Blount paused in his nervous pacing and held out a flabby hand to Wiley, who was writing away at his desk.

"Well, Wiley," he said, "I guess I must be going. But any time you need money——" He stopped and smiled amiably, in the soft, easy way he had when he wished to appear harmless as a dove, and Wiley glanced up briefly from his work.

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Blount," he said. But he did not take his hand.



CHAPTER XXIV

DOUBLE TROUBLE

The next two weeks of Wiley Holman's life were packed so full of trouble that there were those who almost pitied him, though the word had been passed around to lay off. It was Samuel J. Blount who was making the trouble, and who notified the rest to keep out, and so great was his influence in all the desert country that no one dared to interfere. What he did was all legal and according to business ethics, but it gloved the iron hand. Blount was reaching for the mine and he intended to get it, if he had to crush his man. The attachments and suits were but the shadow boxing of the bout; the rough stuff was held in reserve. And somehow Wiley sensed this, for he sat tight at the mine and hired a lawyer to meet the suits. His job was mining ore and he shoveled it out by the ton.

The distressing accidents had suddenly ceased since he began to board his own men at the mine and, while his lawyer stalled and haggled to fight off an injunction, he rushed his ore to the railroad. It was too precious to ship loose, for at eighty-four dollars a unit it was worth over four dollars a pound; he sent it out sacked, with an armed guard on each truck to see that it was delivered and receipted for. As the checks came back he paid off all his debts, thus depriving Blount of his favorite club; and then, while Blount was casting about for new weapons, he began to lay aside his profits.

They rolled up monstrously, for each five-ton truck load added several thousand dollars to his bank account, but the time was getting short. Less than three weeks remained before the bond and lease expired, and still Wiley was playing to win. He crammed his mine with men, snatching the ore from the stopes as the bonanza leasers had done at Tonopah, and doubling the miner's pay with bonuses. Every truck driver received his bonus, and night and day the great motors went thundering across the desert. The ore came up from below and was dumped on a jig, where it was sorted and hastily sacked; and after that there was nothing to do but sent it under guard to the railroad. There was no milling, no smelting, no tedious process of reduction; but the raw picked ore was rushed to the East and the checks came promptly back.

Blount was fully informed now of the terms of his contract and of the source of his sudden wealth, but there was no way of reaching the buyer. A great war was on, every minute was precious—and every ounce of the tungsten was needed. The munitions makers could not pause for a single day in their mad rush to fill their contracts. The only ray of hope that Blount could see was that the price had broken to sixty dollars a unit. Wiley's contract called for eighty-four, throughout the full year—but suppose he should lose his mine. And suppose Blount should win it. He could offer better terms, provided always that the buyer would accommodate him now. Suppose, for instance, that the fat daily checks should cease coming during the life of the lease. That could easily be explained—it might be an error in book-keeping—but it would make quite a difference to Wiley. And in return for some such favor Blount could afford to sell the tungsten for, say, fifty-five dollars a unit.

Blount was a careful man. He did not trust his message to the wires, nor did he put it on paper to convict him; he simply disappeared—but when he came back Wiley's lawyer was waiting with a check. It was for twenty thousand dollars, and in return for this payment the lawyer demanded all of Blount's stock. Four hundred thousand shares, worth five dollars apiece if the bond and lease should lapse, and called for under the option at five cents! In those few short days, while Blount had been speeding East, Wiley had piled up this profit and more—and now he was demanding his stock!

"No!" said Blount, "that option is invalid because it was obtained by deception and fraud, and therefore I refuse to recognize it."

"Very well," replied the lawyer, who made his living out of controversies, and, summoning witnesses to his offer, he placed the money in the hands of the court and plunged into furious litigation. It was furious, in a way, and yet not so furious as the next day and the next passed by; for the lawyer was a business man and dependent upon the good will of Blount. It was a civil suit and, since Wiley could not appear to state his case in Court, it was postponed by mutual consent.

It had come over Wiley that, as long as he stood guard, no accident would happen at the mine; but he was equally convinced that, the moment he left it, the unexpected would happen. So, since Blount had elected to fight his suit, he let the fate of his option wait while he piled up money for his coup. As an individual, Blount might resist the sale of his stock; but as President of the Company he and his Board of Directors had given Wiley a valid bond and lease and, acting under its terms, Wiley still had an opportunity to gain a clear title to the mine. What happened to the stock could be thrashed out later, but with the Paymaster in his possession he could laugh his enemies to scorn—and he did not intend to be jumped! For who could tell, among these men who swarmed about him, which ones might be hired emissaries of Blount; and, once he was out of sight, they might seize the mine and hold it against all comers.

It was a thing which had been done before, and was likely to be done again; and as the days slipped by, bringing him closer to the end, he looked about for some agent. Had he a man that he could trust to hold the mine, while he went into town to gain title to it? He looked them all over but, knowing Blount as he did, and the weakness of human nature, he hesitated and decided against it. No, it was better by far that he should hold the mine—for possession, in mining, is everything—and send someone to pay over the money. That would be perfectly legal, and anyone could do it, but here again he hesitated. The zeal of his lawyer was failing of late—could he trust him to make the payment, in a town that was owned by Blount? Would he offer it legally and demand a legal surrender, and come out and put the deed in his hand? He might, but Wiley doubted it.

There was something going on regarding the payments for his shipments which he was unable to straighten out over the 'phone, and his lawyer was neglecting even that. And yet, if those checks were held up much longer it might seriously interfere with his payment. He had wired repeatedly, but either the messages were not delivered or his buyer was trying to welch on his contract. What he wanted was an agent, to go directly to the buyer and get the matter adjusted. Wiley thought the matter over, then he 'phoned his lawyer to forget it and wrote direct to an express company, enclosing his bills of lading and authorizing them to collect the account. When it came to collecting bills you could trust the express company—and you could trust Uncle Sam with your mail—but as to the people in Vegas, and especially the telephone girl, he had his well-established doubts. His telegraphic messages went out over the 'phone and were not a matter of record and if she happened to be eating a box of Blount's candy she might forget to relay them. It was borne in upon him, in fact, more strongly every day, that there are very few people you can trust. With a suitcase, yes—but with a mine worth millions? That calls for something more than common honesty.

The fight for the Paymaster, and Wiley's race against time, was now on every tongue, and as the value of the property went up there was a sudden flurry in the stock. Men who had hoarded it secretly for eight and ten years, men who had moved to the ends of the world, all heard of the fabulous wealth of the new Paymaster and wrote in to offer their stock. Not to offer it, exactly, but to place it on record; and others began as quietly to buy. It was known that the royalties had piled up an accruing dividend of at least twenty cents a share; and with the sale of it imminent—and a greater rise coming in case there was no sale—there would be a further increase in value. It was good, in fact, for thirty cents cash, with a gambling chance up to five dollars; and the wise ones began to buy. Men he had not seen for years dropped in on Wiley to ask his advice about their stock; and one evening in his office, he looked up from his work to see the familiar face of Death Valley Charley.

"Hello there, Charley," he said, still working. "Awful busy. What is it you want?"

"Virginia wants her stock," answered Charley simply and blinked as he stood waiting the answer. There was a war on now between the Huffs and Holmans into which Wiley's father had been drawn; and since Honest John had repudiated his son's acts and disclaimed all interest in his deal, Charley knew that Wiley was bitter. He had cut off the Widow from her one source of revenue but, when she had accused him of doing it for his father, Wiley had forgotten the last of his chivalry. Not only did he board all his men himself but he promised to fire any man he had who was seen taking a meal at the Widow's. It was war to the knife, and Charley knew it, but he blinked his eyes and stood firm.

"What stock?" demanded Wiley, and then he closed his lips and his eyes turned fighting gray. "You tell her," he said, "if she wants her stock, to come and get it herself."

"But she sent me to get it!" objected Charley obstinately.

"Yes, and I send you back," answered Wiley. "I gave her that stock twice, and I made it what it is, and if she wants it she can come and ask for it."

"And will you give it to her?" asked Charley, but Wiley only grunted and went ahead with his writing.

It was apparent to him what was in the wind. The Widow had written to demand of his father some return for the damage to her business; and Honest John had replied, and sent Wiley a copy, that he was in no ways responsible for his acts. This letter to Wiley had been followed by another in which his father had rebuked him for persecuting Mrs. Huff, and Wiley had replied with five pages, closely written, reciting his side of the case. At this John Holman had declared himself neutral and, beyond repeating his offer to buy the Widow's stock, had disclaimed all interest in her affairs. But now, with her stock still in Blount's hands and this last source of revenue closed to her, the Widow was left no alternative but to appeal indirectly to Wiley. What other way then was open, if she was ever to win back her stock, but to get back Virginia's shares and sell them to raise the eight hundred dollars? Wiley grumbled to himself as Death Valley Charley turned away and went on writing his letter.

It had been a surprise, after his break with Virginia, to discover that it left him almost glad. It had removed a burden that had weighed him down for months, and it left him free to act. He could protect his property now as it should be protected, without thought of her or anybody; and he could board his own men and keep the gospel of hate from being constantly dinned into their ears. They were honest, simple miners, easily swayed by a woman's distress, but equally susceptible to the lure of gold; and now with a bonus after the minimum of work they were tearing out the ore like Titans. They were loyal and satisfied, greeting his coming with a friendly smile; but if Virginia got hold of them, or her venomous mother, where then would be his discipline?

He was deep in his work when a shadow fell upon his desk and he looked up to see—Virginia.



CHAPTER XXV

VIRGINIA REPENTS

"I came for my stock," said Virginia coolly as she met his questioning eye and Wiley turned and rummaged in a drawer. The stock was hers and since she came and asked for it—he laid it on the desk and went ahead with his work. Virginia took the envelope and examined it carefully, but she did not go away. She glanced at him curiously, writing away so grimly, and there was a scar across his head. Could it be—yes, there her rock had struck him. The mark was still fresh, but he had given her the stock; and now he was privileged to hate her. That wound on his head would soon be overgrown and covered, but she had left a deeper scar on his heart. She had hurt his man's pride; and now he had hurt hers, and humbled her to ask for her stock. He looked up suddenly, feeling her eyes upon him, and Virginia drew back and blushed.

