This the bartender saw quite clearly. For the rest he was content to wait. He had spent most of his life in thus waiting and watching the nefarious schemes of unscrupulous men.

The heat was overpowering. It was almost an effort to breathe, let alone move about. The men lolled, propped against the baulks of timber supporting the veranda roof, stretched out on benches, or crouching on the raised edge of the wooden flooring. One and all were in a state of wiltering in the stewing heat, from which only an intermittent flow of fiery spirit could rouse them.

Beasley was the one exception to this general condition of things. Mentally he was particularly alert. And, what is more, his temper, usually so irritable and fiery, was reduced to a perfect level of good humor.

For some moments talk had died out. Then in a sudden fit of irritability Abe Allinson kicked a loose stone in the direction of the tethered horses.

"Say," he observed, "this 'minds one o' the time we struck color at the hill."

His eyes wandered toward the gathering shadows, slowly obscuring the grim sides of Devil's Hill. His remark was addressed to no one in particular.

Beasley took him up. It was his purpose to keep these men stirring.

"How?" he inquired.

"Why, the heat. Say, git a peek at that sky. Look yonder. The sun. Get them durned banks o' cloud swallerin' it right up atop o' them hills. Makes you think, don't it? That's storm. It's comin' big—an' before many hours."

"For which we'll all be a heap thankful." Beasley laughed. "Another day of this an' I'll be done that tender a gran'ma could eat me."

His remark drew a flicker of a smile.

"She'd need good ivories," observed the gambler, Diamond Jack, with mild sarcasm.

Beasley took the remark as a compliment to his business capacity, and grinned amiably.

"Jack's right. You'd sure give her an elegant pain, else," added Curly, in a tired voice. He was steadily staring down the trail in a manner that suggested indifference to any coming storm. Somebody laughed half-heartedly. But Curly had no desire to enliven things, and went on quite seriously.

"Say, when's this bum sheriff gettin' around?" he demanded.

Beasley took him up at once.

"Some time to-night," he said, in a well-calculated tone of resentment. "That's why I got you boys around now," he added significantly.

"You mean——?" Diamond Jack nodded in the direction of the farm.

Beasley nodded.

"That old crow bait got back early this mornin'," he went on. "I was waitin' on her. She guessed she hadn't a thing to say, an' I surely was up agin a proposition. So I jest made out I was feelin' good seein' her git back, an' told her I wa'an't lookin' for information she didn't guess she was givin', and ther' wasn't no need fer her to say a thing. She guessed that was so. After that I passed things by, sayin' how some o' the boys hated sheriffs wuss'n rattlesnakes—an' she laffed. Yes, sir, she laffed, an' it must have hurt her some. Anyways she opened out at that, an' said, if any boys hated the sight of sheriffs they'd better hunt their holes before sun-up. Guess she didn't just use them words, but she give 'em that time limit. Say, if I was the Padre I'd sooner have the devil on my trail than that old—bunch o' marrow bones."

Slaney looked up from the bench on which he was spread out.

"Guess he'll have wuss'n her when Bob Richards gets around," he said gloomily.

"D'you reckon they'll git him—with Buck around?" inquired Curly anxiously.

"Buck! Tcha!" Beasley's dislike for the moment got the better of his discretion. But he quickly realized his mistake, and proceeded to twist his meaning. "It makes me mad. It makes me plumb crazed when I think o' that bully feller, the Padre, bein' give dead away by the folks at the farm. Buck? Psha'! Who's Buck agin a feller like Bob Richards? Bob's the greatest sheriff ever stepped in Montana. He'll twist Buck so he won't know rye whisky from sow-belly. Buck's grit, elegant grit, but Bob—wal, I'd say he's the wisest guy west of Chicago, when it comes to stringin' up a crook."

"I'm with you, boss," cried Diamond Jack, in a quick rage. "This farm needs lookin' to to-night sure. We got to git in 'fore sheriffs git around. They're playin' a low-down racket. Jonahs don't cut no ice with me, but they're chasin' up glory agin the camp. That's how I read it. Guess none of us is saints, anyways I don't seem to hear no wings flappin'; but givin' folks up to the law is—low."

Abe Allinson grunted, and a general atmosphere of silent approval prevailed. Beasley, whose eyes were watching every expression, pushed the ball further along.

"Low?" he cried. "You, Jack, don't know the guy we're so dead keen to help out. If you did you'd git right up on to your hind legs an' cuss terrible—an' you've cussed some in your time. But for him this camp wouldn't be the bonanza it is. You wouldn't be nettin' a pile of dollars every night in my bar. I wouldn't be runnin' a big proposition in dollar makin'. These boys wouldn't be chasin' gold on full bellies. Gee, it makes me mad—an' thirsty. Let's get around inside an' see what that glass rustler of mine can do."

The response was immediate and complete. No man had ever been known to refuse Beasley's hospitality. Everybody drank. And they drank again at Diamond Jack's expense. Then later they drank at their own. And all the while Beasley, with consummate skill, shepherded them to his own ends.

It was truly wonderful to see the manner in which he handled them. He adopted the simplest tactics, once he had set the ball rolling, contenting himself with dropping in a word here and there every time the subject of the sheriff drifted toward his ears. He knew these men. He possessed that keenness of insight into his customers which no successful saloon-keeper fails to acquire. He understood their weaknesses in a manner which left it a simple enough task to play upon them. In this case the basis of his procedure was drink—strong, harsh whisky, of a violent type.

The banking clouds rose ponderously upon the hilltops, blacking out the twilight with an abruptness which must have held deep significance for men less occupied. But the dominant overcast of their minds was the coming of the sheriff. For many of them it was far more ominous than any storm of nature.

The bar filled to overflowing. No one cared to gamble. There would have been no room for them, anyway. Even Diamond Jack showed no inclination to pursue his trade. Perhaps this was the most significant feature of all.

His was a weighty word thrown in the balance of public opinion. Perhaps this was the result of his well-understood shrewdness. At any rate he never failed to find a ready audience for his opinions, and to-night his opinions were strongly and forcefully declared. Beasley listened to him with interest, and smiled as he observed him moving about amongst the crowd drinking with one, treating another, his tongue never idle in his denunciation of sheriffs, and all those who called in their aid. It almost seemed as if the man was acting under orders, orders, perhaps inspired by a subtler mind, to disguise the real source whence they sprang.

The gambler was truly a firebrand, and so well did he handle his people, so well did he stir them by his disgust and righteous horror at the employment of a sheriff in their midst, that by nine o'clock the camp was loud in its clamor for retribution to be visited upon those who had brought such a terror into their midst.

Beasley's amiability grew. His bartender watched it in amazement. But it oppressed him. His pessimism resented it. He hated joy, and the evidences of joy in others. There was real pleasure for him in Diamond Jack's hectoring denunciations. It was something which appealed to him. Besides, he could see the gambler was harassed, perhaps afraid of the sheriff himself. He even envied him his fear. But Beasley's satisfaction was depressing, and, as a protest, he neglected to overcharge the more drunken of their customers. Beasley must not have all the satisfaction.

But, as far as Beasley was concerned, the bartender was little better than a piece of furniture that night. His employer had almost forgotten his existence. Truth to tell, Beasley had lost his head in his disease of venom. One thought, and one thought only urged him. To-night, before the advent of the sheriff to seize upon the person of the hated Padre, he hoped, by one stroke, to crush the heart of Buck, and bow the proud head of the girl who had so plainly showed her dislike and contempt for him, in the dust of shame and despair.

It was a moment worth waiting for. It was a moment of joy he would not lightly forego. Nor did he care what time, patience, or money it cost him. To strike at those whom he hated was as the breath of life to him. And he meant to drink deeply of his cup of joy.

His moment came. It came swiftly, suddenly, like most matters of great import. His opportunity came at the psychological moment, when the last shred of temperance had been torn from wild, lawless hearts, which, in such moments, were little better than those of savage beasts. It came when the poison of complaint and bitterness had at last searched out the inmost recesses of stunted, brutalized minds. And Beasley snatched at it hungrily, like a worm-ridden dog will snatch at the filthiest offal.

The drunken voice of Abe Allinson lifted above the general din. He was lolling against one end of the counter, isolated from his fellows by reason of his utterly stupefied condition. He was in a state when he no longer had interest for his companions. He rolled about blear-eyed and hopelessly mumbling, with a half-emptied glass in his hand, which he waved about uncertainly. Suddenly an impotent spasm of rage seemed to take hold of him. With a hoarse curse he raised his glass and hurled it crashing against the wall. Then, with a wild, prolonged whoop he shouted the result of his drunken cogitations.

"We'll burn 'em! Drown 'em! Shoot 'em! Hang 'em! Come on, fellers, foller me!"

He made a staggering effort to leave his support. He straightened up. For a moment he poised, swaying. Then he pitched forward on his face and lay stretched full length upon the floor.

But all had heard. And Beasley snatched at his opportunity. He sprang upon the counter in the moment of astonished quiet, and, before tongues broke loose again, he had the whole attention of the crowd.

