Joan understood something of what he feared. She remembered the weirdness of that suspended lake, and thought with a shudder of the dreadful earth quakings. So she watched him go with heart well-nigh breaking.

Buck moved cautiously away into the gloom. He knew the lake shore well. The evident volcanic origin of it might well answer many questions and doubts in his mind. Its rugged shore offered almost painful difficulties with the, now, incessant quakings below. But he struggled on till he came to the eminence he sought. Here he took up a position, lying on his stomach so that he had a wide view of the surface of the wind-swept water.

He remained for a long while watching, watching, and striving to digest the signs he beheld. They were many, and alarming. But their full meaning was difficult to his untutored mind.

Here it was that the Padre ultimately found him. He had been gone so long that the elder man's uneasiness for his safety had sent him in search.

"What d'you make of it, Buck?" he demanded, as he came up, his apprehensions finding no place in his manner.

Buck displayed no surprise. He did not even turn his head.

"The fires are hotting. The water's nigh boiling. There's goin' to be a mighty bust-up."

The Padre looked out across the water.

"There's fire around us, fire above us, and now—fire under us. We've got to choose which we're going to face, Buck—quick."

The Padre's voice was steady. His feelings were under perfect control.

Buck laughed grimly.

"Ther's fire we know, an' fire we don't. Guess we best take the fire we know."

They continued to gaze out across the lake in silence after that. Then the Padre spoke again.

"What about the horses?" he asked.

The question seemed to trouble Buck, for he suddenly caught his breath. But, in a moment, his answer came with decision.

"Guess they must take their chances," he said. "Same as we have to. I hate to leave him, but Caesar's got sense."

"Yes."

The Padre's eyes were fixed upon one spot on the surface of the water. It was quite plain, even in that light, that a seething turmoil was going on just beneath it. He pointed at the place, but went on talking of the other things in his mind.

"Say, you best take this pocketbook. We may get separated before the night's out. It's half the farm money. You see—ther's no telling," he ended up vaguely.

For one instant Buck removed his eyes from the surface of the lake to glance at the snow-white head of his friend. Then he reached out and took the pocketbook.

"Maybe Joan'll need it, anyway," he said, and thrust it in his pocket. "We must——Say, git busy! Look!"

Buck's quick eyes had suddenly caught sight of a fresh disturbance in the water. Of a sudden the whole surface of the lake seemed to be rising in a great commotion. And as he finished speaking two terrific detonations roared up from somewhere directly beneath them.

In an instant both men were on their feet and racing in headlong flight for the point where they had left the women.

"Get Joan!" shouted the Padre from behind. He was less swift of foot than Buck. "Get Joan! I'll see to the other."

Buck reached the girl's side. She had heard the explosions of the underworld and stood shaking with terror.

"We're up agin it, Joan," he cried. And before the panic-stricken girl could reply she was in his strong young arms speeding for the downward path, which was their only hope.

"But the Padre! Aunt Mercy!" cried Joan, in a sudden recollection.

"They're comin' behind. He'll see to her——God in heaven!"

A deafening roar, a hundred times greater than the first explosions, came from directly beneath the man's feet. The air was full of it. To the fugitives it was as if the whole world had suddenly been riven asunder. For one flashing moment it seemed to Buck that he had been struck with fearful force from somewhere behind him, and as the blow fell he was hurled headlong down the precipitous path.

A confused, painful sense of cruel buffeting left him only half-conscious. There was a roar in his ears like the bombardment of unearthly artillery. It filled his brain to the exclusion of all else, while he hugged the girl close in his arms with some instinct of saving her, and shielding her from the cruel blows with his own body.

Beyond that he had practically no sensation. Beyond that he had no realization whatever. They were falling, falling, and every limb in his body seemed to find the obstructions with deadly certainty. How far, how long they were falling, whither the awful journey was carrying them, these things passed from him utterly.

Then, abruptly, all sensation ceased. The limit of endurance had been reached. For him, at least, the battle for life seemed ended. The greater forces might contest in bitter rage. Element might war with element, till the whole face of the world was changed; for Providence, in a belated mercy, had suspended animation, and spared these two poor atoms of humanity a further witness of a conflict of forces beyond their finite understanding.



CHAPTER XXXVII

ALONE—

"Buck! Buck!"

