Finally he folded the paper up and tucked it into a pocket. Then he gathered up the bedding, took it outside and roughly bundled the girl in it. She lay unconscious and dreadfully white, with the snow sifting steadily over her. Her condition had no effect on the old ruffian who callously let her lie, covering her only to prevent her freezing to death before he could extract the information he desired.

He finished her culinary tasks and glutted himself on the food, grunting and tearing at it like a wild animal. Then he dragged out his filthy bedding and rolled himself up in it, scorning the shelter of the tent, which stood wanly in the white, misty night.

It was morning when Solange recovered her senses. She awoke to a gray, chill world in which she alternately shivered and burned as fever clutched her. For many minutes she lay, swathed in blankets, dull to sensation, staring up at a leaden sky. The snow had ceased to fall.

Still unable to comprehend where she was or what had happened, she made a tentative attempt to move, only to wince as the pains, borne of her struggle and of lying on the bare ground, seized her. Stiff and sore, weakened, with head throbbing and stabbing, the whole horrible adventure came back to her. She tried to rise, but she was totally helpless and her least movement gave her excruciating pain. Her head covering had been laid aside before she had begun preparation of supper the night before, and her colorless and strangely brilliant hair, all tumbled and loose, lay around her head and over her shoulders in great waves and billows, tinged with blue and red lights against the snow. Her face, delicately flushed with fever, was wildly beautiful, and her eyes were burning with somber, terrible light deep in their depths.

It was this face that Jim Banker looked down upon as he came back from the creek, unkempt, dirty. It was these eyes he met as he stooped over her with his lunatic chuckle.

He winced backward as though she had struck him, and his face contorted with sudden panic. He cowered away from her and covered his own eyes.

"Don't you look at me like that! I never done nothing!" he whined.

"Canaille!" said Solange. Her voice was a mere whisper but it fairly singed with scorn. Fearless, she stared at him and he could not meet her gaze.

His gusty mood changed and he began to curse her. She heard more foulness from him in the next five minutes than all the delirium of wounded soldiers during five years of war had produced for her. She saw a soul laid bare before her in all its unutterable vileness. Yet she did not flinch, nor did a single symptom of panic or fear cross her face.

Once, for a second, he ceased his mouthing, abruptly. His head went up and he bent an ear to the wind as though listening to something infinitely far away.

"Singin'!" he muttered, as though in awe. "Hear that! 'Louisiana! Louisiana Lou!'"

Then he cackled. "Louisiana singin'. I hear him. Louisiana—who killed French Pete. He, he!"

After a while he tired, subsiding into mutterings. He got breakfast, bringing to her some of the mess he cooked. She ate it, though it nauseated her, determining that she would endeavor to keep her strength for future struggles.

While she choked down the food the prospector sat near her, but not looking at her, and talked.

"You an' me'll talk pretty, honey. Old Jim ain't goin' to hurt you if you're reasonable. Just tell old Jim what the writin' says and old Jim'll be right nice to you. We'll go an' find the gold, you and me. You'll tell old Jim, won't you?"

His horrible pleading fell on stony ears, and he changed his tune.

"You ain't a-goin' tell old Jim? Well, that's too bad. Old Jim hates to do it, pretty, but old Jim's got to know. If you won't tell him, he'll have to find out anyhow. Know how he'll do it?"

She remained silent.

"It's a trick the Injuns done taught old Jim. They uses it to make people holler when they don't want to. They takes a little sliver of pine, jest a little tiny sliver, ma'am, and they sticks it in under the toe nails where it hurts. Then they lights it. They sticks more of 'em under the finger nails and through the skin here an' there. Then they lights 'em.

"Most generally it makes the fellers holler—and I reckon it'll make you tell, ma'am. Old Jim has to know. You better tell old Jim."

She remained stubbornly and scornfully silent.

The prospector shook his head as though sorrowful over her pertinacity. Then he got up and got a piece of wood, a stick of pitch pine, which he began to whittle carefully into fine slivers. These he collected carefully into a bundle while the helpless girl watched him.

Finally he came to her and pulled the blankets from her. He stooped and unlaced her boots, pulling them off. One woolen stocking was jerked roughly from a foot as delicate as a babe's. She tried to kick, feebly and ineffectively. Her feet, half frozen from sleeping in the boots, were like lead.

The prospector laughed and seized her foot. But, as he held it and picked up a sliver, a thought occurred to him. He got up and went to the fire, where he stooped to get a flaming brand.

At this moment, clear and joyous, although distant and faint, came a rollicking measure of song:

"My Louisiana! Louisiana Lou!"

The girl's brain failed to react to it. She gathered nothing from the sound except that there was some one coming. But Banker reared as though shot and whirled about to stare down the canyon. She could not see him and she was unable to turn.

Shaking as though stricken with an ague, the prospector stood. His face had gone chalk white under its dirty stubble of beard. He looked sick and even more unwholesome than usual. From his slack jaws poured a constant whining of words, unintelligible.

Down the canyon, slouching carelessly with the motion of his horse, appeared a man, riding toward them at a jog trot. Behind him jingled two pack horses, the first of which was half buried under the high bundle on his back, the second more lightly laden.

Banker stood, incapable of motion for a moment. Then, as though galvanized into action, he began to gabble his inevitable oaths, while he leaped hurriedly for his rifle. He grabbed it from under the tarpaulin, jerked the lever, flung it to his shoulder and fired.

With the shot, Solange, by a terrific effort, rolled over and raised her head. She caught a glimpse of a familiar figure and shrieked out with new-found strength.

"Mon ami! A moi, mon ami!"

Then she stifled a groan, for, with the shot, the figure sagged suddenly and dropped to the side of his horse, evidently hit. She heard the insane yell of triumph from the prospector and knew that he was dancing up and down and shouting:

"They all dies but old Jim! Old Jim don't die!"

She buried her face in her hands, wondering, even then, why she felt such a terrible pang, not of hope destroyed, but because the man had died.

It passed like a flash for, on the instant, she heard another yell from Banker, and a yell, this time, of terror. At the same moment she was aware of thundering hoofs bearing down upon them and of a voice that shouted; a voice which was the sweetest music she had ever heard.

Dimly she was aware that Banker had dropped his rifle and scuttled like a scared rabbit into some place of shelter. Her whole attention was concentrated on those rattling, drumming hoofs. She looked up, tried to rise, but fell back with the pain of the effort stabbing her unheeded.

A horse was sliding to a stop, forefeet planted, snow and dirt flying from his hoofs. De Launay was leaping to the ground and the pack horses were galloping clumsily up. Then his arms were around her and she was lifted from the ground.

"What's the matter, Solange? What's happened? Where's the boys? And Banker, what's he doing shooting at me?"

His questions were pouring out upon her, but she could not answer them. She clung to him and sobbed.

"I thought he had killed you!"

His laugh was music.

"That old natural? He couldn't kill me. Saw him aim and ducked. Shot right over me. But what's happened to you?"

He ran a hand over her face and found it hot with fever.

"Why, you're sick! And your foot's bare. Here, tell me what has happened?"

She could only sob brokenly, her strength almost gone.

"That terrible old man! He did it. He's hiding—to shoot you."

De Launay's hand had run over her thick mane of hair and he felt her wince. He recognized the great bump on the skull.

"Death of a dog!" he swore in French. "Mon amie, is it this old devil who has injured you?"

She nodded and he began to look about him for Banker. But the prospector was not in sight, although his discarded rifle was on the ground. The lever was down where the prospector had jerked it preparatory to a second shot which he had been afraid to fire. The empty ejected shell lay on the snow near by.

De Launay turned back to Solange. He bent over her and carefully restored her stocking and shoe. Then he fetched water and bathed her head, gently gathering her hair together and binding it up under the bandeau which he found among her scattered belongings. She told him something of what had happened, ascribing the prospector's actions to insanity. But when De Launay asked about Sucatash and Dave she could do no more than tell him that the first had gone to the ranch to get snowshoes and dogs, and the latter had gone out yesterday and had not come back, though she had heard a single shot late in the afternoon.

De Launay listened with a frown. He was in a cold rage at Banker, but there were other things to do than try to find him. He set to work to gather up the wreckage of the tent and outfit. Then he rounded up the horses, leaving the burros and Banker's horse to stay where they were. Hastily he threw on the packs, making no pretense at neat packing.

"I'll have to get you out of this," he said. "With that lunatic bushwacking round there'll never be a moment of safety for you. You're sick and will have to have care. Can you ride?"

Solange tried to rise to her feet but was unable to stand.

"I'll have to carry you. I'll saddle your horse and lead him. The others will follow my animals. I'll get you to safety and then come back and look for Dave."

With infinite care he lifted her to his saddle, holding her while he mounted and gathered her limp form into his left arm. His horse fortunately was gentle, and stood. He was about to reach for the reins of her horse when something made her turn and look up the slope of the hill toward the overhanging, ledgelike rock above the camp.

"Mon ami!" she screamed. "Gardez-vous!"

What happened she was not able to exactly understand. Only she somehow realized that never had she understood the possibility of rapid motion before. Her own eyes had caught only a momentary glimpse of a head above the edge of the rock and the black muzzle of a six-shooter creeping into line with them.

Yet De Launay's movement was sure and accurate. His eyes seemed to sense direction, his hand made one sweep from holster to an arc across her body and the roar of the heavy weapon shattered her ears before she had fairly realized that she had cried out. She saw a spurt of dust where the head had appeared.

Then De Launay's spurs went home and the horse leaped into a run. The pack horses, jumping at the sound of the shot, flung up their heels, lurched to one side, circled and fell into a gallop in the rear. Clattering and creaking, the whole cavalcade went thundering up the valley.