"Here, boys," he cried. "Abe's right. Drunk as he is, he's right. Only he sure wants to do too much—more than his legs'll let him." He grinned. "We're goin' to do this thing right now. But we're goin' to do it like good citizens of a dandy city. We ain't goin' to act like a gang of lynchers. We're dealin' with a gal, with gold ha'r an' blue eyes, an' we're goin' to deal accordin'. We ain't lookin' fer her life. That's too easy, an', wal—she's a woman. No, we're goin' to rid this place of her an' all her tribe. We're goin' to make it so she can't stop to do no more harm, bringin' sheriffs around. We're goin' to burn her home right out, an' we're goin' to set her in her wagon an' team, an' let her drive to hell out of here. We're goin' to do it right now, before the sheriff gets busy along here. After that we'll be too late. Are you game? Who's comin'? We're goin' to burn that Jonah farm till ther' ain't a stick left above ground to say it ever stood there. That's what we're goin' to do, an' I'm the man who'll start the bonfire. Say, we'll make it like a fourth o' July. We'll have one royal time—an' we'll be quit of all Jonahs."

As he finished speaking he leapt to the ground amidst the crowd. Nor did he need to wait to hear the response to his appeal. It came in one of those unanimous, drunken roars, only to be heard in such a place, at such a time, or on a battle-field, when insensate fury demands a raucous outlet. Every man in the place, lost, for the moment, to all the dictates of honest manhood, was ready to follow the leadership of one whom, in sober moments, they all disliked. It was an extraordinary exhibition of the old savage which ever lies so near the surface in men upon the fringe of civilization.

Nor did Beasley give them time to think. His orders came rapidly. The bartender, for once his eyes sparkling at the thought of trouble about to visit an unsuspecting fellow-creature, hurled himself to the task of dealing out one large final drink to everybody. Then when a sufficient supply of materials of an inflammatory nature had been gathered together, the saloon-keeper placed himself at the head of his men, supported by the only too willing Diamond Jack, and the procession started out.



CHAPTER XXXII

STRONGER THAN DEATH

From the time of her aunt's going to Leeson Butte to the morning of her return to the farm Joan passed through a nightmare of uncertainty and hopelessness. Every moment of her time seemed unreal. Her very life seemed unreal. It was as though her mind were detached from her body, and she was gazing upon the scenes of a drama in which she had no part, while yet she was weighted down with an oppressive fear of the tragedy which she knew was yet to come.

Every moment she felt that the threat of disaster was growing. That it was coming nearer and nearer, and that now no power on earth could avert it.

Twice only during that dreary interval of waiting she saw Buck. But even his presence did little more than ease her dread and despair, leaving it crushing her down the more terribly with the moment of his going. He came to her with his usual confidence, but it was only with information of his own preparations for his defense of his friend. She could listen to them, told in his strong, reliant manner, with hope stirring her heart and a great, deep love for the man thrilling her every nerve. But with his going came the full realization of the significance of the necessity of such preparations. The very recklessness of them warned her beyond doubt how small was the chance of the Padre's escape. Buck had declared his certainty of outwitting the law, even if it necessitated using force against the man whom he intended to save.

Left to her own resources Joan found them weak enough. So weak indeed that at last she admitted to herself that the evidences of the curse that had dogged her through life were no matters of distorted imagination. They were real enough. Terribly real. And the admission found her dreading and helpless. She knew she had gone back to the fatal obsession, which, aided by the Padre and her lover, she had so loyally contended. She knew in those dark moments she was weakly yielding. These men had come into her life, had sown fresh seeds of promise, but they had been sown in soil choked with weeds of superstition, and so had remained wholly unfruitful.

How could it be otherwise? Hard upon the heels of Buck's love had come this deadly attack of fate upon him and his. The miracle of it was stupendous. It had come in a way that was utterly staggering. It had come, not as with those others who had gone before, but out of her life. It had come direct from her and hers. And the disaster threatened was not merely death but disgrace, disgrace upon a good man, even upon her lover, which would last as long as they two had life.

The sense of tragedy merged into the maddening thought of the injustice of it. It was monstrous. It was a tyranny for which there was no justification, and it goaded her to the verge of hysteria. Whatever she did now the hand of fate would move on irrevocably fulfilling its purpose to the bitter end. She knew it. In spite of all Buck's confidence, all his efforts to save his friend, the disaster would be accomplished, and her lover would be lost to her in the vortex of her evil destiny.

Fool—fool that she had been. Wicked even, yes, wicked, that she had not foreseen whither her new life was drifting. It was for her to have anticipated the shoals of trouble in the tide of Buck's strong young life. It was for her to have prevented the mingling of their lives. It was for her to have shut him out of her thoughts and denied him access to the heart that beat so warmly for him. She had been weak, so weak. On every count she had failed to prove the strength she had believed herself to possess. It was a heart-breaking thought.

But she loved. It would have been impossible to have denied her love. She would not have denied it if she could. Her rebellion against her fate now carried her further. She had the right to love this man. She had the right which belongs to every woman in the world. And he desired her love. He desired it above all things in the world—and he had no fear.

Then the strangeness of it. With all that had gone before she had had no misgivings until the moment he had poured out all the strength of his great love into her yearning ears. She had not recognized the danger besetting them. She had not paused to ask a question of herself, to think of the possibilities. She loved him, and the thought of his love thrilled her even now amidst all her despair. But the moment his words of love had been spoken, even with the first wonderful thrill of joy had come the reality of awakening. Then—then it was that the evil of her fate had unmasked itself and showed its hideous features, leering, mocking, in the memory of what had gone before, taunting her for her weakly efforts to escape the doom marked out for her.

All this she thought of in her black moments. All this and far, far more than could ever take shape in words. And her terror of what was to come became unspeakable. But through it all one thing, one gleam of hope obtruded itself. It was not a tangible hope. It was not even a hope that could have found expression. It was merely a picture that ever confronted her, even when darkness seemed most nearly to overwhelm her.

It was the picture of Buck's young face, full of strength and confidence. Somehow the picture was always one of hope. It caught no reflection of her own trouble, but lived in her memory undiminished by any despair, however black.

Once or twice she found herself wondering at it. Sometimes she felt it to be merely a trick of memory to taunt her with that which could never be, and so she tried to shut out the vague hopes it aroused. But, as time went on, and the hour for her aunt's return drew near, the recurrence of the picture became so persistent that it was rarely out of her mental vision. It was a wonderful thought. She saw him as she had seen him when first he laughed her threat of disaster and death to scorn. She could never forget that moment. She could hear his laugh now, that laugh, so full of youthful courage, which had rung through the old barn.

Pondering thus her mind suddenly traveled back to something which, in the midst of all her tribulations, had completely passed out of her recollection. She was startled. She was startled so that she gasped with the sudden feeling it inspired. What was it? Something her aunt had said. Yes, she remembered now. And with memory the very words came back to her, full of portentous meaning. And as they rushed pell-mell through her straining brain a great uplifting bore her toward that hope which she suddenly realized was not yet dead.

"Go you and find a love so strong that no disaster can kill it. And maybe life may still have some compensations for you, maybe it will lift the curse from your suffering shoulders. It—it is the only thing in the world that is stronger than disaster. It is the only thing in the world that is stronger than—death."

They were her aunt's words spoken in the vehemence of her prophetic passion. It was the one thing, she had warned her, that could save her.

Was this the love she had found? Was this the love to lead her to salvation—this wonderful love of Buck's? Was this that which was to leave life some compensations? Was this that which was stronger than disaster—than death? Yes, yes! Her love was her life. And now without it she must die. Yes, yes! Buck—young, glorious in his courage and strength. He was stronger than disaster, and their love—was it not stronger than death?

From the moment of this wonderful recollection, a gentle calm gradually possessed her. The straining of those two long wakeful nights, the nightmare of dread which had pursued her into the daylight hours, left her with a sudden ease of thought she had never hoped to find again. It all came back to her. Her aunt had told her whither she must seek the key that would unlock the prison gates of fate, and all inadvertently she had found it.

In Buck's love must lay her salvation. With that stronger than death no disaster could come. He was right, and she was all wrong. He had laughed them to scorn—she must join in his laugh.

So at last came peace. The last wakeful night before the morning of her aunt's return terminated in a few hours of refreshing, much-needed slumber. Hope had dawned, and the morrow must bring the morrow's events. She would endeavor to await them with something of the confidence which supported Buck.

* * * * *

The room was still, so still that its atmosphere might have been likened to the night outside, which was heavy with the presage of coming storm. There was a profound feeling of opposing forces at work, yet the silence remained undisturbed.

It was nearly nine o'clock, and the yellow lamplight shed its soft monotony over the little parlor, revealing the occupants of the room in attitudes of tense concentration, even antagonism. Mercy Lascelles swayed slowly to and fro in the new rocking-chair Joan had purchased for her comfort. Her attenuated figure was huddled down in that familiar attitude which the girl knew so well, but her face wore an expression which Joan had never beheld before.

