"Maybe a drink of water would help them lacerated pipes of yourn," he suggested, "an' besides it's dark enough so you can start supper a-goin'."

"But," said Endicott, "won't that get the boys all into serious trouble for aiding and abetting a prisoner to escape? Accessories after the fact, is what the law calls them."

"Oh Lord," groaned the Texan inwardly. "If I can steer through all this without ridin' into my own loop, I'll be some liar. This on top of what I told 'em in Wolf River, an' since, an' about Purdy's funeral—I dastn't bog down, now!"

"No," he answered, as he lighted another cigarette. "There comes in your politics again. You see, there was twenty-some-odd of us—an' none friendless. Take twenty-odd votes an' multiply 'em by the number of friends each has got—an' I reckon ten head of friends apiece wouldn't overshoot the figure—an' you've got between two hundred an' three hundred votes—which is a winnin' majority for any candidate among 'em. Knowin' this, they wink at the jail delivery an' cinch those votes. But, as I said before, hangin' is always a popular measure, an' as they want credit for yourn, they start all the deputies they got out on a still-hunt for you, judgin' it not to be hard to find a pilgrim wanderin' about at large. An' this party I met up with was one of 'em."

"Did he suspect that we were with you?" asked Alice, her voice trembling with anxiety.

"Such was the case—his intimation bein' audible, and venomous. I denied it in kind, an' one word leadin' to another, he called me a liar. To which statement, although to a certain extent veracious, I took exception, an' in the airy persiflage that ensued, he took umbrage to an extent that it made him hostile. Previous to this little altercation, he an' I had been good friends, and deemin', rightly, that it wasn't a shootin' matter, he ondertook to back up his play with his fists, and he hauled off an' smote me between the eyes before I'd devined his intentions. Judgin' the move unfriendly, not to say right downright aggressive, I come back at him with results you-all noted. An' that's all there was to the incident of me showin' up with black eyes, an' a lip that would do for a pin cushion."

All during supper and afterward while the half-breed was washing the dishes, the Texan eyed him sharply, and several times caught the flash of a furtive smile upon the habitually sombre face.

"He knows somethin' mirthful," thought the cowboy, "I noticed it particular, when I was flounderin' up to my neck in the mire of deception. The old reprobate ain't easy amused, either."

Alice retired early, and before long Endicott, too, sought his blankets. The moon rose, and the Texan strolled over to the grazing horses. Returning, he encountered Bat seated upon a rock at some distance from camp, watching him. The half-breed was grinning openly now, broadly, and with evident enjoyment. Tex regarded him with a frown: "For a Siwash you're plumb mirthful an' joyous minded. In fact I ain't noticed any one so wrapped up in glee for quite a spell. Suppose you just loosen up an' let me in on the frivolity, an' at the same time kind of let it appear where you put in the day. I mistrusted my packin' a pair of purple ones wouldn't give you the whoopin' cough, so I just sauntered over an' took a look at the cayuses. Yourn's be'n rode 'til he's sweat under the blanket—an' he ain't soft neither."

"Oui, A'm fol' 'long we'n you make de ride. A'm t'ink mebbe-so two better'n wan."

"Well, I was weaned right young, an' I don't need no governess. After this you——"

The half-breed shrugged: "A'm tink dat tam way back in Las Vegas dat dam' good t'ing ol' Bat fol' 'long, or else, ba Goss, you gon' to hell for sure."

"But that's no sign I've always got to be close-herded. Did you sneak up near enough to hear what the short-horn said?"

"Oui, A'm hear dat. She mak' me laugh lak' hell."

"Laugh! I didn't see nothin' so damn hilarious in it. What do you think about Purdy?"

"A'm tink dat dam' bad luck she no git keel." The half-breed paused and grinned: "De pilgrim she mak' de run for nuttin', an' you got to ke'p on lyin' an' lyin', an bye-m-bye you got so dam' mooch lies you git los'. So far, dat work out pret' good. De pilgrim gon' ke'p on de run, 'cause he no lak' for git stretch for politick, an' you git mor' chance for make de play for de girl."

"What do you mean?" The Texan's eyes flashed. "I just knocked the livin' hell out of one fellow for makin' a crack about that girl."

"Oui, A'm know 'bout dat, too. Dat was pret' good, but nex' tam dat better you start in fightin' fore you git knock clean across de coulee firs'. A'm lak dat girl. She dam' fine 'oman, you bet. A'm no lak' she git harm."

"See here, Bat," interrupted the Texan, "no matter what my intentions were when I started out, they're all right now."

"Oui, A'm know dat, 'bout two day."

"It's this way, I be'n thinkin' quite a bit the last couple of days there ain't a thing in hellin' around the country punchin' other folks' cattle for wages. It's time I was settlin' down. If that girl will take a long shot an' marry me, I'm goin' to rustle around an' start an outfit of my own. I'll be needin' a man about your heft an' complexion to help me run it, too—savvy?"

The half-breed nodded slowly. "Oui, all de tam A'm say: 'Some tam Tex she queet de dam' foolin', an' den she git to be de beeg man.' I ain' tink you git dis 'oman, but dat don' mak' no differ', som' tam you be de beeg man yet. Som' nodder 'oman com' 'long——"

"To hell with some other woman!" flared the Texan. "I tell you I'll have that girl or I'll never look at another woman. There ain't another woman in the world can touch her. You think you're wise as hell, but I'll show you!"

The half-breed regarded him gloomily: "A'm tink dat 'oman de pilgrim 'oman."

"Oh, you do, do you? Well, just you listen to me. She ain't—not yet. It's me an' the pilgrim for her. If she ties to him instead of me, it's all right. She'll get a damn good man. Take me, an' all of a sudden throw me into the middle of his country, an' I doubt like hell if I'd show up as good as he did in mine. Whatever play goes on between me an' the pilgrim, will be on the square—with one deck, an' the cards on the table. There's only one thing I'm holdin' out on him, an' that is about Purdy. An' that ain't an onfair advantage, because it's his own fault he's worryin' about it. An' if it gives me a better chance with her, I'm goin' to grab it. An' I'll win, too. But, if I don't win, I don't reckon it'll kill me. Sometimes when I get to thinkin' about it I almost wish it would—I'm that damned close to bein' yellow."

Bat laughed. The idea of the Texan being yellow struck him as humorous. "I'm wonder how mooch more beeg lie you got for tell, eh?"

Tex was grinning now, "Search me. I had to concoct some excuse for getting 'em started—two or three excuses. An' it looks like I got to keep on concoctin' 'em to keep 'em goin'. But it don't hurt no one—lyin' like that, don't. It don't hurt the girl, because she's bound to get one of us. It don't hurt the pilgrim, because we'll see him through to the railroad. It don't hurt you, because you don't believe none of it. An' it don't hurt me, because I'm used to it—an' there you are. But that don't give you no license to set around an' snort an' gargle while I'm tellin' 'em. I got trouble enough keepin' 'em plausible an' entangled, without you keepin' me settin' on a cactus for fear you'll give it away. What you got to do is to back up my play—remember them four bits I give you way back in Los Vegas? Well, here's where I'm givin' you a chance to pay dividends on them four bits."

Bat grinned: "You go 'head an' mak' you play. You fin' out I ain't forgit dat four bit. She ain' mooch money—four bit ain'. But w'en she all you got, she wan hell of a lot . . . bien!"



CHAPTER XVII

IN THE BAD LANDS

It was well toward noon on the following day when the four finally succeeded in locating the grub cache of the departed horse-thief. Nearly two years had passed since the man had described the place to Tex and a two-year-old description of a certain small, carefully concealed cavern in a rock-wall pitted with innumerable similar caverns is a mighty slender peg to hang hopes upon.

"It's like searching for buried treasure!" exclaimed Alice as she pried and prodded among the rocks with a stout stick.

"There won't be much treasure, even if we find the cache," smiled Tex. "Horse thievin' had got onpopular to the extent there wasn't hardly a livin' in it long before this specimen took it up as a profession. We'll be lucky if we find any grub in it."

A few moments later Bat unearthed the cache and, as the others crowded about, began to draw out its contents.

"Field mice," growled Tex, as the half-breed held up an empty canvas bag with its corner gnawed to shreds. Another gnawed bag followed, and another.

"We don't draw no flour, nor rice, not jerky, anyhow," said the puncher, examining the bags. "Nor bacon, either. The only chance we stand to make a haul is on the air-tights."

"What are air-tights?" asked the girl.

"Canned stuff—tomatoes are the best for this kind of weather—keep you from gettin' thirsty. I've be'n in this country long enough to pretty much know its habits, but I never saw it this hot in June."

"She feel lak' dat dam' Yuma bench, but here is only de rattlesnake. We don' got to all de tam hont de pizen boog. Dat ain' no good for git so dam' hot—she burn' oop de range. If it ain' so mooch danger for Win to git hang—" He paused and looked at Tex with owlish solemnity. "A'm no lak we cross dem bad lands. Better A'm lak we gon' back t'rough de mountaine."