De Launay swore. "Missed, by all the devils! But I sure put dust in his eyes!"

He turned around and there, sure enough, was Banker, standing on the rock, pawing at his eyes. The shot had struck the edge of the rock just below his face and spattered fragments all over him.

De Launay laughed grimly as the groping figure shook a futile fist at him. Then Banker sat down and dug at his face industriously.

They had ridden another hundred yards when a yell echoed in the canyon. He turned again and saw Banker leaping and shrieking on the rock, waving hands to the heavens and carrying on like a maniac.

"Gone plumb loco," said De Launay, contemptuously.

But, unknown to De Launay or mademoiselle, the high gods must have laughed in irony as old Jim Banker raved and flung his hands toward their Olympian fastness.

De Launay's shot, which had crushed the edge of the rock to powder, had exposed to the prospector the glittering gold of French Pete's lost Bonanza!



CHAPTER XVIII

TELLTALE BULLETS

De Launay headed up into the hills, making for the spot he and others familiar with the region knew as The Crater. Back about half a mile from the rim of Shoestring Canyon, which, itself, had originally been cut out of lava from extinct volcanoes of the range, rose a vast basalt peak, smooth and precipitous on the side toward the canyon. Its lower slopes had once been terraced down to the flat bench land which rimmed the canyon, but, unnumbered ages ago, the subterranean forces had burst their way through and formed a crater whose sides fell steeply away to the flats on three sides. The fourth was backed by the basalt cliff.

Although long extinct, the volcano had left reminders in the shape of warm springs which had an appreciable effect on the temperature within the basin of the ancient crater. The atmosphere in the place was, even in winter, quite moderate compared with that of the rest of the range. There was, in the center of the crater, a small pond or lake, of which the somewhat lukewarm water was quite potable.

This spot, once a common enough rendezvous for the riders on rodeo, was his objective and toward it he climbed, with mademoiselle's warm body in his arms. Behind him straggled the pack horses.

Solange lay quiet, but under his arm he felt her shiver from time to time. His downward glance at her fell only on her hat and a casual wisp of glistening hair which escaped from it. He felt for and found one of her hands. It clutched his with a hot, dry clasp.

Somewhat alarmed, he raised his hand to her face. That she had fever was no longer to be doubted.

She was talking low to herself, but she spoke in Basque which he did not understand. He spoke to her in French.

"I knew you would come; that I should find you," she answered at once. "That terrible man! He could not frighten me. It is certain that through you I shall find this Louisiana!"

"Yes," he answered. "You'll find Louisiana."

He wondered what she knew of Louisiana and why she wished to find him, concluding, casually, that she had heard of him as one who might know something of her father's death. Well, if she sought Louisiana, she had not far to look: merely to raise her head.

"I thought I heard him singing," said Solange.

"I reckon you did," he answered. "Are you riding easy?"

"Yes—but I am cold, and then hot again. The man hurt me."

De Launay swore under his breath and awkwardly began to twist from his Mackinaw, which, when it was free, he wrapped around her. Then, holding her closer, he urged his horse to greater speed.

But, once upon the bench and free to look about him toward the steep slope of the crater's outer walls, he was dismayed at the unexpected change in the landscape.

On the rocky slopes there had once stood a dense thicket of lodgepole pine, slender and close, through which a trail had been cut. But, years ago, a fire had swept the forest, leaving the gaunt stems and bare spikes to stand like a plantation of cane or bamboo on the crumbling lava. Then a windstorm had rushed across the mountains, leveling the dead trees to the ground, throwing them in wild, heaping chaos of jagged spikes and tangled branches. The tough cones, opened by the fire, had germinated and seedlings had sprung up amidst the riot of logs, growing as thick as grass. They were now about the height of a tall man's head, forming, with the tangled abatis of spiky trunks, a seemingly impenetrable jungle.

There might be a practicable way through, but to search for it would take more time than the man had to spare. He must get the girl to rest and shelter before her illness gained much further headway, and he knew that a search for a passage might well take days instead of the hours he had at his command. He wished that he had remained in the canyon where he might have pitched camp in spite of the danger from the prospector. But a return meant a further waste of time and he decided to risk an attempt to force his way through the tangle.

Carefully he headed into it. The going was not very hard at first as the trees lay scattered on the edge of the windfall. But, as he wormed into the labyrinth, the heaped up logs gave more and more resistance to progress, and it soon became apparent that he could never win through to the higher slopes which were free of the tangle.

If he had been afoot and unencumbered, the task would have been hard enough but not insuperable. Mounted, with pack horses carrying loads projecting far on the sides, to catch and entangle with spiky branches, the task became impossible. Yet he persisted, with a feeling that his best chance lay in pressing onward.

The lurching horse, scrambling over the timber, jolted and shook his burden and Solange began again to talk in Basque. Behind them the pack horses straggled, leaping and crashing clumsily in the jungle of impeding tree trunks. De Launay came to a stop and looked despairingly about him.

About thirty yards away, among the green saplings and gray down timber, stood a bluish shape, antlered, with long ears standing erect. The black-tailed deer watched him curiously, and without any apparent fear. De Launay knew at once that the animal was unaccustomed to man and had not been hunted. He stared at it, wondering that it did not run.

Now it moved, but not in the stiff leaps of its kind when in flight. He had expected this, but not what happened. There was no particular mystery in the presence of the agile animal among the down logs. But when it started off at a leisurely and smooth trot, winding in and out and upward, he leaped joyously to the only conclusion possible. The deer was following a passable trail through the jungle and a trail which led upward.

He marked the spot where he had seen it and urged his horse toward it. It was difficult going, but he made it and found there, as he had hoped, a beaten game trail, narrow, but fairly clear.

It took time and effort to gather the horses, caught and snared everywhere among the logs, but it was finally done. Then he pushed on. It was not easy going. The trail was narrow for packs, and snags continually caught in ropes and tarpaulins, but De Launay took an ax from his pack and cut away the worst of the obstacles. Finally they won through to the higher slopes where the trees no longer lay on the ground.

But it was growing late and the gray sky threatened more snow. He pressed on up to the rim of the crater and lost no time in the descent on the other side. The willing horses slid down behind him and, before darkness caught them, he had reached the floor of the little valley, almost free from snow, grass-grown and mildly pleasant in contrast to the biting wind of the outer world.

Jingling and jogging, the train of horses broke into a trot across the meadow and toward the grove of trees that marked the bank of the pond. Here there was an old cabin, formerly used by the riders, but long since abandoned. Deer trotted out of their way and stood at a distance to look curiously. A sleepy bear waddled out of the trees, eyed them superciliously and then trotted clumsily away. The place seemed to be swarming with game. Their utter unconcern showed that this haven had not been entered for years.

Snow lay on the surrounding walls in patches, but there was hardly a trace of it on the valley floor. Steaming springs here and there explained the reason for the unseasonable warmth of the place. The grass grew lush and rich on the rotten lava soil.

"The Vale of Avalon, Morgan la fe," said De Launay with a smile. Solange murmured and twisted restlessly in his arms.

He dismounted before the cabin, which seemed to be in fair condition. It was cumbered somewhat with dbris, left by mountain rats which haunted the place, but there were two good rooms, a fairly tight roof, and a bunk built in the wall of the larger chamber. There was a rusty iron stove and the bunk room boasted a rough stone fireplace.

De Launay's first act was to carry the girl in. His second was to throw off several packs and drag them to the room. He then took the ax and made all haste to gather an armful of dry pitch pine, with which he soon had a roaring fire going in the ancient fireplace. Then, with a pine branch, he swept out the place, cleaned the bunk thoroughly and cleared the litter from the floors. Solange reclined against a pile of bedding and canvas and fairly drank in the heat from the fire.

He found a clump of spruce and hacked branches from it, with which he filled the bunk, making a thick, springy mattress. On this he spread a tarpaulin, and then heaped it with blankets. Solange, flushed and half comatose, he carried to the bed.

The damp leather of her outer garments oppressed him. He knew they must come off. Hard soldier as he was, the girl, lying there with half-closed eyes and flushed face, awed him. Although he had never supposed himself oppressed with scruples, it seemed a sacrilege to touch her. Although she could not realize what he was doing, his hands trembled and his face was flushed as he forced himself to the task of disrobing her. But, at last, he had the cumbering, slimy outer garments free and her body warmly wrapped in the coverings.

Food came next. She wanted broth and he had no fresh meat. Her rifle rendered that problem simple, however. He had hardly to step from the grove before game presented itself. He shot a young buck, feeling like a criminal in violating the animal's calm confidence. Working feverishly he cleaned the carcass, cut off the saddle and a hind quarter, hung the rest and set to work to make broth in the Dutch oven.

The light had long since failed, but the fire gave a ruddy light. Solange supped the broth out of a tin cup, raised on his arm, and immediately after fell back and went to sleep. Feeling her cheek, he found that it was damp with moisture and cool.

He bound up her head with a dampened bandage and left her to sleep. Then he began the postponed toil of arranging the camp.

After her things had been brought in and placed in her room, he at last came to his own packs. He ate his supper and then spread his bedding on the ground just outside the door of the cabin. As he unrolled the tarpaulin, he noted a jagged rent in it which he at first thought had been caused by a snag in passing through the down timber.

But when the bed had been spread out he found that the blankets were also pierced. Searching, he found a hard object, which on being examined, turned out to be a bullet, smashed and mushroomed.

