But Nan was pointing out of the window. She welcomed a sudden diversion.

"It's Elvine coming right along over." Then, as Jeff craned forward: "Say, she's a dandy horsewoman. Get a look at her. Gracious, she might have been born in the saddle."

But Jeff had not waited. He was out on the veranda to greet his wife as she came. And just for one instant Nan caught a glimpse of the light in his eyes which the sight of Elvine had conjured. All the coldness she had witnessed that morning, all the merciless purpose, even the simple friendliness he had displayed toward her. These were gone. Their place had been taken by a light of passionate regard for the woman who had yielded herself to him. For a moment it seemed as if her own emotions must stifle her. But the next she was within the room again, her eyes merrily dancing, talking to the parent she adored.

"Say, you Daddy of mine," she said, almost boisterously, "haven't you work to be done, the same as I have? Shame on you for dallying. Shame on us both. Come right along, sir. Come right along at once." Then, as he moved toward the window, "No, no, you dear blundering Daddy, not that way! That's reserved. The back door for us, sure. Come along."

And the great Bud permitted himself to be hustled from the room through the kitchen way.

Nan's effort was only partially successful. In a few moments the fugitives were urgently recalled to hear the news of the disaster at Spruce Crossing, which Elvine had brought with her. And during the discussion which followed Nan was forced to stand by while the handsome woman who had supplanted her occupied the centre of attention.

Somehow the news which held the others, drawing forth hot condemnation from Bud, and the bitter comment of Jeff, for once left Nan cold. Somehow it seemed so small a thing compared with that other disaster which was always with her. Her whole attention was held by Jeff and his wife. Not a detail of expression or emotion, as the swift words flowed between them, was lost upon her. And the exquisite pain of it all was excruciating.

The great love of the man was so apparent. There was a moment, even, just as Jeff and Elvine were about to take their departure, when Nan could have almost cried out. It had followed upon an expression of Elvine's dislike and fear of the man who conveyed the news to her.

Jeff took up her complaint in no half-hearted fashion, and, somehow, the injustice of his attitude and his obvious thought for his wife alone brought the girl's hot resentment very near the surface.

"Yes," he said. "He's a tough, sure. I've kept him on because he's one of the brightest cow-hands east of the mountains. But you're right, Evie. And I can't stand for you being scared by the 'hands' on my ranch. I'll have to get rid of him." Then, as he sat in the saddle with Elvine on her pony at his side, he had taken in Nan and her father in a smiling, comprehensive glance. "I guess Evie's some sport acting the way she's done," he declared with a lover's pride. "I allow we owe her a heap of thanks, eh, Bud?"

Bud nodded.

"We're mighty grateful, ma'am," he declared, heartily in his formal way. "Guess we all thank you, sure." Then he turned to Jeff more directly. "I'll get busy right away. That'll leave you free to get right on doping out that reward notice this afternoon, an' generally fixing things before you make the trail to-morrow morning."

Then they had taken their departure. And with their going Nan hastily returned to the parlor.

Bud followed her almost on the instant. He had moved with incredible swiftness, which is often the way of heavy men under stress of feeling. Already the tears were gathering in the girl's eyes when his words fell upon her ears.

"Say, little gal," he said, with a deep note of sympathy in his rumbling tones, "we're bein' hit up pretty bad since Jeff bro't her back home. Maybe we're feelin' 'bout as foolish as we're lookin'. But we're goin' to beat the game—sure, eh? We're goin' to beat it because we're built that way, an'—we got the grit to do it."

* * * * * *

The horses were walking leisurely over the summer grass. The house was less than two miles distant. There was no immediate hurry. Besides, Elvine was reading the letter which Jeff had handed her in reply to her inquiry as to the contemplated journey which Bud had mentioned.

Jeff was observing her closely as she read. There were no doubts in his mind. He was not even seeking the effect of the letter. He was dwelling with a lover's delight upon the picture she made.

Nor was his approval extravagant. Any one must have admitted the justice of it. Nan had admitted it when she beheld her in a prairie saddle, on a prairie pony, with only the wide wealth of grass-land for her setting. Elvine in the saddle suggested a single identity between horse and rider. Her riding suit was expensively simple, and cut as only such suits can be cut. The figure beneath it was displayed to its fullest advantage. There was no studied pose. Just the perfection of horsemanship which demands an intimate freedom at all times. Then her dark head under her carefully adjusted prairie hat. The shining masses of hair, obvious in their wealth even under careful dressing. The softly healthy cheeks, and the perfect profile as she pored over the letter in her hand.

Presently Elvine looked up. She did not turn at once to the husband at her side. Her gaze was directed ahead. It ignored the scene of undulating plain, and the distant ramparts of wooded hills. It saw nothing but the images in her own brain, and the conjured thoughts of a troubled heart and conscience.

"You see it's important," Jeff said, with a feeling that the news in the letter had caused disappointment.

"I s'pose it is."

There was a curious lack of interest in the woman manner. Her tone was listless.

"I'm afraid I'll have to go." The man felt he was apologizing, and it seemed absurd that apology should be required. Then he reminded her. "You see, these things come with my work as President. It's pretty good if you think. Guess I'll only be from home one night."

"You must go—I s'pose?"

The man's eyes widened.

"Sure."

"But it seems unfair you should be put to all this for nothing."

Jeff shook his head.

"Why, I don't guess it's any worry. Besides, it's an honor. You see, Evie, I'm out all I know to set up a big position for you. And it's these calls as President of the Western Union are going to fix things the way I'd have them."

His eyes had somehow become serious. There was even a lack of his recent warmth in them. He had not expected any protest from his wife. A shade of disappointment at his going perhaps. But that was all.

"You're at the call of anybody around to settle disputes?"

"Only where the interests of cattle-raising are affected."

Elvine handed him back the letter. She did not turn to him. A curious set to her lips warned Jeff that in some way his contemplated journey was adversely affecting her. Nor was it merely the disappointment he had been prepared for. He felt there was need to say more, though the need of it was obscure. It had never been his way to appeal, but he resigned himself to the reflection that his life had been entirely changed by his marriage. He was no longer responsible only to himself. With an effort he flung aside an inclination to resentment.

"Say, Evie," he cried, "it's a bit tough on you having to leave you even for a day just as we've got back to home. It's that way with me, too. I just don't fancy going a small bit. But I daren't refuse Dug McFarlane. He's one of the biggest men around, and I'll need all the friends I can round up. There's another thing. I've got it back of my mind later on to form a Trust amongst the growers, and Dug's a most important concern in such a scheme. I'd be crazy to refuse. Why, I just couldn't refuse anyway. You're going to help me, dear, aren't you? I've talked to Bud and Nan, and fixed things so you won't be lonesome. Nan's promised to sleep in the house with you, so you shan't feel that way. Or you could go over to her. It's just one night, that's all."

It may have been his obvious sincerity, it may have been that the woman's objections were really the result of disappointment only. At any rate a distinct change came over her, and she turned to him with a smile.

"I'm just too selfish, Jeff," she cried. "But—but it did seem hard—at first. Go? Of course you must go. And you're not to worry about me. Nor is Nan. I wouldn't have her come over for me for anything, and I'm not going to sleep out of my home, either. You needn't be scared I'll be lonesome. I've got all this beautiful world around me, and all your interests. And rustlers? Why, I'm not scared of the worst rustlers living."

A delighted sense of gratitude replaced Jeff's every other feeling.

"Say," he cried, with a sudden vehemence, "you've good grit, Evie. You're a bully soul. You're the sort would set a man crazy to corral the world, and set it at your feet. I'll get right back quick. I won't wait an hour more than I need."

Elvine's decision had been forced upon her, but once having taken it she threw something more into her words than the mere encouragement that seemed necessary.

"No," she declared, her eyes shining. "You're not even to hurry back. Get right through with your work, or any schemes you have to arrange while you're there, before you think of me." Then her voice softened to a great tenderness. "I want you to win through in everything you undertake, Jeff. I don't care now for a thing else in the world. You do believe that, don't you? Oh, Jeff, I want you always to believe that. Whatever may come in our life together, I want you always to know I love you better—better than the whole world, and your—your happiness is just my happiness. Without your happiness I can never be happy. It was selfishness made me demur at first. You believe that, don't you? I have always been very, very selfish. It was nothing else. You don't think there was anything else, do you? I sort of feel I'd always have you in my sight, near me. I'm happy then, because I feel nothing can ever come between us. When you're away, I don't know, but it sort of seems as if shadows grow up threatening me. I felt that way this morning. I felt that way when I read your letter. But these things just shan't be. I love you with all that's in me, and—you love me. Nothing shall ever come between us. Say that's so, Jeff. Nothing. Nothing."

The man responded with all a lover's impetuosity. He gave her to the full that reassurance of which she stood in need. But for all his sincerity it was as useless as if it had been left unspoken.

The letter from Dug McFarlane at Orrville, the recognition of her by the man Sikkem Bruce, had warned Elvine that the sands of her time of happiness were running out. She felt she knew that a gape of despair was already yawning at her feet.



