provided it come within the next twenty-four hours, then start up the trail for Chickasha and board the train for Kansas. "She might write something that needed instant work," he explained. "If so, I'd like to have you here. I'm looking for developments in her next letter."

"Strange to me," muttered Bill, "about Red Feather and that sneaking Gledware. Wonder how came the Indian with a pin on him that Gledware knew of?"

Willock's face was twisted into a sardonic grin. "Guess I could explain that, all right—but I says nothing beyond Lahoma's word. I banks on document'ry proofs, and otherwise stands technical and arbitrary."

Hitherto Wilfred, as guest of honor, had been offered the cabin as his sleeping-quarters, and he had accepted it because of the countless reminders of Lahoma's fresh and innocent life; but this night, he shared the dugout with Bill, from a sense of impending danger. Until a late hour they sat over the glowing coals, discussing their present situation and offering conjectures about Willock's younger days. There could hardly have been a stronger contrast between the emaciated old man of the huge white mustache, thin reddish cheeks and shock of white hair, and the broad-shouldered, handsome and erect young man—or the stern and gloomy countenance of the former, and the expressive eyes and flexible lips of Wilfred. Yet they seemed unconscious of any chasm of age or disposition as they spoke in low tones, not without frequent glances toward the barricaded door and the heavily curtained window.

The wind made strange noises overhead and at times one could be almost certain there was the stamping of a man's foot upon the earthen roof. The distant cry of a wild beast, and the nearer yelping of hungry wolves mingled with the whistling of the wind. Sometimes Wilfred rose and, passing noiselessly to the window, raised the curtain with a quick gesture to stare out on a dark and stormy night; and once, in doing so, he surprised a pair of red eyes under bristling gray hair which seemed to glow hot as molten lead, as the fire from the open stove caught them unaware.

"If my arms were tied," remarked Bill, "I'd rather trust myself to that coyote than to Red Kimball. I hate to think of Brick out yonder on the mountain, all alone, and no fire to warm him, afraid to smoke his pipe, I reckon. Well, this kind of thing can't last long, that's plain."

It was Wilfred's conviction that "this kind of thing" could not, indeed, last long, which kept him awake half through the night; and yet, when the morning sunlight flooded the cove, it seemed impossible that deeds of violence could be committed in so peaceful a world. In that delusion, however, he could not long remain; Lahoma's next letter came confirmatory of his worst fears.

"Just read it aloud, Wilfred," said Brick, as all gathered about the lantern in the retreat at the mountain-top. "We're all one, now, and I've got no secrets from you—at least none that's knowed to Lahoma. And if the case seems immediate, I reckon you'll prove game, son."

Wilfred nodded briefly. "My horse is ready saddled," he said, as he opened the letter addressed to Willock. "As soon as I've read 'Yours truly,' I'll be ready to jump into the saddle, so I say 'good-by' now!"



CHAPTER XVIII

LIFE ON ONE CONDITION

"Dear Brick and Bill:

"I put Bill in, because I am sure that by this time he has been told what was in my last letter, and I know he's true blue. I have been so excited since finding out that Red Kimball is determined on revenge, and that Mr. Gledware may be a witness for him, that I can't think about anything but the danger at the cove. I feel that I ought to be there, to lend a hand; what will you do without me, if that horrible highwayman comes slipping around Turtle Hill, or creeps down the north mountain in the dead of night? And I would be on my way there, now, if I didn't hope to find out more about their plans.

"They have come back from the picnic, and I am on the watch, feeling sure Red Kimball will come again to have another talk with Mr. Gledware. But he hasn't come yet, and everything is quiet and peaceable, as if things were going along as things always do and always will—it makes me dreadfully nervous! So, as it seemed that nothing was going to happen, I decided to stir up something myself. When there's no news, why not make some of your own? I made some.

"This is the same day I overheard that plot in the library, but it is night. When it was good and dark, Annabel came up to my room where I was watching the road from my window, and she sat down and began talking about the picnic and what a fine time she had had, with a good deal about going to Europe. She was all flushed and running over with talk, and after a while it came clear that she's just been engaged to Mr. Gledware.

"It seemed to me it would be like fighting behind bushes to tell her what I thought of Mr Gledware, while under his roof and at his expense, so I opened up matters by talking about Wilfred Compton. I told her how faithful and true Wilfred has been to her all these years, carrying her letters next to his heart, and dreaming of her night and day, and how he came to see me, once, because it had been two years since he'd seen a sure-enough girl, and how I tried to interest him as hard as I could, but he never wanted to come back because his heart belonged to Annabel.

"After a while she began to cry, but it wasn't over Wilfred, it was over Edgerton. When Wilfred went away to be a cowboy she lost interest and sympathy in him because she doesn't understand cowboys; they are not in her imagination. But his brother Edgerton has always been a city man in nice clothes with pleasing manners, and if he had money— But what's the use talking? Seems like that's the worst waste of time there can be, and the most aggravating, to say if so-and-so had money I Because if he hasn't got it, somebody else has, and if you think money's more than the man, there you are. And Mr. Gledware has it. He's not the man but he has the money.

"Then I expressed myself. You know what I think. So does Annabel, now. That's how I made me some news, when there wasn't any. The news is, that Annabel will never forgive me, and as I'm here solely as her guest, my guesting-time will be brief—just long enough to find out what Mr. Gledware decides to do. I oughtn't to have told Annabel that she was mercenary, or that Mr. Gledware was as hard as a stone and as old as M— (I'm not sure how to spell him, but you remember: the oldest man). Yes, I know I oughtn't. If a woman can marry a man when she doesn't love him, it won't change her purpose to know what YOU think about it, because her own feelings are the biggest things that could stand in the way.

"But I told her, anyway. Seemed like everything in me turned to words and poured out without my having to keep it going. I just stood there and watched myself say things. You see, Annabel is so dainty and pretty, and naturally so sweet—and Mr. Gledware—well, he ISN'T. The more I thought of that, and the better I remembered poor Wilfred pining away for her in the desert, and not coming back to see me because he couldn't get HER out of his brain, and how she changed from him to his brother, and from Mr. Edgerton to Mr. Gledware, I was ashamed of her, and sorry for her, and angry with her.

"I wish I hadn't said anything. But I felt glorious at the time, just like a storm sweeping across the prairie, purifying the air and not caring whether the earth wants to be purified or not. I did wrong, because I came to the big world to study people of culture and refinement, not to quarrel with them. You must have money, you MUST have money, you MUST have money, if you're civilized. I don't care if I AM a little storm. Yes, of course, I know a storm isn't a civilized thing. Well, I know what I'm going to do,—I'm going to come back and blow the rest of my life right there in the cove, with my Brick and my Bill.

"So that's my news, that I'm dissatisfied with the big world. It isn't like I'd have made it, that's the truth! Now I'll lay this letter aside to cool (I mean IT, and ME, too) and I'll not send it until something about Red Kimball happens, so you'll be posted on what really matters. After all, people that marry for money aren't important, they don't belong to big affairs—but there's something worth discussing in a plot to commit murder. That MEANS something; as Brick would say, it's 'vital.' These people about me, kind, gentle, correct,—all their waking thoughts are devoted to little things—fashionable trifles that last no longer than the hour in which they're born—just time-killers. I enjoy these pleasing trifles, but my eyes are opened and I know they ARE trifles. These people's eyes are not opened. Why? Because they haven't lived in the West, neighboring with real things like alkali plains and sand-storms and granite mountains.

"My! but it would open their eyes if one of their dearest friends was in danger of getting himself hanged! Something permanent in THAT!

"LATER: This is midnight. I expect to leave as soon as I possibly can, but probably this letter will get away first, so here's something new to put your mind on; it's rather dreadful, when you give it a calm thought. But my thoughts are not calm. Far from it. Oh, how excited I was! But I guess THEY didn't know it. It all happened about an hour ago, and you can see that my hand is still a little shaky.

"There was a bright moonlight, but you needn't be afraid I'm going to talk about THAT; this isn't any tale about moons. I was sitting at my window because I couldn't sleep, not that I expected to see anything unusual. There's a big summer-house at the far end of the lawn, all covered with vines, and there's a walk between dense shrubbery, leading to it from the house. I guess that's why I didn't see anybody go to that summer-house. The first thing I DID see was Red Kimball come out and slip through a little side-gate, and hurry along the country road. As soon as I saw him, I guessed that he and Mr. Gledware had been conspiring in the summer-house. What a chance I had missed to act the good scout!

"But it seemed no use to go down, after Red Kimball had left. If Mr. Gledware was still in the summer-house, I knew he was alone; and if he'd returned to the house, all was over for the night. I was wondering what new plot they had formed, and how I was to find out about it, when my eye was caught by a movement in the hedge that runs down to the side-gate. The movement was as slight as possible, but as there wasn't ANY breeze, it made me shiver a little, for I knew somebody was skulking there. I watched, and pretty soon something passed through the gate, light and quick and stealthy, like the shadow of a cloud. Only, there wasn't any cloud; and in the flash of moonlight I saw it was our old friend—Red Feather.

