"Yes, yes." Joan's eagerness brought her a step nearer to him. "And they found——"

"Gold!" Buck laughed. "Lumps of it."

"Gold—in lumps!" The girl's eyes widened with an excitement which the discovery of the precious metal ever inspires.

The man watched her thoughtfully.

"Why aren't you there?" Joan demanded suddenly.

"Can't jest say." Buck shrugged. "Maybe it's because they bin lookin' fer gold, an'—wal, I haven't."

"Gold—in lumps!" Again came the girl's amazed exclamation, and Buck smiled at her enthusiasm.

"Sure. An' they kind o' blame you for it. They sort o' fancy you brought 'em their luck. Y' see it came when you got around their hut. They say ther' wasn't no luck to the place till you brought it. An' now——"

Joan's eyes shone.

"Oh, I'm so glad. I'm so glad I've brought them——"

But her expression of joy was never completed. She broke off with a sharp ejaculation, and the color died out of her cheeks, leaving her so ghastly pale that the man thought she was about to faint. She staggered back and leant for support against the wall of the barn, and Buck sprang to her side. In a moment, however, she stood up and imperiously waved him aside.

There was no mistaking the movement. Her whole manner seemed to have frozen up. The frank girlishness had died as completely as though it had never been, and the man stood abashed, and at a loss for understanding.

Now he saw before him a woman still beautiful, but a woman whose eyes had lost every vestige of that happy light. Despair was written in every feature, despair and utter hopelessness. Her mouth, that beautiful mouth so rich and delicate, was now tight shut as of one in great suffering, and deep, hard lines had suddenly gathered about the corners of it. The change smote him to the heart, but left him utterly helpless.

Realization had come. Joan had suddenly remembered all that lay behind her—all that had driven her to seek the remoteness of the wild Western world. She had sought to flee from the fate which her Aunt Mercy had told her was hers, and now she knew that she might as well try to flee from her own shadow.

Oh, the horror of it all! These people believed that she had brought them their luck. She knew that she had. What was the disaster that must follow? What lives must go down before the sword a terrible Fate had placed in her hand? For the moment panic held her in its grip. For a moment it seemed that death alone could save her from the dread consequences of the curse that was upon her. It was cruel, cruel—the desolation, the hopelessness of it all. And in her sudden anguish she prayed that death might be visited upon her.

But even amidst the horror of her realization the influence of the man's presence was at work. She knew he was there a witness to the terror she could not hide, and so she strove for recovery.

Then she heard him speak, and at the sound of his quiet tone her nerves eased and she grew calmer.

"I don't guess you recovered from the storm. I'd sure say you need rest," Buck said in his gentle, solicitous fashion. And in her heart Joan thanked him for the encouragement his words gave her. He had asked no questions. He had expressed no astonishment, and yet she knew he must have realized that her trouble was no physical ailment.

"Yes," she said, jumping at the opening he had given her, "I'm tired. I'll—I'll go back to the house."

Buck nodded, disguising his anxiety beneath a calm that seemed so natural to him.

"Jest get back an' rest. You needn't worry any 'bout the hosses, an' cows, an' things. I'm fixin' them for the night, an' I'll be right along in the morning to do the chores. Y' see I know this farm, an' all that needs doin'. Guess I was raised on it," he added, with a smile, "so the work's sort o' second nature to me."

Joan's chance had come, but she passed it by. She knew she ought to have refused his help. She ought to have, as Mrs. Ransford had said, sent him about his business. But she did nothing of the sort. She accepted. She did more. She held out her hand to him, and let him take it in both of his in a friendly pressure as she thanked him.

"I'm—I'm very grateful," she said weakly. And the man flushed under his sunburn, while his temples hammered as the hot young blood mounted to his brain.

A moment later Buck stood staring at the angle of the barn round which Joan had just vanished. He was half-dazed, and the only thing that seemed absolutely real to him was the gentle pressure of her hand as it had rested in his. He could feel it still; he could feel every pressure of the soft, warm flesh where it had lain on his hard palms. And all the time he stood there his whole body thrilled with an emotion that was almost painful.

At last he stirred. He stooped and picked up the discarded fork. He had no definite purpose. He was scarcely aware of his action. He held it for a moment poised in the air. Then slowly he let the prongs of it rest on the ground, and, leaning his chin on his hands clasped about the haft, stared out at the hills and gave himself up to such a dream as never before had entered his life.

The sun was dipping behind the snowcaps, and for half an hour the work he had voluntarily undertaken remained untouched.

How much longer he would have remained lost in his wonderful dreaming it would have been impossible to tell. But he was ruthlessly awakened, and all his youthful ardor received a cold douche as the evening quiet was suddenly broken by the harsh voices of the crowd of gold-seekers, whom he suddenly beheld approaching the farm along the trail.



CHAPTER XII

THE GOLDEN WOMAN

Buck wondered as he noted the extraordinary picture of jubilation which the approaching crowd presented. In all his association with these people he had never witnessed anything to equal it or even come near it. He never remembered anything like a real outburst of joy during the long, dreary months since they had first camped on the banks of Yellow Creek.

He watched the faces as they drew near. From the shelter of the barn, whither he had retreated, he had them in full view. He looked for the old, weary signs of their recent privations and sufferings. There were none, not one. They had passed as utterly as though they had never been.

It was a spectacle in which he found the greatest pleasure. The men were clad in their work-stained clothing, their only clothing. Their faces remained unwashed, and still bore the accumulations of dusty sweat from their day's fevered labors. But it was the light in their eyes, their grinning faces, the buoyancy of their gait that held him. He heard their voices lifted in such a tone as would have seemed impossible only a few days ago. The loud, harsh laugh, accompanying inconsequent jests and jibes, it was good to hear. These men were tasting the sweets of a moment of perfect happiness. Buck knew well enough that soon, probably by the morrow, the moment would have passed, and they would have settled again to the stern calling of their lives.

All his sympathy was with them, and their joy was reflected in his own feelings. Their hope was his hope, their buoyancy was his buoyancy. For his happiness was complete at the moment, and thus he was left free to feel with those others. Such was his own wonderful exaltation that the thought of the termination of these people's suffering was the final note that made his joy complete.

He laid his fork aside and waited till they had passed his retreat. The object of their journey was obviously the farmhouse, and he felt that he must learn their further purpose. He remembered Joan's going from him. He had seen the pain and trouble in her beautiful eyes, and so he feared that the sudden rush of animal spirits in these people would drive them to extravagances, well enough meant, but which might worry and even alarm her.

He moved quickly out of the barn and looked after them. They had reached the house, and stood like a herd of subdued and silly sheep waiting for a sign from their leader. It was a quaint sight. The laugh and jest had died out, and only was the foolish grin left. Yes, they certainly had a definite purpose in their minds, but they equally certainly were in doubt as to how it should be carried out.

Buck drew nearer without attracting their attention. The men were so deeply engaged with the dilemma of the moment that he might almost have joined the group without observation. But he merely desired to be on hand to help should the troubled girl need his help. He had no desire to take active part in the demonstration. As he came near he heard Beasley's voice, and the very sound of it jarred unpleasantly on his ears. The man was talking in that half-cynical fashion which was never without an added venom behind it.

"Well," he heard him exclaim derisively, "wot's doin'? You're all mighty big talkers back ther' in camp, but I don't seem to hear any bright suggestions goin' around now. You start this gorl-durned racket like a pack o' weak-headed fools, yearnin' to pitch away what's been chucked right into your fool laps jest fer one o' Blue Grass Pete's fat-head notions. Well, wot's doin'? I ask."

"You ke'p that ugly map o' yours closed," cried Pete hotly. "You ain't bein' robbed any."

"Guess I'll see to that," retorted Beasley, with a grin. "The feller that robs me'll need to chew razors fer a pastime. If it comes to that you're yearnin' fer glory at the Padre's expense—as usual."

Buck's ears tingled, and he drew closer. Beasley always had a knack of so blending truth with his personal venom that it stung far more than downright insult. He wondered what the Padre's generosity had been, and wherein lay its connection with their present purpose. The explanation was not long in coming, for Montana Ike took up the challenge amidst a storm of ominous murmurs from the gathered men.

"Don't take nuthin' from him," cried the youngster scornfully. Then he turned on Beasley fiercely. "You need Buck around to set you right, Mister Lousy Beasley," he cried. "We ain't robbin' anybody, an' sure not the Padre. He found that nugget, an' it's his to give or do wot he likes with. The gal brought us the luck, an' the Padre guessed it was only right she should have the first find. That nugget was the first find, an' the Padre found it. Wal!" But as no reply was forthcoming he hurried on, turning his tongue loose in the best abuse he could command at the moment. "You're a rotten sort o' skunk anyway, an' you ain't got a decent thought in your diseased head. I'd like to say right here that you hate seein' a sixty-ounce lump o' gold in any other hands than your own dirty paws. That's your trouble, so jest shut right up while better folks handles a matter wot's a sight too delicate fer a rotten mind like yours."

