"You done it good, Minky," he said amiably.

"Ther'll be sixty thousand dollars," the storekeeper mumbled doubtfully.

"Good."

"Good?"

"Sure." Bill turned and gazed out of the window. "It needs to be a big pile. Makes things surer."

"Surer? I don't get you."

"No; that's so." The gambler turned back to the other abruptly. "Say, you get busy an' gas. Gas till you got the camp yappin' like coyotes. Tell 'em the stage is sure carryin' sixty thousand dollars' worth o' good red gold." Then his manner suddenly changed and he laughed. "Say, I'm jest goin' out to get a peek at my claim. I sure guess I bought a dandy rich claim o' Zip."

"You orter know," said Minky, with a shake of the head. "I sure don't seem to understand—"

"Course you don't," cried Bill, with strange good-nature. Then his eyes became curiously reflective. "Wher's Zip?"

"Zip? Guess he's around with the kids. Y'see, the Bird's helpin' him fix things. Maybe they're back in the dinin'-room."

Bill stood for a moment in deep thought. Then he turned suddenly, and his fierce little eyes fixed themselves on his friend's face.

"Them kids," he said sharply. "Maybe I'll get you to kep 'em safe right here fer three days an' more. After that we'll see." Then in a moment his expression lightened and he laughed. "Guess I'll get Zip to come along an' show me the claim."

* * * * *

Half-an-hour later the gambler was striding down the river bank, with Scipio hurrying along at his side. Several times the little man had endeavored to engage his companion in amiable conversation. He wanted to talk about the episode at the river, but Bill would have none of it. Nor was it until he was nearly half-way to their destination, where Sandy Joyce was already at work, that he broke the silence in which he had wrapped himself.

They had just emerged from a narrow cattle-track where they had been forced to walk in single file on account of the bush which grew in such abundance on either side of it. Bill was leading, and as the path widened into a clearing, in which lay several fallen trees rooted out of the ground by some long-passed flood of the creek, he suddenly turned about and faced his diminutive friend.

"Here," he said, "we'll set here a piece. Guess we need to talk some." He glanced quickly about, and finally flung himself upon the nearest tree-trunk. "Set," he cried, pointing at another trunk lying opposite to him.

Scipio wonderingly complied. He stood in considerable awe of the gambler, and now he was ransacking his brain to discover the object of this desire for a talk. He could find no adequate reason, except it might be that Bill was repenting of his bargain in purchasing a half-share in his claim. Yes, it might be that. It probably was that. He had no doubt bought on inaccurate information. Scipio knew how misleading and how wild many of the reports which flew about Suffering Creek were. Besides, he was certain that Bill's information about his claim, wherever he had got it from, was inaccurate. Yes, no doubt this was what he wanted to talk about, and the honest-minded man promptly decided that the gambler should have no cause to blame him. He need have no doubts. He would by no means hold him to the bargain. He would return the money—

Suddenly he remembered. He had already spent five dollars of it, and he went hot and cold at the thought. He had nothing with which to replace it.

However, he took no further thought, and, as Bill still remained silent, he plunged into the matter at once.

"I got most all the money with me," he began, in his vague way expecting the other to understand his meaning. "That is, all but fi' dollars. Y'see, the kids needed—"

Bill's sharp eyes reached his face with a jump.

"Wot in the name o' blazes—" he cried.

But Scipio did not let him continue.

"I knew ther' wa'n't no gold showin' on my claim," he hurriedly explained. "So I'll jest hand you back your dollars."

"Square-toed mackinaw!" the gambler cried, his face scarlet. Then he broke out into one of his harsh laughs. "Say," he went on, with pretended severity, "you can't squeal that way. I'm in ha'f your claim, an' I ain't lettin' up my holt on it fer—fer nobody an' nuthin'. Get that right here. You can't bluff me."

Scipio flushed. He somehow felt very small. The last thing he wanted Bill to think was that he was trying to do him an injury.

"I'm sorry," he said helplessly. "Y'see, I thought, you needing to talk to me so bad, you wanted, maybe, to quit my claim."

He turned away, gazing down the wood-lined river. Somehow he could not face the gambler's stern eyes. Had he seen the sudden softening in them the moment the other was sure he was unobserved, he might have been less troubled. But the gambler had no soft side when men's eyes were upon him.

"'Tain't about your claim I need to talk," Bill said, after a brief pause. His voice was less harsh, and there was an unusual thoughtfulness in its tone. "It's—it's—Say, Zip, I ain't fergot our talk out there on the trail." He nodded his head out in the direction of Spawn City. "You mind that talk when you was puttin' up that fool proposition o' handin' James that kid?"

Scipio's eyes had come back to his companion, and their expression had suddenly dropped to one of hopeless regret. His heart was stirred to its depths by the reference to the past trouble which lay like a cankerous sore so deep down in it.

He nodded. But otherwise he had no words.

"You're needin' your wife?" Bill went on brusquely.

Again Scipio nodded. But this time words came, too.

"But you was right," he said. "I saw it all after. I was plumb wrong. An'—an' I ain't holding you to—what you said. You jest wanted to put me right. I understood that—after."

Bill stirred uneasily, and kicked a protruding limb of the tree on which he sat.

"You're a heap ready to let me out," he cried, with a return to his harshest manner. "Who in blazes are you to say I don't need to do the—things I said I'd do? Jest wait till you're ast to." He turned away, and Scipio was left troubled and wondering.

But suddenly the lean body swung round again, and the little prospector felt the burning intensity of the man's eyes as they concentrated on his flushing face.

"You're needin' your wife?" he jerked out.

"More'n all the world," the little man cried, with emotion.

"Would you put up a—a scrap fer her?"

"With anybody."

The corners of Bill's mouth wrinkled, but his eyes remained hard and commanding. Whatever feelings of an appreciative nature lay behind his lean face they were well hidden.

"You'd face James an' all his gang—again? You'd face him if it sure meant—death?"

"The chance o' death wouldn't stop me if I could get her back."

The quiet of the little man's tone carried a conviction far greater than any outburst could have done.

"An' she's been—his?"

Scipio took a deep breath. His hands clenched. Just for a moment the whites of his eyes became bloodshot with some rush of tremendous feeling. It seemed as though he were about to break out into verbal expression of his agony of heart. But when he finally did speak it was in the same even tone, though his breath came hard and deep.

"I want her—whatever she is," he said quietly.

Bill rose to his feet, and a passionate light shone in his sparkling eyes.

"Then take Minky's mule an' buckboard. Start right out fer James' ranch before sun-up Wednesday mornin', an'—you'll sure get her. Come on."

Scipio sprang to his feet, and a dozen hot questions leapt to his mind. An ocean of gratitude was struggling to pour from his inadequate tongue, but Bill would have none of it. He waved him aside and set off for their destination, and the other could only follow. But at the farther edge of the clearing again the gambler paused. This time a sudden thought had changed his plans. He turned abruptly, and without one particle of softening in his manner he ordered him back.

"Say," he cried, "ther' ain't no use fer you to get around further. You ken jest light back to the store, an' see to them kids. Don't you never let 'em out o' your sight till Wednesday come. Then hit out fer James' ranch."

When Wild Bill eventually reached the claim, he found Sandy sitting on an upturned bucket amidst the most deplorable surroundings in which a gold prospector in quest of the precious metal could ever hope to find himself.

The creek bank was some two hundred yards away, with a pronounced rising ground between him and it. Behind him was a great cut-faced rock of ironstone that certainly looked auriferous. The base of it lay in a definite hollow, reed-grown and oozy. Beyond him, to the right, following the river bank, the ground declined gradually towards a black-looking, turgid and overgrown swamp. While, from the direction in which the gambler approached, a low, dense, thorny bush grew, made up of branches almost skeleton in their lack of leaves. It was a forlorn and uninviting spot, calculated to dishearten anybody with a heart less big and an enthusiasm less vital than Scipio's.

Bill stood for a moment surveying the scene before Sandy realized his presence. And that first glance set him snorting contemptuously.

"Well, say—" he began. But words failed him, and he hurried across to his "hired" man.

Sandy jumped up as he came near, and before the other could stop him had poured out his opinion of things in general, and that claim in particular, in a few well-chosen and effective words.

"Say, Zip orter sure be shot or hanged," he cried angrily, "an' this doggone claim o' mud needs to be boosted through a dogasted volcany an' blowed out the other side o' no sort o' place at all. Ther' sure ain't nuthin' worse in the world than the foolishness of a tow-headed fool."

But Bill ignored the outburst.

"How much gold you found?" he inquired coldly.

Sandy's indignant eyes blazed.

"Gold? Pea-shucks!" he roared, with a furious oath. "An' I tell you right here I ain't to be made no fool of. You ken take this mule-headed job an'—an'—well, you ken take it. I quit right here."

But again Bill ignored his outburst. There was not a vestige of expression in his face as he moved across to the mouth of a shaft Scipio had been sinking before his work had been interrupted by the going of his wife. He looked into it and pointed.

"Guess you best get right on makin' this hole deeper. Ther' ain't nuthin' like diggin' to find out. Zip's sure a wise guy. I don't guess I know what you'll likely find—but—you best kep diggin'. That's sure his notion."

Sandy went purple in the face, and spluttered violently in his attempt to speak. Finally, when he did get his words out, it was only to repeat his decision.