"Almost as soon as I recognized him, he had disappeared behind a large lilac-bush; but I had seen what he held in the hand behind his back—it was a long unsheathed knife. The lilac-bush stood close to the summer-house. He fell flat to the ground, and though I couldn't see him, after that I knew he was wriggling his way around the bush. You would have been ashamed of me for a minute or two, for I kept sitting beside the window as if I had been turned to a statue of ice. I felt just that cold, too!

"But maybe I didn't stay there as long as it seemed. First thing I knew, I was running downstairs as lightly and swiftly as I could, and out through the door at the end of the side hall that had been left wide open—and I was at the summer-house door like a flash. There was a wide path of moonlight across the concrete floor and right in that glare was a sight never to be forgotten—Red Feather, about to stab Mr. Gledware to the heart! He held Mr. Gledware by the throat with one hand, and his other hand held the knife up for the blow. Mr. Gledware lay on his back, and Red Feather had one knee pressed upon his breast. In the light, Mr. Gledware's face was purple and dreadfully distorted, but the Indian looked about as usual—just serious and unchangeable.

"When I reached the doorway, I blotted out most of the moonlight, and I drew back so Red Feather could see who I was. He looked up and let go of Mr. Gledware's throat, but didn't move, otherwise. 'RED FEATHER!' I said. 'GIVE ME THAT KNIFE.'

"Mr. Gledware, recognizing my voice, tried to entreat me to save him, but he was half-strangled, and only made sounds that turned me faint, to know that the man my mother had married was such a coward.

"Red Feather told me that if I came any nearer, or if I cried for help, he would murder that man and escape; but that if I would step into the shadow and listen, he'd give his reason for doing it before it was done. So I went across the room from him to save time, hoping I could persuade him to change his mind. I stood in the shadow, and in a low voice, I reminded him of his kindness to me, and of our kindness to him, and I begged for Mr. Gledware's life.

"Red Feather asked me if I knew Mr. Gledware was my stepfather, yet hadn't acknowledged it to me. I said yes. He asked me if I didn't know Mr. Gledware had kept still about it because he didn't want the trouble and expense of taking care of me. I said, of course I had thought of that. He asked if I knew he had deserted my mother's dead body in the desert to save his miserable life. I said I knew that, but he had taken me with him, and he had tried to save me, and I was going to save him.

"Red Feather shook his head. No, he said, I could not save him, for he would be dead in two or three minutes—and then he bent over Mr. Gledware, who all this time was afraid to move or to make a sound. I hurried to remind him that he hadn't told me his reason for wanting to kill the man.

"Then Red Feather said that when that man rode with me among the Indians, Red Feather's daughter had taken a fancy to him, and Mr. Gledware had married her; and I had been kept away from him so he'd forget me and not turn his thoughts toward his own people; and they had taught me that my name was Willock because they were going to take me to you, Brick. Isn't it wonderful? That day you found the deserted wagon, and buried my mother, Red Feather was watching you from the mountain and he wouldn't kill you because you made that grave and knelt down to talk to the Great Spirit. Afterward, when he rode home and found that his daughter and Mr. Gledware were to be married, he made up his mind that if you succeeded in keeping hidden from Red Kimball and his band, you would be the one to take care of me. And when two years had passed and you were still safe, he brought me to you! What a glad day that was!

"When Red Feather's daughter wanted Mr. Gledware's life saved, it was so. And Red Feather gave them a great stretch of land, and Mr. Gledware got to be important in the tribe; he made himself one of them, and they thought him greater than their own chief. At the end of a few years, there was the great agitation over the boomers coming to the Oklahoma country, and much talk of the land being thrown open. The Indians didn't want it done, and they joined together to send some one to Washington to address congress on the subject. Mr. Gledware was such an orator that they thought him irresistible, so they selected him, and, for his fee, they collected over fifty thousand dollars. Think of it!

"Of course he didn't go near Washington. It was the time of Kansas City's great boom. He went there and bought up city lots, and sold out at the right time, and that's why he's rich today. In the meantime, the Indians didn't know what had become of him, and Red Feather's daughter died from shame over her desertion—just pined away and hid herself from her people till she was starved to death. That's why Red Feather meant to kill Mr. Gledware.

"When he had finished, Red Feather bent over Mr. Gledware and said to him, 'Me speak all true? Tell Lahoma—me speak all true?'

"And the man whispered feebly, 'It is all true—don't kill me, for God's sake, don't kill me—save me, Lahoma, MY CHILD!'

"I begged him not to kill the man. Red Feather said to me, 'You hear how he treat my daughter! You my friend, Lahoma. You know all that, and yet you tell me not kill him?'

"'I say not kill him.'

"'Then you hate my daughter?'

"'My mother could marry him, Red Feather, and I can beg for his life.'

"He shook his head. 'No, Lahoma, he die; he leave my daughter to die and this hand do to him what he do to her.'

"I never felt so helpless, so horribly weak and useless! There I was, only a few yards away, and the man was my stepfather; and his enemy was our friend. And not far away stood the man's big house filled with guests—among them strong men who could have overpowered dozens of Indians. But what could I do?

"Then I had a thought. 'Let him live, Red Feather,' I said, 'but strip him of all his ill-gotten property. Turn him loose in the world without a penny; it'll be punishment enough. You can't bring back your daughter by killing him; but you can make him give up all he has in return for stealing the money from your tribe.'

"I don't know why I thought of that, and I don't know why it made instant appeal to Red Feather's mind. I saw at once that he was going to consent. All he said was, 'Talk to him—' But I knew what he meant.

"So I crossed the room and looked down at the man. 'Mr. Gledware,' I said, 'are you willing to give up all your possessions in order to save your life?'

"'Oh, yes,' he gasped. 'A thousand times, yes! God bless you, Lahoma!'

"'You will deed all your property away from you? And surrender all that you own, money, bonds, stocks and so forth?'

"'My God, yes, yes!' he wailed. 'Save me—only save me, Lahoma!'

"I looked at Red Feather. 'Shall he make it all over to you?'

"Red Feather shook his head. 'Me not want his money. Let him give all to Red Flower, the daughter him not see since he stole our money and desert his wife.'

"'Yes, yes, yes,' moaned Mr. Gledware, 'I'll give everything to her—I'll make over everything to her in the morning, so help me God—if you spare my life, she shall have everything.'

"All this time Red Feather had never moved his knee from the man's breast. Now he rose and pointed toward the East. 'The morning will come,' he said solemnly. 'If you keep your word—well! If you try fool Red Feather—if you keep back one piece of money, one clod of earth—' He wheeled about so suddenly with his drawn knife that I thought he was plunging it into the man's heart. It shot down like lightning, but stopped short just before the edge of the blade touched the miserable coward.

"Mr. Gledware sobbed and gasped and choked, swearing that he would keep his word, and assuring us that, if he broke it, death would be too good for him. But what he will do when he thinks him-self safe—that's another thing! I know his life is as secure as mine, if he is true to his promise. But if he breaks it—well, we know Red Feather! Do you think Mr. Gledware will keep his word? Or will he wait to see whether or not Red Kimball rids him of the Indian? I believe he'll be afraid to wait. But as soon as he's calm, it will be like death for him to give up all he owns. That will mean giving up Annabel, too.

"It hasn't been an hour since I came back to my room. When Red Feather slipped away, the only thing I asked Mr. Gledware was my mother's maiden name, and the place where her people lived. I'm going to leave here in the morning. I'm coming back where there's room enough to turn around in, and air enough to breathe, where men speak the truth because they don't care who's who, and shoot quick and straight when they have to. I'm coming back where money's mighty scarce and love's as free and boundless as Heaven, where good books are few and true hearts are many. Yes, I'm coming back to the West, and if the winds don't blow all the sand away, under the sand I expect to be buried. But I want to live until I'm buried. People have made the big world as it is,—well they are welcome to it; but God has made the cove as it is, and it's for Me and Brick and Bill.

"Good night.

"Lahoma.

"Just the three of us: just Me and Brick and Bill: ONE-TWO-THREE! There's oceans of room out in the big world for everything and everybody. But in the cove, there's room just for

"Me

"And Brick

"And Bill."



CHAPTER XIX

LIKE LOVERS

On reaching Chickasha, Wilfred Compton telegraphed to Kansas City asking his brother if Lahoma was still at Mr. Gledware's house in the country. In the course of a few hours the reply came that she had already started home to Greer County, Texas. After reading the message, Wilfred haunted the station, not willing to let even the most unpromising freight train escape observation.

Everything that came down the track on this last reach of the railroad into Southwest Oklahoma, was crowded with people, cattle, household furniture, stores of hardware, groceries, dry-goods—all that man requires for his physical well-being. The town itself was swarming with eager jostling throngs bound for many diverse points, and friends of a day shouted hearty good-bys, or exchanged good-natured badinage, as they separated to meet no more.

Men on horseback leading heavily laden pack-horses, covered wagons from which peeped women and children half-reclining upon bedding, their eyes filled with grave wonder at a world so unlike their homes in the East or North—pyramids of undressed lumber fastened somehow upon four wheels and surmounted in precarious fashion by sprawling men whose faces and garments suggested Broadway, New York and Leadville, Colorado—Wilfred gazed upon the unending panorama. In those corded tents he saw the pioneer family already in possession of the new land; in the stacks of pine boards he beheld houses already sending up the smoke of peace and prosperity from their chimneys; and in the men and women who streamed by, their faces alight with hope, their bodies ready for the grapple with drought, flood, cyclone, famine, he saw the guaranty of a young and dominant state.