The smile had returned to every face except the foxy features of the ex-Churchman, who for once had no adequate retort ready. Curly Saunders nodded appreciation, and helped to solve the momentary dilemma prevailing.

"That's sure done it fer you, Montana," he cried gleefully. "You make the presentation. I'd say I never heard so elegant a flow of argyment in this yer camp. You'll talk most pretty to the leddy."

"An' it ain't fer me to say I can't do it if need be, neither," said Montana modestly. "Don't guess it's much of a stunt yappin' pretty to a sorrel-topped gal."

Abe Allinson laughed.

"It's sure up to you, Ike," he said. "Guess you best git busy right away."

The rest waited for the youngster's acceptance of the responsibility, which promptly came with perfect good-will.

"Gee! But you're a gritty outfit," he cried, with a wide grin. "Say, I guess you'd need a fence around you shootin' jack-rabbits. Jack-rabbits is ter'ble fierce. Guess you'd most be skeered to death at a skippin' lamb bleatin' fer its mother. Can't say I ever heerd tell as a feller need be skeered of a pair o' gal's eyes, nor a sight o' red ha'r. You said it was red, Pete, didn't you? I'd sure say a bright feller don't need to worry any over talkin' pretty to a gal like that. She's up agin a proposition if she thinks she ken skeer me. Wher' is she? Jest call her out. She's goin' to git her med'cine right here in the open. I ain't doin' no parlor tricks."

The boy stood out from the crowd with a decided show of mild bravado, but he glanced about him, seeking the moral support of his fellows.

"You best knock on the door, Ike," said Curly quietly.

Ike hesitated. Then he turned doubtfully to those behind.

"You—you mean that?" he inquired. "You ain't foolin' none?" Then, as though realizing his own weakness, he began to bluster. "Cos I ain't takin' no foolin' in a racket o' this sort. An' any feller thinks he ken fool me'll sure hate hisself when I'm through with him."

A mild snicker greeted his "big talk," and the boy flushed hotly. He was half-inclined to add further resentment, but, second thoughts prevailing, he abruptly turned to the door and hammered on it as though anticipating stern resistance from those within.

* * * * *

Inside the house Mrs. Ransford was debating the situation with her mistress. She had witnessed the advance of the besieging party, and, half-frightened and half-resentful, the latter perhaps the more plainly manifested, she was detailing in unmeasured terms her opinions and fears to the still harassed girl.

"Jest git a peek at 'em through the window, miss—'ma'm' I should say, on'y I don't allus remember right, as you might say. Ther's twenty an' more o' the lowest down bums ever I see outside a State penitentiary. They're sure the most ter'blest lot ever I did see. An' they got 'emselves fixed up wi' guns an' knives, an' what not an' sech, till you can't see the color o' their clothes fer the dirt on 'em. I'll swar' to goodness, as the sayin' is, they ain't never see no water sence they was christened, if they ever was christened, which I don't believe no gospel preacher would ever so demean himself. An' as fer soap, say, they couldn't even spell it if you was to hand 'em the whole soap fact'ry literature of a fi'-cent daily noos-sheet. They're jest ter'ble, an' it seems to me we sure need a reg'ment o' United States Cavalry settin' around on horses an' field guns to pertect us, ef we're to farm this one-hossed layout. They're 'bad men,' mum, miss—which I made a mistake ag'in—that's wot they are. I've read about 'em in the fi'-cent comics, so I sure know 'em when I see 'em. You can't never make no mistake. They're jest goin' to shoot us all up to glory, an' they'll dance around on our corpses, same as if they was nuthin', nor no account anyways."

In spite of her recent shock Joan found herself smiling at the strange mixture of fear and anger in the old woman's manner. But she felt it necessary to check her flow of wild accusations. She guessed easily enough who the men were that were approaching the house, but their object remained a mystery.

"You're hasty. You mustn't judge these people by their appearance. They're——"

But the feverish tongue was promptly set clacking again.

"An' wot, I asks, is they to be judged by if not by wot they are? They jest come along a-yowlin', an' a-shootin' off'n their guns an' things, same as they allus do when they's on the war-path. Scalps, that's wot they's after. Scalps, no more an' no less. An' to think o' me at my time o' life a-fallin' a prey to Injuns, as you might say. Oh, if on'y my pore George D. Ransford was alive! He'd 'a' give 'em scalps. He was a man, sure, even though he did set around playin' poker all night when I was in labor with my twins. He was a great fighter was George D.—as the marks on my body ken show to this very day."

At that instant there was a terrific knocking at the door which opened directly into the parlor in which the waiting women were standing, and the farm-wife jumped and staggered back, and, finally, collapsed into an adjacent chair.

"Sakes on us," she cried, her fat face turning a sort of pea-green, "if only my pore George D.——"

But Joan's patience could stand no more.

"For goodness' sake go back to your kitchen, you absurd creature. I'll see to the matter. I——"

But the old woman wobbled to her feet almost weeping.

"Now, don't 'ee, miss," she cried in her tearful anxiety, getting her form of address right the first time. "Don't 'ee be rash. Ther'll be blood spilt, ther' sure will. Ther's on'y one way, miss, you must talk 'em nice, an', an' if they go fer to take liberties, you—why you," she edged toward her kitchen, "you jest send for me right away."

She hurried out, and the moment she was out of sight fled precipitately to the farthest extremity of her own domain and armed herself with the heavy iron shaker of the cook-stove.

In the meantime Joan went to the door and flung it wide open. In spite of the farm-wife's warnings she had not a shadow of doubt as to the peaceful object of the visitation, and rather felt that in some sort of way it was intended as an expression of good-will and greeting. Had not Buck told her that they held her in the light of some sort of benefactor? So she stood in the doorway erect and waiting, with a calm face, on which there was not a shadow of a smile.

She took in the gathering at a glance, and her eyes came to rest upon the foremost figure of Montana Ike. She noted his slim, boyish figure, the weak, animal expression shining in his furtive eyes. To her he looked just what he was, a virile specimen of reckless young manhood, of vicious and untamed spirit. She saw at once that he was standing out from his companions, and understood that, for the moment at least, he was their leader.

"Good-evening," she said, her attitude mechanically unbending.

"Evenin', miss," responded Ike bravely, and then relapsed into a violent condition of blushing through his dirt.

He stood there paralyzed at the girl's beauty. He just gaped foolishly at her, his eyes seeking refuge in dwelling upon the well-cut skirt she wore and the perfect whiteness of the lawn shirt-waist, which permitted the delicate pink tinge of her arms and shoulders to show through it.

All his bravery was gone—all his assurance. If his life had depended on it not one word of an address on behalf of his fellows could he have uttered.

Joan saw his confusion, and mercifully came to his rescue.

"You wish to see me?" she inquired, with a smile which plunged the boy into even more hopeless confusion.

As no answer was forthcoming she looked appealingly at the other faces.

"It's very kind of you all to come here," she said gently. "Is—is there anything I can—do for you?"

Suddenly Beasley's voice made itself heard.

"Git busy, Ike, you're spokesman," he cried. "Git on with the presentation—ladle out the ad—dress. You're kind o' lookin' foolish."

He followed up his words with his unpleasant laugh, and it was the sting the youthful leader needed.

He turned fiercely on the speaker, his momentary paralysis all vanished.

"Ef I'm spokesman," he cried, "guess we don't need no buttin' in from Beasley Melford." Then he turned again quickly. "Astin' your pardon, miss," he added apologetically.

"That's all right," said Joan, smiling amiably. "What are you 'spokesman' for?"

The boy grinned foolishly.

"Can't rightly say, missie." Then he jerked his head in his comrades' direction. "Guess if you was to ast them, they'd call theirselves men."

"I didn't say 'who,' I said 'what,'" Joan protested, with a laugh at his desperately serious manner.

"'What?'" he murmured, smearing his dirty forehead with a horny hand in the effort of his task. Then he brightened. "Why, gener'ly speakin'," he went on, with sudden enthusiasm, "they ain't much better'n skippin' sheep. Y' see they want to but darsent. So—wal—they jest set me up to sling the hot air."

The girl looked appealingly at the rough faces for assistance. But instead of help she only beheld an expression of general discontent turned on the unconscious back of the spokesman. And coming back to the boy she pursued the only course possible.

"I—I don't think I quite understand," she said.

Ike readily agreed with her.

"I'm durned sure you can't," he cried heartily. "They jest think it a rotten kind of a job handin' a red-ha'r'd gal a few words an' an a'mighty fine hunk o' gold. That's cos they ain't been dragged up jest right. You can't expect elegant feedin' at a hog trough. Now it's kind o' diff'rent wi' me. I——"

"Oh, quit," cried the sharp voice of the exasperated Abe Allinson. And there was no doubt but he was speaking for the rest of the audience.

Pete followed him in a tone of equal resentment.

