"Why, the durned young skunk wus jest tryin' to set them—them women payin' a 'party' call on the gal at the farm, an' they wus drunk enough to do it. It made me mad—an'—an', wal, we got busy with our tongues, an' I shot him up fair an' squar'."

"And how about Beasley?"

"Why, it was him set the Kid to git the women on the racket. When he see how I'd stopped it he got madder than hell, an' went right out fer lynchin' me. The boys wus drunk enough to listen to his lousy talk."

"Was he drunk?"

"Not on your life. Beasley's too sweet on the dollars. But I guess he's got his knife into that Golden Woman of ours."

The Padre had no more questions to ask. He dropped back into the room and lit the oil lamp.

"Come right in, Curly," he said kindly. Then he laid his rifle on the table and pointed at it. "The magazine's loaded plumb up. Guess no man has a right to give up his life without a kick. That'll help you if they come along—which they won't. Maybe Buck'll be along directly. Don't shoot him down. Anyway he's got Caesar with him—so you'll know. I'm going down to the camp."

For a second the two men looked into each other's eyes. The Padre read the suspicion in Curly's. He also saw the unhealthy lines in his cheeks and round his mouth. Nor could he help feeling disgusted at the thoughts of the fortune that had come to the camp and brought all these hideous changes in its wake.

He shook his head.

"I'm not giving you away," he said. "Guess I'll be back in an hour."

Curly nodded and moved over to one of the two chairs.

"Thanks, Padre," he said as the other passed quickly out of the room.



CHAPTER XVII

TWO POINTS OF VIEW

Beasley Melford was in a detestable mood. For one reason his miserable bar was empty of all customers, and, for another, he knew that he was responsible for the fact.

Had he any sense of humor, the absurdity of the thing must have forced itself upon him and possibly helped to improve his temper. But he had no humor, and so abandoned himself to the venomous temper that was practically the mainspring of his life.

He cursed his absent customers. He cursed the man, Curly Saunders. He cursed the girl whom the trouble had been about. But more than all he cursed himself for his own folly in permitting a desire to bait Joan Rest to interfere with his business.

In his restless mood he sought to occupy himself, and, nothing else offering, he cleared his rough counter of glasses, plunged them into a bucket of filthy water, and set them out to drain. Then he turned his attention to his two oil lamps. He snuffed them with his dirty fingers in a vain attempt to improve their miserable light. Then, seating himself upon his counter, he lit a cheap green cigar and prepared to wait.

"Damn 'em all anyway," he muttered comprehensively, and abandoned himself to watching the hands of a cheap alarm clock creeping on toward the hour of nine.

Apparently the soothing influence of his cigar changed the trend of his thoughts, for presently he began to smile in his own unpleasant way. He was reviewing the scene which his venom had inspired, and the possibilities of it—at the moment delayed, but not abandoned—gave him a peculiar sense of gratification.

He was thinking, too, of Joan Rest and some others. He was thinking of the day of her arrival in the camp, and the scene that had followed Buck's discovery of her. He could never forgive that scene, or those who took part in it. Buck, more surely than anybody else, he could never forgive. He had always hated Buck and his friend the Padre. They had been in a position to hand out benefits to the starving camp, and patronage was an intolerable insult to a man of his peculiar venom. The thought that he owed those men anything was anathema to him, for he knew in his heart that they despised him.

Since the day of Joan's coming he had pondered upon how he could pay Buck something of that which he owed him for the insult that still rankled. He had been called an "outlaw parson," and the truth of the appellation made the insult only the more maddening. Nothing else could have hurt the man so much as to remind him of the downfall which had reduced him to an "outlaw parson."

He had told Buck then that he would not forget. He might have added that he could not forget. So, ever since, he had cast about for any and every means of hurting the man who had injured him, and his curiously mean mind set him groping in the remotest and more subtle directions. Nor had it taken him long to locate the most vulnerable point in Buck's armor. He had realized something of the possibilities at the first coming of Joan. He had seen then the effect of the beautiful inanimate body upon the man's susceptibilities. It had been instantaneous. Then had come that scene at the farm, and Buck's further insult over the gold which he had hated to see pass into the girl's possession. It was then that the first glimmer of an opening for revenge had shown itself to him.

The rest was the simple matter of camp gossip. Here he learned, through the ridicule bestowed upon Montana Ike and Pete, who were always trying to outdo each other in their rivalry for the favors of Joan, and who never missed an opportunity of visiting the farm when they knew they would find her there, of Buck's constant attendance upon Joan. He needed very little of his evil imagination to tell him the rest. With Buck in love with the woman it was a simple enough process to his scheming mind to drive home his revenge upon the man—through her.

The necessary inspiration had come that night, when the four women vultures, plying their trade of preying upon the men in his bar, had reached a sufficient degree of drunkenness. Then it had occurred to his devilish mind to bribe them into going across to the farm and paying what he was pleased to call a "party" call upon its mistress, and, in their own phraseology, to "raise hell with her."

It was a master stroke. Then had come Curly's interference. The fool had spoilt it all. Nobody but Curly had attempted to interfere. The men had all been too drunk to bother, and the women had jumped at the chance of morally rending a virtuous member of their own sex.

He laughed silently as he thought of it all. But his laugh only expressed his gratification at the subtlety of his ideas. His failure still annoyed him. Curly had stood champion for this Golden Woman, as they called her. Well, it wasn't his, Beasley's, fault if he hadn't paid for his interference by this time. The men were quite drunk enough to hang him, or shoot him for "doing up" young Kid, who had been a mere tool in the matter. He cordially hoped they had. Anyway, the sport at Joan's expense was too good to miss, and the night was still young.

The prospect almost entirely restored his good-humor, and he was still smiling when the door was suddenly pushed open and the Padre's burly figure appeared on the threshold.

The saloon-keeper's smile died at sight of the familiar white hair. Of all the people on Yellow Creek this was the man he least wanted to see at the moment. But he was shrewd enough to avoid any sign of open antagonism. He knew well enough that Moreton Kenyon was neither a fool nor a coward. He knew that to openly measure swords with him was to challenge a man of far superior intellect and strength, and the issue was pretty sure to go against him. Besides, this man they affectionately called the Padre had the entire good-will of the place.

But though he always avoided open antagonism the storekeeper never let go his grip on his dislike. He clung to it hoping to discover some means of breaking the man's position in the camp and bringing about an utter revulsion of the public feeling for him. There was much about the Padre that gave him food for thought. One detail in particular was always in his mind, a detail such as a mind like his was bound to question closely. He could never understand the man's object in the isolation of the life he had lived for so many years here in the back country of the West.

However, he was only concerned at the moment with the object of this unusual visit, and his shrewd speculation turned upon the pursuit of Curly.

"Evenin', Padre," he said, with a cordiality the most exacting could have found no fault with.

"Good-evening," replied the newcomer, smiling pleasantly as he glanced round the sordid hovel. Then he added: "Times are changed, sure. But—where are your customers?"

Beasley's quick eyes gazed sharply at the perfect mask of disarming geniality. He was looking for some sign to give him a lead, but there was only easy good-nature in the deep gray eyes beneath their shaggy brows.

"Guess they're out chasin' that fool-head Curly Saunders," he said unguardedly. However, he saw his mistake in an instant and tried to rectify it. "Y' see they're always skylarkin' when they git liquor under their belts."

"Skylarking?" The Padre propped himself against the bar, and his eyes suddenly rested on an ugly stain on the sand floor.

Beasley followed his glance, and beheld the pool of blood which had flowed from the Kid's wound. He cursed himself for not having obliterated it. Then, in a moment, he decided to carry the matter with a high hand.

"Psha'! What's the use'n beatin' around!" he said half-defiantly. "They're chasin' Curly to lynch him for shootin' up the Kid."

The Padre gave a well-assumed start and emitted a low whistle. Then he turned directly toward the counter.

"You best have a drink on me—for the good of the house," he said. "I'll take rye."

Beasley swung himself across the counter with a laugh.

"Say, that beats the devil!" he cried. "I'll sure drink with you. No one sooner."

The Padre nodded.

"Splendid," he smiled. Then as the other passed glasses and the bottle, he went on: "Tell us about it—the racket, I mean."

Beasley helped himself to a drink and laughed harshly.

"Wal, I didn't get it right," he said, raising his glass. "Here's 'how'!" He gulped down his drink and set the empty glass on the counter. "Y' see, I was handin' out drinks when the racket started. They were all muckin' around with them four sluts that come in town the other day. Guess they was all most sloshed to the gills. First thing I know they were quarreling, then some un got busy with a gun. Then they started chasin' Curly, an' I see the Kid lying around shot up. It was jest a flesh wound, an' I had him boosted out to his own shack. His partner, Pete—they struck a partnership, those two—why, I guess he's seein' to him. 'Tain't on'y a scratch."

The Padre set his glass down. He had not drunk his liquor at a gulp like the other.

"Pity," he said, his eyes turned again to the blood-stained floor. "I s'pose it was the women—I mean the cause?"