De Launay smiled grimly as he turned this over in his hand. He readily surmised that it was the ball that Banker had fired at him and which, missing him as he ducked, had struck the pack on the horse behind him. Something about it, however, roused a queer impression in him. It was, apparently, an ordinary thirty-caliber bullet, yet he sensed some subtle difference in size and weight, some vague resemblance to another bullet he had felt and weighed in his hand.

Taking his camp lantern he went into the cabin and sat down before a rude table of slabs in the room where the stove was. He took from his pocket the darkened, jagged bullet that Solange had given him and compared it with the ball he had taken from his pack. The first was split and mushroomed much more than the other, but the butts of both were intact. They seemed to be of the same size when held together.

Yet they were both of ordinary caliber. Probably nine out of ten men who carried rifles used those of thirty-thirty caliber. Bullets differed only in jacketing and the shape of the nose. A Winchester was round, with little of the softer metal projecting from the jacket, while a U.M.C. was flatter and more of the lead showed. But the bases were the same.

Still, De Launay was vaguely dissatisfied. It seemed to him that there was something in these two misshapen bullets that should be investigated. He took one of Solange's cartridges from his pocket and looked at it. Then, with strong teeth, he jerked the ball from the shell and compared the bullet with those he held in his hand. To all seeming they were much the same.

Still, the feeling of dissatisfaction persisted. In some subtle way the two mushroomed bullets were the same and yet were different to the unused one. De Launay tried to force Solange's bullet back into the shell, finding that it went in after some force was applied. Then, withdrawing it, he took the other two and tried to do the same with them.

The difference became apparent at once. The two used bullets were larger than the 30-30; almost imperceptibly so, but enough greater in diameter to make it clear that they did not fit the shell.

De Launay weighed the bullets in his hand and his face was grim. After a while he put the two in his pocket, threw the one he had pulled from the shell into the stove and rose to look at Solange. He held the lantern above her and stood for a moment, the light on her hair glinting back with flashes of red and blue and orange. He stooped and raised a lock of it on his hand, marveling at its fine texture and its spun-glass appearance. His hand touched her face, finding it damp and cool.

The iron lines of his face relaxed and softened. He stooped and brushed her forehead with his lips. Solange murmured in her sleep and he caught his own nickname, "Louisiana."

He saw that the fire was banked and then went out and turned in to his blankets, regardless of the drizzle of snow that was falling and melting in the warm atmosphere.



CHAPTER XIX

THE FINDING OF SUCATASH

De Launay came into the cabin the next morning with an armload of wood to find Solange sitting up in bed with the blankets clutched about her, staring at the unfamiliar surroundings. He smiled at her, and was delighted to be met with an answering, though somewhat puzzled smile.

"You are better?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "And you—brought me here?"

He nodded and knelt to rebuild the fire. When it was crackling again he straightened up.

"I was afraid you were going to be ill. You had a bad shock."

Solange shuddered. "It is true. That evil old man! He hurt my head. But I am all right again."

"You had better lie quiet for a day or two, just the same. You have had a bad blow. If you feel well enough, though, there is something I must do. Will you be all right if I leave you for a few hours?"

Her face darkened a little but she nodded. "If you must. You have been very kind, monsieur. You brought me here?"

Her eyes fell on her leather coat flung over the end of the bunk and she flushed, looking sideways at the man. He seemed impassive, unconscious, and her puzzled gaze wandered over his face and form. She noted striking differences in the tanned, lean face and the lithe body. The skin was clear and the eyes no longer red and swollen. He stood upright and moved with a swift, deft certainty far from his former slouch.

"You are changed," she commented.

"Some," he answered. "Fresh air and exercise have benefited me."

"That is true. Yet there seems to be another difference. You look purposeful, if I may say it."

"I?" he seemed to protest. "What purpose is there for me?"

"You must tell me that."

He went out into the other room and returned with broth for her. But she was hungry and the broth did not satisfy her. He brought in meat and bread, and she made a fairly hearty breakfast. It pleased De Launay to see her enjoying the food frankly, bringing her nearer to the earth which he, himself, inhabited.

"The only purpose I have," he said, while she ate, "is that of finding what has become of your escort. There's another matter, too, on which I am curious. Do you think you can get along all right if I leave food for you here and go down to the camp? I will be back before evening."

"You will be careful of that crazy old man?"

He laughed. "If I am not mistaken he thinks I am a ghost and is frightened out of seven years' growth," he said, easily. His voice changed subtly, became swiftly grim. "He may well be," he added, half to himself.

Breakfast over and the camp cleared up, De Launay took from his packs a second automatic, hanging the holster, a left-hand one, to the bunk. He showed Solange how to operate the mechanism and found that she readily grasped the principle of it, though the squat, flat weapon was incongruous in her small hand. The rifle also he left within her reach.

Shortly he was mounted on his way out of the crater. He made good time through the down timber and, in about an hour and a half, was headed into the canyon. He searched carefully for traces of Dave but found none. The snow was over a foot deep and had drifted much deeper in many spots. Especially on the talus slopes at the bottom of the canyon had it gathered to a depth of several feet.

Finally he came to the site of the camp where he had rescued Solange from the mad prospector. Here he was surprised to find no trace of the man although the burros were scraping forlornly in the snow on the slopes trying to uncover forage. Camp equipment was scattered around, and a piece of tarpaulin covered a bundle of stuff. This was tucked away by a rock, but De Launay ran on it after some search.

He devoted his efforts to finding the shell from Banker's rifle which he had seen on the snow when he left the place. It was finally uncovered and he put it in his pocket. Then he left the place and headed down the canyon, searching for signs of the cow-puncher.

He found none, since Dave had not been in this direction. But De Launay pushed on until almost noon. He rode high on the slopes where the snow was shallower and where he could get an unrestricted view of the canyon.

He was about to give it up, however, and turn back when his horse stopped and pricked his ears forward, raising its head. De Launay followed this indication and saw what he took to be a clump of sagebrush on the snow about half a mile away. He watched it and thought it moved.

Intent observation confirmed this impression and it was made a certainty when he saw the black patch waver upward, stagger forward and then fall again.

With an exclamation, De Launay spurred his horse recklessly down the slope toward the figure on the snow. He galloped up to it and flung himself to the ground beside it. The figure raised itself on arms from which the sleeves hung in tatters and turned a pale and ghastly face toward him.

It was Sucatash.

Battered and bruised, with an arm almost helpless and a leg as bad, the cow-puncher was dragging himself indomitably along while his failing strength held out. But he was almost at the end of his resources. Hunger and weakness, wounds and bruises, had done their work and he could have gone little farther.

De Launay raised his head and chafed his blue and frozen hands. The cow-puncher tried to grin.

"Glad to see you, old-timer," he croaked. "You're just about in time."

"What happened to you, man?"

"Don't know. Heard a horse nicker and then mine stumbled and pinned me. Got a bad fall and when I come to I was lying down the hill against some greasewood. Leg a'most busted and an arm as bad. Horse nowhere around. Got anything to drink? Snow ain't much for thirst."

De Launay had food and water and gave it to him. After eating ravenously for a moment he was stronger.

"Funny thing, that horse nickerin'. It was snowin' and I didn't see him. But, after I come to I tried to climb up where I was throwed. It was some job but I made it. There was my horse, half covered with snow. Some one had shot him."

"Shot him? And then left you to lie there?"

"Just about that. There wasn't no tracks. Snow had filled 'em. But I reckon that horse wasn't just shot by accident."

"It was not. And Dave's gone."

"Dave? What's that?"

"He's gone. Left the camp day before yesterday and never came back. I wasn't there."

"And madame? She all right?"

"She is—now. I found her yesterday morning with Banker, the prospector. He was trying to torture her into telling him where that mine is located. Hurt her pretty bad."

Sucatash lay silent for a moment. Then:

"Jumpin' snakes!" he said. "That fellow has got a lot comin' to him, ain't he?"

"He has," said De Launay, shortly. "More than you know."

Again the cow-puncher was silent for a space.

"Reckon he beefed Dave?" he said at last.

"Shouldn't be surprised," said De Launay. "I searched for him but couldn't find him. He wouldn't get lost or hurt. But Jim Banker's done enough, in any case."

"He sure has," said Sucatash.

De Launay helped the cow-puncher up in front of him and turned back to the crater. He rode past Banker's camp without stopping, but keeping along the slope to avoid the deeper snow he came upon a stake set in a pile of small rocks. This was evidently newly placed. He showed it to Sucatash.

"The fellow's staked ground here. What could he have found?"

"Maybe the old lunatic thinks he's run onto French Pete's strike," grinned Sucatash. "This don't look very likely to me."

"Gone to Maryville to register it, I suppose. That accounts for his leaving the burros and part of his stuff. He'd travel light."

"He better come back heavy though. If he aims to winter in here he'll need bookoo rations. It'd take some mine to make me do it."

Sucatash was in bad shape, and De Launay was not particularly interested in old Jim's vagaries at the present time, so he made all speed back to the crater. Sucatash, who knew of the windfall, would not believe that the soldier had found an entrance into the place until he had actually treaded the game trail.

He looked backward from the heights above the tangle after they had come through it.

"Some stronghold," he commented. "It'd take an army to dig you outa here."

They found Solange as De Launay had left her. She was overjoyed to see Sucatash and at the same time distressed to observe his condition. She heard with indignation his account of his mishap and, like De Launay, suspected Banker of being responsible for it. Indeed, unless they assumed that some mysterious presence was abroad at this unseasonable time in the mountains, there was no one else to suspect.

She would have risen and assumed the duties of nursing the cow-puncher, but De Launay forbade it. She was still very weak and her head was painful. The soldier therefore took upon himself the task of caring for both of them.