"You dig out them air-tights, if there's any in there, an' quit your croakin'!" ordered the cowboy.

And with a grin Bat thrust in his arm to the shoulder. One by one he drew out the tins—eight in all, and laid them in a row. The labels had disappeared and the Texan stood looking down at them.

"Anyway we have these," smiled the girl, but the cowboy shook his head.

"Those big ones are tomatoes, an' the others are corn, an' peas—but, it don't make any difference." He pointed to the cans in disgust: "See those ends bulged out that way? If we'd eat any of the stuff in those cans we'd curl up an' die, pronto. Roll 'em back, Bat, we got grub enough without 'em. Two days will put us through the bad lands an' we've got plenty. We'll start when the moon comes up."

All four spent the afternoon in the meagre shade of the bull pine, seeking some amelioration from the awful scorching heat. But it was scant protection they got, and no comfort. The merciless rays of the sun beat down upon the little plateau, heating the rocks to a degree that rendered them intolerable to the touch. No breath of air stirred. The horses ceased to graze and stood in the scrub with lowered heads and wide-spread legs, sweating.

Towards evening a breeze sprang up from the southeast, but it was a breeze that brought with it no atom of comfort. It blew hot and stifling like the scorching blast of some mighty furnace. For an hour after the sun went down in a glow of red the super-heated rocks continued to give off their heat and the wind swept, sirocco-like, over the little camp. Before the after-glow had faded from the sky the wind died and a delicious coolness pervaded the plateau.

"It hardly seems possible," said Alice, as she breathed deeply of the vivifying air, "that in this very spot only a few hours ago we were gasping for breath.

"You can always bank on the nights bein' cold," answered Tex, as he proceeded to build the fire. "We'll rustle around and get supper out of the way an' the outfit packed an' we can pull our freight as soon as it's light enough. The moon ought to show up by half-past ten or eleven, an' we can make the split rock water-hole before it gets too hot for the horses to travel. It's the hottest spell for June I ever saw and if she don't let up tomorrow the range will be burnt to a frazzle."

Bat cast a weather-wise eye toward the sky which, cloudless, nevertheless seemed filmed with a peculiar haze that obscured the million lesser stars and distorted the greater ones, so that they showed sullen and angry and dull like the malignant pustules of a diseased skin.

"A'm t'ink she gon' for bus' loose pret' queek."

"Another thunder storm and a deluge of rain?" asked Alice.

The half-breed shrugged: "I ain' know mooch 'bout dat. I ain' t'ink she feel lak de rain. She ain' feel good."

"Leave off croakin', Bat, an' get to work an' pack," growled the Texan. "There'll be plenty time to gloom about the weather when it gets here." An hour later the outfit was ready for the trail.

"Wish we had one of them African water-bags," said the cowboy, as he filled his flask at the spring. "But I guess this will do 'til we strike the water-hole."

"Where is that whiskey bottle?" asked Endicott. "We could take a chance on snake-bite, dump out the booze, and use the bottle for water."

The Texan shook his head: "I had bad luck with that bottle; it knocked against a rock an' got busted. So we've got to lump the snake-bite with the thirst, an' take a chance on both of 'em."

"How far is the water-hole?" Alice asked, as she eyed the flask that the cowboy was making fast in his slicker.

"About forty miles, I reckon. We've got this, and three cans of tomatoes, but we want to go easy on 'em, because there's a good ride ahead of us after we hit Split Rock, an' that's the only water, except poison springs, between here an' the old Miszoo."

Bat, who had come up with the horses, pointed gloomily at the moon which had just topped the shoulder of a mountain. "She all squash down. Dat ain' no good she look so red." The others followed his gaze, and for a moment all stared at the distorted crimson oblong that hung low above the mountains. A peculiar dull luminosity radiated from the misshapen orb and bathed the bad lands in a flood of weird murky light.

"Come on," cried Tex, swinging into his saddle, "we'll hit the trail before this old Python here finds something else to forebode about. For all I care the moon can turn green, an' grow a hump like a camel just so she gives us light enough to see by." He led the way across the little plateau and the others followed. With eyes tight-shut and hands gripping the saddle-horn, Alice gave her horse full rein as he followed the Texan's down the narrow sloping ledge that answered for a trail. Nor did she open her eyes until the reassuring voice of the cowboy told her the danger was past.

Tex led the way around the base of the butte and down into the coulee he had followed the previous day. "We've got to take it easy this trip," he explained. "There ain't any too much light an' we can't take any chances on holes an' loose rocks. It'll be rough goin' all the way, but a good fast walk ought to put us half way, by daylight, an' then we can hit her up a little better." The moon swung higher and the light increased somewhat, but at best it was poor enough, serving only to bring out the general outlines of the trail and the bolder contour of the coulee's rim. No breath of the wind stirred the air that was cold, with a dank, clammy coldness—like the dead air of a cistern. As she rode, the girl noticed the absence of its buoyant tang. The horses' hoofs rang hollow and thin on the hard rock of the coulee bed, and even the frenzied yapping of a pack of coyotes, sounded uncanny and far away. Between these sounds the stillness seemed oppressive—charged with a nameless feeling of unwholesome portent. "It is the evil spell of the bad lands," thought the girl, and shuddered.

Dawn broke with the moon still high above the western skyline. The sides of the coulee had flattened and they traversed a country of low-lying ridges and undulating rock-basins. As the yellow rim of the sun showed above the crest of a far-off ridge, their ears caught the muffled roar of wind. From the elevation of a low hill the four gazed toward the west where a low-hung dust-cloud, lowering, ominous, mounted higher and higher as the roar of the wind increased. The air about them remained motionless—dead. Suddenly it trembled, swirled, and rushed forward to meet the oncoming dust-cloud as though drawn toward it by the suck of a mighty vortex.

"Dat better we gon' for hont de hole. Dat dust sto'm she raise hell."

"Hole up, nothin'!" cried the Texan; "How are we goin' to hole up—four of us an' five horses, on a pint of water an' three cans of tomatoes? When that storm hits it's goin' to be hot. We've just naturally got to make that water-hole! Come on, ride like the devil before she hits, because we're goin' to slack up considerable, directly."

The cowboy led the way and the others followed, urging their horses at top speed. The air was still cool, and as she rode, Alice glanced over her shoulder toward the dust cloud, nearer now, by many miles. The roar of the wind increased in volume. "It's like the roar of the falls at Niagara," she thought, and spurred her horse close beside the Texan's.

"Only seventeen or eighteen miles," she heard him say, as her horse drew abreast. "The wind's almost at our back, an' that'll help some." He jerked the silk scarf from his neck and extended it toward her. "Cover your mouth an' nose with that when she hits. An' keep your eyes shut. We'll make it all right, but it's goin' to be tough." A mile further on the storm burst with the fury of a hurricane. The wind roared down upon them like a blast from hell. Daylight blotted out, and where a moment before the sun had hung like a burnished brazen shield, was only a dim lightening of the impenetrable fog of grey-black dust. The girl opened her eyes and instantly they seemed filled with a thousand needles that bit and seared and caused hot stinging tears to well between the tight-closed lids. She gasped for breath and her lips and tongue went dry. Sand gritted against her teeth as she closed them, and she tried in vain to spit the dust from her mouth. She was aware that someone was tying the scarf about her head, and close against her ear she heard the voice of the Texan: "Breathe through your nose as long as you can an' then through your teeth. Hang onto your saddle-horn, I've got your reins. An' whatever you do, keep your eyes shut, this sand will cut 'em out if you don't." She turned her face for an instant toward the west, and the sand particles drove against her exposed forehead and eyelids with a force that caused the stinging tears to flow afresh. Then she felt her horse move slowly, jerkily at first, then more easily as the Texan swung him in beside his own.

"We're all right now," he shouted at the top of his lungs to make himself heard above the roar of the wind. And then it seemed to the girl they rode on and on for hours without a spoken word. She came to tell by the force of the wind whether they travelled along ridges, or wide low basins, or narrow coulees. Her lips dried and cracked, and the fine dust and sand particles were driven beneath her clothing until her skin smarted and chafed under their gritty torture. Suddenly the wind seemed to die down and the horses stopped. She heard the Texan swing to the ground at her side, and she tried to open her eyes but they were glued fast. She endeavoured to speak and found the effort a torture because of the thick crusting of alkali dust and sand that tore at her broken lips. The scarf was loosened and allowed to fall about her neck. She could hear the others dismounting and the loud sounds with which the horses strove to rid their nostrils of the crusted grime.

"Just a minute, now, an' you can open your eyes," the Texan's words fell with a dry rasp of his tongue upon his caked lips. She heard a slight splashing sound and the next moment the grateful feel of water was upon her burning eyelids, as the Texan sponged at them with a saturated bit of cloth.

"The water-hole!" she managed to gasp.

"There's water here," answered the cowboy, evasively, "hold still, an' in a minute you can open your eyes." Very gently he continued to sponge at her lids. Her eyes opened and she started back with a sharp cry. The three men before her were unrecognizable in the thick masks of dirt that encased their faces—masks that showed only thin red slits for eyes, and thick, blood-caked excrescences where lips should have been.