Strangers greeted one another with easy comrade-ship. Sometimes it was just, "Hello, neighbor!"—and if a warning were shouted across the street to one endangered by the current of swelling life, it might be— "Look out there, brother!" The sense of kinship tingled in the air, opening men's hearts and supplying aid to weaker brethren. Those who gathered along the track awaiting the arrival of the trains had already the air of old-timers, eager to extend the hospitality of a well-loved land.

In such a crowd Wilfred was standing when he first caught sight of Lahoma among those descending to the jostling platform. He had not known how she would look, and certainly she was much changed from the girl of fifteen, but he made his way to her side without the slightest hesitation.

"Lahoma!"

She turned sharply with a certain ease of movement suggesting fearless freedom. Her eyes looked straight into the young man's with penetrating keenness which instantly softened to pleasure. "Why I how glad I am to see you!" she cried, giving him her hand as they withdrew from the rush. "But how did you know me?"

"How did YOU know?" he returned, pleased and thrilled by her glowing brown hair, her eloquent eyes, her warm-tinted cheeks, her form, as erect as of yore, but not so thin—as pleased and thrilled as if all these belonged to him. "How did you know ME?" he repeated, looking and looking, as if he would never be able to believe that she had turned out so much better than he had ever dreamed she would.

"Oh," said Lahoma, "when I looked into your face, I saw myself as a girl sitting under the cedar trees in the cove, with Brick and Bill."

"Just you three?" demanded Wilfred wistfully—also smilingly.

"Oho!" exclaimed Lahoma, showing her perfect little teeth as if about to bite, in a way that filled him with fearful joy, "and so they showed you that letter!"

"JUST you three?" repeated Wilfred. "Just room enough in the cove for you—and Brick—and Bill?"

"Listen to me, Wilfred, and I will do the talking."

"Well?"

She lowered her voice to a whisper— "Lean your head closer."

Wilfred put down his head. "Is this close enough?" he whispered, feeling exalted. Men, women and children circled about them; the air vibrated with the shock of trunks and mail bags hurled upon the platform.

"No," said Lahoma, rising on tiptoe.

Wilfred took off his hat and got under hers.

She whispered in his ear, "Red Kimball came on this train—there he is—he hasn't seen me, yet—was in another coach."

"Well? Go on talking. Lahoma—I'd get closer if I could."

"S-H-H! He knows me, for he was a porter in our hotel. When he sees us he'll know I've come home to warn Brick. S-H-H! Then he'll try to keep me from doing it. Look—some of his gang are speaking to him—they've been waiting here to meet him—they'll go with him, I expect. We'll all be in the stage-coach together!"

"What do you want me to do to 'em, Lahoma?"

"I want you to pretend that you don't know me—and they mustn't find out your name is Compton, or they'll think Mr. Edgerton got word to you to join me here. Be a stranger till we're safe in the cove."

"All right. Good-by—but suppose I hadn't come?"

"Oh, I could have done without you," said Lahoma. "Or I think I could."

"You could never have done without me!" Wilfred declared decidedly.

"I can right NOW—" She drew away. "I'll get into the stage; don't follow too soon."

There were three stage-coaches drawn up at a short distance from the platform, and Lahoma went swiftly to the one bound for her part of the country. She was the first to enter; she was seated quietly in a corner when the two long seats that faced each other began filling up. The last to come were four men: one, tall, slender, red-faced and red-haired, two others of dark and lowering faces, who looked upon the former as their leader, and the last, Wilfred Compton, who had unobtrusively joined himself to this remnant of Red Kimball's gang.

The stage, which was built after the manner of the old-fashioned omnibus, afforded no opportunity of moving to and fro in the selection of seats, hence, when Red Kimball discovered Lahoma's identity—the exact moment of the discovery was marked by his violent start—she was safeguarded from his approach by her proximity to a very large woman flanked by a thin spinster. These were two sisters, going to the evening's station where the coach would stop for supper, and Lahoma discussed with them their plans and hopes with bright cheerfulness and ready friendship.

Wilfred watched Red Kimball as he glared in that direction, and guessed his thoughts. Although Kimball knew Lahoma, he was not sure that she knew him; and though he was convinced at once that she was on a mission of warning, that might be true without her knowing that he had left Kansas City. Red Kimball was burning to find out if he were a stranger to her, but at the same time fearful of disclosing himself. He muttered to his companions hoarsely, careful that Wilfred, whom he regarded askance, should overhear nothing that he said.

The situation was such as could not very well continue during the days it would take the coach to reach Mangum but although Wilfred was conscious of the strain, he felt excitedly happy. Very little of his attention was given to Kimball, and a great deal to Lahoma. She was talking to the sisters about the baby of the one and the chickens of the other, offering advice on both subjects from the experience of a certain Mrs. Featherby whom she had known as a child.

"Mrs. Featherby was a very wonderful woman," Lahoma announced with conviction, "and the first woman I ever knew. And when her baby was teething..." The very large lady listened with great attention.

"She told me this when I was a small girl," Wilfred presently heard Lahoma saying. "And I treasured it in my mind. I stored myself with her experience about everything there is. It came to me, then, that if she moved away from Headquarters Mountain—that's my mountain—maybe no other woman would ever come there to live; so I stored myself, because I was determined to learn the business of being a woman."

The large woman gazed upon her admiringly. "I guess you learned, all right."

They had not gone five miles before the large woman and her younger sister were in love with Lahoma—but it hadn't taken Wilfred five miles. As he listened to her bright suggestions, and noted her living eyes, her impulsive gestures—for she could not talk without making little movements with her hands—and her flexible sympathetic voice, he saw her moving about a well-ordered household.... It was on his farm, of course; and the house was his,—and she was his Lahoma....

Red Kimball watched her with the same sidewise attention, but his face was brooding, his half-veiled eyes were red and threatening. What would happen in the nighttime as the stage pursued its lonely way across the bleak prairie? Since Red Kimball meant to appeal to the law in his revenge against Brick, there was no danger of his transgressing it openly. But in the darkness with two unscrupulous companions under his command, he would most probably execute some scheme to prevent Lahoma from reaching her destination.

The evening shadows were stretching far toward the east from the few trees that marked the dried bed of a stream, when the coach stopped among a collection of hovels and tents. As the horses were led away, the passengers dismounted, and both Wilfred and Red Kimball hurriedly drew close to Lahoma.

Lahoma, however, appeared unaware of their presence. The sisters had been met by the husband of the older, and as they gathered about the big wagon, Lahoma was urged to go home with them to supper.

"We're only a little ways out," she was told, "and we'll sure get you back before the stage leaves—the victuals at the station ain't fit to eat."

A very little insistence induced Lahoma to comply, and both the young man and the former highwayman saw her go with disappointment. Kimball and his friends went into the "Dining Hall" to gulp down a hasty meal, and Wilfred entered with them. He remained only a moment, however, just long enough to purchase a number of sandwiches which he stored away, as if meaning to eat them in the coach.

As soon as he was in the single street with the door closed behind him, he darted toward the stage barn, and by means of a handsome deposit obtained two horses. Springing upon one, he rode rapidly from the settlement, leading the other, and in a short time, came in sight of a cabin, which, with its outhouses, was the only building in all the wide expanse. From its appearance he knew it to be the one described to Lahoma, and he galloped up to the door with the certainty of finding her within. The big wagon had been unhitched, and the horses were fastened to its wheels, eating from the bed.

The family was about to sit down to supper; the first to discover Wilfred as he flitted past the single window in the side of the cabin, was Lahoma. Before he could knock on the door, she had opened it.

"Oh, Wilfred!" she reproached him, "they'll miss you and know you've come to consult with me about warning Brick."

"Quick, Lahoma!" said Wilfred, as if she had not spoken, "you can ride a horse, I suppose?" He smiled, but his eyes were sparkling with impatience.

In a flash, Lahoma's face was glowing with enthusiasm. She looked back into the room and cried, "Good-by!" Then Wilfred swung her to the back of the led horse. "We'll beat 'em!" cried Lahoma, as he sprang upon his horse. "Fast as you please—I've never been left behind, yet!"

The young man noted with sudden relief that she was dressed for the hardships of the prairie. It came to him with a sense of wonder that he had not noticed that before, perhaps from never having seen her in fashionable attire. As they galloped from the cabin, from whose door looked astonished faces, Lahoma answered his thought—

"Up there," she said, nodding her head toward the East, "I dressed for people—but out here, for wind and sand."

Looking back, she saw the family running out of the cottage, waving handkerchiefs and bonnets as in the mad joy of congratulation.

"They think we're running away together!" shouted Wilfred with exultation. The hurry of their flight, the certainty of pursuit, the prospect of dangers from man and nature, thrilled his blood, fixed his jaw, illumined his eye. All life seemed suddenly a flight across a level world whose cloud of yellow dust enveloped only himself and Lahoma. "They think we're running away together. Look at them, Lahoma. How happy they are at the idea!"

"They don't know there's nobody to object, if we don't," returned Lahoma gaily, as she urged on her steed. "Come along, Wilfred," she taunted, as his horse fell a neck behind hers, "what are you staying back THERE for? Tired? If we get into the trail before that coach starts, we'll have to put on all speed."

