It was quite impossible to tell what that might be. The road seemed to be making directly for the mouth of the canyon, and yet all his experience warned him that such a destination would be unusual. It must turn away. Yet where? How?

He searched ahead on the hillside above him for a modification of its slope. And a long way ahead he fancied he detected such an indication. But even so, the modification was so slight that there seemed little enough hope.

He kept on with dogged persistence. To return was not to be thought of yet. Any approach to vacillation now would be quite fatal.

The trail was fading out to little more than a double cattle track, and the farther he looked along it the more indistinct it seemed to become. Yet it continued, and the ever downward slope went on, and on.

His anxious eyes were painfully alert. Where? Where? He was asking himself with every jog of his weary horses. Then all of a sudden his questions ceased, and a decided relief leapt into his eyes as he drew his horses up to a halt.

He turned to his passenger and pointed with his whip at the hill abreast of them, his eyes undoubtedly witnessing his relief.

"See that, ma'm?" he cried. And Mercy beheld a narrow, rough flight of steps cut in the face of the hill. Each step was deliberately protected with a timber facing securely staked against "washouts," and though the workmanship was rough it was evidently the handiwork of men who thought only of endurance. It rose from the trail-side in a slanting direction, and, adopting the easiest course on the slope, wound its way to the very crown of the hill, over the top of which it vanished.

"Well?"

The woman's inquiry was ungracious enough.

"Why, that's the meanin' o' this yer trail." The man pointed above. "That sure leads somewheres."

"I suppose it does."

Mercy snapped her reply.

"Sure," said the man. "There's shelter up ther', anyways. An' by the looks o' them steps I'd say folks is livin' ther' right now."

"Then for goodness' sake go up and see, and don't sit there wasting time. I never had to deal with such a perfect fool in my life. Pass the reins over to me, and I'll wait here."

The man grinned. But instead of handing her the reins he secured them to the iron rail of the cart.

"Guess them hosses know best wot to do 'emselves," he observed quietly, as he scrambled from the cart. "Best let 'em stand theirselves, ma'm,—you never know wot's along the end of that trail—muskegs is——" His final jibe was lost in a deep-throated chuckle as he began the steep ascent before him.

Mercy watched him with angry eyes. The man added impertinence to his foolishness, and the combination was altogether too much for her temper. But for the fact that she required his services, she would well have wished that he might fall and break his neck. But her chief concern was to reach her destination, so she watched him climb the long steps in the hope that some comforting result might follow.

As the man rose higher and higher, and his figure grew smaller, his climb possessed an even greater interest for Mercy Lascelles than she admitted. She began to appreciate the peril of it, and peril, in others, always held her fascinated.

He was forced to move slowly, clinging closely with both hands to the steps above him. It would be easy to slip and fall, and she waited for that fall. She waited with nerves straining and every faculty alert.

So absorbed was she that she had forgotten the horses, forgotten her own position, everything, in the interest of the moment. Had it been otherwise, she must have noticed that something had attracted the drooping horses' attention. She must have observed the suddenly lifted heads, and pricked ears. But these things passed her by, as did the approach of a solitary figure bearing a burden of freshly taken fox pelts, which quite enveloped its massive shoulders.

The man was approaching round a slight bend in the trail, and the moment the waiting cart came into view, he stood, startled at the apparition. Then he whistled softly, and glanced back over the road he had come. He looked at a narrow point where the trail suddenly ended, a sharp break where the cliff dropped away abruptly, and further progress could only be made by an exhausting downward climb by a skilled mountaineer.

Then he came slowly on, his gray eyes closely scrutinizing the figure in the cart. In a moment he saw that it was a woman, and, by her drooping pose, recognized that she was by no means young. His eyes took on a curious expression—half doubt, half wonder, and his face grew a shade paler under his tan. But the change only lasted a few seconds. He quickly pulled himself together, and, shaking his white head thoughtfully, continued his way toward the vehicle with the noiseless gait which moccasins ever give to the wearer. He reached the cart quite unobserved. The woman's whole attention was absorbed by the climbing man, and the newcomer smiled curiously as he passed a greeting.

"You've hit a wrong trail, haven't you?" he inquired.

The woman in the cart gave a frantic start, and clutched at the side rail as though for support. Then her eyes came on a level with the man's smiling face, and fear gave way to a sudden expression of relentless hatred.

"You?" she cried, and her lean figure seemed to crouch as though about to spring.

The man returned her stare without flinching. His eyes still wore their curious smile.

"Yes," he said. "It is I."

The woman's lips moved. She swallowed as though her throat had suddenly become parched.

"Moreton Bucklaw," she murmured. "And—and after all these years."

The man nodded. Then several moments passed without a word.

Finally it was the man who spoke. His manner was calm, so calm that no one could have guessed a single detail of what lay between these two, or the significance of their strange meeting.

"You've hit a bad trail," he said. "There's a big drop back there. These steps go on up to my home. The old fort. They're an old short cut to this valley. Guess your man'll need to unhitch his horses and turn the cart round. He can't get it round else. Then, if you go back past the shoulder of the hill, you'll see an old track, sharp to your right. That leads into the trail that'll take you right on down to the farm where little Joan lives." He moved toward the steps. "I'll tell your man," he said.

He mounted the steps with the ease of familiarity, his great muscles making the effort appear ridiculously easy. A little way up he paused, and looked down at her.

"Guess I shall see you again?" he said, with the same curious smile in his steady eyes.

And the woman's reply came sharply up the hillside to him. It came with all the pent-up hatred of years, concentrated into one sentence. The hard eyes were alight with a cold fury, which, now, in her advancing years, when the freshness and beauty that had once been hers could no longer soften them, was not without its effect upon the man.

"Yes. You will see me again, Moreton Bucklaw."

And the man continued the ascent with a feeling as though he had listened to the pronouncement of his death sentence.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE WEB OF FATE

Joan had looked forward to her aunt's coming with very mixed feelings. There were moments when she was frankly glad at the prospect of a companionship which had been hers since her earliest childhood. Her nature had no malice in it, and the undoubted care, which, in her early years, the strange old woman had bestowed upon her counted for much in her understanding of duty and gratitude. Then, besides, whatever Aunt Mercy's outlook, whatever the unwholesomeness of the profession she followed with fanatical adherence, she was used to her, used to her strangenesses, her dark moments. If affection had never been particularly apparent in the elder woman's attitude toward her, there had certainly been a uniform avoidance of the display of any other feeling until those last few days immediately preceding her own flight from St. Ellis. Habit was strong with Joan, so strong, indeed, that in her happy moments she was glad at the thought of the return into her life of the woman who had taken the place of her dead parents.

Then, too, even the memory of that frenzied morning, when Aunt Mercy, laboring under her awful disease of mysticism, had assumed the role of prophetess, and accuser, and hurled at her troubled head a denunciation as cruel as it was impossible, had lost something of its dread significance and sting. At the time it had been of a blasting nature, but now—now, since she had conferred with Buck's great friend, since Buck's wonderful support had been added to her life, all the harshness of the past appeared in a new and mellowed light. She believed she saw her aunt as she really was, a poor, torn creature, whose mind was diseased, as a result of those early fires of disappointment through which she had passed.

The Padre had denied the fate that this aunt had convinced her of. Buck had defied it, and laughed it out of countenance. These men, so strong, so capable, had communicated to her receptive nature something of the hope and strength that was theirs. Thus she was ready to believe, to stand shoulder to shoulder with them, feeling that in the future nothing could hurt her. So she was ready for her aunt's coming.

But to live up to her determination was not always easy. She had yielded to all her old superstitious dread at the moment when Buck had first opened her eyes to the wonderful love that had so silently, so unknown, yet so swiftly grown up in her heart for him. In that delicious awakening, when lost in a joy almost inconceivable, when her defenses were at their weakest, the enemy's attack had come swiftly and surely. Her very love had aided it. Her dread for the man had gripped her heart, and all her mind and senses had gone back to the unspeakable fears she had only just learnt to deny. Nor was it until his denial, a denial given with that wonderful laugh of confidence, had she been able to drag herself back to the new path which his white-haired friend had marked out for her.

Since then, however, she had been able to contemplate her aunt's coming in something of the spirit in which she desired to welcome her. She felt that now, at least, she was proof against the unwholesome thought of the woman's diseased mind. There were certain unacknowledged trepidations as the time drew near, but these she contrived to smother under the excitement and interest of preparing her house for the reception, and the radiant confidence of Buck, which never failed to support her.

Every morning and every evening brought Buck's strong presence to the farm for a brief visit. And each visit was a dream of delight to the simple, loving girl. All day long, as she labored through her household cares, and the affairs of the farm she lived in, she dwelt on the memory of the morning visit, or looked forward to her lover's coming as the sun reached the western skies. Every night, when she sought the snow-white ease of her bed, it was to spend her few remaining minutes of waking dwelling on the happiness of past moments, and ultimately to anticipate in dreams the delights of the morrow.

