When the four friends—for Mizzoo joined them—drove up to the church door in the only carriage available, Bill descended stiffly, his eyes gleaming fiercely from under snowy locks, as if daring any one to ask him a question about Brick. But nobody did.



CHAPTER XXIV

MINE ENEMY

The general suspicion that Bill Atkins knew more about Brick Willock than he had revealed, was not without foundation; though the extent of his knowledge was more limited than the town supposed. Bill had carried to his friend—hidden in the crevice in the mountain-top—the news of Red Kimball's death; since then, they had not seen each other.

Skulking along wooded gullies by day, creeping down into the cove at night, Willock had unconsciously reverted to the habits of thought and action belonging to the time of his outlawry. He was again, in spirit, a highwayman, though his hostility was directed only against those seeking to bring him to justice. The softening influence of the years spent with Lahoma was no longer apparent in his shifting bloodshot eyes, his crouching shoulders, his furtive hand ever ready to snatch the weapon from concealment. This sinister aspect of wildness, intensified by straggling whiskers and uncombed locks, gave to his giant form a kinship to the huge grotesquely shaped rocks among which he had made his den.

He heard of Red Kimball's death with bitter disappointment. He had hoped to encounter his former chief, to grapple with him, to hurl him, perhaps, from the precipice overlooking Bill's former home. If in his fall, Kimball, with arms wound about his waist, had dragged him down to the same death, what matter? Though his enemy was now no more, the sheriff held the warrant for his arrest—as if the dead man could still strike a mortal blow. The sheriff might be overcome—he was but a man. That piece of paper calling for his arrest—an arrest that would mean, at best, years in the penitentiary—had behind it the whole state of Texas.

To Willock's feverish imagination, the warrant became personified; a mysterious force, not to be destroyed by material means; it was not only paper, but spirit. And it had come between him and Lahoma, it had shut him off from the possibility of a peaceful old age. The cove was no longer home but a hiding-place.

He did not question the justice of this sequel to his earlier life. No doubt deeds of long ago, never punished, demanded a sacrifice. He hated the agents of this justice not so much because they threatened his liberty, his life, as because they stepped in between himself and Lahoma. Always a man of expedients, he now sought some way of frustrating justice, and naturally his plans took the color of violence. Denied the savage joy of killing Red Kimball—and he would have killed him with as little compunction as if he had been a wolf—his thoughts turned toward Gledware.

Gledware was the only witness of the deed for which the warrant demanded his arrest. Willock wished many of his other deeds had been prompted by impulses as generous as those which had led to Kansas Kimball's death. Perhaps it was the irony of justice that he should be threatened by the one act of bloodshed which had saved Lahoma's life. If he must be hanged or imprisoned because he had not, like the rest of the band, given himself up for official pardon, it was as well to suffer from one deed as from another. But it would be better still, as in the past, to escape all consequences. Without Gledware, they could prove nothing.

Would Gledware testify, now that Red Kimball, who had bought his testimony with the death of the Indian, no longer lived to exact payment? Willock felt sure he would. In the first place, Gledware had placed himself on record as a witness, hence could hardly retreat; in the second place, he would doubtless be anxious to rid himself of the danger of ever meeting Willock, whom his conscience must have caused him to hate with the hatred of the man who wrongs his benefactor.

Willock transferred all his rage against the dead enemy to the living. He reminded himself how Gledware had caused the death of Red Feather, not in the heat of fury or in blind terror, but in coldblooded bargaining. He meditated on Gledware's attitude toward Lahoma; he thought nothing good of him, he magnified the evil. That scene at the grave of his wife—and Red Feather's account of how he had dug up the body for a mere pin of pearl and onyx.... Ought such a creature to live to condemn him, to bring sorrow on the stepdaughter he had basely refused to acknowledge?

To wait for the coming of the witness would be to lose an opportunity that might never recur. Willock would go to him. In doing so, he would not only take Gledware by surprise, but would leave the only neighborhood in which search would be made for himself. Thus it came about that while the environs of the cove were being minutely examined, Brick, riding his fastest pony, was on the way to Kansas City.

He reached Kansas City without unusual incident, where he was accepted naturally, as a product of the West. Had his appearance been twice as uncouth, twice as wild, it would have accorded all the better with western superstitions that prevailed in this city, fast forgetting that it had been a western outpost. At the hotel, whose situation he knew from Lahoma's letters, he learned that Gledware was neither there, nor at his home in the country. The country-house was closed up and, in fact, there was a rumor that it was sold, or was about to be sold. One of the porters happened to know that Gledware had gone for a week's diversion down in the Ozarks. There were a lake, a club-house, a dancing-hall, as yet unopened. The season was too early for the usual crowd at Ozark Lodge, but the warm wave that nearly always came at this time of year, had prompted a sudden outing party which might last no longer than the warm wave.