CHAPTER XVIII

DUG MCFARLANE

The aroma of cigars blended delightfully with the fragrant evening air. Through the cool green lacing of the creeper the sun poured the last of its golden rays into the wide stoop. The mists were already gathering upon the lower slopes of the hills, and a deep purpling seemed to be steadily embracing the whole of the great mountain range.

Two men were lounging comfortably in wide wicker chairs on the veranda. They were resting bodies that rarely knew fatigue in the strenuous life that was theirs. But then the day was closing, and one of them had come a long saddle journey. Whisky stood on a table at the elbow of Dug McFarlane. Jeffrey Masters had coffee near by.

Outside the veranda a smudge fire in a bucket was doing battle with attacking mosquitoes, while its thin spiral of smoke served as a screen upon the still air to shut out the view of the disheveled township of Orrville.

Dug McFarlane, opulent, of middle life and massive proportions, was in strong contrast to his guest. The American-Scot was something of a product of the soil. He was of the type which forces its way up from the smallest of small beginnings, a type which decides early upon a career in life, and which deviates not one step from the set course. He was a man of one idea—cattle.

He knew nothing beyond—cattle. Cattle was the sum and substance of his celibate life. He was an old type of ranchman whose waking hours were devoted to a physical labor which left no room for anything else. But Jeff knew that for all his roughness of manner and speech, a roughness which left his own partner, Bud, a man of education and refinement beside him, he counted his wealth, as he, Jeff, could only hope to count his in the distant years to come.

Jeff was his guest for the night, and the dispute upon which he was to arbitrate was to be settled upon the arrival of the man Peters. And while they waited they talked of the thing which was their mutual interest. The land and its produce, whether animal or vegetable, was their beginning and end. They discussed every prospect from the overwhelming competition of the Argentine, to the rapid transformation of grazing pastures into golden wheat fields. Their interest seemed endless, and it seemed only to require the non-appearance of Peters for their talk to continue until sleep overtook them.

But the break came in the flow of their "shop" at the mention of the name of Peters. Jeff was curious to hear about him.

"Who is this Peters, anyway?" he demanded. "He's not down in the stock register, and nobody seems to have found him except you."

Dug's reply came with a great laugh. His very bright gray eyes were full of a good humor beneath his pronounced black brows.

"Peters? Why, I guess Peters 'ud make a funeral procession laff. You've never seen him? You don't know him? No. Sure you wouldn't. Nor you wouldn't find him registered. Y'see, they don't register mixed farm stock. Anyways, he got me laffin' all the time. But he's bright—oh, yep, he's bright, sure. He's a little feller. To git him right you need to think of a buck louse with a think-box developed abnormal. He's a great amusin' little cuss when you see him on his patch of land. You'd think he was runnin' a cirkis he's so busy fixin' things wrong. I'd like him fine if it wa'an't fer his habits. I can't stand the feller who eats the top of his fingers raw, an' sings hymns o' Sunday in a voice that never oughter been handed out to anything livin' that hadn't the sense to choke itself at birth."

"Is that the reason of the dispute?" Jeff asked with smile.

Dug grinned and shook his head.

"No, siree," he cried. "It ain't a thing to do with it. But I guess we'll keep clear of the dispute till he gets around. Y'see, this arbitration game needs to be played good. I'd hate to get ahead of the little cuss by settin' out my case in private. Nope. I hain't got a thing agin that grasshopper. Not a thing, and I jest need to get this thing straightened right, even if it goes agin me. That's why we fixed on appealin' to you rather than the law. Y'see, I could buy up a decision at law, which Peters knows, so we decided on the right judgment of a straight feller. Say, what in——!"

Dug sprang from his chair with a forcible oath. Jeff, too, was on his feet. There was a frantic clatter beyond the screen of creeper. A string of hoarse invective in a human voice. The hammering of horses' hoofs and the sound of tin being battered in a wanton riot. Dug broke into a great laugh as he thrust his head out.

"Well, I be——!" he cried.

Jeff joined in his laugh. An absurdly small man was clinging desperately to the saddle of an absurdly large horse, which was rearing and plunging in a wild effort to shed its rider and bolt from the neighborhood of the overturned smudge-fire bucket.

What a wealth of terror reigned. The gray-headed little man's face matched the hue of his hair. His short arms were grabbing frantically at his horse's neck. His eyes were full of a piteous appeal, and his savage-looking spurs were firmly grappling his steed's flanks. The wretched horse was shaking in every limb. Its eyes were bulging, and the fierce snorts of his gushing nostrils had the force of escaping steam.

Before any assistance could be offered by the onlookers the climax was reached and passed. Elias Peters rolled slowly out of the saddle and reached the ground with a heavy flop. Then, while its recent burden gathered himself up, quite unhurt and smiling amiably in relief, the horse contentedly mouched off toward a patch of inviting grass.

"Guess I'm kind o' late, Mr. McFarlane," Elias apologized. "An' it seems I've bust up your fire-bucket some," he added ruefully. Then with cheery optimism: "It was hustling to get here. I didn't jest see it. Still, I got around."

"You sure have," grinned Dug. Then he indicated his companion. "This is Mr. Jeffrey Masters, President of the Western Union. If you'll come right along in we ken get things fixed up. Meanwhiles I'll jest have a 'hand' round-up your plug an' feed him hay."

* * * * * *

Another chair was brought from the house and Elias Peters was ensconced therein. He was a gray little man. Gray from head to foot, it seemed. His hair, his eyes, his skin, his whiskers, his shirt, his loose jacket over it, his trousers. Even the top-boots he wore, which, had doubtless once been black. Everything about him was gray.

Dug pressed whisky on him.

"Take your time," he had said, in his easy, cordial fashion. "Ther' ain't no sort o' hurry. It's li'ble to shake a boy o' your years foolin' around in the dust when you'd oughter be in the saddle."

"That's just it, Mr. McFarlane," came the prompt, distressed complaint. "What in the nature o' blamed things made me act that way?"

"Jest the—nature o' things, I guess."

The little man's eyes twinkled.

"Guess you mean ther's folks who ain't in their right element in the saddle, an'—I'm one of 'em." Then he turned on Jeff, whose whole interest had been quite absorbed in a personality which Dug had described as being reminiscent of a "buck louse." "Say, Mr. Masters, guess you ain't never tried any stunt like raisin' kebbiges on a hog ranch? No, sure you ain't. Ther's jest one feller runnin' loose on this planet 'ud act that way, an' that's me. Guess I bin doin' it all my life," he added, thoughtfully chewing a forefinger. "I was built for, an' raised in a fifth rate city, an' I got the ideas an' ambitions of the President of a Republic. Ther' ain't a blamed thing I can't do but I want to do. An' the worst of it is ther's a sort o' restless spirit in me jest sets me so crazy to do it I can't resist makin' the jump. That's how I come to buy up a bum homestead up toward the hills here, an' got the notion I could make a pile runnin' a mixed farm that way. That's how I come to get outside a hoss when I'd be safer inside. That's how I come to—'break' a deal more prairie land than I could ever sow or harvest. That's how I bought machinery for a thousand acre farm when I'd only got a half a mile. That's how I come to run a bunch of cows without settin' up fencin' around my crops. That's how I bo't the whole blamed lay-out without verifyin' the darned law feller's statement I'd got grazin' rights on Mr. McFarlane's grass—which is the thing I came right here to yarn about when I got mixed up with that unnatural hell, which I've learned since was only set up to amuse the skitters. Kind o' makes me feel if I was to set fer my pictur' I'd sure come out a shipwreck at sea, or some other darn fool kind of unpleasantness."

Jeff was forced to echo the laugh which Dug indulged in without restraint. It seemed cruel in face of the strange little man's serious distress. But its only effect upon him was to produce an inquiring glance of profound but unresentful astonishment.

"Guess I must 'a' said something," he protested mildly. "Seems to me I most generly do, with Mr. McFarlane around." Then he smiled in his wintry fashion, which was quite powerless to add warmth to his curious aspect of grayness. "Guess he must ha' been born laffin'—p'raps," he added thoughtfully. "It's a dandy thing bein' born laffin'. I don't reckon I ever got that luck. It's more likely my moma got lost in a fog the day I was born. Can't account noways fer things otherwise."

Dug pushed the whisky bottle at him as a set-off to his own uncontrolled mirth, and in a few moments contrived to subdue his paroxysms sufficiently to start the business in hand.