"It's jest a mud swamp," he cried, "an' I quit."

Bill turned swiftly. His movements were almost cat-like as he came up and peered into Sandy's face.

"You'll kep right on diggin' that hole," he said, with an icy threat. "An' come Wednesday you'll quit diggin' an' hit the trail on Zip's track—you an' Sunny an' Toby—an' you'll sure see no harm comes to him. But he ain't to see you, nor to know you're chasin' him. An' you ain't to stop him, no matter what fool trick he gets playin'. Get me?"

Sandy's choler died out before the other's purpose. He suddenly realized that his work on the claim was not of any great consequence to his employer, that Bill had other thoughts, other schemes in his head, and that he, Sandy, was to have his place in them. He nodded.

"I get you," he said. "But—"

"Ther' ain't no 'buts,'" interrupted Bill. "You're goin' to do as I sez. Meanwhiles you're goin' right on diggin' that hole, to earn your dollars."

And without another word he turned and hurried away towards the mouth of the trail whence he had appeared.



CHAPTER XXVII

SUSPENSE

It was nearly sundown. A chilly mist was stealing down the slopes of the surrounding hills. It densified to a ruddy fog as it caught the glow of the evening sun, and finally settled upon the valley. And with each passing moment the hills seemed to recede, their outlines to grow more indistinct and ghostly. And gradually the whole prospect took on the depressing aspect of a day dying wearily.

Had Jessie been less preoccupied as she stood at the door of the ranch-house she might have felt something of all this. But she heeded nothing of the hour, and saw nothing of the picture before her. Her eyes only visualized the scenes that a world of troubled and apprehensive thought yielded her. Her mind and heart were full of a great terror, a terror which left her helpless and dazed.

She stirred restlessly. Time and again she changed her position. Now she was leaning against one casing of the doorway, now against the other. A nervous glance over her shoulder, as some sound in the darkness of the room behind her set her shivering, told of the state of her nerves, as also, with ears ever on the alert, her fearful glances at a definite spot in the rapidly dimming hills told of a straining, harassed expectancy. Her nerves were almost at breaking-point. Her handsome face was drawn and haggard. All the youthful freshness seemed to have vanished from it forever, leaving her radiant eyes shadowed and hopeless. It was a painful change. But the outward and visible signs were nothing to the changes that had taken place within her.

Thirty yards away a decrepit choreman was making pretense of some work upon a corral fence. But it was only pretense. His real occupation was espionage. His red-rimmed eyes never for a moment lost sight of his master's woman when she showed herself in the open. A curious-looking dog of immense proportions, half mastiff, half Newfoundland, squatted on its haunches at his side, alternating his green-eyed attention between a watchful regard for the hand that fed and thrashed it and the woman at the doorway. There was not much to choose between the faces of these wardens of the ranch. Both were cruel, both were intensely vicious. In neither pair of eyes was there any friendliness for the woman. And it needed little imagination to understand that both possessed to the full all the instincts of the savage watch-dog.

But Jessie had no thought for either. Her own terrible thoughts and feelings held her. It is doubtful if she was even aware of their presence at all. Just now one thought stood out dominant in her mind. She was expecting the return of—James. And the return of James meant—She shuddered.

He was returning from his expedition in the neighborhood of Suffering Creek, and this knowledge brought with it the remembrance that his object was to give her possession of at least one of her children. Distracted as she was with her mother's desire for possession of her offspring, although the man was now only obeying her expressed wishes, she dreaded the child's coming almost as much as she dreaded her lover's return. The thought of seeing Vada in this man's arms maddened her to such a degree that she was well-nigh beside herself.

For two whole days now had she brooded under a cloud of despair. She had scarcely stirred out of her room; she had eaten scarcely enough to sustain life. She had shut herself up, a prey to harrowing remorse and terror—a remorse which she knew to be as useless as her terror was nerve-racking. Her awakening had come, sudden, awful. And, like all such awakenings, it had come too late, so that the horror of her future was written in letters of fire before her mental eyes, a fire which burnt into her broken heart and left her in the depths of an unutterable despair.

It was on the morning of her lover's departure for the region of Suffering Creek that the awakening had come. It had come with an overwhelming rush of horror which, in the midst of her dressing, had sent her reeling and fainting upon the bed from which she had only just risen, and where for two hours she had subsequently lain in a state of collapse.

She was brushing her hair, her mind busy with the pleasant thought that shortly she was to have one of her children with her again. She knew that her appeal to her husband had failed, but James had sworn to keep his promise, and now he was setting out for that expressed purpose. And such was her foolish woman's blind faith that she had no doubts. When he returned he was to bring, at least, little Vada with him. The fresh mountain air was doubly pleasant to her that morning. The brilliant sunlight raised her spirits. All qualms of conscience were thrust into the background, and she was as nearly happy as earthly interest could make her.

She could see the crowded corrals from where she stood. She could hear the bellowing of the restless cattle as they pushed and horned each other in their forceful, bovine desire to get out to the succulent grass of their beloved pastures. All the men were astir, preparing for their lawless expedition. The saddle-horses, ready for the trail, were hitched to the corral fences. Through the open window she could hear her lover ordering and hectoring, as was his way of dealing with the ruffians who served under his leadership; and a thrill of excitement, a subtle sympathy, stirred her. She moved to the window, leaving her beautiful hair flowing in the bright air, and stood watching for the departure.

Then came that hideous thing which was to shadow all her future life. It came almost without warning. In a flash, it seemed, the last tinge of romance was swept from her thoughts, and the hideous skeleton of reality was laid bare.

The men had tightened up the cinchas of their saddles, and passed the reins over their horses' heads, ready to mount. She watched them all with something very like admiration in her blinded eyes. Their hard, desperate faces did not appear so to her. These things, in her foolish mind, were the hall-mark of reckless courage, of strong, virile manhood. They were men who feared nothing, who cared no more for their own lives than they would care for the life of an enemy. And somehow this seemed to her just as it should be.

She waited to see them mount their raw-boned bronchos. But somehow there was a delay; and in this delay a change came over the scene. The men drifted away from their horses and gathered into groups. They stood whispering together with faces averted from their leader. A feeling of apprehension somehow caught hold of her. She did not understand why, but she felt that all was not right. She turned to James, and saw that he was moving round his horse all unconcernedly, and she wondered if he were aware of the change in his men.

But all further speculation was abruptly checked, for at that moment she heard the leader issue one of his sharp orders. She did not quite catch his words, but she noticed that no one moved or attempted to comply. Only talk ceased instantly. Then she saw the handsome face of her lover flush, as he glanced about him at this unusual phenomenon, and in a moment she recognized the sudden savage anger that flashed into his eyes. Simultaneously his hand dropped to the butt of one of his guns.

Then she heard his words, as they were shouted to the accompaniment of a string of vicious oaths.

"Ho, you, Ned, an' you, too, Sully!" he cried fiercely, "get your ears flappin'. Huyk that rotten skunk Conroy out. I ain't tellin' you again."

The woman had thrilled at his words. There was such command, such fearlessness in them, in his whole poise. She felt, too, that there was trouble looming. There was rebellion in the air. Her excitement rose, and her sympathies were all for this one man.

The two men indicated suddenly bestirred themselves, and moved off under their leader's eye. The rest drifted together—eight of them, she found herself counting. And as they drew together a murmur arose.

Instantly James' gun flew from its holster; and he stood, the personification of cold authority.

"Another word an' I empty this into your lousy hides!" she heard him cry. And instantly the murmur died out.

But the threatening weapon did not return to its holster. James stood there waiting. And presently she beheld the two men he had despatched returning, bringing in their custody, tottering awkwardly between them, the man Abe Conroy, with his arms tightly fastened behind his back, and a pair of horse-hobbles securing his ankles. They came slowly, for the hobbles allowed but little play, and halted less than five yards away from their leader.

As they paused the woman shivered. Some premonition of what was about to happen got hold of her, and struck terror to her heart. She stood staring now, unable to move. A hideous fascination seemed to paralyze her.

The next thing that reached her comprehension was that James was speaking in a harsh metallic voice. She had never heard him speak like that before, and her fears swiftly increased as his words floated in through the open window.

"Now, you skunk," he was saying, "you guess you're man enough to run this lay-out. You guess you're a bigger man than me. You guess you got me squealin' around like a suckin' kid. You! An' I took you out o' jail, wher' they was goin' to set you swingin'. Gee! I could tell you a heap, but I ain't no time talkin' to bastards of your kidney. Swingin's too good fer sech as you. Anyway, when I got work to do I do it myself. Here, you, Ned, an' you, Sully, stand aside!"

She saw the two men withdraw. She wanted to scream, without quite knowing why. But no sound came. Her eyes were starting out of her head with the horror of what she knew to be about to happen. But she had no power to stir hand or foot.

She saw James move forward. She saw the bloodless, horror-stricken face of the prisoner. She saw him stumble as he attempted to move away. There was no escape.

James moved forward with body crouching, and strides that covered the intervening space with almost feline stealth.

He came right up to the man, his gun leading. She heard a report and one dreadful cry of terror and pain. She saw Conroy crumple and fall writhing upon the ground. She saw the blood streaming from his stomach. Then the further horror came to her staring eyes as she saw James stand over his victim and fire shot after shot into the hideous, writhing heap.