The man's manner was so disarming that Beasley felt quite safe in "opening out."

"Pity?" he laughed brutally. "Wher's the pity? Course it was the women. It's always the women. Set men around a bunch of women and ther's always trouble. It's always been, and it always will be. Ther's no pity about it I can see. We're all made that way, and those who set us on this rotten earth meant it so, or it wouldn't be."

The Padre's gray eyes surveyed the narrow face before him. This man, with his virulent meanness, his iron-gray hair, his chequered past, always interested him.

"And do you think this sort of trouble would occur if—if the men hadn't been drunk?" he asked pointedly.

Beasley's antagonism surged, but his outward seeming was perfectly amiable.

"Meaning me?" he asked, with a grin.

The Padre shrugged.

"I was thinking that these things have been occurring ever since the camp was flooded with——"

"Rye!" Beasley's eyes sparkled. He reached the Padre's now empty glass and gave him a fresh one, pushing the bottle toward him. "You'll hev a drink on me, an' if you've got time, I'll tell you about this thing."

The other submitted, and the drink was poured out. The Padre ignored his.

"Get right ahead," he said in his easy way.

Beasley leered over the rim of his glass as he drank his whisky.

"You think it's rye," he said, setting his glass down with unnecessary force. "An' I say it's the women—or the woman. Trouble come to this camp with that tow-headed gal over at the farm. Anybody with two eyes could see that. Anybody that wasn't as blind as a dotin' mother. The boys are all mad 'bout her. They're plumb-crazed. They got her tow-head and sky-blue eyes on their addled brains, an' all the youngsters, anyway, are fumin' jealous of each other, and ready to shoot, or do anything else that comes handy, to out the other feller. That's the root of the trouble—an' you brought that about selling her your farm."

Beasley had let himself go intending to aggravate, but the other's manner still remained undisturbed.

"But this only happens when they're drunk," he said mildly.

Beasley's angry impatience broke out.

"Tcha'! Drunk or sober it don't make any difference. I tell you the whole camp's on edge over that gal. It only needs a word to set things hummin'. It's that gal! She's a Jonah, a Hoodoo to us all—to this place. She's got rotten luck all over her—and you brought her here. You needn't try an' sling mud at me fer handing them the rot-gut the boys ask for. Get that woman out of the place and things'll level up right away."

The man's rudeness still seemed to have no effect.

"But all this doesn't seem to fit in with—with this affair to-night," the Padre argued. "You said it began, you thought, over the four women you allow in here."

Beasley was being steadily drawn without knowing it. His swift-rising spleen led him farther into the trap.

"So it did," he snapped. Then he laughed mirthlessly. "Y' see some one suggested those gals pay a 'party' call on your Golden Woman," he said with elaborate sarcasm. "And it was because Mr. Curly Saunders sort o' fancies he's got some sort of right to that lady he butted in and shot up the Kid."

"Who suggested it?" asked the other quickly, his mild gray eyes hardening.

"Why, the Kid."

The Padre looked the saloon-keeper squarely in the eye.

"And who put it into that foolish boy's head?" he asked slowly.

Beasley's face purpled with rage.

"You needn't to put things that way with me," he cried. "If you got things to say, say 'em right out. You reckon I was the man who suggested——"

"I do."

The Padre's eyes were wide open. The hard gray gleam literally bored into the other's heated face. He stood up, his whole body rigid with purpose.

"I say right here that you were responsible for it all. The Kid wasn't capable of inventing such a dirty trick on a decent girl. He was sufficiently drunk to be influenced by you, and, but for Curly's timely interference, you would doubtless have had your rotten way. I tell you the trouble, whatever trouble happens in this camp, is trouble which you are directly or indirectly responsible for. These men, in their sober senses, are harmless. Give them the poison you charge extortionately for and they are ready to do anything. I warn you, Beasley, to be careful what you do—be damned careful. There are ways of beating you, and, by thunder! I'll beat you at your own game! Good-night!"

The Padre turned and walked out, leaving the discomfited storekeeper speechless with rage, his narrow eyes glaring after him.

Moreton Kenyon was never a man to allow an impulse of anger to get the better of him. All that he had said to Beasley he had made up his mind to say before starting for the camp. There was only one way of dealing with the man's genius for mischief. And that way did not lie in the direction of persuasion or moral talk. Force was the only thing such a nature as his would yield to. The Padre knew well enough that such force lay to his command should he choose to exert his influence in the camp. He was man of the world enough to understand that the moral condition of the life in this camp must level itself. It could not be regulated—yet. But the protection of a young and beautiful girl was not only his duty, but the duty of every sane citizen in the district, and he was determined it should be carried out. There was no ordinary law to hold this renegade in check, so, if necessary, he must be treated to the harshness of a law framed by the unpracticed hands of men who only understood the wild in which they lived.

On his way home the Padre encountered Buck, who had been back to the fur fort, and, learning from Curly the facts of what had occurred, was now on his way to join his friend.

They paused to talk for some minutes, and their talk was upon those things which were still running through their minds in a hot tide of resentment. After a while they parted, Buck to continue his way to the camp, and the Padre to his home.

"I think it's all right for to-night," the Padre said as he prepared to move off. "I don't think he'll make another attempt. Anyway, the boys will be sober. But you might have an eye on him."

Buck nodded, and in the darkness the fierce anger in his dark eyes was lost to his companion.

"I'll be to home when the camp's abed," he said. "I'll sure see the gal safe."

So they parted, leaving the Padre perfectly confident in Buck's ability to make good his assurance.

* * * * *

It was a wild scene inside the drinking-booth over which the ex-Churchman presided. The men had returned from their fruitless pursuit of their intended victim. And as they came in, no longer furiously determined upon a man's life, but laughing and joking over the events of their blind journey in the darkness, Beasley saw that they were rapidly sobering.

Still raging inwardly at the result of the Padre's visit he set to work at once, and, before any one else could call for a drink, he seized the opportunity himself. He plied them with a big drink at his own expense, and so promptly enlisted their favor—incidentally setting their appetites for a further orgie with a sharpness that it would take most of the night to appease.

The ball set rolling by his cunning hand quickly ran riot, and soon the place again became the pandemonium which was its nightly habit. Good-humor was the prevalent note, however. The men realized now, in their half-sober senses, that the Kid was only wounded, and this inclined them to leniency toward Curly. So it was quickly evident that their recently-intended victim need no longer have any fear for his life. He was forgiven as readily and as easily as he had been condemned.

So the night proceeded. The roulette board was set going again in one corner of the hut and a crowd hung about it, while the two operators of it, "Diamond" Jack and his partner, strangers to the place, raked in their harvest. The air was thick with the reek of cheap cigars, sold at tremendous prices, and the foul atmosphere of stale drink. The usual process of a further saturation had set in. Nor amidst the din of voices was there a discordant note. Even the cursings of the losers at the roulette board were drowned in the raucous din of laughter and loud-voiced talk around the bar.

As time went on Beasley saw that his moment was rapidly approaching. The shining, half-glazed eyes, the sudden outbursts of wild whoopings, told him the tale he liked to hear. And he promptly changed his own attitude of bonhomie, and began to remind those who cared to listen of the fun they had all missed through Curly's interference. This was done at the same time as he took to pouring out the drinks himself in smaller quantities, and became careless in the matter of making accurate change for the bigger bills of his customers.

Beasley's hints were not long in bearing the fruit he desired. Some one recollected the women who had been participants in their earlier frolic, and instantly there was a clamor for their presence.

Beasley grinned. He was feeling almost joyous.

The women readily answered the summons. They came garbed in long, flowing, tawdry wrappers, the hallmark of the lives they lived. Nor was it more than seconds before they were caught in the whirl of the orgie in progress.

The sight was beyond all description in its revolting and hideous pathos. These blind, besotted men hovered about these wrecks of womanhood much in the manner of hungry animals. They plied them with drink, and sought to win their favors by ribald jesting and talk as obscene as their condition of drunkenness would permit them, while the women accepted their attentions in the spirit in which they were offered, calculating, watching, with an eye trained to the highest pitch of mercenary motive, for the direction whence the greatest benefit was to come.

Beasley was watching too. He knew that the Padre's threat had been no idle one, but he meant to forestall its operation. The Padre was away to his home by now. Nothing that he could do could operate until the morning, when these men were sober. He had got this night, at least, in which to satisfy his evil whim.

His opportunity came sooner than he expected. One of the girls, quite a young creature, whose originally-pretty face was now distorted and bloated by the life she lived, suddenly appealed to him. She jumped up from the bench on which she had been sitting listening to the drunken attentions of a stranger who bored her, and challenged the saloon-keeper with a laugh and an ingratiating wink.

"Say, you gray-headed old beer-slinger," she cried, "how about that 'party' call you'd fixed up for us? Ain't ther' nuthin' doin' since that mutt with the thin yeller thatch got busy shootin'? Say, he got you all scared to a pea shuck."

She laughed immoderately, and, swaying drunkenly, was caught by the attentive stranger.