"Now, Masters," he said, as soon as the diminutive Elias had ministered adequately to his glass, "we've got a curious proposition to set before you. It's jest one of them things which crops up in a country like this, where a whole heap o' the laws happens along through custom. An' like all sech customs, ther's li'ble to be a tarnation lot of friction lyin' around if we can't get a right settlement. Now, if we go to the courts it's goin' to be a mighty big scrap, eatin' up a hell of a pile of dollars. An' if you're wise to the ways of the law fellers you ken just about figger the verdict is goin' to come along to the feller with the biggest wad. In this case I guess I'm the feller with the biggest wad. Now, ther's no sort o' bad blood between Peters an' me, 'cep' it is he will sing hymns outrageous on a Sunday. Still, I ain't goin' to let that cut no ice. I'm out for a square decision between us by a feller that don't know the meanin' of graft. I don't care a cuss who gets it. But I ain't goin' to be bluffed by any fancy legal readings of a position by city lawyers who don't know the north end of a steer goin' south from the cluckin' proposition of a blind hen motherin' a litter o' dormice. Peters here'll give you his case, seein' he's plaintiff, in an elegant flow of warm air, an' when he's through I'll sort of hand you a counterblast. An' when we finished you'll hand out your dope on the subject, that is if we ain't talked you into a home for incurable arbitrators. You'll get busy right away, Peters."

The rancher's manner was irresistible in its breezy frankness and generosity. Jeff wondered at him. Any man of modern business methods, he felt, would have jumped at the advantage which his wealth would have given him in the law courts over so insignificant a person as Elias Peters. The whole situation inspired in him the feeling that he was in the presence of a really big man. A man who deserved every fraction of his success.

Nor was there any doubt as to the little gray man's feelings as he took a drink of whisky, and fixed his small eyes upon the weather and years-lined features of his adversary.

"Guess you've made me feel 'bout as big as an under-fed skitter," he complained. "You make me sort o' feel I want to tell you to keep your darn grazin' rights till I ken hand you a bunch of bills such as I'd like to pass on to an honest man. But I don't guess I'm goin' to do it. Y'see, I just can't afford it. If I can't graze my stock on your grass they got to starve, or I got to get out. An', seein' I doped all my wad into this lay-out, it 'ud well-nigh mean ruin to act that way."

Then he turned to Jeff, who was almost bewildered at the curious attitude toward each other of these men.

"Now, I ain't got a fancy yarn to hand you," he went on, fumbling in his pockets. "I jest got my papers, here, as I got 'em from the law fellers. You best take 'em, an' after we done get a look into 'em." He passed them across. "Now these are the fac's of how I bo't, why I bo't, an' who I bo't from. The place is a haf section, an' they asked five thousand odd dollars for it. It was a bum sort o' homestead, an' belonged to a widder woman who'd got her man shot up by some rustlers workin' around this country. They went by the name of Whitstone, but their real name, by them papers, was Van Blooren——"

"What name?" Jeff's voice broke sharply in upon the little man.

"Van Blooren."

"Go on."

Jeff's eyes were gazing out through the lacing of creeper. He was no longer regarding the man's unemotional gray features.

"Wal, the place wa'an't worth the five thousand, 'cep' fer one clause in them papers. This widder woman owned a right to graze up to two hundred head o' stock on Mr. McFarlane's range. There was no mention o' lease, nor nothin' to talk of payin' fer it. The right was in the deed of sale, clear an' unquestioned. You'll see it right there in them papers. Wal, I'm runnin' a hundred of stock, and the half section is under cultivation. Now, Mr. McFarlane comes on me with the news that this widder woman had no such rights to sell, an' that she and her man were only allowed to graze their stock on his grass to help them out. He's acted white over it so far, an' ain't taken no sort of action. He's jest let my fool cows an' their calves run around chewin' till their jaws is tired, which is a white way of seein' things. All he's handed me is that I ain't got no right, an' the thing stands pending your decision. He says the whole proposition is jest business. He's got to safeguard the values of his property. Now, sir, I claim them rights by right of that deed, an' if ther's any case it's between that Van Blooren widder an' Mr. McFarlane. You got my papers, an'—wal, how d'you guess I stand?"

The little man's eyes were anxious as he made his final appeal. But no satisfaction was forthcoming at the moment. Jeff's head was bent over the papers he had been handed. His eyes were hidden. He seemed wholly engrossed upon the various clauses in the deed. Finally he spoke without looking up.

"There's no deed granting grazing rights executed by Mr. McFarlane here," he said.

Before Peters could reply, Dug broke in.

"Ther' never was one made," he said easily. "I don't guess you'll find it ther'—'less you use trick eyes. Here—say, Peters has given you his story right. I ain't no kick comin' to a word of it. But this thing has more sides to it than you'd fancy. Now, I don't just care a cuss Peters' grazin' two hundred, or five hundred head of stock on my pastures. But if Peters bo't rights an' ken prove it, why, he's the right to sell 'em on to any feller who comes along, which kind o' turns my ranch into common land. Nothin' doin'. No, siree!"

Jeff had abandoned his search of the papers. Nor was he regarding either of the men. His eyes were directed through the lacing of creeper, his gaze concentrated upon the purple vista of the hills. His brows were depressed with profound thought. Nor were the blue depths of his eyes easy. Peters' whole attention was upon the rancher.

"Now, see right here, Masters," Dug went on, after a deeply considering pause. "I got a story to tell you I'd have liked to hold up, an' the reason I hate handin' it you is jest a sort o' fool sense of honor. Howsum, when folks git gay I can't see you're right to hold your hand. Now, them rights are sold by the law fellers of that widder woman, an', I guess, actin' under her instructions. Now, she knows she don't own no rights to sell. Wal, I allow she's on the crook."

"Crook?" Jeff's interrogation came swiftly, in a harsh voice utterly unlike his own. Then his eyes came round to the face of the rancher. There was something deadly in the steadiness of their regard. "This widow," he said. "Her name is Van Blooren. What is her first name, and the first name of her—husband?"

Before Dug could reply Peters pointed at the deeds of sale.

"Guess her full name's writ ther'," he said. "Elvine van Blooren. Sort of queer name, ain't it? It sort o' hit me that way when I first see it. Kind o' good name fer a—crook."

Jeff's eyes dropped to the papers again as Dug gave the other information required.

"The man's name was Robert—Bob. Called hisself when he was here. Y'see, his paw was some swell guy who guessed his son had made some darn fool marriage. An' I allow he was wise. Howbe, their names an' sech don't cut no ice."

"No."

Jeff's monosyllable brought Dug's gaze swiftly in his direction. The next moment they were looking squarely into each other's eyes, and, as far as Jeff was concerned, Peters was entirely forgotten.

"Will you tell me all you know of—this woman?" Jeff said, after a moment. "I guess it'll be necessary—before we're through."

"Sure. That's how I figgered." A momentary tension seemed to have been relaxed. Dug once more settled himself at his ease.

"'Tain't a pretty yarn, when you come to think," he said, his brows contracting under his feelings. "Men are jest men, an' I guess you don't generly expect more'n a stink from a skunk. But with women it's diff'rent. When a feller thinks of women, he thinks of his mother, or sweetheart, or his wife. An' when he thinks that way, why, I don't guess he figgers to find bad wher' he reckoned ther' was only good. Howsum, it kind o' seems to me human nature's as li'ble to set a feller cryin' as laffin' most times. This thing come over that Lightfoot gang. We got most of 'em, and those we got if they wa'an't pumped full of lead out of hand they was hanged. Sort o' queer, too, the way we got 'em. I'd set up a reward. Ten thousand dollars. It was right out o' my own bank roll. Wal, I set it up—the notice o' reward—one night, an' next day got the news we was all yearnin' for. Bob Whitstone, as he called himself, brought it right along to me. I hadn't no use fer the feller up to then. He was weak-kneed. And, in a way, had fallen fer Ju Penrose's rye. He'd come to me once before on the subject o' these all-fired grazin' rights. Y'see, he'd been tryin' to git ahead raisin' wheat in a country where ther' was only a market fer cattle an' rye whisky. Anyway, he cut most o' the wheat racket, an' guessed he'd travel the same road as other folks, an' asked me for permission to graze. I was kind o' sorry about him, an' his good-lookin' wife—both city-raised folk—an' I did as he ast. I said he could graze up to two hundred head. Git a line on that. Them rights was verbal between him an' me to help him out. Ther' wa'an't no sort o' deed, an' he knew it wa'an't no saleable proposition. Wal, when he come along in with his news I set him right through it, an' I allow, before I quit him, I got the notion that fer all his addled ways there was a heap to him I hadn't guessed. He started by sayin' he'd located the rustlers, got their camp set in the hills, an' could hand over the whole blamed bunch right away quick. That was elegant. But I ast him how it come he'd on'y located 'em twelve hours after I'd set up a ten thousand dollar reward. Y'see, they'd been rustlin' around fi' years. Wal, to cut a long yarn, I got the whole thing out of him in quick time—he was like a kid in my hands. He hadn't located that camp, he wasn't goin' to touch a cent of them ten thousand. He called it 'blood money,' an' cussed it good an' plenty with an elegant flow. It was his wife. Yes, siree, it was the woman driving the man. She'd located them rustlers by chance only the day before, while he was around Ju's place sousin' rye. When he got home an told her of the reward, she was nigh crazy to git her hands on the dollars. Seems to me ther' must have been a mighty scrap-up. I guess she told him of his ways, an' what he'd brought her to—in a way some women-folk can. I didn't git it all clear. Y'see, he did his best to screen her. Anyways, she made him promise to fix things so she touched those dollars. An' that's why he come to me. Ther's jest one thing stuck in my head so I can't lose it. It was his last words to me about it. He says, says he, see here, Mr. McFarlane, I need one favor out o' you. I want to go with you on this racket, an' if ther's any mercy in the God of Heaven, he'll let me get my dose when the shootin' starts. Effie—that's how he called his wife—wants them dollars, an' you'll see she gets 'em. But for me I just couldn't ever live around a woman who'd handled that blood money! He didn't use them words. They're mine. But it's 'bout how he put it. Wal, when the play was over he'd had his wish. He was dropped plumb in his tracks. Then I handed his widder the dollars. She ain't around these parts now so it don't matter handin' you the story of it. Maybe she's married agin. She was some picture woman. But anyway I'd say right here, the woman who could take the price of men's lives would be low enough to bluff a boy like Peters here out of his stock of dollars on a play like these rights. An' that's why I reckon this thing's been done on the crook."