But the limit was reached. With one wild scream she turned away and flung herself upon her bed; and the next moment everything mercifully became a blank to her.

That was on the Sunday morning. She saw nothing of what followed. She knew nothing until she awoke some two hours later to the haunting vision of the scene she had witnessed. And ever since it had clung to her—clung like an obsession, a mental parasite sapping her nerve, her very reason. Nor had she power to disassociate herself from it.

And now she was waiting in an agony of mind for the murderer's return. Not only was she waiting for his return, but she expected to see him bearing in his arms one of her own innocent children. The thought of little Vada in his arms drove her frantic. Her innocent little Vada in the arms of this cold-blooded assassin!

She knew him now for all he was. The scales had fallen from her foolish eyes. All the romance of his hideous calling had passed in a flash, and she saw it as it was. She had no words to express her feelings of horror and revolting. In her weakness and wickedness she had torn herself out of the life of a good man to fling herself upon the bosom of this black-hearted villain. She loathed him; she loathed his very name. But more than all else she loathed herself. Her punishment was terrible. She was so helpless, so powerless. She knew it, and the knowledge paralyzed her thought. What could she do? She knew she was watched, and any move to get away would be at once frustrated. She could do nothing—nothing.

No longer able to remain in her room, she had come out to breathe air which she vainly hoped was less contaminated with the crimes of the man whose home she had elected to share. But inside or out it made no difference. The haunting was not of the place. It was in her mind; it had enveloped her whole consciousness.

But through it all there was one longing, one yearning for all that she had lost, all she had wantonly thrown away. Suffering Creek, with its poverty-stricken home on the dumps, suggested paradise to her now. She yearned as only a mother can yearn for the warm caresses of her children. She longed for the honest love of the little man whom, in the days of her arrogant womanhood, she had so mercilessly despised. All his patient kindliness came back to her now. All his tremendous, if misdirected, effort on her behalf, his never-failing loyalty and courage, were things which to her, in her misery, were the most blessed of all blessings. She wanted home—home. And in that one bitter cry of her heart was expressed the awakening of her real womanhood.

But it had come too late—too late. There was no home now for her but the home of this man. There was no husband for her, only the illicit love of this man. Her children—she could only obtain them by a theft. And as this last thought came to her she remembered who it was who must commit the theft.

The thought brought a fresh terror. How would he accomplish his end? Had not Scipio tacitly refused to yield up her children? Then how—how? She shivered. She knew the means James would readily, probably only too gladly, adopt. Her husband, the little harmless man who had always loved her, would be swept aside like anyone else who stood in the way. James would shoot him down as he had shot Conroy down; even, she fancied, he would shoot him down for the wanton amusement of destroying his life.

Oh no, no! It was too horrible. He was her husband, the first man she had ever cared for. She thought of all they had been to each other. Her mind sped swiftly over past scenes which had so long been forgotten. She remembered his gentleness, his kindly thought for her, his self-effacement where her personal comforts were in question, his devotion both to herself and her children. Every detail of their disastrous married life sped swiftly before her straining mental vision, leaving the man standing out something greater than a hero to her yearning heart. And she had flung it all away in a moment of passion. She had blinded herself in the arrogance of her woman's vanity. Gone, gone. And now she was the mistress of a common assassin.

So she lashed herself with the torture of repentance and regret as the darkness fell. She did not stir from her post. The damp of the mist was unnoticed, the chill of the air. She was waiting for that return which was to claim her to an earthly hell, than which she could conceive no greater—waiting like the condemned prisoner, numb, helpless, fearful lest the end should come unobserved.

The ranch wardens waited, too. The man cursed his charge with all the hatred of an evil nature, as the damp penetrated to his mean bones. The dog, too, grew restless, but where his master was, there was his place. He had long since learned that—to his cost.

The night crept on, and there was no change in the position, except that the man sought the sheltering doorway of one of the barns, and covered his damp shirt with a jacket. But the woman did not move. She was beyond all conception of time. She was beyond any thought of personal comfort or fatigue. All she knew was that she must wait—wait for the coming of her now hated lover, that at least she might snatch her child from his contaminating arms. And after that—well, after that—She had no power to think of the afterwards.

The moon rose amidst the obscurity of the fog. It mounted, and at last reached a height where its silvery light could no longer be denied by the low-lying mists. But its reign was brief. Its cold splendor rapidly began to shrink before the pink dawn, and in less than two hours it was but a dim white circle set in the azure of the new-born day.

Still the woman remained at her post, her dark eyes straining with her vigil. She was drenched to the skin with the night-mists, but the chill of her body was nothing to the chill of her heart. The spy was still at his post in the barn doorway, but he was slumbering, as was his canine servitor, lying curled up at his feet. The sun rose, the mists cleared. And now the warming of day stirred the cattle in the corrals.

Suddenly the waiting woman started. Her attention had never once relaxed. She moved out with stiffened joints, and, shading her eyes with her hand, stared into the gleaming sunlight. Her ears had caught the distant thud of horses' hoofs, and now her eyes confirmed. Away down the valley she could see the dim outline of a number of horsemen riding towards the ranch.

Her heart began to thump in her bosom, and her limbs quaked under her. What could she do? What must she do? Every thought, every idea that her long vigil had suggested was swept from her mind. A blank helplessness held her in its grip. She could only wait for what was to come.

The pounding of hoofs grew louder, the figures grew bigger. They were riding out of the sun, and her eyes were almost blinded as she looked for that which she trembled to behold. She could not be certain of anything yet, except that the return of her lover was at hand.

Nearer, nearer they came. Nearer, nearer still. Then suddenly a sharp exclamation broke from the watcher. It was a cry which had in it a strange thrill. It might have been the gasp of the condemned man at the sound of the word "reprieve." It might have been the cry of one momentarily relieved from years of suffering.

She could see them plainly. For now the figures were no longer silhouetted against the sun. They had changed their course as they neared the ranch, and the rising sun was well clear. She could even recognize them by their horses. She counted. There were ten of them. One was missing. Who? But her interest was only momentary. She recognized the leader, and after that nothing else concerned her.

She could not mistake him. He sat his dark brown horse differently to anybody else. He looked to be part of it. But there was no admiration in her eyes. And yet there was an expression in them that had not been in them since his departure. There was hope in her eyes, and something akin to joy in her whole attitude. James was riding empty-handed!

Hence her cry. But now she glanced swiftly at each horseman, to be sure that they, too, were empty-handed. Yes, each man was riding with the loose swinging arms of the prairie man. And with a sigh that contained in it every expression of an unbounded relief she turned and vanished into the house. For the time, at least, Vada was safe.



CHAPTER XXVIII

JAMES

James clattered into the empty sitting-room and stared about him. His dark face was flushed with excitement. The savage in him was stirred to its best mood, but it was still the savage. He grinned as he realized that the room was empty, and it was a grin of amusement. Some thought in his mind gave him satisfaction, in spite of the fact that there was no one to greet him.

The grin passed and left him serious. Even his excitement had abated. He had remembered Jessie's scream at the scene she must have witnessed. He remembered that he had left her fainting. With another quick glance round he stood and called—

"Ho, you! Jess!"

There was no answer; and he called again, this time his handsome face darkening. He had seen her from a distance outside the house, so there was no doubt of her being about.

Still he received no answer.

An oath followed. But just as he was about to call again he heard the sound of a skirt beyond the inner door. Instantly he checked his impulse, and where before his swift-rising anger had shone in his eyes a smile now greeted Jessie as she opened the door and entered the room.

For a moment no verbal greeting passed between them. The man was taking in every detail of her face and figure, much as a connoisseur may note the points of some precious purchase he is about to make, or a glutton may contemplate a favorite dish. He saw nothing in her face of the effects of the strain through which she had passed. To him her eyes were the same wonderful, passionate depths that had first drawn his reckless manhood to flout every risk in hunting his quarry down. Her lips were the same rich, moist, enticing lips he had pressed to his in those past moments of passion. The rounded body was unchanged. Yes, she was very desirable.

But he was too sure of his ground to notice that there was no responsive admiration in the woman's eyes. And perhaps it was as well. She was looking at him with eyes wide open to what he really was, and all the revolting of her nature was uppermost. She loathed him as she might some venomous reptile. She loathed him and feared him. His body might have been the body of an Apollo, his face the most perfect of God's creations. She knew him now for the cold-blooded murderer he was, and so she loathed and feared him.

There were stains upon his cotton shirt-sleeves, upon the bosom of it showing between the fronts of his unbuttoned waistcoat. There were stains upon his white moleskin trousers.

"Blood," she said, pointing. And something of her feelings must have been plain to any but his infatuated ears.

He laughed. It was a cruel laugh.

"Sure," he cried. "It was a great scrap. We took nigh a hundred head of Sid Morton's cattle and burnt him out."

"And the blood?"

"Guess it must be his, or—Luke Tedby's." His face suddenly darkened. "That mutton-headed gambler over on Suffering Creek did him up. I had to carry him to shelter—after he got away."

But Jessie paid little attention. She was following up her own thought.

"It isn't—Conroy's?"

James' eyes grew cold.

"That seems to worry you some," he cried coldly. Then he put the thing aside with a laugh. "You'll get used to that sort of talk after you've been here awhile. Say, Jes—"

"I can never get used to—murder."