"Oh—thank you," she stammered and turned to go, and yet she lingered to see what he would say.

"You're welcome," he answered evenly, and took a fresh sheet of paper, but she refused to notice the hint. A sense of pique, of wonder at his politeness and half-resentment at his obliviousness of her presence, drew her back and she leaned against his desk.

"What are you writing?" she asked as he glanced at her inquiringly. "Is it a letter to that squaw?"

A sudden twitch of passion passed over his face at this reference to a dark page in their past and he drew the written sheet away.

"No," he said, "I happened to remember a white girl——"

"What?" burst out Virginia before she could check herself and he curled his lip up scornfully.

"Yes," he nodded, "and she seems to think I'm all right."

"Oh," she said and turned away her head with a painful twisted smile. Somehow she had always thought—and yet he must have met other girls—he was meeting them all the time! She tried to summon her anger, to carry her past this fresh stab, but the tears rose to her eyes instead.

"I—we'll be going away soon," she went on hurriedly. "That is, if he gives us back our stock. Do you think he'll do it, Wiley? You know—the plan you spoke of. We're going to sell this stock to a broker and then pay Mr. Blount back."

"I don't know," mumbled Wiley, and humped up over his letter, but it did not produce the effect he had hoped for.

"Well—I'm sorry I hurt you," she broke out impulsively, rebuked by the long gash in his hair, "but you shouldn't have tried to stop me! I wasn't doing you any harm—I just came up there that night to see what was going on. And I did see Stiff Neck George, you can smile all you want to, and he had something heavy in his hand."

She ran on with her explanation, only to trail off inconclusively as she saw his face growing grim. He did not believe her, he did not even listen; he just sat there patiently and waited.

"Are you waiting for me to go?" she asked, smiling wanly, but even then he did not respond. There had been a time, not many weeks ago, when he would have risen up and offered her a chair; but he had got past that now and seemed really and sincerely to prefer his own company to hers. "I thought you might help us," she went on almost tearfully, "to get back our stock from Blount. It was nice of you to tell me, after the way I acted; but—oh, I don't know what it was that came over me! And I never even thanked you for telling me!"

A cynical smile came into Wiley's eyes as he sat back and put down his pen, but even after that she hurried on. "Yes, I know you don't like me—you think I tried to wreck your mine and turned all your men against you—but I do thank you, all the same. You—you used to care, Wiley; but anyhow, I thank you and—I guess I'll be going now."

She started for the door but he did not try to stop her. He even picked up his pen, and she turned back with fire in her eyes.

"Well, you might say something," she said defiantly, "or don't you care what happens to me?"

"No; I don't, Virginia," he answered quietly, "so just let it go at that. We can't get along, so what's the use of trying? You go your way and let me go mine."

"Oh, I know!" she sighed, "you think I'm ungrateful—and you think I just came for my stock. But I didn't, altogether; I wanted to say I'm sorry and—oh, Wiley, do you think he's alive?"

"Who?" he asked; but he knew already—she was thinking about the Colonel.

"Why, Father," she ran on. "I heard you that time when you got old Charley drunk. Do you think he's really alive? Because if he is!" She raised her eyes ecstatically and suddenly she was smiling into his. "Because if he is," she said, "and I can find him again—oh, Wiley; won't you help me find him?"

"I'll think about it," responded Wiley, but his eyes were smiling back and the anger had died in his heart. After all, she was human; she could smile through her tears and reach out and touch his rough hand, and he could not bring himself to hate her. "After I pay for the mine," he suggested gently. "But now you'd better go."

"Oh, no," she protested, "please tell me about it. Is he hiding in the Ube-Hebes? Oh, you don't know how glad I was when I heard you talking with Charley—I never did think he was dead. He sent me word once, not to worry about him, but—the Indians said he had died. That is—well, they said if it hadn't been for that sandstorm they would surely have found the body. And he'd thrown away his canteen, so he couldn't have had any water; and there wasn't any more for miles. He was lost, you know, and out of his head; and heading right out through the sand-hills. Oh, it's awful to talk about it, but of course we don't know for certain; and it might have been somebody else. Don't you think it was some other man?"

"I don't know," answered Wiley, and sat staring straight ahead as she ran on with her arguments and entreaties. After all, what did he have to base his belief upon, except the babblings of brain-cracked Charley? They had found the Colonel's riding-burro, and his saddle-bags and papers, besides his rifle and canteen; and the Shoshone trailers had followed the tracks of a man until they were lost in the drifting sand-hills. And yet Charley's remarks, and his repeated attempts to get across the valley with some whiskey; there was something there, certainly, upon which to build hope—and Virginia was very insistent.

"Yes, I think it was another man," he said at length. "Either that or your father escaped. He might have lost one canteen and still have had another, or he might have found his way to some water-hole. But from the way Charley talks, and tries to cover up his breaks, I feel sure that your father is alive."

"Oh, goodie!" she cried and before he could stop her she had stooped over and kissed his bruised head. "Now you know I'm sorry," she burst out impulsively, "and will you go out and look for him at once?"

"Pretty soon," said Wiley, putting her gently away. "After I make my payment on the mine. They'd be sure to jump me, now."

"Oh, but why not now?" she pleaded. "They wouldn't jump your mine."

"Yes, they would," he replied. "They'd jump me in a minute! I don't dare to go off the grounds."

"But what's the mine," she demanded insistently, "compared to finding father?"

"Well, not very much," he conceded frankly, "but this is the way I'm fixed. I've got the whole world against me, including you and your mother, and I've got to play out my hand. There's nobody I can trust—even my father has turned against me—and I've got to fight this out myself."

"What? Just for the money? Do you think more of that than you do of finding my father?"

"No, I don't," he said, "but I can't go now, and so there's no use talking."

"No," she answered, drawing resentfully away from him, "there's no use talking to you! He might be dying, or out of food, but you don't think of anything but that money!"

"Well, maybe so," he retorted tartly, "but if you'd just left me alone, instead of sicking all your dogs on me, I'd've been over there looking for him, long ago. Of course I'm wrong—that's understood from the start; but——"

"What dogs did I set on you?" she demanded, flaring up, and he fixed her with sullen eyes.

"Never mind," he said. "You know what you've done as well or better than I do. All I've got to say is that my conscience is clear and we'd better quit talking while we're friends."

"Yes—friends!" she repeated, and then she stopped and at last she heaved a sigh. "Well, I don't care," she defended. "You drove me to it. A woman must protect herself, somehow."

"Well, you can do it," he said, feeling tenderly of his head, and Virginia flew into a rage.

"I told you I was sorry!" she cried, stamping her foot. "Isn't that enough? I'm sorry, I said!"

"Yes, and I'm sorry," he answered, but his eyes were level and his jaw jutted out like a crag.

"Sorry for what?" she demanded, and he sprang his trap.

"Sorry I can't go out and hunt for your father."

"Oh," she said, and drooped her head.

"If we could pay for what we've done by just being sorry," he went on with a ghost of a smile, "we wouldn't be where we are. But you know we can't, Virginia. I'm sorry for some things myself, and I expect to pay for them, but I can't stop to do it now."

"But will you go for him—sometime?" she asked, smiling wistfully. "Then—oh, Wiley; why can't we be friends?" She held out her hands and he rose up and took them, but with a startled look in his eyes. "You know that I'm sorry," she said, "and I'm willing to pay, too; if there's anything that I can do. Can't I help you, Wiley? Isn't there something I can do to help you pay for your mine? And I'll never oppose you again—if you'll only go and find my father!"

She raised his hands and put them against her cheek and the quick tears sprang to his eyes.

"I'll do it," he promised, "just the minute I can go. And—I'll try to be good to you, Virginia. Won't you give me a kiss, just to show it's all right? I'm sorry I treated you so rough. But it'll be all right now and we'll try to be friends again—I wasn't writing to any other girl."

"Oh, weren't you?" she smiled. "Well, I'll kiss you, then—just once. But somehow, I'm afraid it won't last."



CHAPTER XXVI

THE CALL

The long quarrel was over, they had made up—and kissed—and yet to Wiley it all seemed unreal. That is, all but the kiss. It was that, perhaps, which made the rest seem unreal, for it had changed the color of his life. Before, he had thought in terms of hard fact, but the kiss put a rainbow in the sky. It roused a great hope, a joy, an ecstasy, a sense of well-wishing for mankind; and yet it was only he who had changed. The world was the same; Samuel Blount was the same; and the miners, and Stiff Neck George. They were all there together in a rough-and-tumble fight to see who would get the Paymaster Mine and, even with the madness of her kiss in his soul, he pressed on towards the one, fixed goal.

He had set out to win the Paymaster and win it he would if he had to shoot his way to victory. For Stiff Neck George, like a watchful coyote, had taken up his post on the hill; and from that sign alone Wiley knew that Blount had changed his tactics and appealed to the court of last resort. His attachments had failed, his injunction suit had failed, and his cheap attempt to cut off Wiley's checks. The money had come, promptly forwarded by the Express Company with a note of apology from the buyer, and it lay now in Wiley's office safe. All that was left to do was to send it to Blount and get back the deed to the property. Three days remained before the bond and lease expired, but that was not a day too much. The question was—who to send? Wiley thought the matter over, glanced at George up on the hill, and sent a note down to Virginia.

She came up the trail smiling, for her proud reserve had vanished, and she even allowed him a kiss; but when he asked her to take the money to Blount she drew back and shook her head.

"I'm afraid," she said, "—I'm afraid something might happen. Can't you send it by somebody else?"

"No, that's just the point," he answered gravely. "Something is likely to happen if I do. My lawyer has turned crooked, and the bank won't touch it; so there's nobody to send but you. You can hide the money till you get there, so that no one will rob you on the way; and if anybody asks you, you can tell them about that stock deal and that you're going down to hold up Blount."