So the days sped rapidly by and the time for Aunt Mercy's arrival drew on. And with each passing day the shadows receded, her trepidations became less and less, until they almost reached the vanishing-point. She felt that in Buck's love no shadow could live. With him at her side she need have no fear of evil. He was exalted by the very wholesomeness of his mind and heart, and the strength and confidence that was his, far, far above the level of hideous superstitions and happenings. His love for her, her love for him were too great, far too great, for disaster to ever touch them.

Then came Aunt Mercy.

She came in the middle of an oppressive afternoon. The days of late had assumed an extraordinary oppressiveness for the season of the year. She came amidst the peaceful calm when all farm life seems to be wrapped in a restful somnolence, when the animal world has spent its morning energies, and seeks rest that it may recuperate for the affairs surrounding its evening meal.

With her coming Joan's first realization was of dismay at the manner in which she had underestimated the woman's personality, how strangely absence had distorted her view of the mind behind those hard, gray eyes. And with this realization came an uneasy feeling that the power and influence which had sent her rushing headlong from her home, to seek the peace of the wilderness, was no fancy of a weak, girlish mind, but a force, a strong, living force, which made itself felt the instant she came into the woman's uncanny presence again.

She was just the same unyielding creature she had always known. Her peevish plaint at the journey, her railing at the stupidity and impertinence of the teamster, her expressed disgust at the country, her complaining of everything. These things were just what Joan must have expected, had she not lived away from her aunt, and so lost her proper focus. Joan did her best to appease her. She strove by every art of her simple mind to interest her and divert her thought and mood into channels less harsh. But she had little success, and it quickly became apparent that the lapse of time since her going from home had aggravated rather than improved the strange mental condition under which her aunt labored.

After the first greetings, and Joan had conducted her to her room, which she had spent infinite time and thought in arranging, the old woman remained there to rest until supper-time. Then she reappeared, and, by the signs of her worn, ascetic face, the cruel hollows about those adamant eyes, the drawn cheeks and furrowed brow, the girl realized that rest with her was not easy to achieve. She saw every sign in her now that in the old days she had learned to dread so acutely.

However, there was no help for it. She knew it was not in the nature of that busy brain to rest, and one day the breaking-point would be reached, and the end would come suddenly.

But at supper-time there was a definite change in her aunt's mental attitude. Whereas before her whole thought had been for the outpouring of her complaint at her personal discomforts, now all that seemed to have been forgotten in something which held her alert and watchful. Joan had no thought or suspicion of the working of the swift-moving brain. Only was she pleased, almost delighted at the questioning and evident interest in her own affairs.

The meal was nearly over. Aunt Mercy, as was her habit, had eaten sparingly, while she alternately listened to the details of the girl's farm life, the manner of the gold camp, the history of her arrival there and the many vicissitudes which had followed, and voiced the questions of her inquisitorial mind. Now she leant back in her chair and slowly sipped a cup of strong, milkless tea, while her eyes watched the girl's expressive face.

Joan had purposely avoided mention of the many details which had had such power to disturb her in the past. She had no desire to afford a reopening of the scene she had endured that morning at St. Ellis. But Mercy Lascelles was not to be thwarted by any such simple subterfuge.

"You've told me a lot of what doesn't matter," she said sharply, after a pause, while she sipped her tea. "Now tell me something that does." She glanced down at the flashing diamond rings upon her fingers. "By your letter you have not escaped from those things you hoped to—when you left St. Ellis."

Joan started. She was sitting with her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands. Mercy Lascelles observed the start, but offered no comment. She waited. She could afford to wait. She had read and understood the girl's letter. Besides, there was something else in her mind. Something else which required piecing into the web which linked their lives together. She knew that it held an important place, but its exact position her busy brain was still groping to resolve.

"Do you want me to talk about—those things?" the girl asked half appealingly. "Is it necessary? I am very happy, auntie, so happy that I don't want to risk losing a moment of it. I have not always been happy since I came here."

The hard, gray eyes suddenly lifted to the girl's face, and there was mocking in their depths.

"You mentioned them light-heartedly enough in your letter. You spoke of the death of two men to point your assurance that their death had nothing to do with your—fate. Some one had reassured you. Some one had made plain the absurdity that such a fate could ever be. Some one had shown you that such convictions only lived in the human mind and had no actual place in the scheme of things. Surely with this wonderful truth behind you, you need not shrink from details of things which have no connection with your life."

The icy sarcasm would not be denied. It was the old note Joan had been so familiar with. Its sting was as poignant as ever, but somehow now it stirred her to a defense of those who had come to her aid in her direst need.

But this was her aunt's first day on the farm. She felt she must restrain herself. She tried to smile, but it was a weakly attempt.

"You are quite unchanged, auntie," she said.

"I might say the same of you, Joan," came the sharp retort.

But Joan shook her head.

"You would be quite wrong. I have changed so much that you can never make me believe again in—all that which you made me believe before. Let me be frank. Nothing but my conviction that I am no more cursed by an evil fate than is every other living creature would have induced me to ask you here. I have asked you to come here and share my home because you are my aunt, my only relative, who has been good to me in the past. Because I am lonely here without you, and—and—oh, don't you understand? There are only us two left. Yes, I want to be with you." She broke off, but in a moment went on rapidly. "But this could never have been had I still believed what you made me believe. Under that old shadow I would have gone to the ends of the world rather than have been near you. Can't you understand? Let us forget it all—let us begin a new life together."

Mercy shook her head. She was quite unmoved by the girl's appeal.

"There is only one life. There is no beginning again. Those who talk like that are fools. That is why I say you, too, are unchanged." The woman's eyes lit. They suddenly became filled with that cold fire which Joan knew so well. "You think you are changed. You think by an effort of will—your own, combined with that of another, you have escaped that which has followed you from your birth. You think that every disaster that has ever occurred to those with whom you have been associated, and those who have belonged to you, can be accounted for naturally. You, with your foolish brain, and the equally foolish brain of that other. Why, girl, you deny it in every line of the letter you wrote me. It is there—there in every word, in its very atmosphere. You are lying to yourself under the influence of this other—who lies to you. Prove what you say if you want me to believe. The scientific mind must have proof, undeniable, irrefutable proof. Statements, mere statements of unbelief are meaningless things which do not convince even their authors. If you need to convince yourself, and convince me, then engage yourself to some man, marry him, and I tell you now you will bring about the direst tragedy that ever befel human creature."

"I—I have done what—what you dare me to do. I have engaged myself to marry. I am going to marry the man I love more than life itself."

Joan had risen from her seat. She stood erect, her beautiful head thrown back. An ecstatic light shone in the deep velvet softness of her eyes. But even as she spoke a sudden paling lessened the delicate bloom of her cheeks.

The other, with her cold eyes leveled at her, was quick to observe.

"And who is—your victim?"

Joan's pallor increased as she stared for a moment with dilating eyes at the woman who could be capable of such cruelty. Then, of a sudden, a protest of such bitterness sprang to her lips that even Mercy Lascelles was startled.

"Oh, God, was there ever such callous heartlessness in human creature? Was there ever such madness in sane woman? You ask me to prove my convictions, you ask me for the one method by which even you can be convinced, and when I show you how far my new faith has carried me you taunt me by asking who is my—victim. Oh, aunt, for the love of all you ever held dear, leave me in peace. Let me prove to you my own destiny, but leave me in peace until I have done so, or—failed. Can you not see that I am trying to preserve my sanity? And by every word and look you are driving me to the verge of madness. The man I love knows all, he and his great friend. He knows all you have ever told me, and his love is the strongest and bravest. He laughs this fate to scorn, he has no fears for himself, or for me. I tell you you shall have your proof. But you must leave me in peace."

For a moment it almost seemed as if her aunt were abashed at the passion of her protest. She withdrew her cold stare, and, with her jeweled hands folded in her lap, gazed down at the white table-cloth. She waited until Joan dropped despairingly back into her chair, then she looked up, and her glance was full of malicious irony.

"You shall have your way—after to-night. You shall not hear one word of warning from me. But to-night you must let me have my way. You say you believe. I tell you I know. You must do your best, and—fail. Have your way." She withdrew her gaze and her eyes became introspective. "Who is this man—you say you are going to marry?"

Joan warmed under the change in her aunt's manner. Her relief at the other's assurance was almost boundless, although the effect of the woman's previous attitude was to leave her far less sure of herself.

"It is Buck," she said impulsively. "He is the great friend of the man from whom I bought this farm. Oh, auntie, wait until you see him. You will realize, as I have, his strength, his goodness. You will have no doubts when you know him. You will understand that he has no fear of any—any supernatural agencies, has no fear of any fancied fate that may be awaiting him. Auntie, he is tall, so tall, and—oh, he's wonderful. And his name, Buck—don't you like it? It is so like him. Buck—independence, courage, confidence. And, oh, auntie, I love him so."