"Water!" Endicott cried, and Alice was sure she heard the dry click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The girl saw that they were in a cavern formed by a mud crack whose walls had toppled together. Almost at her feet was a small pool, its surface covered with a film of dust. Endicott stepped toward it, but the Texan barred the way.

"Don't drink that! It might be a poison spring—most of 'em are down here. It's the meanest death there is, the bellyache an' cramps that comes from drinkin' poison water. Watch the horses. If they will drink it, we can. He led his horse to the pool into which the animal thrust his nose half way to the eyes. Only a moment he held it there, then with a thrash of disappointment that sent the water splashing over the dust-coated rocks, he raised his head and stood with the water dripping in streams from his muzzle. He pawed at the ground, shook his head wrathfully, and turned in disgust from the water-hole.

"Poison," announced the Texan. "We can rinse out our mouths with it an' clean out our eyes an' wash our faces, an' do the same for the horses, but we can't swallow not even a drop of it, or us an' the angels will be swappin' experiences about this time tomorrow." He turned to Alice: "Ladies first. Just take your handkerchief an' wet it an' swab out your mouth an' when you're through there's a good drink of real water waitin' for you in the flask."

When she had done, the three men followed her example, and the Texan tendered the bottle:

"Take all you need, there's plenty," he said. But she would take only a swallow which she held in her mouth and allowed to trickle down her throat. Endicott did the same and Bat, whereupon the cowboy replaced the cork to the bottle and was about to return it to his slicker when the girl caught his arm.

"You didn't drink any!" she cried, but he overrode her protest.

"I ain't thirsty," he said almost gruffly. "You better catch you a little rest, because as soon as we get these horses fixed up, we're goin' to pull out of here." The girl assayed a protest, but Tex turned abruptly away and the three fell to work removing the caked dust from the eyes and nostrils of the horses, and rinsing out their mouths. When they finished, Tex turned to Bat.

"How far d'you reckon it is to the water-hole?" he asked.

The half-breed shrugged: "Mebbe-so fi' mile, mebbe-so ten. I ain' know dis place. A'm t'ink we los'."

"Lost!" snorted the Texan, contemptuously. "You're a hell of an Injun, you are, to get lost in broad daylight in sight of the Bear Paws. I ain't lost, if you are, an' I tell you we camp at that water-hole tonight!"

Again the half-breed shrugged: "I ain' see no mountaine. I ain' see no mooch daylight, neider. Too mooch de dam' dus'—too mooch san'—too mooch de win' blow. If we com' by de water-hole, A'm t'ink dat dam' lucky t'ing."

Tex regarded him with disapproval: "Climb onto your horse, old Calamity Jane, an' we'll mosey along. A dry camp is better than this—at least nobody can crawl around in their sleep an' drink a snifter of poison." He helped Alice from the ground where she sat propped against a rock and assisted her to mount, being careful to adjust the scarf over her nose and mouth.

As the horses with lowered heads bored through the dust-storm the Texan cursed himself unmercifully. "This is all your fault, you damned four-flusher! You would run a girl—that girl, into a hole like this, would you? You low-lived skunk, you! You think you're fit to marry her, do you? Well, you ain't! You ain't fit to be mentioned in the same language she is! You'll get 'em all out of here or, by God, you'll never get out yourself—an' I'm right here to see that that goes! An' you'll find that water-hole, too! An' after you've found it, an' got 'em all out of this jack-pot, you'll h'ist up on your hind legs an' tell 'em the whole damn facts in the case, an' if Win jumps in an' just naturally mops up hell with you, it'll be just what you've got comin' to you—if he does a good job, it will." Mile after mile the horses drifted before the wind, heads hung low and ears drooping. In vain the Texan tried to pierce the impenetrable pall of flying dust for a glimpse of a familiar landmark. "We ought to be hittin' that long black ridge, or the soda hill by now," he muttered. "If we miss 'em both—God!"

The half-breed pushed his horse close beside him: "We mus' got to camp," he announced with his lips to the Texan's ear. "De hosses beginnin' to shake."

"How far can they go?"

"Camp now. Beside de cut-bank here. Dem hoss she got for res' queek or, ba Goss, she die."

Tex felt his own horse tremble and he knew the half-breed's words were true. With an oath he swung into the sheltered angle of the cut-bank along which they were travelling. Bat jerked the pack from the lead-horse and produced clothing and blankets, dripping wet from the saturation he had given them in the poison spring. While the others repeated the process of the previous camp, Bat worked over the horses which stood in a dejected row with their noses to the base of the cut-bank.

"We'll save the water an' make tomatoes do," announced the Texan, as with his knife he cut a hole in the top of a can. "This storm is bound to let up pretty quick an' then we'll hit for the waterhole. It can't be far from here. We'll tap two cans an' save one an' the water—the flask's half full yet."

Never in her life, thought Alice, as she and Endicott shared their can of tomatoes, had she tasted anything half so good. The rich red pulp and the acid juice, if it did not exactly quench the burning thirst, at least made it bearable, and in a few minutes she fell asleep protected from the all pervading dust by one of the wet blankets. The storm roared on. At the end of a couple of hours Bat rose and silently saddled his horse. "A'm gon' for fin' dat water-hole," he said, when the task was completed. "If de sto'm stop, a'right. If it don' stop, you gon' on in de mornin'." He placed one of the empty tomato cans in his slicker, and as he was about to mount both Endicott and Tex shook his hand.

"Good luck to you, Bat," said Endicott, with forced cheerfulness. The Texan said never a word, but after a long look into the half-breed's eyes, turned his head swiftly away.

Both Tex and Endicott slept fitfully, throwing the blankets from their heads at frequent intervals to note the progress of the storm. Once during the night the Texan visited the horses. The three saddle animals stood hobbled with their heads close to the cut-bank, but the pack-horse was gone. "Maybe you'll find it," he muttered, "but the best bet is, you won't. I gave my horse his head for an hour before we camped, an' he couldn't find it." Tex sat up after that, with his back to the wall of the coulee. With the first hint of dawn Endicott joined him. The wind roared with unabated fury as he crawled to the cowboy's side. He held up the half-filled water flask and the Texan regarded him with red-rimmed eyes.

"This water," asked the man, "it's for her, isn't it?" Tex nodded. Without a word Endicott crawled to the side of the sleeping girl and gently drew the blanket from her face. He carefully removed the cork from the bottle and holding it close above the parched lips allowed a few drops of the warm fluid to trickle between them. The lips moved and the sleeping girl swallowed the water greedily. With infinite pains the man continued the operation doling the precious water out a little at a time so as not to waken her. At last the bottle was empty, and, replacing the blanket, he returned to the Texan's side. "She wouldn't have taken it if she had known," he whispered. "She would have made us drink some."

Tex nodded, with his eyes on the other's face.

"An' you're nothin' but a damned pilgrim!" he breathed, softly. Minutes passed as the two men sat silently side by side. The Texan spoke, as if to himself: "It's a hell of a way to die—for her."

"We'll get through somehow," Endicott said, hopefully.

Tex did not reply, but sat with his eyes fixed on the horses. Presently he got up, walked over and examined each one carefully. "Only two of 'em will travel, Win. Yours is all in." He saddled the girl's horse and his own, leaving them still hobbled. Then he walked over and picked up the empty tomato can and the bottle. "You've got to drink," he said, "or you'll die—me, too. An' maybe that water ain't enough for her, either." He drew a knife from his pocket and walked to Endicott's horse.

"What are you going to do?" cried the other, his eyes wide with horror.

"It's blood, or nothin'," answered the Texan, as he passed his hand along the horse's throat searching for the artery.

Endicott nodded: "I suppose you're right, but it seems—cold blooded."

"I'd shoot him first, but there's no use wakin' her. We can tell her the horse died." There was a swift twisting of the cowboy's wrist, the horse reared sharply back, and Endicott turned away with a sickening feeling of weakness. The voice of the Texan roused him: "Hand me the bottle and the can quick!" As he sprang to obey, Endicott saw that the hand the cowboy held tightly against the horse's throat was red. The weakness vanished and he cursed himself for a fool. What was a horse—a thousand horses to the lives of humans—her life? The bottle was filled almost instantly and he handed Tex the can.

"Drink it—all you can hold of it. It won't taste good, but it's wet." He was gulping great swallows from the tin, as with the other hand he tried to hold back the flow. Endicott placed the bottle to his lips and was surprised to find that he emptied it almost at a draught. Again and again the Texan filled the bottle and the can as both in a frenzy of desire gulped the thick liquid. When, at length they were satiated, the blood still flowed. The receptacles were filled, set aside, and covered with a strip of cloth. For a moment longer the horse stood with the blood spurting from his throat, then with a heavy sigh he toppled sidewise and crashed heavily to the ground. The Texan fixed the cork in the bottle, plugged the can as best he could, and taking them, together with the remaining can of tomatoes, tied them into the slicker behind the cantle of his saddle. He swung the bag containing the few remaining biscuits to the horn.