"That ain't no sort o' way ad—dressin' a leddy," he said angrily.

"Course it ain't," sneered Beasley. "Ther's sure bats roostin' in your belfry, Ike."

The boy jumped round on the instant. His good-nature could stand the jibes of his comrades generally, but Beasley's sneers neither he nor any one else could endure.

"Who's that yappin'?" the youngster cried, glowering into the speaker's face. "That the feller Buck called an outlaw passon?" he demanded. His right hand slipped to the butt of his gun. "Say you," he cried threateningly, "if you got anything to say I'm right here yearnin' to listen."

Joan saw the half-drawn weapon, and in the same instant became aware of a movement on the part of the man Beasley. She was horrified, expecting one of those fierce collisions she had heard about. But the moment passed, and, though she did not realize it, it was caused by Ike's gun leaving its holster first.

Her woman's fear urged her, and she raised a protesting hand.

"Please—please," she cried, her eyes dilating with apprehension. "What have I done that you should come here to quarrel?"

Buck in the background smiled. He was mentally applauding the girl's readiness, while he watched the others closely.

Ike turned to her again, and his anger had merged into a comical look of chagrin.

"Y' see, missie," he said in a fresh tone of apology, "ther's fellers around here wi' no sort o' manners. They're scairt to death makin' a big talk to a red-ha'r'd gal, so I jest got to do it. An' I sez it, it ain't easy, folks like me speechin' to folks like you——"

"Oh, git on!" cried Pete in a tired voice.

"Your hot air's nigh freezin'," laughed Soapy Kid.

"Quit it," cried Ike hotly. "Ain't they an ignorant lot o' hogs?" he went on, appealing to the smiling girl. "Y' see, missie, we're right glad you come along. We're prospectin' this layout fer gold an'——"

"An' we ain't had no sort o' luck till you got around," added Pete hastily.

"In the storm," nodded Curly Saunders.

"All mussed-up an' beat to hell," cried Ike, feeling that he was being ousted from his rights.

"Yes, an' Buck carried you to home, an' rode in fer the doc, an' had you fixed right," cried Abe.

Ike looked round indignantly.

"Say, is youse fellers makin' this big talk or me? ain't yearnin', if any feller's lookin' fer glory."

His challenge was received with a chorus of laughter.

"You're doin' fine," cried the Kid.

Ike favored the speaker with a contemptuous stare and returned to his work. He shrugged.

"They ain't no account anyway, missie," he assured her, "guess they're sore. Wal, y' see you come along in the storm, an' what should happen but the side o' Devil's Hill drops out, an' sets gold rollin' around like—like taters fallin' through a rotten sack. 'Gold?' sez we, an' gold it is. 'Who bro't us sech luck?' we asts. An' ther' it is right ther', so ther' can't be no mistake. Jest a pore, sick gal wi' red ha'r, all beat to hell an'——"

"Gee, ain't it beautiful!" sneered Curly.

Soapy pretended to weep, and Abe thumped him heavily on the back.

"Cheer up, Kid," he grinned. "'Tain't as bad as it seems. Ike'll feel better after he's had his vittles."

Pete sniggered.

"Ain't he comic?" he cried. Then, seizing the opportunity, while Ike turned round to retort he hustled him aside and usurped his place.

"Say, missie, it's jest this, you're the Golden Woman who bro't us our luck. Some of us ain't got your name right, nor nuthin'. Anyway that don't figger nuthin'. We ain't had no luck till you come along, so you're jest our Golden Woman, an' we're goin' to hand you——"

Joan started back as though the man had struck her. Her beautiful cheeks went a ghastly pallor.

"No—no!" she cried half-wildly.

"And why for not?" demanded Pete.

"But my name is Joan," she cried, a terrible dread almost overpowering her. "You see 'Golden' isn't my real name," she explained, without pausing to think. "That's only a nickname my father ga—gave me. I—I was christened 'Joan.'"

Pete slapped his thigh heavily, and a great grin spread over his face.

"Say, don't it beat the band?" he cried in wild delight. "Don't it?" he repeated, appealing to the world at large. "'Golden.' That's her name, an' we only hit on it cos she's got gold ha'r, an' bro't us gold. An' all the time her pa used to call her 'Golden.' Can you beat it?" Then he looked into Joan's face with admiring eyes. "Say, missie, that's your name for jest as long as you stop around this layout. That's her name, ain't it, boys?" He appealed to the crowd. "Here, give it her good an' plenty, boys. Hooray for the 'Golden Woman'!"

Instantly the air was filled with a harsh cheering that left the girl almost weeping in her terror and misery. But the men saw nothing of the effect of their good-will. They were only too glad to be able to find such an outlet to their feelings. When the cheering ceased Pete thrust out an arm toward her. His palm was stretched open, and lying on it was the great yellow nugget that the Padre had found—the first find of the "strike."

"That's it, missie," he cried, his wild eyes rolling delightedly. "Look right ther'. That's fer you. The Padre found it, an' it's his to give, an' he sent it to you. That's the sort o' luck you bro't us."

The crowd closed in with necks craning to observe the wonderful nugget of gold; to the finding of its kind their lives were devoted. Beasley was at Pete's elbow, the greediest of them all.

"It wasn't no scrapin' an' scratchin' luck," the enthusiastic Pete hurried on. "It was gold in hunks you bro't us."

Beasley's eyes lit, and Buck, watching closely, edged in.

"It's a present to you, missie," Pete went on. "That's wot we come for. Jest to hand you that nugget. Nigh sixty ounces solid gold, an' the first found at this yer camp."

Balanced on his hand he thrust it farther out for the girl to take, but she shrank back. Beasley saw the movement and laughed. He pointed at it and leered up into her face.

"You're sure right," he cried. "Don't you touch it. Jest look at it. Say, can't you fellers see, or are you blind? She ain't blind. She can see. She's seen wot's ther'. It's a death's head. Gold? Gee, I tell you it's a death's head! Look at them eye-sockets," he cried, pointing at the curious moulding of the nugget. "Ther's the nose bones, an' the jaw. Look at them teeth, too, all gold-filled, same as if a dentist had done 'em." He laughed maliciously. "It's a dandy present fer a lady. A keepsake!"

The men were crowding to see the markings which Beasley pointed out. They were quite plain. They were so obvious that something like horror lit the superstitious faces. Beasley, watching, saw that he had made his point, so he hurried on—

"Don't you touch it, miss," he cried gleefully, as though he thoroughly enjoyed delivering his warning. "It's rotten luck if you do. That gold is Devil's gold. It's come from Devil's Hill, in a Devil's storm. It's a death's head, an' there's all the trouble in the world in it. There's——"

His prophecy remained uncompleted. He was suddenly caught by a powerful hand, and the next instant he found himself swung to the outskirts of the crowd with terrific force.

In a furious rage he pulled himself together just in time to see Buck, pale with anger, seize the nugget from Pete's outstretched palm.

"You don't need to worry with the trouble in that gold," he said with biting coldness, raising it at arm's length above his head.

Then before any one was aware of his intention he flung it with all his force upon the flagstone at Joan's feet. Quickly he stooped and picked it up again, and again flung it down with all his strength. He repeated the process several times, and finally held it out toward the troubled girl.

"You ken take it now," he said, his whole manner softening. "Guess Beasley's 'death's head' has gone—to its grave. Ther' ain't no sort o' trouble can hurt any, if—you only come down on it hard enough. The trouble ain't in that gold now, only in the back of Beasley's head. An' when it gets loose, wal—I allow there's folks around here won't see it come your way. You can sure take it now."

Joan reached out a timid hand, while her troubled violet eyes looked into Buck's face as though fascinated. The man moved a step nearer, and the small hand closed over the battered nugget.

"Take it," he said encouragingly. "It's an expression of the good feelings of the boys. An' I don't guess you need be scared of them."

Joan took the gold, but there was no smile in her eyes, no thanks on her lips. She stepped back to her doorway and passed within.

"I'm tired," she said, and her words were solely addressed to Buck. He nodded, while she closed the door. Then he turned about.

"Wal!" he said.

And his manner was a decided dismissal.



CHAPTER XIII

THE CALL OF YOUTH

The fur fort was a relic of ancient days, when the old-time traders of the North sent their legions of pelt hunters from the far limits of the northern ice-world to the sunny western slopes of the great American continent. It was at such a place as this, hemmed in amidst the foot-hills, that they established their factor and his handful of armed men; lonely sentries at the gates of the mountain world, to levy an exorbitant tax upon the harvest of furs within.

Here, within the ponderous stockade, now fallen into sore decay, behind iron-bound doors secured by mighty wooden locks, and barred with balks of timber, sheltered beneath the frowning muzzles of half a dozen futile carronades, they reveled in obscene orgies and committed their barbaric atrocities under the name of Justice and Commerce. Here they amassed wealth for the parent companies in distant lands, and ruthlessly despoiled the wild of its furry denizens.