Mercy remained quite unmoved. It almost seemed doubtful if she heard and understood all the simple girlishness in her niece's rhapsody, so preoccupied she seemed with her own thoughts.

"It was his friend, you say, who has taught you that—you have nothing further to fear? And who is this paragon?"

"He is the man who sold me the farm. He is such a good, kind creature. He is loved and respected by every soul in the place. He is so wise, too,—he is quite wonderful. You know, he only sold his farm to me to keep the miners from starving before they found the gold. He is a sort of foster-father to Buck. He found him when he was a little boy—picked him up on the trail-side. That's about twenty years ago, soon after the Padre—that's what they call him—first came here."

"Yes, yes; but his name?"

Mercy had little patience with such detail as interested the fresh young mind of the girl.

"Moreton Kenyon."

The eyes of the old woman shot a swift glance into the girl's face.

"Moreton—who?"

"Kenyon."

Mercy sat up in her chair. Her whole figure was poised alertly. Her eyes were no longer uninterested. She was stirred to swift mental activity. She knew that the web was readjusting itself. The portion she had been seeking to place was finding its own position.

"He has a head of thick white hair. He has gray eyes, darkly fringed. He is a man of something over fifty. His shoulders are massive. His limbs sturdy and powerful."

Mercy detailed her description of the man in sharp, jerky sentences, each one definite and pointed. She spoke with the certainty of conviction. She was not questioning.

Joan's surprise found vent in a wondering interrogation.

"Then, you have seen him? You know him?"

Her aunt laughed. It was a painful, hideous laugh, suggesting every hateful feeling rather than mirth. Joan was shocked, and vaguely wondered when she had ever before heard her aunt laugh.

"Know him? Yes, I know him." The laugh was gone and a terrible look had suddenly replaced the granite hardness of her eyes. "I have known him all my life. I saw him only to-day, in the hills. He knew me. Oh, yes, he knew me, and I knew him. We have reason to know each other. But his name is not Moreton Kenyon. It is—Moreton Bucklaw."

Joan's wonder gave place to alarm as the other's venomous manner increased. The look in her eyes she recognized as the look she had seen in the woman's eyes when she had first listened to the story of her childhood.

"Moreton Bucklaw?"

"Yes, Moreton Bucklaw," her aunt cried, with sudden vehemence, which seemed to grow with every word she spoke. "Moreton Bucklaw. Do you understand? No, of course you don't. So this is your paragon of goodness and wisdom. This is the man who has told you that your fate only exists in distorted fancy. This is the man who is the foster-father of your wonderful Buck, who defies the curse of disaster which dogs your feet. Child, child, you have proved my words out of your own lips. The disaster you deny is hard upon your heels, hard upon the heels of this man you love. Your own hand, the hand even of your lover, is in it. Was it fate that brought you here? Was it fate that you should love this man? Was it fate that made my teamster lose his way and so bring me face to face with this man, almost at the door of his own home? Was it fate that brought me here? Yes, yes, yes! I tell you it was fate that did all these things—your fate. The curse from which you can never escape. Moreton Bucklaw!" She mouthed the words with insane glee. "It is almost laughable," she cried. "You have promised to marry the foster-son of the man who is shortly to pay the penalty for the murder of—your father."



CHAPTER XXVIII

A BLACK NIGHT

The Padre sat staring into space before the stove. Buck was in his favorite position at the open door, gazing out into the darkness of the night. As he smoked his evening pipe he was thinking, as usual, of the woman who was never quite out of his thoughts. He was intensely happy in the quiet fashion that was so much a part of him. It seemed to him unbelievable that he could have lived and been content before he met Joan. Now there could be no life without her, no world even. She pervaded his every sense, his whole being, with her beautiful presence.

He breathed deeply. Yes, it was all very, very wonderful. Then, by degrees, his thoughts ran on to the expected arrival of Joan's relative—that aunt whom he had heard so much about from the Padre. And in a moment an uneasy feeling made him shift his position. The Padre's story was still vivid in his mind; he could never forget it. Nor could he forget this woman's place in it. These thoughts set him speculating uneasily as to the possible result of her visit.

He surreptitiously glanced over at the silent figure beside the stove. The man's pipe was still in his mouth, but it had gone out. Also he saw, in that quick glance, that the fire in the stove had fallen low. But he made no move to replenish it. The night was very sultry.

He turned again to his contemplation of the outer world. The night was black, jet black. There was not a star visible. The mountain air had lost its cool snap, the accustomed rustle of the woods was gone. There was a tense stillness which jarred in an extraordinary degree.

"A desperate, dark night," he said suddenly. He was merely voicing his thought aloud.

The sound of his voice roused the other from his reverie. The Padre lifted his head and removed the pipe from between his teeth.

"Yes—and hot. Throw us your tobacco."

Buck pitched his pouch across, but remained where he was.

"Guess that leddy's down at the farm by now," Buck went on. "Joan was guessing she'd get around to-day. That's why I didn't go along there."

"Yes, she is there." The Padre lit his pipe and smoked steadily.

Buck turned quickly.

"How d'you know?"

"I met her on the trail. They missed their way this morning and hit the trail below here, at the foot of the steps."

"You didn't—let her see you?" Buck asked, after a pause.

The Padre smiled.

"I spoke to her. I put her on the right trail."

"You spoke to her?" Buck's tone was half incredulous. "Did she—recognize you?"

The other nodded.

"You see, I've not changed much—except for my hair."

"What did she do—say?"

The Padre's smile remained.

"Said—I should see her again."

For some moments the two men faced each other across the room. The yellow lamplight plainly revealed their different expressions. The Padre's smile was inimitable in its sphinx-like obscurity, but Buck's eyes were frankly troubled.

"And that means?" Buck's question rang sharply.

"She has neither forgotten nor—forgiven."

Buck returned abruptly to his contemplation of the night, but his thoughts were no longer the happy thoughts of the lover. Without knowing it he was proving to himself that there were other things in the world which could entirely obscure the happy light which the presence of Joan shed upon his life.

The Padre sat back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, while his pipe burned hot and the smoke of it rose thickly. It was the only outward sign he gave of any emotion. Buck suddenly forgot the night. A desperate thought was running hotly through his brain. His friend's admission had set his fertile young brain working furiously. It was traveling just whither a vivid imagination carried it. A reckless purpose was swiftly formulating.

After a while he turned again. His resolve was taken on the impulse of the moment.

"Padre," he said, "you shall never——" But his sentence remained incomplete. He broke off, listening.

The other was listening too.

There was the sharp cracking of a forest tree—one of those mysterious creakings which haunt the woodland night. But there was another sound too. The trained ears of these men caught its meaning on the instant. It was the vague and distant sound of wheels upon the soft bed of the sandy trail.

"A heavy wagon, an'—two hosses," said Buck.

The Padre nodded.

"Coming from the direction of the farm. Sounds like the old team,—and they're being driven too fast for heavy horses. Joan hasn't got a saddle-horse of her own."

His last remark explained his conviction, and the suggestion found concurrence in Buck's mind.

They waited, and the sound grew louder. Then, without a word, Buck passed out of the room.

A few minutes later the rumble of wheels ceased, and the Padre heard Buck's voice greeting Joan.

* * * * *

A tragic light shone in Joan's eyes as she stood in the centre of the room glancing from her lover to his friend. She was searching for an opening for what she had come to say. Her distraught brain was overwhelmed with thoughts she could not put into words. She had driven over with the heavy team and wagon because she had no other means of reaching these two, and unless she reached them to-night she felt that by morning her sanity must be gone. Now—now—she stood speechless before them. Now, her brain refused to prompt her tongue. All was chaos in her mind, and her eyes alone warned the men of the object of her coming.

It was the Padre's voice that finally guided her. He read without hesitation or doubt the object of her mission.

"Yes," he said simply. "I am Moreton Bucklaw, the man accused of your father's murder."

Suddenly the girl's head drooped forward, and her hands covered her face as though to shut out the terrible truth which the man's words conveyed.

"O God!" she cried. "Then she was not lying to me."

Buck's eyes, fierce, almost savage at the sight of the girl's despair, shot a swift glance at his friend. It was a glance which only the white-haired man could have understood. To the looker-on it would have expressed a terrible threat. To the Padre it was the expression of a heart torn to shreds between love and friendship.

"If she told you I killed him—she was lying."

The man had not raised his tone. There was no other emotion in his manner than distress for the girl's suffering.

Joan looked up, and a gleam of hope struggled through her despair.

"Then it's not true? Oh, I knew it—I knew it! She was lying to me. She was lying to me as she has always lied to me. Oh, thank God, thank God!" She dropped back into the chair that had been placed for her, but which up to that moment she had ignored.

The two men waited for her emotion to pass. Buck as yet had nothing to say. And the Padre knew that until she was mistress of herself words would only be wasted.

Presently she looked up. Her eyes were dry, and the agony that had sent her upon her headlong mission was passing. The Padre's relief showed in the smile with which he met her glance. Buck stood steadily regarding her, longing to help her, but knowing that his time had not come yet.