"Give her the tomatoes when you have to. You can use the other can—tell her that's tomatoes, too. She'll never tumble that it's blood."

Endicott stared at the other: "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you had better wake her up, now, an' get goin'. I'll wait here for Bat. He's probably found the spring by this time, an' he'll be moseyin' along directly with water an' the pack-horse."

Endicott took a step toward him: "It won't work, Tex," he said, with a smile. "You don't expect me to believe that if you really thought Bat would return with water, you would be sending us away from here into this dust-storm. No. I'm the one that waits for Bat. You go ahead and take her through, and then you can come back for me."

The Texan shook his head: "I got you into this deal, an'——"

"You did it to protect me!" flared Endicott. "I'm the cause for all this, and I'll stand the gaff!"

The Texan smiled, and Endicott noticed that it was the same cynical smile with which the man had regarded him in the dance hall, and again as they had faced each other under the cottonwoods of Buffalo Coulee. "Since when you be'n runnin' this outfit?"

"It don't make any difference since when! The fact is, I'm running it, now—that is, to the extent that I'll be damned if you're going to stay behind and rot in this God-forsaken inferno, while I ride to safety on your horse."

The smile died from the cowboy's face: "It ain't that, Win. I guess you don't savvy, but I do. She's yours, man. Take her an' go! There was a while that I thought—but, hell!"

"I'm not so sure of that," Endicott replied. "Only yesterday, or the day before, she told me she could not choose—yet."

"She'll choose," answered Tex, "an' she won't choose—me. She ain't makin' no mistake, neither. By God, I know a man when I see one!"

Endicott stepped forward and shook his fist in the cowboy's face: "It's the only chance. You can do it—I can't. For God's sake, man, be sensible! Either of us would do it—for her. It is only a question of success, and all that it means; and failure—and all that that means. You know the country—I don't. You are experienced in fighting this damned desert—I'm not. Any one of a dozen things might mean the difference between life and death. You would take advantage of them—I couldn't."

"You're a lawyer, Win—an' a damn good one. I wondered what your trade was. If I ever run foul of the law, I'll sure send for you, pronto. If I was a jury you'd have me plumb convinced—but, I ain't a jury. The way I look at it, the case stands about like this: We can't stay here, and there can't only two of us go. I can hold out here longer than you could, an' you can go just as far with the horses as I could. Just give them their head an' let them drift—that's all I could do. If the storm lets up you'll see the Split Rock water-hole—you can't miss it if you're in sight of it, there's a long black ridge with a big busted rock on the end of it, an' just off the end is a round, high mound—the soda hill, they call it, and the water-hole is between. If you pass the water-hole, you'll strike the Miszoo. You can tell that from a long ways off, too, by the fringe of green that lines the banks. And, as for the rest of it—I mean, if the storm don't let up, or the horses go down, I couldn't do any more than you could—it's cashin' in time then anyhow, an' the long, long sleep, no matter who's runnin' the outfit. An' if it comes to that, it's better for her to pass her last hours with one of her own kind than with—me."

Endicott thrust out his hand: "I think any one could be proud to spend their last hours with one of your kind," he said huskily. "I believe we will all win through—but, if worse comes to worst—— Good Bye."

"So Long, Win," said the cowboy, grasping the hand. "Wake her up an' pull out quick. I'll onhobble the horses."



CHAPTER XVIII

"WIN"

Alice opened her eyes to see Endicott bending over her. "It is time to pull out," said the man tersely.

The girl threw off the blanket and stared into the whirl of opaque dust. "The storm is still raging," she murmured. "Oh, Winthrop, do you know that I dreamed it was all over—that we were riding between high, cool mountains beside a flashing stream. And trout were leaping in the rapids, and I got off and drank and drank of the clear, cold water, and, why, do you know, I feel actually refreshed! The horrible burning thirst has gone. That proves the control mind has over matter—if we could just concentrate and think hard enough, I don't believe we would ever need to be thirsty, or hungry, or tired, or cold, do you?"

The man smiled grimly, and shook his head: "No. If we could think hard enough to accomplish a thing, why, manifestly that thing would be accomplished. Great word—enough—the trouble is, when you use it, you never say anything."

Alice laughed: "You're making fun of me. I don't care, you know what I mean, anyway. Why, what's the matter with that horse?"

"He died—got weaker and weaker, and at last he just rolled over dead. And that is why we have to hurry and make a try for the water-hole, before the others play out."

Endicott noticed that the Texan was nowhere in sight. He pressed his lips firmly: "It's better that way, I guess," he thought.

"But, that's your horse! And where are the others—Tex, and Bat, and the pack-horse?"

"They pulled out to hunt for the water-hole—each in a different direction. You and I are to keep together and drift with the wind as we have been doing."

"And they gave us the best of it," she breathed. Endicott winced, and the girl noticed. She laid her hand gently upon his arm. "No, Winthrop, I didn't mean that. There was a time, perhaps, when I might have thought—but, that was before I knew you. I have learned a lot in the past few days, Winthrop—enough to know that no matter what happens, you have played a man's part—with the rest of them. Come, I'm ready."

Endicott tied the scarf about her face and assisted her to mount, then, throwing her bridle reins over the horn of his saddle as the Texan had done, he headed down the coulee. For three hours the horses drifted with the storm, following along coulees, crossing low ridges, and long level stretches where the sweep of the wind seemed at times as though it would tear them from the saddles. Endicott's horse stumbled frequently, and each time the recovery seemed more and more of an effort. Then suddenly the wind died—ceased to blow as abruptly as it had started. The man could scarcely believe his senses as he listened in vain for the roar of it—the steady, sullen roar, that had rung in his ears, it seemed, since the beginning of time. Thick dust filled the air but when he turned his face toward the west no sand particles stung his skin. Through a rift he caught sight of a low butte—a butte that was not nearby. Alice tore the scarf from her face. "It has stopped!" she cried, excitedly. "The storm is over!"

"Thank God!" breathed Endicott, "the dust is beginning to settle." He dismounted and swung the girl to the ground. "We may as well wait here as anywhere until the air clears sufficiently for us to get our bearings. We certainly must have passed the water-hole, and we would only be going farther and farther away if we pushed on."

The dust settled rapidly. Splashes of sunshine showed here and there upon the basin and ridge, and it grew lighter. The atmosphere took on the appearance of a thin grey fog that momentarily grew thinner. Endicott walked to the top of a low mound and gazed eagerly about him. Distant objects were beginning to appear—bare rock-ridges, and low-lying hills, and deep coulees. In vain the man's eyes followed the ridges for one that terminated in a huge broken rock, with its nearby soda hill. No such ridge appeared, and no high, round hill. Suddenly his gaze became rivetted upon the southern horizon. What was that stretching away, long, and dark, and winding? Surely—surely it was—trees! Again and again he tried to focus his gaze upon that long dark line, but always his lids drew over his stinging eyeballs, and with a half-sobbed curse, he dashed the water from his eyes. At last he saw it—the green of distant timber. "The Missouri—five miles—maybe more. Oh God, if the horses hold out!" Running, stumbling, he made his way to the girl's side. "It's the river!" he cried. "The Missouri!"

"Look at the horses!" she exclaimed. "They see it, too!" The animals stood with ears cocked forward, and dirt-caked nostrils distended, gazing into the south. Endicott sprang to his slicker, and producing the flask, saturated his handkerchief with the thick red liquid. He tried to sponge out the mouths and noses of the horses but they drew back, trembling and snorting in terror.

"Why, it's blood!" cried the girl, her eyes dilated with horror. "From the horse that died," explained Endicott, as he tossed the rag to the ground.

"But, the water—surely there was water in the flask last night!" Then, of a sudden, she understood. "You—you fed it to me in my sleep," she faltered. "You were afraid I would refuse, and that was my dream!"

"Mind over matter," reminded Endicott, with a distortion of his bleeding lips that passed for a grin. Again he fumbled in his slicker and withdrew the untouched can of tomatoes. He cut its cover as he had seen Tex do and extended it to the girl. "Drink some of this, and if the horses hold out we will reach the river in a couple of hours."

"I believe it's growing a little cooler since that awful wind went down," she said, as she passed the can back to Endicott. "Let's push on, the horses seem to know there is water ahead. Oh, I hope they can make it!"

"We can go on a-foot if they can't," reassured the man. "It is not far."

The horses pushed on with renewed life. They stumbled weakly, but the hopeless, lack-lustre look was gone from their eyes and at frequent intervals they stretched their quivering nostrils toward the long green line in the distance. So slow was their laboured pace that at the end of a half-hour Endicott dismounted and walked, hobbling clumsily over the hot rocks and through ankle-deep drifts of dust in his high-heeled boots. A buzzard rose from the coulee ahead with silent flapping of wings, to be joined a moment later by two more of his evil ilk, and the three wheeled in wide circles above the spot from which they had been frightened. A bend in the coulee revealed a stagnant poison spring. A dead horse lay beside it with his head buried to the ears in the slimy water. Alice glanced at the broken chain of the hobbles that still encircled the horse's feet.