"Why don't you go?" she objected and he pointed out the doorway at Stiff Neck George on the hill.

"There he sits," he said, "like a red-necked old buzzard, just waiting for a chance to jump my mine. He may do it, anyhow—I wouldn't put it past him—but if he comes he'd better come a-shooting. You see, here's the point: the man that holds this mine can turn out ten thousand dollars a day, and that amount of money would hire enough lawyers to fight the outsiders to a standstill. If I get jumped I'm licked, because I haven't got any more money; and I'm going to stay right here and fight 'em. But you take this money—there's fifty-two thousand dollars—and go down and make that payment. If you can't find Blount, then hunt up the clerk of the Superior Court and deposit the fifty thousand with him. Just bring me his receipt, with a memorandum of the payment, and he'll notify Blount himself."

"I don't like to," she shuddered. "I'm afraid they won't take it, and then you'll——"

"They've got to take it!" he broke in eagerly. "Just get the stage driver to go along as witness, and I'll give you a full power of attorney. And then listen, Virginia; you take the rest of this money and buy back your father's stock."

"Oh, can I?" she cried and, reaching out for the money, she held it with tremulous hands. There were fifty thousand-dollar bills, golden yellow on the back and a rich, glossy black on the front; and others of smaller denominations, making fifty-two thousand in all. It was a fortune in itself, but in what it was to buy it was well worth over a million.

"Aren't you afraid to trust me?" she asked at last, and when he smiled she hid it away. "All right," she said, "and as soon as I've paid it I'll call you up on the 'phone."

She went out the next morning on the early stage and Wiley watched it rush across the plain. It was green as a lawn, that dry, treeless desert with its millions of evenly spaced creosote bushes; but as the sun rose higher it turned blood-red like an omen of evil to come. Many times before, in the glow of evening, he had seen the green change to red; but now it was ominous, with Stiff Neck George on the hill-top and Shadow Mountain frowning down behind. He paced about uneasily as the day wore on and at night he listened for the 'phone. She was to call him up, as soon as she had paid over the money; but it did not ring that night.

The morning of the last day dawned fair and pleasant, with the fresh smell of dew in the air, and he awoke with a sense that all was well. Virginia was in Vegas and, when Blount came to his office, she would make the payment in his stead. There was no chance to fail, once she had found her man; and if Blount refused to accept it, which he could hardly do, she could simply leave the money with the court. There were no papers to confuse her, no forms to go through; Blount had made a legal contract to sell the property and she had a full power of attorney. All it called for was loyalty and faithfulness to her trust, and Wiley knew Virginia too well to think she would fail him now. She was proud and hot-headed, and she had fought him in the past; but, once she had given her word, she would keep her promise or die.

As the sun rose higher he imagined her at the bank with the sheaf of bills hidden in her bosom, and Blount's surprise and palavering when he found he was caught and that his deep-laid plans had failed. He had schemed to catch Wiley between the horns of a dilemma, and either jump his mine when he went in to make the payment or force him to lose it by default. But, almost by a miracle, Virginia had appeared at the very moment when he was seeking a messenger; and by an even greater miracle, they had composed all their difficulties just in time for him to send her to town. It was like an act of Providence, an answer to prayer, if people any longer prayed; and, more, even, than the money and the joy of success, was the consciousness of Virginia's love. She had seemed so hostile, so distant and unattainable; but the moment that he forgot her and abandoned all hope she fluttered to his hand like a dove.

The noon hour came and went and as Wiley watched the 'phone it seemed to him strangely silent. To be sure, few people called him, but—he snatched the receiver from the hook. He had guessed it—the 'phone was dead! He rattled the hook and listened impatiently, then he shouted and listened again, and black fancies rose up in his brain. What was the meaning of this? Had they cut the wire on him? And why? It really made no difference! Virginia was there; he had heard it from the stage-driver who had driven her in the day before—and yet, there must be a reason. Perhaps it was an accident, for the line was old and neglected, but why should it happen now? He hung up the receiver and reviewed it all calmly. There were a hundred things which might happen to the line, for it passed through rough country near Vegas; but the weather was fair and there was no wind blowing to topple over the poles. No one used the line but him—it had been connected up by Blount when he had first taken over the mine—and yet the wire had been cut. But by whom? As he sat there pondering he raised his eyes to the hill-top, and Stiff Neck George was gone!

"The dastard!" cursed Wiley, leaping furiously to his feet and reaching for his rifle, but though he scanned the line through his high-power field-glasses there was not a man in sight. Wiley ran down to the shed and got out his racer that had lain there idle for months, but as his motor began to thunder, a head popped up and he saw Stiff Neck George on the ridge. He too had a rifle and, as he saw Wiley watching him, he dropped back and hid from sight.

"Oho!" said Wiley, and, leaving his machine, he strode angrily back to the mine. So that was their game, to get him to leave and then slip in and jump his mine. Perhaps it was all arranged with the men he had working for him and George would not even have a fight. Neither his foremen nor the guards were men he would care to trust in a matter involving millions—and yet something was wrong in Vegas. There was treachery somewhere or they would not cut the line to keep him from getting the news. He lingered irresolutely, his hands itching for the steering wheel, his eyes searching for Stiff Neck George.

There was a feud between them—he had braved George's killing gun and rushed in and kicked him down the dump. Would George, then, withhold his hand? But, down in Vegas, Blount was framing up some game to deprive him of title to his mine. Wiley weighed them in the balance, the two forces against him, and decided to stay with the mine. As long as he held it there were lawyers a-plenty to prove that his title was good, but if Stiff Neck George jumped it he would have to kill him to get back possession of the property. Or rather, he would have to fight him, for George was a gunman with notches on the butt of his six-shooter. No, he would have to get killed, or give up the Paymaster, whether Blount was right or wrong.

He set his teeth and settled down to endure it—but he knew that Virginia would not fail him. He had given her the money, she knew what to do, and as sure as she hoped to save her father, he knew that she would do it. His part was to hold down the mine. The men came and went, the engine puffed and panted, and the long, dragging hours went by. As the darkness came on Wiley stalked in the shadows, looking out into the night for Stiff Neck George; but nothing stirred, the work went on as usual, and at midnight he gave up the search. His option had expired and either the mine was his or the title had reverted to the Company. There was nothing to watch for and so he slept, but at dawn his telephone jangled.

Wiley rose up breathlessly and took down the receiver but no one answered his call. The 'phone was dead and yet it had rung—or was it only a dream? He hung up in disgust and went back to bed but something drew him back to the 'phone. He held down the hook and, with the receiver to his ear, let the lever rise slowly up. There was talking going on and men laughing in hoarse voices and the tramp of feet to and fro, but no one responded to his shouts. He hung up once more and then suddenly it came over him, a foreboding of impending disaster. Something was wrong, something big that must be stopped at once; and a voice called insistently for action. He leapt into his clothes and started for the door—then turned back and strapped on his pistol. As the sun rose up he was a speck in the desert, rushing on through a blood-red sea.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE THUNDER CLAP

The broad streets of Vegas were swarming with traffic as Wiley glided swiftly into town and he noticed that people looked at him curiously. Perhaps it was all imagination but it seemed to him they eyed him coldly. Yet what they thought or felt was nothing to him then—his business was with Samuel J. Blount. The mine was unprotected—he had not even told his foreman that he was leaving, or where he was going—and there was no time for anything but business. If there was any trouble for him, Samuel J. Blount was at the bottom of it, and he drove straight up to the bank. It was a huge, granite structure with massive onyx pillars and smiling young clerks at the grilles; but he hurried past them all and turned down a hall to a room that was marked: President—Private. This was no time for dallying or sending in cards—he opened the door and stepped in.

Samuel Blount was sitting at the head of a table with other men grouped about him, but as Wiley Holman entered they were silent. He glanced at Blount and then again at the men—they were the directors of the Paymaster Mining and Milling Company!

"Good morning, Mr. Holman," spoke up Blount with asperity. "Please wait for me out in the hall."

"Since when?" retorted Wiley and then, leaping to the point, "what about that deed to the Paymaster?"

"Why—you must be misinformed," replied Blount slowly, at the same time pressing a button, "this is a meeting of the Board of Directors."

"So I see," returned Wiley, "but I sent the money by Virginia to take up the option on the mine. Did you receive it or did you not?"

A broad-shouldered man, very narrow between the eyes, came in and stood close to Wiley, and Blount smiled and cleared his throat.

"No," he said, "we did not receive it?"

"Oh, you didn't, eh?" said Wiley, glancing up at the janitor. "Perhaps you will tell me if it was offered to you?"

"No, it was not offered to us," replied Blount, smiling blandly, "although Miss Huff did make a deposit."

"Of fifty thousand dollars?"

"No, it was more than that—fifty-two, I believe. It was deposited to your account."

"Oh," observed Wiley, and looked them over again as the directors turned around to scowl. "Well, perhaps I can see Miss Huff?"

"She is not here at present," replied Blount with finality, "and so I must ask you to withdraw."

"Just a moment," said Wiley, as the janitor moved expectantly. "I came here on a matter of business with you and this Board of Directors and, since the matter is urgent, I must request an immediate hearing. You don't need to be alarmed—all I want is my answer and then I'll leave you alone. In the first place, Mr. Blount, will you please tell me the circumstances under which this deposit was made? I gave Miss Huff instructions to offer the money to you in payment for the Paymaster Mine."

"Oh! Instructions, eh?" piped Blount with a satirical smile, and the Board stirred and nodded significantly. "Well, since you've just come in and are evidently unaware of the wide interest that has been taken in this case, I'll tell you a few things, Mr. Holman. The people of this town do not approve of the manner in which you have treated Mrs. Huff; and as for your 'instructions' to Virginia, let me tell you right now that we have saved her from becoming your victim."

"My victim!" repeated Wiley, moving swiftly towards him, but the janitor caught him by the arm.