The woman's eyes were alight with a somber fire. She had no idea of whither her words and feelings were carrying her. All her best feelings were up in arms, and she, too, was touched now with the reckless spirit which drove these people. There was no hope for her future. There was no hope whithersoever she looked. And now that she had seen her children were still safe from the life she had flung herself into, she cared very little what happened to her.

But the cruel despot, to whom life and death were of no account whatsoever, was not likely to deal tenderly long with the woman he desired did she prove anything but amenable. Now her words stung him as they were meant to sting, and his mouth hardened.

"You're talking foolish," he cried in that coldly metallic way she had heard him use before. "Conroy got all he needed. Maybe he deserved more. Anyhow, ther's only one man running this lay-out, and I'm surely that man. Say—" again he changed. This time it was a change back to something of the lover she knew, and at once he became even more hateful to her—"things missed fire at—the Creek. I didn't get hands on your kids. I—"

"I'm glad." Jessie could have shouted aloud her joy, but the man's look of surprise brought caution, and she qualified her words. "No; we'd best leave them, after all," she said. "You see, these men—"

She looked fearlessly into his face. She was acting as only a woman can act when the object of her affections is threatened.

And her lover warmed all unsuspiciously. It would have been better for her had she only realized her power over him. But she was not clever. She was not even brave.

James nodded.

"Sure," he said; and with that monosyllable dismissed the subject from his mind for matters that gave him savage delight. "Say, we've had a good round-up," he went on—"a dandy haul. But we're going to do better—Oh yes, much better." Then his smile died out. He had almost forgotten the woman in the contemplation of what he had in his mind. This man was wedded to his villainies. They came before all else. Jessie was his; he was sure of her. She was his possession, and he took her for granted now. The excitement of his trade had once again become paramount.

"Guess Sufferin' Creek has gone plumb crazy," he went on delightedly. "I've had boys around to keep me posted. They been spotting things. Old Minky has been sittin' so tight I guessed I'd have to raid the store for his gold; an' now they've opened out. That buzzy-headed old fool's goin' to send out a stage loaded down with dust. It starts Wednesday morning, an' he guesses it's to win through to Spawn City. Gee! An' they're shoutin' about it. Say, Jess, they say it's to carry sixty thousand dollars. Well, it won't carry it far. That's why I'm back here now. That's why I quit worrying with your kids when Wild Bill did up Luke. We hustled home to change our plugs, an' are hittin' the trail again right away. Sixty thousand dollars! Gee! what a haul! Say, when I've taken that"—he moved a step nearer and dropped his voice—"we're goin' to clear out of this—you an' me. Those guys out there ain't never going to touch a cent. You leave that to me. We'll hit for New Mexico, and to hell with the north country. Say, Jess, ain't that fine? Fine?" he went on, with a laugh. "It's fine as you are."

She had no answer for him. And he went on quite heedlessly, lost in admiration of his own scheme, and joy at the prospect.

"We'll settle down to an elegant little ranch, most respectable like. You can go to church. Ha, ha! Yes, you can go to church all reg'lar. You can make clothes fer the poor, an' go to sociables an' things. An' meanwhiles I can slip across the border and gather up a few things—just to keep my hand in—"

"What time are we gettin' out?"

James swung round with the alertness of a panther. One of the men was standing in the doorway, a burly ruffian whose face was turned to his leader, but whose cruel eyes were rudely fixed on the woman.

"In ha'f-an-hour," cried James, with a swift return to his harsh command. "Tell the boys to vittle for three days an' roll a blanket. We'll need 'em fer sleep. An', say," he cried, with sudden threat, "don't you git around here again till I call you. Get me?"

There was no mistaking his anger at the interruption. There was no mistaking his meaning. The man slunk away. But as James turned back to the woman his previous lightness had gone, and his ill-humor found savage expression.

"There's someone else needing a lesson besides Conroy," he snarled.

Jessie shivered.

"He didn't mean harm," she protested weakly.

"Harm? Harm? He was staring at you. You ain't fer sech scum as him to stare at. I'll have to teach him."

The man was lashing himself to that merciless fury Jessie had once before witnessed, and now she foolishly strove to appease him. She laughed. It was a forced laugh, but it served her purpose, for the man's brow cleared instantly, and his thoughts diverted to a full realization of her presence, and all she meant to him.

"You can laugh," he said, his eyes darkening with sudden lustful passion. "But I can't have folks—starin' at you. Say, Jess, you don't know, you can't think, how I feel about you. You're jest mine—mine." His teeth clipped together with the force of his emotion. The brute in him urged him as madly in his desire as it did in his harsher tempers. "I just don't care for nothing else but you. An'—I got you now. Here, you haven't kissed me since I came back. I'd forgot, thinking of that sixty thousand of gold-dust. I'm off again in ha'f-an-hour—an' I won't be back for three days. Here—"

His arms were held out and he drew nearer. But now the woman drew back in unmistakable horror.

"Say," he cried in a voice still passionate, yet half angry, "you don't need to get away. Ther's a wall back of you." Then, as she still shrank back, and he saw the obvious terror in her eyes, his swift-changing mood lost its warmth of passion and left it only angry. "Ther's three other walls an' a door to this room, an' I can easy shut the door."

He reached out and caught her by one arm. He swung her to him as though she were a child. There was no escape. She struggled to free herself, but her strength was as the strength of a babe to his, and in a moment she was caught in his arms and hugged to his breast. She writhed to free herself, but her efforts made no impression. And, having possession of her, the man laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh. He looked down at her. Her head was thrown back to avoid him. His hot eyes grinned tantalizingly into her face.

"It's no use," he said. "You got to kiss me. You're mine. No, no, don't you bother to kick any. You can't get away. Now, Jess, kiss me. Kiss me good—good an' plenty." His arms crushed her closer. "What, you won't? You won't kiss me? Ha, ha! Maybe that's why you ran back into the house when I come along. Maybe that's why you wouldn't answer when I called. What's come to you?"

He held her, waiting for a reply. But the woman was beyond speech in her horror and rage. She was no longer terrified. She was beside herself with fury and revolting. She hated the crushing arms about her—the arms of a murderer. That one word stood out in her mind, maddening her. She would not kiss him. She could not. She gasped and struggled. She wanted to shriek for help, but that, she knew, was useless.

"Let me go!" she cried, her voice hoarse with a fury equal to anything he was capable of.

But she only held her the tighter; he only grinned the more. He, too, was furious. He, too, meant to have his way. He was determined she should submit.

Submission, however, was the farthest from her thoughts. He bent his head forward. It came nearer to her up-thrown chin.

"Let me go! Let me go, you—you—murderer!"

It was out. She had no longer any power of restraint. And as the word hissed upon the air the man's whole body seemed to suddenly stiffen. His arms tightened, and she felt her ribs bend under their terrific pressure.

"Murderer, eh?" she heard him cry, with an oath. "Murderer, eh? Now you shall kiss me. Kiss me, you wild-cat—kiss me!"

As he spoke one hand was lifted to the back of her head. He pressed it forward, and she was forced slowly, slowly, fighting every inch of the way to keep her face out of reach of his lips. His face drew nearer hers. She felt his hot breath upon her cheeks. She shut her eyes to keep the sight of his hated, terrifying eyes out, but ever his lips came nearer.

"What's come over you, you little fool?" he cried fiercely. "What is it? Now, by hell! whatever it is, you shall—you shall kiss me."

With a sudden exertion of his great strength he crushed her face to his, and the next instant flung her from him with a fierce cry of pain and rage.

"You—!" he shouted, as she fell in a heap against the wall.

The blood was streaming from his cheek where her strong teeth had bitten deep into the flesh. His hand went up to the mauled flesh, and murder glared out of his eyes as he contemplated her huddled figure lying motionless where he had flung her. And for one second it looked as though he intended to complete the work he had begun, and kill her where she lay, in the same manner in which he had treated the luckless Conroy.

He stared insanely at her for some moments. Then a change came over him, and he turned to the door.

"When I come back, my girl! When I come back!" he muttered threateningly.

At the door he paused and looked back. But his look was mercifully hidden from his victim by unconsciousness.



CHAPTER XXIX

THE GOLD-STAGE

Two days of excitement were quite sufficient to upset the nerves of Suffering Creek. The only excitement it was used to was the sudden discovery of an extra good find of gold. The camp understood that. It was like an inspiration to the creative worker. It stimulated the energies, it uplifted. Any other sort of excitement had a paralyzing effect. And thus the excitement of the present Sunday and Monday entirely upset the rest of the week's work.

Everybody felt that the happenings of those days were merely the forerunners of something yet to come, of something even more startling. And the restlessness of uncertainty as to its nature kept the population hanging about the camp, fearful that, in their absence, things might occur, and they would miss participation in them.

The inhabitants of Suffering Creek were a virile race, strongly human, full of interest in passing events, and men of appetite for any slices of life that might come their way. So, having "cashed in" to the "limit" all the gold-dust they possessed, they felt they were entitled to spend a few days in watching events, and a few dollars in passing the time until such events, if any, should come within their range of vision.

What events were expected it is doubtful if the most inventive could have put into words. The general opinion expressed—out of Minky's hearing, of course, but to the accompaniment of deep libations of his most execrable whisky—was that, personally, that astute trader was, for some unaccountable reason, rapidly qualifying for the "bug-house," and that the only thing due from them was to display their loyalty to him by humoring him to the extent of discounting all the "dust" they could lay hands on, and wishing him well out of the trouble he seemed bent on laying up for himself. Meanwhile they would take a holiday on the proceeds of their traffic, and, out of sheer good-fellowship, stand by to help, or at least applaud, when the denouement came.