"Doing my best," he called, "but I made a bad bargain when I got this beast. This is his best lick, and it doesn't promise to last long. However, it was the only one left at the barn."

Lahoma slightly checked her animal. "That's a good thing, anyway—if there's none left, those horrible men can't follow."

Wilfred did not answer. He was sure the stage would be driven in pursuit at breakneck speed, and from the breathing of his horse he feared it could not long endure the contest. To be sure, Red Kimball and his men had no lawful excuse to offer the stage-driver for an attempt to stop them; but three men who had once been desperate highwaymen might not look for lawful excuses on a dark night in a dreary desert. Besides, Kimball might, with some show of reason, argue that since he was bent on the legitimate object of having a writ served on Brick Willock, he would be justified in preventing Brick from being warned out of the country.

They galloped on in silence, Lahoma slightly holding back. Night rapidly drew on.



CHAPTER XX

TOGETHER

Before them, the trail, beaten and rutted, stretched interminably, losing itself in the darkness before it slipped over the rounded margin of the world. As darkness increased, the trail seemed to waver before their eyes like a gray scarf that the wind stirs on the ground. On either side of it, the nature of the country varied with strange abruptness, now an unbroken stretch of dead sage-brush showing like isolated tufts in a gigantic clothes-brush—suddenly, a wilderness of white sand shifting as the wind rose—again, broken rocks sown broadcast. Before final darkness came, the trail itself was varicolored, sometimes white with alkali, sometimes skirting low hills whose sides showed a deep blue, streaked with crimson.

But now all was black, sand, alkali, gypsum-beds, for the night had fallen.

In their wide detour they had endeavored to escape detection from the stage-station, but sheltered by no appreciable inequalities of land, and denied the refuge that even a small grove might have furnished, they had, as it were, been held up to view on the prairie; and though so far away, their horses had been as distinctly outlined as two ants scurrying across a white page.

Wilfred reflected. "If Kimball, when he came out of that restaurant, happened to look in this direction, he must have seen us; and the first inquiry at the barn would inform him who're on the horses.' But he said nothing until, from the rear, came the sound long-dreaded, telling, though far away, of bounding horses and groaning wheels.

"Lahoma!"

"Yes—I hear them."

"My horse is about used up. We'll have to side-trail, or they'll ride us down."

"I could go on," Lahoma answered, as she drew bard on the bit, "but I wouldn't like to leave you here by yourself."

"You couldn't travel that distance by yourself. And good as your horse is, it wouldn't last. But thank you for thinking of me," he added, smiling in the darkness, as he dismounted. "Let me lead your horse as well as my own."

"No," said Lahoma, "if leading is to be done, I'll do my part." She leaped lightly to the ground and seized her bridle. Side by side they slowly ventured from the trail into the invisible country on the left. They found themselves treading short dead mesquit that did not greatly obstruct their progress.

"Keep going," Wilfred said, when she paused for breath. "It wouldn't do for our horses to whinny, for those fellows would hear them if it was thundering. Give me your hand."

"Here it is," Lahoma felt about in the darkness. "My! but I'm glad I've got you, Wilfred! Oh, how they are dashing along! Listen how the man is lashing his whip over those four horses. Wish we could see 'em—must be grand, tearing along at that rate!"

The stage was rapidly coming up abreast of them, and Wilfred felt her grasp tighten. There was a flash of lights, a glimpse of the driver's face as of creased leather as he raised his whip above his head—then noise and cloud of dust passed on and the lights became trailing sparks that in a minute or two the wind seemed to blow out.

"My poor Brick!" Lahoma wailed. "Do you think he'll take good enough care of himself from what I wrote in my letters? But no, he doesn't think Red Kimball is coming yet, for I didn't know it till after I'd written. He's with Bill now, waiting for another letter. Or for a telegram."

"No, no, Lahoma," Wilfred tried to sooth her. "He has been hiding for days. Why should he come out just at the wrong time? You wrote that you'd not send any more messages. Brick will be on the lookout for Kimball. He is sure to be watching out for him."

"I know Brick," Lahoma protested, seemingly all at once overcome by the fatigues of her journey and the hopelessness of the situation. "I was afraid he wouldn't agree to hide at all; and just as soon as you came away, and there wasn't any more prospects of letters, he'd get lonesome, and tire of staying away from home. He's in that cove this minute, and he'll be there when Red Kimball takes the sheriff after him." Her voice quivered with distress.

"Don't be afraid, Lahoma," urged Wilfred, slipping his arm protectingly about her. "Don't grieve—I'm sure Brick is in a safe place."

"Well, I'M not in danger," said Lahoma, with-drawing from his involuntary embrace. "Don't take ME for Brick! Maybe you're right—but no, I'm sure he wouldn't be willing to stay out in the mountains week after week—and during these cold nights! For it is cold, right now. We must hurry on, Wilfred."

"There's one comfort," said Wilfred, as they retraced their way toward the trail. "Mr. Gledware won't appear as a witness against Brick. We'll get him cleared, easy enough."

"But Mr. Gledware WILL appear against him, and he'll swear anything that Red Kimball wants."

"I thought he agreed to do that only on condition that a certain pin—"

"YES! But Red Kimball brought him that pin just before I left!"

"Brought him the pin that the Indian had?"

"Yes, the pearl and onyx pin. And Mr. Gledware seemed to consider it so important that I know Red Feather would never have given it up while he had life."

"Then...?"

Lahoma shuddered. "YES! You see, NOW, what a fiend Red Kimball is. And you know, NOW, what a hold he has over Mr. Gledware,—can make him testify in such a way as to ruin my poor Brick. If Brick knew this, he'd understand how important it is to flee for his life and never, never let himself be taken. But he thinks nobody could get the better of Red Feather. You see, if he just dreamed what has happened, he'd KNOW Mr. Gledware can convict him."

"We must reach Brick Willock before Red Kimball gets his warrant!" exclaimed Wilfred desperately.

"Yes, we must, we must!" Lahoma was growing slightly hysterical. "I won't mind any hardship, any danger—but what are we to do? You won't let me ride on alone—and you wouldn't be willing to leave me here and take the good horse yourself."

"You're quite right about that!" returned the young man promptly. "We can only mount again, and go as fast as my miserable beast can travel, hoping for some chance to come our way. We have the advantage of not being in the stage where Kimball could keep an eye on us."

"I ought to be more thankful for that than I am," Lahoma sighed. They mounted, but as they rode forward, Wilfred's horse lagged more and more.

"It's slow sailing," Wilfred remarked, "but it will give us a chance to talk. By the way, do you feel ready for supper?" From his overcoat pocket he drew forth the sandwiches.

It seemed to Lahoma to show an unfeeling heart to experience hunger at such a time, and to find the ham sandwiches good; but it was none the less true that they were good, and the mustard with which the ham was plastered added a tang of hope and returned a defiant answer to the cold inquiry of the north wind.

After they had eaten and the remaining sandwiches had been carefully stowed away in Wilfred's capacious pocket, they pressed forward with renewed energy on the part of all save Wilfred's horse. By dint of constant urging it was kept going faster than a walk though it was obsessed by a consuming desire to lie down. In order to keep Lahoma's mind from dwelling on their difficulties and on Brick's peril, the young man maintained conversation at high pressure, ably seconded by his companion who was anxious to show herself undaunted.

Wilfred chose as the topic to engage Lahoma's mind, the future of Oklahoma Territory. The theme filled him with enthusiasm such as no long-settled commonwealth is able to inspire, and though Lahoma considered herself a Texan, she was able to enter into his spirit from having always lived at the margin of the new country. Wilfred dwelt on the day when Oklahoma would no longer be represented in congress by a delegate without the right to vote, but would take its place as a state whose constitution should be something new and inspiring in the history of civil documents.

Wilfred meant to have a part in the framing of that constitution and as he outlined some of his theories of government, Lahoma listened with quick sympathy and appreciation. A new feeling for him, something like admiration, something like pride, stirred within her. Here was a man who meant to do things, things eminently worth a man's time and strength; and yet, for all his high purposes, there was no look, no tone, to indicate that he held himself at a higher valuation than those for whom he meant to labor. As in time of stress the strongest man is given the heaviest burden, so he seemed to take to himself a leading part in the future of his country that all who dwelt within its borders might find it a freer, a richer, a better country because of him.

"You'll call me ambitious," said Wilfred, glowing. "Well, I am. You'll accuse me of wanting power. So I do!"

Her eyes flashed. "And I'm ambitious for you!" she cried. "Go ahead and get power. Take the earth! Don't stop till you reach the sea—that's the spirit of the West. But how did you ever think of these things?"

"During my long winters on my quarter-section, nobody in sight—just the prairie and me. Nothing else to think about except the country that's new-born. So I studied out a good many things, just thinking about Oklahoma and—and—"

Lahoma said softly, "I KNEW there was SOMETHING ELSE you thought about."

"Yes," exclaimed Wilfred, thrilled. "Yes—there WAS something else!"

"A little girl, I guess," murmured Lahoma gently, with a touch of compassion in her tone.

"You've guessed it, Lahoma—yes, the dearest little girl in the world."

"I wish she could have cared for you—THAT way—like your voice sounds," murmured Lahoma.

"Maybe she can," Wilfred's voice grew firmer. "Yes—she MUST!"