"Yes, your victim," answered Blount with a venomous sneer, "or, at least, your intended victim. The people of Vegas had nothing to say when you deprived Virginia and her mother of their livelihood—it was your privilege as lessee of the mine to board your own men if you chose—but when you had the effrontery to send Virginia to this Board with 'instructions' to jeopardize her own interests, we felt called on to interfere."

"Why, you're crazy!" burst out Wiley. "What interests did she jeopardize by making that payment for me? As a matter of fact it was just the contrary—I gave her the money to get back the stock that you had practically stolen from her mother!"

"Now! Now!" spoke up Blount, "we won't have any personalities, or I'll ask Mr. Jepson to remove you. You must know if you know anything that Virginia herself had over twelve thousand shares of stock; while her mother left with me, as collateral on a note, more than two hundred thousand shares more. Yet you asked this innocent girl, who trusted you so fully, to wipe out her whole inheritance at one blow. You asked her to come here and make a payment that would beat her out of half a million dollars—for fifty thousand dollars!"

He paused and the men about the table murmured threateningly among themselves.

"And now!" went on Blount with heavy irony, "you come here and ask for your deed!"

"Yes, you bet I do!" snapped back Wiley, "and I'm going to get it, too. If Virginia came here and offered you that money, that's enough, in the eyes of the law. It was a legal payment under a legal contract, entered into by this Board of Directors; and I call you gentlemen to witness that she came here and offered the money."

"She came to me!" corrected Blount, "and in no wise as the President of this Board!"

"Well, you're the man that I told her to go to—and if she offered you the money, that's enough!"

"Oh, it's enough, is it? Well, it may be enough for you, but it is not enough for the citizens of this town. We have organized a committee, of which Mr. Jepson is a member, to escort you out of Vegas; and I would say further that your bond and lease has lapsed and the Company will take over the mine."

"We'll discuss that later," returned Wiley grimly, "but I'll tell you right now that there aren't men enough in Vegas to run me out of town—not if you call in the whole town and the Janitors' Union—so don't try to start anything rough. I'm a law-abiding citizen, and I know my rights, and I'm going to see this through." He put his back to the wall and the burly Jepson took the hint to move further away. "Now," said Wiley, "if we understand each other let's get right down to brass tacks. It's all very well to organize Vigilance Committees for the protection of trusting young ladies, but you know and I know that this is a matter of business, involving the title to a mine. And I'd like to say further that, when a Board of Directors talks a messenger out of her purpose and persuades her to disregard her instructions——"

"Instructions!" bellowed Blount.

"Yes—instructions!" repeated Wiley, "—instructions as my agent. I sent Miss Huff down here to make this payment and I gave her instructions regarding it."

"Do you realize," blustered Blount, "that if she had followed those instructions she would have defrauded her own mother out of millions; that she would have ruined her own life and conferred her father's fortune upon the very man who was deceiving her?"

"No, I do not," replied Wiley, "but even if I did, that has nothing to do with the case. As to my relations with Miss Huff, I am fully satisfied that she has nothing of which to complain; and since it was you, and the rest of the gang, who stood to lose by the deal, your indignation seems rather far-fetched. If you were sorry for Miss Huff and wished to help her you have abundant private means for doing so; but when you dissuade her from her purpose in order to save your own skin you go up against the law. I'm going to take this to court and when the evidence is heard I'm going to prove you a bunch of crooks. I don't believe for a minute that Virginia turned against me. I know that she offered you the money."

"Oh, you know, do you?" sneered Blount as his Directors rallied about him. "Well, how are you going to prove it?"

"By her own word!" said Wiley. "I know her too well. You just talked her out of it, afterward."

"So you think," taunted Blount, "that she offered the money in payment, and demanded the delivery of the deed? And will you stand or fall on her testimony?"

"Absolutely!" smiled Wiley, "and if she tells me she didn't do it I'll never take the matter into court."

"Very well," replied Blount and turned towards the door, but the Directors rushed in and caught him. They thrust their heads together in a whispered, angry conference, now differing among themselves and now flying back to catch Blount, but in the end he shook them all off. "No, gentlemen," he said, "I have absolute confidence in the justice of my case. If you stand to lose a little I stand to lose a great deal—and I know she never asked for that deed!"

"Well, bring her in, then," they conceded reluctantly, and turned venomous eyes upon Wiley. They knew him, and they feared him, and especially with this girl; for he was smiling and waiting confidently. But Blount was their czar, with his great block of stock pitted against their tiny holdings, and they sat down to await the issue.

She came at last, ushered in through the back door by Blount, who smiled benevolently; and her eyes leapt on the instant to meet Wiley's.

"Here is Miss Huff," announced Blount deliberately and the light died in Wiley's shining eyes. He had waited for her confidently, but that one defiant flash told him that Virginia had turned against him. She had thrown in her lot with Blount, and against her lover, and by her word he must stand or fall. She had been his agent, but if she had not carried out her trust—— "Any questions you would like to ask," went on Blount with ponderous calm, "I am sure Virginia will answer."

He turned reassuringly and she nodded her head nervously, then stepped out and stood facing Wiley.

"It is a question," began Wiley, speaking like one in a dream, "of the way you paid Mr. Blount that money. When you took it to him first, before they had talked to you, did you tell him it was my payment on the option?"

Virginia glanced at Blount, then she took a deep breath and drew herself up very straight.

"No," she said, "I spoke to him first about buying back father's stock."

"But after that," he said, "didn't you hand him over the money and say it was sent by me?"

"No, I didn't," she answered. "After the way you had treated me I didn't think it was right."

"Not right!" he repeated with a slow, dazed smile. "Why—why wasn't it right, Virginia?"

"Because," she went on, "you were trying to deceive me and beat me and mother out of our rights. You knew all the time that father's stock was still ours—and that Mr. Blount never even claimed it!"

"Never claimed it!" cried Wiley, suddenly roused to resentment. "Well, Virginia, he most certainly did! He offered to sell it to me for five cents a share when I took out that option on the Paymaster!"

"Now, now, Wiley!" began Blount, but Virginia cut him short with a scornful wave of the hand.

"Never mind," she said. "I'll attend to this myself. I just want to tell him what I think!"

"What you think!" raved Wiley, suddenly coming up fighting. "You've been fooled by a bunch of crooks. Never mind what you think—did you give him the money and tell him it came from me?"

"I did not!" answered Virginia, her eyes flashing with hot anger, "and while I may not be able to think, I certainly wasn't fooled by you. No, I took your money and put it in the bank, and I let your option expire!"

"My—God!" moaned Wiley, and groped for the door, but in the hall he stopped and turned back. There was some mistake—she had not understood. He slipped back and looked in once more. She was shaking hands with Blount—and smiling.



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE WAY OUT

When a woman treads the ways of deceit she smiles—like Mona Lisa. But was the great Leonardo deceived by the smile of his wife when she posed for him so sweetly? No, he read her thoughts—how she was thinking of another—and his master hand wove them in. There she smiles to-day, smooth and pretty and cryptic; but Leonardo, the man, worked with heavy heart as he laid bare the tragedy of his love. The message was for her, if she cared to read it, or for him, that rival for her love; or, if their hearts were pure and free from guilt, then there was no message at all. She was just a pretty woman, soft and gentle and smiling—as Virginia Huff had smiled.

She had not smiled often, Wiley Holman remembered it now, as he went flying across the desert, and always there was something behind; but when she had looked up at Blount and taken his fat hand, then he had read her heart at a glance. If he had taken his punishment and not turned back he would have been spared this great ache in his breast; but no, he was not satisfied, he could not believe it, and so he had received a worse wound. She had been playing with him all the time and, when the supreme moment arrived, she had landed him like a trout; and then, when she had left him belly-up from his disaster, she had turned to Blount and smiled. There was no restraint now; she smiled to the teeth; and Blount and the Directors smiled.

Wiley cursed to himself as he bored into the wind and burned up the road to Keno. The mine was nothing; he could find him another one, but Virginia had played him false. He did not mind losing her—he could find a better woman—but how could he save his lost pride? He had played his hand to win and, when it came to the showdown, she had slipped in the joker and cleaned him. The Widow would laugh when she heard the news, but she would not laugh at him. The road lay before him and his gas tanks were full. He would gather up his belongings and drift. He stepped on the throttle and went roaring through the town, but at the bottom of the hill he stopped. The mine was shut down, not a soul was in sight, and yet he had left but a few hours before.

He toiled wearily up the trail, where he had caught Virginia running and held her fighting in his arms, and the world turned black at the thought. What madness had this been that had kept him from suspecting her when she had opposed his every move from the start. Had she not wrecked his engine and ruined his mill? Then why had he trusted her with his money? And that last innocent visit, when she had asked for her stock, and thanked him so demurely at the end! She would not be dismissed, all his rough words were wasted, until in the end she had leaned over and kissed him. A Judas-kiss? Yes, if ever there was one; or the kiss of Judith of Bethulia. But Judith had sold her kisses to save her people—Virginia had sold hers for gold.

Yes, she had sold him out for money; after rebuking him from the beginning she had stabbed him to the heart for a price. It was always he, Wiley, who thought of nothing but money; who was the liar, the miser, the thief. Everything that he did, no matter how unselfish, was imputed to his love of money; and yet it had remained for Virginia, the censorious and virtuous, to violate her trust for gain. It was not for revenge that she had withheld the payment and snatched a million dollars from his hand; she had told him herself that it was because Blount had returned their stock and she would not throw it away. How quick Blount had been to see that way out and to bribe her by returning the stock—how damnably quick to read her envious heart and know that she would fall for the offer. Well, now let them keep it and smile their smug smiles and laugh at Honest Wiley; for if there ever was a curse on stolen money then Virginia's would buy her no happiness.