Usually her hard eyes were coldly unsmiling. Now they smiled—terribly. Usually her thin cheeks were almost dead white in their pallor. Now they were flushed and hectic with a suggestion of the inward fire that lit her eyes. The harsh mouth was irrevocably set, till nose and chin looked as though they soon must meet, while the hideous dark rings showed up the cruel glare of her eyes, which shone diabolically.

Joan stood some paces away. She was looking down aghast at the crouching figure, and her eyes were horrified. This was the first she had seen of her relative since her return that morning. The old woman had shut herself up in her bedroom, refusing to speak, or to eat, all day. But now she had emerged from her seclusion, and Joan had been forced to listen to the story of her journey.

It was a painful story, and still more painfully told. It was full of a cruel enjoyment such as never in her life Joan had believed this woman capable of. Her eccentricities were many, her nervous tendencies strange and often weird, but never had such a side of her character as she now presented been allowed to rise to the surface.

At first Joan wondered as she listened. She wondered at the fierce purpose which underlaid this weakly body. But with each passing moment, with each fresh detail of her motives and methods, her wonder deepened to a rapidly growing conviction which filled her with horror and repulsion. She told herself that the woman was no longer sane. At last she had fallen a victim to her racked and broken nerves, as the doctors had prophesied. To them, and to the everlasting brooding upon her disappointments and injuries for all these long years.

This she felt, and yet the feeling conveyed no real conviction to her mind. All she knew was that loathing and repulsion stirred her, until the thought revolted her that she was breathing the same air as one who could be capable of such vicious cruelty. But she struggled to stifle all outward sign. And though she was only partly successful she contrived to keep her words calm, even if her eyes, those windows of her simple girl's soul, would not submit to such control.

"I'm over fifty now, girl," Mercy finished up, in a low suppressed tone, husky with feeling, yet thrilling with a cruel triumph. "Over fifty, and, for the last twenty and more years of it, I have waited for this moment. I have waited with a patience you can never understand because you have never been made to suffer as I have. But I knew it would come. I have known it every day of those twenty years, because I have read it in that book in which I have read so many things which concern human life. I was robbed of life years and years ago. Yes, life. I have been a dead woman these twenty years. My life was gone when your father died, leaving you, another woman's child, in my hands. God in heaven! Sometimes I wonder why I did not strangle the wretched life out of you years ago—you, another woman's child, but yet with Charles Stanmore's blood in your veins. Perhaps it was because of that I spared your life. Perhaps it was because I read your fate, and knew you had to suffer, that I preferred my sister's child should reap the reward of her mother's crime—yes, crime. Perhaps it was that while Charles Stanmore lived my hopes and longings were still capable of fulfilment. But he is dead—dead years and years ago. And with his death my life went out too. Now there is only revenge. No, not revenge," she laughed, "justice to be dealt out. That justice it is my joy to see dispensed. That justice it is my joy to feel that my hand has brought its administering about.

"I have laid all the information necessary. I have a lawyer in Leeson Butte in communication with my man in New York. And—and the sheriff and his men will be here before daylight. Oh, yes, I can afford to tell you now that the work is accomplished. You shall have no opportunity of communicating with your friends. I shall not sleep to-night. Nor will you leave this house. There is a means of holding you here. A means which will never be far from my hand." She tapped the bosom of her dress significantly, and Joan understood that she had armed herself. "The arrest will be made while they are still sleeping in that old fort of theirs—and your young Buck will pay the penalty if he interferes. Yes, yes," she added, rubbing her lean, almost skeleton hands together in an access of satisfaction, "when you sip your coffee in the morning, my girl, your Buck's foster-father will be on his way to the jail from which he will only emerge for the comfort of an electric chair. I have endured twenty years of mental torture, but—I have not endured them in vain."

The cold, consummate completeness with which the woman detailed her carefully considered plans turned Joan's heart to stone. It chilled her and left her shivering in the awful heat. For one moment, one weak moment when her woman's spirit quailed before the deadly array of facts, she felt faint, and one hand sought the table for support. But with a tremendous effort she recovered herself. It was the thought of Buck which helped her. She could not let him fall into the trap so well laid by this—this creature, without an effort to save them both. In a flash her mind pictured the scene of the Padre's capture. She saw the fort surrounded by the "deputies." She saw the Padre shackled before he could rise from his blankets. She saw Buck, under cover of ruthless firearms, hurl himself to the rescue and pay for his temerity with his life. In a sudden overwhelming passion of appeal she flung herself on her knees before the terrible old woman.

"Aunt, aunt!" she cried. "You cannot be so heartless, so cruel. There is a mistake. You are mistaken. The Padre swears to his innocence, and if you knew him as I know him, as all this countryside knows him, you must believe. He is not capable of murder. My father committed suicide. Think, think of all that went before his death, and you, too, will see that everything points to suicide. Oh, aunt, think of what you are doing. The plans you have made must involve the man I love. A perfectly innocent man, as even you know. If my father was all your world, so is Buck all mine. He will defend the Padre. I know him. And as you say he will pay the penalty with his life. If you have one grain of pity, if you have one remaining thought of love for my dead father, then spare this man to his daughter. Where is the right that you should involve Buck? You do not even know him. Oh, aunt, you have lived all these twenty years with me. In your own way you have cared for me. Sacrifice your enmity against this innocent man. It will give you a peace of mind you have never known before, and will give me the happiness of the man I love."

Mercy's eyes lit with fine scorn as she caught at Joan's final words.

"The happiness of the man you love!" she cried with passionate anger, "Why should I give you your man's love? Why should I help any woman to a happiness I have never been allowed to taste? Perhaps it pleases me to think that your Buck will be involved. Have I not warned you of the disaster which you have permitted him to court? Listen, girl, not one detail of all that which I have waited for will I forego. Not one detail. When it is accomplished nothing on earth matters to me. The sooner I am off it the better. The sooner I leave this world for other realms the sooner I shall be able to pursue those others who have injured me and passed on to—a fresh habitation. Do you understand? Do you understand that I will brook no interference from you? Peace, child, I want no more talk. When this night is over I leave here—nor shall I ever willingly cross your path again. You are another woman's child, and so long as you live, so long as we are brought into contact, the sting of the past must ever remain in my heart. Go to your bed, and leave me to watch and wait until the morning."

The old woman's domination was strong—it was so strong that Joan felt appalled before the terrible mental force she was putting forth. The horror of her diseased mind sickened her, and filled her with something closely allied to terror. But she would not submit. Her love was greater than her courage, her power to resist for herself. She was thinking of those two men, but most of all she was thinking of Buck. She was determined upon another effort. And when that effort was spent—upon still another.

"Listen to me, aunt," she cried with no longer any attempt at appeal, with no longer any display of regard for this woman as a relation. "I am mistress in my own house, and I shall do as I choose. I, too, shall sit up and you will have to listen to me."

Mercy smiled ironically.

"Yes, you are mistress in your own house, so long as you do not attempt to interfere with my plans. Sit up, girl, if you choose, and talk. I am prepared to listen even though your twaddle bores me."

A sound caught Joan's attention, and the desperate position of her lover and his friend set thought flashing swiftly through her mind. The sound was of Mrs. Ransford moving in the kitchen.

"Then listen to this," she cried. "You have told me that I am cursed. You have told me that death and disaster must follow me wherever I go. I love Buck. It is the first and only time I shall ever love. I know that. He is the love of my whole life. Without him, without his love, life to me is inconceivable. He and his love are so precious to me that I would give my life for his at any moment—now, if need be. I want you to know that. You have armed yourself so that I shall not interfere with your plans. I tell you it is useless, for I shall warn him—cost me what it may."

She watched the other closely. She watched for the effect of her words—every one of which was spoken from the bottom of her heart. The effect was what she anticipated. She knew this woman's expressed intention was deliberate, and would be carried out. One hand moved toward her lean bosom, and Joan knew, without doubt, what she had to face. Turning her back deliberately she moved across to the window, which was wide open in a vain attempt to cool the superheated room, and took up her place near the table, so that she was in full view of her aunt's insane eyes. Then she went on at once—

"You call it justice that you would mete out to the Padre. I tell you it is a ruthless, cold-hearted revenge, which amounts to deliberate murder. It is murder because you know he cannot prove his innocence. That, perhaps, is your affair. But Buck's life is mine. And in threatening the Padre you threaten him, because he will defend his friend to the last. Perhaps by this, in your insane vanity, you hope to justify yourself as a seer and prophetess, instead of being forced to the admission that you are nothing but a mountebank, an unscrupulous mountebank—and even worse. But I will humor you. I will show you how your own words are coming back on you. I had almost forgotten them, so lost was I in my foolish belief in your powers. You told me there was salvation for me in a love that was stronger than death. Well, I have found that love. And if, as you claim, there is truth in your science, then I challenge you, the disaster and death you would now bring about cannot—will not take place. You are only a woman of earthly powers, a heartless creature, half demented by your venomous hatred of a good man. Your ends can, and will be defeated."

She paused, breathing hard with the emotion which the effort of her denunciation had inspired, and in that pause she beheld a vision of devilish hatred and purpose such as she could never have believed possible in her aunt.