"Tell me," she said, struggling hard for steadiness. "Tell me all—for I—I cannot seem to understand anything."

The Padre bowed his head.

"You know your own story. It is all substantially true that Mercy Lascelles has told you. All, that is, except that she claims I killed your father. She did not see your father die. I did. I was the only one who saw him die—by his own hand, a desperate and ruined man. Listen, and I will tell you the whole story without concealing one tittle of my own doings and motives."

Half an hour passed while the man's even voice recited without emotion all the details leading up to Charles Stanmore's death. He kept nothing back—his own love for the then handsome Mercy, and the passionate insult he had offered her, when, in her love for the dead man, she became his housekeeper. He intended that, for Buck's sake, this girl should know everything, nor had he the least desire for any concealment on personal account. He did not spare his own folly and the cowardice of his flight. He felt that concealment of any sort could only injure Buck, whom at all costs he must not hurt. He even analyzed, with all the logic at his command, Mercy Lascelles' motives in accusing him. He declared his belief in her desire to marry the widowed man and her own consequent hatred of himself, whose presence was a constant thwart to her plans.

And when he had finished something of the trouble had passed out of the girl's eyes. The color had returned to her cheeks, and he knew that he had achieved his purpose.

"I suppose it is terrible to you, child, to hear me speak of your aunt, one of your own sex, a blood relative, in this way," he said in conclusion. "But I believe that she is absolutely mad in her hatred of me. And now that she has discovered my whereabouts nothing less will satisfy her than that I must stand my trial, and—go to the electric chair. It is my purpose to stand my trial. It was for that reason, when I recognized her this morning, before she even saw me, I purposely thrust myself in her way. I intended that she should not lack opportunity, and my reason—well, that doesn't much matter."

The girl nodded.

"I think I am glad of your decision," she said simply. "You see, when you have established your innocence——"

"I fear that result is—doubtful."

The man's admission was quite frank. Nor was there even a suggestion of regret in his voice. But Joan's heart gripped with alarm. The thought of such a contingency had never occurred to her simple mind. He had not committed murder. Then, of course, he was innocent. It had all been made so simple. Now—now she was suddenly overwhelmed with a new terror.

"You mean—you cannot prove—your innocence?" she cried incredulously.

"You forget I was the only man with him. I was the last person with him. And—I fled when I should have stayed to—help. The circumstances are terribly against me."

Joan's throat had suddenly parched. She struggled to speak, but no sound came. She looked to Buck for help and the man ran to her side.

The gentle pressure of his protecting arm, as he rested one caressing hand upon her shoulder, gave her the relief she needed.

"Oh, Buck, Buck! For the love of Heaven say something—do something," she appealed. "They will kill him for a crime—of which he is innocent."

Suddenly the Padre's eyes glowed with a strange light of happiness. The girl's appeal to Buck had been the one saving touch in the midst of the cloud of tribulation overshadowing him. The daughter of his best friend, the daughter of the man he was supposed to have done to death, had given her verdict. She believed in his innocence. He sighed with the depth of his thankfulness. He could now face whatever lay before him with perfect equanimity.

But Buck had yet to play his part in the little drama so swiftly working itself out. His part was far different to the passive attitude of the other man. He had no tolerance for the possible sacrifice of an innocent life at the demand of a crazy woman who had come so nearly wrecking the life of the girl he loved. As Joan appealed to him his eyes lit with a sudden fire of rebellion. And his answer came in a hot rush.

"You think I'm goin' to let him die, Joan?" he cried, the hot blood staining his cheeks and brow. "I tell you he won't. I swear to you, sure, sure, he shan't die a murderer's death! I tell you right here, little gal, ther' ain't a sheriff in the country big enough to take him. He says he must give up to arrest when the time comes. Wal, he'll have to do it over my dead body."

His words were in answer to Joan's appeal, but they were hurled at the man beside the fire, and were a defiance and a challenge from the depths of a loyal heart.

The Padre's smile was good to see. But he shook his head. And instantly Joan caught at the enthusiasm which stirred her lover and hugged it to herself. She sprang to her feet, and a wonderful light shone in her eyes.

"Buck is right, Padre. He is right," she cried. "Do you hear? You shall not take the risk, you must not. Oh, Padre! you must live for our sakes. We know your innocence, then what more is needed after all these years? For once let us be your mentors—you who have always been the mentor of others. Padre, Padre, you owe this to us. Think of it! Think of what it would mean. A murderer's death! You shall not, you cannot give yourself up. Buck is right. I, too, am with him."

She turned to the man at her side, and, raising her arms, clasped her hands about his neck.

"Buck—my Buck. Let us swear together that, while we have life, he shall never be the victim of this crazy, terrible woman. It shall be our fight—yours and mine."

Buck gazed down into her beautiful, pleading eyes as he clasped her slim body in his strong, young arms. Her eyes were alight with a love, radiant in its supremacy over her whole being. Her championship of his innocent friend would have endeared her a thousandfold had such a thing been possible. In that moment it was as though her courage, her loyalty, had completed the bond between them. His jaws gritted tight. His eyes shone with a fervent resolution.

"It goes, little gal," he cried. "It's our lives for his. It sure goes—every time."



CHAPTER XXIX

BEASLEY IN HIS ELEMENT

The camp was sweltering under an abnormal heat. There was not one breath of the usual invigorating mountain air. A few more degrees of humidity, and the cup of endurance would have been filled to overflowing and toiling humanity breathing something like sheer moisture. The sky was heavy and gray, and a dull sun, as though it too had been rendered faint-hearted, was painfully struggling against the laden atmosphere.

The work of the camp went on. For hours human nature wrestled with a growing inertia which robbed effort of all snap. But gradually, as the day wore on, the morning impetus gave way, and peevish tongues voiced the general plaint. Men moved about slowly, their tongues actively cursing. They cursed the heat as they mopped their dripping brows. They cursed the flies, and hurled mighty blows for their destruction. They cursed all work, and gold became the last thing in the world they desired at such a price. They cursed the camp, the country, but more than all they cursed the black hill from which they drew their living.

Then came acknowledgment of defeat. One by one at first, and finally in batches, they shouldered their tools and moodily withdrew from the attack. As they went weary eyes glanced back with hate and disgust at the frowning buttresses of the hill, with awe at the steaming cloud hanging above the simmering waters of the suspended lake. The depressing shadow of Devil's Hill had for the moment become intolerable.

Beasley hated the heat just as cordially as these toilers, but he would have hated still more its sudden going, and the consequent appeasement of unnatural thirsts, which it was his pleasure and profit to slake. His own feelings were at all times subservient to his business instincts. This sudden, unaccountable heat meant added profit to him, therefore his complaint was half-hearted. It was almost as if he feared to give offense to the gods of his good fortune.

Then, too, Beasley had so many things to occupy his busy brain. His trade was one that required much scheming, a matter in which he reveled at all times. Problems of self-interest were his salt of life, and their accurate solution brought him as near earthly happiness as well could be.

Curiously enough problems were always coming his way. He chanced upon one that morning while busy in his storeroom, his attention divided between pricing and stacking new dry goods and smashing flies on the back of his superheated neck. And it served him with food for thought for the rest of the day.

It took him quite unawares, and for that very reason gave him ample satisfaction. He was bending over a pile of rolls of fabric when a voice suddenly hailed him from the doorway.

"Are you the proprietor of the livery stables?"

He turned about with a start. Such a question in that camp seemed superfluous. It was absurd. He looked up, and his astonished eyes fell upon the vision of an extremely well-dressed, refined-looking woman whom he judged to be anything over fifty. But what held his attention most was the lean, emaciated face and penetrating eyes. There was something of the witch about it, as there was about the bowed figure. But more than all she was a stranger.

He admitted the impeachment in the midst of his astonishment with an abruptness equal to her own.

"Sure," he said, and waited.

"Where will I find the sheriff of this place?"

Beasley's eyes opened wider.

"Guess ther' ain't no sheriff in this camp."

The woman's next words came impatiently.

"Why isn't there? Is there a lawyer?"

Beasley grinned. His astonishment was giving place to curiosity and speculation. He tapped the revolver at his hip.

"We're mostly our own lawyers around here," he said easily.

But the woman ignored his levity.

"Where can I find one—a lawyer, or sheriff?" she demanded with an added imperiousness.

"Guess Leeson Butte's nearest."

The stranger considered a moment. Beasley's eyes never left her. He had noticed the refinement of her accent, and wondered the more.

"How can I get there—best?" the woman next demanded.

"Guess I ken let you have a team," Beasley said with alacrity. He smelt good business.

"How much?"

"Fifty dollars. In an' out—with teamster."

"Does he know the way?"

"Sure."

The woman eyed him steadily.

"I don't want any mistakes. This—is a case of murder."

Beasley's interest suddenly redoubled. The problem was growing in its attractiveness.

"Who's the feller?" he asked unguardedly.