He raised his bloodshot eyes to look for the last time at the Paymaster, which he had fought for and lost. What had they done to save it, to bring it to what it was, to merit it for their own? For years it had lain idle, and when he had opened it up they had fought him at every step. They had shot him down with buckshot, and beaten him down with rocks and threatened his life with Stiff Neck George. His eyes cleared suddenly and he looked about the dump—he had forgotten his feud with George. Yet if his men were gone, who then had driven them out but that crooked-necked, fighting fool? And if George had driven them out, then where was he now with his ancient, filed-down six-shooter? Wiley drew his gun forward and walked softly towards the house, but as he passed a metal ore-car a pistol was thrust into his face. He started back, and there was George.

"Put 'em up!" he snarled, rising swiftly from behind the car, and the hot fury left Wiley's brain. His anger turned cold and he looked down the barrel at the grinning, spiteful eyes behind.

"You go to hell!" he growled, and George jabbed the gun into his stomach.

"Put 'em up!" he ordered, but some devil of resistance seized Wiley as his hands went up. It was close, too close, and George had the drop on him, but one hand struck out and the other clutched the gun while he twisted his lithe body aside. At the roar of the shot he went for his own gun, leaping back and stooping low. Another bullet clipped his shirt and then his own gun spat back, shooting blindly through the smoke. He emptied it, dodging swiftly and crouching close to the ground, and then he sprang behind the car. There was a silence, but as he listened he heard a gurgling noise, like the water flowing out of a canteen, and a sudden, sodden thump. He looked out, and George was down. His blood was gushing fast but the narrow, snaky eyes sought him out before they were filmed by death. It was over, like a rush of wind.

Wiley flicked out his cylinder and filled it with fresh cartridges, then looked around for the rest. He was calm now, and calculating and infinitely brave; but no one stepped forth to face his gun. A boy, down in town, started running towards the mine, only to turn back at some imperative command. The whole valley was lifeless, yet the people were there, and soon they would venture forth. And then they would come up, and look at the body, and ask him to give up his gun; and if he did they would take him to Vegas and shut him up in jail, where the populace could come and stare at him. Blount and Jepson would come, and the Board of Directors; and, in order to put him away, they would tell how he had threatened George. They would make it appear that he had come to jump the mine, and that George was defending the property; and then, with the jury nicely packed, they would send him to the penitentiary, where he wouldn't interfere with their plans.

In a moment of clairvoyance he saw Virginia before him, looking in through the prison bars and smiling, and suddenly he put up his gun. She had started this job and made him a murderer but he would rob her of that last chance to smile. There was a road that he knew that had been traveled before by men who were hard-pressed and desperate. It turned west across the desert and mounted by Daylight Springs to dip down the long slope to the Sink; and across the Valley of Death, if he could once pass over it, there was no one he need fear to meet. No one, that is, except stray men like himself, who had fled from the officers of the law. Great mountain ranges, so they said, stretched unpeopled and silent, beneath the glare of the desert sun; and though Death might linger near it was under the blue sky and away from the cold malice of men.

From his safe in the office Wiley took out a roll of bills, all that was left of his vanished wealth; and he took down his rifle and belt; and then, walking softly past the body of Stiff Neck George, he cranked up his machine and started off. Every doorway in town was crowded with heads, craning out to see him pass, and as he turned down the main street he saw Death Valley Charley rushing out with a flask in his hand.

"We seen ye!" he grinned as Wiley slowed down, and dropped the flask of whiskey on the seat.

"You killed him fair!" he shouted after him, but Wiley had opened up the throttle and the answer to his praise was a roar.

The sun was at high noon when Wiley topped the divide and glided down the canyon towards Death Valley. He could sense it in the distance by the veil of gray haze that hung like a pall across his way. Beyond it were high mountains, a solid wall of blue that seemed to rise from the depths and float, detached, against the sky; and up the winding wash which led slowly down and down, there came pulsing waves of heat. The canyon opened out into a broad, rocky sand-flat, shut in on both sides by knife-edged ridges dotted evenly with brittle white bushes; and each jagged rock and out-thrust point was burned black by the suns of centuries.

He passed an ancient tractor, abandoned by the wayside, and a deserted, double-roofed house; and then, just below it where a ravine came down, he saw a sign-board, pointing. Up the gulch was another sign, still pointing on and up, and stamped through the metal of the disk was the single word: Water. It was Hole-in-the-Rock Springs that old Charley had spoken about and, somewhere up the canyon, there was a hole in the limestone cap, and beneath it a tank of sweet water. On many a scorching day some prospector, half dead from thirst, had toiled up that well-worn trail; but now the way was empty, the freighter's house given over to rats, and the road led on and on.

A jagged, saw-tooth range rose up to block his way and the sand-flat narrowed down to a deep wash; and, then, still thundering on, he struggled out through its throat and the Valley seemed to rise up and smite him. He stopped his throbbing motor and sat appalled at its immensity. Funereal mountains, black and banded and water-channeled, rose up in solid walls on both sides and, down through the middle as far as the eye could see, there stretched a white ribbon, set in green. It swung back and forth across a wide, level expanse, narrow and gleaming with water at the north and blending in the south with gray sands. The writhing white band was Death Valley Sink, where the waters from countless desert ranges drained down and were sucked up by the sun. Far from the north it came, when the season was right and the cloudbursts swept the Grape-Vines and the White mountains; the Panamints to the west gave down water from winter snows that gathered on Telescope Peak; and every ravine of the somber Funeral Range was gutted by the rush of forgotten waters.

The Valley was dry, bone-dry and desiccated, and yet every hill, every gulch and wash and canyon, showed the action of torrential waters. The chocolate-brown flanks of the towering mountain walls were creased, and ripped out and worn; and from the mouth of every canyon a great spit of sand and boulders had been spewed out and washed down towards the Sink. On the surface of this wash, rising up through thousands of feet, the tips of buried mountains peeped out like tiny hill-tops, yet black, and sharp and grim. The great ranges themselves, sweeping up from the profundity till they seemed to cut off the world, looked like molded cakes of chocolate which had been rained on and half melted down. They were washed-down, melted, stripped of earth and vegetation; and down from their flanks in a steep, even slope, lay the debris and scourings of centuries.

The westering sun caught the glint of water in the poisonous, salt-marshes of the Sink; but, far to the south, the great ultimate Sink of Sinks was a-gleam with borax and salt. It was there where the white band widened out to a lake-bed, that men came in winter to do their assessment work and scrape up the cotton-ball borax. But if any were there now they would know him for a fugitive and he took the road to the west. It ran over boulders, ground smooth by rolling floods and burned deep brown by the sun, and as he twisted and turned, throwing his weight against the wheels, Wiley felt the growing heat. His shirt clung to his back, the sweat ran down his face and into his stinging eyes and as he stopped for a drink he noticed that the water no longer quenched his thirst. It was warm and flat and after each fresh drink the perspiration burst from every pore, as if his very skin cried out for moisture. Yet his canteen was getting light and, until he could find water, he put it resolutely away.

The road swung down at last into a broad, flat dry-wash, where the gravel lay packed hard as iron, and as his racer took hold and began to leap and frolic, he tore down the valley like the wind. The sun was sinking low and the unknown lay before him, a land he had never seen; yet before the night came on he must map out his course and stake his life on the venture. Other automobiles might follow and snatch him back if he delayed but an hour in his flight; but, once across Death Valley and lost in those far mountains, he would leave the law behind. The men he met would be fugitives like himself, or prospectors, or wandering Shoshones; and, live or die, he would be away from it all—where he would never see Virginia again.

The deep wash pinched in, as the other had done, before it gave out into the plain; and, then, as he whirled around a point, he glided out into the open. The foothills lay behind him and, straight athwart his way, stretched a sea of motionless sand-waves. As far north as he could see, the ocean of sand tossed and tumbled, the crests of its rollers crowned with brush and grotesque drift-wood, the gnarled trunks and roots of mesquite trees. To the east and west the high mountains still rose up, black and barren, shutting in the sea of sand; but across the valley a pass led smoothly up to a gap through the wall of the Panamints. It was Emigrant Wash, up which the hardy Mormons had toiled in their western pilgrimage, leaving at Lost Wagons and Salt Creek the bones of whole caravans as a tribute to the power of the desert.

A smooth, steep slope led swiftly down to the edge of the Valley of Death and as Wiley looked across he saw as in a vision a massive gateway of stone. It was flung boldly out from the base of a blue mountain, enclosing a dark valley behind; and from between its lofty walls a white river of sand spread out like a flower down the slope. It was the gateway to the Ube-Hebes, just as Charley had described it, and it was only a few miles away. It lay just across the sand-flat, where the great, even waves seemed marching in a phalanx towards the south; and then up a little slope, all painted blue and purple, to the mysterious valley beyond. The sun, swinging low, touched the summits of distant sand-hills with a gleam of golden light and all the dark shadows moved toward him. A breath of air fanned his cheek, and as he drank deep from his canteen he nodded to the Gateway and smiled.



CHAPTER XXIX

ACROSS DEATH VALLEY

The way to the Ube-Hebes lay across a low flat, glistening white with crystals of alkali; and as his car trundled on Wiley came to a strip of sand, piled up in the lee of a prostrate salt bush. Other bushes appeared, and more sand about them, and then a broad, smooth wave. It mounted up from the north, gently scalloped by the wind, and on the south side it broke off like a wall. He drove along below it, glancing up as it grew higher, until at last it cut off his view. All the north was gone, and the Gateway to his hiding-place; but the south and west were there. To the south lay mud flats, powdery dry but packed hard; and the west was a wilderness of sand.

A giant mesquite tree, piled high with clinging drifts, rose up before the crest of his wave, and as he plowed in between them the edge of the crest poured down in a whispering cascade. Then more trees loomed up, and hundreds of white bushes each mounted on its pedestal of sand; and at the base of each salt-bush there were kangaroo-rat holes and the tracery of their tails in the dust. Men called it Death Valley, but for such as these it was a place of fullness and joy. They had capered about, striking the ground with their tails at the end of each playful jump, and the dry, brittle salt-bushes had been feast enough to them, who never knew the taste of grass or water.