Faint and small, the cry was lost in the wilderness of silence. It died out, a heart-broken moan of despair, fading to nothingness in the still, desolate world.

Then came another sound. It was the crash of a falling tree. It was louder, but it, too, could scarcely break the stillness, so silent was the world, so desolate was it in the absence of all life.

Day had broken. The sky was brilliant with swift-speeding clouds of fleecy white. The great sun had lifted well above the horizon, and already its warming rays were thirstily drinking from a sodden, rain-drenched earth.

The perfect calm of a summer morning reigned. Up above, high up, where it was quite lost to the desolation below, a great wind was still speeding on the fleecy storm-clouds, brushing them from its path and replacing them with the frothing scud of a glorious day. But the air had not yet regained its wonted freshness. The reek of charred timber was everywhere. It poisoned the air, and held memory whence it would willingly escape.

"Oh, Buck, speak to me! Open your eyes! Oh, my love, my dear, dear love!"

The cry had grown in pitch. It was the cry of a woman whose whole soul is yearning for the love which had been ruthlessly torn from her bosom.

Again it died away in a sob of anguish, and all was still again. Not a sound broke the appalling quiet. Not a leaf rustled, for the world seemed shorn of all foliage. Not a sound came from the insect world, for even the smallest, the most minute of such life seemed to have fled, or been destroyed. There was neither the flutter of a wing, nor the voice of the prowling carnivora, for even the winged denizens of the mountains and the haunting scavengers had fled in terror from such a wilderness of desolation.

"Buck, oh, my Buck! Speak, speak! He's dead! Oh, my God, he's dead!"

Louder the voice came, and now in its wail was a note of hysteria. Fear had made harsh the velvet woman's tones. Fear, and a rising resentment against the cruel sentence that had been passed upon her.

She crouched down, rocking herself amidst a low scrub upon which the dead leaves still hung where the fires had scorched them. But the fire had not actually passed over them. A wide spread of barren rock intervened between the now skeleton woods and where the girl sat huddled.

In front of her lay the figure of a man, disheveled and bleeding, and scarcely recognizable for the staunch youth who had yielded himself to the buffets of life that the woman he loved might be spared.

But Joan only saw the radiant young face she loved, the slim, graceful figure so full of life and strength. He was hers. And—and death had snatched him from her. Death had claimed him, when all that she could ever long for seemed to be within her grasp. Death, ruthless, fierce, hateful death had crushed out that life in its cruellest, most merciless fashion.

She saw nothing of the ruin which lay about her. She had no thought of anything else, she had no thought of those others. All she knew was that her Buck, her brave Buck, lay before her—dead.

The girl suddenly turned her despairing eyes to the white heavens, their deep blue depths turned to a wonderful violet of emotion. Her wealth of golden hair hung loose about her shoulders, trailing about her on the sodden earth, where it had fallen in the midst of the disaster that had come upon her. Her rounded young figure was bent like the figure of an aged woman, and the drawn lines of anguish on her beautiful face gave her an age she did not possess.

"Oh, he is not dead!" she cried, in a vain appeal. "Tell me he is not dead!" she cried, to the limitless space beyond the clouds. "He is all I have, all I have in the world. Oh, God, have mercy upon me! Have mercy!"

Her only reply was the stillness. The stillness as of death. She raised her hands to her face. There were no tears. She was beyond that poor comfort. Dry, hard sobs racked her body, and drove the rising fever to her poor brain.

For long moments she remained thus.

Then, after a while, her sobs ceased and she became quite still. She dropped her hands inertly from her face, and let them lie in her lap, nerveless, helpless, while she gazed upon the well-loved features, so pale under the grime and tanning of the skin.

She sat quite still for many minutes. It almost seemed as if the power of reason had at last left her, so colorless was her look, so unchanging was her vacant expression. But at last she stirred. And with her movement a strange light grew in her eyes. It was a look bordering upon the insane, yet it was full of resolve, a desperate resolve. Her lips were tightly compressed, and she breathed hard.

She made no sound. There were no further lamentations. Slowly she reached out one hand toward the beloved body. Nor was the movement a caress. It passed across the tattered garments, through which the painfully contused flesh peered hideously out at her. It moved with definite purpose toward one of the gaping holsters upon the man's waist-belt. Her hand came to a pause over the protruding butt of a revolver. Just for a moment there was hesitation. Then it dropped upon it and her fingers clasped the weapon firmly. She withdrew it, and in a moment it rested in her lap.