These were the pioneers, sturdy savages little better than the red man himself, little better in their lives than the creatures upon which they preyed. But they were for the most part men, vigorous, dauntless men who not only made history, but prepared the way for those who were to come after, leaving them a heritage of unsurpassable magnificence.

Now, this old-time relic afforded a shelter for two lonely men, whose only emulation of their predecessors was in the craft that was theirs. In all else there remained nothing in common, unless it were that common asset of all pioneers, a sturdy courage. They certainly lacked nothing of this. But whereas the courage of their predecessors, judging them by all historical records, in quality belonged largely to the more brutal side of life, these men had no such inspiration. Their calling was something in the nature of a passionate craving for the exercise of wits and instincts in a hard field where the creatures of the wild meet the human upon almost equal terms.

Isolation was nothing new to these men. The remotenesses of the back world had been their life for years. They understood its every mood, and met them with nerves in perfect tune. The mountains filled their whole outlook. They desired nothing better, nothing more.

Yet it seemed strange that this should be. For the Padre had not always lived beyond the fringes of civilization. He was a man of education, a man of thought and even culture. These things must have been obvious to the most casual observer. In Buck's case it was easier to understand. He had known no other life than this. And yet he, too, might well have been expected to look askance at a future lost to all those things which he knew to lay beyond. Was he not at the threshold of life? Were not his veins thrilling with the rich, red tide of youth? Were not all those instincts which go to make up the sum of young human life as much a part of him as of those others who haunted the banks of Yellow Creek? The whole scheme was surely unusual. The Padre's instinct was to roam deeper and deeper into the wild, and Buck, offered his release from its wondrous thrall, had refused it.

Thus they embraced this new home. The vast and often decaying timbers, hewn out of the very forests they loved, cried out with all the old associations they bore and held them. The miniature citadel contained within the trenchant stockade, the old pelt stores, roofless and worm-eaten, the armory which still suggested the clank of half-armored men, who lived only for the joy of defying death. The factor's house, whence, in the days gone by, the orders for battle had been issued, and the sentence of life and death had been handed out with scant regard for justice. Then there were the ruined walls of the common-room, where the fighting men had caroused and slept. The scenes of frightful orgies held in this place were easy to conjure. All these things counted in a manner which perhaps remained unacknowledged by either. But nevertheless they were as surely a part of the lure as the chase itself, with all its elemental attraction.

They had restored just as much of the old factor's house as they needed for their simple wants. Two rooms were all they occupied, two rooms as simple and plain as their own lives. Buck had added a new roof of logs and clay plaster. He had set up two stretchers with straw-stuffed paillasses for beds. He had manufactured a powerful table, and set it upon legs cut from pine saplings. To this he had added the removal of a cook-stove and two chairs, and their own personal wardrobe from the farm, and so the place was complete. Yet not quite. There was an arm rack upon the wall of the living-room, an arm rack that had at one time doubtless supported the old flintlocks of the early fur hunters. This he had restored, and laden it with their own armory and the spare traps of their craft; while their only luxury was the fastening up beside the doorway of a frameless looking-glass for shaving purposes.

They required a place to sleep in, a place in which to store their produce, a place in which to break their fast and eat their meal at dusk. Here it lay, ready to their hand, affording them just these simple necessities, and so they adopted it.

But the new life troubled the Padre in moments when he allowed himself to dwell upon the younger man's future. He had offered him his release, at the time he had parted with the farm, from a sense of simple duty. It would have been a sore blow to him had Buck accepted, yet he would have submitted readily, even gladly, for he felt that with the passing of the farm out of their hands he had far more certainly robbed Buck of all provision for his future than he had deprived himself, who was the actual owner. He felt that in seeking to help the little starving colony he had done it, in reality, at Buck's expense.

Something of this was in his mind as he pushed away from their frugal breakfast-table. He stood in the doorway filling his pipe, while Buck cleared the tin plates and pannikins and plunged them into the boiler of hot water on the stove.

He leant his stalwart shoulders against the door casing, and stared out at the wooded valley which crossed the front of the house. Beyond it, over the opposite rise, he could see the dim outline of the crest of Devil's Hill several miles away.

He felt that by rights Buck should be there—somewhere there beyond the valley. Not because the youngster had any desire for the wealth that was flowing into the greedy hands of the gold-seekers. It was simply the thought of a man who knows far more of the world than he cares to remember. He felt that in all honesty he should point out the duties of a man to himself in these days when advancement alone counts, and manhood, without worldly position, goes for so very little. He was not quite sure that Buck didn't perfectly understand these things for himself. He had such a wonderful understanding and insight. However, his duty was plain, and it was not his way to shrink from it.

Buck was sprinkling the earth floor preparatory to sweeping it when the Padre let his eyes wander back into the room.

"Got things fixed?" he inquired casually.

"Mostly." Buck began to sweep with that practiced hand which never raises a dust on an earthen floor.

The Padre watched his movements thoughtfully.

"Seems queer seeing you sweeping and doing chores like a—a hired girl." He laughed presently.

Buck looked up and rested on his broom. He smilingly surveyed his early benefactor and friend.

"What's worryin'?" he inquired in his direct fashion.

The Padre stirred uneasily. He knocked the ashes from his pipe and pressed the glowing tobacco down with the head of a rusty nail.

"Oh, nothing worrying," he said, turning back to his survey of the valley beyond the decaying stockade. "The sun'll be over the hilltops in half an hour," he went on.

But the manner of his answer told Buck all he wanted to know. He too glanced out beyond the valley.

"Yes," he ejaculated, and went on sweeping. A moment later he paused again. "Guess I can't be out at the traps till noon. Mebbe you ken do without me—till then?"

"Sure." The Padre nodded at the valley. Then he added: "I've been thinking."

"'Bout that gold strike? 'Bout me? You bin thinkin' I ought to quit the traps, an'—make good wi' them. I know."

The elder man turned back sharply and looked into the dark eyes with a shrewd smile.

"You generally get what I'm thinking," he said.

"Guess you're not much of a riddle—to me," Buck laughed, drawing the moist dust into a heap preparatory to picking it up.

The Padre laughed too.

"Maybe you know how I'm feeling about things, then? Y' see there's nothing for you now but half the farm money. That's yours anyway. It isn't a pile. Seems to me you ought to be—out there making a big position for yourself." He nodded in the direction of Devil's Hill.

"Out of gold?"

"Why not? It's an opportunity."

"What for?" Buck inquired, without a semblance of enthusiasm.

"Why, for going ahead—with other folks."

Buck nodded.

"I know. Goin' to a city with a big pile. A big house. Elegant clothes. Hired servants. Congress. Goin' around with a splash of big type in the noospapers."

"That's not quite all, Buck." The man at the door shook his head. "A man when he rises doesn't need to go in for—well, for vulgar display. There are a heap of other things besides. What about the intellectual side of civilization? What about the advancement of good causes? What about—well, all those things we reckon worth while out here? Then, too, you'll be marrying some day."

Buck picked up the dust and carefully emptied it into the blazing stove. He watched it burn for a moment, and then replaced the round iron top.

"Marryin' needs—all those things?" he inquired at last.

"Well, I wouldn't say that," returned the other quickly. He knew something was lying behind Buck's quiet manner, and it made him a little uncomfortable. "Most men find a means of marrying when they want to—if they're men. Look here," he went on, with a sudden outburst of simple candor, "I want to be fair to you, and I want you to be fair to yourself. There's an opportunity over there"—he pointed with his pipe in the direction of Devil's Hill—"an opportunity to make a pile, which will help you to take a position in the world. I don't want you to stay with me from any mistaken sense of gratitude or duty. It is my lot, and my desire, to remain in these hills. But you—you've got your life before you. You can rise to the top if you want to. I know you. I know your capacity. Take your share of the farm money, and—get busy."

"An' if I don't want to—get busy?" Buck's dark eyes were alight with a curious, intense warmth.

The Padre shrugged and pushed his pipe into the corner of his mouth.

"There's nothing more to be said," he replied.

"But ther' is, Padre. There sure is," cried Buck, stepping over to him and laying one hand on the great shoulder nearest him. "I get all you say. I've got it long ago. You bin worryin' to say all this since ever you got back from sellin' the farm. An' it's like you. But you an' me don't jest figger alike. You got twenty more years of the world than me, so your eyes look around you different. That's natural. You're guessin' that hill is an opportunity for me. Wal, I'm guessin' it ain't. Mebbe it is for others, but not for me. I got my opportunity twenty years ago, an' you give me that opportunity. I was starvin' to death then, an' you helped me out. You're my opportunity, an' it makes me glad to think of it. Wher' you go I go, an' when we both done, why, I guess it won't be hard to see that what I done an' what you done was meant for us both to do. We're huntin' pelts for a livin' now, an' when the time comes for us to quit it, why, we'll both quit it together, an' so it'll go on. It don't matter wher' it takes us. Say," he went on, turning away abruptly. "Guess I'll jest haul the drinkin' water before I get."