The sand-wave rose higher, leaving a damp hollow behind it where ice-plants grew green and rank; and as he crept along the thunder of his exhaust started tons of sliding silt. His wheels raced and burrowed as he struck a soft spot, and then abruptly they sank. He dug them out carefully and backed away, but a mound of drifted sand barred his way. Twist and turn as he would he could not get around it and at last he climbed to its summit. The sun was setting in purple and fire behind the black shoulder of the Panamints and like a path of gold it marked out the way, the only way to cross the Valley. At the south was the Sink with its treacherous bog-holes and further north the sand-hills were limitless—the only way, where the wagon-wheels had crossed, was buried deep in the sand. Three great mountains of sand, like huge breakers of the sea, had swept in and covered the wheel-tracks; and far to the west in the path of the sun their summits loomed two hundred feet high.

He went back to his car and drove it desperately at the slope, only to bury the rear wheels to the axles; and as he dug them out the sand from the wave crest began to whisper and slip and slide. He cleared a great space and started his motor, but at the first shuddering tug the sand began to tremble and in a rush the wave was upon him. It buried him deep and as he leapt from his machine little rills of singing sand flowed around it. So far it had carried him, this high-powered, steel-springed racer; but now he must leave it for the sand to cover over and cross the great Valley alone. On many a rocky slope and sliding sand-hill it had clutched and plunged and fought its way, but now it was smothered in the treacherous, silt-fine sand and he must leave it, like a partner, to die. Yet if die it must, then in its desert burial the last trace of Wiley Holman would be lost. The first wind that blew would wipe out his footprints and the racer would sink beneath the waves. Wiley took his canteen, and Charley's bottle of whiskey, his rifle and a small sack of food and dared the great silence alone.

While his motor had done the work he had not minded the heat and the pressure of blood in his head, but as he toiled up the sandy slope, sinking deeper at each stride, he felt the breath of the sand. All day it had lain there drinking in the sun's rays and now in the evening, when the upper air was cool, it radiated a sweltering heat. Wiley mounted to the summit of wave after wave, fighting his way towards the Gateway to the north; and then, beaten at last and choking with the exertion, he turned and followed a crest. The sand piled up before him in a vortex of sharp-edged ridges, reaching their apex in a huge pyramid to the west, and as he toiled on past its flank he felt a gusty rush of air, sucking down through Emigrant Wash. It was the wind, after all, that was king of Death Valley; for whichever way it blew it swept the sand before it, raising up pyramids and tearing them down. Along the crest of the high wave a feather-edge of sand leapt out like a plume into space and as he stopped to watch it Wiley could see that the mountain was moving by so much across the plain.

A luminous half-moon floated high in the heavens and the sky was studded thick with pin-point stars. In that myriad of little stars, filling in between the big ones, the milky way was lost and reduced to obscurity—the whole sky was a milky way. Wiley sank down in the sand and gazed up sombrely as he wetted his parching lips from his canteen, and the evening star gleamed like a torch, looking down on the world he had fled. Across the Funeral Range, not a day's journey to the east, that same star lighted Virginia on her way while he, a fugitive, was flung like an atom into the depths of this sea of sand. It was deeper than the sea, scooped out far below the level of the cool breakers that broke along the shore; deep and dead, except for the wind that moved the drifting sand across the plains. And even as he lay there, looking up at the stars and wondering at the riddle of the universe, the busy wind was bringing grains of sand and burying him, each minute by so much.

He rose up in a panic and hurried along the slope, where the sand of the wave was packed hardest, and he did not pause till he had passed the last drift and set his foot on the hard, gravelly slope. The wind was cooler now, for the night was well along and the bare ground had radiated its heat; but it was dry, powder dry, and every pore of his skin seemed to gasp and cry out for water. There was water, even yet, in the bottom of his canteen; but he dared not drink it till the Gateway was in sight, and the sand-wash that led to the valley beyond.

An hour passed by as he toiled up the slope, now breaking into a run from impatience, now settling down doggedly to walk; and at last, clear and distinct, he saw the Gateway in the moonlight, and stopped to take his drink. It was cool now, the water, and infinitely sweet; yet he knew that the moment he drained the last drop he would feel the clutch of fear. It is an unreasoning thing, that fear of the desert which comes when the last drop is gone; and yet it is real and known to every wanderer, and guarded against by the bravest. He screwed the cap on his canteen and hurried up the slope, which grew steeper and rockier with each mile, but the phantom gateway seemed to lead on before him and recede into the black abyss of night. It was there, right before him, but instead of getting nearer, the Gateway loomed higher and higher; and daylight was near before he passed through its portals and entered the dark valley beyond.

A gaunt row of cottonwoods rose up suddenly before him, their leaves whispering and clacking in the wind, and at this brave promise all fear for water left him and he drained his canteen to the bottom. Then he strode on up the canyon, that was deep and dark as a pocket, following the trail that should lead him to the spring; but as one mile and two dragged along with no water, he stopped and hid his rifle among the rocks. A little later he hid his belt with its heavy row of cartridges, and the sack of dry, useless food. What he needed was water and when he had drunk his fill he could come back and collect all his possessions. Two miles, five miles, he toiled up the creek bed with the cottonwoods rustling overhead; but though their roots were in the water, the sand was still dry and his tongue was swelling with thirst.

He stumbled against a stone and fell weakly to the ground, only to leap to his feet again, frightened. Already it was coming, the stupifying lassitude, the reckless indifference to his fate, and yet he was hardly tired. The Valley had not been hot, any more than usual, and he had walked twice as far before; but now, with water just around the corner, he was lying down in the sand. He was sleepy, that was it, but he must get to water first or his pores would close up and he would die. He stripped off his pistol and threw it in the sand, and his hat, and the bottle of fiery whiskey; and then, head down, he plunged blindly forward, rushing on up the trail to find water.

The sun rose higher and poured down into the narrow valley with its fringe of deceptive green; but though the trees became bigger and bushier in their tops the water did not come to the surface. It was underneath the sand, flowing along the bed-rock, and all that was needed was a solid reef of country-rock to bring it up to the surface. It would flow over the dyke in a beautiful water-fall, leaping and gurgling and going to waste; and after he had drunk he would lie down and wallow and give his whole body a drink. He would soak there for hours, sucking it up with his parched lips that were cracked now and bleeding from the drought; and then—he woke up suddenly, to find himself digging in the sand. He was going mad then, so soon after he was lost, and with water just up the stream. The creek was dry, where he had found himself digging, but up above it would be full of water. He hurried on again and, around the next turn, sure enough, he found a basin of water.

It was hollowed from the rock, a round pool, undimpled, and upon its surface a pair of wasps floated about with airy grace. Their legs were outstretched and on the bottom of the hole he could see the round shadows of their tracks. It was a new kind of water, with a skin that would bend down and hold up the body of a wasp, and yet it seemed to be wet. He thrust in a finger and the wasps flew away—and then he dropped down and drank deep. When he woke from his madness the pool was half empty and the water was running down his face. He was wet all over and his lips were bleeding afresh, as if his very blood had been dry; but his body was weak and sick, and as he rose to his feet he tottered and fell down in the sand. When he roused up again the pool was filled with water and the wasps were back, floating on its surface.

When he looked around he was in a little cove, shut in by towering walls; and, close against the cliff where the rock had been hollowed out, he saw an abandoned camp. There were ashes between the stones, and tin cans set on boxes, and a walled-in storage place behind, and as he looked again he saw a man's tracks, leading down a narrow path to the water. They turned off up the creek—high-heeled boots soled with rawhide and bound about with thongs—and Wiley rushed recklessly at the camp. When he had eaten last he could hardly remember, (it was a day or two back at the best), and as he peered into cans and found them empty he gave vent to a savage curse. He was weak, he was starving, and he had thrown away his food—and this man had hidden what he had. He kicked over the boxes and plunged into the store-room, throwing beans and flour sacks right and left, and then in the corner behind a huge pile of pinon nuts he found a single can of tomatoes.

Whoever had treasured it had kept it too long, for Wiley's knife was already out and as he cut out the top he tipped it slowly up and drained it to the bottom.

"Hey, there!" hailed a voice and Wiley started and laid down the can. Was it possible the officers had followed him? "Throw up your hands!" yelled the voice in a fury. "Throw 'em up, or I'll kill you, you scoundrel!"

Wiley held up his hands, but he raised them reluctantly and the fighting look crept back into his eyes.

"Well!" he challenged, "they're up—what about it?"

A tall man with a pistol stepped out from behind a tree and advanced with his gun raised and cocked. His hair was hermit-long, his white beard trembled, and his voice cracked and shrilled with helpless rage.

"What about it!" he repeated. "Well, by Jupiter, if you sass me, I'll shoot you for a camp-robbing hound!"

"Well, go ahead then," burst out Wiley defiantly, "if that's the way you feel—all I took was one can of tomatoes!"

"Yes! One can! Wasn't that all I had? And you robbed me before, you rascal!"

"I did not!" retorted Wiley, and as the old man looked him over he hesitated and lowered his gun.

"Say, who are you, anyway?" he asked at last and glanced swiftly at Wiley's tracks in the sand. "Well—that's all right," he ran on hastily, "I see you aren't the man. There was a renegade came through here on the twentieth of last July and stole everything I had. I trailed him, dad-burn him, clear to the edge of Death Valley—he was riding my favorite burro—and if it hadn't been for a sandstorm that came up and stopped me, I'd have bored him through and through. He stole my rifle and even my letters, and valuable papers besides; but he went to his reward, or I miss my guess, so we'll leave him to the mercy of hell. As for my tomatoes, you're welcome, my friend; it's long since I've had a guest."

He held out his hand and advanced, smiling kindly, but Wiley stepped back—it was Colonel Huff.