He reached round for his glass and took a deep drink in the silence that followed his story. Then, as neither the man who was to arbitrate, nor Peters, attempted to break it, he went on:

"Guess a reward's jest a reward, an' you can't kick at the feller who comes along an' grabs a holt on it. But when a woman, young, a good-looker, an' eddicated, an' refined, gits grabbin', why, it makes you see sulphur an' brimstone, an' horns an' hoofs when your thoughts are full o' buzzin' white wings an' harps, an' halos an' things. Git me? I guess stealin' dollars out o' a citizen's pocket-book wouldn't be a circumstance to a female of that nature. Say, I ain't got rid o' the stink of it yet, though it happened four years ago."

The man's contempt and loathing were intense. He had offered the reward, paid it, he had led the Vigilantes in the hanging. But these things were simply part of the justice of man as he saw it, and rightly administered.

The silent moments slipped by. Jeffrey Masters was sitting erect in his chair. A marble coldness seemed to have settled itself upon his keen face. Peters was waiting for that decision he desired. Dug McFarlane, with more understanding, realized that something was wrong. He, too, remained silent, however.

At last Jeff stirred. His gaze shifted. It turned half vaguely upon the little man Peters. Then it seemed to drift unmeaningly toward the rancher. A moment later it fell upon the papers he was so tightly gripping. It was then that realization seemed to come upon him. He reached out and handed the deeds to their owner. A moment later he was on his feet, and had moved across to the front of the veranda, where he stood, slim, erect, and with his back turned upon the others.

He cleared his throat and spoke in a steady voice.

"I can only hand you a decision on the intention as apart from the legal aspect of the case," he said judicially. "It's clear to me no saleable rights were given. There was no transaction over them. The widow of this man had no rights to sell. If disinterested advice is acceptable I should urge this. It's in view, I guess, of McFarlane's expressed indifference to Peters' cattle grazing on his land. Let Peters acknowledge he has no rights. Then let McFarlane enter into an agreement that Peters can run his stock on his land, the right being non-transferable. I should put the whole thing in writing."

"An' a darn good an' honest decision, too," cried Dug heartily.

The shadow of a beatific smile passed over Peters' small features.

"Bully!" he murmured. Then he added: "But I sort o' feel we both oughter set the law on that—she devil."

Jeff turned abruptly. His movement was almost electrical.

"I shouldn't," he said sharply.

Dug caught a glimpse of the desperate light in his eyes.

"Why not?" There was a dash of resentment in Peters' tone.

But Jeff was spared a reply. Dug anticipated him with an oath.

"Gol darn you, because she's—a woman!" he cried, with a fierce warmth. "Hell take it you ken have your rights. That's enough, I guess. I'll have the papers wrote, an' have you sign 'em to-morrow. Meanwhile I'm sick to death of the whole blamed thing. I quit right here."

His intention was plain enough. He meant there should be no misunderstanding it. And the little man, Peters, took his dismissal without demur.

The moment Peters had safely negotiated the saddle and vanished in a cloud of dust, Dug pressed the whisky bottle upon his guest. Jeff almost mechanically accepted it. He gulped down a stiff drink of neat spirit. Dug watched him.

"Guess you're feelin' pretty darn saddle weary," he said kindly.

Jeff flung himself into his chair without replying.

Dug returned to his seat and gazed out at the yellow and purple afterglow of sunset.

"Say, maybe you'd feel like handin' me the reason you wouldn't set the law on to that—woman?" he went on presently.

The question was by no means idle. It was inspired by the man's genuinely kindly nature. Somehow, he felt that he had been responsible for that which he had seen, still saw, in this man's eyes.

But he was wholly unprepared for the reply forthcoming. It came promptly. Each word came distinctly, deliberately, in a voice of bitter coldness. The tragedy of it left the rancher speechless.

"Because I married Elvine van Blooren just over six weeks ago."



CHAPTER XIX

THE RETURN HOME

A long day of anxiety and fevered apprehension merged into a night of terror. It was the outcome of a conviction that was irresistible. The shadow of disaster was marching hard upon her heels. Nor had she the power to avoid it.

As night came on Elvine remained alone in her twilit bedroom. She had no desire to come into contact with the servants, she had no desire for human companionship of any sort. So, with the fading light, she betook herself to the bedroom.

But there was no relief. It was haunted to-night, teeming with the fancies of a dreading imagination. It seemed to her like the cell of a condemned prisoner.

The day had passed heavily, drearily. Every moment of it had been filled with the thought that Jeff was on his way to Orrville. On his way to meet Dug McFarlane. On his way to meet the one man in whose hands her whole fate lay. He alone knew the source of the ten thousand dollars which she had carried back to her paternal home as the net result of her first marriage. He alone knew it to be the price of the blood of men, amongst whom was the twin brother of her present husband.

Memory was alive, and full of a poignant torture. It brought back to her the scene when she had driven her first husband to help her to the money she had desired to possess. He had spoken, in his horror and anger, of "blood money," of "Judas," and she would not hear. She had derided him, she had lashed him with the scorn of an unbridled tongue, she had turned upon him in her selfish craving, without a thought of any principle.

Now she understood what she had done, but she only understood because of the threat which overshadowed her. It was no spiritual awakening. It was again the self in her, threatened in its desires as a result of her earlier wanton actions. Her motives, even the picture of the carnage in that hidden valley, which came back to her unbidden, had no power to add to the hopelessness of her feelings. Every emotion was wrapped in the thought that she was about to be robbed of all the fruits of the one great passion of her life.

She had one desire now, one motive in life only. It was the man she had married. The man she had designed to marry for the station and wealth he could offer her, and who had almost instantly become the centre of her whole life. Nothing of any worldly consideration counted any longer. There was nothing could interest her of which he did not occupy the centre of the focus. Self dominated still, but it was a more human type of self, which had, perhaps, some rightful claim on human sympathy.

The shadows grew, and the wide airy room was filled with a hundred added terrors which claimed reality in the troubled brain. The silence of the world about her became a threat. The darkening of the cloudless sky beyond the open window. She sat on, refusing to invoke the aid of lamp-light to banish the gathering legions of her dread. She knew it was impossible to banish them.

Oh, she had no physical fear of the world about her. What was there to fear? Did she not know it all? Had she not lived it all before? The two wide open windows invited her. She moved to one of them, and drew a chair so that she could rest upon the sill and gaze out into the space so perfectly jeweled. And the cool night air fanned her cheeks, and seemed to relieve the fever that was raging behind her hot eyes.

The morrow. There was no other concern with her now but—the morrow. To-morrow Jeff would return. To-morrow she would know the worst, she would know if the purpose of Fate were for or against her. Oh, that to-morrow! And in the meantime there were interminable hours of darkness to endure, when sleep was impossible. And after that the daylight, when she must fear every eye that was turned in her direction, when every moment brought nearer the possibility of the end for her of all things in the world which mattered.

The night wore on. Midnight came and passed. She had not moved again. Her straining eyes had watched the starry groups as they set beyond the horizon. There was no moon to create shadows upon the wide, rolling pasture before her. Everything was in shadow, just as her every thought was similarly enwrapped. There was no relief anywhere.

Once she heard a sound that set her jarred nerves hammering. It was a distant sound, and, to her fancy, it was the rapid beat of horse's hoofs sweeping across the wide valley. But it died out. She had been caught by the thought of the possibility of her husband's return, suddenly, in the night. She pictured for one brief instant the headlong race of the man to charge her with the crime of his brother's life.

She saw that keen, stern face with its cold blue eyes and the grimly tightened lips. She had seen some such expression there before, and she knew there were depths within his soul which she had never probed, and hoped that she might never have to probe.

It was the mystery of these unknown depths which had inspired her passion. It was because of that cognizance of something unusual, profound, in his personality that he had first become so completely desirable. Then as she grew to know him, so she found she knew him less, and desired to know him more. Her love and worship of him was of the primitive. It was such as is the love of all women when inspired by an emotion not untouched by fear.