Willock took the first train south and rode with the car window up—the outside breath was the breath of balmy summer though the trees stood bleak and leafless against the sky. Two days ago, snow had fallen—but the birds did not remember it. Seven hours brought him to a lonely wagon-trail called Ozark Lodge because after winding among hills several miles it at last reached the clubhouse of that name overlooking the lake. He left the train in the dusk of evening, and walked briskly away, the only moving figure in the wilderness.

His pace did not slacken till a gleam as of fallen sky cupped in night-fringe warned him that the club-house must be near. A turn of a hill brought it into view, the windows not yet aglow. Nearer at hand was the boat-house, seemingly deserted. But as Willock, now grown wary, crept forward among the post-oaks and blackjacks, well screened from observation by chinkapin masses of gray interlocked network, he discovered two figures near the platform edging the lake. Neither was the one he sought; but from their being there—they were Edgerton Compton and Annabel,—he knew Gledware could not be far away.

"No," Annabel was saying decisively, and yet with an accent of regret, "No, Edgerton, I can't."

"But our last boat-ride," he urged. "Don't refuse me the last ride—a ride to think about all my life. I'm going away tomorrow at noon, as I promised. But early in the morning—"

"I have promised HIM," she said with lingering sadness in her voice. "So I must go with him. He has already engaged the boatman. He'll be here at seven, waiting for me. So you see—"

"Annabel, I shall be here at seven, also!" he exclaimed impetuously.

"But why? I must go with him, Edgerton. You see that."

"Then I shall row alone."

"Why would you add to my unhappiness?" she pleaded.

"I shall be here at seven," he returned grimly; "while you and he take your morning boat-ride, I shall row alone."

She turned from him with a sigh, and he followed her dejectedly up the path toward the club-house.

She had lost some of the fresh beauty which she had brought to the cove, and her step was no longer elastic; but this Willock did not notice. He gave little heed to their tones, their gestures, their looks in which love sought a thin disguise wherein it might show itself unnamed. He had seized on the vital fact that in the morning, Annabel and Gledware would push off from the boat-house steps, presumably alone; and it would be early morning. Perhaps Gledware would come first to the boat-house, there to wait for Annabel. In that case, he would not ride with Annabel. The lake was deep—deep as Willock's hate.

Willock passed the night in the woods, sometimes walking against time among the hills, sometimes seated on the ground, brooding. The night was without breath, without coolness. Occasionally he climbed a rounded elevation from which the clubhouse was discernible. No lights twinkled among the barren trees. All in that wilderness seemed asleep save himself. The myriad insects that sing through the spring and summer months had not yet found their voices; there was no trill of frogs, not even the hooting of an owl,—no sound but his own breathing.

At break of dawn he crept into the boat-house like a shadow, barefooted, bareheaded—the club-house was not yet awake. He looked about the barnlike room for a hiding-place. Walls, floor, ceiling were bare. Near the door opening on the lake was a rustic bench, impossible as a refuge. Only in one corner, where empty boxes and a disused skiff formed a barricade, could he hope for concealment. He glided thither, and on the floor between the dusty wall of broad boards and the jumbled partition, he found a man stretched on his back.

At first, he thought he had surprised a sleeper, but as the figure did not move, he decided it must be a corpse. He would have fled but for his need of this corner. He bent down—the man was bound hand and foot. In the mouth, a gag was fastened. Neck and ankles were tied to spikes in the wall.

Willock swiftly surveyed the lake and the sloping hill leading down from the club-house. Nobody was near. As he stared at the landscape, the front door of the club-house opened. He darted hack to the corner. "Pardner," he said, "I got to ask your hospitality for a spell, and if you move so as to attract attention, I got to fix you better. I didn't do this here, pardner, but you shore look like some of my handiwork in days past and gone. I'll share this corner with you for a while, and if you don't give me away to them that's coming, I promise to set you free. That's fair, I guess. 'A man ain't all bad,' says Brick, 'as unties the knots that other men has tied,' says he. Just lay still and comfortable, and we'll see what's coming."

Presently there were footsteps in the path, and to Willock's intense disappointment, Gledware and Annabel came in together. They were in the midst of a conversation and at the first few words, he found it related to Lahoma. The boatman who had promised to bring the skiff for them at seven—it developed that Gledware had no intention of doing the rowing—had not yet come. They sat down on the rustic bench, their voices distinctly audible in all parts of the small building.