He made a bed for Sucatash in the kitchen of the cabin and went about the work of getting them both on their feet with quiet efficiency. This bade fair to be a task of some days' duration though both were strong and healthy and yielded readily to rest and treatment.

It was night again before he had them comfortably settled and sleeping. Once more, with camp lantern lit, he sat before the slab table and examined his bullets and the shell he had picked up at Banker's camp.

He found that both bullets fitted it tightly. Then he turned the rim to the light and looked at it.

Stamped in the brass were the cabalistic figures:

U. M. C. SAV. .303.

For some time he sat there, his mouth set in straight, hard lines, his memory playing backward over nineteen years. He recalled the men he had known on the range, a scattered company, every one of whom could be numbered, every one of whom had possessions, weapons, accouterment, known to nearly all the others. In that primitive community of few individuals the tools of their trades were as a part of them. Men were marked by their saddles, their chaparajos, their weapons. A pair of silver-mounted spurs owned by one was remarked by all the others.

Louisiana had known the weapons of the range riders even as they knew his. The six-shooter with which he had often performed his feats would have been as readily recognized as he, himself. When a new rifle appeared in the West its advent was a matter of note.

In Maryville, then a small cow town and outfitting place for the men of the range, there had been one store in which weapons could be bought. In that store, the proprietor had stocked just one rifle of the new make. The Savage, shooting an odd caliber cartridge, had been distrusted because of that fact, the men of the country fearing that they would have difficulty in procuring shells of such an unusual caliber. Unable to sell it, he had finally parted with it for a mere fraction of its value to one who would chance its inconvenience. The man who possessed it had been known far and wide and, at that time, he was the sole owner of such a rifle in all that region.

Yet, with this infallible clew to the identity of French Pete's murderer at hand, it had been assumed that the bullet was 30-30.

De Launay envisioned that worn and battered rifle butt projecting from the scabbard slung to the burro in Sulphur Falls. Nineteen years, and the man still carried and used the weapon which was to prove his guilt.

Once more he got up and went in to look at the sleeping girl. Should he tell her that the murderer of her father was discovered? What good would it do? He doubted that, if confronted with the knowledge, she could find the fortitude to exact the vengeance which she had vowed. And if, faced with the facts, she drew back, what reproach would she always visit upon herself for her weakness? Torn between a barbaric code and her own gentle instincts, she would be unhappy whatever eventuated.

But he was free from gentleness—at least toward every one but her. He had killed. He was callous. Five years in the Lgion des Etrangers and fourteen more of war and preparation for war had rendered him proof against squeamishness. The man was a loathly thing who had slain in cold blood, cowardly, evil, and unclean. Possibly he had murdered within the past few days, and, at any rate he had attempted murder and torture.

Why tell her about it? He had no ties; no aims; nothing to regret leaving. He had nothing but wealth which was useless to him, but which would lift her above all unhappiness after he was gone. And he could kill the desert rat as he would snuff out a candle.

Yet—the thought of it gave him a qualm. The man was so contemptible; so unutterably low and vile and cowardly. To kill him would be like crushing vermin. He would not fight; he would cower and cringe and shriek. There might be a battle when they took De Launay for the "murder," of course, but even his passing, desperate as he might make it, would not entirely wipe out the disgrace of such a butchery. He was a soldier; a commander with a glorious record, and it went against the grain to go out of life in an obscure brawl brought on by the slaughter of this rat.

Still, he had dedicated himself to the service of this girl, half in jest, perhaps, but it was the only service left to him to perform. He had lived his life; had his little day of glory. It was time to go. She was his wife and to her he would make his last gesture and depart, serving her.

Then, as he looked at her, her eyes opened and flashed upon him. In their depths something gleamed, a new light more baffling than any he had seen there before. There was fire and softness, warmth and sweetness in it. He dropped on his knees beside the bunk.

"What is it, mon ami?" Solange was smiling at him, a smile that drew him like a magnet.

"Nothing," he said, and rose to his feet. Her hand had strayed lightly over his hair in that instant of forgetfulness. "I looked to see that you were comfortable."

"You are changed," she said, uncertainly. "It is better so."

He smiled at her. "Yes. I am changed again. I am the lgionnaire. Nameless, hopeless, careless! You must sleep, mon enfant! Good night!"

He brushed the hand she held out to him with his lips and turned to the door. As he went out she heard him singing softly:

"Soldats de la Lgion, De la Lgion Etrangre, N'ayant pas de Nation, La France est votre Mre."

He did not see that the light in her marvelous eyes had grown very tender. Nor did she dream that he had made a mat of his glory for her to walk upon.



CHAPTER XX

LOUISIANA!

On the following morning, De Launay, finding his patients doing well, once more left the camp after seeing that everything was in order and food for the invalids prepared and set to their hands. Among Solange's effects he had found a pair of prism binoculars, which he slung over his shoulder. Then he made his way on foot to the lower end of the valley, up the encircling cliffs and out on the ridge which surrounded the crater.

Here he hunted until he came upon a narrow, out-jutting ledge which overlooked the country below and the main backbone of the range to the southward and eastward. From here he could see over the bench at the base of the cliff, with its maze of tangled, down timber, and on to the edge of Shoestring Canyon, though he could not see down into that gulch. Above Shoestring, however, he could see the rough trail which wound out of the canyon on the opposite side and up toward the crest of the range, where it was lost among the timber-clad gorges and peaks of the divide. Over this trail came such folk as crossed the range from the direction of Maryville. All who came from the Idaho side would head in by way of Shoestring and come up the canyon.

That day, although he swept the hills assiduously with his glasses, he saw nothing. The dark smears and timber, startlingly black against the snow, remained silent, brooding and inviolate, as though the presence of man had never stirred their depths.

He did not remain long. Fearing that he would be needed at the cabin, he returned before noon. Solange was progressing bravely, though she was still weak. Sucatash, however, was in worse shape and evidently would not be fit to move for several days.

The next day he did not go to his post, but on the third morning, finding Sucatash improving, he again took up his vigil. On that day banked clouds hovered over the high peaks and nearly hid them from view. A chill and biting wind almost drove him from his post.

Seeing nothing, he was about to return, but, just as a heavy flurry of snow descended upon him, he turned to give one last look toward the divide and found it lost in mist which hung down into the timber. Under this fleecy blanket, the canyon and the lower part of the trail stood forth clearly.

Just as De Launay was about to lower his glasses, a man rode out of the timber, driving before him a half dozen pack horses. The soldier watched him as he dropped below the rim of the canyon and, although distant, thought he detected signs of haste in his going.

This man had been gone hardly more than ten minutes when a second horseman rode down the trail. There might have been doubt in the case of the first rider, but it was certain that the second was in a hurry. He urged his horse recklessly, apparently in pursuit of the first man, whom he followed below the canyon's rim.

De Launay was earlier than usual at his post the next day. Yet he was not too early to meet the evidence of activity which was even more alert than his. But before he could settle himself he saw the trail across the canyon alive with moving men and beasts. In ones, twos, and threes they came. Some rode singly and without outfit, while others urged on pack animals. But one and all were in a hurry.

He counted more than twoscore travelers who dropped into Shoestring within an hour and a half. Then there was a pause in the rush. For an hour no more came.

After that flowed in another caravan. His glasses showed these were better equipped than the first comers though he was too far away to get any accurate idea of what they carried. Still a dim suspicion was filling his mind, and as each of the newcomers rushed down the trail and over the canyon rim his suspicion took more vivid form until it became conviction and knowledge.

"By heavens! It's a mining rush!"

His mind worked swiftly. He jumped at the evidence he had seen where Banker had staked a claim. The prospector had ridden to Maryville to record the claims. He had been followed, and in an incredibly short time here were veritable hordes rushing into Shoestring Canyon. If this was the vanguard what would be the main body? It must have been a strike of fabulous proportions that had caused this excitement. And that strike must be——

"French Pete's Bonanza!" he almost yelled.

The thing was astounding and it was true. In naming a rendezvous he, himself, had directed these men to the very spot—because there was no other spot. The obvious, as usual, had been passed by for years while the seekers had sought in the out-of-the-way places. But where would Pete find a mine when he was returning to the ranch with his flock? Surely not in the out-of-the-way places, for he would not be leading his sheep by such ways. He would be coming through the range by the shortest and most direct route, the very route that was the most frequented—and that was the trail over the range and down Shoestring Canyon.

De Launay wanted to shout with laughter as he thought of the search of years ending in this fashion: the discovery of the Bonanza, under the very nose of the dead man's daughter, by the very man who had murdered him!

But his impulse was stifled as his keen mind cast back over the past days. He recalled the rescue of Solange and the ambush from the top of the great, flat outcrop. Vague descriptions of Pete's location, heard in casual talks with Solange, came to him. The old sheep-herder had been able to describe his find as having been made where he had eaten his noonday meal "on a rock." That rock—the Lunch Rock, as it had been called, had even given the mine a name in future legend, as the Peg Leg had been named.

But there had been no rock that could answer the description near the camp. At least there had been only one, and that one had been the flat outcrop on which Banker had lain at length and from which he had attempted to shoot De Launay.

Then swiftly he recalled Solange's cry of warning and his own swift reaction. He had fired at the eyes and forehead appearing above the edge of the rock and he had hit the edge of the rock itself. He had laughed to see the mad prospector clawing at his eyes, filled with the powdered rock, and had laughed again to see his later antics as he stood upright, while De Launay rode away, waving his arms in the air and yelling.

He saw now what had caused those frantic gestures and shouts. It had been he, De Launay, who had uncovered to the prospector's gaze the gold which should have been mademoiselle's.