CHAPTER XXX

AN EVENING WITH SOCRATES

How the Colonel had come to be reported dead it was easy enough now to surmise. Some desperate fugitive, or rambling hobo miner seeking a crosscut to the Borax Mines below, had raided his camp in his absence; and, riding off on his burro, had met his death in a sandstorm. His were the tracks that the Indians had followed and somewhere in Death Valley he lay beneath the sand dunes in place of a better man. But the Colonel—did he know that his family had mourned him as dead, and bandied his stock back and forth? Did he know that the Paymaster had been bonded and opened up, and lost again to Blount? And what would be his answer if he knew the man before him was the son of Honest John Holman? Wiley closed down his lips, then he took the outstretched hand and looked the Colonel straight in the eye.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, "that I can't give you my name or tell you where I'm from; but I've got a bottle of whiskey that will more than make up for the loss of that can of tomatoes!"

"Whiskey!" shrilled the Colonel and then he smiled benignly and laid a fatherly hand upon his shoulder. "Never mind, my young friend, what you have done or not done; because I'm sure it was nothing dishonorable—and now if you will produce your bottle we'll drink to our better acquaintance."

"I threw it away," answered Wiley apologetically, "but it can't be very far down the trail. I was short of water and lost, you might say, and—well, I guess I was a little wild."

"And well you might be," replied the Colonel heartily, "if you crossed Death Valley afoot; and worn out and hungry, to boot. I'll just take the liberty of going after that bottle myself, before some skulking Shoo-shonnie gets hold of it."

"Do so," smiled Wiley, "and when you've had your drink, perhaps you'll bring in my rifle and the rest."

"Whatever you've dropped," returned the Colonel cordially, "if it's only a cartridge from your belt! And while I am gone, just make yourself at home. You seem to be in need of rest."

"Yes, I am," agreed Wiley, and before the Colonel was out of sight he was fast asleep on his bed.

It was dark when he awoke and the light of a fire played and flickered on the walls of his cave. The wind brought to his nostrils the odor of cooking beans and as he rose and looked out he saw the Colonel pacing up and down by the fire. His hat was off, his fine head thrown back and he was humming to himself and smiling.

"Come out, sir; come out!" he cried upon the moment. "I trust you have enjoyed your day's rest. And now give me your hand, sir; I regret beyond words my boorish conduct of this morning."

He shook hands effusively, still continuing his apologies for having taken Wiley for less than a gentleman; and while they ate together it became apparent to Wiley that the Colonel had had his drink. If there was anything left of the pint bottle of whiskey no mention was made of the fact; but even at that the liquor was well spent, for it had gained him a friend for life.

"Young man," observed the Colonel, after looking at him closely, "I am a fugitive in a way, myself, but I cannot believe, from the look on your face, that your are anything else than honest. I shall respect your silence, as you respect mine, for your past is nothing to me; but if at any time I can assist you, just mention the fact and the deed is as good as done. I am a man of my word and, since true friends are rare, I beg of you not to forget me."

"I'll remember that," said Wiley, and went on with his eating as the Colonel paced up and down. He was a noble-looking man of the Southern type, tall and slender, with flashing blue eyes; and the look that he gave him reminded Wiley of Virginia, only infinitely more kind and friendly. He had been, in his day, a prince of entertainers, of the rich and poor alike; and the kick of the whiskey had roused up those genial qualities which had made him the first citizen of Keno. He laughed and told stories and cracked merry jests, yet never for a moment did he forget his incognito nor attempt to violate Wiley's. They were gentlemen there together in the heart of the desert, and as such each was safe from intrusion. The rifle and cartridge belt, Wiley's pistol and the sack of food, were fetched and placed in his hands; and then at the end the Colonel produced the flask of whiskey which had been slightly diluted with water.

"Now," he said, "we will drink a toast, my far-faring-knight of the desert. Shall it be that first toast: 'The Ladies—God bless them!' or——"

"No!" answered Wiley, and the Colonel silently laughed.

"Well said, my young friend," he replied, nodding wisely. "Even at your age you have learned something of life. No, let it be the toast that Socrates drank, and that rare company who sat at the Banquet. To Love! they drank; but not to love of woman. To love of mankind—of Man! To Friendship! In short, here's to you, my friend, and may you never regret this night!"

They drank it in silence, and as Wiley sat thinking, the Colonel became reminiscent.

"Ah, there was a company," he said, smiling mellowly, "such as the world will never see again. Agatho and Socrates, Aristophanes and Alcibiades, the picked men of ancient Athens; lying comfortably on their couches with the food before them and inviting their souls with wine. They began in the evening and in the morning it was Socrates who had them all under the table. And yet, of all men, he was the most abstemious—he could drink or let it alone. Alcibiades, the drunkard, gave witness that night to the courage and hardihood of Socrates—how he had carried him and his armor from the battlefield of Potidaea, and outfaced the enemy at Delium; how he marched barefoot through the ice while the others, well shod, froze; and endured famine without complaining; yet again, in the feasts at the military table, he was the only person that appeared to enjoy them. There was a man, my friend, such as the world has never seen, the greatest philosopher of all time; but do you know what philosophy he taught?"

"No, I don't," admitted Wiley, and the Colonel sighed as he poured out a small libation.

"And yet," he said, "you are a man of parts, with an education, very likely, of the best. But our schools and Universities now teach a man everything except the meaning and purpose of life. When I was in school we read our Plato and Xenophon as you now read your German and French; but what we learned, above the language itself, was the thought of that ancient time. You learn to earn money and to fight your way through life, but Socrates taught that friendship is above everything and that Truth is the Ultimate Good. But, ah well; I weary you, for each age lives unto itself, and who cares for the thoughts of an old man?"

"No! Go on!" protested Wiley, but the Colonel sighed wearily and shook his head gloomily in thought.

"I had a friend once," he said at last, "who had the same rugged honesty of Socrates. He was a man of few words but I truly believe that he never told a lie. And yet," went on the Colonel with a rueful smile, "they tell me that my friend recanted and deceived me at the last!"

"Who told you?" put in Wiley, suddenly rousing from his silence and the Colonel glanced at him sharply.

"Ah, yes; well said, my friend! Who told me? Why, all of them—except my friend himself. I could not go to him with so much as a suggestion that he had betrayed the friendship of a lifetime; and he, no doubt, felt equally reluctant to explain what had never been charged. Yet I dared not approach him, for it was better to endure doubt than to suffer the certainty of his guilt. And so we drifted apart, and he moved away; and I have never seen my good friend since."

Wiley sat in stunned silence, but his heart leapt up at this word of vindication for Honest John. To be sure his father had refused him help, and rebuked him for heckling the Widow, but loyalty ran strong in the Holman blood and he looked up at the Colonel and smiled.

"Next time you go inside," he said at last, "take a chance and ask your friend."

"I'll do that," agreed the Colonel, "but it won't be for some time because—well, I'm hiding out."

"Here, too," returned Wiley, "and I'm never going back. But say, listen; I'll tell you one now. You trusted your friend, and the bunch told you that he'd betrayed you; I trusted my girl, and she told me to my face that she'd sold me out for fifty thousand dollars. Fifty thousand, at the most; and I lost about a million and killed a man over it, to boot. You take a chance with your friends, but when you trust a woman—you don't take any chance at all."

"Ah, in self defense?" inquired the Colonel politely. "I thought I noticed a hole in your shirt. Yes, pretty close work—between your arm and your ribs. I've had a few close calls, myself."

"Yes, but what do you think," demanded Wiley impatiently, "of a girl that will throw you down like that? I gave her the stock and to make it worth the money she turned around and ditched me. And then she looked me in the face and laughed!"

"If you had studied," observed the Colonel, "the Republic of Plato you would have been saved your initial mistake; for it was an axiom among the Greeks that in all things women are inferior, and never to be trusted in large affairs. The great Plato pointed out, and it has never been controverted, that women are given to concealment and spite; and that in times of danger they are timid and cowardly, and should therefore have no voice in council. In fact, in the ideal State which he conceived, they were to be herded by themselves in a community dwelling and held in common by the state. There were to be no wives and no husbands, with their quarrels and petty bickerings, but the women were to be parceled out by certain controllers of marriage and required to breed men for the state. That is going rather far, and I hardly subscribe to it, but I think they should be kept in their place."

"Well, they are cowardly, all right," agreed Wiley bitterly, "but that's better than when they fight. Because then, if you oppose them, everybody turns against you; and if you don't, they've got you whipped!"

"Put it there!" exclaimed the Colonel, striking hands with him dramatically. "I swear, we shall get along famously. There is nothing I admire more than a gentle, modest woman, an ornament to her husband and her home; but when she puts on the trousers and presumes to question and dictate, what is there left for a gentleman to do? He cannot strike her, for she is his wife and he has sworn to cherish and protect her; and yet, by the gods, she can make his life more miserable than a dozen quarrelsome men. What is there to do but what I have done—to close up my affairs and depart? If there is such a thing as love, long absence may renew it, and the sorrow may chasten her heart; but I agree with Solomon that it is better to dwell in a corner of the house-top than with a scolding woman in a wide house."

"You bet," nodded Wiley. "Gimme the desert solitude, every time. Is there any more whiskey in that bottle?"

"And yet—" mused the Colonel, "—well, here's to our mothers! And may we ever be dutiful sons! After all, my friend, no man can escape his duty; and if duty should call us to endure a certain martyrdom we have the example of Socrates to sustain us. If report is true he had a scolding wife—the name of Xanthippe has become a proverb—and yet what more noble than Socrates' rebuke to his son when he behaved undutifully towards his mother? Where else in all literature will you find a more exalted statement of the duty we all owe our parents than in Socrates' dialogue with Lamprocles, his son, as recorded in the Memorabilia of Xenophon? And if, living with Xanthippe and listening to her railings, he could yet attain to such heights of philosophy is it not possible that men like you and me might come, through his philosophy, to endure it? It is that which I am pondering while I am alone here in the desert; but my spirit is weak and that accursed camp robber made off with my volume of Plato."

"Well, personally," stated Wiley, his mind on the Widow, "I think I agree more with Plato. Let 'em keep in their place and not crush into business with their talk and their double-barreled shotguns."