The Padre turned his quiet eyes on the slim back.

"And what about when you think of marrying?" he asked shrewdly.

Buck paused to push the boiler off the stove. He shook his head and pointed at the sky.

"Guess the sun's gettin' up," he said.

The Padre laughed and prepared to depart.

"Where you off to this morning?" he inquired presently.

"That gal ain't got a hired man, yet," Buck explained simply, as he picked up his saddle. Then he added ingenuously, "Y' see I don't guess she ken do the chores, an' the old woman ain't got time to—for talkin'."

The Padre nodded while he bent over the breech of his Winchester. He had no wish for Buck to see the smile his words had conjured.

Buck swung his saddle on to his shoulder and passed out of the hut in the direction of the building he had converted into a barn. And when he had gone the Padre looked after him.

"He says she's handsome, with red-gold hair and blue eyes," he murmured. Then a far-away look stole into his steady eyes, and their stare fixed itself upon the doorway of the barn through which Buck had just vanished. "Curious," he muttered. "They've nicknamed her 'Golden,' which happened to be a nickname—her father gave her."

He stood for some moments lost in thought. Then, suddenly pulling himself together, he shouldered his rifle and disappeared into the woods.



CHAPTER XIV

A WHIRLWIND VISIT

Joan was idling dispiritedly over her breakfast. A long, wakeful night had at last ended in the usual aching head and eyes ringed with shadows. She felt dreary, and looked forward drearily to inspecting her farm—which, in her normal state, would have inspired nothing but perfect delight—with something like apprehension.

Her beginning in the new life had been swamped in a series of disastrous events which left her convinced of the impossibility of escape from the painful shadow of the past. All night her brain had been whirling in a perfect chaos of thought as she reviewed her advent to the farm. There had been nothing, from her point of view, but disaster upon disaster. First her arrival. Then—why, then the "luck" of the gold find. In her eyes, what was that but the threat of disaster to come? Had not her aunt told her that this extraordinary luck that she must ever bring was part of the curse shadowing her life? Then the coincidence of her nickname. It was truly hideous. The very incongruity of it made it seem the most terrible disaster of all. Surely, more than anything else, it pointed the hand of Fate. It was her father's nickname for her, and he—he had been the worst sufferer at her hands.

The whole thing seemed so hopeless, so useless. What was the use of her struggle against this hateful fate? A spirit of rebellion urged her, and she felt half-inclined to abandon herself to the life that was hers; to harden herself, and, taking the cup life offered her, drain it to the dregs. Why should she waste her life battling with a force which seemed all-powerful? Why should she submit to the terror of it? What were the affairs of these others to her? She was not responsible. Nothing in the whole sane world of ethics could hold her responsible.

The spirit of rebellion, for the moment, obtained the upper hand. She had youth; Fortune had bestowed a face and figure upon her that she need not be ashamed of, and a healthy capacity for enjoyment. Then why should she abandon all these gifts because of a fate for which she was in no way responsible?

She pushed back her chair from the table, and crossed to the open front door.

The sun was not yet up, and the morning air was dewy and fresh with perfumes such as she had never experienced in St. Ellis. It was—yes, it was good to be alive on such a day in spite of everything.

She glanced out over the little farm—her farm. Yes, it was all hers, bought and paid for, and she still had money for all her needs and to do those things she wanted to do. She turned away and looked back into the little parlor with its simple furnishings, its mannish odds and ends upon the wall. She heard the sounds of the old housekeeper busy in her heavy, blundering way with the domestic work of her home. She had so many plans for the future, and every one in its inception had given her the greatest delight. Now—now this hideous skeleton had stepped from its cupboard and robbed her of every joy. No, she would not stand it. She would steel her heart to these stupid, girlish superstitions. She would—

Her gloomy reflections were abruptly cut short. There was a rush and clatter. In a perfect whirlwind of haste a horseman dashed up, dragged his horse back on to its haunches as he pulled up, and flung out of the saddle.

It was the boy, Montana Ike. He grabbed his disreputable hat from his ginger head, and stared agape at the vision of loveliness he had come in search of.

"Good—good-morning," Joan said, hardly knowing how to greet this strange apparition.

The boy nodded, and moistened his lips as though consumed by a sudden thirst.

For a moment they stared stupidly at each other. Then Joan, feeling the awkwardness of the situation, endeavored to relieve it.

"Daylight?" she exclaimed interrogatively, "and you not yet out at the—where the gold is?"

Ike shook his head and grinned the harder. Then his tongue loosened, and his words came with a sudden rush that left the girl wondering.

"Y' see the folks is eatin' breakfast," he said. "Y' see I jest cut it right out, an' come along. I heard Pete—you know Blue Grass Pete—he's a low-down Kentuckian—he said he tho't some un orter git around hyar case you was queer after last night. Sed he guessed he would. Guess I'll git back 'fore they're busy. It'll take 'em all hustlin' to git ahead o' me."

"That's very kind," Joan replied mechanically. But the encouragement was scarcely needed. The boy rushed on, like a river in flood time.

"Oh, it ain't zac'ly kind!" he said. "Y' see they're mostly a low-down lot, an' Pete's the low-downest. He's bad, is Pete, an' ain't no bizness around a leddy. Then Beasley Melford. He's jest a durned skunk anyways. Don't guess Curly Saunders ain't much account neither. He makes you sick to death around a whisky bottle. Abe Allinson, he's sort o' mean, too. Y' see Abe's Slaney Dick's pardner, an' they bin workin' gold so long they ain't got a tho't in their gray heads 'cept gold an' rot-gut rye. Still, they're better'n the Kid. The Kid's soft, so we call him Soapy. Guess you orter know 'em all right away. Y' see it's easy a gal misbelievin' the rights o' folks."

Joan smiled. Something of the man's object was becoming plain.

She studied his face while he was proceeding to metaphorically nail up each of these men's coffins, and the curious animal alertness of it held her interest. His eyes were wide and restless, and a hardness marked the corners of his rather loose mouth. She wondered if that hardness were natural, or whether it had been acquired in the precarious life that these people lived.

"It's just as well to know—everybody," she said gently.

"Oh, it sure is, in a country like this," the man went on confidently. "That's why I come along. Fellers chasin' gold is a hell of a bad outfit. Y' see, I ain't bin long chasin' gold, an' I don't figger to keep at it long neither. Y' see, I got a good claim. Guess it's sure the best. We drew lots for 'em last night. It was the Padre fixed that up. He's a great feller, the Padre. An' I got the best one—wher' the Padre found that nugget you got. Oh, I'm lucky—dead lucky! Guess I'll git a pile out o' my claim, sure. A great big pile. Then I'm goin' to live swell in a big city an' have a great big outfit of folks workin' fer me. An' I'll git hooked up with a swell gal. It'll be a bully proposition. Guess the gal'll be lucky, cos I'll have such a big pile."

The youngster's enthusiasm and conceit were astounding. Nor could Joan help the coldness they inspired in her voice.

"She will be lucky—marrying you," she agreed. "But—aren't you afraid you'll miss something if the others get out to the hill before you? I mean, they being such a bad lot."

The man became serious for a second before he answered. Then, in a moment, his face brightened into a grin of confidence.

"Course you can't trust 'em," he said, quite missing Joan's desire to be rid of him. "But I don't guess any of 'em's likely to try monkey tricks. Guess if any feller robbed me I'd shoot him down in his tracks. They know that, sure. Oh, no, they won't play no monkey tricks. An' anyway, I ain't givin' 'em a chance."

He moved toward his horse and replaced the reins over its neck in spite of his brave words. Joan understood. She saw the meanness underlying his pretended solicitation for her well-being. All her sex instincts were aroused, and she quite understood the purpose of the somewhat brutal youth.

"You're quite right to give them no chances," she said coldly. "And now, I s'pose, you're going right out to your claim?"

"I am that," exclaimed the other, with a gleam of cupidity in his shifty eyes. "I'm goin' right away to dig lumps of gold fer to buy di'monds fer that gal."

He laughed uproariously at his pleasantry as he leapt into the saddle. But in a moment his mirth had passed, and his whole expression suddenly hardened as he bent down from the saddle.

"But ef Pete comes around you git busy an' boot him right out. Pete's bad—a real bad un. He's wuss'n Beasley. Wal, I won't say he's wuss. But he's as bad. Git me?"

Joan nodded. She had no alternative. The fellow sickened her. She had been ready to meet him as one of these irresponsible people, ignorant, perhaps dissipated, but at least well-meaning. But here she found the lower, meaner traits of manhood she thought were only to be found amongst the dregs of a city. It was not a pleasant experience, and she was glad to be rid of him.

"I think I understand. Good-bye."