"Have you found a gold-mine?"

"What are you talking about, Lahoma? What has a gold-mine to do with it?"

"Because nothing else goes," returned Lahoma decisively. "You might get single statehood for Oklahoma, and write the constitution yourself, and be elected governor—but you'd look just the same to Annabel, unless you had a gold-mine."

Wilfred gave a jerk at his bridle. "Who's talking about Annabel?" he cried rather sharply. He had forgotten that there was an Annabel.

"Everybody is," returned Lahoma, somewhat sharply on her own account, "everybody is, or ought to be!"

"I am not," retorted Wilfred, springing to the ground just in time—for his horse, on being checked, had promptly lain down.

"Then that's what you get!" remarked Lahoma severely, staring down at the dark blur on the trail which her imagination correctly interpreted as the horse stretched out on its side.



CHAPTER XXI

THE NORTHER

The wind increased in fury. Fortunately it was at their back. Wilfred pressed forward on foot, leading Lahoma's horse; and, partly on account of their unequal position, partly because of awkward reserve, no more was said for a long time. She bent forward to shelter her face from the stinging blast while he trod firmly and methodically on and on, braced slightly backward against the wind, which was like a hand pushing him forward.

The voice of the wind filled the night. It whistled and shrieked in minor keys, dying away at brief intervals to come again with a rush and roar. It penetrated him to the bone, for he had compelled her to wrap herself in his overcoat, and when the first stinging grains of fiercely driven sleet pelted his cheek, he smothered a cry of dismay over her exposed situation.

It could not be far past midnight. The prospect of a snow-storm in the bleak lands of the Kiowa appalled him, but even while facing that possibility his mind was busy with Lahoma's attitude toward himself. Evidently it had never occurred to her that Annabel had vanished from his fancy years ago; now that she knew, she was displeased—most unreasonably so, he thought. Lahoma did not approve of Annabel—why should she want him to remain passively under her yoke? Unconsciously his form stiffened in protest as he trudged forward. The wind, so far from showing signs of abatement, slightly increased, no longer with intervals of pause. The sleet changed rapidly first to snow, then to rain—then hail, snow and rain alternated, or descended simultaneously, always driven with cruel force by the relentless wind.

At last Lahoma shouted, "It's a regular norther! How're you getting along, Wilfred?"

Despite their discomfort, his heart leaped at this unexpected note of comradeship. Had she already forgiven him for not loving Annabel? "Oh, Lahoma!" he cried with sudden tenderness, "what will become of you?"

She returned gravely, "What will become of Brick? Northers are bad, but not so bad as some men—Red Kimball, for instance." A terrific blast shook the half-frozen overcoat about her shoulders as if to snatch it away. "Don't you wish the Indians built their villages closer to the trail? Ugh! Hadn't we better burrow a storm-cellar in the sand? I feel awfully high up in the air."

"Poor Lahoma!"

"Believe I'll walk with you, Wilfred; I'm turning to a lady-icicle."

"Do! I know it would warm you up—a little." His teeth showed an inclination to chatter. "Come—I'll help you down. Can you find my arm?"

At that moment the horse gave a violent lunge, then came to a standstill, quivering and snorting with fright. Wilfred's groping arm found the saddle empty.

"I didn't have to climb down," announced her uncertain voice from a distance. It came seemingly from the level of the plain.

"You've fallen—you are hurt!" he exclaimed, but he could not go to her because the horse refused to budge from the spot and he dared not loosen his hold.

"Well, I'm a little warmer, anyway!" Her voice approached slowly. "That was quick exercise; I didn't know I was going to do it till I was down. Lit on my feet, anyhow. Why don't you come to meet me?"

"This miserable beast won't move a foot. Come and hold him, Lahoma, while I examine in front, to find out what's scared him."

"All right. Where are you? Can you find my hand?"

"Can't I!" retorted Wilfred, clasping it in a tight grasp.

"Gracious, how wet we are!" she panted, "and blown about. And frozen."

"And scolded," he added plaintively.

"But, Wilfred, it never entered my mind that I was the little girl. Would I have brought up the subject if I'd known the truth? I never would. That's why I felt you took advantage ... a man ought to bring up that subject himself even if I AM a girl out West and—"

"But Lahoma—"

"And not another word do I want you to say about it. EVER. At least, tonight. PLEASE, Wilfred! So I can think about it. I'll hold the horse—you go on and find out what's the matter.

"Besides, you said—you KNOW you said, when we were strolling—that—that I didn't understand such matters. And that you'd tell me when it was TIME...."

"It's time now, Lahoma, time for you to be somebody's sweetheart—and you said—you KNOW you said, when we were strolling—that I'd fill the bill for you."

"But I brought up the subject myself, and I mean to close it, right short off, for it's a man's subject. Oh, how trembly this horse is!"

"But, Lahoma!"

"Well, what is it?"

"I just wanted to say your name." He started away. "It sounds good to me."

"Yes, it stands for Oklahoma."

"It stands for much more than that!" he called.

"Yes," she persisted in misunderstanding him, "something big and grand."

"Not so big," he cried, now at some distance, "but what there's room for more than Brick and Bill in the cove!"

If she answered, the wind drowned her words. With extended arms he groped along the trail with exceeding caution. Suddenly his foot touched an object which on examination proved to be a human body, a gaping wound in its breast.

"Found anything?" called Lahoma, her voice shivering.

He rose quickly and almost stumbled over another object. It was a second body, stiffened in death.

"I'll be there in a minute," he called, his voice grave and steady. After a brief pause he added—"I've found one of the horses—it's dead."

"Oh, oh!" she exclaimed. "They've driven it to death."

Wilfred had found a bullet hole behind its ear, but he said nothing.

Suddenly the horse held by Lahoma gave a plunge, broke away and went galloping back over the trail they had traversed, pursued by Lahoma's cry of dismay. "I couldn't hold him," she gasped. "He lifted me clear off the ground...."

Wilfred was also dismayed, but he preserved an accent of calm as he felt his way toward her, uttering encouragement for which their condition offered no foundation. But his forced cheerfulness suddenly changed to real congratulation when his extended hand struck against an upright wheel.

"Lahoma, here's the stage-coach. It's standing just as we saw it last, except for the horses."

"The stage-coach!" she marveled, coming toward him. "Oh, Wilfred, I see now what's happened. One of the horses dropped dead, and Red Kimball and his men jumped on the other three.... But I wonder what became of the driver?"

"Get inside!" he ordered. "Thank God, we've found SOMETHING that we can get inside of. That'll shelter us till morning, anyway, and then we can determine what's to be done."

Once in the coach, they were safe from the wind which howled above and around them, rattling the small windows and making the springs creak. There was no help for the discomfort of soaking garments, but Wilfred lighted a reserve lantern and placed it in a corner, while thick leather cushions and stage-blankets offered some prospect of rest.

As no plans could be formed until morning revealed their real plight, they agreed that all conversation should be foregone in order to recuperate from the hardships of the day for the trials of tomorrow. Lahoma soon fell asleep after her exhausting journey of a day and half a night since leaving the train at Chickasha.

For hours Wilfred sat opposite, staring at her worn face, pathetic in its youthful roundness from which the bloom had vanished, wondering at her grace, beauty, helplessness and perfect faith in him. That faith revealed in every line of the form lying along the seat, and spoke from the unconscious face from which the brown hair was outspread to dry.

How oddly her voice had sounded, how strange had been its accent when she said, "It never entered my mind that I was the little girl!" Had she been sorry for the thought to come? Did she think less of him because he had not remained true to Annabel? Would it not have been far better to wait until reaching their destination before hinting of love? Even while perplexed over these problems, and while charmed by that appealing face with the softly parted lips, by the figure that stirred in the rhythm of slumber, other thoughts, other objects weighed upon him—the two dead men, the dead horse just outside. One of those men might be Red Kimball; other bodies might lie there which he had failed to discover. Had the stage been attacked by Indians, or by white desperadoes who found shelter in the Kiowa country? In either case, might not the enemy be hovering about the trail, possibly waiting to descend on the coach?

Armed and watchful, Wilfred waited through the hours. When no longer able to bear the uncertainty, he crept from the stage with the lantern, and examined the recent scene of a furious struggle. There were only two slain—the driver and one of Red Kimball's companions. Either Kimball and his other comrade had escaped, or had been captured. If any of the attacking party had fallen, the bodies had been borne away. Blood-stains indicated that more than two had been shot. From that ghastly sight it was a relief to find himself once more enclosed by the coach walls with Lahoma so peacefully sleeping.

Once he fell into a doze from which he was startled by the impression that soft noises, not of wind or rain, were creeping over the earth. He sat erect with the confused fancy that wolves were slinking among the wheels, were glaring up at the windows, were dragging away the corpses. The sudden movement of his hand as it grasped his pistol awoke Lahoma.

She opened her eyes wide, but did not lift her cheek from the arm that lay along the cushion. "There you are," she said, "just as I was dreaming."

He pretended not to be uneasy, but his ears strained to catch the meaning of those mysterious movements of the night. Her voice cut across the vague murmur of the open plain:

"You only came once!"

Although her eyes were wide, she was apparently but half-awake; not a muscle moved as she looked into his face. "I thought," she murmured, "it was on account of Annabel."