"That's not your business." The woman's eyes were cold. "Send the team over to the farm down the river in two hours' time. The horses must be able to travel fast. Here's the money."

The saloon-keeper took the money promptly. But for once his astonishment held him silent. Mercy Lascelles had reached the door to go. Then she seemed to change her mind. She paused.

"There's fifty dollars more when I get back—if you keep your tongue quiet," she said warningly. "I don't want my business to get around. I should say gossip travels fast amongst the hills. That's what I don't want."

"I see."

It was all the astonished man could think of to say at the moment. But he managed an abundant wink in a markedly friendly way.

His wink missed fire, however, for the woman had departed; and by the time he reached the door to look after her he saw her mounting the wagon, which was drawn by the heavy team from Joan's farm, and driven by her hired man.

As the stranger drove off he leant against the doorway and emitted a low whistle. In his own phraseology he was "beat," completely and utterly "beat."

But this state of things could not last long. His fertile brain could not long remain under such a cloud of astonished confusion. He must sort out the facts and piece them together. This he set to work on at once.

Abandoning his work in the storeroom he went at once to the barn, and gave orders for the dispatch of the team. And herein, for once, he traded honestly with his visitor. He ordered his very best team to be sent. Perhaps it was in acknowledgment of the problem she had offered him.

Then he questioned his helpers. Here he was absolutely despotic. And in less than half an hour he had ascertained several important facts. He learned that a team had come in from Crowsfoot the previous afternoon, bringing a passenger for the farm. The team had remained at the farm, likewise the teamster. Only the fact that daylight that morning had brought the man into camp for a supply of fodder and provisions had supplied them with the news of his presence in the district. This had happened before Beasley was up.

With this Beasley went back to the saloon, where his dinner was served him in the bar. His bartender was taking an afternoon off. It was a thoughtful meal. The man ate noisily with the aid of both knife and fork. He had acquired all the habits of the class he had so long mixed with. Nor was it until his plate of meat and canned vegetables had nearly disappeared that light began to creep into his clouded brain.

He remembered that Joan had refurnished the farm. Why? Because some one from the East, no doubt, was coming to stay with her. Who? Mother? Aunt? Cousin? Female anyway. Female arrives. Queer-looking female. Goes to farm. Stays one night. Comes looking for sheriff next morning. A case of murder. No murder been done around here. Where? East? Yes. Then there's some one here she's found—or she knows is here—and he's wanted for murder. Who?

At this point Beasley grinned. How many might there not be on Yellow Creek who could be so charged?

But his shrewd mind was very quick. This woman had not been into camp until she visited him. Where had she been? In the hills—coming from Crowsfoot. Still she might have been aware of the presence of her man before she came—through Joan.

For a moment he was disappointed.

But it was only for a moment. He quickly brightened up. A new idea had occurred to him which narrowed his field of possibilities. This woman was educated, she belonged to a class he had once known himself. She would know nothing of the riffraff of this camp. It must be somebody of the same class, or near it, somebody of education——He drew a sharp breath, and his wicked eyes lit.

The wildest, the most impossible thought had occurred to him. He pondered long upon the passage of the trail from Crowsfoot to the farm. He remembered how she did not desire the "gossip" to travel—especially to the hills.

Suddenly he hailed his Chinese cook and flung his knife and fork down upon his plate. In his elation he forgot the heat, the sticky flies. He forgot his usual custom of abstention during the day. He poured himself out a long drink of really good whisky, which he gulped down, smacking his lips with appreciation before flinging his customary curse at the head of his Mongolian servitor.

He had never had such a morning in his life.

Two of the boys came in for a drink. Such was his mood that he upset their whole focus of things by insisting that they have it at his expense. And when a third came along with a small parcel of gold dust he bought it at its full value.

These were significant signs. Beasley Melford was in a generous mood. And such a mood in such a man required a lot of inspiration.

But it was not likely to continue for long. And surely enough it quickly reached its limit, and resolved itself into his every-day attitude, plus a desire to make up, at the first opportunity, the losses incurred by his moments of weak generosity.

The heat of the day soon afforded him his desire, for the limp and sweating miners straggled back into camp long before their usual working day was ended. And what is more, they came to seek solace and refreshment under his willing roof.

By the middle of the afternoon the bar was fairly well filled. The place was little better than a furnace of humid heat. But under the influence of heartening spirits the temperature passed almost unnoticed, or at least uncared. Here at least the weary creatures were called upon for no greater effort than to deal cards, or raise a glass to their lips and hold it there until drained. They could stand any heat in the pursuit of such pastimes.

Beasley watched his customers closely. Three tables of poker were going, and from each he drew a percentage for the "chips" sold at the bar. Each table was well supplied with drinks. A group of five men occupied one end of the counter, and two smaller groups were farther along. They were all drinking with sufficient regularity to suit his purposes. Amongst the crowd gathered he noticed many of the men of the original camp. There was Curly Saunders and Slaney at one poker table with Diamond Jack. Abe Allinson was in close talk with two financial "sharps" from Leeson, at the bar. The Kid was with a number of new hands who had only just come in to try their luck. He was endeavoring to sell a small share of his claim at a large price. Two others were with the larger group at the bar, discussing "outputs" and new methods of washing gold. It was a mixed collection of humanity, but there were sufficient of the original members of the camp to suit him.

In a lull in the talk, when for a moment only the click of poker "chips" and the shuffle of cards broke the silence, Beasley propped himself against his counter and, for once, paused from his everlasting habit of glass wiping.

"Guess none o' you heard the news?" he inquired, with a grin of anticipation.

His first effort failed to produce the effect he desired, so a repetition followed quickly. For a moment play was suspended at one of the tables, and the men looked up.

"Noos?" inquired Diamond Jack.

The Kid and his youthful companions looked round at the foxy face of their host.

"Oh! I don't guess it's nuthin'," said Beasley. "Only—it's so dogone queer."

His manner was well calculated. His final remark drew the entire barroom. All play and all talk was abruptly held up.

"Wot's queer?" demanded Diamond Jack, while all eyes searched the saloon-keeper's sharp face.

Beasley bit the end off a green cigar.

"That's just it," he said. "Ther's suthin' I can't jest make out. Say——" he paused while he lit his cigar with a sulphur match. "Any you fellers heard of a murder around here lately? Can't say I have."

He puffed leisurely at his cigar. The scattered groups at the bar drew closer. There was no question but he now had the attention he desired. The blank negative on the faces about him gave him his answer.

"Sure," he observed thoughtfully. "That's wher' I'm beat. But—ther's sure murder been done, an' ther's goin' to be a big doin' around—in consequence. Ther's word gone in to the sheriff at Leeson, an' the law fellers o' that city is raisin' a mighty business to get warrants signed. Say, I heerd they're sendin' a dozen dep'ties to hunt these hills. Seems to me the guy whoever it is is a pretty hot tough, an' he's livin' in the hills. I heard more than that. I heard the murder was a low-down racket that if folks knew about it they'd be right out fer lynchin' this guy. That's why it's bin kep' quiet. I bin goin' over the folks in my mind to locate the—murderer. But it's got me beat."

"Ther' ain't bin no murder since the camp got boomin'," said Abe Allinson thoughtfully, "'cept you reckon that racket of Ike an' Pete's."

Beasley shook his head.

"'Tain't that. That was jest clear shootin'. Though it's queer you mention that. Say, this racket's got somethin' to do with that farm. It's mighty queer about that farm. That gal's brought a heap of mischief. She sure is an all-fired Jonah."

"But what's she to do wi' this new racket?" inquired Slaney.

Beasley shook his head.

"You got me beat again. The sheriff's comin' right out to that farm, chasin' some feller for murder. Ther's the fact—plain fact. He's comin' to that farm—which shows that gal is mussed-up with the racket someways. Now I tho't a heap on this thing. An' I'm guessin' this murder must have been done back East. Y' see that gal comes from back East. 'Wal, now,' says I, 'how do we shape then?' Why, that gal—that Jonah gal—comes right here an' locates some feller who's done murder back East. Who is it? I gone over every feller in this yer camp, an' 'most all are pretty clear accounted for. Then from what I hear the sheriff's posse is to work the hills. Who is ther' in the hills?"

Beasley paused for effect. His purpose was rapidly becoming evident. He glanced over the faces about him, and knew that the same thought was in each mind.

He laughed as though an absurd thought had passed through his mind.

"Course," he exclaimed, "it's durned ridic'lous. Ther's two fellers we know livin' in the hills. Jest two. Ther's Buck an'—the Padre. Buck's bin around this creek ever since he was raised. I ain't no use for Buck. He's kind o' white livered, but he's a straight citizen. Then the Padre," he laughed again, "he's too good. Say, he's next best to a passon. So it can't be him."

He waited for concurrence, and it came at once.

"I'll swar' it ain't the Padre," cried Curly warmly.

"It sure ain't," agreed Slaney, shaking his serious head.

"The Padre?" cried Abe, with a scornful laugh. "Why, I'd sooner guess it's me."