"It's the pack-horse!" she cried. "They have only one horse between them!"

"Yes, he got away in the night." Endicott nodded. "Bat is hunting water, and Tex is waiting." He carried water in his hat and dashed it over the heads of the horses, and sponged out their mouths and noses as Tex and Bat had done. The drooping animals revived wonderfully under the treatment and, with the long green line of scrub timber now plainly in sight, evinced an eagerness for the trail that, since the departure from Antelope Butte, had been entirely wanting. As the man assisted the girl to mount, he saw that she was crying.

"They'll come out, all right," he assured her. "As soon as we hit the river and I can get a fresh horse, I'm going back."

"Going back!"

"Going back, of course—with water. You do not expect me to leave them?"

"No, I don't expect you to leave them! Oh, Winthrop, I—" her voice choked up and the sentence was never finished.

"Buck up, little girl, an hour will put us at the river," he swung into the saddle and headed southward, glad of a respite from the galling, scalding torture of walking in high-heeled boots.

Had Endicott combed Montana throughout its length and breadth he could have found no more evil, disreputable character than Long Bill Kearney. Despised by honest citizens and the renegades of the bad lands, alike, he nevertheless served these latter by furnishing them whiskey and supplies at exorbitant prices. Also, he bootlegged systematically to the Port Belknap Indians, which fact, while a matter of common knowledge, the Government had never been able to prove. So Long Bill, making a living ostensibly by maintaining a flat-boat ferry and a few head of mangy cattle, continued to ply his despicable trade. Even passing cowboys avoided him and Long Bill was left pretty much to his own evil devices.

It was the cabin of this scum of the outland that Endicott and Alice approached after pushing up the river for a mile or more from the point where they had reached it by means of a deep coulee that wound tortuously through the breaks. Long Bill stood in his doorway and eyed the pair sullenly as they drew rein and climbed stiffly from the saddles. Alice glanced with disgust into the sallow face with its unkempt, straggling beard, and involuntarily recoiled as her eyes met the leer with which he regarded her as Endicott addressed him:

"We've been fighting the dust storm for two days, and we've got to have grub and some real water, quick."

The man regarded him with slow insolence: "The hell ye hev," he drawled; "Timber City's only seven mile, ef ye was acrost the river. I hain't runnin' no hotel, an' grub-liners hain't welcome."

"God, man! You don't mean——"

"I mean, ef ye got five dollars on ye I'll ferry ye acrost to where ye c'n ride to Timber City ef them old skates'll carry ye there, an' ef ye hain't got the five, ye c'n swim acrost, or shove on up the river, or go back where ye come from."

Endicott took one swift step forward, his right fist shot into the man's stomach, and as he doubled forward with a grunt of pain, Endicott's left crashed against the point of his jaw with a force that sent him spinning like a top as he crumpled to the hard-trodden earth of the door-yard.

"Good!" cried Alice. "It was beautifully done. He didn't even have a chance to shoot," she pointed to the two 45's that hung, one at either hip.

"I guess we'll just relieve him of those," said Endicott, and, jerking the revolvers from their holsters, walked to his saddle and uncoiled the rope. Alice lent eager assistance, and a few moments later the inhospitable one lay trussed hand and foot. "Now, we'll go in and find something to eat," said Endicott, as he made fast the final hitch.

The cabin was well stocked with provisions and, to the surprise of the two, was reasonably clean. While Alice busied herself in the cabin, Endicott unsaddled the horses and turned them into a small field where the vegetation grew rank and high and green beside a series of irrigation ditches. Passing the horse corral he saw that three or four saddle-horses dozed in the shade of its pole fence, and continued on to the river bank where he inspected minutely the ferry.

"I guess we can manage to cross the river," he told Alice, when he returned to the cabin; "I will breathe easier when I see you safe in Timber City, wherever that is. I am coming back after Tex. But first I must see you safe."

The girl crossed to his side and as the man glanced into her face he saw that her eyes were shining with a new light—a light he had dreamed could shine from those eyes, but never dared hope to see. "No, Win," she answered softly, and despite the mighty pounding of his heart the man realized it was the first time she had used that name. "You are not going back alone. I am going too." Endicott made a gesture of protest but she gave no heed. "From now on my place is with you. Oh, Win, can't you see! I—I guess I have always loved you—only I didn't know It. I wanted romance—wanted a red-blood man—a man who could do things, and——"

"Oh, if I could come to you clean-handed!" he interrupted, passionately; "if I could offer you a hand unstained by the blood of a fellow creature!"

She laid a hand gently upon his shoulder and looked straight into his eyes: "Don't, Win," she said; "don't always hark back to that. Let us forget."

"I wish to God I could forget!" he answered, bitterly. "I know the act was justified. I believe it was unavoidable. But—it is my New England conscience, I suppose."

Alice smiled: "Don't let your conscience bother you, because it is a New England conscience. They call you 'the pilgrim' out here. It is the name they called your early Massachusetts forebears—and if history is to be credited, they never allowed their consciences to stand in the way of taking human life."

"But, they thought they were right."

"And you know you were right!"

"I know—I know! It isn't the ethics—only the fact."

"Don't brood over it. Don't think of it, dear. Or, if you must, think of it only as a grim duty performed—a duty that proved, as nothing else could have proved, that you are every inch a man."

Endicott drew her close against his pounding heart. "It proved that the waters of the Erie Canal, if given the chance, can dash as madly unrestrained as can the waters of the Grand Canyon."

She pressed her fingers to his lips: "Don't make fun of me. I was a fool."

"I'm not making fun—I didn't know it myself, until—" the sentence was drowned in a series of yells and curses and vile epithets that brought both to the door to stare down at the trussed-up one who writhed on the ground in a very paroxysm of rage.

"Conscience hurting you, or is it your jaw?" asked Endicott, as he grinned into the rage-distorted features.

"Git them hosses outa that alfalfy! You —— —— —— —— ——! I'll hev th' law on ye! I'll shoot ye! I'll drag yer guts out!" So great was the man's fury that a thin white foam flecked his hate-distorted lips, and his voice rose to a high-pitched whine. Endicott glanced toward the two horses that stood, belly-deep, in the lush vegetation.

"They like it," he said, calmly. "It's the first feed they have had in two days." The man's little pig eyes glared red, and his voice choked in an inarticulate snarl.

Alice turned away in disgust. "Let him alone," she said, "and we will have dinner. I'm simply famished. Nothing ever looked so good to me in the world as that ham and potatoes and corn and peas." During the course of the meal, Endicott tried to dissuade the girl from her purpose of accompanying him on his search for Tex and the half-breed. But she would have it no other way, and finally, perforce, he consented.

Leaving her to pack up some food, Endicott filled the water-bag that hung on the wall and, proceeding to the corral, saddled three of the horses. Through the open window of the cabin he could see the girl busily engaged in transferring provisions to a sack. He watched her as she passed and repassed the window intent upon her task. Never had she seemed so lovable, so unutterably desirable—and she loved him! With her own lips she had told him of her love, and with her own lips had placed the seal of love upon his own. Happiness, like no happiness he had ever known should be his. And yet—hovering over him like a pall—black, ominous, depressing—was the thing that momentarily threatened to descend and engulf him, to destroy this new-found happiness, haunt him with its diabolical presence, and crush his life—and hers.

With an effort he roused himself—squared himself there in the corral for the final battle with himself. "It is now or never," he gritted through clenched teeth. "Now, and alone. She won't face the situation squarely. It is woman's way, calmy to ignore the issue, to push it aside as the ill of a future day."

She had said that he was right, and ethically, he knew that he was right—but the fact of the deed remained. His hand had sped a soul to its God.

Why?

To save the woman he loved. No jury on earth would hold him guilty. He would surrender himself and stand trial. Then came the memory of what Tex had told him of the machinations of local politics. He had no wish to contribute his life as campaign material for a county election. The other course was to run—to remain, as he now was, a fugitive, if not from justice, at least from the hand of the law. This course would mean that both must live always within the menace of the shadow—unless, to save her from this life of haunting fear, he renounced her.

His eyes sought the forbidding sweep of the bad lands, strayed to the sluggish waters of the Missouri, and beyond, where the black buttes of the Judith Range reared their massive shapes in the distance. Suddenly a mighty urge welled up within him. He would not renounce her! She was his! This was life—the life that, to him, had been as a sealed book—the fighting life of the boundless open places. It was the coward's part to run. He had played a man's part, and he would continue to play a man's part to the end. He would fight. Would identify himself with this West—become part of it. Never would he return to the life of the city, which would be to a life of fear. The world should know that he was right. If local politics sought to crush him—to use him as a puppet for their puny machinations, he would smash their crude machine and rebuild the politics of this new land upon principles as clean and rugged as the land itself. It should be his work!