"Quit it, Mamie," protested one of the other girls. "If you want another racket I don't. You're always raisin' hell."

"Quit yourself," shrieked Mamie in sudden anger. "I ain't scared of a racket." She turned to Beasley, who was pouring out a round of drinks for Abe Allinson, now so drunk that he had to support himself against the counter. "Say, you don't need to be scared, that feller's out o' the way now," she jeered. "Wot say? Guess it would be a 'scream.'"

Beasley handed the change of a twenty-dollar bill to Abe and turned to the girl.

"Sure it would," he agreed promptly, his face beaming. Then he added cunningly: "But it's you folks are plumb scared."

"Who the h—— scared of a gal like that?" Mamie yelled at him, her eyes blazing. "I ain't. Are you, Lulu? You, Kit?" She turned to the other women, but ignored the protesting Sadie.

Lulu sprang from the arms of a man on whose shoulder she had been reclining.

"Scared?" she cried. "Come right on. I'm game. Beasley's keen to give her a twistin'—well, guess it's always up to us to oblige." And she laughed immoderately.

Kit joined in. She cared nothing so long as she was with the majority. And it was Beasley himself who finally challenged the recalcitrant Sadie.

"Guess you ain't on, though," he said, and there was something like a threat in his tone.

Sadie shrugged.

"It don't matter. If the others——"

"Bully for you, Sadie!" cried Mamie impulsively. "Come right on! Who's comin' to get the 'scream'?" she demanded of the men about her, while Beasley nodded his approval from his stand behind the bar.

But somehow her general invitation was not received with the same enthusiasm the occasion had met with earlier in the evening. The memory of the Kid still hovered over some of the muddled brains, and only a few of those who were in the furthest stages of drunkenness responded.

Nothing daunted, however, the girl Mamie, furiously anxious to stand well with the saloon-keeper, laughed over at him.

"We'll give her a joyous time," she shrieked. "Say, what's her name? Joan Rest, the Golden Woman! She'll need the rest when we're through. Come on, gals. We'll dance a cancan on her parlor table. Come on."

She made a move and the others prepared to follow. Several of the men, laughing recklessly, were ready enough to go whither they led. Already Mamie was within a pace of the closed door when a man suddenly pushed Abe Allinson roughly aside, leant his right elbow on the counter, and stood with his face half-turned toward the crowd. It was Buck. His movements had been so swift, so well calculated, that Beasley found himself looking into the muzzle of the man's heavy revolver before he could attempt to defend himself.

"Hold on!"

Buck's voice rang out above the din of the barroom. Instantly he had the attention of the whole company. The girls stood, staring back at him stupidly, and the men saw the gun leveled at the saloon-keeper's head. They saw more. They saw that Buck held another gun in his left hand, which was threatening the entire room. Most of them knew him. Some of them didn't. But one and all understood the threat and waited motionless. Nor did they have to wait long.

"Gals," said Buck sternly, "this racket's played out. Ther's been shootin' to-night over the same thing. Wal, ther's going to be more shootin' if it don't quit right here. If you leave this shanty to go across to the farm to molest the folks there, Beasley, here, is a dead man before you get a yard from the door."

Then his glance shifted so that the saloon-keeper came into his focus, while yet he held a perfect survey of the rest of the men.

"Do you get me, Beasley?" he went on coldly. "You're a dead man if those gals go. An' if you send them to the farm after this—ever—I'll shoot you on sight. Wal?"

Beasley knew when he was beaten. He had reckoned only on the Padre. He had forgotten Buck. However, he wouldn't forget him in the future.

"You can put up your gun, Buck," he said, with an assumption of geniality that deceived no one, and Buck least of all. "Quit your racket, gals," he went on. Then he added with the sarcasm he generally fell back on in such emergencies: "Guess this gentleman feels the same as Curly—only he ain't as—hasty."

The girls went slowly back to their seats, and Buck, lowering his guns, quietly restored them both to their holsters.

Beasley watched him, and as he saw them disappear his whole manner changed.

"Now, Mister Buck," he said, with a snarl, "I don't guess I need either your dollars or your company on my premises. You'll oblige me—that door ain't locked." And he pointed at it deliberately for the man to take his departure.

But Buck only laughed.

"Don't worry, Beasley," he said. "I'm here—till you close up for the night."

And the enraged saloon-keeper had a vision of a smile at his expense which promptly lit the faces of the entire company.



CHAPTER XVIII

WHEN LIFE HOLDS NO SHADOWS

The mellow evening light glows with a living warmth of color upon hill, and valley, and plain. The myriad tints shine in perfect harmony, for Nature is incapable of discord whether in her reign of beauty or her moments of terror. Discord belongs to the imperfect human eye, the human brain, the human heart. Thus must the most perfect human creation be ever imperfect.

But Nature's perfections are never lost upon the human mind. They are not intended to be lost. They serve well their purpose of elevating, of uplifting all thought, and affording inspiration for all that which is good and beautiful in hearts thrilling with emotions which need strong support to save them from their own weaknesses.

Something of this influence was at work in the hearts of a man and a girl riding over the hard sand trail in the pleasant evening light. The man's youthful heart was thrilling with a hope he dared not attempt to define, and could not if he would. His every feeling was inspired by a joy he had no proper understanding of. The glance of his dark eyes bespoke his mood, and his buoyancy seemed to communicate itself to the great horse under him. All he knew was that the glory of the day was all about him, and, beside him, Joan was riding the Padre's sturdy horse.

The girl at his side was no less uplifted. At the moment shadows troubled her not at all. They were gone, merged into soft, hazy gauzes through which peeped the scenes of life as she desired life to be, and every picture was rose-tinted with the wonderful light of an evening sun.

Her fair young face was radiant; a wonderful happiness shone in the violet depths of her eyes. Her sweet lips were parted, displaying her even, white teeth, and her whole expression was much that of a child who, for the first time, opens its eyes to the real joy of living. Every now and again she drew a deep, long sigh of content and enjoyment.

For a while they rode in silence, their bodies swaying easily to the rhythmic gait of the horses. Their direction lay toward the sun, that direction which ever makes for hope. Ahead of them, and behind them, lay the forest of tall, garbless trunks, their foliage-crowned, disheveled heads nodding in the light breezes from the hilltops, which left the lower atmosphere undisturbed. The scented air, pungent with pleasant odors, swept them by as their horses loped easily along. It was a moment of perfect peace, a moment when life could hold no shadows.

But such feelings are only for the silent moments of perfect companionship. The spoken word, which indexes thought, robs them of half their charm and beauty. The girl felt something of this as the calm voice of her companion broke the wonderful spell.

"That feller's shaping well," he said, his thoughts for the moment evidently upon the practical side of her comfort.

The girl nodded. That look of rapturous joy had left her, and she too became practical.

"I think so—when Mrs. Ransford leaves him alone," she said, with a little laugh. "She declares it is always necessary to harass a 'hired' man from daylight to dark. If I were he I'd get out into the pastures, or hay sloughs, or forest, or somewhere, and stay there till she'd gone to bed. Really, Buck, she's a terrible woman."

In the growing weeks of companionship Joan had learned to use this man's name as familiarly as though she had known him all her life. It would have seemed absurd to call him anything but Buck now. Besides, she liked doing so. The name fitted him. "Buck;" it suggested to her—spirit, independence, courage, everything that was manly; and she had long ago decided that he was all these things—and more.

Buck laughed in his quiet fashion. He rarely laughed loudly. Joan thought it sounded more like a deep-throated gurgle.

"She sure is," he declared heartily.

"Of course," Joan smiled. "You have crossed swords with her."

The man shook his head.

"Not me," he said. "She did the battlin'. Guess I sat tight. You see, words ain't as easy to a man, as to—some women."

Joan enjoyed the tact of his remark. She leant forward and smoothed the silky neck of the Padre's horse, and Buck's admiring eyes took in the perfect lines of her well-cut habit. He had never seen anything like it before, and failed to understand the excellence of its tailoring, but he knew that everything about this girl was wonderfully beautiful, and he would have liked to have been able to tell her so.

As he watched her he could not help thinking of the moment when he had held her in his arms. It was a thought almost always with him, a thought which never failed to stir his pulses and set them racing.

"But you see I can't do without her," the girl went on as she sat up in her saddle again. "She's a good worker, herself. She's taught me a good deal already. Oh, yes," she smiled at his look of incredulity, "I've begun my lessons. I am learning all I can, preparing for the bigger lessons of this—this"—she gave a comprehensive glance at the hills—"wonderful world."

Buck nodded. But he rode on in silence, his face for the moment clouded with deep thought. He was thinking of that night in Beasley's store. He was thinking of what might have happened there if those women had carried out their purpose. He was wondering what the lessons might be that this girl might yet find herself confronted with. The matter troubled him. And Joan's surreptitious glance into his face warned her that the cloud had obscured his sun.

The man finally broke the silence.

"Have you got any menfolk?" he asked abruptly.

Joan turned quickly.