"You would rebel! You challenge me!" cried Mercy, springing from her chair with a movement almost unbelievable in so ailing a creature. "You are mad—utterly mad. It is not I who am insane, but you—you. You call me a mountebank. What has your life been? Has not everything I have told you been part of it? Even here—here. Did I not tell you you could not escape your curse? Have you escaped it? And you think you can escape it now." She laughed suddenly, a hideous laugh which set Joan shuddering. "The love you have found must prove itself. You say it is the love that will save you. I tell you it is not. Nothing can save this man now. Nothing can save your Buck if he interferes now. Nothing can save you, if you interfere now. I tell you I have taken every care that there is no loophole of escape. No earthly power can serve you."

"No earthly power?" Joan echoed the words unconsciously, while she stood fascinated by that terrible face so working with malignant hatred.

But only for a moment it held her. Her love was stronger that all her woman's fears. Her Buck was in danger, and that other. The warning. She must get that warning to them.

Suddenly she leant forward upon the table as though to emphasize what she had to say.

"Whatever happens to-night, aunt," she cried, her big eyes glowing in a growing excitement, her red-gold hair shining like burnished copper in the light from the lamp which was so near to it, "I hope God may forgive you this terrible wicked spirit which is driving you. Some day I may find it in my heart to forgive you. That which I have to do you are driving me to, and I pray God I may succeed."

As the last word left her lips she seized the lamp from the table, and, with all her strength, hurled it through the open window. As it sped it extinguished itself and crashed to the ground outside, leaving the room in utter darkness. At the same instant she sprang to the sill of the open window, and flung herself from the room. As she, too, fell to the ground a shot rang out behind her, and she felt the bullet tear through her masses of coiled hair.

But her excitement was at fever heat. She waited for nothing. Her lover's life was claiming every nerve in her body. His life, and that other's. She scrambled to her feet and dodged clear of the window, just as a chorus of harsh execration reached her ears. She looked toward the barns and hay corrals whence the sound came, and, on the instant, a hideous terror seized upon her. The barn was afire! The hay had just been fired! And, in the inky blackness of the night, the ruddy glow leapt suddenly and lit up the figures of a crowd of men, now shouting and blaspheming at the result of the shot from the house.

For one moment Joan stood still, trembling in every limb, heedless of the vengeful creature behind her. She was overwhelmed by the now utter and complete hopelessness of her case. Her horses were in the barn which had been fired. And they were her only means of reaching her lover.

Then in a moment, as she beheld the shouting crowd coming toward the house, voicing their intent to burn that, along with its occupants, her mind went back to those still within. The wretched woman, whose death by burning might save the Padre, and her rough but faithful housekeeper. Regardless of all consequences to herself, now regardless even of the lives of those two men she had hoped to save, she ran back to the house.

Flight alone could save the women inside from this drunken crowd. Flight—and at once. For, resentful at the shot which had felled one of their comrades, the lawless minds of these creatures saw but one course to pursue. Well enough Joan knew their doctrine of a life for a life. She must go back. She must save those two from this ravening horde.



CHAPTER XXXIII

THE TEMPEST BREAKS

Buck moved out of Caesar's stall. He had just finished lightly securing the double cinchas of his saddle. The bulging saddle-bags had been made fast behind the cantle and the wallets strapped upon the horn. Now the great animal was hungrily devouring an added feed of oats which his master had poured into its manger.

The man glanced over the equipments, and moved to the other end of the stable, where stood the Padre's heavily built chestnut. It, too, was ready saddled as though for a journey. Here again the saddle-bags and wallets had been filled and adjusted. Here again the creature was devouring an extra feed.

Buck heaved a sigh of satisfaction and turned away to where the lantern was hanging on a nail in the wooden wall. Close beside this a belt, loaded down with revolver ammunition, and carrying two holsters from which the butts of a pair of heavy revolvers protruded, was suspended from another nail. This he took down and strapped about his waist.

His work for the night was done, and all his preparations made. The night itself must direct the further course of action for him. As far as he could see he had prepared for every possible development, but, as he admitted to himself, he could only see from his own point of view. He was at work against two opposing forces. There was the law and Bob Richards on the one hand, and, on the other, the Padre, with a determination equal to his own. Of the two, he felt that the redoubtable Bob, backed by the law, would be far the easier to deal with.

This night, he anticipated, was to be the last he spent in that old fort. He more than anticipated it; he felt certain. He had heard early in the day of the return of Joan's Aunt Mercy, and this was an all-sufficient reason for his belief. Since that moment he had completed every preparation which before he had only tentatively considered; and such matters had been attended to entirely independent of his friend.

This had to be. It was useless to inform him of anything, worse than useless, until the last moment, when he intended that his schemes should be executed to the last detail. After much painful thought he had finally decided upon coercion to gain his ends. No mere bluff, but a straightforward, honest declaration of his intentions. It was very hurtful that he must do this thing. But he could not help it. He had resolved on saving his friend from himself, and no considerations of personal feelings or, in fact, anybody's feelings, should be allowed to stand in his way. He regarded his duty as a man, and not as a law-abiding citizen. He had no real understanding of the law. His was the only law that guided him, and his law demanded of him, rightly or wrongly, the defense from all harm of those whom he loved.

His manhood dictated this, and he had no thought of personal danger, or toward what painful destiny it might carry him. The future belonged to the future, life and death were things of no more account than waking to daylight, or the profound slumbers of night. Those who would injure him or his friend must be dealt with in the only way he understood. To outwit them was his first thought, but he must defeat their ends if it cost him his life.

This was the man who had learned from the book of Life, as it is written in the earth's rough places. He was not naturally desperate, but, as with the creatures of the forests, which had taught him so many lessons, when brought to bay in defense of their own, so he was ready to bare his teeth—and use them.

He reached for the lantern with the thought of extinguishing it. But he changed his mind. There was no window that the light might become a beacon. He would close the door and leave it burning.

He turned to pass out, but remained where he was. The Padre was standing in the doorway, and his steady eyes were upon the saddled horses.

Buck had no word of greeting to offer. His dark eyes were intently fixed upon the other's face. In a moment his friend turned to him.

"It's just on nine, Buck," he said, in his kindest fashion. "We haven't eaten yet—it's ready."

It was Buck's turn to glance over at the horses so busily eating their oats. A curious smile lit his eyes. He knew well enough that the other had more than fathomed the meaning of those preparations. He was glad he had made no attempt to conceal them. That sort of thing was never his way. He had nothing to conceal from his friend.

"I had a few chores to git fixed," he said easily, indicating the horses. "They'll sure need a good feed before daylight, I guess."

The Padre pointed at his belt and revolvers.

"And you're sleeping in—them."

"Guess I'm not sleepin'—to-night."

"No—I suppose not."

The Padre looked into the strong young face with a speculative glance.

Buck returned his look with a sudden eagerness.

"You heard?" he asked sharply.

"I've heard—Mercy is back."

Buck watched him turn away to continue his survey of the horses.

"So have you—I s'pose," the older man went on a moment later, indicating the horses.

"Yep. Guess they'll need to do a long journey soon. Mebbe—to-night."

"Caesar?" said the Padre.

"Both," returned Buck, with an emphasis, the meaning of which could not well be missed.

The Padre's eyes were smiling. He glanced round the tumbled-down old barn. They had contrived to house their horses very comfortably, and Buck kept them wonderfully cared for. These things appealed to him in a way that made him regret many things.

"Who's riding—my plug?" the Padre asked deliberately.

Buck shrugged.

"Why ask?" he said doggedly. "Who generally does? I don't seem to guess we need beat around," he went on impatiently. "That ain't bin our way, Padre. Guess those hosses are ready for us. They'll be ready night an' day—till the time comes. Then—wal, we're both goin' to use 'em."

The younger man's impatience had no disturbing effect upon the other. But his smile deepened to a great look of affection.

"Still chewin' that bone?" he said. Then he shook his head. "What's the use? We're just men, you and I; we got our own way of seeing things. Twenty years ago maybe I'd have seen things your way. Twenty years hence no doubt you'll see things mine——"

"Jest so," Buck broke in, his eyes lighting, and a strong note suddenly adding force to his interruption. "But I'm not waitin' twenty years so's to see things diff'rent."

"That's what I should have said—twenty years ago."

Buck's face suddenly flushed, and his dark brows drew together as he listened to the calm words of his friend. In a moment his answer was pouring from his lips in a hot tide which swept his hearer along and made him rejoice at the bond which existed between them. Nor, in those moments, could he help feeling glad for that day when he had found the hungry wayfarer at the trail-side.