She gazed down upon it with straining, hopeless eyes. It was as if she were struggling to nerve herself for that one last act of cowardice which the despairing find so hard to resist. Then, with a deep-drawn sigh, she raised the weapon with its muzzle ominously pointing at her bosom.

Again came a pause.

Then she closed her eyes, as though fearing to witness the passing of the daylight from her life, and her forefinger moved to embrace the trigger. It reached its object, and its pressure tightened.

But as it tightened, and the trigger even moved, she felt the warm grip of a hand close over hers, and the pistol was turned from its direction with a wrench.

Her startled eyes abruptly opened, and her grip upon the weapon relaxed, while a cry broke from her ashen lips. She had left the gun in Buck's hand, and his dark eyes were gazing into hers from his bed amongst the crushed branches of the bush amidst which he was lying.

For long moments she stared at him almost without understanding. Then, slowly, the color returned to her cheeks and lips, and great tears of joy welled up into her loving eyes.

"Buck," she murmured, as the heavy tears slowly rolled down her cheeks, and her bosom heaved with unspeakable joy. "My—my Buck."

For answer the man's eyes smiled. Her heaven had opened at last.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

—IN THE WILDERNESS

The golden sun was high in the heavens. Its splendor was pouring down upon a gently steaming earth. But all its joyous light, all its perfect beneficence could not undo one particle of the havoc the long dark hours of night had wrought.

High up on a shattered eminence, where a sea of tumbled rock marked the face of Devil's Hill, where the great hot lake had been held suspended, Joan and Buck gazed out upon the battle-ground of nature's forces.

Presently the girl's eyes came back to the face of her lover. She could not long keep them from the face, which, such a few hours ago, she had believed she would never behold again in life. She felt as though he were one returned to her from the grave, and feared lest she should wake to find his returning only a dream.

He was a strange figure. The tattered remains of his clothing were scarcely enough to cover his nakedness, and Joan, with loving, unskilled hands, had lavered and dressed his wounds with portions of her own undergarments and the waters of the creek, whither, earlier, she had laboriously supported his enfeebled body. But Providence had spared him an added mercy besides bringing him back to life. It seemed a sheer miracle that his bones had been left whole. His flesh was torn, his whole body was terribly bruised and lacerated, but that worst of all disasters in life had been spared him, and he was left with the painful use of every limb.

But the thought of this miracle left the man untouched. Only did Joan remember, and offer up her thankfulness. The man was of the wild, he was young, life was with him, life with all its joys and sorrows, all its shadowy possibilities, so he recked nothing of what he had escaped. That was his way.

While Joan's devoted eyes watched the steady light in his, staring out so intently at the wreck of world before him, no word passed her lips. It was as though he were the lord of their fate and she waited his commands.

But for long Buck had no thought for their personal concerns. He forgot even the pains which racked his torn body, he forgot even the regrets which the destruction he now beheld had first inspired him with. He was marveling, he was awed at the thought of those dread elements, those titanic forces he had witnessed at play.

There lay the hideous skeleton picked bare to the bones. Every semblance of the beauty lines, which, in the earth's mature completion, it had worn, had vanished, and only mouldering remains were left. How had it happened? What terrible, or sublime purpose, had been achieved during that night of terror? He could not think.

His eyes dropped to that which lay immediately before him. He was gazing into chaotic depths of torn black rock amidst which a great cascade of water poured out from the bowels of the earth and flowed on to join the waters of Yellow Creek. It was the site where had hung the suspended lake. Half the great hill had been torn away by some terrible subterranean upheaval, which seemed to have solely occurred on that side where the lake had been, and where the hill had confronted the distant camp. Gone were the workings of the miners. Gone was that great bed of auriferous soil. And in their places lay an ocean of rock, so vast, so torn, that the power which had hurled it broadcast was inconceivable to his staggered mind.

For a while he contemplated the scene with thoughts struggling and emotions stirring. Then with a sigh he looked out beyond. The valley of the creek, that little narrow strip of open grass-land, bordered by pine forests all its length, was gone, too. The creek was now a wide-spread expanse of flowing water, which had swept from its path the last vestige of the handiwork of those people who had lived upon the banks of the original stream.

There was not a sign of a house or log hut to be seen anywhere. Gone, gone, swept away like the buildings of children's toy bricks.