"No—why?"

"An uncle—a brother. Maybe a—father?"

There was something almost anxious in Buck's manner as he enumerated the possible relationships.

But the girl shook her head at each one, and he went on in a tone of disappointment.

"It's kind of a pity," he observed. Then, in answer to the girl's quick look of inquiry, he added evasively: "You see it's lonesome for a gal—out in these hills."

Joan knew that that was not the reason of his inquiry, and she smiled quietly at her horse's ears.

"Why did you want to know if I had—menfolk?" she asked. "I mean the real reason." She looked up frankly smiling, and compelled his attention.

Buck was not easy to corner, even though he had no experience of women. Again Joan heard his strange gurgle, and her smile broadened.

"You could sure learn your lessons easier with your menfolk around to help you," he said.

For a second the girl's face dropped. Then she laughed good-humoredly.

"You're smart, Buck," she exclaimed. "But—but you're most exasperating. Still, I'll tell you. The only relative I have in the world, that I know of, is—Aunt Mercy."

"Ah! she's a woman."

"Yes, a woman."

"It's a pity." Suddenly Buck pointed ahead at a great mass of towering rock above the trees. "There's Devil's Hill!" he exclaimed.

Joan looked up, all eager delight to behold this wonderful hill Buck had brought her out to see. She expected something unusual, for already she had listened to several accounts of this place and the gold "strike" she was supposed to have brought about. Nor was she disappointed now, at least at first. She stared with wondering eyes at the weird, black giant raising its ugly head in a frowning threat above them, and gave a gasp of surprise.

Then in a moment her surprise died out, and into her eyes crept a strange look of repulsion and even fear. She had no words to offer. She made no move. It was almost as if she sat fascinated like some harmless bird held by the hypnotic stare of a python. So long did she remain silent that Buck at last turned and looked into her face. And something like alarm caught and held him when he beheld her gray look of horror as she faced the gloomy crags mounting up before them.

He too looked out ahead. But his imagination failed him, and his eyes came back to her. The change in her happy, smiling eyes was incredible. Her smile had gone utterly—the bright color of her cheeks. There was no awe in her look, neither curiosity nor admiration. To him it almost seemed that her whole body was thrilled with an utter repugnance and loathing at what she beheld.

"It's—ugly," he hazarded at last.

"It's—it's dreadful." The girl's reply came in a tone there was no mistaking. It was one of concentrated detestation.

"You don't—like it?" Buck felt helpless.

But Joan's next words left him without any doubt.

"I—I think I—hate it," she said harshly.

Buck drew rein on the instant.

"Then we'll get back to home."

But Joan had no such intention.

"No—no!" she exclaimed quickly. "We'll go on. I want to see it. I—I must see it."

Her manner had suddenly become agitated, and Buck was left wondering the more. She was stirred with strange feelings which embodied a dozen different emotions, and it was the sight of that great black crown, like the head of a Gorgon, which had inspired them. Its fascination was one of cruel attraction. Its familiarity suggested association with some part of her life. It seemed as if she belonged to it, or that it belonged to her—that in some curious way it was actually a part of her life. And all the time her detestation, her fear surged through her heart and left her revolting. But she knew she must go on. Its fascination claimed her and drew her, calling to her with a summons she dared not disobey—had no real desire to disobey.

It was she who took the lead now. She pressed on at a rapid gallop. Her fair young face was set and cold. She remained silent, and her manner forbade the man's interruption.

But Buck kept pace with her, and a great sympathy held him silent too. He had no real understanding of her mood, only he knew that, for the moment, his presence had no place in her thought.

So they drew toward the shadow of the hill. Each was lost in disturbed reflections. Joan was waiting, expectant of she knew not what, and the man, filled with puzzlement, knew that the solution lay only with the girl beside him.

It had been his thought to point out the things which his practiced mind suggested as of interest, but now, as he beheld the rapt expression of her face, it all became different. Therefore he checked the eager Caesar and let her lead the way.

Joan had no observation for anything as she rode on right up to the very shadow of the suspended lake. Then, almost mechanically, as though urged by some unseen hand, she drew up sharply. She was no longer looking at the hill, she sat in her saddle limply, and stared vacantly at the rough workings of the miners which had been abandoned for the day.

Still Buck waited in silence.

At last he had his reward. The girl made a movement almost like a shiver. Then she sat up erect. The color came back to her cheeks and she turned to him with eyes in which a ghost of a smile flitted.

"I—I had forgotten," she said half-apologetically. "This is what has brought prosperity to the camp. This is what has saved them from starvation. We—we should owe it gratitude."

"I don't guess the rocks need gratitude," replied Buck quietly.

"No!"

Joan looked up at the black roof above her and shivered.

"It's a weird place, where one might well expect weird happenings."

Buck smiled. He was beginning to obtain some insight into the girl's mood. So used was he to the gloomy hill that its effect was quite lost on him. Now he knew that some superstitious chord had been struck in the girl's feelings, and this strange hill had been the medium of its expression.

He suddenly leant forward. Resting on the horn of his saddle he looked into the fair face he so loved. He had seen that haunted look in her face before. He remembered his first meeting with her at the barn. Its termination had troubled him then. It had troubled him since. He remembered the incident when the gold had been presented to her. Again he had witnessed that hunted, terrified look, that strange overpowering of some painful thought—or memory.

Now he felt that she needed support, and strove with all his power to afford it her.

"Guess ther's nothing weird outside the mind of man," he said. "Anyway, nothing that needs to scare folk." He turned and surveyed the hill and the wonderful green country surrounding them. "Get a look around," he went on, with a comprehensive gesture. "This rock—it's just rock, natural rock; it's rock you'll find most anywhere. It's got dumped down right here wher' most things are green, an' dandy, an' beautiful to the eye; so it looks queer, an' sets your thoughts gropin' among the cobwebs of mystery. Ther's sure no life to it but the life of rock. This great overhang has just been cut by washouts of centuries in spring, when the creek's in flood, an' it just happens ther's a hot sulphur lake on top, fed by a spring. I've known it these years an' years. Guess it's sure always been the same. It ain't got enough to it to scare a jack-rabbit."

Joan shook her head. But the man was glad to see the return of her natural expression, and that her smiling eyes were filled with a growing interest He knew that her strange mood was passing.

He went on at once in his most deliberate fashion.

"You needn't to shake your head," he said, with a smile of confidence. "It's jest the same with everything. It sure is. We make life what it is for ourselves. It's the same for everybody, an' each feller gets busy makin' it different. The feller that gets chasin' trouble don't need to run. He only needs to set around and shout. Guess it'll come along if he's yearnin' for it. But it don't come on its own. That's sure as sure. Keep brain an' body busy doin' the things that lie handy, an' when you got to make good among the rocks of life, why, I sure guess you won't find a rock half big enough to stop you."

Watching the deep glowing eyes of the man Joan felt that his confidence was not merely the confidence of brave words. A single glance into his purposeful face left the definite impression that his was a strength that is given to few. It was the strength of a simple, honest mind as yet unfouled by the grosser evils of an effete civilization. His was the force and courage of the wild—the impulse which governs all creatures who live in the midst of Nature's battle-grounds.

"That's—that's because you're so strong you feel that way," she said, making no attempt to disguise the admiration she felt. "The burden of life does not always fall so easily. There are things, too, in spite of what you say, that we cannot control—evils, I mean evils which afflict us."

Buck glanced away down the creek. Then his eyes came back to her, and a new resolve lay behind them.

"I'm no stronger than others," he said. "Guess I haven't ha'f the strength of some. I'd say——" he paused. Then he went on, his eyes gazing fearlessly into hers: "I'd say I haven't ha'f the strength of a gal who gives up the city—a young gal jest beginning a woman's life with 'most everything in her favor—an' comes right out here to farm without a livin' soul to pass her a hand. I ain't got ha'f the courage of a gal who does that jest because she's chased by thoughts that worry her an' make her days no better than to set her—hatin' them. Strength? Say, when you ken laff an' all the time feel that life ain't ha'f so pleasant as death, why, I'd sure say ther' ain't no greater strength this side of the check-taker's box."

Joan could hardly believe her ears as she listened. Astonishment, resentment, helplessness, incredulity, all struggled for place. How had this man discovered her secret? How? How? What did he know besides? For a moment her feelings robbed her of speech and betrayed themselves in her expressive face.

But the man's smile, so easy, so disarming, held her. He saw and understood, and he hastened to reassure her.

"Guess I ain't pryin'," he said bluntly. "These things just come along to my tongue, feeling you were troubled at this—hill. You've told me a heap since you come to the farm. You told me things which I don't guess you wer' yearnin' to tell any one. But you didn't tell 'em with your tongue. An' I don't guess you need to. Set your mind easy. You're scared to death of some trouble which ain't of your seekin'—wal, I don't believe in such trouble."

Then he laughed in so unconcerned, so buoyant and whole-hearted a fashion that Joan's confidence and hope leapt again.