No wonder he had no desire to laugh as he turned back into the valley. He was weighted down with the task that was his. He had to tell Solange that the quest on which she had come was futile. That her mine was found—but by another, and through his own act. He visualized those wonderful eyes which had, of late, looked upon him with such soft fire, dulling under the chilling shock of disappointment, mutely reproaching him for her misfortune and failure.

The wild Vale of Avalon, which had seemed such a lovely haven for Morgan la fe, had lost its charm. He plodded downward and across the rank grass, going slowly and reluctantly to the cabin. Entering it, he went first to Sucatash, asking him how he felt.

The cow-puncher raised himself with rapidly returning strength, noting the serious expression on De Launay's face.

"I'm getting right hearty," he answered. "I'll drag myself out and sit up to-night, I reckon. But you don't look any too salubrious yourself, old-timer. Aimin' to answer sick call?"

"No," said De Launay. "Thinking about mademoiselle. You remember those stakes we saw?"

"Banker's claim? Sure."

"Well, he's struck something. There is a small army pouring into Shoestring from Maryville. It's a regular, old-time gold rush."

"Damn!" said Sucatash, decisively.

He pondered the news a moment.

"In these days," he finally said, "with gold mines bein' shut down because it don't pay to work 'em, there wouldn't be no rush unless he'd sure struck something remarkable."

"You've guessed it!" said De Launay.

"It's French Pete's mine?"

"I don't see any other explanation."

Again Sucatash was silent for a time. Then:

"That little girl is sure out o' luck!" he said. There was a deep note of sympathy in the casual comment. And the cow-puncher looked at De Launay in a manner which the soldier readily interpreted.

"No mine, no means of support, no friends within five thousand miles; nothing—but a husband she doesn't want! Is that what you're thinking?"

"Not meaning any offense, it was something like that," said Sucatash, candidly.

"She'll get rid of the incumbrance, without trouble," said De Launay, shortly.

"Well, she ain't quite shy of friends, neither. I ain't got no gold mines—never took no stock in them. But I've got a bunch of cows and the old man's got a right nice ranch. If it wasn't for one thing, I'd just rack in and try my luck with her."

"What's the one thing?"

"You," said Sucatash, briefly.

"I've already told you that I don't count. Her marriage was merely a formality and she'll be free within a short time."

Sucatash grinned. "I hate to contradict you, old-timer. In fact, I sure wish you was right. But, even if she don't know it herself, I know. It sure beats the deuce how much those eyes of hers can say even when they don't know they're sayin' it."

De Launay nodded. He was thinking of the lights in them when she had turned them on him of late.

"They told me something, not very long ago—and I'm gamblin' there won't be any divorce, pardner."

"There probably won't," De Launay replied, shortly. "It won't be necessary."

He got up and went into the other room where Solange reclined on the bunk. He found her sitting up, dressed once more in leather breeches and flannel shirtwaist, and looking almost restored to full strength. Her cheeks were flushed again, but this time with the color of health. The firelight played on her hair, glowing in it prismatically. Her eyes, as she turned them on him, caught the lights and drew them into their depths. They were once more fathomless and hypnotic.

But De Launay did not face them. He sat down on a rude stool beside the fire and looked into the flame. His face was set and indifferent.

"Monsieur," said Solange, "you are changed again, it seems. It is not pleasant to have you imitate the chameleon, in this manner. What has happened?"

"Your mine has been found," said De Launay, shortly.

Solange started, half comprehending. Then, as his meaning caught hold, she cried out, hesitating, puzzled, not knowing whether his manner meant good news or bad.

"But—if it has been found, that is good news? Why do you look so grim, monsieur? Is it that you are grieved because it has been found?"

De Launay had half expected an outburst of joyous questions which would have made his task harder. In turn, he was puzzled. The girl did not seem either greatly excited or overjoyed. In fact, she appeared to be doubtful. Probably she could not realize the truth all at once.

"It has been found," he went on, harshly, "by Banker, the prospector from whom I rescued you."

Solange remained still, staring at him. He sat with elbows on his knees, his face outlined in profile by the fire. Clean and fine lined it was, strong with a thoroughbred strength, a face that a woman would trust and a man respect. As she looked at it, noting the somber suppression of emotion, she read the man's reluctance and disappointment for her. She guessed that he buried his feelings under that mask and she wondered wistfully how deep those feelings were.

"Then," she said, at last, "it is not likely that this Monsieur Banker would acknowledge my claim to the mine?"

"The mine is his under the law. I am afraid that you have no claim to it. Your father never located it nor worked it. As for Banker——"

He paused until she spoke.

"Well? And what of this Banker?"

"He will not hold it long. But he has heirs, no doubt, who would not acknowledge your claim. Still, I will do my best. Sucatash will back us up when we jump the claim."

"Jump the claim? What is that?"

He explained briefly the etiquette of this form of sport.

"But," objected Solange, "this man will resist, most certainly. That would mean violence."

A faint smile curled the man's mouth under the mustache. "I am supposed to be a violent man," he reminded her. "I'll do the killing, and you and Sucatash will merely have to hold the claim. The sympathy of the miners will be with you, and there should be little difficulty unless it turns out that some one has a grubstake interest."

He had to explain again the intricacies of this phase of mining. Solange listened intently, sitting now on the edge of the bunk. When he was done, she slid to her feet and took position beside him, laying her hand on his shoulder. Behind her, by the side of the bunk, was a short log, set on end as a little table, on which rested the holstered automatic which De Launay had left with her.

"It appears then," she said, when he had finished, "that, in any event I have no right to this mine. In order to seize it, you would have to fight and perhaps kill some one. But, monsieur, I am not one who would wish you to be a common bravo—a desperado—for me. This mine, it is nothing. We shall think no more of it."

Again De Launay was mildly surprised. He had supposed that the loss of the mine would affect her poignantly and yet she was dismissing it more lightly than he could have done had she not been concerned. And in her expression of consideration for him there was a sweetness that stirred him greatly. He lifted his hand to hers where it rested on his shoulder, and she did not withdraw from his touch.

"And yet," he said, "there is no reason that you should concern yourself lest I act like a desperado. There are those who would say that I merely lived up to my character. The General de Launay you have heard of, I think?"

"I have heard of him as a brave and able man," answered Solange.

"And as a driver of flesh and blood beyond endurance, a butcher of men. It was so of the colonel, the commandant, the capitaine. And, of the lgionnaire, you have heard what has always been heard. We of the Lgion are not lap dogs, mademoiselle."

"I do not care," said Solange.

"And before the Lgion, what? There was the cow-puncher, the range bully, the gunman; the swashbuckling flourisher of six-shooters; the notorious Louisiana."

He heard her breath drawn inward in a sharp hiss. Then, with startling suddenness, her hand was jerked from under his but not before he had sensed an instant chilling of the warm flesh. Wondering, he turned to see her stepping backward in slow, measured steps while her eyes, fixed immovably upon him, blazed with a fell light, mingled of grief, horror and rage. Her features were frozen and pale, like a death mask. The light of the fire struck her hair and seemed to turn it into a wheel of angry flame.

There was much of the roused fury in her and as much of a lost and despairing soul.

"Louisiana!" she gasped. "You! You are Louisiana?"



CHAPTER XXI

GOLD SEEKERS

Puzzled, but watchful and alert, De Launay saw her retreating, sensing the terrible change that had come over her.

"Yes, I am Louisiana," he said. "What is the matter?"

In answer she laughed, while one hand went to the breast of her shirtwaist and the other reached behind her, groping for something as she paced backward. Like a cameo in chalk her features were set and the writhing flames in her hair called up an image of Medusa. There was no change in expression, but through her parted lips broke a low laugh, terrible in its utter lack of feeling.

"And I have for my husband—Louisiana! Quelle farce!"

The hand at her breast was withdrawn and in it fluttered the yellow paper that Wilding had brought from Maryville to Wallace's ranch. She flung it toward him, and as he stooped to pick it up, her groping hand fell on the pistol resting on the upturned log at the side of the bunk. She drew it around in front of her, dropped the holster at her side and snapped the safety down. Her thumb rested on the hammer and she stood still, tensely waiting.

De Launay read the notice of reward swiftly and looked up. His face was stern, but otherwise expressionless.

"Well?" he demanded, his eyes barely resting on the pistol before they swept to meet her own blazing gaze. There was no depth to her eyes now. Instead they seemed to be fire surrounded by black rims.

"You have read—murderer!"

"I have read it." De Launay's voice was like his face, and in both appeared a trace of contempt.

"What have you to say before I kill you?"

"That you would have shot before now had you been able to do it," answered De Launay, and now the note of contempt was deeper. He turned his back to her and leaned forward over the fire, one outstretched hand upon the stone slab that formed the rude mantel.

The girl stood there immobile. The hand that held the pistol was not raised nor lowered. The thumb did not draw back the hammer. But over her face came, gradually, a change; a desperate sorrow, an abandonment of hope. Even the light in her hair that had made it a flaming wheel seemed in some mysterious way to die down. The terrible fire in her eyes went out as though drowned in rising tears.

A sob burst from her lips and her breast heaved. De Launay gazed down upon the fire, and his face was bitter as though he tasted death.

Solange slowly reached behind her again and dropped the heavy weapon upon the log. Then, in a choked voice she struggled to call out:

"Monsieur Wallace! Will you come?"

In the next room there was a stirring of hasty movements. Sucatash raised a cheery and incongruous voice.

"Just a minute, mad'mo'selle! I'm comin' a-runnin'."

He stamped into his boots and flung the door open, disheveled, shirt open at the neck. Astonished, he took in the strange attitudes of the others.

