He stared down upon these figures for some time, and the sight seemed to put fresh strength into him; and at last, when he turned away, a pitiful attempt at triumph shone in his dull eyes, and a ghostly smile flitted about the corners of his sagging lips.

He had seen all he wanted to see. His work was done. James was dead. He knew death when he saw it, and he had seen it shining in those staring eyes. James had passed over the one-way trail, and his had been the hand that had sped him upon his journey.

Now he took a deep breath and stood swaying. Then he glanced with measuring eye at the foot-box at his feet. He changed his support, and, bending slowly, dragged a rawhide rope from inside it. The next moment he fell back upon the seat. But his work had only begun. For some time he fumbled with the rope, passing it about his body and the iron stanchions of the back of the seat, and after awhile had succeeded in knotting it securely. Then, after a moment of hard breathing, he reached out and untied the reins from the rail of the cart and gathered them into his hands. And as he did so his lips moved and his voice croaked brokenly.

"Come on, Gyp," he mumbled hoarsely. "Come, gal. Hey—you, Pete. You, too—Maisie. Come on. Get on."

It was the word his faithful friends had awaited.

Chilled and eager, they leapt at their bits, and the traces snapped taut. They were off; and in their eager rush the reins were almost torn from the driver's numbing fingers. Again he spoke, and in his halting words was a world of affection and encouragement.

"Easy, children," he said. "Easy, boys an' gals. Ther' sure ain't no hurry now. They're dead—all—dead. Dead as—mutton."

He clawed full possession of the reins again. And in a moment the cart was speeding down the long gradient that was to bear them on the prairie world beyond.

The man was lolling forward, straining on the rope that held his helpless body to the seat, and his eyes closed wearily. The speed of the team, the direction, these things meant nothing to him now. The trail was well marked right in to Spawn City. There were no turnings. That was all that mattered. These children of his would faithfully keep on their way to the end. He knew these things without thinking, and the knowledge left him indifferent. His only concern now was the gold. It was in the cart, and it must reach Spawn City. To that his honor was pledged.

The reins slipped through his fingers. He stirred uneasily. Then his eyes opened again. For a moment his sagging lips closed. He was summoning all his failing strength. He clutched the reins in one hand, and with the other knotted them about his wrist. Then, with a gasp, his left hand dropped from his task, while his right arm was held outstretched by the strain of the pulling horses upon the reins.

There was now no longer any demand for further effort, and the drooping body lolled over against the side of the cart as though the man were seeking his rest. His head hung away at a helpless angle, and his legs straggled. And thus the speeding team raced clear of the mountain world and plunged through the darkness to the prairie beyond.

* * * * *

The moon rose in all its cold splendor. The stars dimmed before its frigid smile. The black vault of the heavens lit with a silvery sheen, embracing the prairie world beneath its bejeweled pall.

The sea of grass lay shadowed in the moonlit dusk. But, in sharp relief, a white ribbon-like trail split it from end to end, like some forlorn creature with white outspread arms yearning in desolation—yearning for the bustle and rush of busy life which it is denied, yearning to be relieved from so desperate a solitude.

The vastness and silence dwarfs even thought. The things which are great, which have significance, which have meaning to the human mind are lost in such a world. Life itself becomes infinitesimal.

There is something moving in a tiny ebullition of dust along the white trail. It looks so small. It moves so slowly, crawling, seemingly, at a snail's pace. It is almost microscopical in the vastness.

Yet it is only these things by comparison. It is neither small, nor is it traveling at a snail's pace. It is a cart drawn by six horses, racing as though pursued by all the demons of the nether world.

And in the driving-seat is a curious, stiffly swaying figure. It is strangely inanimate. Yet it suggests something that no ordinary human figure could suggest. It is in its huddled attitude, its ghastly face, its staring, unseeing eyes, which gaze out in every direction, as the jolting of the cart turns and twists the body from side to side. There is something colossal, something strangely stirring in the suggestion of purpose in the figure. There is something to inspire wonder in the most sluggish mind. It tells a story of some sort of heroism. It tells a story of a master mind triumphing over bodily weakness and suffering. It tells a story of superlative defiance—the defiance of death.