"I went away because I loved you," he answered softly. "I promised Brick I'd go if I felt myself caring—and nobody could help caring for you. That's why I left the country. Just as soon as we laughed together—it happened. That's why I didn't come again."

"Yes," sighed Lahoma, as if it was not so hard to understand, now.

"And that's why I've come back," he added. "Because I've kept on loving you."

"Yes," she sighed again. She closed her eyes and seemed to fall asleep. Perhaps it was a sort of knowing sleep that lost most of the world but clung tenaciously to a few ideas. The noises of the night died away. Presently he heard her murmur as a little smile crept about the parted lips, "The cove's pretty big ... there's more room than I thought."

When she was wide awake, daylight had slipped through the windows. "Oh, Wilfred!" she exclaimed, sitting suddenly erect, and putting her hands to her head mechanically. "Is—are we all right?"

"All right," said the young man cheerily. "There's a good deal of snow on the ground but it was blown off the trail for the most part. Some friends have provided us with the means of going forward."

"But I don't understand.'

"We'll finish the sandwiches, and melt some snow for water, and then mount. Look—see those two Indian ponies fastened to the tongue of the stage? They'll carry us to the next station like the wind."

She stared from the window, bewildered.

"I don't know any more about them than you," he answered her thoughts. "But there they are and here we are." He said nothing about the bodies evidently carried away by those who had brought the ponies. "It's all a mystery—a mystery of the plains. I haven't unraveled the very first thread of—it. What's the use? The western way is to take what comes, isn't it, whether northers or ponies? There's a much bigger mystery than all that filling my mind."

"What is that?"

"You."

She bent over the sandwich with heightened color. "Poor Brick!" she murmured as if to divert his thoughts. But his sympathy just then was not for Brick.

"Lahoma, you said that this is a subject a man should bring up."

She looked at him brightly, still flushing. "Well?"

"I'm bringing it up, Lahoma."

"But we must be planning to save Brick from arrest."

"I'm hoping we'll get home in time—note that I say HOME, Lahoma. I refer to the cove. I'm hoping we'll reach home in time to forestall Red Kimball. We've lost a great deal of time, but Brick doubtless is safely hiding. And when we get to the journey's end—Lahoma, do you know what naturally comes at the journey's end?"

"A marriage."

"I thought that was what you meant."

"Will you marry me at the journey's end?"

Lahoma turned very red and laid down the sandwich. Then she laughed. Then she started up. "Let's get on the ponies!" she cried.



CHAPTER XXII

JOURNEY'S END

The snow, that morning, lay in drifts from five to eight inches across the trail, and to the height of several feet up against those rock walls raising, as on vast artificial tables, the higher stretches of the Kiowa country. But by noon the plain was scarcely streaked with white and when the sun set there was nothing to suggest that a snowflake had ever fallen in that sand-strewn world. The interminable reaches, broken only by the level uplands marked from the plain by their perpendicular walls, and the Wichita Mountains, as faint and unsubstantial to the eye as curved images of smoke against the sky—these dreary monotonies and remotenesses naturally oppress the traveler with a sense of his insignificance. The vast silences, too, of brooding, treeless wastes, sun-baked river-beds, shadowless brown squares standing for miles at a brief height above the shadowless brown floor of the plain—silences amidst which only the wind finds a voice—these, too, insist drearily on the nothingness of man.

But Wilfred and Lahoma were not thus affected. The somethingness of man had never to them been so thrillingly evident. They saw and heard that which was not, except for those having eyes and ears to apprehend—roses in the sand, bird-song in the desert. And when the rude cabins and hasty tents of the last stage-station in Greer County showed dark and white against the horizon of a spring-like morning, Wilfred cried exultantly:

"The end of the journey!"

And Lahoma, suddenly showing in her cheeks all the roses that had opened in her dreams, repeated gaily, yet a little brokenly:

"The end of the journey!"

The end of the journey meant a wedding. The plains blossom with endless flower-gardens and the mountains sing together when the end of the journey means a wedding.

Leaving Lahoma at the small new hotel from whose boards the sun began boiling out resin as soon as it was well aloft, Wilfred hurried after a fresh horse to carry him at once to the cove, ten miles away. Warning must be given to Brick Willock first of all. Lahoma even had a wild hope that Brick might devise some means whereby he could attend the wedding without danger of arrest, but to Wilfred this seemed impossible.

He had gone but a few steps from the hotel when he came face to face with the sheriff of Greer County. Cutting short his old friend's outburst of pleasure:

"Look here, Mizzoo," said Wilfred, drawing him aside from the curious throng on the sidewalk, "have you got a warrant against Brick Willock?"

Mizzoo tapped his breast. "Here!", he said; "know where he is?"

Wilfred sighed with relief: "At any rate, YOU don't!" he cried.

"No—'rat him! Where're you going, Bill?"

"I want a horse..."

"No use riding over to the cove," remarked his friend, with a grin. "That is, unless you want to call on some friends of mine—deputies; they're living in the dugout, just laying for Brick to show himself."

"But, MIZZOO!" expostulated Wilfred, "why are you taking so much trouble against my best friend? The warrant ought to be enough; and if you can't get a chance to serve it on him, that's not your fault. Your deputies haven't any right in that cove, and I'm going to smoke 'em out."

Mizzoo chewed, with a deprecatory shake of his head. "See here, old tap," he murmured, "don't you say nothing about being Brick Willock's friend. The whole country is roused against him. Heard of them three bodies?"

Wilfred explained that he had just come to town.

"Well, good lord, then, the pleasure I'm going to have in telling you something you don't know, and something that's full of meat! Let's go wheres we can sit down—this ain't no standing news." The lank red-faced sheriff started across the street without looking to see if he were followed.

He did not stop till he was in his room at the hotel. "Now," he said, locking the door, "sit down. Yes, you BET. I got a warrant against Brick Willock! It was sworn out by a fellow named Jeremiah Kimball—you know him as 'Red.' The form's regular, charges weighty. Brick Willock was once a member of Red Kimball's gang; he's the only one that didn't come in to get his amnesty. See? Well, he killed Red's brother—shot 'im. Gledware's coming on to witness to it. Willock will claim he done the deed to save Gledware's life—his and his little gal's. But Gledware will show it was otherwise. Red told me all about it. Brick's a murderer, and worst of all, he's a murderer without an amnesty—that's the only difference between him and Red. Well, old tap, I took my oath to do my duty. You know what that signifies."

"But there's no truth in all this rot. Brick HAD to shoot Kansas Kimball—"

"Well, let him show that in court. My business is to take him alive. That ain't all, that's just the preface. Listen! If you'll believe me, the stage that Red and his pards was in—coming here to swear out the warrant, they was—that there stage was set on by this friend of yours—yes, Brick has gathered together some of his old pards and is a highwayman—why, he shot one of Red's witnesses, and he shot the driver!"

"I know something about that holdup," cried Wilfred scornfully. "It must have been done by Indians."

"Red SAW Brick amongst the gang. He RECOGNIZED him. Well, Red and his other pard gets on horses they cuts loose, and comes like lightning, and gets here, and tells the story—and maybe you think this community ain't a-rearing and a-charging and a-sniffing for blood! There'd be more excitement against Brick Willock if there was more community, but such as they is, is concentrated."

"Mizzoo, listen to reason. Don't you understand that Red wants revenge, and has misrepresented this Indian attack to tally with his other lies?"

"I wouldn't say nothing against Red, old tap. It ain't gentlemanly to call dead folk liars."

"Dead folk!" echoed Wilfred, starting up.

"I KNOWED you didn't understand that Red's off the trail forever," Mizzoo rejoined gently. "I knowed you wouldn't be accusing him so rancid, had you been posted on his funeral."

Wilfred felt a great relief, then a great wonder.

"He's dead. I don't say he's better off, I don't know; but I guess the world is. I don't like to censure them that's departed. Brick Willock is still with us, and him the county can't say enough against. His life wouldn't be worth two bits if anybody laid eyes on 'im. Consider his high-handed doings. Wasn't it enough in the past to kill Red's brother, but what he must needs collect his pals, stop the stage-coach, shoot two men trying to get Red, and one of 'em the innocent driver? You say, yes. But hold on, that ain't all he done. No, sir. The very next day after Red swore out that warrant—and it was yesterday, if you ask ME—what is saw, when we men of Mangum comes out of our doors? Three corpses lying on the sidewalk, side by side. You say, what corpses? Wait. I'm coming to that. One was that driver; one was the pard that got shot with the driver. The other was Red Kimball his own self."

"I knew the bodies had been carried away from the trail," exclaimed Wilfred in perplexity. He related his discoveries of the stormy night.

"But you didn't know they had been brung to town all this distance to be laid beside Red. You didn't know Red had been stabbed so he could be added, too. You didn't know the three of them had been left on the street to rile up every man with blood in his veins. Why, Wilfred, it's an insult to the whole state of Texas, Such high-handed doings ain't to be bore. If Brick Willock don't want to be tried in court, is that an excuse for killing off all that might witness against him? It might of been ONCE. But we're determined to have a county of law-abiding citizens. Such free living has got to be nipped in the bud, or we'll have another No-Man's Land. We're determined to live under the laws. This is civilization. The cattle business is dead, land is getting tied up by title-deeds, the deer's gone, and there's nothing left but civilization. And I am the—er—as sheriff of Greer County I am a—I am the angel of civilization, you may say."