"You're a bright gal, you sure are," the youth vouchsafed cordially. "I guessed you'd understand. I like gals who understand quick. That's the sort o' gal I'm goin' to hitch up with." He grinned, and crushed his hat well down on his head. "Wal, so long. See you ag'in. Course I can't git around till after I finish on my claim. Guess you won't feel lonesome tho', you got to git your farm fixed right. Wal, so long."

Joan nodded as the man rode off, thankful for the termination of his vicious, whirlwind visit. Utterly disgusted, she turned back to the house to find Mrs. Ransford standing in the doorway.

"What's he want?" the old woman demanded in her most uncompromising manner.

The girl laughed mirthlessly.

"I think he wants a little honesty and kindliness knocked into his very warped nature," she declared, with a sigh.

"Warped? Warped?" The old woman caught at the word, and it seemed to set her groping in search of adequate epithets in which to express her feelings. "I don't know what that means. But he's it anyways—they all are."

And she vanished again into the culinary kingdom over which she presided.



CHAPTER XV

THE CLAIMS OF DUTY

Half an hour later Joan left the house for the barn.

In that brief space she had lived through one of those swiftly-passing epochs in human life when mind, heart and inclination are brought into something approaching actual conflict. But, stern as the fight with weakness had been, she had emerged chastened and victorious. Realization had come to her—realization of whither her troubles had been leading her. She knew she must not abandon herself to the selfishness which her brief rebellion had prompted. She was young, inexperienced, and of a highly-sensitive temperament, but she was not weak. And it was this fact which urged her now. Metaphorically speaking, she had determined to tackle life with shirt sleeves rolled up.

She knew that duty was not only duty, but something which was to yield her a measure of happiness. She knew, too, that duty was not only to be regarded from a point of view of its benefit to others. There was a duty to oneself—which must not be claimed for the sin of selfishness—just as surely as to others; that in its thoroughness of performance lay the secret of all that was worth having in life, and that the disobedience of the laws of such duty, the neglect of them, was to outrage the canons of all life's ethics, and to bring down upon the head of the offender the inevitable punishment.

She must live her life calmly, honestly, whatever the fate hanging over her. That was the first and most important decision she arrived at. She must not weakly yield to panic inspired by superstitious dread. To do so was, she felt, to undermine her whole moral being. She must ignore this shadow, she must live a life that defied its power. And when the cloud grew too black, if that method were not sufficient to dispel it, she must appeal for alleviation and support from that Power which would never deny its weak and helpless creatures. She knew that human endurance of suffering was intended to be limited, and that when that limit was honestly reached support was still waiting for the sufferer.

Thus she left the house in a chastened spirit, and once more full of youthful courage. The work, the new life she had chosen for herself, must fill every moment of her waking hours. And somehow she felt that with her stern resolve had come a foretaste of that happiness she demanded of life. Her spirits rose as she neared the barn, and a wild excitement filled her as she contemplated a minute inspection of her belongings and her intention to personally minister to their wants.

Something of the instinct of motherhood stirred in her veins at the thought. These were hers to care for—hers to attend and "do" for. She laughed as she thought of the family awaiting her. What a family. Yes, why not? These creatures were for the guardianship of the human race. With all their physical might they were helpless dependents on human aid. Yes, they must be thought for and cared for. They were her family. And she laughed again.

The barn was a sturdy building. Nor was it unpicturesque with its solid, dovetailed lateral logs and heavy thatched roof. She saw that it was built with the same care and finish as the house that was now her home. She could not help wondering at the manner of man who had designed and built it. She saw in it such deliberateness, such skill. There was nothing here of the slap-dash prairie carpenter she had read of—the man who flung up buildings simply for the needs of the moment. These were buildings that might last for ages and still retain all their original weather-proof comfort for the creatures they sheltered. She felt pleased with this man Moreton Kenyon.

She passed round the angle of the building to the doorway, and paused for a moment to admire the scheme of the farm. Every building fronted on a largish open space, which was split by the waters of Yellow Creek, beyond which lay the corrals. Here was forethought. The operative part of the farm was hidden from the house, and every detail of it was adjacent one to another. There was the wagon shed with a wagon in it, and harvesting implements stabled in perfect order. There were the hog-pens, the chicken-houses; the sheds for milch cows. There was the barn and the miniature grain store; then, across the creek, a well, with accompanying drinking-trough, corrals with lowing kine in them; a branding cage. And beyond these she could see a vista of fenced pastures.

As she stood reveling in the survey of her little possession the thought recurred to her that this was hers, all hers. It was the home of her family, and she laughed still more happily as she passed into the barn.

Pushing the door open she found herself greeted in the half-light by a chorus of equine whinnying such as she had never before experienced, and the sound thrilled her. There stood the team of great Clydesdale horses, their long, fiddle heads turned round staring at her with softly inquiring eyes. She wanted to cry out in her joy, but, restraining herself, walked up beside the nearest of them and patted its glossy sides. Her touch was a caress which more than gave expression to her delight.

Those were precious moments to Joan. They were so precious, indeed, that she quite forgot the purpose which had brought her there. She forgot that it was hers to tend and feed these great, helpless creatures. It was enough for her to sit on the swinging bail between the stalls, and revel in the gentle nuzzling of two velvety noses. In those first moments her sensations were unforgettable. The joy of it all held her in its thrall, and, for the moment at least, there was nothing else in the world.

The moments passed unheeded. Every sound was lost to her. And so it came about that she did not hear the galloping of a horse approaching. She did not hear it come to a halt near by. She did not even notice the figure that presently filled the doorway. And only did her first realization of the intrusion come with the pleasant sound of a man's deep voice.

"Bob an' Kitty's kind o' friendly, Miss Joan," it said.

The girl turned with a jump and found herself confronted by Buck's smiling face. And oddly enough her first flash of thought was that this man had used her own name, and not her nickname, and she was grateful to him.

Then she saw that he had the fork in his hand with which she had first seen him, and she remembered his overnight promise to do those very things for her which she had set out to do, but, alas! had forgotten all about.

His presence became a reproach at once, and a slight pucker of displeasure drew her even brows together.

"You're very kind," she began, "but——"

Buck's smile broadened.

"'But's' a ter'ble word," he said. "It most always goes ahead of something unpleasant." He quietly laid the fork aside, and, gathering an armful of hay, proceeded to fill Kitty's manger. "Now what you wer' going to say was something like that old—I mean your housekeeper—said, only you wouldn't say it so mean. You jest want to say I'm not to git around doing the chores here for the reason you can't accept favors, an' you don't guess it would be right to offer me pay, same as a 'hired' man."

He hayed Bob's manger, and then loosened both horses' collar chains.

"If you'll sit on the oat-box I'll turn 'em round an' take 'em to water at the trough. That's it."

Joan obeyed him without a word, and the horses were led out. And while they were gone the girl was left to an unpleasant contemplation of the situation. She determined to deal with the matter boldly, however, and began the moment he returned.

"You're quite right, Mr. Buck," she began.

"Buck—jest plain Buck," he interrupted her. "But I hadn't jest finished," he went on deliberately. "I want to show you how you can't do those things the old—your housekeeper was yearnin' to do. Y' see, you can't get a 'hired' man nearer than Leeson Butte. You can't get him in less'n two weeks. You can't do the chores yourself, an' that old—your housekeeper ain't fit to do anything but make hash. Then you can't let the stock go hungry. Besides all of which you're doing me a real kindness letting me help you out. Ther's no favor to you. It's sure to me, an' these creatures which can't do things for themselves. So it would be a sound proposition to cut that 'but' right out of our talk an' send word to your lawyer feller in Leeson Butte for a 'hired' man. An' when he gits around, why—well, you won't be needin' me."

All the time he was speaking his fork was busy clearing the stalls of their litter, and, at the finish, he leant on the haft of it and quizzically smiled into the girl's beautiful, half-troubled face.

Joan contemplated protesting, but somehow his manner was so friendly, so frank and honest, that she felt it would be ungracious of her. Finally he won the day, and she broke into a little laugh of yielding.

"You talk too—too well for me," she cried. "I oughtn't to accept," she added. "I know I oughtn't, but what am I to do? I can't do—these things." Then she added regretfully: "And I thought it would be all so simple."

Buck saw her disappointment, and it troubled him. He felt in a measure responsible, so he hastened to make amends.

"Wal, y' see, men are rough an' strong. They can do the things needed around a farm. I don't guess women wer' made for—for the rough work of life. It ain't a thing to feel mean about. It's jest in the nature of things."

Joan nodded. All the time he was speaking she had been studying him, watching the play of expression upon his mobile features rather than paying due attention to his words.

She decided that she liked the look of him. It was not that he was particularly handsome. He seemed so strong, and yet so—so unconcerned. She wondered if that were only his manner. She knew that often volcanic natures, reckless, were hidden under a perfect calm. She wondered if it were so in his case. His eyes were so full of a brilliant dark light. Yes, surely this man roused might be an interesting personality. She remembered him last night. She remembered the strange, superheated fire in those same eyes when he had hurled the gold at her feet. Yes, she felt sure a tremendous force lay behind his calmness of manner.