So, when the sounds of hoof-beats broke the night silence, she became panic-stricken, because such a return, at such an hour, could have but one meaning.

Then the sounds passed, and her nerves steadied, and presently a stirring night breeze rustled the lank grass. It came over the plain toward her. It reached her window and fanned her cheeks with its chill breath. Then it passed, sighing round an angle of the house. Then, in its wake, came the plaintive dole of a scavenging coyote. The combination, to her fancy, was an echo of her feelings. It was the sigh of despair, and the cry of a lost soul.

Presently the drowse of utter weariness descended upon her. The dread of thought remained heavily overshadowing, but a certain distortion displayed the reaching of limits beyond which human power could not go, even in suffering. It was a merciful nature asserting itself. Her eyes closed, slowly, gently, with a drowsy helplessness. Once her elbow slipped from the sill of the window and awoke her. A somnolent thought that she would go to bed passed dully through her mind. But she did not act upon it. She propped her head upon her hand once more, and, in a moment, everything was forgotten.

She awoke with a start. There was no drowse in her wakefulness now. Her eyes were wide, and her thoughts alert. The sensation of a blow, a light, unforceful blow was still tingling through her nerves. The blow, it seemed, had fallen upon her forehead, and she thrust a hand up mechanically to the spot. But the action yielded her no enlightenment. There was no pain, no sign.

She peered through the open window and realized that the moon had risen. She stared at it, and presently it occurred to her that she must have slept, and, by the position of the moon above the horizon, for at least an hour.

Then her thoughts returned to the blow which had awakened her, and the conclusion followed that it must have been the result of the half-blind flight of one of those great winged beetles.

She closed the window abruptly. She closed the second one. Then, having drawn the curtains, she fumbled for the matches and lit the candles upon her dressing bureau. It was her intention to search for the intruding beetle, and then retire.

But her search terminated abruptly. It terminated even as it began. That which had struck her was lying almost at her feet upon the soft rug on which she stood, and within a yard of where she had been sitting. It was a piece of paper tied about a small ball of soil.

She stared down at it for some startled moments. The effects of her dread were still upon her, and they set up a sort of panic which made her fearful of touching the missile. But it could not remain there uninspected. There could be no thought of retiring without learning the meaning of what lay there on the floor.

Gingerly she stooped with a candle in her hand. She stooped lower, but making no attempt to touch the thing which had disturbed her. The candle revealed a folded sheet of white paper. A string bound it round the rooted portion of a grass tuft.

After a few moments she reached out and picked it up. The next moment she was standing erect at her bureau, and with a pair of scissors she severed the string and dropped the grass tuft to the floor.

The paper was folded and thumb-marked by dirty hands. With shaking fingers and tense nerves she deliberately unfolded it.

It was a note, and she read it eagerly.

"You sold the lives of men for a price. You had it your way then. We're goin' to have our way now. You'll pay for that deal the only way we know."

* * * * * *

Elvine sat watching the scenes of the work of the range. The men were returning from distant points making for the ranch house where their evening meal was awaiting them at the bunkhouse. Teams were moving toward the barns, and barn-hands were watering those which had already returned. There was a general stir everywhere. Certain stock was being corralled and hayed for the night. In the hay corral men were busy cutting and hauling feed. There was no loneliness, no solitude. The business of so great an enterprise as the Obar Ranch involved many hands, and seemingly endless work.

But Elvine watched these things without interest. In her present state of mind they meant nothing to her, they could mean nothing. She was waiting, waiting in a perfect fever for the home-coming of her husband.

Strangely, too, she was not without a glimmer of hope. Somehow the belief had taken possession of her that had Jeff learned anything of her story he must have been home before this. It seemed to her that he must have flung every consideration to the winds, and rushed in fevered haste to denounce her as the murderess of his twin brother.

The mysterious note which had been flung in through her open window had left her sleepless for the rest of the night, but, even so, now, in the broad light of day, it was only relatively alarming. The other terror overwhelmed it.

The sun was already tinting the hilltops with ruddy, golden hues. The frigid snow-caps no longer wore their sheen of alabaster. There was a golden radiance everywhere, a suggestion of a perfect peace, such as the woman felt could never again find place in her heart.

She turned her eyes from the splendor of the scene in silent protest. The green of the wide-spreading valley, even the dark purple shadows of the lower mountain slopes were better in harmony with her mood. But even these she denied in her nervous irritation, and again, and yet again, her searching gaze was flung out to the northwest along the trail over which she knew her husband must come.

The waiting seemed endless. And the woman's heart literally stood still when at last she detected an infinitesimal flurry of dust away on the far distance of the trail. A mad desire surged through her to flee for hiding to those vast purple solitudes she knew to lie in the heart of the hills.

She remained where she was, however. She stirred not a muscle. She was powerless to do so. What, what had the coming of the man for her? It was the one absorbing question which occupied her whole brain and soul.

The dust flurry grew to a long trail in the wake of a horseman. In five minutes he stood out ahead of it, clear to the eye. In ten his identity was distinguishable. And, presently he rode swiftly at a gallop past the ranch buildings and drew up before the house.

The rack of that moment was superlative. The woman's hands clenched and her finger nails dug into the soft flesh of her palms. There was no greeting upon her lips. She only had power to stare; her wide beautiful eyes were searching the face of the man she loved, searching it as the criminal in the dock might search the face of the judge about to pass sentence.

Her tongue was ready for its release. Pent words lay deep in her soul for an outpouring at the lightest sign. But these things were dependent, dependent upon the reading she found in the man's eyes.

The horse stood drooping at the termination of its effort. The man sprang from the saddle. A barn-hand took the beast away to its stable. Elvine's tongue remained almost cleaving to the roof of her mouth.

The man's fair brows were depressed. His eyes were sternly cold. And not once did they turn in her direction. He spoke in his usual tone to the barn-hand. He issued his orders without a sign of emotion.

Elvine could stand no more. She stirred. Then slowly she passed within the house.

Presently Jeff's step sounded on the veranda. It was quick. There was nothing lagging in it. The woman gripped the back of a chair in the living-room in which she had taken refuge. She was seeking support.

The man entered the room. Nor did he remove his hat. He stood just within the window opening, and his eyes, cold as the gleam of the mountain glaciers, regarded her steadily.

"I see you understand," he said. "You realized what must happen when I visited Dug McFarlane in the matter of Peters, who bought your dead husband's farm. You knew it when you read that letter I gave you. And so you protested. So you assured me of—your regard."

He came a step nearer. The movement was almost involuntary.

"I have prayed to God that some day he might bring me face to face with the person who sold my brother's life. He has granted me my prayer. But it never entered my wildest dreams that it could be the woman I married. I never questioned your past. To me it was sufficient that you had taught me the meaning of love. To me you must be all you seemed. No more, no less. God help me, I had no imagination to tell me that so fair a body could contain so foul a heart. Were you not my wife, were you a man, I should know how to deal with that which lies between us. As it is you must thank the difference in our sex for that which nothing else could have done for you. As yet I have not had the time to arrange the details of our future. To-morrow, perhaps, things will have cleared in my mind. I shall sleep to-night over at Bud's——"

"Oh, Jeff, Jeff, have mercy. I——"

"Mercy? Mercy?" A sudden fire blazed up where only a frigid light had shone. The man's tones were alive with a fury of passion. "Did you have mercy? Was there one merciful, womanly emotion in your cruel, selfish heart when you sent those men, that man to his death for ten thousand filthy dollars? Pray to God for mercy, not to me."

A curious sullen light dawned in the woman's eyes. But even as it dawned it faded with the man's movement to depart.

"You—you won't leave me?" she pleaded. "Oh, Jeff, I love you so. What I did was in ignorance, in cruel, selfish longing. I had been reduced to the life of a drudge without hope, without even a house fit for existence. I believed I had honest right. I believed even that my act was a just one. Jeff, Jeff, don't leave me, don't drive me out of your life. I cannot bear it. Anything, anything but that. My God, I don't deserve it. I don't—true. Jeff—Jeff!"

Her final appeal came as the man, without a word, passed through the open window. She followed him in a desperate hope. But the hope was vain. She saw him mount the fresh horse which had been brought round and left at the tying post.

As he turned the beast about to depart, just for one instant he looked in her direction.

"I will see you again in the morning. By that time I shall have decided what is best for us both."

He waited for no more. There was nothing to wait for. He lifted the reins and his horse set off. The dust rose up and screened him from view.

Once more Elvine was standing on the veranda. Once more her gaze was following the trail of rising dust. But there was no fever of suspense in her beautiful eyes now. There were not even tears. The blow had fallen. Fate had caught up with her. Its merciless onrush had overwhelmed her. She was crushed. She was broken under its sledge-hammer blow. She stood drooping, utterly, utterly broken and spiritless before the man's swift, brief indictment and action.

The end had come. Nor had it anything of the end she had visualized in her dread. It was ten times more cruel than she had even dared to dream.



CHAPTER XX

AT BUD'S

Supper was over when Jeff arrived. He came straight into the room where the colored girl had just finished clearing the table. Nan was returning a few odds and ends to their places. Bud had already lit his evening pipe preparatory to settling down for the brief interim before turning in for the night.