"Her closest living relative," Gledware said, "is a great-aunt, living in Boston. As soon as I found out who she was—I'd always supposed her living among Indians, and that it would be impossible to find her—but as soon as I learned the truth, without saying anything to HER, I wrote to her great-aunt. I've never been in a position to take care of Lahoma—I felt that I ought to place her with her own family. I got an answer—about what you would expect. They'd give her a home—I told them what a respectable girl she is—fairly creditable appearance—intelligent enough... But they couldn't stand those people she lives with—criminals, you know, Annabel, highwaymen—murderers! Imagine Brick Willock in a Boston drawing-room... But you couldn't."

"No," Annabel agreed. "Poor Lahoma! And I know she'd never give him up."

"That's it—she's immovable. She'd insist on taking him along. But he belongs to another age—a different country. He couldn't understand. He thinks when you've anything against a man, the proper move is to kill 'im. He's just like an Indian—a wild beast. Wouldn't know what we meant if we talked about civilization. His religion is the knife. Well—you see; if he were out of the way, Lahoma would have her chance."

"But couldn't he be arrested?"

"That's my only hope. If he were hanged, or locked up for a certain number of years, Lahoma'd go East. But as long as he's at large, she'll wait for him to turn up. She'll stay right there in the cove till she dies of old age, if he's free to visit her at odd moments. It's her idea of fidelity, and it's true that he did take her in when she needed somebody. There's a move on foot now, to arrest him for an old crime—a murder. I witnessed the deed—I'll testify, if called on. Lahoma will hate me for that—but it'll be the greatest favor I could possibly do her. She knows I mean to appear against him, and she thinks me a brute. But if I can convict Willock, it'll place Lahoma in a family of wealth and refinement—"

He broke off with, "Wonder why that old deaf boatman doesn't come?" He walked impatiently to the head of the steps and stared out over the lake. "Somebody out there now," he exclaimed. "Oh,—it's Edgerton, rowing about!"

He returned to the bench, but did not sit down. "Annabel," he said abruptly, "you promised me to name the day, this morning."

"Yes," she responded very faintly.

"And I am sure, dear," he added in a deep resonant voice, "that in time you will come to care for me as I care for you now—you, the only woman I have ever loved. I understand about Edgerton, but you see, you couldn't marry him—in fact, he couldn't marry anybody for years; he has nothing.... And these earlier attachments that we think the biggest things in our lives—well, they just dwindle, Annabel, they dwindle as we get the true perspective. I know your happiness depends upon me, and it rejoices me to know it. I can give you all you want—all you can dream of—and I'm man-of-the-world enough to understand that happiness depends just on that—getting what you want."

Annabel started up abruptly. "I think I heard the boat scraping outside."

"Yes, he's there. Come, dear, and before the ride is ended you must name the day—"

"DON'T!" she exclaimed sharply. "He—"

"He's as deaf as a post, my dear," Gledware murmured gently. "That's why I selected him. I knew we'd want to talk—I knew you'd name the day."

He helped her down the rattling boards.

Brick Willock rose softly and stole toward the opening, his eyes filled with a strange light. They no longer glared with the blood-lust of a wild beast, but showed gloomy and perplexed; the words spoken concerning himself had sunk deep.

The boatman sat with his back to Gledware and Annabel. He wore a long dingy coat of light gray and a huge battered straw hat, whose wide brim hid his hair and almost eclipsed his face. Willock, careful not to show himself, stared at the skiff as it shot out from the landing, his brow wrinkled in anxious thought. He felt strange and dizzy, and at first fancied it was because of the resolution that had taken possession of him—the resolution to return to Greer County and give himself up. This purpose, as unreasoning as his plan to kill Gledware, grew as fixed in his mind as half an hour before his other plan had been.

To go voluntarily to the sheriff, unresistingly to hold out his wrists for the handcuffs—that would indeed mark a new era in his life. "A wild Indian wouldn't do that," he mused, "nor a wild beast. I guess I understand, after all. And if that's the way to make Lahoma happy...."

No wonder he felt queer; but his light-headedness did not rise, as a matter of fact, entirely from subjective storm-threatenings. There was something about that boatman—now, when he tilted up his head slightly, and the hat failed to conceal—was it possible?...

"My God!" whispered Willock; "it's Red Feather!"

And Gledware, with eyes only for Annabel, finding nothing beyond her but a long gray coat, a big straw hat and two rowing arms—did not suspect the truth!

In a flash, Willock comprehended all. The Indian had dropped the pin in Kimball's path, and Kimball, finding it, had carried it to Gledware as if Red Feather were dead. The Indian had led his braves against the stage-coach—Kimball had fallen under his knife. Yonder man in the corner, bound and gagged, was doubtless the old deaf boatman engaged by Gledware. Red Feather had taken his place that he might row Gledware far out on the lake....