"Ther's more than twenty years between us, sure," Buck cried with intense feeling. "Nuthin' can alter that, an' ther's sure nuthin' can make us see out o' the same eyes, nor feel with the same feelin's. Ther's nuthin' can make things seem the same to us. I know that, an' it ain't no use you tellin' me. Guess we're made diff'rent that way—an' I allow it's as well. If we weren't, wal, I guess neither of us would have things right. See here, Padre, you give most everything to me you could, ever since you brought me along to the farm. That's because it's your way to give. I hadn't nuthin' to give. I haven't nuthin' to give now. I can't even give way. Guess you can, though, because it's your nature, and because I'm askin' it. Padre, I'm goin' to act mean. I'm goin' to act so mean it'll hurt you. But it won't hurt you more than it'll hurt me. Mebbe it won't jest hurt you so much. But I'm goin' to act that way—because it's my way—when I'm set up agin it. You're settin' me up agin it now."

He paused, vainly watching the other's steady eyes for a sign.

"Go on." The Padre's smile was undiminished.

Buck made an impatient movement, and pointed at the horses.

"See them? Ther' they stand," he cried. "Ther' they'll sure stand till we both set out for the long trail. I got it all fixed. I got more than that fixed. See these guns?" He tapped one of the guns at his waist. "They're loaded plumb up. The belt's full of shots. I got two repeatin' rifles stowed away, an' their magazines are loaded plumb up, too. Wal—unless you say right here you're goin' to hit the trail with me, when—things get busy; unless you tell me right out you're goin' to let me square off jest a bit of the score you got chalked up agin me all these years by lettin' me help you out in this racket, then I'm goin' to set right out ther' by the old stockade, and when Bob Richards gets around, he an' as many of his dogone dep'ties as I can pull down are goin' to get their med'cine. They'll need to take me with you, Padre. Guess I'm sharin' that 'chair' with you, if they don't hand it me before I get ther'. What I'm sayin' goes, every word of it. This thing goes, jest as sure as I'll blow Bob Richards to hell before he lays hand on you."

The younger man's eyes shone with a passionate determination. There was no mistaking it. His was a fanatical loyalty that was almost staggering.

The Padre drew a sharp breath. He had not studied this youngster for all those years without understanding something of the recklessness he was capable of. Buck's lips were tightly compressed, his thin nostrils dilating with the intense feeling stirring him. His cheeks were pale, and his dark eyes flashed their burning light in the dim glow of the lantern. He stood with hands gripping, and the muscles of his bare arms writhed beneath the skin with the force with which they clenched. He was strung to an emotion such as the Padre had never before seen in him, and it left the older man wavering.

He glanced away.

"Aren't we worrying this thing on the crossways?" he said, endeavoring to disguise his real feelings.

But Buck would have none of it. He was in no mood for evasion. In no mood for anything but the straightest of straight talk.

"Ther's no crosswise to me," he cried bluntly, with a heat that might almost have been taken for anger. Then, in a moment, his manner changed. His tone softened, and the drawn brows smoothed. "Say, you bin better'n a father to me. You sure have. Can I stand around an' see you passed over to a low-down sort o' law that condemns innocent folks? No, Padre, not—not even for Joan's sake. I jest love that little Joan, Padre. I love her so desprit bad I'd do most anything for her sake. You reckon this thing needs doin' for her." He shook his head. "It don't. An' if it did, an' she jest wanted it done—which she don't—I'd butt in to stop it. Say, I love her that way I want to fix her the happiest gal in this country—in the world. But if seein' you go to the law without raisin' a hand to stop it was to make her happy, guess her chances that way 'ud be so small you couldn't never find 'em. If my life figures in her happiness, an' I'm savin' that life while you take your chance of penitentiary an'—the 'chair,' wal, I guess she'll go miserable fer jest as many years as she goes on livin'."

The Padre turned away. It was impossible for him to longer face those earnest young eyes pleading to be allowed to give their life for his liberty. The reckless prodigality of the youngster's heart filled him with an emotion that would not be denied. He moved over to where Caesar stood, and smoothed the great creature's silky quarters with a shaking hand. Buck's storming he could have withstood, but not—this.

The other followed his every movement, as a beggar watches for the glance of sympathy. And as the moments passed, and the Padre remained silent, his voice, keyed sharply, further urged him.

"Wal?"

But the other was thinking, thinking rapidly of all those things which his conscience, and long years of weary hiding prompted. He was trying to adapt his focus anew. His duty had seemed so plain to him. Then, too, his inclination had been at work. His intention had not seemed a great sacrifice to him. He was weary of it all—these years of avoiding his fellows. These years during which his mind had been thrown back upon the thought of whither all his youthful, headlong follies and—cowardice had driven him. Strong man as he was, something of his strength had been undermined by the weary draining of those years. He no longer had that desire to escape, which, in youth, had urged him. He was almost anxious to face his accusers. And with that thought he knew that he was getting old. Yes, he was getting old—and Buck—Buck was almost his son. He could not see the boy's young life thrown away for him, a life so full of promise, so full of quiet happiness. He knew that that would happen if he persisted. He knew that every word of Buck's promise would be carried out to the letter. That was his way. There was no alternative left now but for him to give way. So he turned back and held out his hand.

"What you say—goes," he said huskily. "I—I hope what we're doing is right."

Buck caught the strong hand in his, and the other winced under his grip.

"Right?" he cried, his eyes shining with a great happiness. "Right? You'll save that old woman the worst crime on earth. You're savin' the law from a crime which it's no right to commit. You're handin' little Joan a happiness you can't even guess at in keepin' your liberty—an' me, wal, you're handin' me back my life. Say, I ain't goin' to thank you, Padre. I don't guess I know how. That ain't our way." He laughed happily. "Guess the score you got agin me is still mountin' right up. I don't never seem to git it squared. Wal, we'll let it go. Maybe it's almost a pity Bob Richards won't never have the chance of thanking you for—savin' his life, too."

The delight in his manner, his shining joy were almost sufficient recompense to the Padre. He had given way to this youngster as he always gave way. It had been so from the first. Yes, it was always so, and—he was glad.

Buck turned toward the door, and, as he did so, his arm affectionately linked into that of his friend.

"We'll need that supper, Padre," he said, more soberly. "There's a long night, and it ain't easy to guess what may happen before daylight. Come right along."

They passed the doorway, but proceeded no farther. Buck held up his hand, and they stood listening.

"Wait! Hark!" he cried, and both turned their eyes toward the westward hills.

As they stood, a low, faint growl of thunder murmured down the distant hillsides, and died away in the long-drawn sigh of a rising wind. The wind swept on, and the rustling trees and suddenly creaking branches of the forest answered that sharp, keen breath.

"It's coming—from the northwest," said the Padre, as though the direction were significant.

"Yes." Buck nodded with understanding. "That's wher' the other come from."

They stood for some moments waiting for a further sign. But nothing came. The night was pitch black. There was no break anywhere in the sky. The lamplight in the house stared out sharp and clear, but the house itself, as with the barns and other outbuildings, the stockade, even the line of the tree tops where they met the sky, was quite lost in the inky night.

"It'll come quick," said the Padre.

"Sure."

They moved on to the house, and in a few minutes were sitting down to one of those silent meals which was so much a part of their habit. Yet each man was alert. Each man was thinking of those things which they knew to be threatening. Each man was ready for what might be forthcoming. Be it tempest or disaster, be it battle or death, each was ready to play his part, each was ready to accept the verdict as it might be given.

Buck was the first to push back from the table. He rose from his seat and lit his pipe. Then, as the pungent fumes lolled heavily on the superheated air, he passed over to the open window and took his seat upon the sill.

The Padre was more leisurely. He remained in his seat and raked out the bowl of his pipe with the care of a keen smoker. Then he cut his tobacco carefully from his plug, and rolled it thoughtfully in the palms of his hands.

"Say, about little Joan," he said abruptly. "Will she join us on——?"

His question remained unfinished. At that instant Buck sprang from his seat and leant out of the window. The Padre was at his side in an instant.

"What——?"

"Holy Mackinaw! Look!" cried Buck, in an awed tone.

He was pointing with one arm outstretched in a direction where the ruined stockade had fallen, leaving a great gaping space. The opening was sharply silhouetted against a wide glow of red and yellow light, which, as they watched, seemed to grow brighter with each passing moment.

Each man was striving to grasp the full significance of what he beheld. It was fire. It needed no second thought to convince them of that. But where—what? It was away across the valley, beyond the further lip which rose in a long, low slope. It was to the left of Devil's Hill, but very little. For that, too, was dimly silhouetted, even at that distance.

The Padre was the first to speak.

"It's big. But it's not the camp," he said. "Maybe it's the—forest."

For a moment Buck made no answer. But a growing look of alarm was in his straining eyes.

"It's not a prairie fire," the Padre went on. "There's not enough grass that way. Say, d'you think——" A sudden fear had leapt into his eyes, too, and his question remained unfinished.

Buck stirred. He took a deep breach. The alarm in his eyes had suddenly possessed his whole being. Something seemed to be clutching his heart, so that he was almost stifled.

"It's none o' them things," he said, striving to keep his voice steady. Then of a sudden he reached out, and clutched the arm of his friend, so that his powerful fingers sank deep into its flesh.

"It's the—farm!" he cried, in a tone that rang with a terrible dread. "Come on! The hosses!" And he dashed from the room before the last sound of his voice had died out.