There was no preamble. There was no sign of emotion, even at the moment of his arrival. Jeff launched his request at father and daughter in a voice such as he might have used in the most commonplace of affairs.

It was a request to be put up for the night.

But both Bud and Nan were startled. Nan's cheeks paled, and imagination gripped her. She said nothing. With Bud to be startled was to instantly resort to verbal expression.

"Wot's wrong?" he demanded.

Then the storm broke. It broke almost immoderately before these two who were the intimates of Jeff's life. All that had been withheld before Dug McFarlane, all which he had refused to display before the wife he had set up for his worship, Jeff had no scruples in laying before these two. It was the sure token of the relations between them, relations of perfect trust and sympathy.

Bud sat gazing at the outward sign of the passionate fires he had always known to lie smouldering in the depths of this man's soul. Nan stood paralyzed before such violence. Both knew that hell was raging under the storm of emotion. Both knew that the wounds inflicted upon this man's strong heart were well-nigh mortal.

The whole story was told, broken, disjointed. For the first time Nan learned the result of the search for an erring twin brother, and her horror was unbounded. A heart full of tenderness bled for the man whose sufferings she was witnessing. The story of Elvine's own actions filled her with revolting, yet with pity. It was not in her to condemn easily. She felt that such acts were beyond her powers of judgment.

The man's grief, his bitter, passionate resentment smote her beyond any sufferings she had ever known herself. Elvine absorbed all the anger she could bestow, but even so it was infinitesimal beside the harvest of grief which the sight of this man's suffering yielded her. That was the paramount emotion of the moment with her. That, and the injustice she deemed to have been meted out to him.

It was not until the great crescendo of the man's storm of grief had passed that Nan bethought herself of the need in which he stood. Nor was that need apparent until his whole note had changed to a moody bitterness with which he regarded the future. Then she understood the demon that was knocking at the door of his soul.

Immediately her decision was taken. She left the two men together and went to make the necessary preparations for this refugee's accommodation. Curiously enough, these preparations were not complete for nearly an hour, at the time, in fact, that it was her father's habit to seek his bed.

When she returned to the parlor the place was full of the reek of Bud's tobacco, but it was only from the one pipe. Neither of the men were talking when she entered the room, and her glance passed swiftly from one to the other.

She moved over to where Jeff was sitting with his back turned to her, and stood behind his chair.

"Everything's fixed for you, Jeff," she said. "But—but maybe you don't feel like turning in yet. My Daddy usually goes at this time, and—he's had a hard day."

Bud looked across at her. His pipe was removed from his mouth for the purpose of protest. But the protest remained unspoken in face of the meaning he beheld in the girl's brown eyes. Instead he rose heavily from his rocker.

"Say, jest take your time, Jeff, boy," he said. "Guess you'll need to think hard before mornin'. I don't guess it's your way to jump at things. I ain't never see you jump yet. Anyway, when you're thinkin', boy, it'll be best to remember that a woman's jest a woman, an' her notions ain't allus our notions."

Nan came over to him, and he rested one great arm about her shoulders, and stooped and kissed her.

"Good-night, little gal," he said. "Maybe Jeff'll excuse me. An' maybe you ken tell him some o' them things that don't come easy to me. So long, Jeff. I'll sure see you in the mornin' before you quit."

He stood uncertainly for a moment with his arm upon Nan's shoulders. He seemed to want to say more, and was at a loss how to say it. Finally he stuck his pipe back into his mouth with a savage thrust and lumbered heavily from the room.

Nan understood. She knew he was laboring under profound emotion, and a feeling of self-disgust at his own inability to help his partner and friend.

As the door closed she moved over to the table and leaned against it. Jeff's back was toward her, and his face was turned in the direction of the window, across which the curtains had not yet been drawn.

He was leaning forward, his gaze intent and straight ahead out into the black night beyond. His elbows were on his knees, and his hands were clasped, and hanging between them. To the sympathetic heart of Nan there was despair in every line of his attitude. She nerved herself to carry out her decisions.

"Jeff!"

There was no movement in response. But a reply came. It was in the tone of a man indifferent to everything but the thought teeming through his brain.

"Well?"

"Why did you come around here—to-night?"

The question achieved its purpose. The man abandoned his attitude in a movement of fierce resentment. He swung round on the questioner, his eyes hot with feeling.

"Because I guess I need to sleep somewhere. Because nothing on earth could make me share roof with the woman who's my wife. Gee, my wife! Say, Nan, the thought of it nearly sets me crazy."

"Does it? You didn't feel that way—two nights ago."

The man's eyes met the girl's incredulously.

"How can you talk that way?" he demanded roughly. "I didn't know a thing then. I thought she was all she seemed. Maybe I was just a blind fool, crazy with love. Anyway—I hadn't learned the hell lying around her heart."

"I s'pose there is hell lying around her heart?"

Nan's words were provocative. Yet they were spoke in such a tone of simplicity as to rob them of all apparent intent.

Jeff was in no mood for patience. Swift resentment followed upon his incredulous stare.

"Do you need me to give it you all again?" he cried fiercely. "It don't need savvee to grip things." Then his voice rose. "And to think those dollars have fed her, and clothed her, a body as fair as an angel's, and a heart as foul as hell." Then his tone dropped as if he were afraid of the sound of his own voice. "Say, thank God I kept my hands off her. If she'd been a man——"

He left his sentence unfinished. In her mind Nan completed it. But aloud she gave it another ending.

"If she'd been a man I don't guess she'd have been there to have you lay hands on her."

There was a new note in the girl's tones. But it passed Jeff by.

"No," he said with almost foolish seriousness.

"Say, Jeff," the girl went on gently, a moment later, "aren't you acting a teeny bit crazy over this? I mean talking of souls foul as hell. And—an' not sharing the same roof with the woman you've sworn to love, and—and cherish as long as you both live. She hasn't done a thing wrong by you since you said—an' meant that. She hasn't done a thing wrong anyway."

The denial was so gentle yet so decided. Had there been heat in it it must have been ineffective. As it was Jeff stared incredulously and speechless, and the girl went on:

"You think I'm wrong," she said. "Maybe you think I'm crazy, same as I guess this thing's made you feel." She shook her head. "I'm not—sure. Take us here. Maybe I'm chasing around through the hills. Chance runs me plumb into the camp of these rustlers who're cutting into your profits on the Obar. I come right in and hand you the story. You and Bud round up a bunch of boys and I take you to where the camp's hidden. You hold 'em up, and you hang them. Well, I guess the pleasantest moment of that racket for you would be to get back to home and hand me a bunch of dollars. Say, I can see you doing it. I can see your smile. I can hear you sayin': 'Take 'em, little Nan, an' buy yourself some swell fixing.' And say, Jeff, I wouldn't have done a thing less than your Evie's done. That's how I'd say now, acting as you are, you aren't the 'Honest Jeff' I've always known. You're not fair to Evie, you aren't just—before God."

The man made a gesture of fierce impatience. He seemed on the verge of a furious outburst. But the steady light of Nan's eyes was upon him. For some moments he gazed into their sweet depths, and their courage, their steadfastness, seemed to abash him. He flung out his arms in a helpless gesture of appeal.

"Nan, Nan!" he cried, in a voice of hopelessness. "I can't argue it. I just can't. I can't see things right. I sure nearly am crazed. The only thing I can see is the blood of poor Ronny on her—her hands. The hands I've held in mine. The hands I've kissed. Oh, was there ever so foul——"

"Yes, Jeff, there was. There is."

Nan's voice was low but thrilling with deep feeling. She moved forward from her place at the table with a little rush. The rustle of her skirts only ceased as she fell upon her knees at the man's side, and her warm brown hands clasped themselves upon the strong arm propped upon his knee.

"It's a far, far fouler thing, this thing you've got fixed in your mind to do. Oh, Jeff, dear, if I could speak the things as I feel them. But I can't. It's all inside me mussed up and maybe foolish. But, oh, I know I'm right I want to tell you something, and I don't just know how."

Her eyes were gazing up into his, the soft brown eyes of the beautiful soul within. She strove to compel his gaze, but it moodily withheld its regard.

"Jeff, you'll kill poor Evie. You'll break her heart by robbing her of all you've brought into her life through your love. Say, can't you see it all? And you'll do it for a shadow. Yes, it's a shadow, an ugly shadow, this crazy thought of yours for a brother who was just a low-down cattle rustler, same as these toughs you're making a bid of ten thousand dollars to see hanged the same as he was. Think of it, Jeff. She's just a woman, weak and helpless, and you're going to rob her of all that makes her life worth while. Would you act that way by a mother, or—or a sister? And she's your wife, Jeff, who's given you all a loving woman has to give. I could tell you of the things this means to you, and the schemes and plans you've sort of set your heart on, but I don't need to. I just want you to see what you're doing by her, and all the time she's done you no wrong. Do you get that, dear? Evie's never done you a wrong, and in return you're going to do all you know to kill her heart dead."