* * * * *

The early risers of Spawn City were gathered in a stupefied crowd outside the principal hotel in the place. Six jaded horses, drawing a light spring-cart, had just pulled up. The poor creatures were utterly spent, and stood with drooping heads and distended nostrils, gasping and steaming, their weary legs tottering beneath them. Their great eyes were yearning and sunken, and their small ears lay back, indifferent to every sound or movement about them. Their last buoyancy has been expended. They have run their mad race till their hearts are nigh bursting.

But the horses were of the least interest to the onlookers. It was the dusty spring-cart that interested their curious minds—the cart, and the still and silent driver, who made no attempt to leave his seat. They stood gaping, not daring to disturb the ghastly figure, not daring even to approach it too closely. Their minds were thrilling with a morbid horror which held them silent.

But at last there came a diversion. A burly, rough-clad man pushed his way through the crowd, and his keen eyes flashed a quick look over the whole outfit. He was the sheriff, and had been hurriedly summoned.

"Wild Bill!" he muttered. "Them's sure his plugs, too," he added, as though seeking corroboration.

There was certainly doubt in his tone, and surprise, too; and he came to the side of the cart and gazed up into the awful face drooping forward over the outstretched arm to further convince himself. What he beheld caused him to click his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It was his only means of giving expression to the wave of horror that swept over him.

With a leap he sprang into the seat, and began releasing the knotted reins from the stiffened arm. So tight had the knots been drawn that it took some moments. Then he turned, and with difficulty removed the rawhide from about the middle of the huddled figure. Then he hailed some of the onlookers.

"Ho, you, Joe! You, too, Lalor, an' Ned! Stand by, lads, an' bear a hand," he cried authoritatively. "Guess I'll pass it out."

Then he stood up, staring down at the stiffened body; and wonder looked out of his puzzled eyes.

"Gee! if it ain't Wild Bill the gambler, an'—an' he must ha' bin dead nigh six hours."



CHAPTER XXXII

A MAN'S LOVE

It was with strangely mixed feelings that Scipio drove Minky's old mule down the shelving trail leading into the secret valley where stood James' ranch-house. The recollection of his first visit to the place was a sort of nightmare which clung desperately in the back cells of memory. The dreadful incidents leading up to it and surrounding it could never be forgotten. Every detail of his headlong journey in quest of the man who had wronged him, every detail of his terrible discomfiture, would cling in his memory so long as he had life.

But, in spite of memory, in spite of his wrongs, his heart-burnings, the desolation of the past weeks, his heart rose buoyantly as he came within sight of the place in which he still persisted in telling himself that his Jessie was held a prisoner against her will. That was his nature. No optimism was too big for him. No trouble was so great that hope could altogether be crushed out of his heart.

He looked out over the splendid valley extending for miles on either hand of him, and somehow he was glad. Somehow the glorious sunlight, so softened by the shadowed forest which covered the hillsides, so gentle beneath the crowding hills which troughed in the bed of waving grass, sent his simple spirit soaring to heights of anticipatory delight which, a few days back, had seemed beyond his reach.

At that moment, in spite of all that had gone before, the place was very, very beautiful to him, life was wonderful, his very existence was a joy. For was not Jessie waiting for him beyond, in that ranch-house? Was not she waiting for his coming, that she might return with him to their home? Was she not presently to be seated beside him upon the rickety old seat of Minky's buckboard? And his final thought caused him to glance regretfully down at the frayed cushion, wishing cordially that he could have afforded her greater comfort.

Ah, well, perhaps she would not mind just for this once. And, after all, she would be with him, which was the great thing. Wild Bill had promised him that; and he had every confidence in Wild Bill.

Then he suddenly thought of something he might have done. Surely he might have brought Vada with him. What a pity he didn't think of it before he started out. It was foolish of him, very foolish. But he had been so full of Jessie. The thought of winning her back had quite put everything else out of his head. Yes, it was a pity. The presence of Vada would certainly have added to her happiness, she was so fond of her children.

Then he remembered his instructions. Bill had said he must go alone. He must go alone—and be prepared to fight for her. Bill was a wonderful man. He seemed to be able to do anything he chose. And somehow he felt sorry he had bluffed him into buying half his claim. He could feel the roll of bills, the result of that transaction, in his hip pocket, and the pressure of them impressed itself unpleasantly upon his conscience. He felt sure he had no right to them. He must really give them back to the gambler later. He felt that his attitude was a swindle on a good man. Bill was certainly a good man, a brave man, but he was no business man. He, Scipio, had the advantage of him there.