The Padre was hard on his heels. With danger abroad he was no laggard. Joan—poor little Joan! And there were miles to be covered before her lover could reach her.

But the dark shadows of disaster were crowding fast. Evil was abroad searching every corner of the mountain world for its prey. Almost in a moment the whole scene was changed, and the dull inertia of past days was swept aside amidst a hurricane of storm and demoniacal tempest.

A crash of appalling thunder greeted the ears of the speeding men. The earth seemed to shake to its very foundations. Ear-splitting detonations echoed from crag to crag, and down deep into the valleys and canyons, setting the world alive with a sudden chaos. Peal after peal roared over the hills, and the lightning played, hissing and shrieking upon ironstone crowns, like a blinding display of pyrotechnics.

There was no pause in the sudden storm. There was no mercy for wretched human nerves. The blinding light was one endless chain, sweeping across the heavens as though bent on forever wresting from its path the black shadows that defied it.

And amidst all this turmoil, amidst all the devastating roar, which shook the earth as though bent on wrecking the very mountains themselves, amidst all the blinding, hellish light, so fierce, so intense, that the last secrets of the remotest forest depths must be yielded up, two horsemen dashed down the trail from the fur fort as fast as sharp spurs could drive their eager beasts.



CHAPTER XXXIV

THE EYES OF THE HILLS

The thunder roared without intermission. It rose and fell, that was all. From a truculent piano it leapt to a titanic crescendo only to find relief again in a fierce growling dissatisfaction. It seemed less of an elemental war than a physical attack upon a shuddering earth. The electric fires rifting the darkness of this out-world night were beyond compare in their terror. The radiance of sunlight might well have been less than the blaze of a rush candle before the staggering brilliancy. It was wild, wild and fearsome. It was vicious and utterly terrifying.

Below the quaking earth was in little better case. Only was the scene here in closer touch with human understanding. Here the terror was of earth, here disaster was of human making. Here the rack of heart was in destruction by wanton fire. Shrieking, hissing, crackling, only insignificant by comparison with the war of the greater elements, flames licked up and devoured with ravening appetites the tinder-like structures of Joan's farm.

The girl was standing in the open. A confined enough open space almost completely surrounded by fire. Before her were the blazing farm buildings, behind her was the raging furnace that once had been her home. And on one side of her the flames commingled so as to be impassable. Her head was bowed and her eyes were closed, her hands were pressed tight over her ears in a vain attempt to shut out cognizance of the terror that reigned about and above her. She stood thus despairing. She was afraid, terribly afraid.

Beside her was her aunt, that strange creature whose brain had always risen superior to the sufferings of the human body. Now she was crushed to earth in mute submission to the powers which overwhelmed her. She lay huddled upon the ground utterly lost to all consciousness. Terror had mercifully saved her from a contemplation of those things which had inspired it.

These two were alone. The other woman had gone, fled at the first coming of that dreaded fiend—fire. And those others, those wretched, besotted creatures whose mischief had brought about this wanton destruction, they too had fled. But their flight was in answer to the wrathful voice of the heavens which they feared and dreaded above all things in the wild world to which they belonged.

Alone, helpless, almost nerveless, Joan waited that end which she felt could not long be delayed. She did not know, she could not understand. On every hand was a threat so terrible that in her weakness she believed that life could not long last. The din in the heavens, the torturing heat so fierce and painful. The glare of light which penetrated even her closed eyelids, the choking gasps of smoke-laden, scorching air with which she struggled. Death itself must come, nor could it be far from her now.

The wind rushed madly down from the hilltops. It swept over forest and plain, it howled through canyon and crevasse in its eager haste to reach the centre of the battle of elements. It pounced upon the blinding smoke-cloud and swept it from its path and plunged to the heart of the conflagration with a shriek and roar of cruel delight. One breath, like the breath of a tornado, and its boisterous lungs had sent its mischief broadcast in the flash of an eye. With a howl of delight it tore out the blazing roof of the house, and, lifting it bodily, hurled it like a molten meteor against the dark walls of the adjacent pine forest.

Joan saw nothing of this, she understood nothing. She was blind and deaf to every added terror. All she felt, all she understood was storm, storm, always storm. Her poor weary brain was reeling, her heart was faint with terror. She was alive, she was conscious, but she might well have been neither in the paralysis that held her. It meant no more that that avalanche of fire, hurled amidst the resinous woods, had suddenly brought into existence the greatest earthly terror that could visit the mountain world; it meant no more to her that an added roar of wind could create a greater peril; it meant no more to her that, in a moment, the whole world about her would be in a blaze so that the burning sacrifice should be complete. Nothing could possibly mean more to her, for she was at the limit of human endurance.

But other eyes, other brains were alive to all these things, eyes and minds trained by a knowledge which only that mountain world could teach. To them the significance was all absorbing. To them this new terror was a thousandfold more appalling than all other storm and tempest. With the forest afire there was safety for neither human nor beast. With that forest afire flight was well-nigh impossible. With that forest afire to save any living creature would be well-nigh a miracle, and miracles had no place in their thoughts.

Yet those eyes, so watchful, remained unchanged. Those straining brains only strained the harder. Those eager hearts knew no flinching from their purpose, and if they quailed it was merely at the natural dread for those whom they were seeking to succor.

Even in face of the added peril their purpose remained. The heavens might roar their thunders, the lightnings might blind their staring eyes, the howling gale might strew their path with every obstruction, nothing could change them, nothing could stop them but death itself.

So with horses a-lather they swept along. Their blood-stained spurs told their tale of invincible determination. These two men no longer sat in their saddles, they were leaning far out of them over their racing horses' necks, urging them and easing them by every trick in a horseman's understanding. They were making a trail which soon they knew would be a path of fire. They knew that with every stride of the stalwart creatures under them they were possibly cutting off the last hope of a retreat to safety. They knew, none better, that once amidst that furnace which lay directly ahead it was something worse than an even chance of life.

Buck wiped the dripping sweat out of his eyes that he might get a clearer view. The blaze of lightning was of no use to him. It only helped to make obscure that which the earthly fires were struggling to reveal. The Padre's horse was abreast of his saddle. The sturdy brute was leaving Caesar to make the pace while she doggedly pursued.

"We'll make it yet!" shouted Buck, over his shoulder, amidst the roar of thunder.

The Padre made no attempt at response. He deemed it useless.

Buck slashed Caesar's flanks with ruthless force.

The blazing farm was just ahead, as was also the roaring fire of the forest. It was the latter on which both men were concentrating their attention. For the moment its path lay eastward, away to the right of the trail. But this they knew was merely the howling force of the wind. With a shift of direction by half a point and the gale would drive it straight down the trail they were on.

The trail bent away to the left. And as they swung past the turn Buck again shouted.

"Now for it!"

He dashed his spurs again at the flanks of his horse, and the great beast stretched out for a final burst across the bridge over the narrow creek.



CHAPTER XXXV

FROM OUT OF THE ABYSS

Joan swayed where she stood. She stumbled and fell; and the fall went on, and on, and on. It seemed to her that she was rushing down through endless space toward terrors beyond all believing. It seemed to her that a terrific wind was beating on her, and driving her downward toward a fiercely storm-swept ocean, whose black, hideous waves were ever reaching up to engulf her.

She cried out. She knew she cried out, and she knew she cried out in vain. Some one, it seemed to her, was far, far up above her, watching, seeking to aid her, but powerless to respond to her heart-broken cries. Still she called, and she knew she must go on calling, till the dark seas below drowned the voice in her throat.

Now shadows arose about her, mocking, cruel shadows. They were definite figures, but she could not give them definite form in her mind. She reached out toward them, clutching vainly at fluttering shapes, but ever missing them in her headlong career. She sped on, buffeted and hurtling, and torn; on, on, making that hideous journey through space.

Her despairing thoughts flashed at lightning speed through her whirling brain. Faster they came, faster and faster, till she had no time to recognize, no power to hold them. She could see them, yes, she could literally see them sweep by, vanishing like shadows in that black space of terror.

Then came a sudden accession of sharp stabbing pain. It seemed to tick through her body as might a clock, and each stab came as with the sway of the pendulum, and with a regularity that was exquisite torture. The stabs of pain came quicker, the pendulum was working faster. Faster and faster it swung, and so the torture was ever increasing. Now the pain was in her head, her eyes, her ears, her brain. The agony was excruciating. Her head was bursting. She cried louder and louder, and, with every cry, the pain increased until she felt she was going mad. Then suddenly the pendulum stopped swinging and her cries and her agony ceased, and all was still, silent and dark.

It might have been a moment, or it might have been ages. Suddenly this wonderful peace was disturbed. It was as though she had just awakened from a deep refreshing sleep in some strange, unfamiliar world. The darkness remained, but it was the darkness of peace. The beating wind had gone, and she only heard it sighing afar off. She was calling again, but no longer in despair. She was calling to that some one far above her with the certain knowledge that she would be answered. The darkness was passing, too. Yes, and she was no longer falling, but soaring up, up, winging her way above, without effort, without pain.