But Annabel was in the boat. If the Indian...

Far away toward the east, Edgerton Compton was rowing, not near enough to intervene in case the Indian attempted violence, but better able than himself to lend assistance if the boat were overturned. Willock could, in truth, do nothing, except shout a warning, and this he forebore lest it hasten the impending catastrophe. He remained, therefore, half-hidden, crouching at the doorway, his eyes glued to the rapidly gliding boat, with its three figures clear-cut against the first faint sun-glow.



CHAPTER XXV

GLEDWARE'S POSSESSIONS

Red Feather's mind was not constituted to entertain more than one leading thought at a time. Ever since the desertion and death of his daughter, revenge had been his dominant passion. It was in order to find Gledware that he had haunted the trail during the years of lahoma's youth, always hoping to discover him in the new country—gliding behind herds of cattle, listening to scraps of talks among the cattlemen, earning from Mizzoo the uneasy designation, "the ghost."

Thanks to the reading aloud of Lahoma's letter, he had learned of Gledware's presence in the city which he had known years before as Westport Landing. He went thither unbewildered by its marvelous changes, undistracted by its tumultuous flood of life—for his mind was full of his mission; he could see only the blood following the blade of his knife, heard nothing but a groan, a death-rattle.

Gledware's presence in the boat this morning had been made possible only by the interposition of Lahoma; but for the Indian's deep-seated affection for her whom he regarded as a child, the man now smiling into Annabel's pale face would long ago have found his final resting-place. It was due to the Indian's singleness of thought that Lahoma's plan had struck him as good. Gledware, stripped of all his possessions, slinking as a beggar from door to door, no roof, no bed, but sky and earth—that is what Red Feather had meant.

He had believed Gledware glad of the respite. That he should accept the alternative seemed reasonable. There was a choice only between death and poverty—and Gledware wished to live so desperately—so basely! The chief cared little for life; still, he would unhesitatingly have preferred the most meager existence to a knife in his heart; how much more, then, this craven white man. But the plan had failed because Gledware did not believe death was the other alternative. Never in the remotest way had it occurred to the avenger that Gledware could be spared should he prove false to his oath. Red Feather was less a man with passions than a cold relentless fate. This fate would surely overcome the helpless wretch, should he cling to his riches.

As Red Feather skimmed the water with long sweeps of his oars, never looking back, the voices of his passengers came to his ears without meaning. He was thinking of the last few days and how this morning's ride was their fitting sequel. The early sunbeams were full on him as he tilted back his head, but they showed no emotion on his face, hard-set and dully red in the clear radiance.

Crouching near the summer-house at Gledware's place, he had overheard Red Kimball boast to bring Gledware the pearl and onyx pin. Then had shot through his darkened mind the suspicion that Gledware meant to escape the one condition on which his life was to be spared. With simple cunning he had left the pin where the outlaw must find it; his own death would be taken for granted—what then?

What then? This ride in the boat. Gledware had made his choice; he had clung to his possessions—and now Death held the oars. He was scarcely past middle age. He might have lived so long, he who so loved to live! But no, he had chosen to be rich—and to die.

When Red Feather brought his mind back to the present, Gledware was describing to Annabel a ranch in California for which he had traded the house near Independence. He would take her far away; he would build a house thus and thus—room so; terraces here; marble pillars....

Annabel listened gravely, silently, her face all the paler for the sunlight flashing over it, for the mimic sun on the waves glancing up into her pensive eyes. Somehow, the sunshine, the ripple of the water, seemed to form no part of her life, belonged rather, to Edgerton Compton rowing in solitude against the sky. Those naked trees, bare brown hills and ledges of huge stones seemed her world-boundaries, kin to her, claiming her— But there was California ... and the splendid house to be built....

The Indian was listening now, but as he heard projected details glowingly presented, no change came in his grim deep-lined face. He simply knew it was not to be—let the fool plan! He found himself wondering dully why he no longer hated Gledware with that vindictive fury that gloats over the death-grip, lingers in fiendish leisure over the lifted scalp. He scarcely remembered the wrong done his daughter; it was almost as if he had banished the cause of his revenge; as if vengeance itself had become a simple stroke of destiny. Gledware had chosen his possession, and the Indian was Fate's answer.

"Beautiful one," he heard Gledware say, speaking in an altered tone, "all that is in the future—but see what I have brought you; this is for today. It's yours, dear—let me see it around your neck with the sun full upon it—"

Red Feather turned his head, curiously.