"Say," he added, as he saw the brightening of her face, "when you fancy that trouble's gettin' around, when you fancy it's good an' big, an' a whole heap to carry, why, you can pass it right on to me. I'm yearnin' to get busy with jest sech a proposition."

Buck's manner was irresistible. Joan felt herself swept along by it. She longed there and then to tell him the whole of her miserable little story. Yes, he made it seem so small to her now. He made it, at the moment, seem like nothing. It was almost as though he had literally lifted her burden and was bearing the lion's share of it himself. Her heart thrilled with gratitude, with joy in this man's wonderful comradeship. She longed to open her heart to him—to implore him to shield her from all those terrible anxieties which beset her. She longed to feel the clasp of his strong hand in hers and know that it was there to support her always. She felt all these things without one shadow of fear—somehow his very presence dispelled her shadows.

But only did she permit her warm smile to convey something of all she felt as she rejected his offer.

"You don't know what you are asking," she said gently. Then she shook her head. "It is impossible. No one can shift the burdens of life on to the shoulders of another—however willing they be. No one has the right to attempt it. As we are born, so we must live. The life that is ours is ours alone."

Buck caught at her words with a sudden outburst of passionate remonstrance.

"You're wrong—dead wrong," he declared vehemently, his eyes glowing with the depth of feeling stirring him, a hot flush forcing its way through the deep tanning of his cheeks. "No gal has a right to carry trouble with a man around to help. She's made for the sunlight, for the warmth an' ease of life. She's made to set around an' take in all those good things the good God meant for her so she can pass 'em right on to the kiddies still to be born. A woman's jest the mother of the world. An' the men she sets on it are there to see her right. The woman who don't see it that way is wrong—dead wrong. An' the man that don't get right up on to his hind legs an' do those things—wal, he ain't a man."

It was a moment Joan would never forget. As long as she lived that eager face, with eyes alight, the rapid tongue pouring out the sentiments of his simple heart must ever remain with her. It was a picture of virile manhood such as in her earliest youth she had dreamed of, a dream which had grown dimmer and dimmer as she progressed toward womanhood and learned the ways of the life that had been hers. Here it was in all reality, in all its pristine simplicity, but—she gathered up her reins and moved her horse round, heading him toward home.

"I'm glad I came out here—in the wilderness," she said earnestly. "I'm glad, too, that I came to see this great black hill. Yes, and I'm glad to think that I have begun the lessons which this great big world is going to teach me. For the rest—we'd better go home. Look! The daylight is going."



CHAPTER XIX

A STUDY IN MISCHIEF

Nearly three months had passed and all Beasley Melford's affairs were amply prospering. His new saloon was the joy of his heart. It had been completed more than a week, which week had been something in the nature of a triumph of financial success. The camp was booming as he had never dared to hope it would boom. Traders were opening up business all round him, and the output of gold was increasing every day. But, with all this rapid development, with all the wrangling and competition going on about him, he was the centre of the commercial interests of Yellow Creek, and his saloon was the centre of all its traffic.

But he was quite alive to the fact that he must maintain his position and custom by keeping well in line, even just a little ahead of all competition. He knew that to rest on his oars would be to court swift disaster. It must be his constant thought to make his place more and more attractive, to listen to the voice of public requirements, and seize every opportunity of catering for them.

His saloon was no better than a gambling-hell and drinking-booth, the dry goods side of his enterprise being almost insignificant. For he knew that the more surely his customers could indulge in such pastimes in comparative comfort the more surely he would keep them. So he made these things the basis of his trade. But there were other needs to be provided for. Therefore, on the completion of his new saloon, and the moment his vanity had been satisfied by the erection of a great board top, set up on the pitch of the roof, announcing in blatant lettering that it was "Melford's Hotel," he set to work to erect a dance hall and a livery barn. He foresaw the necessity of running a stage, and he never lost sight of the fact that a great number of the women of the class he wished to see about were invading the place. Then, too, the dance hall could be used as a boarding establishment for those who had no homes of their own.

It was a precious thought, and, after a journey to Leeson Butte to consult his partner, these matters were put in hand. He no longer worked single-handed. His establishment was increased by the advent of a bartender, a Chinese cook, and a livery stable keeper. These, and some casual labor from among the loafers, supplied him with all the help he so far found necessary.

The bar and the gambling-tables were always his own care. These were the things he would never trust to other hands. The bartender was his helper only, who was never allowed to escape the observation of his lynx eyes.

Yes, Beasley Melford was flourishing as he intended to flourish, and his satisfaction was enormous. In the mornings he was always busy supervising the work, in the afternoons he gave himself what leisure his restless spirit demanded. But in the evenings he gathered his harvest by rascally methods of flagrant extortion.

It was during the latter part of his afternoon leisure that he was suddenly disturbed by the appearance of Montana Ike in his bar. He was stretched full length upon his counter, comfortably reviewing a perfect maze of mental calculations upon the many schemes which he had in hand, when the youngster pushed the swing door open and blustered in.

Beasley was sitting up in an instant. He hated this sort of sudden disturbance. He hated men who rushed at him. He could never be certain of their intentions. When he saw who his visitor was there was very little friendliness in his greeting.

"Wot in hell you want rushin' that way?" he demanded arrogantly. "Guess your thirst ain't on a time limit."

But the ginger-headed youth ignored his ill-temper. He was too full of his own affairs. He simply grinned.

"Fish out them durned scales o' yours," he cried gleefully. "Fish 'em out, an' set your big weights on 'em. Ther' ain't goin' to be no chat nor drink till you weighed in. Then I guess the drink'll be right up to you."

Beasley's mood changed like lightning. He swung over behind his bar and dropped to the floor on the other side, his eyes alight, and every faculty alert for trade.

"Wot's it?" he demanded. "Struck it big?" he went on as the dingy gold scales were produced from the shelf at the back. Then he laughed amiably. "It needs to be big, wakin' me in my slack time."

"Oh, it's big enuff," cried Ike confidently, his eager, young, animal face alight with pleasure.

He watched the other with impatient eyes as he deliberately picked out the weights. But Beasley was too slow, and, with an impatient exclamation, he snatched up the biggest of them and set it on the somewhat delicate scales with a heavy hand.

"Say, you're rapid as a sick funeral," he cried. "I ain't got no time to waste. What I got here'll need that—an' more. Ther'!"

Beasley's temper was never easy, and his narrow eyes began to sparkle.

"You're mighty fresh," he cried. "Guess I'm——"

But his remark remained unfinished. With a boisterous laugh the boy flung a small canvas bag on the counter and emptied its contents before the other's astonished eyes.

"Ther'," he cried gleefully. "I want dollars an' dollars from you. An' you'll sure see they ain't duds."

Beasley's eyes opened wide. In a moment he had forgotten his ill-humor.

From the gold spread out before him he looked up into the other's face with a half-suspicious, wholly incredulous stare.

"You got that from your claim—to-day?" he asked.

"An' wher' in hell else?"

"Sure!" Beasley fingered the precious nuggets lovingly. "Gee! Ther's nigh five hundred dollars there."

"Fi' hundred—an' more," cried Ike anxiously.

But Beasley's astonishment was quickly hidden under his commercial instincts. He would have called them "commercial."

"We'll soon fix that," he said, setting the scales.

Ike leant against the bar watching the man finger his precious ore as he placed each of the six nuggets in the scale and weighed them separately. He took the result down on paper and worked their separate values out at his own market prices. In five minutes the work was completed, and the man behind the bar looked up with a grin.

"I don't gener'ly make a bad guess," he said blandly. "But I reckoned 'em a bit high this journey. Ther's four hundred an' seventy-six dollars comin' to you—ha'f cash an' ha'f credit. Is it a deal?"

The other's face flamed up. A volcanic heat set him almost shouting.

"To hell!" he cried fiercely. "Ther's fi' hundred dollars ther' if ther's a cent. An' I want it all cash."

Beasley shook his head. He had this boy's exact measure, and knew just how to handle him.

"The scales don't lie," he said. "But ther', it's the way wi' youse fellers. You see a chunk o' gold an' you don't see the quartz stickin' around it. Here, I'll put a hundred an' seventy-six credit an' the rest cash. I can't speak fairer."

He drew a roll of bills from his hip-pocket and began counting the three hundred out. He knew the sight of them was the best argument he could use. It never failed. Nor did it do so now.

Ike grumbled and protested in the foulest language he was capable of, but he grabbed the dollars when they were handed to him, and stowed them into his hip-pocket with an eagerness which suggested that he feared the other might repent of his bargain. And Beasley quickly swept the precious nuggets away and securely locked them in his safe, with the certain knowledge that his profit on the deal was more than cent for cent.

"You'll take rye," he said as he returned his keys to his pocket. "An' seein' it's your good day, an' it's on me, we'll have it out o' this thirteen-year-old bottle."

He pushed the bottle across the counter and watched Ike pour himself out a full "four fingers." The sight of his gluttony made Beasley feel glad that the thirteen-year-old bottle had been replenished that morning from the common "rot-gut" cask. After their drink he became expansive.