The savage waves were receding, their voices had died to a low murmur, like the voice of a still, summer sea on a low foreshore. Now, too, between every cry she waited for that answer which she knew must be forthcoming. It was some man's voice she was awaiting, some man, whose name ever eluded her searching brain. She strained to hear till the pulses of her ear-drums throbbed, for she knew when she heard the voice she would recognize the speaker.

Hark, there it was, far, far away. Yes, she could hear it, but how far she must have fallen. There it was again. It was louder, and—nearer. Again and again it came. It was quite plain. It was a voice that set her brain and heart afire with longing. It was a voice she loved more than all the world. Hark! What was that it said? Yes, there it was again.

"Pore little gal, pore little Joan."

Now she knew, and a flood of thankfulness welled up in her heart. A great love thrilled through her veins, and tears flooded her eyes, tears of thankfulness and joy. Tears for herself, for him, for all the world. It was Buck's voice full of pity and a tender love.

In a moment she was awake. She knew she was awake to a sort of dazed consciousness, because instantly her brain was flooded with all the horror of memory. Memory of the storm, the fire, of the devastation of her home.

For long minutes she had no understanding of anything else. She was consumed by the tortures of that memory. Yes, it was still storming, she could hear the howling of the wind, the roar of thunder, and the hiss and crackling of fire. Where was she? Ah, she knew. She was outside, with the fire before and behind her. And her aunt was at her side. She reached out a hand to reassure herself, and touched something soft and warm. But what was that? Surely it was Buck's voice again?

"Thank God, little gal, I tho't you was sure dead."

In desperate haste she struggled to rise to her feet, but everything seemed to rock and sway under her. And then, as Buck spoke again, she abandoned her efforts.

"Quiet, little gal, lie you still, or I can't hold you. You're dead safe fer the moment. I've got you. We're tryin' to git out o' this hell, Caesar an' me. An' Caesar's sure doin' his best. Don't you worrit. The Padre's behind, an' he's got your auntie safe."

Joan's mind had suddenly become quite clear. There was no longer any doubt in it. Now she understood where she was. Buck had come to save her. She was in his arms, on Caesar's back—and she knew she would be saved.

With an effort she opened her eyes and found herself looking into the dark face of the man she loved, and a great sigh of contentment escaped her. She closed them again, but it was only to open them almost immediately. Again she remembered, and looked about her.

Everywhere was the lurid glow of fire, and she became aware of intense heat. Above her head was the roar of tempest, and the vivid, hellish light of the storm. Buck had called it "hell."

"The whole world seems to be afire," she said suddenly.

Buck looked down into her pale face.

"Well nigh," he said. Then he added, "Yes, it's afire, sure. It's afire that bad the Almighty alone guesses if we'll git out."

But his doubt inspired no apprehension. Somehow Joan's confidence was the effect of his strong supporting arm.

She stirred again in his arms. But it was very gently.

"Buck," she said, "let me sit up. It will ease you—and help poor Caesar. I'm—I'm not afraid now."

Buck gave a deep-throated laugh. He felt he wanted to laugh, now he was sure that Joan was alive.

"You don't need. Say, you don't weigh nuthin'. An' Caesar, why, Caesar's mighty proud I'm lettin' him carry you."

But the girl had her way, and, in a moment, was sitting up with one arm about the man's broad shoulders. It brought her face near to his, and Buck bent his head toward her, and kissed the wonderful ripe lips so temptingly adjacent.

For a moment Joan abandoned herself to the joy of that kiss. Then the rhythmic sway of Caesar's body under her reminded her that there were other things. She wanted to ask Buck how they had known and come to her help. She wanted to ask a dozen woman's questions. But she refrained. Buck had spoken of "hell," and she gazed about her seeking the reason of his doubt.

In a few minutes she was aware of it all. In a few minutes she realized that he had well named the country through which they were riding. In a few minutes she knew that it was a race for life, and that their hope was in the great heart of Caesar.

Far as the eye could see in that ruddy light, tortured and distorted by the flashes of storm above, was an ocean of fire spread out. The crowning billows of smoke, like titanic foam-crests, rolled away upward and onward before them. They, too, were ruddy-tinted by the reflection from below. They crowded in every direction. They swept along abreast of them, they rose up behind them, and the distance was lost in their choking midst. The scorching air was laden to suffocation by the odors of burning resin. She knew they were on a trail, a narrow, confined trail, which was lined by unburnt woods. And the marvel of it filled her.

"These woods are untouched," she said.

Again Buck laughed. It was a grim laugh which had no mirth, but yet was it dashed by a wonderful recklessness.

"So far," he said. Then he added, with a quick look up at the belching smoke, "If they weren't I don't guess we'd be here now. Say, it's God's mercy sure this trail heads from the farm southeast. Further on it swings away at a fork. One trail goes due east, an' the other sou'west. One of 'em's sure cut by the fire. An' the other—wal, it's a gamble with luck."

"It's the only way out?" The girl's eyes were wide with her question and the knowledge of the meaning of a reply in the affirmative.

"That's so."

"We're like—rats in a trap."

A sharp oath escaped the man's lips.

"We ain't beat yet," he cried fiercely.

The reply was the heart of the man speaking. Joan understood it. And from it she understood more. She understood the actual peril in the midst of which they were.

There was nothing more to be said. Buck's whole attention was upon the billows of smoke and the lurid reflections thereon. The thunders above them, the blinding lightnings, left him undisturbed. The wind, the smoke and the fire were his only concern now. Already, ahead, he could see in the vague light where the trail gave to the left. Beyond that was the fork.

Joan gave no thought to these things. She had no right understanding of how best they could be served. She was studying the face of the man, the dark, brave face that was now her whole world. She was aware of the horseman behind, with his burden, she was aware of the horrors surrounding them, but the face of the man held her, held her without a qualm of fear—now. If death lay before them she was in his arms.

Buck's thoughts were far enough from death. He had snatched the woman he loved from its very jaws, and he had no idea of yielding. There was no comfort for him in the thought of their dying together. Living, yes. Life was more sweet to him just then than ever it had been before. And he meant that they two should live on, and on.

They passed the bend and the forking trail loomed up amidst the shadows. The crisis had come. And as they reached the vital spot Buck took hold of the horse and reined him up. In a moment the Padre was at his side with his inanimate burden.

Joan stared at the still form of her relative while the men talked.

"It's got us beat to the eastward," said Buck, without a moment's hesitation.

"Yes. The fire's right across the trail. It's impassable."

The Padre's eyes were troubled. The eastward trail led to the open plains.

"We must make the other," Buck said sharply, gathering up his reins.

"Yes. That means——"

"Devil's Hill, if the fire ain't ahead of us."

"And if it is?" Curiously enough the Padre, even, seemed to seek guidance from Buck.

"It sure will be if we waste time—talkin'."

Caesar leapt at his bit in response to the sharp stroke of the spur.

Now Buck had no thought for anything but the swift traveling fire on his left. It was the pace of his horse against the pace at which the gale was driving this furnace. It was the great heart of his horse against endurance. Would it stand the test with its double burden? If they could reach that bald, black hill, there was safety and rest. If not—but they must reach it. They must reach it if it was the last service he ever claimed from his faithful servant. For once in his life the mystery of the hill afforded Buck hope and comfort. For once it was a goal to be yearned for, and he could think of no greater delight than to rest upon its black summit far from the reach of the hungry flames, that now, like an invading army, were seeking by every means to envelop him.

Could they make it?

A hundred thoughts and sensations were passing through the man's body and mind. He was sub-consciously estimating Caesar's power by the gait at which he was traveling. He was guessing at the rate of the racing fire. He was calculating the direction of the wind to an absurd fraction. He was observing without interest the racing of a strangely assorted commingling of forest creatures down the trail, seeking safety in flight from the speeding fire. He cared nothing for them. He had no feelings of pity for anything or any one but Joan. Every hope in his heart, every atom of power in his body, every thought was for her well-being and ultimate safety. Oh, for the rain; oh, for such a rain as he had seen that time before.

But the storming heavens were dry-eyed and merciless. That freakish phenomenon of a raging thunder-storm without the usual deluge of rain was abroad with all its deadly danger. It was extraordinary. It was so extraordinary that Buck was utterly at a loss. Why, why? And his impatient questioning remained without answer. There had been every indication of rain and yet none had come——What was that?

Caesar suddenly seemed to sway drunkenly. He shook his head in the manner of a horse irritated, and alarm set his ears flat back in his head, and he stretched his neck, and, of his own accord, increased his pace. Buck saw nothing to cause this sudden disturbance other than that which had been with them all the time, and yet his horse's alarm was very evident.

A moment later occurred something still more unusual. Caesar stumbled. He did not fall. It was a mere false step, and, as he recovered, Buck felt the poor beast trembling under him. Was it the end of his endurance? No. The horse was traveling even faster than before, and he found it necessary to check the faithful creature, an attention that quickly aroused its opposition.