Many of the shrewder men looked to Wild Bill to give a key to the situation. They knew him to be Minky's closest friend. Besides that, he was a man intensely "wide" and far-seeing in matters pertaining to such a situation as at present existed.

But Wild Bill, in this case, was the blankest of blanks in the lottery of their draw for information. Whether this blankness was real or affected men could not make up their minds. The gambler was so unlike his usual self. The hard, rough, autocratic manner of the man seemed to have undergone a subtle change. He went about full of geniality and a lightness his fellow-citizens had never before observed in him. And, besides, he had suddenly become the only man in the place who seemed to lack interest in the doings of the James gang. Even beyond the bare facts of the outrage down by the river on Sunday morning, he could not be cajoled into discussing that individual or his doings.

No, his immediate interest apparently lay in his newly purchased half-claim. He spent the Monday afternoon there watching the unwilling Sandy sweating at his labors. And on the Tuesday he even passed him a helping hand. It did not occur to these men that Bill kept away to avoid their cross-questionings. It only seemed to them that his new toy had a greater fascination for him than those things which made for the welfare of the community; that his inexperienced eyes were blinded to the facts which were patent enough to them: namely, that he had bought the most worthless property in the district.

So they laughed, behind his back, and shrugged their great shoulders pityingly, and their pity was also touched with resentment that his interest in Suffering Creek could be so easily diverted. It was Joe Brand who handed them a most excellent laugh on the subject, though the laugh was rather at than with him.

He was talking to Van and White and several other men at one of the tables in the store. Whisky had brightened his eyes, which had been quietly smiling for some time as the talk of Bill went round. Then he suddenly bent forward and arrested the general attention.

"Say, boys," he cried, "here's a good one for you. What's the diff'rence between Wild Bill and Minky?"

Van promptly guffawed.

"Gee!" he cried, "ther' ain't none. They're sure both 'bug.'"

A great laugh greeted the retort, but Joe shook his head.

"That sure ain't the answer, but it's real bright," he admitted reluctantly, while Van preened himself.

"Guess they're both that wise they don't know if they're comin' down or goin' up," he went on, seeking to add to the score he felt he had made.

But Joe felt he was being robbed of the fruits of his effort, and promptly insisted upon his riddle.

"What's the diff'rence between Wild Bill an' Minky?" he asked again, this time with added emphasis.

He waited impatiently until one of the men shook his head, when he snatched at the opportunity of firing his quip.

"Why," he cried, with a shout of delight, "Bill's put his gold into a mudbank, an' Minky's jest yearnin' to set his gold into any old bank," and fell back laughing furiously.

But he had his merriment to himself. Van, feeling he had the company with him, sneered.

"Gee! that's the worst ever," he cried witheringly.

White spat out a chew of tobacco.

"I'd say you're that bright you'd orter write comic Bible trac's," he declared.

But even in his failure as a humorist Joe Brand gave expression to the general opinion of the two men who, up till that time, had been accounted, to use a local expression, the "wisest guys west o' Spawn City."

Certainly, for the time being, the mighty had fallen, and their associates, in the persons of Sunny Oak, Toby Jenks and Sandy Joyce, had to stand by listening to remarks against their fellow Trust members which, though distinctly offensive, they yet, in justice, had to admit were perfectly warranted on the face of things. Even Scipio, mild little man as he was, had to endure considerable chaff, which worried and annoyed him, as to the way in which he had succeeded in bluffing so shrewd a "guy" as Wild Bill into purchasing half his claim.

But these things were only sidelights on the feelings of the moment. Expectancy was at fever-heat, and each and every man was wondering what was about to happen. For though their belief in Bill and Minky had received a jolt, long months of experience had sown in them an appreciation that took a power of uprooting.

The Monday and Tuesday passed without development of any sort. There were several conferences between the members of the Trust, but these were really only meetings at which the lesser members received more minute instructions for the carrying out of their duties on the Wednesday. No information otherwise was forthcoming for them from either Minky or the president, and all attempt to extort any was promptly nipped in the bud by the latter without the least compunction or courtesy.

Sandy resented this attitude. Sunny complained of the lack of confidence. But Toby sat back immensely enjoying the chagrin of his two friends, and cordially swore that both Minky and Bill knew a large-meshed sieve when they saw one.

Tuesday night was a memorable one on Suffering Creek. Never had there been such a gathering in Minky's store; and his heart must have been rejoiced to see the manner in which so many of the dollars he had expended in the purchase of gold-dust came fluttering back to their nest in his till. The camp appeared to have made up its mind to an orgy of the finest brand. Drink flowed and overflowed. The store that night fairly swam in whisky. The flood set in the moment supper was finished, and from that time until two o'clock in the morning the lusty storekeeper never had a moment's rest.

Men drank themselves drunk, and drank themselves sober again. There was no poker or faro. No one wanted to gamble. There was sufficient gamble in their minds on the subject of to-morrow's stage to satisfy them for the moment. Would it get through? That was the question. And the general opinion was an emphatic denial.

How could it? Had not scouts been sent out inquiring of outlying settlers as to the prospect of a clear road? Had not information come in that James was abroad, had been seen in a dozen different places in the district? Had not the belief become general that the Spawn City trail was being carefully watched, and even patrolled, by this common enemy? Everybody knew that these things were so. The whole of this stage business was simply flying in the face of Providence.

And amidst all the comment and talk Minky served the requirements of his customers, wrapped in sphinx-like reserve. His geniality never failed him. He had a pleasant word for everybody. And at every gibe, at every warning, he beamed and nodded, but otherwise could not be drawn into controversy. One remark, and one only, had he for all and sundry who chose him as a butt for their pleasantries.

"Wal," he declared easily, "if I ladled out good United States currency, to feed that bum tough James an' his crew o' hawks, seems to me its findin' its way home right smart."

It was quite true. He stood to win in every direction. Sooner or later every cent of money he had paid out in the purchase of gold would find its way back to him, and go to help swell the fortune which was the effort of his life. These men had not the commercial instinct of Minky. And, furthermore, his meeting at night with the gambler, and its resulting compact, was still a secret.

The popular laugh was for the moment against him, but he continued to smile. And he knew that his smile would last the longer. He would still be smiling when even the ghost of their laugh had been laid to rest.

* * * * *

Sore heads were no deterrent next morning. Pillows were deserted at an early hour. And those who had found it convenient to pass the brief remainder of the night in their heavy, clay-soiled boots had the advantage of breakfasting at the first hot rush of Birdie's ministrations. And Birdie, with the understanding of her kind, had bestowed special attention upon the quantity and quality of the coffee, leaving the solid side of the meal almost unconsidered. It was her duty to sooth parching throats, and she knew her duty.

It was a glorious morning. The sun rose radiant in a cloudless sky. The air was still, so still. But the mountain chill began to give way from the first moment that the great arc of daylight lifted its dazzling crown above the horizon. The quiet of the morning was perfect. It almost seemed as if Nature itself had hushed to an expectant silence. The woe of the night-prowling coyote at the sight of the dawn found no voice. The frogs upon the creek had not yet begun their morning song. Even the camp dogs, whose ceaseless "yap" made hideous all their waking hours, for some subtle reason moved about in quest of their morning meal as though their success depended upon the stealth of their movements.

Blear-eyed men appeared in their doorways half awake, and only just recovering from their overnight orgy. They stood for some moments voiceless and thoughtful. Then the concentration upon the store began. It was strange to look upon. It was an almost simultaneous movement. These half-dazed, wholly sick creatures moved with the precision of a universally impelling force. The store might have been one huge magnet—perhaps it was—and these dejected early risers mere atoms of steel.

But the store reached, that wonderfully revivifying hair of the tail, etc., partaken of, and a rapid change supervened. Quarts of coffee and some trifling solid further stimulated jaded energies, and in less than an hour the memory that the day was Wednesday, and that the gold-stage was to set out upon its eventful journey, became the chief thought in every mind. Curiosity and excitement ran riot, and questions flew from lip to lip. How had Minky provided for the safeguarding of his gold? Had he arranged for an adequate escort? To whom was the gold to be entrusted?

The store was full of men. The veranda overflowed with them. There were men of almost every nationality—from half-breed Mexicans, popularly dubbed "gorl-durned Dagos," to the stolid Briton, the virile New Yorker, the square-headed Teuton, the lithe, graceful prairie man from the Southern States. But the usual noisy discussion of the world's affairs, as viewed from the hidden valley in which lay Suffering Creek, had no vital interest just now. And, after the first rush of burning questions, a hush fell upon the assembly, and it quickly composed itself, in various attitudes and positions of advantage, to await, in what patience it could, the satisfying of its curiosity.

Soon the hush became oppressive. It almost became a burden. Men stirred uneasily under it; they chafed. And at last Joe Brand found himself voicing something of the feelings of everybody. He spoke in a whisper which, for the life of him, he could not have raised to full voice. He was standing next to White, and he took him confidentially by the shoulder and spoke, leaning over till his lips were on a level with his ear.