"That's an elegant claim of yours, Ike," he said, taking up his favorite position on the bar. "It's chock full of alluvial. Don't scarcely need washing. Guess I must ha' paid you two thousand dollars an' more since—since we got busy. Your luck was mighty busy when they cast the lots."

"Luck? Guess I'm the luckiest hoboe in this layout," Ike cried with a confidence that never seemed to require the support of rye whisky.

Beasley's eyes sparkled maliciously.

"How about Pete?" he grinned. He knew that Ike had an utter detestation of Pete, and did not have to guess at the reason. "I paid him more than that by fi' hundred. How's that?"

"Tcha'! Pete ain't no account anyways," Ike retorted angrily. "Say, he pitches his dollars to glory at poker 'most every night. Pete ain't got no sort o' savee. You don't see me bustin' my wad that way."

"How about the gals? Guess you hand 'em a tidy pile."

"Gals!" Ike suddenly became thoughtful. His gaze wandered toward the window. Then he abruptly turned back to the bar and clamored for another drink. "We'll have that thirteen-year-old," he cried. "An' guess I'll have a double dose. Gals!" he went on, with a sneer, as the other watched him fill a brimming tumbler.

"Ther's sure on'y one gal around here. That's why I got around now. Guess I'm payin' her a 'party' call right now, 'fore the folks get around. Say, I'm goin' to marry that gal. She's sure a golden woman. Golden! Gee, it sounds good!"

Beasley grinned. He was on a hot trail and he warmed to his work.

"Goin' to ask her now?" he inquired amiably, eyeing the spirit the man had poured out.

Ike laughed self-consciously.

"Sure," he said, draining his glass.

"What about Pete?"

Ike looked sharply into the other's grinning face. Then he banged his glass angrily on the counter and moved toward the door.

"Pete ken go plumb to hell!" he cried furiously over his shoulder as he passed out.

Beasley dropped nimbly from his counter and looked after him through the window. He saw him vault into the saddle and race away down the trail in the direction of the farm.

His eyes were smiling wickedly.

"Don't guess Pete's chasin' ther' to suit you, Master Ike," he muttered. "Marry that gal, eh? Not on your life. You pore silly guys! You're beat before you start—beat a mile. Buck's got you smashed to a pulp. Kind of wish I'd given you less cash and more credit. Hello!"

He swung round as the door was again thrust open. This time it was Blue Grass Pete who strode into the room.

"Wher's Ike?" he demanded without preamble the moment he beheld the grinning face of the saloon-keeper.

"Gee!" Beasley's grin suddenly broke out into a loud laugh. He brought his two hands down on the counter and gave himself up to the joy of the moment.

Pete watched him with growing unfriendliness.

"You're rattled some," he said at last, with elaborate sarcasm. Then, as Beasley stood up choking with laughter and rubbing his eyes, he went on: "Seems to me I asked you a civil question."

Beasley nodded, and guffawed again.

"You sure did," he said at last, stifling his mirth as he beheld the other's threatening frown. "Well, I ain't laffin' at you. It's—it's jest at things."

But Pete had no sense of humor. He disliked Beasley, and simply wanted his information now.

"Ike been along?" he demanded doggedly.

Beasley spluttered. Then he subsided into a malicious grin again.

"Sure," he said. "He's been in with a fat wad. Say, he's a lucky swine. 'Most everything comes his way. Guess he can't never touch bad. He's ahead on the game, he's a golden-haired pet with the gals, an' he gits gold in—lumps."

But Pete's dark face and hungry eyes showed no appreciation, and Beasley knew that the man's mood was an ugly one.

"Wher's he now?"

"Can't jest say. I didn't ask him wher' he was goin'. Y' see I cashed his gold, and we had a drink. He seemed excited some. Guess he was sort of priming himself. Maybe he's gone along to the gals. Have a drink?"

"No—yes, give us a horn of rye."

The man behind the bar pushed the bottle across.

"What you needin' him for?" he asked with apparent unconcern.

Pete snatched at his drink.

"That ain't your affair," he retorted surlily.

"Sure it ain't. I jest asked—casual."

Pete banged his empty glass on the counter.

"I'm needin' him bad," he cried, his eyes furiously alight. "I'm needin' him cos I know the racket he's on. See? He quit his claim early cos—cos——"

"Cos he's goin' to pay a 'party' call on that Golden Woman," cried Beasley, appearing to have made a sudden discovery. "I got it, now. That's why he was in sech a hurry. That's why he needed a good dose o' rye. Say, that feller means marryin' that gal. I've heard tell he's got it all fixed with her. I've heard tell she's dead sweet on him. Wal, I ain't sure but wot it's natural. He's a good looker; so is she. An' he's a bright boy. Guess he's got the grit to look after a gal good. He's a pretty scrapper. Another drink?"

Pete refilled his glass. His fury was at bursting-point, and Beasley reveled in the devil now looking out of his angry eyes.

"He's gone across ther' now?" he demanded, after swallowing his second drink. His question was ominously quiet.

Beasley saw the man's hands finger the guns at his waist. It was a movement the sight of which gave him a wonderful satisfaction.

"Seems like it," he said. "Though course I can't rightly say. I see him ride off down the trail that way——"

"Here, I'll take another drink. I'm goin' after——"

"Say, you ain't goin' to butt in with two folks courtin'?" cried Beasley, blandly innocent.

But Pete had no reply. He drained his third drink and, flinging the glass down, bolted out of the bar; while Beasley turned with a malicious chuckle, and scrupulously entered up three drinks against the man's name on the slate.

"I'd give somethin' to see it," he muttered. Then he rubbed out the entry he had made. "Guess I'll make it six drinks. He's too rattled to remember."

Ten minutes later a number of men were lounging in the saloon, and Beasley, in the leisure of administering to their wants, was relating to them the story of the afternoon's events. At the conclusion he added his own comment, which was not without definite purpose.

"Say, if they ain't jest like two dogs worritin' a bone you got me plumb beat," he said. Then he added with an air of outraged virtue: "I'd like to say right here she's jest playin' them fellers for their wads. Oh, she's a keen one, her eyes is right on to business. She'll sure have 'em shootin' each other right up. Seems to me a gal like that ain't no right in this yer city. She's a scandal to the place. An' a danger. Wot we fellers needs to figure on is the liberty an' safety of our citizens, an' anything calc'lated to be a danger to that needs to git seen to."

Some of the men concurred half-heartedly. They were men who had come into the camp with the rush, and were anxious to keep in with the saloon-keeper. Still, even they were very little stirred by his appeal. They cared not the least bit in the world who was shot up, or who did the shooting, so long as they were not personally concerned beyond the role of spectators.

So for once his mischief fell flat. It was too early in the day to make the impression he needed. They were not sufficiently primed with rye. So Beasley contented himself with insinuating the bottle toward doubtful customers, and easing his disappointment by making all the trade he could.

But presently a diversion occurred by the advent of Buck. He rode up, his great horse loaded down with the carcasses of three splendid deer. He had brought them in for sale. Game was a precious thing in this camp, where a diet of simple beef ruled.

The moment he displayed his wares there was a rush to bid for them, and Beasley, much to his chagrin, found himself forced to pay boom prices before he could secure them for retailing. He paid ungraciously enough. If there was one man more than another in the camp he begrudged anything to it was Buck. Besides, it made him utterly furious to think that he never came up against this man on any debatable matter but what he managed to come off worst.

However, his policy forced him to stifle his resentment, and he paid, mentally adding another item to the long list of his personal animosities to be wiped out at some future date.

But Buck's presence was an opportunity for mischief not to be altogether missed. Nor was Beasley the man to let the moment pass without availing himself of it. Buck's interest in Joan was something to be played upon at all times. Therefore he drew him aside in a manner as portentous and ingratiating as he could make it.

Buck, wondering at his drift, submitted all unwillingly.

"Say," Beasley began, the moment they were out of ear-shot of the rest, "guess you ain't bin around the farm lately—I mean this afternoon?"

Buck looked him coldly in the eye.

"No—why?"

Beasley returned his look in consummate irritation. He pretended to be annoyed at his coolness. He shrugged and turned away, speaking over his shoulder as he went.

"Oh, nuthin'! Guess it might be as well if you had."

He went back to his bar, and in a moment was busy again at his trade. Buck looked after him for one doubting second. Then he too turned away and went out to his horse.



CHAPTER XX

THE ABILITIES OF MRS. RANSFORD

Joan was smiling happily, watching the waging of a droll little farmyard warfare. Just now her life was running very smoothly, and the shadows of memory were steadily receding. She had almost forgotten the few unpleasant moments when she had first beheld the repellent ugliness of Devil's Hill nearly a week ago. Since then nothing had occurred to raise fresh alarm, and memory, with that pleasant knack inspired of perfect physical health, had gently mellowed and lost something of its power to disturb.