What of those who had dwelt where the water now flowed? Had they, too, gone on the rushing tide? He wondered. Where had been their escape? Maybe they had had time. And yet, somehow it seemed doubtful. The skeleton forests stretched out on every hand to a great distance. They backed where the camp had stood. They rose up beyond the northern limits. To the west of the water it was the same. Had he not witnessed the furnace upon that side? And here, here to the south would they have faced this terrible barrier belching out its torrential waters, perhaps amidst fire and smoke?

He did not know. He could not think. They were gone as everything else that indicated life was gone, and—they two were left alone in a wilderness of stricken earth.

He sighed again as he thought of the gracious woods which the long centuries had built up. All Nature's wonderful labors, the patient efforts of ages, wiped out in a few moments of her own freakish mood. It was heart-breaking to one who had always loved the wild hills where the all-powerful Dame's whimsies had so long run riot.

Then as he stared out upon the steaming horizon where hills greater and greater rose up confronting him and narrowed the limits of his vision, he saw where the dividing line ran. He remembered suddenly that even in her destructions Nature had still controlled. The floods of the heavens must have been abruptly poured out at some time during the night, or the fire would still be raging on, searching out fresh fuel beyond those hills, traveling on on and on through the limitless forests which lay to the north, and south, and west.

The memory gave him fresh hope. It told him that the world was still outside waiting to welcome them to its hostels. And so he turned at last to the patient woman at his side.

"It seems so a'mighty queer, little Joan," he said gently. "It seems so a'mighty queer I can't rightly get the hang of things. Yesterday—yesterday—why, yesterday all this," he waved an arm to indicate the broken world about him, "was as God made it, an' now ther's jest ruin—blank ruin that'll take all your life, and mine, an' dozens who're comin' after us to—to build up agin. Yesterday this camp was full of busy folk chasin' a livin' from the products Nature had set here. Now she's wiped 'em out. Why? Yesterday a good man was threatened by man's law, an' it looked as if that law was to suck us all into its web an' make criminals of us. Now he's gone an' the law'll be chased back to hunt around for its prey in places with less danger to 'em. It's all queer—mighty queer. An' it's queerer still to think of you an' me sittin' here puzzlin' out these things."

"Yes."

Joan nodded without removing her eyes from the face she loved so well. Then after a pause she went on—

"You think—he's dead?"

Buck was some time before he answered her. His grave eyes were fixed on a spot across the water, where a break in the charred remains of the forest revealed a sky-line of green grass.

"How else?" he said, at last. "He was behind me with your aunt. He was on the hill. You've scoured what remains of the plateau. Wal, he ain't there, an' he didn't come down the path wher' we come. We ain't see 'em anyways. Yep," he went on, with a sigh, "guess the Padre's dead, an' one o' them rocks down ther' is markin' his grave. Seems queer. He went with her. She was the woman he had loved. They've gone together, even though she just—hated him. He was a good man an'—he'd got grit. He was the best man in the world an'—an' my big friend."

His voice was husky with emotion, and something like a sob came with his last word, and Joan's eyes filled with tears of sympathy and regret.

"Tell me," he went on, after a pause. "I ain't got it right. The fall knocked you plumb out. An' then?"

His eyes were still on the distant break of the trees.

"I don't know what happened," Joan said wearily, spreading out her drenched skirt to the now blazing sun. "I know I woke up quite suddenly, feeling so cold that even my teeth were chattering. The rain was falling like—like hailstones. It was dark, so dark, and I was terribly afraid. I called to you, but got no answer, and—and I thought I was alone. It was terrible. The thunder had ceased, and the lightning was no longer playing. There was no longer any forest fire, or—or earthquakings. All was still and black, and the rain—oh, it was dreadful. I sat where I was, calling you at intervals. I sat on, and on, and on, till I thought the dark would never go, that day would never break again, and I began to think that all the world had come to an end, and I, alone, was left. Then at last the rain stopped, and I saw that day was breaking. But it was not until broad daylight that I knew where I was. And then—and then I saw you lying close at my feet. Oh, Buck, don't let me think of it any more. Don't remind me of it. It was awful. I believed you were dead—dead. And it seemed to me that my heart died, too. It was so dreadful that I think I—I was mad. And then—you saved me—again."