Gledware held outstretched a magnificent diamond necklace which shot forth dazzling rays as it swung from his eager fingers.

Annabel uttered a smothered cry of delight as the iridescence filled her eyes. She looked across the water toward the pagoda-shaped club-house where her mother stood, faintly defined as a speck of white against the green wall-shingles of the piazza. It seemed that it needed this glance to steady her nerves. Edgerton was forgotten. She reached out her hand. And then, perplexed at the necklace being suddenly withdrawn, she looked up. She caught a glimpse of Gledware's face, and her blood turned cold.

That face was frozen in horror. At the turning of the boatman's head, he had instantly recognized under the huge-brimmed hat, the face of his enemy as if brought back from the grave.

There was a moment's tense silence, filled with mystery for her, with indescribable agony for him, with simple waiting for the Indian. Annabel turned to discover the cause of Gledware's terror, but she saw no malice, no threat, in the boatman's eyes.

Gledware ceased breathing, then his form quivered with a sudden inrush of breath as of a man emerging from diving. His eyes rolled in his head as he turned about scanning the shore, glaring at Edgerton's distant boat. Why had he come unarmed? How could he have put faith in Red Kimball's assurances? He tortured his brain for some gleam of hope.

"This is all I have," he shrieked, as if the Indian's foot was already upon his neck. "This is all I have." He flung the necklace into the water. "It was a lie about the California ranch—it's a lie about all my property—I've got nothing, Annabel! I sold the last bit to get you the necklace, but I shouldn't have done that. Now it's gone. I have nothing!"

The Indian rose slowly. The oars slipped down and floated away in the flashing stream of the sun's rays.

Annabel, realizing that the Indian, despite his impassive countenance, threatened some horrible catastrophe, started up with a scream. Edgerton had already turned toward them; alarmed at sound of Gledware's terror. He bent to the oars, comprehending only that Annabel was in danger.

"Edgerton!" she shrieked blindly. "Edgerton! Edgerton! Edgerton!"

Gledware crouched at her feet, crying beseechingly, "I swear I have nothing—nothing! I sold everything—gave it away—left it—nothing in all the world! I'm willing to beg, to starve—I don't want to own anything—I only want to live—to live.... My God! TO LIVE..."

Red Feather did not utter a word. But with the stealthy lightness and litheness of a panther, he stepped over the seat and moved toward Gledware.

Then Gledware, pushed to the last extremity, despairing of the interposition of some miraculous chance, was forced back upon himself. With the vision of an inherent coward he saw all chances against him; but with the desperation of a maddened soul, he threw himself upon the defensive.

Red Feather had not expected to see him offer resistance. This show of clenched teeth and doubled fists suddenly enraged him, and the old lust of vengeance flamed from his eyes. Hat and disguising coat were cast aside. For a moment his form, rigid and erect, gleamed like a statue of copper cut in stern relentless lines, and the single crimson feather in his raven locks matched, in gold, the silver brightness of his upraised blade.

The next moment his form shot forward, his arm gripped Gledware about the neck, despite furious resistance, and both men fell into the water.

The violent shock given to the boat sent Annabel to her knees. Clutching the side she gazed with horrified eyes at the water in her wake. The men had disappeared, but in the glowing white path cut across the lake by the sun, appeared a dull red streak that thinned away to faint purple and dim pink. She watched the sinister discoloration with fascinated eyes. What was taking place beneath the smooth tide? Or was it all over? Had Red Feather found a rock to which he could cling while he drowned himself with his victim? Or had their bodies been caught in the tangled branches of a submerged forest tree? It was one of the mysteries of the Ozarks never to be solved.

She was still kneeling, still staring with frightened eyes, still wondering, when Edgerton Compton rowed up beside her.

"He said he had nothing," she stammered, as he helped her to rise. "He said he had nothing.... How true it is!" Edgerton gently lifted her to his skiff, then stepped in beside her. He, too, was watching the water for the possible emergence of a ghastly face.

Annabel began trembling as with the ague. "Edgerton!... He said it was all a lie—about his property—and so it was. Everything is a lie except—this..."

She clung to him.



CHAPTER XXVI

JUST A HABIT

When Bill Atkins with an air of impenetrable mystery invited Wilfred Compton to a ride that might keep him from his bride several days, the young man guessed that Willock had been found. Lahoma, divining as much, urged Wilfred to hasten, assured him that she enjoyed the publicity and stirring life of the Mangum hotel and expressed confidence that should she need a friend, Mizzoo would help her through any difficulty. So Wilfred rode away with Bill, and Willock was not mentioned.