The man's thoughts were far less analytical. His was not the nature to search the psychology of a beautiful girl. To him Joan was the most wonderful thing on earth. She was something to be reverenced, to be worshipped. His imagination, fired by all his youthful impulse, endowed her with every gift that the mind of simple manhood could conceive, every virtue, every beauty of mind as well as body.

Joan watched him for some moments as he continued his work. It was wonderful how easy he made it seem, how quickly it was done. She even found herself regretting that in a few minutes the morning "chores" would be finished, and this man would be away to—where?

"You must have been up very early to get over here," she said designedly. Her girlish curiosity and interest could no longer be denied. She must find out what he was and what he did for a living.

"I'm mostly up early," he replied simply.

"Yes, of course. But—you have your own—stock to see to?"

She felt quite pleased with her cunning. But her pleasure was short-lived.

"Sure," he returned, with disarming frankness.

"It really doesn't seem fair that you should have the double work," she went on, with another attempt to penetrate his reserve.

Buck's smile was utterly baffling. He walked to the door of the barn and gave a prolonged, low whistle. Then he came back.

"It sure wouldn't be fair if I didn't," he said simply.

"But you must have heaps to do on your—farm," Joan went on, feeling that she was on the right track at last "Look at what you're doing for me. These horses, the cattle, the—the pigs and things. I've no doubt you have much more to see to of your own."

At that moment the head of Caesar appeared in the doorway. He stared round the familiar stable evidently searching for his master. Finally catching sight of him, he clattered in to the place and rubbed his handsome head against Buck's shoulder.

"This is my stock," Buck said, affectionately rubbing the creature's nose. "An' I generally manage to see to him while the kettle's boilin' for breakfast."

Just for a moment Joan felt abashed at her deliberate attempt to pump her companion. Then the quick, inquiring survey of the beautiful horse was too much for her, and she left her seat to join in the caresses.

"Isn't he a beauty?" she cried, smoothing his silken face from the star on his forehead to the tip of his wide muzzle.

Just for a second her hand came into contact with the man's, and, all unconscious, she let it remain. Then suddenly realizing the position she drew it away rather sharply.

Buck made no move, but had she only looked up she must have noted the sudden pallor of his face. That brief touch, so unconscious, so unmeaning, had again set his pulses hammering through his body. And it had needed all his control to repress the fiery impulse that stirred him. He longed to kiss that soft white hand. He longed to take it in his own strong palms and hold it for his own, to keep it forever. But the moment passed, and when he spoke it was in the same pleasant, easy fashion.

"I kind o' thought I ought to let him go with the farm," he said, "only the Padre wouldn't think of it. He'd have made a dandy feller for you to ride."

But Joan was up in arms in a moment.

"I'd never have forgiven you if you'd parted with him," she cried. "He's—he's perfectly beautiful."

Buck nodded.

"He's a good feller." And his tone said far more than his words.

He led the beast to the door, and, giving him an affectionate slap, sent him trotting off.

"I must git busy," he said, with a laugh. "The hay needs cuttin'. Guess I'll cut till dinner. After that I've got to quit till sundown. I'll go right on cuttin' each mornin' till your 'hired' man comes along. Y' see if it ain't cut now we'll be too late. I'll just throw the harness on Kitty an' Bob an' leave 'em to git through with their feed while I see the hogs fed. Guess that old—your housekeeper can milk? I ran the cows into the corral as I came up. Seems to me she could do most things she got fixed on doing."

Joan laughed.

"She was 'fixed' on sending you about what she called 'your business,'" she said slyly.

Buck raised his brows in mock chagrin.

"Guess she succeeded, too. I sure got busy right away—until you come along, and—and got me quittin'."

"Oh!" Joan stared at him with round eyes of reproach. Then she burst out laughing. "Well, now you shall hear the truth for that, and you'll have to answer me too, Mr. Buck."

"Buck—jest plain Buck."

The girl made an impatient little movement.

"Well, then, 'Buck.' I simply came along to thank you, and to tell you that I couldn't allow your help—except as a 'hired' man. And—I'm afraid you'll think me very curious—I came to find out who you were, and how you came to find me and bring me home here. And—and I wanted to know—well, everything about my arrival. And you—you've made it all very difficult. You—insist on doing all this for me. You're—you're not so kind as I thought."

Joan's complaint was made half-laughingly and half-seriously. Buck saw the reality underlying her words, but determined to ignore it and only answer her lighter manner.

"If you'd only asked me these things I'd have told you right away," he protested, smiling. "Y' see you never asked me."

"I—I was trying to," Joan said feebly.

Buck paused in the act of securing Kitty's harness.

"That old—your housekeeper wouldn't ha' spent a deal of time trying," he said dryly.

Joan ignored the allusion.

"I don't believe you intend to tell me now," she said.

Buck left the stall and stood before the corn-box. His eyes were still smiling though his manner was tremendously serious.

"You're wantin' to know who I am," he said. Then he paused, glancing out of the doorway, and the girl watched the return of that thoughtful expression which she had come to associate with his usual manner. "Wal," he said at last, in his final way, "I'm Buck, and I was picked up on the trail-side, starving, twenty years ago by the Padre. He's raised me, an' we're big friends. An' now, since we sold his farm, we're living at the old fur fort, back ther' in the hills, and we're goin' to get a living pelt hunting. I've got no folks, an' no name except Buck. I was called Buck. All I can remember is that my folks were farmers, but got burnt out in a prairie fire, and—burnt to death. That's why I was on the trail starving when the Padre found me."

Joan's eyes had softened with a gentle sympathy, but she offered no word.

"'Bout the other," the man went on, turning back to the girl, and letting his eyes rest on her fair face, "that's easy, too. I was at the shack of the boys in the storm. You come along an' wer' lying right ther' on the door-sill when I found you. I jest carried you right here. Y' see, I guessed who you wer'. Your cart was wrecked on the bank o' the creek——"

"And the teamster?" Joan's eyes were eagerly appealing.

Buck turned away.

"Oh, guess he was ther' too." Then he abruptly moved toward the horses. "Say, I'll get on an' cut that hay."

Joan understood. She knew that the teamster was dead. She sighed deeply, and as the sound reached him Buck looked round. It was on the tip of his tongue to say some word of comfort, for he knew that Joan had understood that the man was dead, but the girl herself, under the influence of her new resolve, made it unnecessary. She rose from her seat, and her manner suggested a forced lightness.

"I'll go and feed the chickens," she said. "I—I ought to be capable of doing that."

Buck smiled as he prepared to go and see to the hogs.

"Guess you won't have trouble—if you know what to give 'em," he said.

Nor was he quite sure if the girl were angry or smiling as she hurried out of the barn.



CHAPTER XVI

GOLD AND ALLOY

The seedling of success planted in rank soil generally develops a wild, pernicious growth which, until the summer of its life has passed, is untameable and pollutes all that with which it comes into contact. The husbandman may pluck at its roots, but the seed is flung broadcast, and he finds himself wringing his hands helplessly in the wilderness.

So it was on the banks of Yellow Creek. The seedling was already flinging its tendrils and fastening tightly upon the life of the little camp. The change had come within three weeks of the moment when the Padre had gazed upon that first wonderful find of gold. So rapid was its development that it was almost staggering to the man who stood by watching the result of the news he had first carried to the camp.

The Padre wandered the hills with trap and gun. Nothing could win him from the pursuit which was his. But his eyes were wide open to those things which had somehow become the care of his leisure. Many of his evenings were spent in the camp, and there he saw and heard the things which, in his working moments, gave him food for a disquietude of thought.

He knew that the luck that had come to the camp was no ordinary luck. His first find had suggested something phenomenal, but it was nothing to the reality. A wealth almost incalculable had been yielded by a prodigal Nature. Every claim into which he, with the assistance of the men of the camp, had divided the find, measured carefully and balloted for, was rich beyond all dreams. Two or three were richer than the others, but this was the luck of the ballot, and the natural envy inspired thereby was of a comparatively harmless character.

At first the thought of these things was one of a pleasant satisfaction. These men had waited, and suffered, and starved for their chance, and he was glad their chance had come. How many had waited, and suffered and starved, as they had done, and done all those things in vain? Yes, it was a pleasant thought, and it gave him zest and hope in his own life.

The first days passed in a perfect whirlwind of joy. Where before had sounded only the moanings of despair, now the banks of Yellow Creek rang with laughter and joyous voices, bragging, hoping, jesting. One and all saw their long-dimmed hopes looming bright in the prospect of fulfilment.

Then came a change. Just at first it was hardly noticeable. But it swiftly developed, and the shrewd mind of the watcher in the hills realized that the days of halcyon were passing all too swiftly. Men were no longer satisfied with hopes. They wanted realities.