"I allow funerals is joyous things an' nigger lynchin's is real comic," he declared hoarsely. "But fer real rollickin' merriment I never see the equal o' this yer gatherin'. I sure don't think it 'ud damp things any ef I was to give 'em a Doxology."

The miner responded with a pensive smile.

"Mebbe you're right 'bout funerals an' nigger lynchin's," he whispered back, "but they's jest a matter o' livin' an' dyin'. Y'see, Minky's gamblin' sixty thousand dollars o' good red gold."

Brand nodded. And somehow he appreciated the point and became easier.

Later on Minky appeared in the store, and almost automatically every eye was turned expectantly upon him. But he had only come to ascertain if Wild Bill was about.

No, the gambler had not been seen. Someone jocularly suggested that he and Zip were out visiting Sandy Joyce upon their claim. None of the three had been seen that morning. But the levity was allowed to pass without a smile, and Minky disappeared again into the back regions of his store.

After that the time passed even more slowly. The store emptied; the men moved out into the sunlight to await the first sight of the stage. There was nothing else to do. Such was their saturation of the previous night that even drink had no attraction at this early hour. So they sat or lounged about, gazing out at the distant upland across the river. There lay the vanishing-point of the Spawn City trail, and beyond that they knew the danger-zone to lie. It was a danger-zone they all understood, and, hardy as they were, they could not understand anyone mad enough to risk a fortune of gold within its radius. Not one of them would have faced it singly with so little as twenty dollars in his pocket, much less laboring under the burden of sixty thousand dollars. And yet somebody was going to do so to-day.

A pounding of hoofs and crunching of wheels suddenly swept all apathy away. Every eye lit; every head turned. And in a moment Suffering Creek was on its feet, agog with the intensest interest. For one brief moment the rattle and clatter continued. Then, from round the corner, with bits champing and satin coats gleaming in the sun, their silver-mounted harness sparkling, Wild Bill's treasured team of six horses swept into view. Round they swung, hitched to his well-known spring-cart, and in a second had drawn up with a flourish in front of the veranda.

A gasp of astonishment greeted this unexpected vision. Men stood gaping at the beaming choreman sitting perched up on the driving-seat. It was the first time in his life he had ever been allowed to handle the gambler's equine children, and his joy and pride were written in every furrow of his age-lined features.

The man sat waiting, while the thoroughbreds pawed the ground and reached restively at their bits. But they were like babes to handle, for their manners were perfect. They had been taught by a master-hand whose lessons had been well learned. And the picture they made was one that inspired admiration and envy in every eye and heart of those who now beheld them.

But these were not the only emotions the sight provoked. Blank astonishment and incredulous wonder stirred them, too. Bill's horses! Bill's cart! Where—where was the gambler himself? Was this the stage? Was Bill—?

The talk which had been so long suppressed now broke out afresh. Everybody asked questions, but nobody answered any. They crowded about the cart. They inspected the horses with eyes of admiration and wonder. No man could have withstood the sight of the rope-like veins standing out through their velvet skin. They fondled them, and talked to them as men will talk to horses. And it was only when Minky suddenly appeared in their midst, bearing in his arms an iron-clamped case which he deposited in the body of the cart, that their attention was diverted, and they remembered the purpose in hand.

The gold-chest deposited and made secure, the storekeeper turned to the crowd about him.

"Well, boys," he said, with an amiable smile, "any more mail? Any you fellers got things you need to send to your sisters—or somebody else's sisters? You best get it ready sharp. We're startin' at eight o'clock. After that you'll sure be too late. Y'see," he added humorously, "we ain't figgered when the next stage goes." He pulled out his nickel silver timepiece. "It's needin' five minutes to schedule," he went on officially, glancing keenly down the trail. Anyone sufficiently observant, and had they been quick enough, might have detected a shade of anxiety in his glance. He moved round to the side of the cart and spoke to the man in the driving-seat.

"It's nigh eight. He ain't here?" he said questioningly.

"Guess he'll be right along, boss," the little man returned in a low voice.

Again the storekeeper glanced anxiously down the trail. Then he turned away with a slight sigh.

"Well, boys," he said, with another attempt at jocularity, "if ther' ain't nuthin' doin', guess this mail's sure closed."

Passing again to the back of the cart, he gazed affectionately upon the gold-chest. Then he lifted his eyes just as Van voiced the question in everybody's mind.

"You sure ain't sendin' pore old Danny with that stage?" he cried incredulously. "You sure ain't sendin' him fer James to sift lead through? You ain't lettin' him drive Bill's horses?"

"He sure ain't. Him drive my plugs? Him? Gee! Ther' ain't no one but me drives them hosses—not if Congress passed it a law."

The harsh, familiar voice of Wild Bill grated contemptuously. He had come up from his hut all unnoticed just in time to hear Van's protesting inquiry. Now he stood with eyes only for his horses.

Daylight at last shone through the mist of doubt and puzzlement which had kept the citizens of Suffering Creek in darkness so long. They looked at this lean, harsh figure and understood. Here was the driver of the stage, and, curiously, with this realization their doubts of its welfare lessened. All along they had been blaming Bill for his lack of interest in the affairs of the camp, and now—

They watched him with keen, narrowing eyes. What mad game was he contemplating? They noted his dress. It was different to that which he usually wore. His legs were encased in sheepskin chaps. He was wearing a belt about his waist from which hung a heavy pair of guns. And under his black, shiny, short coat he was wearing a simple buckskin shirt.

They watched him as he moved round his horses, examining the fit of the bridles and the fastenings of the harness. He looked to the buckles of the reins. He smoothed the satin coats of his children with affectionate hand. Then in a moment they saw him spring into the cart.

Taking the reins from the choreman, he settled himself into the driving-seat, while the deposed charioteer clambered stiffly to the ground.

Minky was at the wheel nearest to his friend. The horses, under the master-hand, had suddenly become restive. Bill bent over, and the storekeeper craned up towards him.

"Ther' was two fellers hit the trail this morning," the gambler said, with a short laugh. "I see 'em when I was with Zip—'fore daylight."

"You—you best quit it," said Minky in serious, anxious tones. "We kin, maybe, hold the gold up against him here. It ain't too late. It ain't, sure."

Bill's face suddenly darkened. All the lightness which the prospect before him had inspired suddenly left it. His words came so full of bitter hatred that the other was startled.

"Not for a million-dollar halo!" he cried, reaching out for his long whip.

With a dexterous swing he set it cracking over his horses' backs. The high-strung beasts plunged at their bits, and the leaders started to rear. Again he swung out his whip, and this time it flicked the plunging leaders. Instantly there was a rush of feet and a scrunch of wheels. The "tugs" pulled taut, and the gush of eager nostrils hissed like steam upon the still air. There was a shout of farewell from the onlookers, and the gambler turned in his seat.

"So long, fellers," he cried. "I'm makin' Spawn City by daylight to-morrer—sure."

The next moment he was lost in a cloud of dust, as the horses raced down the hill.



CHAPTER XXX

ON THE SPAWN CITY TRAIL

Wild Bill's lean hands clawed the reins with muscles of steel. For the moment his six horses occupied his every thought. They were pulling with the madness of high-bred racehorses. The trail lay before them, their master sat behind. What more could they want, but that liberty to stretch their willing bodies?

Down the hill and along the wood-lined trail that ran parallel to the sluggish creek they raced. The dust rose under their feet, and the wheels of the cart left a fog behind them. It rose in swirling clouds as though to shut off all retreat. Presently the road narrowed to a mere track, and the dark woods closed in. But there was no slackening under the hand of the gambler. Nor had the horses any desire to slacken their headlong rush. The woods broke and gave to a low bush, and in a moment the track opened upon Scipio's claim.

Now, for the first time since the start as they swept across it, Bill permitted his gaze to wander from his charges. He looked away at the mouth of the tunnel Sandy had spent so much labor and such bitter cursing in the process of constructing; and a half-smile flitted across his hard face as he beheld the oozy debris, the idle tools, the winch and buckets. The sight seemed to afford him amusement. There was a softening, too, in his hard face. Maybe it was the result of his amusement. Maybe it was due to some thought of the little man with whom he was partners. But he seemed to freeze up again as the claim passed, and the horses floundered over the heavy trail beside the black, oily swamp beyond. It was bad driving here, and he steadied the racing creatures down with voice and hand.

"Easy, Gipsy. Easy you, Pete. Now Maisie. So! Steady, boys. Easy!"

The harsh voice was hushed and gentle. He was speaking to creatures that were not merely horses to him, but something nearer, perhaps even dearer.

And the well-trained creatures responded at once, slowing to an easy trot, a pace which they kept until the ford of the creek was reached. Here they dropped to a walk as they splashed their way through the turgid stream. But the moment the wheels of the cart topped the opposite bank, they once more resumed their headlong gait.

At once the gambler sat up. He straightened his lean body as a man who opens his lungs to breathe in deep draughts of fresh, bracing air. His narrow eyes stared out aside of him and beyond. His nostrils expanded, and his thin lips were tightly shut.

The camp was behind him. The trail, a hard, wide sand trail, lay ahead. The wide, wild world was about him on every hand, reminding him of days long gone by, reminding him that to-day his instincts were still the same. The same fiery, militant spirit that had driven him from one end of his country to the other still left him yearning for the ruthless battle of wild places and wilder men. The long months of inactivity, the long days of peace, the longer nights of his gambler's craft, were for the moment gone. He was setting out, as in the old days, surrounded by all in life he cared for, offering a challenge to all the world, ready to grapple with whatsoever the gods of war might choose to thrust in his way.