The buckboard rumbled down to the grassy trail which stretched from the foot of the hillside to the ranch-house. And now the pale-eyed little man bethought him of the fight Bill had promised him.

Quite unperturbed he looked down at the fierce pair of revolvers hanging at his waist. He was taking no chances this time. He had borrowed these guns from Minky, the same as he had borrowed the mule and buckboard. They were fine weapons, too. He had tried them. Oh, no, if it came to shooting he would give a different account of himself this time. Mr. James must look to himself. So must Abe Conroy. He would have no mercy. And he frowned darkly down at the gigantic weapons.

Now he considered carefully the buildings ahead. The ranch was certainly a fine place. He found it in his heart to admire it, and only felt pity that it was the house of such a pitiable scoundrel as James. And yet he really felt sorry for James. Perhaps, after all, he ought not to be too hard on the man. Of course, he was a wicked scoundrel, but that might be merely misfortune. And, anyway, Jessie, his Jessie, was a very beautiful woman.

His eyes wandered on to the distant hills, catching up the smaller details of interest as they traveled. There were hundreds of cattle grazing about, and horses, too. Then there were the fenced-in pastures and the branding corrals. James must certainly be an excellent rancher, even if he were a scoundrel.

But the place was very still. Strangely still, he thought. There was not even one of the usual camp dogs to offer him its hostile welcome. He could see none of the "hands" moving about. Perhaps they were—

Of course. For the moment he had forgotten that they were not simple ranchers. He had forgotten they were man-hunters. They were probably out on the trail pursuing their nefarious calling. And, of course, Bill knew it. That was why he had told him to drive out on this particular morning. Wonderful man, Bill!

Suddenly the distant neighing of a horse startled him, and he looked across the woods beyond the house, the direction, he calculated, whence the sound came. But there was no horse to be seen. Nothing except the darkling cover of pine woods. It was strange. He was sure the sound came from that direction. No; there was certainly nothing in the shape of a horse out there. There wasn't even a cow. Perhaps it was a "stray" amongst the trees. So he dismissed the matter from his mind and chirruped at the old mule.

And now he came up to the ranch; and the stillness of the place became even more pronounced. It really was astonishing. Surely there must be somebody about. He pushed his guns well to the front, and drew his prairie hat forward so that the brim shaded his pale eyes. He further shifted his reins into his left hand, and sat with his right on the butt of one of his weapons. Whatever was to come he was ready for it. One thing he had made up his mind to; he would stand no nonsense from anybody—certainly not from James or Conroy.

The old mule plodded on, and, with the instinct of its kind, headed in the direction of the nearest corral. And Scipio was forced to abandon his warlike attitude, and with both hands drag him away into the direction of the house door. But somehow in those last moments he entirely forgot that his mission was a fighting one, and sat shaking the reins and chirruping noisily in the approved manner of any farmer on a visit.

He stared up at the house as he came. His eyes were filled with longing. He forgot the barns, the corrals as possible ambushes. He forgot every thought of offense or defense. There was the abode of his beloved Jessie, and all he wondered was in which part of it lay her prison. He was overflowing with a love so great that there was no room in either brain or body for any other thought or feeling.

But Jessie was nowhere to be seen, and a shadow of disappointment clouded his face as he halted the only too willing beast and clambered down between the spidery wheels. Nor did he wait to secure his faithful servitor, or to think of anything practical at all. He hustled up to the open doorway, and, pushing his head in through it, called till the echoes of the place rang—

"Ho, Jess! Ho, you, Jess! It's me—Zip! I come to fetch you to home."

The echoes died away and the place became still again. And somehow the quiet of it set him bristling. His hands flew to his guns and remained there while he stood listening. But no answer came, and his redundant hope slowly ebbed, leaving a muddy shore of apprehension.

Then, with one glance back over his shoulder, he moved into the building with much the stealth of a thief. In the living-room he stood and stared about him uncertainly. It was the same room he had been in before, and he remembered its every detail. Suddenly he pushed the evil of those recollections aside and called again—

"Ho, Jess! Ho-o-o!"