Buck raised a stiff arm and gently drew her toward him with a wonderfully protecting movement. The girl yielded herself to him, and he kissed her sweet upturned lips.

"No, little Joan, gal. Don't you think of it. We got other things to think of—a whole heap."

"Yes, yes," cried the girl eagerly. "We've got life—together."

Buck nodded with a grave smile.

"An' we must sure keep it."

He released her and struggled to his feet, where he stood supporting himself by clinging to a projection of rock.

"What do you mean, Buck? What are you going to do?" Joan demanded anxiously, springing to her feet and shaking out her drenched skirt.

"Do? Why, look yonder. Ther' across the water. Ther' wher' them burnt-up woods break. See that patch o' grass on the sky-line? Look close, an' you'll see two—somethings standin' right ther'. Wal, we got to git near enough that way so Caesar can hear my whistle."

"Caesar? Is—is that Caesar? Why—how——?"

Buck nodded his head.

"Maybe I'm guessin'. I ain't sayin'. But—wal, you can't be sure this ways off. Y' see, Caesar has a heap o' sense, an' his saddle-bags are loaded down with a heap o' good food. An' you're needin' that—same as me."



CHAPTER XXXIX

LOVE'S VICTORY

The rightness of Buck's conjecture was proved before evening, but not without long and painful effort. Joan was utterly weary, and the man was reduced to such weakness and disability as, in all his life, he had never known.

But they faced their task with the knowledge that with every moment of delay in procuring food their chances of escape from that land of ruin were lessening. With food, and, consequently, with Buck's horse, safety would be practically assured. They would then, too, be able to prosecute a search for the man they both had learned to love so well.

With nightfall their hopes were realized, but only at a terrible cost to the man. So great had become his weakness and suffering that it was Joan who was forced to make provision for the night.

Both horses were grazing together with an unconcern that was truly equine. Nor, when reviewed, was their escape the miracle it appeared. At the height of the storm they had been left on the farthest confines of the plateau of Devil's Hill, where no fire would reach them, and at a considerable distance from the lake. Their native terror of fire would have held them there in a state bordering on paralysis. In all probability no power on earth could have induced them to stir from the spot where they had been left, until the drenching rain had blotted out the furnace raging below. This had been Buck's thought. Then, perhaps, laboring under a fear of the quakings caused by the subterranean fires of the hill, and their hungry stomachs crying out for food, they had left the dreaded hill in quest of the pastures they craved.

The well-stocked saddle-bags, which Buck's forethought had filled for the long trail, now provided these lonely wanderers in the wilderness with the food they needed, the saddle-blankets and the saddles furnished their open-air couches, and the horses, well, the horses were there to afford them escape when the time came, and, in the meantime, could be left to recover from the effects of the storm and stress through which they, too, had passed.

With the following dawn Buck's improvement was wonderful, and Joan awoke from a deep, night-long slumber, refreshed and hopeful. An overhauling of their supplies showed them sufficient food, used sparingly, to last a week. And with this knowledge Buck outlined their plans to the girl, who hung upon his every word.

"We can't quit yet," he said, when they had broken their fast.

The girl waited, watching his dark contemplative eyes as they looked across the water at the diminished hill.

"Nope," he went on. "We owe him more'n that. We must chase around, an'—find him. We must——"

"Yes," Joan broke in, her eyes full of eager acquiescence. "We must not leave him—to—to—the coyotes." She shuddered.

"No. Guess I'll git the horses."

"You? Oh, Buck—let me. I am well and strong. It is my turn to do something now. Your work is surely finished."

Her pleading eyes smiled up into his, but the man shook his head with that decision she had come to recognize and obey almost without question.

"Not on your life, little gal," he said, in his kindly, resolute fashion, and Joan was left to take her woman's place in their scheme of things.

But she shared in the search of the hill and the woods. She shared in the ceaseless hunt for three long, weary, heart-breaking days over a land of desolation and loneliness. She rode at Buck's side hour after hour on the sturdy horse that had served the Padre so faithfully, till her body was healthily weary, and her eyes grew heavy with straining. But she welcomed the work. For, with the tender mother eye of the woman in her, she beheld that which gladdened her heart, and made the hardest work a mere labor of love. Each passing day, almost with each passing hour, she witnessed the returning vigor of the man she loved. His recuperative powers were marvelous, and she watched his bodily healing as though he were her own helpless offspring.