Buck's puzzled eyes lifted from his horse to the rapidly nearing fire. It must be that Caesar must have realized its proximity, and, in his effort to outstrip it, had brought about his own floundering. So he no longer checked the willing creature, and the race went on at the very limit of the horse's pace. Then, in a moment, again came that absurd reeling and uncertainty. And Buck's added puzzlement found expression in words, while his eyes watched closely for some definite cause.

"Ther's suthin' amiss with Caesar," he said, with an unconcern of manner which his words belied.

"What do you mean?" Joan's eyes lifted to his in sudden alarm. Then she added, "I seemed to notice something."

"Seems like he's—drunk." Buck laughed.

"Perhaps—the earth's shaking. I shouldn't wonder, with this—this storm."

"Shaking?"

Buck echoed her word, but his mind had suddenly seized upon it with a different thought from hers. If the earth were shaking, it would not be with the storm above. His eyes peered ahead. Devil's Hill lay less than a mile away, and that was where he reckoned the fire would strike the trail. Devil's Hill. A sudden uncomfortable repulsion at the thought of its barren dome took hold of him. For some subtle reason it no longer became the haven to be yearned for that it had been. Rather was it a resting-place to be sought only in extremity—if the earth were shaking.

His attention now became divided between the fire and Caesar. The horse was evidently laboring. He was moving without his accustomed freedom of gait, and yet he did not seem to be tiring.

Half the distance to the foot of the hill had been covered. The fire was nearing rapidly, so near indeed was it that the air was alive with a perfect hail of glowing sparks, swept ahead of it by the terrific wind. The scorching air was becoming unendurable, and the mental strain made the trail seem endless, and their efforts almost hopeless. Buck looked down at the girl's patient face.

"It's hot—hot as hell," he said with another meaningless laugh.

The girl read through his words and the laugh—read through them to the thought behind them, and promptly protested.

"Don't worry for me. I can stand—anything now."

The added squeeze of her arm upon his shoulders set Buck's teeth gritting.

Suddenly he reined Caesar in.

"I must know 'bout that—shakin'," he said.

For a second the horse stood with heaving body. It was only a moment, but in that moment he spread out his feet as though to save himself from falling. Then in answer to the spur he sped on.

"It's the earth, sure," cried Buck. And had there been another escape he would have turned from the barren hill now rising amidst the banking smoke-clouds ahead of him.

"Earthquake!" said the girl.

"Yes."

Nothing more was said. The air scorched their flesh, and Joan was fearful lest the falling sparks should fire her clothing. With every passing moment Caesar was nearing their forbidding goal. The fire was so adjacent that the roar and crackle of it shrieked in their ears, and through the trees shone the hideous gleam of flame. It was neck and neck, and their hope lay beneath them. Buck raked the creature's flanks again with his spurs, and the gallant beast responded. On, on they sped at a gait that Buck knew well could not last for long. But with every stride the hill was coming nearer, and it almost seemed as if Caesar understood their necessity, and his own. Once Joan looked back. That sturdy horse of the Padre was doggedly pursuing. Step for step he hugged his stable companion's trail, but he was far, far behind.

"The Padre," cried Joan. "They are a long way back."

"God help him!" cried Buck, through clenched teeth. "I can't. To wait fer him sure means riskin' you."

"But——" Joan broke off and turned her face up to the canopy of smoke driving across them. "Rain!" she cried, with a wild thrill of hope. "Rain—and in a deluge."

In a moment the very heavens seemed to be emptying their reservoirs. It came, not in drops, but in streams that smote the earth, the fire, themselves with an almost crushing force. In less than half a minute they were drenched to the skin, and the water was pouring in streams from their extremities.

"We've won out," cried Buck, with a great laugh.

"Thank God," cried Joan, as she turned her scorched face up to receive the grateful water.

Buck eased the laboring Caesar.

"That fire won't travel now, an'—ther's the hill," the man nodded.

They had steadied to a rapid gallop. The hill, as Buck indicated, was just ahead. Joan's anxious eyes looked for the beginning of the slope. Yes, it was there. Less than two hundred yards ahead.

The air filled with steam as the angry fire strove to battle with its arch-enemy. But the rain was as merciless in its onslaught as had been the storm, and the fire itself. The latter had been given full scope to work its mischief, and now it was being called to its account. Heavier and heavier the deluge fell, and the miracle of its irresistible power was in the rapid fading of the ruddy glow in the smoke-laden atmosphere. The fire was beaten from the outset and its retreat before the opposing element was like a panic flight.

In five minutes Caesar was clawing his way up over the boulder-strewn slopes of the hill, and Joan knew that, for the time at least, they were safe. She knew, too, if the rain held for a couple of hours, the blazing woods would be left a cold waste of charred wreckage.

* * * * *

But the rain did not hold. It lasted something less than a quarter of an hour. It was like a merciful act of Providence that came at the one moment when it could serve the fugitives. The chances had been all against them. Buck had known it. The fire must have met them at the foot of the hill and so barred their ultimate escape. The Padre behind had been inevitably doomed.



CHAPTER XXXVI

THE CATACLYSM

Two hours later two men and a girl gazed out from the plateau of Devil's Hill. The whole earth it seemed was a raging sea of fire. Once more the forests were ablaze in every direction. The blistering tongues of fire had licked up the heavy rain, and were again roaring destruction over the land.

Far as the eye could reach the lurid pall of smoke was spread out, rolling upward and onward, borne upon the bosom of the gale. In its midst, and through it, the merciless flames leapt up and up. The booming of falling timbers, and the roar of the flames smote painfully upon the hearts of the watchers. It was a spectacle to crush every earthly hope. It was a sight so painful as to drive the mind of man distracted. In all their lives these people had never imagined such a terror. In all their lives they could never witness such again.

They stood there silent and awed. They stood there with eyes straining and ear-drums throbbing with the din of the battle. Their horses were roaming at will and the still form of Aunt Mercy was at their feet. There was no shelter. There was no hope. Only they knew that where they stood was safety, at least, from the fire below.

Presently Joan knelt at her aunt's side and studied her ashen features in the ruddy light. The woman's unconsciousness had remained through all that journey. Or was she dead? Joan could not make up her mind.

Once, as she knelt, she reeled and nearly fell across that still body. And when, recovering herself, she looked up at the men she saw that they were braced, with feet apart, supporting each other. Then, in the roar of the storm she heard Buck's voice shouting in the Padre's ear.

"Guess—ther's more to come yet," he said with a profound significance.

She saw the Padre's nod, and she wondered at the fresh danger he saw ahead.

Buck turned and looked out over the desolate plateau with troubled eyes. She followed his gaze. Strangely she had little fear, even with that trouble in her lover's eyes.

The plateau was desperately gloomy. It was hot, too, up there, terribly hot. But Joan had no thought for that except that she associated it with the hot wind blowing up from below. Her observation was narrowed to a complete dependence on Buck. He was her hope, her only hope.

Suddenly she saw him reel. Then, in a moment, she saw that both men were down on hands and knees, and, almost at the instant, she, herself, was hurled flat upon the ground beside the body of her aunt.

The earth was rocking, and now she understood more fully her lover's trouble. Her courage slowly began to ebb. She fought against it, but slowly a terror of that dreadful hill crept up in her heart, and she longed to flee anywhere from it—anywhere but down into that caldron of fire below. But the thought was impossible. Death was on every hand beyond that hill, and the hill itself was—quaking.

Now Buck was speaking again.

"We'll have to git som'ere from here," he said.

The Padre answered him—

"Where?"

It was an admission of the elder man's weakness. Buck must guide. The girl's eyes remained upon her lover's face; she was awaiting his reply. She understood, had always known it, that all human help for her must come from him.

Her suspense was almost breathless.

"There's shelter by the lake," Buck said, after a long pause. "We can get to leeward of the rock, an'—it's near the head of that path droppin' to the creek. The creek seems better than anywher' else—after this."

His manner was decided, but his words offered poor enough comfort.

The Padre agreed, and, at once, they moved across to Joan. For the moment the earth was still again. Its convulsive shudder had passed. Joan struggled to her feet, but her increasing terror left her clinging to the man she loved. The Padre silently gathered Mercy into his arms, and the journey across the plateau began.

But as they moved away the subterranean forces attacked again. Again came that awful rocking, and shaking, which left them struggling for a foothold. Twice they were driven to their knees, only to stagger on as the convulsions lessened. It was a nightmare of nervous tension. Every step of the journey was fraught with danger, and every moment it seemed as though the hill must fall beneath them to a crumbling wreckage.

With heart-sick apprehension Joan watched the growing form of the great rock, which formed the source of the lake, as it loomed out of the smoke-laden dusk. It was so high, so sheer. What if it fell, wrecked with those dreadful earth quakings? But her terror found no voice, no protest. She would not add to the burden of these men. The rock passed behind them, and her relief was intense as the shadow was swallowed up again in the gloom. Then a further relief came to her as the edge of the plateau was reached, and the Padre set his burden down at the head of the narrow path which suggested a possible escape to the creek below.

She threw herself beside her aunt, and heard Buck speaking again to his friend.

"Stop right here with the women," he said. "I'm goin' around that lake—seems to me we need to get a peek at it."