It was a curious scene. The farm was still, so still, in the glowing afternoon heat. The cattle were out in the pastures filling themselves with the succulent grass and dozing the long daylight hours away. The "hired" man was out with the team, breaking a new patch of prairie land in the interim between the haying and harvesting. The hogs were gently snuffling in their pens, and a few hens and cockerels were amiably flirting whilst scratching about amongst the barn litter in that busy, inconsequent manner so suggestive to the human mind of effort for the sheer delight of being busy.

It was a scene such as she had often dreamed of, and something which very nearly approached her ideal.

Here, in one corner of the yard, where she stood, sun-bonneted to shelter her face from the burning attentions of the summer sun, leaning idly against a water barrel standing at the corner of the barn, she watched the farmyard comedy which was rapidly threatening to disturb the general peace. A large hen with a late-hatched brood of chicks, whose colors suggested the polygamous conditions under which her matrimonial affairs were carried on, with feathers ruffled and comb flaming, with head lowered and beak agape, was angrily defying an absurd-looking pig which had scarcely passed its sucking age.

They had met quite suddenly round the corner of the implement shed. For the moment they stood disconcerted, while the agitated hen clucked alarm at her offspring. The pig, squealing in a high treble, was standing with snout twitching and front feet apart, a picture of idiotic confusion. Perhaps the hen, with the superior feminine knowledge of her age, understood something of the situation, and appreciated the young porker's inability. Anyway, she took the initiative in aggression, and, vainly struggling to cover her rather riotous brood with outspread wings, cackled furiously and prepared for the onslaught which secretly she knew was not forthcoming.

The porker's mind seemed to be in a whirl of doubt, for he looked vainly from side to side to find some adequate means of escape. His sense did not carry him sufficiently far to prompt him to turn tail and bolt for safety. He just stood there and continued his helpless baby squealing. This was all the old hen needed to drive her to extremities. Realizing his weakness she gave one fluttering spring, scattering her chicks in all directions, pecked the pig's nose violently, turned something like a somersault as she landed on the ground, gathered herself together, and incontinently fled, leaving her brood to care for themselves. Thus the pig was left looking after her with an expression in its silly eyes that suggested to the girl nothing so much as an amazed wonder as to what the fuss was all about.

Joan stood convulsed with laughter. The pig interested her vastly more than the hen, and she waited the further working of its stupid mind. But she was disappointed. Its momentary confusion had passed, and, lowering its pink snout, it groveled on in search of offal, the delights of which its young mind was just awakening to.

She had moved away to pass on toward the house when she was startled by the sound of a harsh laugh close behind her. She turned and found herself staring into the grinning face of Montana Ike.

She was angry and not without a qualm of apprehension. This man had become a constant caller at the farm at all sorts of odd and unexpected moments. And his attitude was such that she thoroughly resented him. In his vaunting, braggadocio manner he had assumed a sort of proprietary interest in her and her affairs.

The moment she faced him, his confident attitude became more pronounced.

"Comic, ain't it?" he suggested. Then he added, as though to assure her of his appreciation: "Nigh as comic as a cirkis."

But all Joan's delight in the scene was gone. Her beautiful eyes were sparkling angrily. She made up her mind then and there to be rude to the man. She would not have him about the place.

"What do you want?" she inquired bluntly.

The boy's grin remained, but his furtive eyes opened a shade wider.

"Wot do I want? Gee! You're feelin' friendly." Then he put on a manner he intended to be facetious. "An' me left my patch o' pay-dirt, an' all, to pay a 'party' call. Say, Miss Golden, that ain't sassiety ways in this yer camp."

His attempt at pleasantry went for nothing. Joan, studying the man closely, saw that his face was flushed, and, even at that distance, she could smell the drink he had been imbibing. She must get rid of him, but it was not so easy to her gentle nature. However, she took a firm stand.

"Maybe not," she said coldly. "But when people make 'party' calls they generally do it at convenient times. I'm very busy."

The man laughed in the harsh manner she disliked and rather feared.

"Kind o' seemed busy when I got around. Y' see you was sure that busy you didn't hear my hoss comin' along, you never see me git off him an' leave him back ther', an' me come along over an' stand watchin' you doin' nuthin' fer nigh fi' minutes. Oh, you're sure busy!"

Joan flushed. She knew she had lied, but to be told so by this man was infuriating. She made no attempt to further disguise her feelings.

"I said I was busy," she cried deliberately. "Surely that should be sufficient."

But the man had no intention of accepting his dismissal.

"It jest depends wot a feller's come around for," he said, no whit disconcerted. "Mebbe you won't find you're busy when you heard what I got to say." He laughed immoderately. Beasley's whisky was at work, and he had no fear for the purpose in hand.

Suddenly he dived a hand into his hip-pocket and drew out the bills the saloon-keeper had paid him.

"Look at them," he cried in a voice that was high-pitched with elation. "Ther's dollars an' dollars ther', but 'tain't nuthin' to wot's to come. Say, I got another cache o' gold waitin' back ther' at my shack, but I ain't handin' it to Beasley," he went on cunningly. "Oh, no, not me! I'm a business guy, I am. I hold that up, an' all the rest I git from my patch, an' I'm goin' to cash it in Leeson Butte, at the bank, fer a proper exchange. See? Oh, I ain't no sucker, I ain't. An' a feller needs a heap o' dollars, treatin' his gal right."

Joan hardly knew how to deal with such a situation. Besides, the now obvious condition of the man alarmed her. However, he gave her no opportunity to reply. For, delighted with his own talk, he went on promptly—

"Now I tho't a whole heap since I got this wad. A wad like this takes you thinkin', that is, ef you ain't a low-down rattle-brain like Pete, or a psalm-smitin' son-of-a-moose like that feller, Buck. Course they ain't got no sort o' savvee, anyways, so they don't count nuthin'. But wi' a feller like me things is diff'rent. Now, this is what I got fixed. Y' see you can't have no sort of a time in this yer camp, but it's diff'rent in Leeson Butte. Guess we'll get a buggy from the camp an' drive into Leeson. Ther's dance halls ther', an' they run a decent faro joint at a place I know. An' they sell elegant rye, too. Wal, we'll git that buggy, an' git fixed up reg'lar in Leeson, an' have a bully time, an' git right back to here an' run this yer farm between us. How's that?"

"I—I don't think I understand."

Joan's alarm grew. This man was deliberately proposing to marry her. Supported by the nerve his half-drunken condition inspired, his senses were so inflamed that he took the whole matter for granted. She looked into his sensual young face, the hard eyes, and at the loose lips that surrounded his unclean teeth, and something like panic seized her. However, she knew she must not show her fear.

But he was waiting. And in reality her reply came without any hesitation. She shook her head.

"You've made a mistake," she said decidedly but gently. "I have no intention of marrying anybody." Then, taking her courage in both hands, she permitted something of her dislike and contempt to creep into her manner. "It seems to me you take a great deal too much for granted. You come here when you think you will, wholly uninvited, and, from the first, you hint broadly that you regard me as—as the person you intend to marry. That is presumption, to put it mildly, and I have no use for people who—presume."

She moved as though to return to the house. But Ike, all his confidence suddenly merged into a volcanic heat, reached out a hand to detain her. His hand came into rough contact with the soft flesh of her shoulder, and, shaking it off, she faced him with flaming eyes.

"Don't dare to do that again," she cried, with bosom heaving. "Go, leave this farm instantly. Remember you are trespassing here!"

Her anger had outweighed all her alarm, even, perhaps, all discretion. For the man was in no mood to accept his dismissal easily.

"So that's it, is it?" he cried with a sudden hoarseness. "Oho, my lady! We're putting on airs," he sneered. "Not good enough, eh? Presuming, am I? An' who in blazes are you that you can't be touched? Seems to me a decent honest citizen's jest as good fer you as fer any other gal, an' my dollars are clean. What in thunder's amiss?" Then his heat lessened, and his manner became more ingratiating. "See here, Golden," he went on persuasively, "you don't mean that, sure! Wot's the matter with me? I ain't weak-kneed, nor nuthin'. I ain't scared o' no man. I'd scrap the devil ef you ast me. An' say, just think wot we ken do with the dollars. You'd make a real upstander in a swell house, with folks waitin' around on you, an' di'monds an' things. Say, I'm jest bustin' to make good like that. You can't jest think how much gold ther' is in my patch—an' you brought it along with you. You give it to me—your luck."

There was something almost pathetic in his pleading, and for a brief moment a shade of sympathy softened the girl.

"Please don't persist, Ike," she said almost gently. "Still, I can never marry you. It's—it's—absurd," she added, with a touch of impatience she could not wholly keep back.

But that touch of impatience suddenly set fire again to the man's underlying intolerance of being thwarted.