With the light of a new determination in his eyes, he caught up the bridle-reins of the horses and pushed open the gate of the corral. As he led the animals out he was once more greeted with a volley of oaths and curses: "Put them back! Ye hoss-thief! I'll have ye hung! Them's mine, I tell ye!"

"You'll get them back," assured Endicott. "I am only borrowing them to go and hunt for a couple of friends of mine back there in the bad lands."

"Back in the bad lands! What do ye know about the bad lands? Ye'll git lost, an' then what'll happen to me? I'll die like a coyote in a trap! I'll starve here where no one comes along fer it's sometimes a week—mebbe two!"

"It will be a long time between meals if anything should happen to us, but it will do you good to lie here and think it over. We'll be back sometime." Endicott made the sack of provisions fast to the saddle of the lead-horse, and assisted Alice to mount.

"I'll kill ye fer this!" wailed the man; "I'll—I'll—" but the two rode away with the futile threats ringing in their ears.



CHAPTER XIX

THE END OF THE TRAIL

"How are we going to find them?" asked the girl, as the two drew their mounts to a stand on the top of a low ridge and gazed out over the sea of similar ridges that rolled and spread before them as far as the eye could reach in three directions—bare coulees, and barer ridges, with here and there a low bare hill, all black and red and grey, with studdings of mica flashing in the rays of the afternoon sun.

"We'll find them. We've got to. I have just been thinking: Living on the edge of the bad lands the way this man does he must occasionally cross them. Tex said that the Split Rock water-hole was the only one between the river and the mountains. We'll start the horses out and give them their heads, and the chances are they will take us to the water-hole. In all probability Tex and Bat will be there. If they are not we will have to find them."

"Of course!" assented the girl. "Oh, Win, I'm so proud of you! I couldn't be any prouder if you were a—a real cowboy!" Endicott laughed heartily, and urged his horse forward. The animals crossed several low ridges and struck into a coulee which they followed unhesitatingly. When it petered out in a wide basin, they struck into another coulee, and continued their course, covering the miles at a long, swinging trot. At sundown Endicott reined in sharply and pointed to the northward. "It's the ridge of the Split Rock!" he cried; "and look, there is the soda hill!" There it was only a mile or two away—the long black ridge with the huge rock fragment at its end, and almost touching it, the high round hill that the Texan had described.

The horses pressed eagerly forward, seeming to know that rest and water were soon to be theirs. "I wonder if they are there," breathed the girl, "and I wonder if they are—all right."

A few minutes later the horses swung around the base of the hill and, with an exclamation of relief, Endicott saw two figures seated beside the detached fragment of rock that lay near the end of the ridge.

The Texan arose slowly and advanced toward them, smiling: "Good evenin'," he greeted, casually, as he eyed the pair with evident approval. "You sure come a-runnin'. We didn't expect you 'til along about noon tomorrow. And we didn't expect you at all," he said to the girl. "We figured you'd shove on to Timber City, an' then Win would get a guide an' come back in the mornin'."

Endicott laughed: "When I learned there was such a place as Timber City, I intended to leave her there and return alone—only I was not going to wait 'til morning to do it. But she wouldn't hear of it, so we compromised—and she came with me."

Tex smiled: "It's a great thing to learn how to compromise." He stared for a few moments toward the west, where the setting sun left the sky ablaze with fiery light. Then, still smiling, he advanced toward them with both hands extended: "I wish you luck," he said, softly. "I cared for you a mighty lot, Miss Alice, but I'm a good loser. I reckon, maybe it's better things worked out the way they did." Endicott pressed the outstretched hand with a mighty grip and turned swiftly away to fumble at his latigo strap. And there were tears in the girl's eyes as her fingers lingered for a moment in the Texan's grasp: "Oh, I—I'm sorry. I——"

"You don't need to be," the man whispered. "You chose the best of the two." He indicated Endicott with a slight jerk of the head. "You've got a real man there—an' they're oncommon hard to find. An' now, if you've got some grub along suppose we tie into it. I'm hungry enough to gnaw horn!"

As Alice proceeded to set out the food, the Texan's eyes for the first time strayed to the horses. "How much did Long Bill Kearney soak you for the loan of his saddle-horses?"

"Nothing," answered Endicott, "and he supplied us with the grub, too."

"He, what?"

"Fact," smiled the other, "he demurred a little, but——"

"Long Bill's the hardest character in Choteau County."

Endicott glanced at his swollen knuckles: "He is hard, all right."

Tex eyed him in amazement, "Win, you didn't—punch his head for him!"

"I did—and his stomach, too. We were nearly starved, and he refused us food. Told us to go back where we came from. So I reached for him and he dozed off."

"But where was his guns?"

"I took them away from him before I tied him up."

"Where is he now?"

"Tied up. He called me a lot of names because I turned the horses into his alfalfa. They were hungry and they enjoyed it, but Bill nearly blew up. Then we got dinner and took the horses and came away."

"You're the luckiest man out of hell! You doggoned pilgrim, you!" Tex roared with laughter: "Why accordin' to dope, he'd ought to just et you up."

"He whined like a puppy, when we left him, for fear we would get lost and he would starve to death. He is yellow."

"His kind always is—way down in their guts. Only no one ever made him show it before."

"How far did we miss the water-hole last night?" asked Endicott, as he and Tex sat talking after the others had sought their blankets.

"About two miles. The wind drifted us to the east. Bat didn't get far 'til his horse went down, so he bled him like we did, and holed up 'til the storm quit. Then, after things cleared up, we got here about the same time. The water ain't much—but it sure did taste good." For a long time the two lay close together looking up at the million winking stars. Tex tossed the butt of a cigarette into the grey dust. "She's a great girl, Win. Game plumb to her boot heels."

"She is, that. I've loved her for a long time—since way back in my college days—but she wouldn't have me."

"You hadn't earnt her. Life's like that—it's ups an' downs. But, in the long run, a man gets about what's comin' to him. It's like poker—in the long run the best player is bound to win. There's times when luck is against him, maybe for months at a stretch. He'll lose every time he plays, but if he stays with it, an' keeps on playin' the best he knows how, an' don't go tryin' to force his luck by drawin' four cards, an' fillin' three-card flushes, why, some day luck will change an' he wins back all he's lost an' a lot more with it, because there's always someone in the game that's throwin' their money away drawin' to a Judson."

"What is a Judson?"

"Bill Judson was a major, an' next to playin' poker, he liked other things. Every time he'd get three cards of a suit in a row, he'd draw to 'em, hopin' for a straight flush. That hope cost him, I reckon, hundreds of dollars, an' at last he filled one—but, hell! Everyone laid down, an' he gathered the ante." The Texan rolled another cigarette. "An' that's the way it is with me—I tried to force my luck. I might as well own up to it right here an' get it over with. You've be'n square, straight through, an' I haven't. I was stringin' you with all that bunk about politics, an' you bein' sure to get hung for shootin' Purdy. Fact is, the grand jury would have turned you loose as soon as your case come up. But, from the first minute I laid eyes on that girl, I wanted her. I'm bad enough, but not like Purdy. I figured if she'd go half-way, I'd go the other half. So I planned the raid on the wool-warehouse, an' the fake lynchin', purpose to get her out of town. I didn't care a damn about you—you was just an excuse to get her away. I figured on losing you after we hit the mountains. The first jolt I got was in the warehouse, when we didn't have to drag you out. Then I got another hell of a one in the coulee under the cottonwoods. Then they got to comin' so thick I lost track of 'em. An' the first thing I knew I would have killed any man that would look crossways at her. It come over me all of a sudden that I loved her. I tried to get out of it, but I was hooked. I watched close, an' I saw that she liked me—maybe not altogether for what she thought I'd done for you. But you was in the road. I knew she liked you, too, though she wouldn't show it. 'Everything's fair in love or war,' I kept sayin' over an' over to myself when I'd lay thinkin' it over of nights. But, I knew it was a damned lie when I was sayin' it. If you'd be'n milk-gutted, an' louse-hearted, like pilgrims are supposed to be, there'd be'n a different story to tell, because you wouldn't have be'n fit for her. But I liked you most as hard as I loved her. 'From now on it's a square game,' I says, so I made Old Man Johnson cough up that outfit of raiment, an' made you shave, so she wouldn't have to take you lookin' like a sheep-herdin' greaser, if she was a-goin' to take you instead of me. After that I come right out an' told her just where I stood, an' from then on I've played the game square. The women ain't divided up right in this world. There ought to have be'n two of her, but they ain't another in the whole world, I reckon, like her; so one of us had to lose. An', now, seein' how I've lied you into all this misery, you ought to just naturally up an' knock hell out of me. We'll still keep the game fair an' square. I'll throw away my gun an' you can sail in as quick as you get your sleeves rolled up. But, I doubt if you can get away with it, at that."

Endicott laughed happily, and in the darkness his hand stole across and gripped the hand of the Texan in a mighty grip: "I wish to God there was some way I could thank you," he said. "Had it not been for you, I never could have won her. Why, man, I never got acquainted with myself until the past three days!"