But the confidence had gone from his tone, and his call suggested an underlying doubt.

Again came the echoes. Again they died. Then—yes—there was a sound that had nothing to do with echoes. Again—yes—sure. It was the sound of someone moving in an upper room. He listened attentively, and again his eyes brightened with ready hope.

"Jess! Jess!" he called.

And this time there was an answer.

Without a moment's hesitation, without a second's thought, he dashed through an open doorway and ran up the narrow flight of stairs beyond.

At last, at last! His Jessie! He had heard her voice. He had heard the music he had longed for, craved for, prayed for. Was there anything in the world that mattered else? Was there anything in the world that could keep him from her now? No, not now. His love permeated his whole being. There was no thought in his mind of what she had done. There was no room in his simple heart for anything but the love he could not help, and would not have helped if he could. There was no obstacle now, be it mountain or stream, that he could not bridge to reach his Jessie. His love was his life, and his life belonged to—Jessie.

He reached the top of the stairs, and a door stood open before him. He did not pause to consider what lay beyond. His instinct guided him. His love led him whither it would, and it led him straight into the presence he desired more than all the world. It led him straight to Jessie.

For the fraction of a second he became aware of a vision of womanhood, to him the most perfect in all the world. He saw the well-loved face, now pale and drawn with suffering and remorse. He saw the shadowed eyes full of an affrighted, hunted expression. And, with a cry that bore in its depth all the love of a heart as big as his small body, he ran forward to clasp her in his arms.

But Jessie's voice arrested him half-way. It thrilled with hysterical denial, with suffering, regret, horror. And so commanding was it that he had no power to defy its mandate.

"No, no," she shrilled. "Keep back—back. You must not come near me. I am not fit for you to touch."

"Not fit—?"

Scipio stared helplessly at her, his eyes settling uncertainly upon her hands as though he expected to find upon them signs of some work she might have been engaged upon—some work that left her, as she had said, unfit to touch. His comprehension was never quick. His imagination was his weakest point.

Then his eyes came to her well-loved face again, and he shook his head.

"You—you got me beat, Jess. I—"

"Ah, Zip, Zip!" Suddenly Jessie's hands went up to her face and her eyes were hidden. It was the movement of one who fears to witness the hatred, the loathing, the scorn which her own accusing mind assures her she merits. It was the movement of one whose heart was torn by remorse and shame, whose eyes were open to her sins, and who realizes that earthly damnation is her future lot. Her bosom heaved, and dry sobs choked her. And the little man, who had come so far to claim her, stood perplexed and troubled.

At last he struggled out a few words, longing to console, but scarcely understanding how to go about it. All he understood was that she was ill and suffering.

"Say, Jess, you mustn't to cry," he said wistfully. "Ther' ain't nothin' to set you cryin'. Ther' sure ain't—"

But a woman's hysteria was a thing unknown to him, and his gentle attempt was swept aside in a torrent of insensate denial.

"No, no! Don't come near me," she cried in a harsh, strident tone. "Leave me. Leave me to my misery. Don't dare to come here mocking me. Don't dare to accuse me. Who are you to accuse? You are no better than me. You have no right to come here as my judge. You, with your smooth ways, your quiet sneers. Don't you dare! Don't you dare! I'm no longer your wife, so you have no right. I'm his—his. Do you understand? I'm his. I shall live the life I choose, and you shall not molest me. I know you. You've come to accuse me, to tell me all I am, to tax me with my shame. It's cruel—cruel. Oh, God, help me—help me!"

The woman's voice died out in a piteous wail that smote straight to the heart of the little man who stood shaking before her hysterical outbreak. He knew not what to do. His love prompted him to go to her and crush her to his simple, loving heart, but somehow he found himself unable to do anything but gaze with longing eyes upon the heart-broken figure, as she leant upon the foot-rail of the bed.

He stirred. And in the moments that passed while his eyes were fixed upon her rich, heaving bosom, his mind groping vaguely, he became aware of everything about him. He knew he was in her bedroom. He knew that the furnishings were good. He knew that the sunlight was pouring in through the open window, and that a broad band of dazzling light was shining upon her lustrous dark hair. He knew all these things in the same way that he knew she was suffering so that she came near breaking his own sympathetic heart.