Mizzoo started up, too excited to notice Wilfred's suddenly distorted face. It was no time to display a sense of the ludicrous; the young man hotly burst into passionate argument and reasonable hypothesis.

"We've got civilization," Mizzoo declared doggedly, "and we aim to hold on to her, you bet! There's going to be no such doings as three corpses stretched out on the sidewalk for breakfast, not while I'm at the helm. How'd that look, if wrote up for the New York papers? That ain't all—remember that ghost I used to worry my life out over, trying to meet up with on the trail? Him, or her or it, that haunted every step of the way from Abilene to the Gulf of Mexico? It's a flitting, that ghost is! Well, I don't claim that no ghost is in my jurisdiction. Brick's flesh and blood, there's bone to him. As my aunt (Miss Sue of Missouri) used to say, 'he's some MAN.'"

Waving aside Mizzoo's ghost, Wilfred elaborated his theory of an Indian attack, described Brick's peaceable disposition, his gentleness to Lahoma—then dwelt on the friendship between himself and Brick, and the relations between himself and Brick's ward.

"It all comes to this," Mizzoo declared: "if you could make me think Willock a harmless lamb and as innocent, it wouldn't change conditions. This neighborhood calls for his life and'd take it if in reach; and my warrant calls for his arrest. All I can promise is to get him, if possible, behind the bars before the mob gets him in a rope. As my aunt, whom I have oft-times quoted my aunt (Miss Sue of Missouri, a woman of elegant sense)—'that's the word,' she used to say, 'with the bark on it!'"

Wilfred permitted himself the pleasure of taunting Mizzoo with the very evident truth that before Willock was hanged or imprisoned, he must first be caught.

Mizzoo grinned good-naturedly. "Yap. Well, we've got a clew locked up in jail right now that could tell us something, I judge, and will tell us something before set free; its name is Bill Atkins. He's a wise old coon, but as sour as a boiled owl,—nothing as yet to be negotiated with him than if he was a bobcat catched in a trap. We're hoping time'll mellow him—time and the prospect of being took out and swung from the nearest limb—speaking literary, not by nature, as you know trees is as scarce about here as Brick Willock himself."

Wilfred insisted on an immediate visit to Bill. "Brick declared he wouldn't tell Bill his hiding-place," he said, "for he didn't want to get him into trouble. He'll tell me if he knows anything—and if he doesn't, it's an outrage to shut him up, old as he is, and as rheumatic as he's old."

On the way to the rudely improvised prison, Mizzoo defended himself. "He wasn't too old and rheumatic to fight like a wildcat—why, he had to be lifted up bodily and carried into his cell. Not a word can we get out of him, or a bite of grub into him. I believe that old codger's just too obstinate to die!"

When they reached the prison door, the crowd gathered about them, eager for news, watching Mizzoo unfasten the door as if he were unlocking the secret to Willock's whereabouts. There were loud imprecations on the head of the murderer, and fierce prophecies as to what would happen to Bill if he preserved his incriminating silence. It seemed but a moment before hurrying forms from many directions packed themselves into a mass before the jail.

The cells were in the basement. The only entrance to the building was by means of a flight of six steps leading to an unroofed platform before the door of the story proper. Mizzoo and Wilfred, standing on this platform, were lifted above the heads of perhaps a hundred men who watched eagerly the dangling bunch of keys. Mizzoo had stationed three deputies at the foot of the steps to keep back the mob, for if the excited men once rushed into the jail nothing could check their course. The deputies, tall broad-shouldered fellows, pushed back the threatening tide, always with good-natured protests,—words half bantering, half appealing, repulsive thrusts of the arms, rough but inflicting no hurt. So peaceful a minute before had been the Square, it was difficult to comprehend the sudden spirit of danger.

Mizzoo whispered to Wilfred, "We'd better get in as quick as possible."

The words were lost in the increasing roar of voices. He spoke again:

"When I swing open the door, that bunch will try to make a run for it. You jump inside and I'll be after you like a shot.... We'll lock ourselves in—"

"Hey, Mizzoo!" shouted a voice from the crowd, "bring out that old cuss. Drag him to the platform, we want to hear what he's got to say.

"Say, Mr. Sheriff! Tell him if he won't come to us, we'll go to him. We've got to know where Brick Willock's hiding, and that's all about it."

"Sure!" growled a third. "What kind of a town is this, anyway? A refuge for highwaymen and murderers?"

A struggle took place at the foot of the stairs, not so good-naturedly as heretofore. A reasoning voice was heard: "Just let me say a word to the boys."

"Yes!" called others, "let's hear HIM!"

There was a surging forward, and a man was lifted literally over the heads of the three deputies; he reached the platform breathless, disheveled, but triumphant. It was the survivor of Red Kimball's band.

Mizzoo, mistaking his coming for a general rush, had hastily relocked the door, and he and Wilfred defended themselves with drawn revolvers.

"I ain't up here to do no harm," called the ex-highwayman. "I ain't got the spirit for warfare. My chief is killed, my pards is dead. Even that innocent stage-driver what knew nothing of us, is killed in the attack that Brick Willock made on us in the dark and behind our backs. How're you going to grow when the whole world knows you ain't nothing but a den of snakes? You may claim it's all Brick Willock. I say if he's bigger than the town, if he murders and stabs and you can't help it, then the town ain't as good as him. My life's in danger. I don't know if I'll draw another breath. What kind of a reputation is that for you to send abroad? There's a man in this jail can tell you where Willock's hiding. Good day!"

The speaker was down the steps in two leaps, and the deputies drew aside to let him pass out. Civic pride, above all, civic ambition, had been touched to the quick. A hoarse roar followed the speech, and cries for Bill grew frantic. Mizzoo, afraid to unlock the door, stared at Wilfred in perplexity.

"I told you they had civilization on the brain," he muttered. "The old times are past. I daresn't make a move toward that lock."

"Drop the keys behind you—I'll get 'em," Wilfred murmured. "Step a little forward. Say something to 'em."

"Ain't got nothing to say," growled Mizzoo, glaring at the mob. "These boys are in the right of it, that's how I feel—cuss that obstinate old bobcat! it's his own fault if they string him up."

"Here they come!" Wilfred exclaimed.

"Steady now, old Mizzoo—we've whipped packs of wolves before today—coyotes crazy with hunger—big gray loafers in the rocks—eh, Mizzoo?" He shouted to the deputies who had been pushed against the railing: "Give it to 'em, boys!"

But the deputies did not fire, and the mob, though chafing with mad impatience, did not advance. It was a single figure that swept up the steps, unobstructed, aided, indeed, by the mass of packed men in the street—a figure slight and erect, tingling with the necessity of action to which every vein and muscle responded, tingling so vitally, so electrically, that the crowd also tingled, not understanding, but none the less thrilled.

"Lahoma!" Wilfred was at her side. "You here!"

"Yes, I'm here," she returned breathlessly, her face flaming with excitement. "I'm going to talk to these people—let me have that—" She took the revolver from his unresisting hand, uncocked it, and slipped it into her bosom. Then she faced the mob and held up her empty hand.



CHAPTER XXIII

FACING THE MOB

It was the first time Lahoma had ever faced an audience larger than that composed of Brick and Bill and Willock, for in the city she had been content to play an unobtrusive part, listening to others, commenting inwardly. Speech was now but a mode of action, and in her effort to turn the sentiment of the mob, she sought not for words but emotions. Bill's life was at stake. What could she say to make them Bill's friends? After her uplifted hand had brought tense silence, she stood at a loss, her eyes big with the appeal her tongue refused to utter.

The mob was awed by that light in her eyes, by the crimson in her cheeks, by her beauty, freshness and grace. They would not proceed to violence while she stood there facing them. Her power she recognized, but she understood it was that of physical presence. When she was gone, her influence would depart. They knew Brick and Bill had sheltered her from her tenderest years, they admired her fidelity. Whatever she might say to try to move their hearts would come from a sense of gratitude and would be received in tolerant silence. The more guilty the highwayman, the more commendable her loyalty. But it would not change their purpose; as if waiting for a storm to pass, they stood stolid and close-mouthed, slightly bent forward, unresisting, but unmoved.

"I'm a western girl," Lahoma said at last, "and ever since Brick Willock gave me a home when I had none, I've lived right over yonder at the foot of the mountains. I was there when the cattlemen came, before the Indians had given up this country; and I was here when the first settlers moved in, and when the soldiers drove them out. I was living in the cove with Brick Willock when people came up from Texas and planted miles and miles of wheat; and I used to play with the rusty plows and machinery they left scattered about—after the three years' drought had starved them back to their homes. Then Old Man Walker came to Red River, sent his cowboys to drive us out of the cove, and your sheriff led the bunch. And it was Brick and myself that stood them off with our guns, our backs to the wall and our powder dry, and we never saw Mizzoo in our cove again. So you see, I ought to be able to talk to western men in a way they can appreciate, and if there's anybody here that's not a western man—he couldn't understand our style, anyhow—he'd better go where he's needed, for out West you need only western men—like Brick Willock, for instance."