Bill was evidently in deep trouble, and when Wilfred and he had let themselves down into the stone corridor whose only entrance was a crevice in the mountain-top, he understood the old trapper's deep despondency—Brick Willock was there; and Brick declared his intention of giving himself up. He announced his purpose before greetings had subsided. Bill called him an old fool, used unpruned language, scolded, rather than argued. Wilfred, on the other hand, delayed events by requesting full particulars of the last few weeks.

"He's told me all he's been up to," Bill objected; "there's no call to travel over that ground again. What I brought you here for, Wilfred, is to show him how foolish he'd be to let himself be taken when he's free as the wind."

"I tells my tale," declared Brick, "and them as has heard it once can take it or leave it." He was discursive, circumstantial, and it was a long time before he led them in fancy to the door of the boat-house and showed them Red Feather and Gledware disappearing forever beneath the surface of the lake.

"There I waited," he said, "expecting first one head, then the other to come to light, but nothing happened. Seemed like I couldn't move. But Edgerton, he began rowing towards me with Annabel, she happy despite herself, and when I see it wouldn't do to tarry no longer, I cuts loose the old deaf boatman and unstops his mouth. Well, sir, he lets out a yell that would a-done credit to a bobcat fighting in the traps. I had to run for it fellows from the club-house took after me thinking I'd been murdering somebody—I skinned them Ozark hills and I skinned myself. But Brick, he says, 'When you turns loose a bobcat, expect scratches,' says he."

"Don't tell about how you hid in the hills waiting for a night train," Bill pleaded.

"I tells it all;" Brick was inflexible. "You are here, I'm here, and it's a safe place. We may never be so put again."

"A safe place!" Bill snarled. "Yes, it IS a safe place. But you've lost your nerve. WAS a time, when you'd have stood out creation in a hole like this. But you've turned to salt, you have a regular Bible character—giving up to the law, letting them clap you in jail, getting yourself hanged, very likely! And all because you've lost your nerve. See here, Brick, stand 'em out! I'll steady you through thick and thin. I'll bring you grub and water."

"YOU couldn't do nothing," Brick returned contemptuously, "you're too old. As for that, I ain't come to the pass of needing being waited on, I guess. It ain't dangers that subdues me, it's principles. Look here!"

He walked to the cross-bar that was set in the walls to guard the floor from the unknown abyss. "I found out they was a hole in the rock just about five feet under the floor. I can take this rope and tie one end to the post and let myself down to that little room where there's grub enough to last a long siege, where there's bedding and common luxuries, as tobacco and the like. I ain't been smoked out, into the open, I goes free and disposed and my hands held up according."

When he had finished the last morsel of his story and had warmed some of it over for another taste, there came an ominous silence, broken at last by the querulous voice of Bill, arguing against surrender.

Willock waited in patience till his friend had exhausted himself. "I ain't saying nothing," he explained to Wilfred, "because he ain't pervious to reason, and it does him good to get that out of his system."

"Let me make a suggestion," exclaimed Wilfred suddenly.

Willock looked at him suspiciously. "If it ain't counter to my plans—"

"It isn't. It's this: Suppose we drop the subject till tomorrow—it won't hurt any of us to sleep on it, and I know I'D enjoy another night with you, as in the old days."

"I'm willing to sleep on it, out of friendship," Willock conceded unwillingly, "though I'd rest easier on a bed in the jail. There never was no bird more crazy to get into a cage than I am to be shut up. But as to the old days, they ain't none left. Them deputies is in the dugout, they're in the cabin I built for Lahoma, they think they owns our cove. Well, they's no place left for me; life wouldn't be nothing, crouching and slinking up here in the rocks. Life wouldn't be nothing to me without Lahoma. I'd have a pretty chance for happiness, now wouldn't I, sitting up somewheres with Bill Atkins! I ain't saying I mightn't get out of this country and find a safe spot where I could live free and disposed with an old renegade like HIM that nobody ain't after and ain't a-caring whether he's above ground or in kingdom come. But I couldn't be with Lahoma; I'm under ban."

"If you were on my farm near Oklahoma City," Wilfred suggested, "and Lahoma and I lived in the city, you could often see her. Up there, nobody'd molest you, nobody'd know you. That's what I've been planning. You could look after the farm and Bill could go back and forth. As soon as the news comes that Red Feather killed Gledware, it'll be taken for granted that he killed Red Kimball and attacked the stage. You'll be cleared of all that and nobody will want you arrested."

Willock rose. "Are we going to sleep on this, or shall I answer you now?" he demanded fixedly.

Wilfred hastily asked for time.