For the rest their search was hopeless. The battling forces of a storm-riven earth had claimed their toll to the last fraction, and with the cunning of the miser had secreted the levy. Not a trace was there of any human life but their own. The waters from the hill swept the little valley, and hugged to their bosom the secrets that lay beneath their surface. And the fall of rock held deeply buried all that which it had embraced in its rending. The farm was utterly destroyed, and with it had fallen victims every head of stock Joan had possessed. The old fur fort had yielded to the fire demon, where, for all the ages, it had resisted the havoc of storm. There was nothing left to mark the handiwork of man, nothing but the terrible destruction it had brought about.

Thus it was on the fourth morning, after breaking their fast, and the horses had been saddled, Buck once more packed the saddle-bags and strapped them into their places behind the saddles. Joan watched him without question. She no longer had any question for that which he chose to ordain.

When all was ready he lifted her into her saddle, which she rode astride, in the manner of the prairie. She was conscious of his strength, now returned to its full capacity. She was nothing in his arms now, she might have been a child by the ease with which he lifted her. He looked to her horse's bridle, he saw that she was comfortable. Then he vaulted into Caesar's saddle with all his old agility.

"Which way, Buck?" The girl spoke with the easy manner of one who has little concern, but her eyes belied her words. A strange thrill was storming in her bosom.

"Leeson Butte," said Buck, a deep glow shining in his dark eyes.

Joan let her horse amble beside the measured, stately walk of Caesar. Her reins hung loose, and her beautiful eyes were shining as they gazed out eagerly ahead. She was thrilling with a happiness that conflicted with a strange nervousness at the naming of their destination. She had no protest to offer, no question. It was as if the lord of her destiny had spoken, and it was her happiness and desire to obey.

They rode on, and their way lay amidst the charred skeleton of a wide, stately wood. The air was still faint with the reek of burning. There was no darkness here beyond the blackened tree trunks, for the brilliant summer sun lit up the glades, which, for ages, no sun's rays had ever penetrated. The sense of ruin was passing from the minds of these children of the wilderness. Their focus had already adapted itself. Almost, even, their youthful eyes and hearts saw new beauties springing up about them. It was the work of that wonderful fount of hope, which dies so hardly in us all, and in youth never.

At length they left the mouldering skeletons behind them, and the gracious, waving, tawny grass of the plains opened out before their gladdened eyes. A light breeze tempered the glorious sunlight, and set ripples afloat upon the waving crests of the motionless rollers of a grassy ocean.

Buck drew his horse down to a walk beside the girl, and his look had lost its reflection of the sadness they were leaving behind. He had no desire now to look back. For all his life the memory of his "big friend" would remain, for the rest his way lay directly ahead, his life, and his—hope.

"It's all wonderful—wonderful out here, little Joan," he said, smiling tenderly down upon her sweet face from the superior height at which Caesar carried him. "Seems like we're goin' to read pages of a—fresh book. Seems like the old book's all mussed up, so we can't learn its lessons ever again."

Joan returned the warmth of his gaze. But she shook her head with an assumption of wisdom.

"It's the same book, dear, only it's a different chapter. You see the story always goes on. It must go on—to the end. Characters drop out. They die, or are—killed. Incidents happen, some pleasant, some—full of sadness. But that's all part of the story, and must be. The story always goes on to the end. You see," she added with a tender smile, "the hero's still in the picture."

"An' the—gal-hero."

Joan shook her head decidedly.

"There's no heroine to this story," she said. "You need courage to be a heroine, and I—I have none. Do you know, Buck," she went on seriously, "when I look back on all that's gone I realize how much my own silly weakness has caused the trouble. If I had only had the courage to laugh at my aunt's prophecies, my aunt's distorted pronouncements, all this trouble would have been saved. I should never have come to the farm. My aunt would never have found the Padre. Those men would never have fired those woods when they burnt my farm, and—and the gentle-hearted Padre would never have lost his life."

It was Buck's turn to shake his head.

"Wrong, wrong, little gal," he said with a warmth of decision. "When you came to us—to me, an' we saw your trouble, we jest set to work to clear a heap o' cobwebs from your mind. That was up to us, because you were sure sufferin', and you needed help. But all we said, all we told you not to believe, those things were sure marked out, an' you, an' all of us had to go thro' with 'em. We can't talk away the plans o' Providence. You jest had to come to that farm. You jest had to do all the things you did. Maybe your auntie, in that queer way of hers, told you the truth, maybe she saw things us others didn't jest see. Who can tell?"