To want the realities with their simple, unrestrained passions, and the means of obtaining them at their disposal, was to demand them. To demand them was to have them. They wanted a saloon. They wanted an organized means of gambling, they wanted a town, with all its means of satisfying appetites that had all too long hungered for what they regarded as the necessary pleasures of life. They wanted a means of spending the accumulations gleaned from the ample purse of mother Nature. And, in a moment, they set about the work of possessing these things.

As is always the case the means was not far to seek. It needed but one mind, keener in self-interest than the rest, and that mind was to hand. Beasley Melford, at no time a man who cared for the physical hardships of the life of these people, saw his opportunity and snatched it. He saw in it a far greater gold-mine than his own claim could ever yield him, and he promptly laid his plans.

He set to work without any noise, any fuss. He was too foxy to shout until his purpose was beyond all possibility of failure. He simply disappeared from the camp for a week. His absence was noted, but no one cared. They were too full of their own affairs. The only people who thought on the matter were the Padre and Buck. Nor did they speak of it until he had been missing four days. Then it was, one evening as they were returning from their traps, the Padre gave some inkling of what had been busy in his thoughts all day.

"It's queer about Beasley," he said, pausing to look back over a great valley out of which they had just climbed, and beyond which the westering sun was shining upon the distant snow-fields.

Buck turned sharply at the sound of his companion's voice. They were not given to talking much out on these hills.

"He's been away nigh four days," he said, and took the opportunity of shifting his burden of six freshly-taken fox pelts and lighting his pipe.

The Padre nodded.

"I think he'll be back soon," he said. Then he added slowly: "It seems a pity."

"His coming back?" Buck eyed his companion quickly.

"Yes."

"Wher' d'you reckon he's gone?"

The elder man raised a pair of astonished brows.

"Why, to Leeson Butte," he said decidedly. Then he went on quietly, but with neither doubt nor hesitation: "There's a real big change coming here—when Beasley gets back. These men want drink, they are getting restless for high play. They are hankering for—for the flesh-pots they think their gold entitles them to. Beasley will give them all those things when he comes back. It's a pity."

Buck thought for some moments before he answered. He was viewing the prospect from the standpoint of his years.

"They must sure have had 'em anyway," he said at last.

"Ye—es."

The Padre understood what was in the other's mind.

"You see," he went on presently, "I wasn't thinking of that so much. It's—well, it amounts to this. These poor devils are just working to fill Beasley's pockets. Beasley's the man who'll benefit by this 'strike.' In a few months the others will be on the road again, going through all—that they've gone through before."

"I guess they will," Buck agreed. His point of view had changed. He was seeing through the older eyes. After that they moved on toward their home lost in the thoughts which their brief talk had inspired.

In a few days the Padre's prophecy was fulfilled. Beasley returned from Leeson Butte at the head of a small convoy. He had contrived his negotiations with a wonderful skill and foresight. His whole object had been secrecy, and this had been difficult. To shout the wealth of the camp in Leeson Butte would have been to bring instantly an avalanche of adventurers and speculators to the banks of Yellow Creek. His capital was limited to the small amount he had secretly hoarded while his comrades were starving, and the gold he had taken from his claim. The latter was his chief asset not from its amount, but its nature. Therefore he had been forced to take the leading merchant in the little prairie city into his confidence, and to suggest a partnership. This he had done, and a plausible tongue, and the sight of the wonderful raw gold, had had the effect he desired. The partnership was arranged, the immediate finance was forthcoming, and, for the time at least, Leeson Butte was left in utter ignorance of its neighboring Eldorado.

Once he had made his deal with Silas McGinnis, Beasley promptly opened his heart in characteristic fashion.

"They're all sheep, every one of 'em," he beamed upon his confederate. "They'll be so easy fleecin' it seems hardly worth while. All they need is liquor, and cards, and dice. Yes, an' a few women hangin' around. You can leave the rest to themselves. We'll get the gilt, and to hell with the dough under it. Gee, it's an elegant proposition!" And he rubbed his hands gleefully. "But ther' must be no delay. We must get busy right away before folks get wind of the luck. I'll need marquees an' things until I can get a reg'lar shanty set up. Have you got a wood spoiler you can trust?"

McGinnis nodded.

"Then weight him down with money so we don't need to trust him too much, and ship him out with the lumber so he can begin right away. We're goin' to make an elegant pile."

In his final remark lay the key-note of his purpose. But the truth of it would have been infinitely more sure had the pronoun been singular.

Never was so much popularity extended to Beasley in his life as at the moment of his return to camp. When the gold-seekers beheld his convoy, with the wagons loaded with all those things their hearts and stomachs craved, the majority found themselves in a condition almost ready to fling welcoming arms about his neck. Their wishes had been expressed, their demands made, and now, here they were fulfilled.

A rush of trade began almost before the storekeeper's marquee was erected. It began without regard to cost, at least on the purchasers' parts. The currency was gold, weighed in scales which Beasley had provided, and his exorbitant charges remained quite unheeded by the reckless creatures he had marked down for his victims.

In twenty-four hours the camp was in high revelry. In forty-eight Beasley's rough organization was nearing completion. And long before half those hours had passed gold was pouring into the storekeeper's coffers at a pace he had never even dreamed of.

But the first rush was far too strenuous to be maintained for long. The strain was too great even for such wild spirits as peopled the camp. It soared to its height with a dazzling rapidity, culminating in a number of quarrels and fights, mixed up with some incipient shooting, after which a slight reaction set in which reduced it to a simmer at a magnificently profitable level for the foxy storekeeper. Still, there remained ample evidence that the Devil was rioting in the camp and would continue to do so just as long as the lure of gold could tempt his victims.

Then came the inevitable. In a few days it became apparent that the news of the "strike" had percolated abroad. Beasley's attempt at secrecy had lasted him just sufficiently long to establish himself as the chief trader. Then came the rush from the outside.

It was almost magical the change that occurred in one day. The place became suddenly alive with strangers from Leeson Butte and Bay Creek, and even farther afield. Legitimate traders came to spy out the land. Loafers came in and sat about waiting for developments. Gamblers, suave, easy, ingratiating, foregathered and started the ball of high stakes rolling. And in their wake came all that class of carrion which is ever seeking something for nothing. But the final brand of lawlessness was set on the camp by the arrival of a number of jaded, painted women, who took up their abode in a disused shack sufficiently adjacent to Beasley's store to suit their purposes. It was all very painful, all very deplorable. Yet it was the perfectly natural evolution of a successful mining camp—a place where, before the firm hand of Morality can obtain its restraining grip, human nature just runs wild.

The seedling had grown. Its rank tendrils were everywhere reaching out and choking all the better life about it. Its seeds were scattered broadcast and had germinated as only such seeds can. It only remained for the husbandman to gaze regretful and impotent upon his handiwork. His hand had planted the seedling, and now—already the wilderness was beyond all control.

Something of this was in the Padre's mind as he sat in his doorway awaiting Buck's return for the night. The dusk was growing, and already the shadows within the ancient stockade were black with approaching night. The waiting man had forgotten his pipe, so deeply was he engrossed with his thoughts, and it rested cold in his powerful hand.

He sat on oblivious of everything but that chain of calm reasoning with which he tried to tell himself that the things happening down there on the banks of the Yellow Creek must be. He told himself that he had always known it; that the very fact of this lawlessness pointed the camp's prosperity, and showed how certainly the luck had come to stay. Later, order would be established out of the chaos, but for the moment there was nothing to be done but—wait. All this he told himself, but it left him dissatisfied, and his thoughts concentrated upon the one person he blamed for all the mischief. Beasley was the man—and he felt that wherever Beasley might be, trouble would never be far——What was that?

An unusual sound had caught and held his attention. He rose quickly from his seat and stood peering out into the darkness which he had failed to notice creeping on him. There was no mistaking it. The sound of running feet was quite plain. Why running?

He turned about and moved over to the arm rack. The next moment he was in the doorway again with his Winchester at his side.

A few moments later a short, stocky man leapt out of the darkness and halted before him. As the Padre recognized him his finger left the trigger of his gun.

"For Gawd's sake don't shoot, Padre!"

It was Curly Saunders' voice, and the other laid his gun aside.

"What's amiss?" demanded the Padre, noting the man's painful gasping for breath.

For a moment Curly hesitated. Then, finally, between heavy breaths he answered the challenge.

"I got mad with the Kid—Soapy," he said. "Guess I shot him up. He ain't dead an' ain't goin' to die, but Beasley, curse him, set 'em on to lynch me. They're all mad drunk—guess I was, too, 'fore I started to run—an' they come hot foot after me. I jest got legs of 'em an' come along here. It's—it's a mighty long ways."

The Padre listened without moving a muscle—the story so perfectly fitted in with his thoughts.

"The Kid isn't dead? He isn't going to die?" His voice had neither condemnation nor sympathy in it.

"No. It's jest a flesh wound on the outside of his thigh."

"What was the trouble?"