The man's spirits rose. The swift-flashing eyes brightened. His body felt to be bursting with a ravishing joy of life. His purpose was his own. The joy was his alone. He had found excuse for satisfying his own greedy lust, a lust for battle which no overwhelming odds could diminish. He was a savage. He knew it; he gloried in it. Peace to him was a wearisome burden of which at all times he was ready to rid himself. So he was born. So he had always lived. So, he knew, he would die.

The trail rose with the upland. It rose with that gradation which so wears down the ardor of almost any horse. But the creatures Wild Bill was driving were made of unusual mettle. Their courage was the courage of the man behind them. And only when his courage failed him would their spirit falter. They swept up the long stretch as though the effort were a pastime. With ears pricked forward, nostrils gushing, their veins standing out like whipcord through their satin coats, they moved as though every stride were an expression of the joy of living. And the man's steel muscles were held at tension to keep their gait within the bounds of reason.

As they neared the hill-top he turned and glanced back over his shoulder. There lay the camp nestling on the far side of the creek. There stood Minky's store, lording it over its lesser fellows with the arrogance of successful commerce. He could see a small patch of figures standing about its veranda, and he knew that many eyes were watching for a final sight of him at the moment when he should vanish over the hill.

They were friendly eyes, too, he knew. They were the eyes of men who wished him well. But he doubted if those good wishes were for his own sake. He knew he was not a man whom men loved. And he smiled grimly as he glanced down at the chest of gold in the body of the cart.

In a moment his eyes were looking out ahead again, and all thought of those he was leaving behind left his mind.

The hill-top passed, the horses swung down into a deep, long valley. It was in this valley, some six or seven miles farther on, he had encountered Scipio in Minky's buckboard. He thought of that meeting now, and remembered many things; and as recollection stirred his teeth shut tight till his jaw muscles stood out like walnuts through his lean cheeks. He had promised Scipio that day. Well, his mind was easier than his feelings. He was confident. But he was stirred to a nervous desire to be doing.

Nothing escaped his watchful eyes. Every tree, every bush, every rise and hollow passed under his closest scrutiny. But this was simply his way, a way that had long since been forced into a habit. He did not anticipate any developments yet. The battle-cry was yet to be sounded. He knew the men he was likely to deal with better than any other class. He knew their ways, their subtleties. Who should know them better? Had not years of his life been spent—?

He laughed aloud, but his laughter rang without mirth. And his horses, taking the sound to be a command, broke suddenly into a gallop. It was the sympathy between man and beast asserting itself. They, too, possessed that nervous desire to be doing. Something of the significance of the journey was theirs, and their nerves were braced with the temper of fine steel.

He steadied them down with the patience of a devoted father for a pack of boisterous children. No harsh words disturbed their sensitive ears. The certainty of their obedience made it unnecessary to exert any display of violence. They promptly fell again into their racing trot, and the cart once more ran smoothly over the hard beaten trail.

The higher reaches of the creek cut into the valley from the right, and the trail deviated to a rise of sandy ground. He had reached the point of his meeting with Scipio. Nor did he slacken his pace over the dust-laden patch. It was passed in a choking cloud, and in a moment the rise was topped and a wild, broken country spread out before him.

Five miles farther on he halted beside a small mountain stream and breathed his horses.

But his halt was of the briefest. He simply let the horses stand in their harness. It was not time to feed, but he removed their bits and let them nip up the bunches of sweet grass about their feet. And as he did so he paused a moment at the head of each animal, muttering words of encouragement, and administering caresses with a hand which bore in its touch an affection that no words of his could have conveyed.

Then he went back to the cart and made a few simple dispositions. One was to securely lash the gold-chest in its place; but its place he changed to the front of the cart. Another was to leave the lid of the foot-box, built against the dashboard, wide open, and to so secure it that it could not close again. Another was to adjust the lowered hood of the cart in a certain way that it was raised head-high as he sat in his driving-seat.

Then, with a grim satisfaction in his small eyes as he glanced over his simple preparations, he jumped to the ground and replaced the bits in his horses' mouths. In two minutes he was again rushing over the trail, but this time through a world of crag and forest as primitive and rugged as was his own savage soul.

So the journey went on, over mountainous hills, and deep down into valleys as dark as only mountain forests of spruce and pine could make them. Over a broken road that set the light cart perilously bumping, speeding along the edges of precipices, with little more than inches to spare, at a pace that might well set the nerves jangling with every jolt. Later a halt for feed and water, and on again, the willing horses taking their rest only as the difficulties of the trail reduced their pace to a laborious walk.

The man sat alert through it all. There was no question in his mind. He knew what lay ahead of him somewhere in those vast depths. He knew that what he looked for was coming just as surely as the Day of Doom. He did not ask when or where. That was not his way. It might come when it chose, for his part. He was ready and even yearning for the moment of its coming.

So his eyes never rested for a moment. Scarce a glance or thought did he give to his horses. Theirs it was to keep to the trail. Theirs it was to keep their pace. His was all other responsibility.

The sun was leaning towards the western crags, where, in the distance, they raised their snow-crowned heads towards the heavens. The ruddy daylight was deepening to that warmth of color which belongs to day's old age. The forest shadows appeared to deepen, those dark forests so far below him in the valleys. Here, where he was racing along at a high level, all was bright, the air was joyous. Below him lay the brooding stillness where lurked a hundred unknown dangers. There were only about fifteen more miles of this broken solitude, and beyond that stretched a world of waving, gracious grassland right on to the prairie city whither he was bound.

He stirred; his roving eyes abruptly concentrated. One distant spot on the rugged landscape held him. He craned forward. The movement caused him to ease his hand upon the reins. Instantly the horses sprang into a gallop. So intent was he that for the moment the change passed unnoticed. He seemed only to have eyes and thought for that distant hill-top. Then of a sudden he realized the dangerous breakneck speed, and turned his attention upon his team.

The animals once more reduced to a sober pace, he turned again to the spot which held his interest; and his eyes grew bright with a smile that had nothing pleasant in it. He was grinning with a savage joy more fierce, more threatening, than the cruellest frown. The next time he bestirred himself it was to swing his gun-holsters more handy to the front of his body.

Later on his interest seemed to lessen. No longer was there that watchfulness in his eyes. Perhaps it was he deemed there was no longer the necessity for it. Perhaps what he had seen had satisfied his restless searching. Anyway, he now sat contemplating the shining backs of his horses as they sped down the hill, and his eyes were friendly as he watched the rolls of muscle writhing under their satin coats.

But when next he looked up his moment of gentleness had passed. His easier moods were never of long duration. One swift glance again at the distant hill, and then he turned from it and sat gazing at the dank, oozy prospect of the low-lying flat he was just entering with no sort of friendliness. The sharp hoofs of his team were flinging mud in every direction, and the rattle of the wheels had deadened to a thick sucking as they sank into the black mud. It was a heavy pull, but the speed was not checked. It only needed an extra effort, and this the willing team readily applied. He knew the spot well; and he knew that beyond lay the hill, the crest of which had so held his attention a few minutes before.

His thoughts traveled no farther than that hill. For the time at least there was nothing beyond. Later it would be for him to consider that. Just ahead of him lay the chances and changes which went to make up such a life as his. This he knew. And somehow the thought stimulated his pulses to a fuller appreciation of things.

In a few moments he was nearing the far boundary of the flat, and the ascent of the hill was about to commence. He smiled. Yes, it was well calculated. The hill would have to be taken at a walk. It was by far the steepest of the journey. He remembered, too, that the crest of it was reached by a final climb that became almost precipitous. He remembered, too, that the black woods that crowded its sides at the crest gave place to the skeleton trunks left by some long-forgotten forest fire. Yes, it was the one spot on the whole journey best calculated for what was to come.

The team no longer labored in the ooze. The ascent was begun. With heads held high, with ears pricked and nostrils distended they faced the big effort unflinchingly.

And the driver's mind was calculating many things. It was moving with the swiftness of an able general's in the midst of a big action. He glanced at the sky. Already the sun was hidden behind the western hills. Already the shadows were lengthening and the gray of evening was falling. The profound woods, dense and ghostly, had closed in. The trail was so narrow that the dreary, weeping foliage often swept the sides of the cart. But these things did not occur to him. His mind was ahead, amongst those aged skeletons left by the raging fire-fiend.

Progress was slow. It was almost too slow for the man's eager nerves. He wanted to reach his goal. His lean body thrilled with a profound joy. He lusted for the battle which he knew to lie ahead of him. But, even so, he gave no outward sign. His face was set and harsh. His small eyes bored through the gloom, thrusting to penetrate beyond every bend in the winding road. Nothing escaped them. Each small fur that fled in terror at his approach was carefully noted, for they told him things he wanted to know.

Now the final steep was reached. It was truly precipitous. The sharp hoofs of the team clawed their way up. Such was the struggle that even the man found himself leaning forward, instinctively desiring to help the laboring animals. The bends in the trail were sudden and at brief intervals. It was as though those responsible for the original clearing of the road had realized the impossibility of a direct ascent, and had chosen the zigzag path as the only means of surmounting the hill.