"There ain't any posses out," grinned Tex. "The fellow I met in the coulee there by Antelope Butte told me. They think you were lynched. He told me somethin' else, too—but that'll keep."

As they were saddling up, the following morning, the Texan grinned: "I'll bet old Long Bill Kearney's in a pleasin' frame of mind."

"He's had time to meditate a little on his sins," answered Alice.

"No—not Long Bill ain't. If he started in meditatin' on them, he'd starve to death before he'd got meditated much past sixteen—an' he's fifty, if he's a day."

"There are four of us and only three horses," exclaimed Endicott, as he tightened his cinch.

"That's all right. The horses are fresh. I'm light built, an' we'll change off makin' 'em carry double. It ain't so far."

The morning sun was high when the horses turned into the coulee that led to Long Bill's ranch. Bat, who had scouted ahead to make sure that he had not succeeded in slipping his bonds and had plotted mischief, sat grinning beside the corral fence as he listened, unobserved, to the whimpering and wailing of the man who lay bound beside the cabin door.

"What's the matter, Willie?" smiled Tex, as he slipped from his seat behind Endicott's saddle. "Didn't your breakfast set right?"

The man rolled to face them at the sound of the voice, and such a stream of obscene blasphemy poured from his lips as to cause even the Texan to wince. Without a word the cowboy reached for a bar of soap that lay awash in the filthy water of a basin upon a bench beside the door, and jammed it down the man's throat. The sounds changed to a sputtering, choking gurgle. "Maybe that'll learn you not to talk vile when there's ladies around."

"Water!" the man managed to gasp.

"Will you quit your damn swearin'?"

Long Bill nodded, and Tex held a dipper to his lips.

"Go catch up the horses, Bat, an' we'll be gettin' out of here. They's some reptiles so mean that even their breath is poison."

As Bat started for the alfalfa field the man fairly writhed with fury: "I'll hev the law on ye, ye—" he stopped abruptly as Tex reached for the soap.

"You won't have the law on no one, you lizard! You don't dare to get within hollerin' distance of the law."

"I will pay you a reasonable amount for any damage to your field, and for the food, and the use of your horses," offered Endicott, reaching for his pocket.

"Keep your money, Win," grinned the Texan. "Let me pay for this. This coyote owes me twenty dollars he borrowed from me when I first hit the country an' didn't know him. He's always be'n anxious to pay it, ain't you, Bill? Well, it's paid now, an' you don't need to go worryin' your heart out about that debt no longer."

Again the man opened his lips, but closed them hurriedly as Tex reached for the soap.

"I'll have to borrow your horse an' saddle for my friend, here," said the Texan, "an' Bat, he'll have to borrow one, too. We'll leave 'em in Timber City."

"Non!" cried the half-breed, who had paused in the process of changing Alice's saddle to her own horse. "Me—I ain' gon' for bor' no hoss. Am tak' dis hoss an' giv' heem back to Judge Carson. Him b'long over on Sage Creek."

"Whad'ye mean, ye red scum!" screamed the man, his face growing purple. "That Circle 12 brand is——"

"Ha! Circle 12! De mos' dat Circle 12 she hair-bran'." He stepped into the cabin and reappeared a moment later with some coal-oil in a cup. This he poured into his hand and rubbed over the brand on the horse's shoulder. And when he had pressed the hair flat, the Circle 12 resolved itself into a V 2.

The Texan laughed: "I suppose I ought to take you into Timber City, but I won't. I imagine, though, when the Judge hears about this, you'd better be hittin' the high spots. He's right ugly with horse thieves."

"Hey, hain't ye goin' to ontie me?" squealed the man, as the four started down the bank with the horses.

"You don't suppose I'd go off an' leave a good rope where you could get your claws on it, do you? Wait 'til we get these horses onto the flat-boat, and all the guns around here collected so you can't peck at us from the brush, an' I'll be back."

"You gon' on to Timbaire City," said Bat, "an' I'm com' long bye-m-bye. A'm tak' dis hoss an' ride back an' git ma saddle an' bridle." He advanced and removed his hat; "Adieu, ma'mselle, mebbe-so I ain' git dere 'til you gon'. Ol' Bat, he lak' you fine. You need de help, som'tam', you mak' de write to ol' Bat an', ba Goss, A'm com' lak' hell—you bet you dam' life!" Tears blinded the girl's eyes as she held out her hand, and as a cavalier of old France, the half-breed bent and brushed it with his lips. He shook the hand of Endicott: "Som'tam' mebbe-so you com' back, we tak' de hont. Me—A'm know where de elk an' de bear liv' plenty." Endicott detected a twinkle in his eye as he turned to ascend the bank: "You mak' Tex ke'p de strong lookout for de posse. A'm no lak' I seen you git hang."

"Beat it! You old reprobate!" called the Texan as he followed him up the slope.

"How'm I goin' to git my boat back?" whined Long Bill, as the Texan coiled his rope.

"Swim acrost. Or, maybe you'd better go 'round—it's some little further that way, but it's safer if you can't swim. I'll leave your guns in the boat. So long, an' be sure to remember not to furget sometime an' pay me back that twenty."

The ride to Timber City was made almost in silence. Only once did the Texan speak. It was when they passed a band of sheep grazing beside the road: "They're minin' the country," he said, thoughtfully. "The time ain't far off when we'll have to turn nester—or move on."

"Where?" asked Alice.

The cowboy shrugged, and the girl detected a note of unconscious sadness in his tone: "I don't know. I reckon there ain't any place for me. The whole country's about wired in."

Timber City, since abandoned to the bats and the coyotes, but then in her glory, consisted of two stores, five saloons, a half-dozen less reputable places of entertainment, a steepleless board church, a schoolhouse, also of boards, a hotel, a post office, a feed stable, fifty or more board shacks of miners, and a few flimsy buildings at the mouths of shafts. It was nearly noon when the three drew up before the hotel.

"Will you dine with us in an hour?" asked Endicott.

The Texan nodded. "Thanks," he said, formally, "I'll be here." And as the two disappeared through the door, he gathered up the reins, crossed to the feed barn where he turned the animals over to the proprietor, and passing on to the rear, proceeded to take a bath in the watering trough.

Punctually on the minute he entered the hotel. The meal was a solemn affair, almost as silent as the ride from the river. Several attempts at conversation fell flat, and the effort was abandoned. At no time, however, did the Texan appear embarrassed, and Alice noted that he handled his knife and fork with the ease of early training.

At the conclusion he arose, abruptly: "I thank you. Will you excuse me, now?"

Alice nodded, and both watched as he crossed the room, his spurs trailing noisily upon the wooden floor.

"Poor devil," said Endicott, "this has hit him pretty hard."

The girl swallowed the rising lump in her throat: "Oh, why can't he meet some nice girl, and——"

"Women—his kind—are mighty scarce out here, I imagine."

The girl placed her elbows upon the table, rested her chin upon her knuckles, and glanced eagerly into Endicott's face:

"Win, you've just got to buy a ranch," she announced, the words fairly tumbling over each other in her excitement. "Then we can come out here part of the time and live, and we can invite a lot of girls out for the summer—I just know oodles of nice girls—and Tex can manage the ranch, and——"

"Match-making already!" laughed Endicott. "Why buy a ranch? Why not move into Wolf River, or Timber City, and start a regular matrimonial agency—satisfaction guaranteed, or your money back. It would be more prac——"

"Winthrop Adams Endicott!"

"Oh, I forgot! I'm not practical. I'm romantic, and red-blooded, and—" they had the little dining-room to themselves; he rose swiftly from his chair and, crossing to her side, stooped and kissed her, not once, but twice, and thrice,—"I'm glad of it! And that reminds me, I have a couple of errands to attend to, so you will have to manage to worry along without me for fifteen minutes or so."

She laughed up into his face: "How can I ever stand it? I've worried along without you all my life. I guess I'll survive."

"You won't have to much longer," he smiled, and hastened from the room. A half-hour later he returned to find her waiting in the hotel "parlour." She saw that his eyes were shining as he crossed eagerly, seated himself upon the haircloth sofa beside her, and whispered in her ear.

"Winthrop! Indeed we won't do anything of the kind! Why it's—it's——"

"It's impractical, and it's romantic," he finished for her. "Also, it's unconventional. Now, refuse if you dare! The stage leaves for Lewiston and the railroad at five. He seems to be a regular chap—the parson. Both he and his wife insisted that the event take place in their house. Said it would be much pleasanter than the hotel—and I heartily agreed with them. We figured that half-past four would give us just about time."

"Well, of all things!" blushed the girl. "You two arranged the whole affair, and of course, as I'm only the bride, it wasn't necessary to consult me at all!"

"Exactly," smiled Endicott; "I'm red-blooded, you know, and romantic—and when I go in for little things like unconventionality, and romance, I go the limit. And you don't dare refuse!"

She looked up into his eyes, shining with boyish enthusiasm: "I don't dare," she whispered. "I don't want to dare. Oh, Win, I—I'm just crazy about it!"