Beasley nodded.

"You're dead right ther', boys," he said, with hearty good-will. "It sure ain't the Padre. He's got religion, an' though I'm 'most allus curious 'bout folks with religion—it ain't right to say ther's any queer reason fer 'em gettin' it. Then the Padre's bin here nigh twenty years. Jest fancy! A feller of his eddication chasin' around these hills fer twenty years! It's easy fer a feller raised to 'em, like Buck. But when you've been a feller in a swell position East, to come an' hunt your hole in these hills fer twenty years, why, it's—it's astonishin'. Still, that don't make no diff'rence. It can't be the Padre. He's got his reasons fer stayin' around here. Wal, nigh all of us has got reasons fer bein' here. An' it ain't fer us to ask why. No, though I don't usually trust folks who get religion sudden, I ain't goin' agin the Padre. He's a white man, sure."

"The whitest around here," cried Curly. He eyed Beasley steadily. "Say, you," he went on suspiciously, "who give you all this?"

It was the question Beasley had been waiting for. But he would rather have had it from some one else. He twisted his cigar across his lips and spat a piece of tobacco leaf out of his mouth.

"Wal," he began deliberately, "I don't guess it's good med'cine talkin' names. But I don't mind sayin' right here this thing's made me feel mean. The story's come straight from that—that—Jonah gal's farm. Yep, it makes me feel mean. Ther's nothin' but trouble about that place now—'bout her. I ain't got over Ike and Pete. Wal, I don't guess we'll get to the rights of that now. They wer' two bright boys. Here are us fellers runnin' this camp fer all we know, all good citizens, mind, an' ther' ain't nothin' amiss. We ke'p the place good an' clean of rackets. We're goin' to boom into a big concern, an' we're goin' to make our piles—clean. An' we got to put up with the wust sort of mischief—from this farm. It ain't right. It ain't a square shake by a sight. I sez when ther's Jonahs about they need to be put right out. An' mark you, that gal, an' that farm are Jonahs. Now we got this sheriff feller comin' around with his dep'ties chasin' glory after a crook. He'll get his nose into everybody. An' sheriffs' noses is quick at gettin' a nasty smell. I ain't sayin' a thing about any citizen in this place—but I don't guess any of us has store halos about us, an' halos is the only things'll keep any feller safe when sheriffs get around."

A murmur of approval greeted his argument. Few of the men in the camp desired the presence of a sheriff in their midst. There were few enough among them who would care to have the ashes of their past disturbed by any law officer. Beasley had struck the right note for his purpose.

"How'd you put this Jonah out, Beasley?" cried Diamond Jack.

Beasley thought for a moment.

"How'd I put her out?" he said at last. "That's askin' some. How'd I put her out? Say," his face flushed, and his eyes sparkled, "ef I had my way I'd burn every stick o' that dogone farm. Then she'd light out. That's what I'd do. I ain't got no use for Jonahs. An' I say right here I'd give five hundred dollars to see her back turned on this place. I tell you, boys, an' I'm speakin' for your good, an' mine, if she stops around here we're goin' to get it—we'll get it good. The Lord knows how it's goin' to come. But it's comin', I feel it in my bones. It's comin' as sure as my name's Beasley."

He threw such a sincerity and earnestness into his manner that he made a marked impression. Even Curly Saunders, who, with one or two of the older hands, had some sort of regard for the girl they believed had founded their fortunes, was not quite without doubts. There was no question but mischief did seem to hang about the farm. Ike and Pete had been popular enough. The newer people had no sentiment on the matter, but they listened with interest to the saloon-keeper, feeling that his was the voice of the leading citizen. Besides, the matter of the sheriff's coming was not pleasant. Many had spent a great part of their lives avoiding such contact.

"Seems to me you're forgettin' that gal brought us our luck," the Kid suggested impulsively. "You were ther' when we handed her the——"

"Death's-head," laughed Beasley. Then his face hardened. "Tcha!" he cried with some heat. "You make me sick. I told you then, as I tell you now, it was that storm brought us our luck, an' it brought us our Jonah with it. If you'd got a cent's worth of grit that gal 'ud go. We don't wish her harm. I ain't one to wish a gal harm. But go she must if we want to be quit of trouble. Still, I'm on'y just sayin' what I feel. It don't matter a heap. Ther's the sheriff comin' along to grab some one for murder. Maybe he'll chase up a few other rackets to fill in his time. It's things of that nature do matter. He's got to git some one. Maybe it's some one in the hills. Maybe it ain't. Maybe—wal, I sure do hope it ain't—the Padre."

He laughed as he turned to attend the wants of some fresh customers who entered the bar at that moment. The malice underlying his jest must have been plain to any one observing the man.

With this fresh diversion play at the card tables was resumed while the men at the bar fell back into their original groups. But the general interest was absorbed in Beasley's news, and the channels of talk were diverted. Beasley had sown his seed on fruitful soil. He knew it. The coming of a sheriff, or any form of established law, into a new mining camp was not lightly to be welcomed by the earliest pioneers.

In the midst of this atmosphere a further interest arose. The last person Beasley expected to see in his bar at that hour of the day was Buck. He was not even sure he wanted to see him after what had passed. Yet Buck suddenly pushed his way through the swing-doors.

The saloon-keeper was in the act of replacing the whisky bottle under the counter, having just served his fresh customers, when his foxy eyes encountered the dark face of the man he most hated on Yellow Creek.

In a moment he was all smiles.

"Howdy, Buck," he cried, as though the sight of him was the one thing in the world he desired. Then he covertly winked at those nearest him.

His wink conveyed all he intended, and the men turned and eyed the newcomer curiously.

Buck responded to the greeting indifferently, and proceeded to business. He had not come for the pleasure of the visit. He passed a slip of paper across the counter.

"Can you do them for me?" he inquired. "Just cast an eye over that list. If you'll get 'em put up I'll ride in in the mornin' an' fetch 'em out. I'll need 'em early."

His manner was short and cold. It was his way with Beasley, but now there was more in his mind to make for brevity.

Beasley studied the paper closely. And as he read down the list a smile spread over his mean face. It was a long list of supplies which included rifle and revolver ammunition. He whistled softly.

"Mackinaw!" Then he looked up into the dark eyes of the waiting man, and his own expressed an unwonted good-humor. "Say, wot's doin' at the fort? Gettin' ready for a siege? Or—or are you an' the Padre chasin' the long trail?"

Buck's thin cheeks flushed as he pointed at the paper.

"You can do that for me?" he inquired still more coldly.

Beasley shot a swift glance round at the interested faces of the men standing by.

"Oh, guess I can do it," he said, his eyes twinkling. "Sure I can do it. Say, you fellers ain't lightin' out?"

He winked again. This time it was deliberately at Buck.

"They're winter stores," said Buck shortly.

Then, as Beasley laughed right out, and he became aware of a general smile at his expense, he grew hot.

"What's the matter?" he demanded sharply. And his demand was not intended for the saloon-keeper alone.

"Ke'p your shirt on, Buck," exclaimed Beasley, with studied good-nature. "We couldn't jest help but laff." Then his eyes became sentimentally serious. "Y' see, we bin worried some. We wus guessin' when you came along. Y' see, ther's a sheriff an' a big posse o' dep'ties comin' right along to this yer camp. Y' see, ther's some guy chasin' around the hills, an' he's wanted fer—murder."

The man was watching for an effect in Buck's face. But he might as well have looked for expression in that of a sphinx.

"Wal?"

It was the only response Buck afforded him.

"Wal," Beasley shifted his gaze. He laughed feebly, and the onlookers transferred their attention to him. "Y' see, it was sort o' laffable you comin' along buyin' winter stores in August, an' us jest guessin' what guy the sheriff would be chasin'—in the hills. He won't be smellin' around the fort now?" He grinned amiably into the dark face. But deep in his wicked eyes was an assurance which Buck promptly read.

Nor did it take him a second to come to a decision. He returned the man's look with a coolness that belied his real feelings. He knew beyond question that Mercy Lascelles had already commenced her campaign against the Padre. He had learned of her journey into the camp from Joan. The result of that journey had not reached him yet. At least it was reaching him now.

"You best hand it me straight, Beasley," he said. "Guess nothin' straight is a heap in your line. But jest for once you've got no corners to crawl around. Hand it out—an' quick."

Buck's manner was dangerously sharp set. There was a smouldering fire growing in his passionate eyes. Beasley hesitated. But his hesitation was only for the reason of his own growing heat. He made one last effort to handle the matter in the way he had originally desired, which was with a process of good-humored goading with which he hoped to keep the company present on his side.

"Ther's no offense, Buck," he said. "At least ther' sure needn't to be. You never could play easy. I wus jest handin' you a laff—same as we had."

"I'm waitin'," said Buck with growing intensity, utterly ignoring the explanation.