At reference to the well-known incident of Mizzoo's attempt to drive Willock from the cove, there was a sudden wave of laughter, none the less hearty because Mizzoo's face had flushed and his mouth had opened sheepishly. But at the recurrence of Willock's name, the crowd grew serious. They felt the justice of her claim that out West only western men were needed; they excused her for thinking Brick a model type; but let any one else hold him up before them as a model!...

Lahoma's manner changed; it grew deeper and more forceful:

"Men, I want to talk to you about this case—will you be the jury? Consider what kind of man swore out that warrant against Brick—the leader of a band of highwaymen! And who's his chief witness? You don't know Mr. Gledware. I do. You've heard he's a rich and influential citizen in the East. That's true. But I'm going to tell you something to show what he IS—and what Brick Willock is; just one thing; that's all I'll say about the character of either. As to Red Kimball, you don't have to be told. I'm not going to talk about the general features of the case—as to whether Brick was ever a highwayman or not; as to whether he killed Red's brother to save me and my stepfather, or did it in cold blood; as to whether he held up the stage or not. These things you've discussed; you've formed opinions about them. I want to tell you something you haven't heard. Will you listen?"

At first no one spoke. Then from the crowd came a measured impartial voice: "We got lots of time."

She was not discouraged by the intimation in the tone that all her speaking was in vain. Several in the crowd looked reproachfully at him who had responded, feeling that Lahoma deserved more consideration; but in the main, the men nodded grim approval. They had plenty of time—but at the end of it, Bill would either tell all he knew, or....

Lahoma plunged into the midst of her narrative:

"One evening Brick came on a deserted mover's wagon; he'd traveled all day with nothing to eat or drink, and he got into the wagon to escape the blistering sun. In there, he found a dead woman, stretched on her pallet. He had a great curiosity to see her face, so he began lifting the cloth that covered her. He saw a pearl and onyx pin at her throat. It looked like one his mother used to wear. So he dropped the cloth and never looked at her face. She had died the evening before, and he knew she wouldn't have wanted any one to see her THEN. And he dug a grave in the sand, though she was nothing to him, and buried her—never seeing her face—and covered the spot with a great pyramid of stones, and prayed for her little girl—I was her little girl—the Indians had carried me away. You'll say that was a little thing; that anybody would have buried the poor helpless body. Maybe so. But about not looking at her face—well, I don't know; it WAS a little thing, of course, but somehow it just seems to show that Brick Willock wasn't little—had something great in his soul, you know. Seems to show that he couldn't have been a common murderer. It's something you'll have to feel for yourselves, nobody could explain it so you'd see, if you don't understand already."

The men stared at her, somewhat bewildered, saying nothing. In some breasts, a sense of something delicate, not to be defined, was stirred.

"One day," Lahoma resumed, "Brick saw a white man with some Indians standing near that grave. He couldn't imagine what they meant to do, so he hid, thinking them after him. Years afterward Red Feather explained why they came that evening to the pile of stones. The white man was Mr. Gledware. After Red Kimball's gang captured the wagon-train, Mr. Gledware escaped, married Red Feather's daughter and lived with the Indians; he'd married immediately, to save his life, and the tribe suspected he meant to leave Indian Territory at the first chance. Mr. Gledware, great coward, was terrified night and day lest the suspicions of the Indians might finally cost him his life.

"It wasn't ten days after the massacre of the emigrants till he decided to give a proof of good faith. Too great a coward to try to get away and, caring too much for his wife's rich lands to want to leave, he told about the pearl and onyx pin—he said he wanted to give it to Red Flower. A pretty good Indian, Red Feather was—true friend of mine; HE wouldn't rob graves! But he said he'd take Mr. Gledware to the place, and if he got that pin, they'd all know he meant to live amongst them forever. THAT'S why the band was standing there when Brick Willock looked from the mountain-top. Mr. Gledware dug up the body, after the Indians had rolled away the stones—the body of his wife—my mother—the body whose face Brick Willock wouldn't look at, in its helplessness of death. Mr. Gledware is the principal witness against Brick. If you don't feel what kind of man he is from what I've said, nobody could explain it to you."

From several of the intent listeners burst involuntary denunciations of Gledware, while on the faces of others showed a momentary gleam of horror.

Red Kimball's confederate spoke loudly, harshly: "But who killed Red Kimball and his pard and the stage-driver, if it wasn't Brick Willock?"

"I think it was Red Feather's band. I'm witness to the fact that Kimball agreed to bring Mr. Gledware the pearl and onyx pin on condition that Mr. Gledware appear against Brick. After Mr. Gledware deserted Red Flower, or rather after her death, Red Feather carried that pin about him; Mr. Gledware knew he'd never give it up alive. He was always afraid the Indian would find him—and at last he did find him. But Red Kimball got the pin—could that mean anything except that Kimball discovered the Indian's hiding-place and killed him? But for that, I'd think it Red Feather who attacked the stage and killed Red Kimball. As it is, I believe it must have been his friends."

"Now you've said something!" cried Mizzoo. "Boys, don't you think it's a reasonable explanation?"

Some of them did, evidently, for the grim resolution on their faces softened; others, however, were unconvinced.

A stern voice was raised: "Let Brick Willock come do his own explaining. Bill Atkins knows where he's hiding out—and we got to know. We've started in to be a law-abiding county, and that there warrant against Willock has got the right of way."

"You've no warrant against Bill," cried Wilfred, stepping to the edge of the platform, "therefore you've violated the law in locking him up."

"That's so," exclaimed Red Kimball's former comrade. "Well, turn 'im loose, that's what we ask—LET him go—open the jail door!"

"He's locked up for his own safety," shouted Mizzoo. "You fellows agree to leave him alone, and I'll turn him out quick enough. You talk about the law—what you want to do to Bill ain't overly lawful, I take it."

"If he gives up his secret we ain't going to handle him rough," was the quick retort.

Lahoma found that the softening influence she had exerted was already fast dissipating. They bore with her merely because of her youth and sex. She cried out desperately.

"Is there nothing I can say to move your hearts? Has my story of that pearl and onyx pin been lost on you? Couldn't you understand, after all? Are you western men, and yet unable to feel the worth of a western man like Brick?... How he clothed me and sheltered me when the man who should have supported the child left in his care neglected her.... How he taught me and was always tender and gentle—never a cross word—a man like THAT.... And you think he could kill! I don't know whether Bill was told his hiding-place or not. But if I knew it, do you think I'd tell? And if Bill betrayed him,—but Bill wouldn't do it. Thank God, I've been raised with real MEN, men that know how to stand by each other and be true to the death. You want Bill to turn traitor. I say, what kind of men are YOU?"

She turned to Wilfred, blinded by hot tears. "Oh, say something to them!" she gasped, clinging to his arm.

"Go on," murmured Wilfred. "I couldn't reach em, and you made a point, that time. Go on—don't give 'em a chance to think."

"But I can't—I've said all I had to say—"

"Don't stop, dear, for God's sake—the case is desperate! You'll have to do it—for Bill."

"And that isn't all," Lahoma called in a broken pathetic voice, as she turned her pale face upon the curious crowd. "That isn't all. You know Brick and Bill have been all I had—all in this world... You know they couldn't have been sweeter to me if they'd been the nearest of kin—they were more like women than men, somehow, when they spoke to me and sat with me in the dugout—and I guess I know a little about a mother's love because I've always had Brick and Bill. But one day somebody else came to the cove and—and this somebody else, well—he—this somebody else wants to marry me—today. This was the end of our journey," she went on blindly, "and—and it is our wedding-day. I thought there must be SOME way to get Brick to the wedding, but you see how it is. And—and we'll have to marry without him. But Bill's here—in that jail—because he wouldn't betray his friend. And I couldn't marry without either Brick or Bill, could I?"

She took her quivering hand from Wilfred's sturdy arm, and moving to the top of the steps, held out her trembling arms appealingly:

"MEN!— Give me Bill!"

The crowd was with her, now. No doubt of that. All fierceness gone, tears here and there, broad grins to hide deep emotion, open admiration, touched with tenderness, in the eyes that took in her shy flower-like beauty.

"You shall have Bill!" shouted the spokesman of the crowd. And other voices cried, "Give her Bill! Give her Bill!"

"Bring him out!" continued the spokesman in stentorian tones. "We'll not ask him a question. Fellows, clear a path for 'em."

A broad lane was formed through the throng of smiling men whom the sudden, unexpected light of love had softened magically.

While Mizzoo hastened to Bill's cell, some one exclaimed, "Invite us, too. Make it a town wedding!"

And another started the shout, "Hurrah for Lahoma!"

Lahoma, who had taken refuge behind Wilfred's protection, wept and laughed in a rosy glow of triumphant joy.

Mizzoo presently reappeared, leaving the door wide open. He walked to the stairs, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deep-cut with appreciation of the situation. "Fellows," he called, "he says you carried him in there, and dinged if you won't have to carry him out, for not a step will he take!"

At this unexpected development, a burst of laughter swelled into a roar. After that mighty merriment, Bill was as safe as a babe. Twenty volunteers pressed forward to carry the wedding-guest from his cell. And when the old man slowly but proudly followed Wilfred and Lahoma to the hotel where certain preparations were to be made—particularly as touching Bill's personal appearance—the town of Mangum began gathering at the newly-erected church whither they had been invited.