"I beg your pardon, sir," said the Colonel, drawing himself up gravely, "but did you happen to come through Keno?"

"Never mind;" grumbled Wiley, "you might be the Sheriff. Tell me more about this married man, Socrates."



CHAPTER XXXI

THE BROKEN TRUST

To seek always for Truth and Justice and the common good of mankind has seldom had its earthly reward but, twenty-three hundred and fifteen years after he drank the cup of hemlock, the soul of Socrates received its oration. Not that the Colonel was hipped upon the subject of the ancients, for he talked mining and showed some copper claims as well; but a similar tragedy in his own domestic life had evoked a profound admiration for Socrates. And if Wiley understood what lay behind his words he gave no hint to the Colonel. Always, morning, noon and night, he listened respectfully, his lips curling briefly at some thought; and at the end of a week the Colonel was as devoted to him as he had been formerly to his father.

Yet when, as sometimes happened, the Colonel tried to draw him out, he shook his head stubbornly and was dumb. The problem that he had could not be solved by talk; it called for years to recover and forget; and if the Colonel once knew that his own daughter was involved he might rise up and demand a retraction. In his first rush of bitterness Wiley had stated without reservation that Virginia had sold him out for money, and the pride of the Huffs would scarcely allow this to pass unnoticed—and yet he would not retract it if he died for it. He knew from her own lips that Virginia had betrayed him, and it could never be explained away.

If she argued that she was misled by Blount and his associates, he had warned her before she left; and if she had thought that he was doing her an injustice, that was not the way to correct it. She had accepted a trust and she had broken that trust to gain a personal profit—and that was the unpardonable sin. He could have excused her if she had weakened or made some mistake, but she had betrayed him deliberately and willfully; and as he sat off by himself, mulling it over in his mind, his eyes became stern and hard. For the killing of Stiff Neck George he had no regrets, and the treachery of Blount did not surprise him; but he had given this woman his heart to keep and she had sold him for fifty thousand dollars. All the rest became as nothing but this wound refused to heal, for he had lost his faith in womankind. Had he loved her less, or trusted her less, it would not have rankled so deep; but she had been his one woman, whose goings and comings he watched for, and all the time she was playing him false.

He sat silent one morning in the cool shade of a wild grapevine, jerking the meat of a mountain sheep that he had killed; and as he worked mechanically, shredding the flesh into long strips, he watched the lower trail. Ten days had gone by since he had fled across the Valley, but the danger of pursuit had not passed and, as he saw a great owl that was nesting down below rise up blindly and flop away he paused and reached for his gun.

"Never mind," said the Colonel who had noticed the movement. "I expect an old Indian in with grub. But step into the cave and if it's who you think it is you can count on me till the hair slips."

Wiley stepped in quietly, strapping on his belt and pistol, and then the Colonel burst into a roar.

"It's Charley," he cried, leaping nimbly to his feet and putting up his gun. "Come on, boy—here's where we get that drink!"

Wiley looked out doubtfully as Heine rushed up and sniffed at the pans of meat, and then he ducked back and hid. Around the shoulder of the cliff came Death Valley Charley; but behind him, on a burro, was Virginia. He looked out again as the Colonel swore an oath and then she leapt off and ran towards them.

"Oh—Father!" she cried and hung about his neck while the astonished Colonel kissed her doubtfully.

"Well, well!" he protested as she fell to weeping, "what's the cause of all this distress? Is your mother not well, or——"

"We—we thought you were dead!" she burst out indignantly, "and Charley there knew—all the time!"

She let go of her father and turned upon Death Valley Charley, who was solicitously attending to Heine, and the Colonel spoke up peremptorily.

"Here, Charley!" he commanded, "let that gluttonous cur wait. What's this I hear from Virginia? Didn't you tell her I was perfectly well?"

"Why—why yes, sir; I did, sir," replied Charley, apologetically, "but—she only thought I was crazy. I told her, all the time——"

"Oh, Charley!" reproached Virginia, "didn't you know better than that? You only said it when you had those spells. Why didn't you tell me when you were feeling all right—and you denied it, I know, repeatedly!"

"The Colonel would kill me," mumbled Charley sullenly. "He told me not to tell. But I brought you the whiskey, sir; a whole big——"

"Never mind the whiskey," said the Colonel sharply. "Now, let's get to the bottom of this matter. Why should you think I was dead when I had merely absented myself——"

"But the body!" clamored Virginia. "We got word you were lost when your burro came in at the Borax works. And when we hired trackers, the Indians said you were lost—and your body was out in the sand-hills!"

"It was that cursed camp-robber!" declared the Colonel with conviction. "Well, I'm glad he's gone to his reward. It was only some rascal that came through here and stole my riding burro—did they care for old Jack at the Works? Well, I shall thank them for it kindly; and anything I can do—but what's the matter, Virginia?"

She had drawn away from him and was gazing about anxiously and Charley had slunk guiltily away.

"Why—where's Wiley?" she cried, clutching her father by the arm. "Oh, isn't he here, after all?"

"Wiley?" repeated the Colonel. "Why, who are you talking about? I never even heard of such a man."

"Oh, he's dead then; he's lost!" she sobbed, sinking down on the ground in despair. "Oh, I knew it, all the time! But that old Charley——" She cast a hateful glance at him and the Colonel beckoned sternly.

"What now?" he demanded as Charley sidled near. "Who is this Mr. Wiley?"

"Why—er—Wiley; Wiley Holman, you know. I followed his tracks to the Gateway. Ain't he around here somewhere? I found this bottle——" He held up the flask that he had given to Wiley, and the Colonel started back with a cry.

"What, a tall young fellow with leather puttees?"

"Oh, yes, yes!" answered Virginia, suddenly springing to her feet again. "We followed him—isn't he here?"

The Colonel turned slowly and glanced at the cave, where Wiley was still hiding close, and then he cleared his throat.

"Well, kindly explain first why you should be following this gentleman, and——"

"Oh, he's here, then!" sighed Virginia and fell into her father's arms, at which Charley scuttled rapidly away.

"Mr. Holman," spoke up the Colonel, as Wiley did not stir, "may I ask you to come out here and explain?"

There was a rustle inside the cave and at last Wiley came out, stuffing a strip of dried meat into his hip pocket.

"I'll come out, yes," he said, "but, as I'm about to go, I'll leave it to your daughter to explain."

He picked up his canteen and started down to the water-hole, but the Colonel called him sternly back.

"My friend," he said, "it is the custom among gentlemen to answer a courteous question. I must ask you then what there is between you and my daughter, and why she should follow you across Death Valley?"

"There is nothing between us," answered Wiley categorically, "and I don't know why she followed me—that is, if she really did."

"Well, I did!" sobbed Virginia, burying her face on her father's breast, "but I wish I hadn't now!"

"Huh!" grunted Wiley and stumped off down the trail where he filled his canteen at the pool. He was mad, mad all over, and yet he experienced a strange thrill at the thought of Virginia following him. He had left her smiling and shaking hands with Blount, but a curse had been on the money, and her conscience had forced her to follow him. It had been easy, for her, with a burro to ride on and Death Valley Charley to guide her; but with him it had been different. He had fled from arrest and it was only by accident that he had won to the water-hole in time. But yet, she had followed him; and now she would apologize and explain, as she had explained it all once before. Well, since she had come—and since the Colonel was watching him—he shouldered his canteen and came back.

"My daughter tells me," began the Colonel formally, "that you are the son of my old friend, John Holman; and I trust that you will take my hand."

He held out his hand and Wiley blinked as he returned the warm clasp of his friend. Ten days of companionship in the midst of that solitude had knitted their souls together and he loved the old Colonel like a father.

"That's all right," he muttered. "And—say, hunt up the Old Man! Because he thinks the world of you, still."

"I will do so," replied the Colonel, "but will you do me a favor? By gad, sir; I can't let you go. No, you must stay with me, Wiley, if that is your name; I want to talk with you later, about your father. But now, as a favor, since Virginia has come so far, I will ask you to sit down and listen to her. And—er—Wiley; just a moment!" He beckoned him to one side and spoke low in his ear. "About that woman who betrayed your trust—perhaps I'd better not mention her to Virginia?"

Wiley's eyes grew big and then they narrowed. The Colonel thought there was another woman. How could he, proud soul, even think for a moment that Virginia herself had betrayed him? No, to his high mind it was inconceivable that a daughter of his should violate a trust; and there was Virginia, watching them.

"Very well," replied Wiley, and smiled to himself as he laid down his gun and canteen. He led the way up the creek to where a gnarled old cottonwood cast its shadow against the cliff and smoothed out a seat against the bank. "Now sit down," he said, "and let's have this over with before the Colonel gets wise. He's a fine old gentleman and if his daughter took after him I wouldn't be dodging the sheriff."

"Well, I came to tell you," began Virginia bravely, "that I'm sorry for what I've done. And to show you that I mean it I gave Blount back his stock."

Wiley gazed at her grimly for a moment and then he curled up his lip. "Why not come through," he asked at last, "and acknowledge that he held it out on you?"

Virginia started and then she smiled wanly.

"No," she said, "it wasn't quite that. And yet—well, he didn't really give it to me."

"I knew it!" exploded Wiley, "the doggoned piker! But of course you made a clean-up on your other stock?"

"No, I didn't! I gave that away, too! But Wiley, why won't you listen to me? I didn't intend to do it, but he explained it all so nicely——"

"Didn't I tell you he would?" he raged.

"Yes, but listen; you don't understand. When I went to him first I asked for Father's stock and—he must have known what was coming. I guess he saw the bills. Anyway, he told me then that he had always loved my father, and that he wanted to protect us from you; and so, he said, he was just holding my Father's stock to keep you from getting it away from us. And then he called in some friends of his; and oh, they all became so indignant that I thought I couldn't be wrong! Why, they showed me that you would make millions by the deal, and all at our expense; and then—I don't know, something came over me. We'd been poor so long, and it would make you so rich; and, like a fool, I went and did it."