They passed the night in the mountain-top, but Willock had spoken truly; there were no old days. The one subject forbidden was the only subject in their minds. All attempts at reminiscence, at irrelevant anecdotes, were mere pretense. The fact that Wilfred and Lahoma were now married seemed to banish events of a month ago as if they were years and years in the past.

They partook of breakfast in the gray dawn of the new day, eating by lantern-light. And when the light had been extinguished, Willock, like a wild animal brought to bay, squared his shoulders against the wall, and said: "We've slept on it. Say all you got to say. Don't leave out nothing because you might be sorry, afterwards. Speak together, or one at a time, it's all the same to me. And when you're done, and say you're done, I'll do my talking, according."

And when they were done, and said they were done, he straightened himself and said:

"When Red Kimball's band give themselves to the law that done nothing to them, there might of been a man, one of 'em, that never come in out of the rain. I ain't saying I am that man, for I stands by the records and the proofs and the showings of man and man, technical and arbitrary. But in due time, the governor of Texas he says that that man—whoever he may be—was no longer to be excused on the grounds that he done his operating in No-Man's Land and his residing in the state of Texas. And he said that there man would be held responsible for all the deeds done by Red Kimball's band. That word has been handed down. Now whether I'm that man, or just thought to be that man, makes little difference. I'm a fugitive on the face of the earth without an ark of safety—referring to my cove. That's ME.

"Now look at LAHOMA. She has folks, not meaning you, Wilfred, but Boston kin that stands high. A woman ain't nothing without family, out in the world. You're going to be a great man some day, if I don't miss my guess, a great man in Oklahoma government and laws. Lahoma's going to be proud of you. You'll take a hand in politics, you'll be elected to something high. If I lived near at hand, I'd all-time be hiding, and having her a-conniving at something that would hurt your reputation if found out, and that would kill me because I couldn't breathe under such a load. And if away from her, well—I'm too old, now, to live without Lahoma. She's—she's just a habit of mine.

"So you puts me in jail. They does what they likes with me, hangs me or gives me time, but the point as I see it is this: I'll be disposed of, I'll be given a rank, you may say, and classified. Lahoma won't be hampered. She's young; young people takes things hard but they don't take 'em long. In due time, them Boston kinfolks will be inviting her and will be visiting her, and you'll be in congress, like enough—if you wasn't a western man, I'd say you might be president. And everybody will honor you and feast you—and as to Brick Willock, he'll simply be forgot.

"Which is eminent and proper, Wilfred. I belongs to the past—I'M a kind of wild creature such as has to die out when civilization rolls high; and she's rolling high in these parts, and it's for me and Bill to join the Indians and buffaloes, and fade away. Trappers is out of date; so is highwaymen, I judge.

"I don't know as I makes myself clear or well put, but if you'll catch up the ponies I guess your sheriff can handle my meaning."

Without much difficulty, Wilfred effected another compromise. They waited till night before leaving the retreat. The reason accepted for this delay was that in the daytime the deputies would stop them and Willock wanted to give himself up to the chief in command. When it was dark they slipped down the gully whose matted trees, though stripped of leaves, offered additional shelter. In the cove, they saw the light streaming from the window of the dugout—that famous window that had given Lahoma her first outlook upon learning. As the beams caught his eye, a sigh heaved the great bulk of the former master of the cove, but he said nothing.

In oppressive silence they skirted Turtle Hill and emerged from the horseshoe bend, finding in a sheltered nook the three ponies that Wilfred had provided at nightfall. He had hoped to the last that Willock could be prevailed on to alter his decision, and even while riding away toward Mangum, he argued and coaxed. But it was in vain, and as they clattered up to the hotel veranda, Willock was searching the crowd for a glimpse of the sheriff.

The street was unusually full for that time of night; some topic of engrossing interest seemed to engage all minds until Willock's figure was recognized; then, indeed, he held the center of attention. Men gathered eagerly, curiously, but without the hostility they would have displayed had not a message regarding Red Feather reached the town. Brick was still an outlaw, to be sure, but whatever crimes he had committed were unknown, hence unable to react on the imagination. The surviving friend of Red Kimball, giving up his efforts against Willock on the liberation of Bill, had left the country, harmless without his leader.

Conversation which had been loud and excited, eager calls from street corners that had punctuated the many-tongued argument and exposition, dimmed to silence. There was a forward movement of the men, not a rush but a vibratory swell of the human tide, pushing toward the steps of the hotel. The two riderless horses danced sidewise—Brick Willock had jumped upon the unpainted floor of the veranda, and Wilfred had sprung lightly to his side.

"I'll just keep on my horse," muttered Bill, resting one leg stiffly over the pommel. "I can't get up as I used to, and I expect to stay with ye, Brick, to the jail door."