A few moments later she drew away from him and smoothed her hair.

"You must go right this minute and find Tex. And, oh, I hope Bat will be here in time! I just love old Bat!" She ceased speaking and looked questioningly into his eyes which had suddenly become grave.

"I have been looking for Tex, and I couldn't find him anywhere. Then I went to the stable across the street. His horse is gone."

For some moments both were silent. "He never even said good-bye," faltered the girl, and in her voice was a note of real hurt.

"No," answered Endicott, softly, "he should have said good-bye."

Alice rose and put on her hat: "Come on, let's get out of this hateful stuffy little room. Let's walk and enjoy this wonderful air while we can. And besides, we must find some flowers—wild flowers they must be for our wedding, mustn't they, dear? Wild flowers, right from God's own gardens—wild, and free, and uncultivated—untouched by human hands. I saw some lovely ones, blue and white, and some wild-cherry blossoms, too, down beside that little creek that crosses the trail almost at the edge of the town." Together they walked to the creek that burbled over its rocky bed in the shadow of the bull-pine forest from which Timber City derived its name. Deeper and deeper into the pines they went, stopping here and there to gather the tiny white and blue blossoms, or to break the bloom-laden twigs from the low cherry bushes. As they rounded a huge upstanding rock, both paused and involuntarily drew back. There, in the centre of a tiny glade that gave a wide view of the vast sweep of the plains, with their background of distant mountains, stood the Texan, one arm thrown across the neck of his horse, and his cheek resting close against the animal's glossy neck. For a moment they watched as he stood with his eyes fixed on the far horizon.

"Go back a little way," whispered Endicott. "I want to speak with him." The girl obeyed, and he stepped boldly into the open.

"Tex!"

The man whirled. "What you doin' here?" his face flushed red, then, with an effort, he smiled, as his eyes rested upon the blossoms. "Pickin' posies?"

"Yes," answered Endicott, striving to speak lightly, "for a very special occasion. We are to be married at half-past four, and we want you to be there—just you, and Bat, and the parson. I hunted the town for you and when I found your horse gone I—we thought you had ridden away without even saying good-bye."

"No," answered the cowboy slowly, "I didn't do that. I was goin' back—just for a minute—at stage time. But, it's better this way. In rooms—like at dinner, I ain't at home, any more. It's better out here in the open. I won't go to your weddin'. Damn it, man, I can't! I'm more than half-savage, I reckon. By the savage half of me, I ought to kill you. I ought to hate you—but I can't. About a lot of things you're green as hell. You can't shoot, nor ride, nor rope, nor do hardly any other damn thing a man ought to do. But, at that, you whirl a bigger loop than I do. You've got the nerve, an' the head, an' the heart. You're a man. The girl loves you. An' I love her. My God, man! More than all the world, I love the woman who is to be your wife—an' I have no right to! I tell you I'm half-savage! Take her, an' go! Go fast, an' go a long time! I never want to hear of you again. But—I can still say—good luck!" he extended his hand and Endicott seized it.

"I shall be sorry to think that we are never to meet again," he said simply.

The shadow of a smile flickered on the Texan's lips: "After a while, maybe—but not soon. I've got to lick a savage, first—and they die hard."

Endicott turned to go, when the other called to him: "Oh, Win!" He turned. "Is she here—anywhere around? I must tell her good-bye."

"Yes, she is down the creek a way. I'll send her to you."

The Texan advanced to meet her, Stetson in hand: "Good-bye," he said, "an' good luck. I can't give you no regular weddin' present—there's nothin' in the town that's fit. But, I'll give you this—I'll give you your man clean-handed. He ain't wanted. There's no one wants him—but you. He didn't kill Purdy that night. It's too bad he didn't—but he didn't. We all thought he did, but he only creased him. He came to, after we'd pulled out. I heard it from the puncher I had the fight with in the coulee—an' it's straight goods." He paused abruptly, and the girl stared wide-eyed into his face. The wild flowers dropped from her hands, and she laid trembling fingers upon his arm.

"What are you saying?" she cried, fiercely. "That Purdy is not dead? That Win didn't kill him? That——"

"No. Win didn't kill him," interrupted the Texan, with a smile.

"Have you told Win?"

"No. Weddin' presents are for the bride. I saved it for you."

Tears were streaming from the girl's eyes: "It's the most wonderful wedding present anybody ever had," she sobbed. "I know Win did it for me, and if he had killed him it would have been justifiable—right. But, always, we would have had that thing to think of. It would have been like some hideous nightmare. We could have put it away, but it would have come again—always. I pretended I didn't care. I wouldn't let him see that it was worrying me, even more than it worried him."

The cowboy stooped and recovered the flowers from the ground. As Alice took them from him, her hand met his: "Good-bye," she faltered, "and—may God bless you!"

At the rock she turned and saw him still standing, hat in hand, as she had left him. Then she passed around the rock, and down the creek, where her lover waited with his arms laden with blossoms.



AN EPILOGUE

At exactly half-past four the Texan galloped to the door of the Red Front Saloon, and swinging from his horse, entered. Some men were playing cards at a table in the rear, but he paid them no heed. Very deliberately he squared himself to the bar and placed his foot upon the brass rail: "Give me some red liquor," he ordered. And when the bartender set out the bottle and the glass the cowboy poured it full and drank it at a gulp. He poured out another, and then a third, and a fourth. The bartender eyed him narrowly: "Ain't you goin' it a little strong, pardner?" he asked. The Texan stared at him as if he had not heard, and answered nothing. A smile bent the white aproned one's lips as he glanced into his customer's eyes still black from the blow Curt had dealt him in the coulee.

"Them lamps of yourn was turned up too high, wasn't they?" he asked.

The cowboy nodded, thoughtfully: "Yes, that's it. They was turned up too high—a damn sight too high for me, I reckon."

"Git bucked off?"

The blackened eyes narrowed ever so slightly: "No. A guard done that."

"A guard?"

"Yes, a guard." The Texan poured out his fifth drink. "In the pen, it was."

"In the pen!" The bartender was itching with curiosity. "You don't look like a jail-bird. They musta got the wrong guy?" he suggested.

"No. I killed him, all right. I shot his ears off first, an' then plugged him between the eyes before he could draw. It was fun. I can shoot straight as hell—an' quick! See that mouse over by the wall?" Before the words were out of his mouth his Colt roared. The bartender stared wide-eyed at the ragged bit of fur and blood that was plastered against the base-board where a moment before a small mouse had been nibbling a bit of cheese. The men at the card table paused, looked up, and resumed their game.

"Man, that's shootin'!" he exclaimed. "Have one on me! This geezer that you bumped off—self defence, I s'pose?"

"No. He was a bar-keep over on the Marias. He made the mistake of takin' ondue notice of a pair of black eyes I'd got—somehow they looked mirthful to him, an'—" The Texan paused and gazed reproachfully toward a flick of a white apron as the loquacious one disappeared through the back door.

A loud shouting and a rattling of wheels sounded from without. The card game broke up, and the players slouched out the door. Through the window the Texan watched the stage pull up at the hotel, watched the express box swung off, and the barn-dogs change the horses; saw the exchange of pouches at the post office; saw the stage pull out slowly and stop before a little white cottage next door to the steepleless church. Then he reached for the bottle, poured another drink, and drank it very slowly. Through the open door came the far-away rattle of wheels. He tossed some money onto the bar, walked to the door, and stood gazing down the trail toward the cloud of grey dust that grew dimmer and dimmer in the distance. At last, it disappeared altogether, and only the trail remained, winding like a great grey serpent toward the distant black buttes of the Judith Range. He started to re-enter the saloon, paused with his foot on the threshold and stared down the empty trail, then facing abruptly about he swung into the saddle, turned his horse's head northward, and rode slowly out of town. At the little creek he paused and stared into the piney woods. A tiny white flower lay, where it had been dropped in the trail, at the feet of his horse, and he swung low and recovered it. For a long time he sat holding the little blossom in his hand. Gently he drew it across his cheek. He remembered—and the memory hurt—that the last time he had reached from the saddle had been to snatch her handkerchief from the ground, and he had been just the fraction of a second too late.

"My luck's runnin' mighty low," he muttered softly, and threw back his shoulders, as his teeth gritted hard, "but I'm still in the game, an' maybe this will change it." Very carefully, very tenderly, he placed the blossom beneath the band inside his hat. "I must go an' hunt for Bat, the old renegade! If anything's happened to him—if that damned Long Bill has laid for him—I will kill a man, sure enough." He gathered up his reins and rode on up the trail, and as he rode the shadows lengthened. Only once he paused and looked backward at the little ugly white town. Before him the trail dipped into a wide valley and he rode on. And, as the feet of his horse thudded softly in the grey dust of the trail, the sound blended with the low, wailing chant of the mournful dirge of the plains:

"O bury me not on the lone prairie Where the wild coyotes will howl o'er me, Where the rattlesnakes hiss and the crow flies free, O bury me not on the lone prairie."

THE END