"Done me no wrong?" There was a desperate sort of sneer in the words. They were the words of a man who is robbed of denial but still protests.

But Nan rejected even that. She swiftly flung it back in her sense of the injustice of it.

"It's as I said, Jeff. Just as I said," she declared solemnly. She drew a deep breath. She was about to take a plunge which might bear her she knew not whither. "Oh, I could get mad with you for that. I could so, Jeff. I know the story of it. You've told it yourself, and I don't guess you've spared her any. But you're blinding yourself because you're crazy to do so. You're blinding yourself to all sense of justice to defend a wretched scallawag who happened to be your brother. Say, you're trying to fix on your wife, the woman who loves you, and who you guess you love, all the dirt you should heap on the worthless man who lived by theft, and maybe, even, was a murderer. Say, don't speak. Not just a single word. Guess you can say all you need when I'm through," she cried, as the man, with eyes ablaze, sought to break in. "When I'm through I'll listen. Say, bring this right home here. We're being robbed by cattle thieves. I don't guess they're better or worse than your brother. What if he'd been one of this gang? If you'd got this gang, with him in it? Would you've let him go and hanged the others? Tell me. Tell me right here and now."

The man sprang from his seat. He moved away to the window.

"You're talking foolish," he flung over his shoulder. "It's not the position. My brother's deserts aren't in question. It's Evie's act. My wife's act. You're a woman and defend her. How could you be expected to see a man's point of view?"

"There can be no man's point of view in it," Nan cried warmly. "I guess there's just one point. The point of right and justice. In justice she's not done a thing to make you act this way. For your sake, for hers, for the sake of justice you'll have to go back to her."

The man swung round.

"You'd have me go back to her?" he cried in fierce derision. "Say, you're crazy! Go back to her feeling as I do?"

"Feeling as you've no right to feel," Nan retorted swiftly. Then in a flash her voice changed, dropping to a note of deep tenderness and sympathy. "Say, Jeff, won't you go back? Won't you?" she pleaded. "Think of all it means to her, to you. Think of a poor woman driven to the depths of despair for a shadow you've nursed in your brain these years. That's what it comes to. I know. Oh, Jeff, as sure as ther's just a great big God above us you'll pay for it if you don't. You surely will."

The man shifted his gaze. The lids of his eyes drooped and hid from the waiting girl all that passionate feeling he had not hesitated to display. She wondered as she waited. She was fearful, too.

In the man every sort of emotion was surging through him in a chaotic tangle. Nothing seemed clear; anger, revolting, even hatred, all fought for place. And through it all the pleading tones of the girl would not be denied.

After a moment he suddenly flung out his arms.

"I—I just can't, Nan!" he cried desperately.

A wave of relief swept through Nan's heart. He was yielding, and she knew it. His manner had completely and abruptly changed. She drew nearer to him. Every honest art of persuasion was in her tender manner. All self was forgotten in that moment of spiritual purpose.

"But you can—if you will," she said, her brown eyes uplifted to his. "There isn't a thing you can't do—and you will. And this is so small, Jeff. So small. Just think of that great big God somewhere up above waiting, waiting to help you. He's always waiting to help us—any of us. Ask Him. Ask His help. He'll give it you. He surely will. And He can clear away all this dreadful feeling. It'll pass right away easy. I know. He's done things for me. You just can't guess how much. Say, Jeff, and when He's fixed you right, feeling that way, He'll show you, and tell you more. He'll show you that Evie's act was not hers, but—His. It was just His way of bringing Ronny's punishment back to you. You see, Jeff, Ronny was part of you. You said so. And oh, He's wiser than you an' me. And He figures this thing is best so. It's a little Cross, such a teeny one, He's set you to bear, and if you're the man I know and believe in, why, you'll just carry it without a squeal. Then later you'll understand, and—you'll be real glad for it. Will you—will you go back to her—to-morrow, Jeff?"

Nan waited almost breathlessly. She was watching him with a gaze that searched every detail of his face. She saw the strong veins at his temples standing out, the usually clear eyes stained and bloodshot. She saw him raise one hand wearily to his forehead, and pass it back over his hair. She knew the movement so well. The sight of it thrilled her. There was little about him she did not know and understand.

"You've made it seem I'll have to, Nan," he said with desperate reluctance.

For a moment a strange feeling of weakness came over the girl. But she resolutely thrust it aside.

"It's not me, Jeff," she disclaimed. "You know it's not me. And you'll—promise?"

He nodded.

"I'll go back to her, because—of you."

A curious look of fear crept into the girl's eyes.

"You'll go back, because—of her," she persisted.

The man shook his head.

"Anyway—I'll go back."

The words were roughly spoken. But Nan accepted them. It was all she could hope for. And—well, she had done her best.

She sighed deeply. She glanced about her. For a moment they dwelt upon the man who was denied her. The man in whom she saw all that could ever make life worth while.

"Good-night, Jeff."

Her voice was very low and soft.

"Good-night, Nan." Then with a sudden outburst, as forceful as it was spontaneous: "God, if the world were only made up of women like you!"

But the door had closed. And as Nan crept to her bedroom, unrestrained tears coursed down her soft cheeks. The full force of the irony of it all was too great for her. He was going back to Elvine, and—she had sent him.



CHAPTER XXI

THE BARRIER

Jeff was abroad at daylight. Even Bud, whose habit was sunrise, had not yet wakened from his heavy slumbers. But Nan was stirring. She heard Jeff moving, and she saw him beyond her window. She saw him bring his horse from the barn, saddled and bridled. In a moment he had mounted and ridden away. Then she dressed, and, for the rest, wondered at the possible outcome of it all. Half an hour later the sun rose and the day's work began.

When Jeff reached his home it was still wrapped in the habit of night. There was no one and nothing stirring, for, as yet, only the golden glow of the eastern sky promised the coming of day.

His mood was bitter. But his purpose was calculated and deliberate. He had given his promise in answer to Nan's irresistible pleading. But otherwise the man was completely unchanged. He moved away down to the corrals, and leaned against the great lateral rails which closed the entrance. The beasts within were chewing the cud, and still picking at the remains of their overnight feed.

They were a goodly sight to eyes that understood the meaning of such things. It was only one of a number of corrals similarly crowded with beasts, that were, for various reasons, herded in shelter at night. These were a few, a very few of the vast numbers which bore the familiar "O——" brand. There were the outlying stations which harbored their hundreds. There were the pastures with their complement of breeding cows. Then there were the herds of two- and three-year-olds roaming the plains at their will, fattening for the buyers who came at intervals.

Thoughts of these things compelled Jeff now. And he saw what Nan had saved him from. Wreck had been threatening in the course he had marked out for himself at first. How could prosperity have maintained under the conditions he would have imposed? Even now, under the modification which Nan had appealed for, he failed to see the continuation of that success he had striven so hard for. The incentive was no longer in him, he told himself. Where lay the use, the purpose in it all? The future? That dream future which had come to him could never mature now. It was no longer a dream. It was nightmare.

He wondered why he had yielded to Nan's entreaty. It all seemed so purposeless now in the broad light of day. He could force himself to live with his wife—under the same roof. Perhaps in time he could even meet her in daily intercourse. She might even become a factor in the great work of the Obar. But the joy of achievement had been snatched from him. All that he had foreseen might be achieved in the work, even. But the process would have been completely robbed of its inspiration, and was therefore not to be counted worth while.

The thought of the woman's regard for him left him cold. He dwelt upon it. Suddenly he wondered. Two days ago he could not have thought of it without a thrill. Now it meant—nothing. He remembered Nan's appeal. Why—why had it affected him last night? It had not been because of—Evie.

Nan had talked of justice—duty. He could see no appeal in either now. Why should he be forced to observance of the laws of justice, or—duty toward a woman who——?

He stirred restlessly. His attention was drawn to his horse. He moved over to it and off-saddled. Then he returned to his place at the corral. The sun was just breaking the horizon. He heard sounds of life coming from the bunkhouse.

Nan's appeal no longer convinced him—now that he was away from her. But—he had pledged his word. He could not break his word to Nan, although he longed—madly longed to resaddle his horse and ride away, and leave behind him forever this place which had suddenly become so full of bitter memories. No—he had pledged his word.

Soon he must once more confront his wife. He reviewed the possibilities. The night long he had spent in considering the position he intended to place before her. Would she accept it? And—what then? The long days of work, unlit by any hope of the future. The process of building, building, which all men desire, without that spark of delight which inspires the desire. Just the drudgery of it. The resulting wealth and commercial power of it maybe, but not one moment of the joy with which only two days before he had regarded the broad vista of the future.

Now the smell of cooking reached him from the bunkhouse. Several men were moving down toward the corrals. He passed on toward the house. A moment or so later he stood on the veranda gazing out at the streaming cattle as they moved toward the wide home pastures, under the practised hands of the ranchmen. It was a sight to inspire any cattleman, and, for a moment, the brooding eyes of the master of it all lit with a flash of their former appreciation. But the change was fleeting. The blue depths clouded again. The question once more flashed through his brain—what—what was the use of it all?