Willock did not turn his shaggy head to answer. He had seen the sheriff at the other end of the piazza, and he made straight for him, not even condescending to a grin when the other, mistaking his intentions, whipped out his revolver.

"Put it up, pard," Brick said gruffly. "When you come to me in the cove, a few years ago, I give you a warm welcome, but now I ain't a-coming to you, I'm a-coming to the Law. Where's that there warrant?"

The crowd that had been listening to the sheriff's discourse before the arrival of the highwayman, scattered at sight of the drawn weapon—all except Lahoma.

"Brick!" she cried, "oh, Brick, Brick!"

There was something in her voice he could not understand, but he dared not turn to examine her face; he could not trust himself if he once looked at her.

"Get out your warrant," he cried savagely, "and get it out quick if you want ME!" His great breast heaved with the conflict of powerful emotions.

"I'm sure sorry to see you, old man," Mizzoo declared. "We know Red Feather done what we was charging up against you. But I guess there's no other course open to me. As my aunt used to say (Miss Sue of Missouri) 'I got a duty—do it, I must.'" He thrust his hairy hand into his bosom and drew forth the fateful paper.

Lahoma laughed. "Read it, Mizzoo, read it aloud—read all of it!" she cried gleefully.

Wilfred looked at her, bewildered. The crowd stared also, knowing her love for Brick, therefore dazed at the sound of mirthful music. Brick turned his head at last; he looked, also, not reproachfully but with a question in his hard stern eyes.

Mizzoo turned red. "Well, yes, I'll read it," he said, defiantly. "Sure! I guess as sheriff of Greer County I'll make shift to get through with it alive."

He began to read, slowly, doggedly; Brick, without movement save for that heaving of his bosom, facing him with a mingling on his face of supreme defiance for the reader and superstitious awe for the legal instrument.

"That's all," Mizzoo at last announced. "You'll have to come with me, Willock."

"Hold on!" came voices from the crowd. During the reading, they had been watching Lahoma, and her expression promised more than fruitless laughter. "Hold on, Mizzoo, Lahoma's got something up her sleeve!"

Lahoma spoke clearly, that her voice might carry to the confines of the crowd: "Mizzoo, I think you read in that warrant, 'county of Greer, state of Texas'? Didn't you?"

"That's what I done. Here's the words."

"But, you see," returned Lahoma, "that warrant's no good!"

Mizzoo stared at her a moment, then exclaimed violently, "By—" Propriety forbade the completion of his phrase.

The crowd instantly caught her meaning; a shout rose, shrill, tumultuous, broken with laughter. She had reminded them of the subject which a short time ago had engaged all minds.

"It's no good," cried Lahoma triumphantly. She took it from Mizzoo's lax fingers and deliberately tore it from top to bottom.

"I guess I'm a-getting old, sure enough," said Bill. "This is beyond me."

Wilfred looked at Lahoma questioningly. Brick, stupefied by violence done that sacred instrument of civilization, stood rooted to the spot.

Mizzoo was grinning now. "You see," he explained, "word come today that the Supreme Court has at last turned in its decision. Prairie Dog Fork is now Red River, and 'Red River' is only the North Fork of Red River—and that means that Greer County don't belong to Texas, and never did belong to her, but is a part of Oklahoma."

"And you'll never have an Oklahoma writ served on you," cried Lahoma, "not while I'm living! And you'll go with us to our farm and live with us, you and Bill and..."

Lahoma had expected to be very calm and logical, for she knew she had all the advantage on her side. But when she saw the change in Brick's eyes, she forgot her rights; she forgot all that watching crowd; she forgot even Wilfred—and with a spring she was in Brick's arms, sobbing for joy.

He tried to say something about her Boston kin, but he could not express the thought coherently, for giant as he was, he was sobbing, too.

"If there's ever a meeting," she said, between tears and laughter, "the East will have to come to the West!"

"Those Boston folks," cried Bill, with a sudden upheaval of unwonted humor, "can simply go to—beans! I'm a-getting down," he added, cautiously lowering himself from his pony; "I guess I'm in this, too."

"You're in it," growled Brick, "but you're on the outskirts. Don't come no nearer." He stroked the head that rested on his breast, his great hand moving with exceeding gentleness. He gazed over her brown glory, at the sympathetic crowd.

"Fellows," he cried, "just look what I've raised!"

"Boys," exclaimed Mizzoo, "what do you say? Let's give three cheers for Lahoma."

Wilfred's voice cut across the last word, proud and happy: "Make it Lahoma of Oklahoma!"

THE END