"What's the answer?" he asked. "What was it you wanted, ma'am?"

Solange turned to him, her grief-ridden face stony in its hopelessness.

"Monsieur, you are my friend?"

"For mayhem, manslaughter or murder," he answered at once. "What's wanted?"

"Then—will you take this pistol, and kill that man for me?"

Sucatash's eyes narrowed and his mottled hair seemed to bristle. He turned on De Launay.

"What's he done?" he asked, with cold fury.

De Launay did not move. Solange answered dully.

"He is the man who—married me—when he was the man who had murdered my father!"

But Sucatash made no move toward the pistol. He merely gaped at her and at De Launay. His expression had changed from anger to stupidity and dazed incomprehension.

"What's that? He murdered your father?"

"He is Louisiana!"

"He? Louisiana! I allowed he was an old-timer. Well, all I can say is—heaven's delights!"

Solange put out her hand to the edge of the bunk as though she could not support herself longer unaided. Her eyes were half closed now.

"Will you kill him, monsieur? If you do, you may have—of me—anything—that you ask!"

The words were faltered out in utter weariness. For one instant De Launay's eyes flickered toward her, but Sucatash had already sprung to her side and was easing her to a seat on the edge of the bunk. Her head drooped forward.

"Ma'am," said Sucatash, earnestly, "you got me wrong. I can't kill him—not for that."

"Not for that?" she repeated, wonderingly.

"Never in the world! I thought he'd insulted you, and if he had I'd a taken a fall out of him if he was twenty Louisianas. But this here notion you got that he beefed your father—that's all wrong! You can't go to downin' a man on no such notions as that!"

"Why not?" asked Solange, in a stifled voice.

"Because he never done it—that's whatever. You'd never get over it, mad'mo'selle, if you done that and then found you was wrong! And you are wrong."

Slowly, Solange dragged herself upright. She was listless, the lightness had gone out of her step. Without a word, she reached out and lifted her leather coat from the nail on which it hung. Then she dragged her leaden feet to the door. Sucatash silently followed her.

In the other room she spoke once.

"Will you saddle my horse for me, monsieur?"

"There ain't no place for you to go, ma'am."

"Nevertheless, I shall go. If you please——"

"Then I'll go with you."

She followed him to the door, putting on her coat. Outside, she sat down on a log and remained stonily oblivious as Sucatash hastily caught up several horses and dragged saddles and alforjas into position. The westering sun was getting low along the rim of the crater and he worked fast with the knowledge that night would soon be upon them. Inside the cabin he heard De Launay moving about. A moment later as he entered to gather Solange's equipment, he saw the soldier seated at the rough table busy with paper and fountain pen.

As Sucatash went past him, carrying an armload of blankets and a tarpaulin, De Launay held out a yellow paper.

"She will want this," he said, and then bent over his writing.

Again, when Sucatash came in for more stuff, De Launay stopped him. He held out the pen, indicating the sheet of paper spread upon the table.

"This needs two witnesses, I think, but one will have to serve. She is my wife, after all—but it will make it more certain. Will you sign it?"

Sucatash glanced hastily at the document, reading the opening words: "I, Louis Bienville de Launay, colonel and late general of division of the army of France, being of sound and disposing mind, do make, declare, and publish this my Last Will and Testament——"

His eye caught only one other phrase: "I give, bequeath, and devise to my dearly beloved wife, Solange——"

With an oath, Sucatash savagely dashed his signature where De Launay indicated, and then rushed out of the room. The soldier took another piece of paper and resumed his writing. When he had finished he folded the two sheets into an envelope and sealed it. Outside, Sucatash was heaving the lashings taut on the last packs.

De Launay came to the door and stood watching the final preparations. Solange still sat desolately on the log.

Finally Sucatash came to her and assisted her to rise. He led her to her horse and held the stirrup for her as she swung to the saddle. He was about to mount himself when De Launay caught his eye. Instead, he stepped to the soldier's side.

"Take this," said De Launay, holding out the envelope. "Give it to her to-morrow. And—she needn't worry about the mine—or Banker."

"She's not even thinkin' about them!" growled Sucatash.

He turned and strode to his horse. In another moment they were riding rapidly toward the rim of the crater.

De Launay watched them for some time and then went into the cabin. He came out a moment later carrying saddle and bridle. On his thighs were now hanging holsters on both sides, and both were strapped down at the bottoms.

He caught and saddled his horse, taking his time to the operation. Then, searching the darkening surface of the crater wall, he found no trace of the two who had ridden away. But he busied himself in getting food and eating it. It was fully an hour after they had gone before he mounted and rode after them.

By this time Solange and Sucatash had reached the rim and were well on their way through the down timber. More by luck than any knowledge of the way, they managed to strike the game trail, and wound through the impeding snags, the cow-puncher taking the lead and the girl following listlessly in his wake. Before dark had come upon them they had gained the level bench and were riding toward the gulch which led into the canyon.

After a while Sucatash spoke. "Where you aimin' to camp, ma'am?"

"I am going down to these miners," she said flatly.

"But, mad'mo'selle, that camp ain't no place for you. There ain't no women there, most likely, and the men are sure to be a tough bunch. I wouldn't like to let you go there."

"I am going," she answered. To his further remonstrances she interposed a stony silence.

He gave it up after a while. As though that were a signal, she became more loquacious.

"In a mining camp, one would suppose that the men, as you have said, are violent and fierce?"

"They're sure likely to be some wolfish, ma'am," he agreed. In hope that she would be deterred by exaggeration, he dwelt on the subject. "The gunmen and hoss thieves and tinhorn gamblers all come in on the rush. There's a lot of them hobos and wobblies—reds and anarchists and such—floatin' round the country, and they're sure to be in on it, too. I reckon any of them would cut a throat or down a man for two bits in lead money. Then there's the kind of women that follows a rush—the kind you wouldn't want to be seen with even—and the men might allow you was the same kind if you come rackin' in among 'em."

Solange listened thoughtfully and even smiled bleakly.

"These men would kill, you say, for money?"

"For money, marbles or chalk," said Sucatash. He was about to embellish this when she nodded with satisfaction.

"That is good," she said. "And, if not for money, for a woman—one of that kind of woman—they would shoot a man?"

Sucatash blanched. "What are you drivin' at, ma'am?"

"They will kill for me, for money—or if that is not enough—for a woman; such a woman as I am. Will they not, Monsieur Sucatash?"

"Kill who?"

He knew the answer, though, before she spoke: "Louisiana!"

Shocked, he ventured a feeble remonstrance.

"He's your husband, ma'am!"

But this drove her to a wild outburst in startling contrast to her former quiescence.

"My husband! Yes, my husband who has defiled me as no other on earth could have soiled and degraded me! My husband! Oh, he shall be killed if I must sell myself body and soul to the man who shoots him down!"

Then she whirled on him.

"Monsieur Sucatash! You have said to me that you liked me. Maybe indeed, you have loved me a little! Well, if you will kill that man for me—you may have me!"

Sucatash groaned, staring at her as though fascinated. She threw back her head, turning to him, her face upraised. The sweetly curved lips were half parted, showing little white teeth. On the satin cheeks a spot of pink showed. The lids were drooping over the deep eyes, veiling them, hiding all but a hint of the mystery and beauty behind them.

"Am I not worth a man's life?" she murmured.

"You're worth a dozen murders and any number of other crimes," said Sucatash gruffly. He turned his head away. "But you got me wrong. If he was what you think, I'd smoke him up in a minute and you'd not owe me a thing. But, ma'am, I know better'n you do how you really feel. You think you want him killed—but you don't."

Solange abruptly straightened round and rode ahead without another word. Morosely, Sucatash followed.

They came into the canyon at last and turned downward toward the spot where camp had been pitched that day, which seemed so long ago, and yet was not yet a week in the past. Snow was falling, clouding the air with a baffling mist, but they could see, dotted everywhere along the sides of the canyon, the flickering fires where the miners had camped on their claims. Around them came the muffled voices of men, free with profanity. Here and there the shadow of a tent loomed up, or a more solid bulk spoke of roughly built shacks of logs and canvas. Faint laughter and, once or twice, the sound of loud quarreling was heard. It all seemed weirdly unreal and remote as though they rode through an alien, fourth dimensional world with which they had no connection. The snow crunched softly under the feet of the horses.

But as they progressed, the houses or shacks grew thicker until it appeared that they were traversing the rough semblance of a street. Mud sloshed under the hoofs of the horses instead of snow, and a black ribbon of it stretched ahead of them. Mistily on the sides loomed dimly lighted canvas walls or dark hulks of logs. The sound of voices was more frequent and insistent down here, though most of it seemed to come from some place ahead.

In the hope that she would push on through the camp Sucatash followed the girl. They came at last to a long, dim bulk, glowing with light from a height of about six feet and black below that level. From this place surged a raucous din of voices, cursing, singing and quarreling. A squeaky fiddle and a mandolin uttered dimly heard notes which were tossed about in the greater turmoil. Stamping feet made a continuous sound, curiously muffled.

"What is this?" said Solange, drawing rein before the place.

"Ma'am, you better come along," replied Sucatash. "I reckon the bootleggers and gamblers have run in a load of poison and started a honkatonk. If that's it, this here dive is sure no place for peaceable folks like us at this time o' night."

"But it is here that these desperate men who will kill may be found, is it not?" Solange asked.

"You can sure find 'em as bad as you want 'em, in there. But you can't go in there, ma'am! My God! That place is hell!"

"Then it is the place for me," said Solange. She swung down from her horse and walked calmly to the dimly outlined canvas door, swung it back and stepped inside.