Joan's eyes lit with a startled look as she listened to the man's words. They made her wonder at the change in him. Had that terrible cataclysm impressed him with a new view of the life by which he was surrounded? It might be. Then, suddenly, a fresh thought occurred to her. A memory rose up and confronted her, and a sudden joyous anxiety thrilled her.

"Do you really think that, Buck?" she cried eagerly. "Do you? Do you?"

"Things seem changed, little gal," he said, half ruefully. "Seems to me the past week's been years an' years long." He laughed. "Maybe I got older. Maybe I think those things now, same as most folks think 'em—when they get older."

But Joan was full of her own thought, and she went on eagerly, passing his reasons by.

"Listen, Buck, when Aunt Mercy told me all my troubles, she told me something else. But it seemed so small by the side of those other things, that I—that I almost forgot it. What was it? Her words? Yes, yes, I asked her, was there no hope for me? No means by which I could be saved from my fate? And she said that my only hope lay in finding a love that was stronger than death. These were her words——

"'I loved your father with a passion nothing, no disaster could destroy. Go you, child, and find you such a love. 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.'"

Her words dropped to a whisper as she finished speaking, and she waited, like a criminal awaiting sentence, for the man's judgment on them. Her eyes were downcast, and her rounded bosom was stirring tumultuously. What would he say? What would he think? And yet she must have told him. Was he not the one person in the world who held her fate in his hands? Yes, he must know all there was in her mind. And she knew in her heart that he would understand as she wanted him to understand.

Buck suddenly reined Caesar in, and brought him to a standstill, turning him about so that he looked back upon the world they were leaving behind them forever. In silence Joan responded to his movement, and her horse closed up against the other.

"Guess your auntie's notions were all queer, so queer they're mighty hard to understand," he said reflectively. "But seems to me she's hit a big truth some way. That curse is sure lifted—sure, sure."

He pointed at the grim outline of Devil's Hill, now fading in the distance.

"Look ther' yonder. Yonder's the disaster, yonder is—death. An' we—we've sure passed through it. She's right. Our love is stronger than disaster—stronger than death."

Then he turned and gazed ardently into her upturned face. "Guess we sure found that love together, little gal. An' it's ours to keep forever an' ever. Ther' ain't no other love comin' around. I'm yours fer jest so long as I have life, an' you—wal, you're jest my whole, whole world."

He leant toward her, his dark eyes shining with his great love. Reaching out he drew her toward him, his strong, protecting arm encircling her slim waist.

"Say, little gal," he went on urgingly, "we're goin' right on now to Leeson Butte. Ther's a passon ther' who can fix us right. An' when that's done, an' ther' ain't nuthin' in the world can come between us, why, then I sure got two mighty strong hands yearnin' to git busy handin' you those things which can make a woman's life easy, an'—an' happy. Will you come, little Joan? Will you sure come?"

His eager young face was close to hers, and his deep breath fanned her warm cheek. She gave him no verbal reply. At that moment she had no words. But she turned toward him. And, as she turned, her lips met his in one long, passionate kiss. He needed no other reply. She was giving him herself. It was the soul of the woman speaking.

Some moments later their horses were again heading for Leeson Butte. The eyes of the girl were shining with a happiness such as she had never known before, and Buck sat with head erect, and the light of a great purpose in his eyes. For a while they rode thus. Then the man's eyes twinkled with a sudden thought. For a moment he glanced at the golden head so close beside him. Then he smiled.

"Say, little Joan," he cried, "guess you're that gal-hero after all."

Joan responded to his look.

"How?" she inquired, with a heightened color.

"Why, jest git a look at me. Me! You're goin' to marry me! I'd sure say you've a heap more grit than any gal-hero I've heard tell of."

Joan surveyed his unkempt figure,—the torn clothing, his unshaven face; the bandages made of her own undergarments, which he still wore,—and the happy smile on her young face broadened.

"Well, you see, Buck, dear," she said joyously, "you can't be a proper hero if you don't carry the scars of battle on you." She sighed contentedly. "No, I'm afraid it doesn't need much 'grit' to marry you."



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent.

THE END