But Beasley's hatred of the man could not be long denied. Besides, his last attempt had changed the attitude of the onlookers. There was a lurking derision, even contempt in their regard for him. It was the result of what had occurred before Buck's coming. They expected him to talk as plainly as he had done then. So he gave rein to the venom which he could never long restrain.

"Guess I hadn't best ke'p you waitin', sure," he said ironically. Then his eyes suddenly lit. "Winter stores, eh?" he cried derisively. "Winter stores—an' why'll the Padre need 'em, the good kind Padre, when the sheriff's comin' along to round him up fer—murder?"

There was a moment of tense silence as the man flung his challenge across the bar. Every eye in the room was upon the two men facing each other. In the mind of every one present was only one expectation. The lightning-like play of life and death.

But the game they all understood so well was not forthcoming. For once Buck's heat was controlled by an iron will. To have shot Beasley down where he stood would have been the greatest delight of his life, but he restrained the impulse. There were others to think of. He forced himself to calmness.

Beasley had fired his shot in the firm conviction it would strike home unfailingly. Yet he knew that it was not without a certain random in it. Still, after what had been said, it was imperative to show no weakening. He was certain the quarry was the Padre, and his conviction received further assurance as he watched Buck's face.

For an instant Buck would willingly have hurled the lie in his teeth. But to do so would have been to lie himself, and, later, for that lie to be proved. There was only one course open to him to counter the mischief of this man. He looked squarely into the saloon-keeper's face.

"The truth don't come easy to you, Beasley," he said calmly, "unless it's got a nasty flavor. Guess that's how it's come your way to tell it now."

"Winter stores," laughed the man behind the bar. And he rubbed his hands gleefully, and winked his delight in his own astuteness at the men looking on.

Then his face sobered, and it seemed as though all his animosity had been absorbed in a profound regret. His whole attitude became the perfection of a righteous indignation and sympathy, which almost deceived Buck himself.

"See here, Buck," he exclaimed, leaning across his bar. "You an' me don't always see things the same way. Guess I don't allus hit it with the Padre. No, I guess ther' ain't a heap of good feeling among the three of us. But before you leave here I want to say jest one thing, an' it's this. Sheriff or no sheriff, deputies or no deputies, if they're lookin' fer the Padre for murder I say it's a jumped-up fake. That man couldn't do a murder, not to save his soul. An' it'll give me a whole heap o' pleasure fixin' up your winter stores. An' good luck to you both—when you hit the long trail."

A murmur of approval went round the room amongst those of the company who remembered the days before the gold strike. And Beasley, in his long career of mischief, almost achieved popularity.

Buck could scarcely believe his ears. And his incredulity was not lessened as he looked into the furtive eyes of the man who had expressed himself so cordially.

But he had been given the opportunity he knew he would need sooner or later. He knew that there were men in the camp who would stand by the Padre in emergency, and they must know the truth. Since Aunt Mercy's campaign had opened, and the news of it was spread abroad, these men must be told the facts, and know his own attitude. He might well need their assistance in the future, as they, in the past, had needed the Padre's.

"I take it you mean that, Beasley," he said without warmth. Then, ignoring the man, he turned to those gathered about him. "I don't know how Beasley's got this thing, fellers," he said, in his simple fashion. "It don't matter, anyway. I hadn't a notion the sheriff was comin' along yet, either. That don't matter. Anyways I guessed he would be comin' sooner or later, an' that's the reason I'm layin' in stores of gun stuff an' things. Yes, he's comin' for the Padre on a charge of murder, a low-down charge of murder that he never committed. You know the ways of the law, an' how things sure go in such rackets. The charge is nigh twenty years old. Wal, maybe it'll be nigh impossible for him to prove he didn't do it. It looks that way. Anyways, I tell you right here, ther' ain't no sheriff in this country goin' to git him while I'm alive. He's raised me from a starvin' kid, an' he's bin the biggest thing on earth to me, an' I'm goin' to see him through. You fellers, some o' you, know the Padre. You know what he's done right here to help folks when they were starvin'. He even sold his farm to help. Sold it right out, an' give up twenty years' work to hand grub to empty bellies. Wal, they want him fer murder. Him, the best and straightest man I ever knew. I ain't got nothin' more to say 'cept Beasley's right—the sheriff's comin'. An' when he comes he'll find the hills hotter than hell fer him, an' I'll have a hand in makin' 'em that way." He turned abruptly to Beasley, and pointed at the paper lying on the counter. "You'll do them things for me, an' I'll get 'em to-morrow."

He turned away, flinging his farewell back over his shoulder as he reached the door.

"So long, fellers," he cried, and pushed his way out.

The moment he had gone every tongue was let loose. The gamblers cashed their "chips" at the bar. There was no more play that afternoon. Excitement ran high, and discussion was at fever heat. To a man those who knew the Padre, and those who didn't, commended Buck's attitude. And amongst the older hands of the camp was an ardent desire to take a hand in resisting the law. Beasley was in agreement with nearly everybody. He expressed a wonderful fury at the absurdity and injustice, as he described it, of the charge. And, finally, he possessed himself of the floor again for the purposes of his own subtle scheming.

"What did I tell you, fellers?" he cried, when he had obtained a general hearing. "What did I tell you?" he reiterated in a fine fury. "I don't like him, but Buck's a man. A straight, bully feller. He's goin' to do the right thing. He'll stand by that Padre feller while he's got a breath in his body, an' he'll shoot the sheriff up as sure as sure. An' why? Because that feller, the Padre, sold his farm to help us old hands. Because he sold his farm to that 'Jonah' gal, who's brought all this trouble about. If she hadn't come around Pete an' Ike would have bin living now. If she hadn't come around the Padre wouldn't be wanted for a murder he never committed. If she hadn't come around Buck wouldn't have set himself up agin the law, an' found himself chasin' the country over—an outlaw. D'yer see it? You're blind if you don't." He brought his clenched fist down on the counter in a whirlwind of indignation. "She's got to go," he cried. "I tell you, she's got to go. Chase her out. Burn her out. Get rid of her from here. An' I got five hundred dollars says—do it."

Beasley knew his men. And in every eye he saw that they were with him now. Nor could anything have pleased him more than when Curly shouted his sudden sympathy.

"Beasley's right, boys," he cried. "She's brought the rotten luck. She must go. Who's to say whose turn it'll be next?"

"Bully for you," cried Beasley. "Curly's hit it. Who's the next victim of the rotten luck of this Golden Woman?"

His final appeal carried the day. The men shouted a general approval, and Beasley reveled inwardly in his triumph. He had played his hand with all the skill at his command—and won. And now he was satisfied. He knew he had started the ball rolling. It would grow. In a few hours the majority of the camp would be with him. Then, when the time came, he would play them for his own ends, and so pay off all his old scores.

The Padre would be taken. He would see to that. The sheriff should know every detail of Buck's intentions. Buck would ultimately be taken—after being outlawed. And Joan—the proud beauty whom Buck was in love with—well, if she got out with her life it would be about all she would escape with.

Beasley felt very happy.



CHAPTER XXX

THE MOVING FINGER

The Padre stood at the top of the steps and looked out over the wide stretching valley below him. His long day was drawing to a close, but he felt no weariness of body. There was a weariness of mind, a weariness of outlook. There was something gray and cold and hopeless upon his horizon, something which left him regretful of all that which lay within his view now.

There was a half smile in his eyes, as, for a moment, they rested on the narrow indistinct trail which looked so far below him. He was thinking of that apparition he had met only a few days back, the apparition which had suddenly leapt out of his past. It was all very strange, very wonderful, the working of those mysterious things which make it certain that no page in a human creature's life can be turned once and for all.

Yes, it was all very wonderful. The hand of Fate had begun to move against him when he had greeted that starving fragment of humanity at the trail-side, more than twenty years ago. It had moved steadily since then in every detail of his life. It had been progressing in the work he had done in the building of his farm. Its moving finger had pointed every day of Buck's young life. In the necessities of those poor gold-seekers it had shown its unerring direction, even in the spirit which had prompted him to help them, which involved the selling of his farm.

Then he saw its bitter irony. It had done its work by bringing Joan into contact with Buck, and, with cruel derision, had shown him how unnecessary his sacrifice had been. Then had come all those other things, moving so swiftly that it was almost impossible to count each step in the iron progress of the moving finger. It had come with an overwhelming rush which swept him upon its tide like a feather upon the bosom of the torrent. And now, caught in the whirling rapids below the mighty falls, he could only await the completion of the sentence so long since pronounced.

The smile broadened, spreading gently across his face. He realized he was admitting all he had denied to Joan. But the thought brought him no weakening. The wisdom of years had taught him much that must not be communicated to a younger generation. Life would teach them in their turn; they must not learn the truths which lay before them before their time. It was better to lie than to destroy the hope of youth.