"Absurd, is it?" He laughed with a curious viciousness which once more disturbed the girl. "Absurd fer you to marry me," he cried harshly. "Absurd fer you, cos I ain't got no smarmy eddication, cos I ain't dressed in swaller tails an' kids, same as city folks. Oh, I know! You're a leddy—a city-raised leddy, an' I—I'm jest a prairie hog. That's it. You ain't got no use fer me. You jest come along right here an' laff, an' laff at us folks. Oh, you needn't to say you hav'n't!" as she raised a protesting hand. "Think I'm blind, think I'm deaf. Me! Say, you shown it right along jest so plain ther' wer'n't no need to tell it in langwidge." He broke off for a moment as though his anger had robbed him of further speech, and Joan watched the growing purpose in his hot eyes. Her own face was the color of marble. She was inwardly trembling, but she stood her ground with eyes stonily cold. She made no attempt to speak now, or defend herself against his accusations. She knew it would be useless. Only she longed in her mind for the presence of Buck to protect her from the insult she felt to be coming. Nor was she mistaken.

The man's pause gave way before the surge of his anger.

"See here," he suddenly cried, as though he had just arrived at a decision. "I ain't an easy man to laff at, as the folks around here knows. Ther' ain't no man around here can laff at Montana Ike, an' I don't guess no gal wi' red ha'r's goin' to neither. See?" He glanced swiftly round the farm. There was no one in sight. Suddenly one great hand shot out and he seized the girl by the arm in a crushing, powerful grasp and dragged her to him.

"You guess you ken laff at me," he cried, seizing her with both hands and holding her in spite of her struggles. "Wal, you ken laff after you kissed me. You ken laff, oh, yes! when I tell the folks you kissed me. Seems to me the laff'll mostly be with me."

He drew her toward him while she struggled violently. Then she shrieked for help, but she knew the only help she could hope for was the wholly inadequate help of her housekeeper. She shrieked Mrs. Ransford's name with all her power, while the man's face came nearer. It was quite hopeless; she knew she could not defend herself. And the half-drunken man was laughing as though he enjoyed her terror.

She felt his hot breath on her cheeks, she closed her eyes to shut out the sight of his grinning face. He released his hold with one hand and flung his arm about her waist. She fought with might and main, shrieking with all the power of her lungs. She suddenly felt the impress of his hot lips on her cheek, not once, but a dozen times. Then of a sudden he released her with a bitter oath, as the shrieking voice of Mrs. Ransford sounded close by, and the thwack of a heavy broom fell upon his head and shoulders.

"I'll teach you, you miser'ble hoboe!" cried the old woman's strident voice as her powerful arms swung her lusty broom aloft. "I'll teach you, you scallawag!" Thwack fell the broom, and, releasing Joan, the man sought to protect his head with his arms. "I'll give you a dose you won't fergit, you scum o' creation!" Thwack went the broom again. "Wait till the folks hear tell o' this, you miser'ble, miser'ble cur!" Again the broom fell, and the man turned to flee. "You'd run, would you? Git a fork, Miss Joan!" With a surprising rush the fat creature lunged another smash at the man's head with her favorite weapon.

The blow fell short, for Ike had made good his retreat. And curiously enough he made no attempt to disarm her, or otherwise stand his ground once he was beyond the range of her blows. Perhaps he realized the immensity of his outrage, perhaps he foresaw what might be the result to himself when the story of his assault reached the camp. Perhaps it was simply that he had a wholesome terror of this undoubted virago. Anyway, he bolted for his horse and vaulted into the saddle, galloping away as though pursued by something far more hurtful than a fat farm-wife's avalanche of vituperation.

"Mussy on us!" cried the old woman, flinging her broom to the ground as the man passed out of sight. "Mussy me, wot's he done to you, my pretty?" she cried, rushing to the girl's side and catching her to her great bosom. "There, there, don't 'e cry, don't 'e to cry for a scallawag like that," she said, as the girl buried her face on her shoulder and sobbed as though her heart would break. "There, there," she went on, patting the girl's shoulder, "don't 'e demean yerself weppin' over a miser'ble skunk like that. Kiss yer, did he? Kiss yer! Him! Wal, he won't kiss nobody no more when the folks is put wise. An' I'll see they gets it all. You, a 'Merican gal, kissed by a hog like that. Here, wipe yer cheeks wi' this overall; guess they'll sure fester if you don't. Ther', that's better," she went on as Joan, choking back her sobs, presently released herself from her bear-like embrace.

"It's my own fault," the girl said tearfully. "I ought never to have spoken to him at all. I——"

But Mrs. Ransford gave her no chance to finish what she had to say.

"Wot did I tell you?" she cried, with a power of self-righteousness. "Wot did I tell you? You ain't got no right to git a hob-a-nobbin' with sech scum. They're all scallawags, every one of 'em. Men!—say, these yer hills is the muck-hole o' creation, an' the men is the muck. I orter know. Didn't I marry George D. Ransford, an' didn't I raise twins by him, as you might say, an' didn't I learn thereby, an' therewith, as the sayin' is, that wi' muck around there's jest one way o' cleanin' it up an' that's with a broom! Come right into the house, pretty. You're needin' hot milk to soothe your nerves, my pore, pore! Come right in. Guess I'm a match fer any male muck around these hills. Mussy on us, what's that!"

Both women started and stood staring with anxious, terrified eyes down the trail which led to the camp. Two shots had been fired almost simultaneously, and now, as they waited in horrified silence, two more shots rang out, echoing against the hills in the still air with ominous threat. After that all was quiet again.

Presently the strained look in the farm-wife's face relaxed, and she turned to her charge.

"That's him," she cried, with a swift return to her angry, contemptuous manner. "It's him showin' off—like all them scallawags. Come right in, missie," she added, holding out her hands to lead the girl home.

But her kindly intention received an unexpected shock. Joan brushed her roughly aside, and her look was almost of one suddenly demented.

"No, no," she cried in a voice of hysterical passion. "You don't understand. You can't understand. Those shots—oh! It is my fate—my curse. I must go!"

And she fled down the trail in the direction whence the sound had proceeded—fled, leaving Mrs. Ransford staring stupidly after her, a prey to utter bewilderment.



CHAPTER XXI

THE MEETING ON THE TRAIL

The quiet was profound. All the world seemed so still. There was no sign of life, yet the warm air was thrilling with the unseen life of an insect world. The heat haze rose from the soft, deep surface sand of the trail, and the grass-lined edges looked parched beneath the glare of the summer sun. There was no breath from the mountains down here, where the forest trees crowded in on either side, forming a great screen against the cooling breezes, and holding the heat like the sides of an oven.

A startled bird fluttered amongst the branches of a tree with that restless movement which so surely indicates the alarm of some subtle sense which no other creature possesses in so keen a degree. An answering rustle came from near by. And in a moment this was followed by a bustling rush among the leaves as two winged mates fled farther into the forest. Yet the sudden flight seemed quite unnecessary.

Again the stillness was broken. This time it was by the harsh voice of a black carrion. This too was followed by movement, only the movement had no haste or suggestion of fear. It was simply the heavy flapping of slow-moving wings. Two enormous crows launched themselves upon the air from the topmost branches of a distant tree, and perched on the crest of another at the trail-side.

They sat there in solemn, unmoving silence, but with eyes alert and watchful, and who might tell the thought passing through their unwholesome minds!

But now a further sound broke the stillness—a sound which perhaps accounted for the movements of the birds. A soft patter grew out of the distance like the pad of muffled feet. But it was faint and seemingly far off. The sharp eyes of the feathered watchers were scanning the horizon from their lofty perches. The sound grew. And as it grew the waiting carrion turned to view both distances of the trail. It was evident that the growing sound had a double source.

The padding feet became more distinct. Yes, the sounds were sharper. The softness had gone, developing into the rhythmic beat of hard hoofs speeding from either direction. Two horses were galloping down the trail at a rapid pace, and quickly it became evident that their meeting must occur somewhere almost directly beneath the watchful eyes of the waiting birds.

Nearer and nearer came the hoof-beats. The birds were plucking at their feathers with an unconcern all too apparent. They ruffled their wings and preened their plumage, a sure indication of satisfaction. One of the galloping horses slackened its gait. Perhaps its rider had heard the approach of that other, and, with the curious instinctive suspicion of the western trail, prepared to pass him under the best conditions for defensiveness. Perhaps it was simply the natural action of a horseman on the trail.

But the horse from the other direction had slackened speed too. His rider, too, had reduced his gait to a walk.

The birds overhead ceased their preening and looked below for the possible development they seem to be ever awaiting. It makes no difference, they follow the trail of all animal life, waiting, waiting, with a patience inexhaustible, for the moment of stillness which tells them that life has passed and the banquet awaits them.

One of the horsemen came into full view from the height above. The second horseman appeared round a bend. Both men were mounted on the lean, hard-muscled horses of prairie breeding. They were spare of flesh and uncared for, but their muscles were hard and their legs clean. Between them a bend in the trail still intervened, but with each moment they were drawing nearer to each other.

Right under the tree upon which the crows were perched Pete drew rein and sat listening to the shuffling gait of the oncoming horse. The man's lean face was dark with a brooding hatred. His eyes were fiercely alight with expectancy. A revolver lay across his thigh, the butt of it firmly grasped in a hand clutching it with desperate purpose.