CHAPTER XXII

VENGEANCE!

The place, seen from within, was a smoky inferno, lighted precariously by oil lanterns hung from the poles that supported a canvas roof and sides. Rows of grommets and snap hasps indicated that pack tarpaulins had been largely used in the construction. To a height of about five feet the walls were of hastily hewn slabs, logs in the rough, pieces of packing cases, joined or laid haphazard, with chinks and gaps through which the wind blew, making rivulets of chill in a stifling atmosphere of smoke, reeking alcohol, sweat and oil fumes. The building was a rough rectangle about twenty feet by fifty. At one end boards laid across barrels formed a semblance of a counter, behind which two burly men in red undershirts dispensed liquor.

Pieces of packing cases nailed to lengths of logs made crazy tables scattered here and there. Shorter logs upended formed the chairs. There was no floor. Sand had been thrown on the ground after the snow had been shoveled off, but the scuffling feet had beaten and trampled it into the sodden surface and had hashed it into mud.

Ankle-deep in the reeking slush stood thirty or forty men, clad mostly in laced boots, corduroys or overalls, canvas or Mackinaw jackets; woolen-shirted, slouch-hatted. Rough of face and figure, they stood before the bar or lounged at the few tables, talking in groups, or shouting and carousing joyously. There was a faro layout on one of the tables where a man in a black felt hat, smoking a cigar, dealt from the box, while a wrinkle-faced man with a mouth like a slit cut in parchment sat beside him on a high log, as lookout. Half a dozen men played silently.

Perhaps half of those present milled promiscuously among the groups, hail-fellow-well-met, drunk, blasphemous, and loud. These shouted, sang and cursed with vivid impartiality. The other half, keener-eyed, stern of face, capable, drew together in small groups of two or three or four, talking more quietly and ignoring all others except as they kept a general alert watch on what was going on. These were the old-timers, experienced men, who trusted no strangers and had no mind to allow indiscreet familiarities from the more reckless and ignorant.

When the door opened to admit Solange, straight and slim in her plain leather tunic and breeches, stained dark with melted snow, the drunken musicians perched on upended logs were the first to see her. They stopped their playing and stared, and slowly a grin came upon one of them.

"Oh, mamma! Look who's here!" he shouted.

Half a hundred pairs of eyes swung toward the door and silence fell upon the place. Stepping heedlessly into the ankle-deep muck, Solange walked forward. Her flat-brimmed hat was pulled low over her face and the silk bandanna hid her hair. Behind her Sucatash walked uncertainly, glaring from side to side at the gaping men.

The groups that kept to themselves cast appraising eyes on the cow-puncher and then turned them away. They pointedly returned to their own affairs as though to say that, however strange, the advent of this girl accompanied by the lean rider, was none of their business. Again spoke experience and the wariness born of it.

But the tenderfeet, the drunken roisterers, were of different clay. A chorus of shouts addressed to "Sister" bade her step up and have a drink. A wit, in a falsetto scream, asked if he might have the next dance. Jokes, or what passed in that crew for them, flew thickly, growing more ribald and suggestive as the girl stood, indifferent, and looked about her.

Then Sucatash strode between her and the group near the bar from which most of the noise emanated. He hitched his belt a bit and faced them truculently.

"You-all had better shut up," he announced in a flat voice. His words brought here and there a derisive echo, but for the most part the mirth died away. The loudest jibers turned ostentatiously back to the bar and called for more liquor. The few hardy ones who would have carried on their ridicule felt that sympathy had fled from them, and muttered into silence. Yet half of the crew carried weapons hung in plain sight, and others no doubt were armed, although the tools were not visible, while Sucatash apparently had no weapon.

Behind the fervid comradeship and affection, the men were strangers each to the other. None knew whom he could trust; none dared to strike lest the others turn upon him.

At one of the rude tables not far from the entrance, sat three men. They had a bottle of pale and poisonous liquor before them from which they took frequent and deep drinks. They talked loudly, advertising their presence above the quieter groups. One or two men stood at the table, examining a heap of dirty particles of crushed rock spread upon the boards. They would look at it, finger it and then pass on, generally without other comment than a muttered word or two. But the three seated men, one of whom was the gray, weasel-faced Jim Banker, boasted loudly, and profanely calling attention to the "color" and the exceeding richness of the ore. Important, swaggering, and braggart, they assumed the airs of an aristocracy, as of men set apart and elevated by success.

Outside, in the lull occasioned by Solange's dramatic entrance, noises of the camp could be heard through the flimsy walls. Far down the canyon faint shouts could be heard. Some one was calling to animals of some sort, apparently. A faint voice, muffled by snow, raised a yell.

"H'yar comes the fust dog sled in from the No'th," he cried. "That's the sour doughs for yuh! He's comin' right!"

They could hear the faint snarls and barks of dogs yelping far down the canyon.

Then the noise swelled up again and drowned the alien sounds.

Dimly through the murk Solange saw the evil face of the desert rat, now flushed with drink and greed, and, with a sudden resolution, she turned and walked toward him. He saw her coming and stared, his face growing sallow and his yellow teeth showing. He gave the impression of a cornered rat at the moment.

Then his eyes fell on Sucatash, who followed her, and he half rose from his seat, fumbling for a gun. Sucatash paid no heed to him, not noticing his wild stare nor the slight slaver of saliva that sprang to his lips. His companions were busy showing the ore to curious spectators and were too drunk to heed him.

Slowly Banker subsided into his seat as he saw that neither Solange nor Sucatash apparently had hostile intentions. He tried to twist his seamed features into an ingratiating grin, but the effort was a failure, producing only a grimace.

"W'y, here's ole French Pete's gal!" he exclaimed, cordially, though there was a quaver in his voice. "Da'tter of my old friend what diskivered this here mine an' then lost it. Killed, he was, by a gunman, twenty years gone. Gents, say howdy to the lady!"

His two companions gaped and stared upward at the strange figure. The standing men, awkwardly and with a muttered word or two, backed away from the table, alert and watchful. Women meant danger in such a community. Under the deep shadow of her hat brim, Solange's eyes smoldered, dim and mysterious.

"You are Monsieur Banker!" she asserted, tonelessly. "You need not be frightened. I have not come to ask you for an accounting—yet. It is for another purpose that I am here."

"Shore! Anything I kin do fer old Pete's gal—all yuh got to do is ask me, honey! Old Jim Banker; that's me! White an' tender an' faithful to a friend, is Jim Banker, ma'am. Set down, now, and have a nip!"

He rose and waved awkwardly to his log. One of the others, with a grin that was almost a leer, also rose and reached for another log at a neighboring table from which a man had risen. All about that end of the shack, the seated or standing men, mostly of the silent and aloof groups, drifted casually aside, leaving the table free.

Solange sat down and Sucatash put out a hand to restrain her.

"Mad'mo'selle!" he remonstrated. "This ain't no place fer yuh! Yuh don't want to hang around here with this old natural! He's plum poisonous, I'm tellin' yuh!"

Solange made an impatient gesture. "Some one quiet him!" she exclaimed. "Am I not my own mistress, then!"

"Yuh better be keerful what yuh call me, young feller," said Banker, belligerently. "Yuh can't rack into this here camp and get insultin' that a way."

"Aw, shut up!" retorted Sucatash, flaming. "Think yuh can bluff me when I'm a-facin' yuh? Yuh damn', cowardly horned toad!"

He half drew back his fist to strike as Banker rose, fumbling at his gun. But one of the other men suddenly struck out, with a fist like a ham, landing beneath the cow-puncher's ear. He went down without a groan, completely knocked out.

The man got up, seized him by the legs, dragged him to the door and threw him into the road outside. Then he came back, laughing loudly, and swaggering as though his feat had been one to be proud of. Solange had shuddered and shrunk for a moment, but almost at once she shook herself as though casting off her repulsion and after that was stonily composed.

On his way to the table the man who had struck Sucatash down, called loudly for another bottle of liquor, and one of the red-shirted men behind the bar left his place to bring it to them.

The burly bruiser sat down beside Solange with every appearance of self-satisfaction. He leered at her as though expecting her to flame at his prowess. But she gave no heed to him.

"Yuh might lift up that hat and let us git a look at yuh," he said, reaching out as though to tilt the brim. She jerked sharply away from him.

"In good time, monsieur," she said. "Have patience."

Then she turned to Banker, who had been eying her with furtive, speculative eyes, cautious and suspicious.

"Monsieur Banker," she said, "it is true that you have known this man who killed my father—this Louisiana?"

"Me! Shore, I knowed him. A murderin' gunman he was, ma'am. A bad hombre!"

"And did you recognize him that time he came—when you played that little—joke—upon me?"

Banker turned sallow once more, as though the recollection frightened him.

"I shore did," he assented fervently. "He plumb give me a start. Thought he was a ghost, that a way, you——"

He leaned forward, grinning, his latent lunacy showing for a moment in his red eyes. Confidentially, he unburdened himself to his companions.

"This lady—you'll see—she's a kind o' witch like. This here feller racks in, me thinkin' him dead these many years, an' I misses him clean when I tries to down him. I shore thinks he's a ha'nt, called up by the lady. Haw, haw!"

His laughter was evil, chuckling and cunning. It was followed by cackling boasts:

"But they all dies—all but old Jim. Louisiana, he dies too, even if I misses him that a way with old Betsy that ain't missed nary a one fer nigh twenty year."

Under her hat brim Solange's eyes gleamed with a fierce light as the bloodthirsty old lunatic sputtered and mouthed. But the other two grinned derisively at each other and leered at the girl.