His conscience was clear, his resolve perfect in its steadiness. The happiness of two people was at stake. For Buck he would give up all. There was no sacrifice too great. For Joan—she was the fair daughter of his oldest friend. His duty was clear by her. There was one course, and one course only that he could see for himself. To remove the last shadow from these young lives he must face the ordeal which lay before him. What its outcome might be he could not quite see, but he was not without hope. There were certain details surrounding the death of his friend which did not fit in with his guilt. He had no weapon upon him in that house. Nor was there the least reason for the crime. He knew he would be confronted by the evidence of a woman who hated him, a woman capable of manufacturing evidence to suit her own ends. But, whatever else she might do, she could not produce a weapon belonging to him, nor could she invent a reason for the crime that could not be disproved. At least this was the hope he clung to.

However, he knew that he could not leave the shadow of his possible guilt to cloud the lives of these two, just setting out on their long journey together. The possibilities of it for harm were far too great. The ocean of hot, youthful love was far too possible of disaster for an unnecessary threat to overshadow it.

No, he had refused the request of these two from the first moment when he had realized his duty by them, and now, after careful thought, his resolve remained unshaken.

Still, he was not without regret as he gazed out over that vast world he had learned to love so well. The thought of possibly never seeing it again hurt him. The wide valleys, the fair, green pastures, the frowning, mysterious woods with their utter silence, the butting crags with their barren crests, or snow-clad shoulders. They held him in a thrall of almost passionate devotion. They would indeed be hard to part with.

He looked away down the gaping jaws of the valley at the black crest of Devil's Hill. It was a point that never failed to attract him, and now more so than ever. Was it not round this hill that all his past efforts had been concentrated?

He studied it. Its weirdness held him. A heavy mist enveloped its crown, that steaming mist which ever hung above the suspended lake. It was denser now than usual. It had been growing denser for the last two days, and, in a vague way, he supposed that those internal fires which heated the water were glowing fiercer than usual. He glanced up at the sky, and almost for the first time realized the arduous efforts of the westering sun to penetrate the densely humid atmosphere. It was stiflingly hot, when usually the air possessed a distinct chill.

But these things possessed only a passing interest. The vagaries of the mountain atmosphere rarely concerned him. His vigorous body was quite impervious to its changes. He picked up his "catch" of pelts and shouldered them. They were few enough, and as he thought of the unusual scarcity of foxes the last few days he could not help feeling that the circumstance was only in keeping with the rest of the passing events of his life.

He made his way along the foot-path which wound its way through the pine bluff, in the midst of which the old fur fort lay hidden inside its mouldering stockade. He flung the pelts into the storeroom, and passed on to the house, wondering if Buck had returned from the camp, whither he knew he had been that day.

He found him busy amidst a pile of stores spread out upon the floor and table, and a mild surprise greeted the youngster as he looked round from his occupation.

"You never said—you were getting stores, Buck?"

The Padre eyed the pile curiously. Finally his eyes paused at the obvious ammunition cases.

Buck followed the direction of his gaze.

"No," he said; and turned again to his work of bestowing the goods in the places he had selected for them.

The Padre crossed the room and sat down. Then he leisurely began to exchange his moccasins for a pair of comfortable house-shoes.

"Had we run short?" he asked presently.

"No."

Buck's manner was touched with something like brusqueness.

"Then—why?"

Buck straightened up, bearing in his arms an ammunition box.

"Because we may need 'em," he said, and bestowed the box under the settle with a kick.

"I don't get you—that's revolver ammunition you just put away."

"Yes."

Buck continued his work until the room was cleared. The other watched him interestedly. Then as the younger man began to prepare their supper the Padre again reverted to it.

"Maybe you'll tell me about 'em—now?" he said, with his easy smile.

Buck had just set the kettle on the stove. He stood up, and a frown of perplexity darkened his brow.

"Maybe I won't be able to get to camp again," he said. "Maybe we'll need 'em for another reason."

"What other?"

"The sheriff's comin'. That woman's sent for him. I've figgered out he can't get along till 'bout to-morrow night, or the next mornin'. Anyway it don't do to reckon close on how quick a sheriff can git doin'."

The Padre's smile had died out of his eyes. He sighed.

"The sheriff's coming, eh?" Then he went on after a pause. "But these stores—I don't see——"

A dark flame suddenly lit Buck's eyes, but though he broke in quickly it was without the heat that was evidently stirring within him.

"They're for Joan, an' me—an' you. When the time comes guess we're going where no sheriff can follow us, if you don't make trouble. I don't guess you need tellin' of the valley below us. You know it, an' you know the steps. You know the canyon away on toward Devil's Hill. That's the way we're goin'—when the time comes. An' I'd say there ain't no sheriff or dep'ties'll care to follow us through that canyon. After that we cut away north. Ther's nobody can follow our trail that way."

Something almost of defiance grew into his voice as he proceeded. He was expecting denial, and was ready to resist it with all his force.

The Padre shook his head.

"Buck, Buck, this is madness—rank madness," he cried. "To resist the law in the way your hot head dictates is to outlaw yourselves beyond all redemption. You don't understand what you are doing. You don't know to what you are condemning this little Joan. You don't know how surely your methods will condemn me."

But Buck was on fire with rebellion against the injustice of a law which claimed the Padre as its victim. He saw the hideous possibilities following upon his friend's arrest, and was determined to give his life in the service of his defense.

"It's not madness," he declared vehemently. "It's justice, real justice that we should defend our freedom. If you wer' guilty, Padre, it would be dead right to save yourself. It's sure the right of everything to save its life. If you're innocent you sure got still more right. Padre, I tell you they mean to fix you. That woman's got a cinch she ain't lettin' go. She's lived for this time, Joan's told me. She'll raise plumb hell to send you to your death. Padre, just listen to us. It's me an' Joan talkin' now. What I say she says. We can see these things different to you; we're young. You say it's your duty to give up to this woman. We say it's our duty you shan't. If you give up to her you're giving up to devil's mischief, an' that's dead wrong. An' nothin' you can say can show me you got a right to help devil's work. We'll light out of here before they come. Us three. If you stop here, we stop too, an' that's why I got the ammunition. More than that. Ther's others, too, won't see you taken. Ther's fellers with us in the camp—fellers who owe you a heap—like I do."

The Padre watched the steam rising from the kettle with moody eyes. The youngster was tempting him sorely. He knew Buck's determination, his blind loyalty. He felt that herein lay his own real danger. Yes, to bolt again, as he had done that time before, would be an easy way out. But its selfishness was too obvious. He could not do it. To do so would be to drag them in his train of disaster, to blight their lives and leave them under the grinding shadow of the law.

No, it could not be.

"Looked at from the way you look at it, there is right enough in what you say, boy," he said kindly. "But you can't look at civilized life as these mountains teach you to look at things. When the sheriff comes I yield to arrest, and I trust in God to help us all. My mind is made up."

For some moments Buck stared down at the sturdy friend who had taken the place of his dead father. His eyes softened, and their fire died out. But there was no rescinding of his desperate decision. He was thinking of what it would mean, the thought of this white-haired man in the hands of the executioner. He was thinking of the kindly heart beating within that stalwart bosom. He was thinking of the wonderful, thoughtful kindness for others which was always the motive of his life. And a deep-throated curse rose to his lips. But it found no utterance. It could not in that presence.

"An' my mind's made up," he jerked out at last, with concentrated force. Then he added with an abrupt softening, "Let's eat, Padre. I was forgettin'. Mebbe you're hungry some."



CHAPTER XXXI

THE JOY OF BEASLEY

An unusual number of horses were tethered at the posts outside Beasley's saloon, and, a still more unusual thing, their owners, for the most part, were not in their usual places within the building. Most of them were lounging on the veranda in various attitudes best calculated to rest them from the effects of the overpowering heat of the day. Beasley was lounging with them. For once he seemed to have weakened in his restless energy, or found something of greater interest than that of netting questionable gains.

The latter seemed to be the more likely, for his restless eyes displayed no lack of mental activity. At any rate, he displayed an attitude that afternoon which startled even his bartender. Not once, but several times that individual, of pessimistic mood, had been called upon to dispense free rations of the worst possible liquor in the place, until, driven from wonder to protest, he declared, with emphatic conviction and an adequate flow of blasphemy, addressing himself to the bottles under the counter, the smeary glasses he breathed upon while wiping with a soiled and odoriferous cloth, that the boss was "bug—plumb bug." Nevertheless, his own understanding of "crookedness" warned him that the man had method, and he was anxious to discover the direction in which it was moving. Therefore he watched Beasley's doings with appreciative eyes, and his interest grew as the afternoon waned.

"He's on a crook lay," he told himself after a while. And the thought brightened his outlook upon life, and helped to banish some of his pessimism.

The chief feature of interest for him lay in the fact that the men foregathered were a collection of those who belonged to the "something-for-nothing" class, as he graphically described them. And he observed, too, that Beasley was carefully shepherding them. There were a few of the older hands of the camp, but these seemed to have less interest for his boss. At least he showed far less consideration for them. And it quickly became evident that the whole afternoon's object was the adequate ingratiation and stimulation of these dregs of frontier life.