None, none at all. Every dream had been swept from his waking thoughts. Every enchanting emotion was completely dead. The woman who had inspired the rose-tinted glasses through which he had gazed upon the future no longer had power so to inspire him. By her own action she had taken herself out of his life. She could never again become a part of it. He would live on with her, under the same roof, a mockery of the life which their marriage imposed upon them. He had pledged that to Nan, and he would not break his word to—Nan. But love? His love was gone. It was dead. And he knew that the ashes of that once passionate fire could never be stirred into being again.

There was a rustle of skirts behind him. He heard, but did not turn. A fierce passion was rising to his brain, and he dared not turn until he had forced it under restraint.

"You have come back, Jeff?"

The voice was low and soft. There was something tragically humble in its tone.

The man turned.

"Yes, Evie." Then he added: "I told you I would."

His voice was gentler than he knew. The harshness of their previous meeting had gone out of it. Nor was he aware of the change, nor of the reason, although in his mind was the memory of his promise to Nan.

"And you'll tell me your decision—now?"

The humility was heart-breaking. Nor was the man unaffected by it. He looked into the beautiful face, for the dark eyes were averted. Then his gaze dropped to the charming figure daintily clad in a simple morning frock of subtle attraction. But his eyes came back to the face with its crowning of beautiful dark hair, nor was there any change in their expression as a result of their survey.

"As well now as later."

"What is it?"

For the first time Jeff found himself gazing into the wide dark eyes. There was pain in them. Apprehension. There were the signs about them of long sleepless nights. He shut the sight of these things out by the process of turning away to observe the general movement going on in the near distance.

"Guess there's no use to say a deal," he said, a curiously moody note taking possession of his voice. "If I did, why, I'd likely say a whole heap more than a man may say to his wife. Guess the right an' wrong of things had best lie in our hearts. You know just what you did, and why you did it. I know what you did, an' can only guess why you did it. I don't figger any talk could convince either of us different to how we think and feel. Maybe there's Someone knows the rights of this thing better than either of us. That being so, I allow He'll ultimately fix things as He intends. Meanwhile it's for us to do as we feel, just so far as our personal earthly concerns go."

The coldness in his voice had grown, and it left Evie with a complete sense of hopelessness that was harder to bear than any fears which violence of language might have inspired.

His pause was prolonged. She made no effort to break it, she dared not break it. For the man, he was gathering the threads of what he had to say so as to deliver it concretely. He feared to prolong this interview. In view of his decision he must not risk any violent outbreak such as his feelings were even now striving to force upon him.

"Maybe you'll remember what I said to you about Ronny just after we were—married. I don't guess you'll have forgotten, seeing things are as they are. What I said then stands now. If you'd been a man I'd have shot you down in your tracks when I got to home last night. That should say all that need be said about how I'm feeling now. You aren't a man, and you're my wife. Well—you're still my wife. That means it's up to me to keep you as though this thing hadn't broken things up. I intend to act as right as I can by you. This is your home. You must use it, if you feel that way. The Obar has to go on. It's your means of living. It's my means of living. Then there are others concerned in it. For these reasons I shall carry on things, and your knowledge of this sort of work should hand you a reasonable share in the running of this place. If you feel you can act this way, without remembering we're man and wife, why, I guess we can agree to live our—separate—lives under the same roof. If you don't feel you can do this, why, you need to say so right here an' now, an' state your wishes. I'll do my best to carry them through, provided you understand our lives are separate from now on. Do you get that?"

Did she get it? Could there be any mistaking those cold tones, that ruthless decision?

From slightly behind him Elvine had stood watching with straining eyes the still figure, speaking with so obvious a repression of feeling, his eyes steadily fixed upon the distant horizon. Once or twice an ominous flush had suddenly flamed up in her eyes. A deep flush had stained her cheeks. But as he ceased speaking the same shrinking, the same humility marked her attitude. She knew instinctively she dared not say the things she was yearning to pour out. She knew instinctively that any such course would at once break down that thin veneer of restraint he was exercising. And for perhaps the first time in her life she stood awed and cowed by a man.

But this woman was the slave of her passions, and she knew it. It was this now that made a coward of her. With all the power of self in her she had abandoned herself to her love for her husband. And, with slavish submission, she was prepared to accept his words rather than banish herself out of his presence altogether. A mad, wild hope lay somewhere deep down in her heart that some day he could be made to forget. That some day, through what looked to her like endless days of devotion and help, she might win back something of what she had lost. She knew her own attraction. She knew her own powers. Might there not then be hope in the dim future?

She had no pride where Jeff was concerned. She wanted him. His love was all life to her now. If she had followed the natural course which should have been hers and refused his proposal, she would have been closing the door, finally, upon all that made life possible. If she submitted there still remained to her the vaguest possible shadow of hope. This was her thought and motive in the crisis with which she was faced, and her calculations were made out of her yearning, and without true understanding of the man with whom she was dealing.

Jeff awaited her decision under an enforced calm.

"It's for you to say," she said, after some moments. "Nor is the choice mine. I shall obey. You've said I can help in the work. Maybe it's my right. I'll claim that right anyway. It's the only right I'll claim. I've only one other thing to say, and maybe you'll let me speak it this once."

"Go on."

"I didn't guess I was doing wrong. I don't know now I did wrong. Anyway, if what I did was wrong it's against God's laws and not man's. Maybe you've a right to punish me. I don't know. Anyway, my life and interests are bound to yours, and I want you to know every effort of mine will be to further—your interests. This has made no change in me—that way. You can trust me as you'd trust yourself. I'm not here to squeal for any mercy from you, Jeff. And maybe some day you'll—understand. I guess your breakfast's ready. I'll have mine later."

* * * * * *

Later in the day Elvine rode out from the ranch house. Nor did she concern herself with her object, nor her course, beyond a wild desire for the solitude of the hills. The full torture of the new life, on the threshold of which she now stood, had not come upon her until after the effects of her interview with her husband had had time to calm down. Then to remain in the house, which had become a sort of prison to her, was made impossible. She must get out. She must break into activity. She felt that occupation alone could save her reason.

So she struck out for the hills. Their claim of earlier days was upon her. The hills, and their wooded valleys. Their brooding calm, their dark shadows, their mysterious silence. These things claimed her mood.

She rode recklessly across the wide spread of Rainbow-Hill Valley. She had no thought for the horse under her. She would have welcomed the pitfalls which mighty have robbed her of the dreadful consciousness of the disaster which had overwhelmed her. She was striving to flee from thoughts from which she knew there was no escape. She was striving to lose herself in the activities of the moment.

The switchback of the plain rose and fell under her horse's busy hoofs. It rose higher, and ever higher, as she approached the western slopes. She left the fenced pastures behind her, and the last signs of the life to which she was now committed. Before her the woodlands rose up shrouded in their dark foliage. The mourning aspect of the pines suited her temper; she felt as though their drooping boughs were in harmony with the bereavement of her soul.

She plunged amidst the serried aisles of leafless trunks with something like welcome for their shadows. She rode on regardless of distance and direction.

From the crest of a hill she looked down upon narrow mountain creek surging between borders of pale green foliage. The sound of the waters came up to her, and the wilderness of it all appealed, as, at that moment, nothing else could have appealed. She pressed her blowing horse forward, and rode down to the banks so densely overgrown.

She leaped from the saddle. She relieved her horse of its saddle and flung herself upon the mossy ground in the shelter of a cluster of spruce. The humid heat was oppressive. The tumbling waters were unable to stir the atmosphere. But their music was soothing, and the sight of their turbulent rush seemed to hold sympathy for her troubled heart. And so she lay there, her head propped upon a supporting hand, and yielded herself to the sway of her emotions.

After a while tears dimmed her eyes. They overflowed down her cheeks. She had reached the end of endurance before yielding to her woman's pitiful weakness. Time had no meaning now. Place had lost its influence. She saw nothing, knew nothing but the trouble which had robbed her of all she lived for.

Then came the inevitable. Her tears eventually relaxed the tension of her nerves, and, after several ineffectual attempts to keep them open, the weight of the atmosphere closed her eyes and yielded her the final mercy of sleep.

* * * * * *

Elvine awoke with a start. She awoke with the conviction of the presence of the man she had met in the hill regions before. She knew some one was near her, but, for the moment——

Yes. She sat up. A pair of brown eyes were gazing down into hers. Then came the voice, and it was low, and gentle. It had nothing startling in it.

"Why, say, an' I've been hunting your trail this hour, taking you for—some one else."

Nan had been standing with her arm linked through her horse's reins. Now she relinquished them, and flung herself upon the ground before the startled woman.

Elvine stared at her with unease in her dark eyes. Nor did she gain reassurance from the pretty face with its soft brown hair, and the graceful figure beneath its brown cloth riding suit. Yet she was not insensible to the companionship. Her greater fears had been of the man, Sikkem, who had been in her waking thoughts.