"Talks like that all the time, miss," said one. "Them old-timers likes to git off the Deadwood Dick stuff. Me, I'm nothin' but a p'fessional pug and all the gun fightin' I ever seen was in little old Chi. But I ain't a damn' bit afraid to say I could lick a half dozen of these here hicks that used to have a reputation in these parts. Fairy tales; that's wot they are!"

He swigged his drink and sucked in his breath with vast self-satisfaction. The other man, of a leaner, quieter, but just as villainous a type, grinned at him.

"Oh, I don't know," he said. "I ain't never seen no one could juggle a six-gun like they say these birds could do, but I reckon there's some truth in it. Leastways, there are some that can shoot pretty good."

He, too, leaned back, with an air of self-satisfaction. Banker chuckled again.

"You're both good ones," he said. "This gent can shoot some, ma'am. He comes from Arkansas. But I ain't a-worryin' none about that. Old Jim's luck's still holdin' good. I found this here mine, now, although you wouldn't tell me where it was. Didn't I?"

"I suppose so," said Solange indifferently. "I do not care about the mine, monsieur. It is yours. But there is something that I wish and—I have money——"

The instant light of greed that answered this announcement convinced her that she had struck the right note. If the mine had been as rich as Golconda these men would have coveted additional money.

"You got money, ma'am?" Banker spoke whiningly.

"Money to pay for your service. You are brave men; men who would help a woman, I feel sure. You, Monsieur Banker, knew my father and would help his daughter—if she paid you."

The irony escaped him.

"I sure would," he answered, eagerly. "What's it you want, ma'am, and what you goin' to pay fer it?"

She spoke quite calmly, almost casually.

"I want you to kill a man," she answered.

The three of them stared at her and then the big bruiser laughed.

"Who d'you want scragged?" he said, derisively.

Solange looked steadily at Banker. "Louisiana!" she answered, clearly. But old Jim turned pale and showed his rat's teeth.

The others merely chuckled and nudged each other.

Solange sensed that two considered her request merely a wild joke while the other was afraid. She slowly drew from her bag the yellow poster that De Launay had sent back to her by Sucatash.

"You would be within the law," she pleaded, spreading it out before them. As they bent over it, reading it slowly: "See. He is a fugitive with a price on his head. Any one may slay him and collect a reward. It is a good deed to shoot him down."

"Five hundred dollars looks good," said the lean man from Arkansas, "but it ain't hardly enough to set me gunnin' for a feller I don't know. Is this a pretty bad actor?"

"Bad?" screamed Banker, suddenly. "Bad! I've seen him keep a chip in the air fer two or three seconds shootin' under it with a six-shooter! I've seen him roll a bottle along the ground as if you was a-kickin' it, shootin' between it and the ground and never chippin' the glass. Bad! You ask Snake Murphy if he's bad. Snake was drunk an' starts a fuss with him an' his hand was still on his gun butt an' the gun in the holster when Louisiana shoots him in the wrist an' never looks at him while he's a-doin' it! Bad! I'll say he's bad!"

He was shivering and almost sick in his sudden fright at the idea of facing Louisiana. The others, however, were skeptical and contemptuous.

"Same old Buffalo Bill and Alkali Ike stuff!" said the pugilist sneeringly. "I ain't afraid of this guy!"

"Well—neither am I," said the man from Arkansas, complacently. "He ain't the only one that can shoot, I reckon."

Banker fairly fawned upon them. "Yes," he cried. "You-all are good fellers and you ain't afraid. You'll down Louisiana if he comes. But he won't come, I reckon."

"He is coming," said Solange. "Not many hours ago I heard him say that he was going to 'jump your claim,' which he said did not belong to you. And he intimated that there would be a fight and that he would welcome it."

The three men were startled, looking at one another keenly. Banker licked his lips and was unmistakably frightened more than ever. But in his red eyes the flame of lunacy was slowly mounting.

"If I had old Betsy here——" he muttered.

"He ain't goin' to jump this mine," said the man from Arkansas, grimly. "Me and Slugger, here, has an interest in that mine. We works it on shares with Jim. If this shootin' sport comes round, we'll know what to do with him."

"Slugger," however, was more practical. "We'll take care of him," he agreed, slapping his side where a pistol hung. "But if there's money in gettin' him, I want to know how much. What'll you pay, ma'am?"

"A—a thousand dollars is all I have," said Solange. "You shall have that, messieurs."

But, somehow, her voice had faltered as though she, now, were frightened at what she had done and regretted it. Some insistent doubt, hitherto buried under her despair and rage, was struggling to the surface. As she watched these sinister scoundrels muttering together and concerting the downfall of the man who was her husband—and perhaps something more, to her—she felt a panic growing in her, an impulse to spring up and rush out, back on the trail to warn De Launay. But she suppressed it, cruelly scourging herself to remembrance of her dead father and her vow of vengeance. She tried to whip the flagging sense of outrage at the trick that the brutal Louisiana had played upon her in allowing her to marry him.

"If he lights around here," she heard Banker cackling, "we'll down him, we will! I'll add a thousand more to what the lady gives. We'll keep a lookout, boys, an' when he shows up, he dies!"

Then his shrill, evil cry arose again and men turned from their pursuits to look at him. The foam stood on his lips, writhen into a snarl over yellow fangs and his red eyes flamed with insanity.

"He'll die! They all dies! Only old Jim don't die. French Pete dies; Panamint dies; that there young Dave dies! But old Jim don't die!"

Solange turned pale as he half rose, leaning on the table with one hand while the other rested on the butt of his six-shooter. A great terror surged over her as she saw what she had let loose on her lover.

Her lover! For the first time she realized that he was her lover and that, despite crime and insult and deadly injury, he could be nothing else. She staggered to her feet, shoving back the brim of her hat, her wonderful eyes showing for the first time as she turned them on these grim wolves who faced her.

"My God!" said the bruiser, in a sudden burst of awe as he was caught by the fathomless depths. The man from Arkansas could not see them so clearly, but he sensed something disturbing and unusual. Banker faced her and tried to tear his own eyes from her.

Then, as they stood and sat in tableau, the flimsy door to the shack flew open and Louisiana stood on the threshold, holsters sagging on each hip and tied down around his thighs.



CHAPTER XXIII

TO THE VALE OF AVALON

Slowly the sense of something terrible and menacing was borne in on those who grouped themselves at the table. First there came a diminishing of the sounds that filled the place. They died away like a fading wind. Then the chill sweep of air from the door surged across the room, like a great fear congealing the blood. In the sloppy mess underfoot could be heard the sucking, splashing sound of feet moving, as men all about drew back instinctively and rapidly to be out of the way.

Solange felt what had happened rather than saw it. The fearful convulsion of fright, followed by maniac rage that leaped to Banker's face told her as though he had shouted the news. His companions and allies were merely stupefied and startled.

With an impulse to cry out a warning or to rush to him and throw her body between De Launay and these enemies, she suddenly whirled about to face him. She saw him standing in the doorway, the night black behind him except where the light fell on untrodden snow. Dim and shadowy in the open air of the roadway were groups of figures. The yelping and snarling of dogs floated into the place and she could see their wolfish figures between the legs of men and horses.

De Launay stood upright, hands outstretched at the level of his shoulders and resting against the sides of the doorway. He was open to and scornful of attack. His clean features were set sternly and his eyes looked levelly into the reeking interior, straight at Solange and the three men grouped behind her.

"Monsieur de Launay!" she cried. His eyes flickered over her and focused again on the men.

"Louisiana—at your service," he answered, quietly.

In some wild desire to urge him back she choked out words.

"Why—why did you come?"

He did not answer her direct but raised his voice a little, though still without emotion.

"Jim Banker," he said, "I came for you. There are others out here who have also come for you—but I am holding them back. I want you myself."

Out of Banker's foaming lips came a snarling cry.

"Wh-what fer?"

Again the answer was not direct, and this time it was Solange he spoke to, though he did not alter the direction of his gaze.

"Mademoiselle, you are directly in line with these—men. You had better move aside."

But Solange felt the pressure of a gun muzzle at her back and the snarl was in her ear.

"You don't move none! Stand where you be, or I'll take you fust and git him next!"

Nevertheless she would have moved, had not De Launay caught the knowledge of her peril. He spoke again, still calm but with a new, steely note in his voice.

"Stand fast, mademoiselle, then, if they must have you for a shield. But don't move. Shut your eyes!"

Hardly knowing why, she obeyed, oblivious of the peril to herself but in an agony lest her presence and position increase his danger. De Launay dominated her, and she stood as rigid as a statue, awaiting the cataclysm.

But he was speaking again.

"The wolves dug up the body of Dave MacKay, Banker, and the men outside found it. What you did to Wallace the other day he has recovered sufficiently to tell us. What you tried to do to this young woman I have also told them. Shall I tell her, and the others, who killed French Pete nineteen years ago?"

Again came the whining, shrill snarl from behind Solange.

"You did, you——"

"So you have said before, Jim. But I have the bullet that killed Pete d'Albret. I also have the bullet you shot at me when I came up to save mademoiselle from you a week ago. Those two are of the same caliber, Banker. It's a caliber that's common enough nowadays but wasn't very common in nineteen hundred. Who shot a Savage .303, nineteen years ago, and who shoots that same rifle to-day?"

There was a slow mutter of astonishment rising from the men crowded about the walls and in front of the crude bar. It was a murmur that contained the elements of a threat.

"I give you first shot, Jim," came the half-mocking voice of De Launay beating, half heard, on Solange's ears, where the astounding reversal of her notions was causing her brain almost to reel. Then she heard the whistling scream of Banker, quite lunatic by now, as he lost all sense of fear in his rising madness.