The moments passed. Bend followed bend. The man in the cart found himself mechanically counting them. Two more. One more. The summit was almost reached. And beyond? He sighed. Maybe it was the sigh of a man whose nerves are relieved from their tension, knowing that beyond this last bend lay his goal. Maybe it was inspired by sympathy for his struggling horses. Anyway, his whole manner underwent a change. The watchfulness seemed to have gone from his eyes, his muscles to have relaxed. He leant back in his seat like a man full of weariness, and securely fastened his reins to an iron rail on the side of the cart.

He was at the bend now. The leaders were abreast of it. They were past it. He—

There was a sharp rattle of firearms, and half-a-dozen bullets swept pinging their way over his head. A hoarse voice shouted a command to halt. His horses plunged forward. But, quick as lightning, his hands flew to the reins, and he drew them up to a standstill in the open.

"Hands up!" shouted the same voice; and a horseman appeared on each side of the team.

Then came an exhibition of the gambler as he was, as in the old days he had always been known. It was all done in the fraction of a second. Simultaneously his two guns leapt from his holsters and two shots rang out. There was an ominous echo from the woods. One horseman reeled in his saddle, and the horse of the other man stumbled and finally fell.

The next moment the man in the cart was crouching down, all but the crown of his head and his gleaming eyes well sheltered by the loose-hanging canvas hood.

"I'm 'most allus ready to put my hands up!" he snarled. "Come on!"



CHAPTER XXXI

THE BATTLE

A shout of fury. A wild chorus of meaningless blasphemy. A thundering of hoofs. A shriek of pain—an appalling death-cry. The fight has begun—such a fight, in its wanton savagery, as might shame even the forest beasts. In a moment the human lusting for the blood of its fellows is let loose, than which there is no more terrible madness on earth.

Yet there was a difference. There was a difference of motive widely separating the combatants; and it was a difference that left the balance of offense doubtful.

To analyze the mental attitude of these people adequately would be well-nigh impossible. Their outlook possessed distortions which changed with chameleon-like rapidity. On the one hand was a band of lawless ruffians, steeped to their very souls in every sort of crime, in whose minds all law was anathema, in whose understanding all possession was a deliberate challenge, in whose hearts was no pity, no mercy, no feeling which belongs to the gentler side of human life; to whose comprehension death has no meaning until its relentless grip is fixed, and they feel the last spark of life crushing out of their own bodies. Then—But the analysis becomes hopelessly chaotic.

On the other hand motive is perhaps even more difficult still, though a shade less hopeless. The gambler was a man of strong thought, of strong forces. Nor was he devoid of the gentler feelings of life. Yet here lies the difficulty of associating the various sides of his character with his actions. He had set out for this encounter. He had yearned for it, as a child might yearn for a plaything. The contemplation of it gave him ecstasy. With an inhuman joy he desired the lives of these men. Not one, but all; and one even more than all. Then, too, his purpose was in face of overwhelming odds—in face of almost a certainty of death for himself. Such actions have been performed before in noble cases, but here—?

Was it simply his purpose to yield himself a martyr to the public welfare? Was it that he truly desired to avenge a wronged man? Was he setting himself up as the avenger of Sid Morton's cruel death, a man in whom he had no interest whatever? No. It would be absurd to believe that these things were the promptings responsible for his present actions. Some hideous psychological twist was driving him. Some passion swayed him over which he had no control whatever. Some degeneracy was upsetting his mental balance, and forcing him against his better instincts. But, even so, his whole attitude was that of a man of clear, alert mind, of iron purpose, of a courage invincible.

Calm and cold Wild Bill crouched while, in the first rush of battle, the shots hailed about him. He reserved his fire, too, waiting for the effective moment with the patience of a skillful general. His every shot must tell, and tell desperately.

Three times he was hit in as many seconds, but beyond hugging his flimsy shelter more closely he gave no sign. His purpose rose above all physical hurt or sense of pain. He was watching the movements of one man—of one man only. His gleaming eyes pursued the figure of the outlaw leader to the exclusion of all else. James was his quarry. The rest—well, the rest were merely incidental.

And, emboldened by his intended victim's silence, James suddenly changed his tactics. A long-ranged battle was little enough to his savage taste. He ceased the ineffective fire of his men and brought them together. Then in a moment, with the reckless abandon of his class, he headed them and charged. They came, as before, with a brazen shout, and the air was hideous with a fresh outburst of blasphemy, while a rush of lead searched the fragile cart in every direction.

But the din of voices, the crash of woodwork as the panels of the cart were riddled by the wildly flung shots, was powerless to draw the defender. His guns were ready. He was ready for the purpose in his mind. That was all. His fierce eyes lit with a murderous intent as he calculated with certainty and exactness.

On they came. They drove their maddened horses with savage spurs right up to the cart. It was the moment the gambler awaited. He leapt, and in a flash his tall figure was confronting the leader of the attack. And as he rose his arms were outstretched and his great guns belched their murderous fire. Two men rolled from their saddles with a death-scream that died down to a hideous gurgle, as the racing hoofs trod the last atom of life out of their bodies. His guns belched a second time, and James' throat was plowed open, and the rich red blood spurted in a ghastly tide. Another shot and another man fell forward, clutching his horse's mane while he was borne from the battle-field to the dim recesses of the forest by his uncontrolled and affrighted beast.

But the gambler paid a high price for these successes—far higher than he could really afford. Four times more he was badly hit. Four times the hot slither of burning lead plowed its way amidst the life-channels of his body. And his retreat to cover was something almost in the nature of collapse.

But the spirit of the man admitted of no weakening. It rose dominant over all physical sensation. He thrust aside the cognizance of his hurts, and abandoned himself solely to his purpose. James was still in the saddle, and the sight of his hated personality consumed him with rage and disgust at the failure of his first attempt.

"Still around. Still around," he muttered. And in a moment the battle was surging once more.

No longer was the leader of the attack moved by the irresponsible bravado of his first attack. He was a raging savage, goaded by the desperate wounds he had received, and the knowledge that he and all his force were being held at bay by one man. So he charged again, a headlong rush, howling as he came at the head of his four remaining supporters.

They came like an avalanche, their voices making hideous the rapidly falling night, while the wounded defender waited, waited, all his purpose concentrated, husbanding his ebbing strength as a starving man might husband the last crumbs of food. He knew that not only his strength, but his very life was slowly ebbing in the red tide that was fast saturating every shred of his clothing.

Again they reached the cart. Again the maddened horses were driven head on to the dreaded fortress. And instantly their quarry rose to his full height, a grim specter thrilling with a murderous purpose, his arms outstretched, his guns held low, that there should be no mistake this time.

The crash of battle was appalling. The scene was almost lost in the smoke cloud which hung over it. There was fire and cross-fire. There were exultant shouts and cries of pain. And through it all the scuttling of rushing hoofs and champing bits. A moment and the defender dropped. But instantly he rose again, gripping in his nervous hands the butts of a pair of fresh guns snatched from his foot-box. Nor did he stir foot again, nor relax a muscle, till every one of the twelve chambers was emptied.

Then, with an oath that carried with it all the pent-up hatred of a bitter heart, he flung both weapons in the direction whither his last shot had gone, and, staggering back, dropped helplessly into the driving-seat behind him.

The smoke hung heavily and drifted slowly away upon the still air. The sound of rushing hoofs receded and died away in the distance, and in a while a profound quiet settled upon the scene. The man lolled heavily in his seat, and his eyes closed. His face was a ghastly gray, his eyes were sunken and his blackened lips hung agape. His arms hung helplessly at his side, and his legs were stretched out in a pitiable attitude of uselessness.

The moments passed drearily. For a long time there was no movement of any sort but the restless fidgeting of the horses. They had stood through all the turmoil as their master had long since trained them to stand. But now that it was over their eager spirits were demanding the joy of the trail again. It almost seemed as though, in their equine minds, they had a full realization of the meaning of that battle in the wild, as though sympathy between master and beast had held them during that fierce ten minutes still and passive, lest through any act of theirs they should cross the will of the one being whom they acknowledged their lord. And now that it was over and the crisis passed, it seemed as if they understood that victory had been achieved, and their duty once more lay upon the trail ahead of them.

At last the eyes of the man opened. The chafing of his horses had penetrated to his numbing brain. Their fierce depths were dull and lusterless as they rolled vaguely around. Yet there was intelligence in them, although it was the intelligence of a weary, fainting mind. They closed again, as though the will behind them lacked in its support. And then followed a sigh, a deep, long sigh of exhaustion.

There was another pause, and presently there came a bodily movement. The man stirred uneasily, in the manner of one gathering his weakening forces for a supreme effort from which his whole body shrank. Again his eyes opened, and this time their depths were full of purpose. Suddenly his legs gathered under him and his arms drew up, and in a moment he staggered to his feet, his hands clutching support upon the back of the seat.

He stared about him doubtfully, and his uncertainty was pitiful to behold. His eyes were only half open, as though the effort of sustaining their lids was too great for his failing powers. They wandered on over the scene, however, until they suddenly fixed themselves upon a spot where two figures were stretched upon the ground. One was lying upon its side with its knees drawn up as though asleep; the other was stretched upon its back, its arms flung out and its legs lying across the other's body. The dead eyes were staring up at the darkened sky, glazed and motionless.