But though his intellect failed him, and he had no idea of what he ought to say or do, words came at last and tumbled headlong from his lips, just as they were inspired, all unconsidered, by his heart.

"Say, Jessie gal," he cried in a softly persuasive tone, "won't you come to home—an'—an' help me out? Won't you, gal?"

But he was given no time to complete his appeal. The woman suddenly raised her face, and once more broke out in hysterical fury.

"Home? Home? With you?" she cried. "Ha, ha! That's too good! Home, with you to forever remind me what I am? For you to sneer at me, and point me to your friends for what I am? Never, never! Go you back where you came from. I'm not a wife. Do you hear? God help me, I'm—" And she buried her face again upon her arms.

"Won't you come to home, gal?" the man persisted. "Won't you? I'm so desp'rit lonesome. An' the kids, too. Gee! they're jest yearnin' an' yearnin' for you—nigh as bad as me."

He took a step towards her with his arms outstretched. All his soul was in his mild eyes. And presently Jessie raised her head again. She stood staring at the wall opposite her. It was as though she dared not face him. Her eyes were burning, but they were less wild, and a sudden hope thrilled the man's heart. He hurried on, fearful lest the old storm should break out again—

"Y'see, Jess, ther' ain't nuthin' to our pore little shack on the 'dumps' without you. Ther' sure ain't. Then ther's my claim. I sold ha'f. An'—an' I got money now—I—"

The woman's eyes turned slowly upon him. They were red with unshed tears. Their expression was curious. There was doubt and shrinking in them. It almost seemed as if she were wondering if all the past days of regret and longing had turned her brain, and she were listening to words conjured by a distorted fancy, some insane delusion. She could not believe. But Scipio continued, and his voice was real enough.

"I—know I ain't much of a feller for the likes of you, Jess," he said earnestly. "I ain't quick. I ain't jest bright. But I do love you, my dear. I love you so I can't think nothin' else. I want you to home, Jess, that bad, I thank God ev'ry day He give you to me. I want you so bad it don't seem you ever bin away from me. I want you that bad I can't remember the last week or so. You'll come—to home, gal—now? Think—jest think o' them bits o' twins. You wait till you see 'em laff when they get eyes on you. Say, they're that bonny an' bright. They're jest like you, wi' their eyes all a-sparklin', an' their cheeks that rosy. Gee! they're jest a-yearnin' an' a-callin' fer their mam—same as me."

The little man had moved another step nearer. His arms were still outstretched, and his quaint face was all aglow with the warmth and love that stirred him. Somewhere in the back of his dull head he knew that he was pleading for something more than his life. He had no subtlety in his manner or his words. It was just his heart talking for him and guiding him.

And in the woman had risen a sudden hope. It was a struggling ray of light in the blackness of her despair. It was a weak struggling flicker—just a flicker. And even as it rose its power was dashed again in the profundity of her suffering. She could not grasp the hand held out—she could not see it. She could not believe the words her ears heard.

"No, no, don't mock at me," she cried, with a sudden return to her old wildness. "It is cruel, cruel! Leave me. For pity's sake go. How can you stand there taunting me so? How can I go with you? How can I face my children now? Do you know what I am? No, no, of course you don't. You could never understand. You, with your foolish, simple mind. Shall I tell you what I am? Shall I say it? Shall I—"

But the man's hand went up and held her silent.

"You don't need to say nothing, Jess," he said in his mildest tone. "You don't need to, sure. Whatever you are, you're all the world to me—jest all."

With a sudden cry the woman's head dropped upon her outspread arms, and the merciful tears, so long denied her, gushed forth. Her body heaved, and it seemed to the distraught man that her poor heart must be breaking. He did not know what those tears meant to her. He did not know that the victory of his love was very, very near. Only he saw her bowed in passionate distress, and he had no thought of how to comfort her.

He waited, waited. But the flood once broken loose must needs spend itself. Such is the way with women, of whom he had so small an understanding. He turned away to the window. He stared with unseeing eyes at the fair picture of the beautiful valley. The moments passed—long, dreary moments rapidly changing to minutes. And then at last the storm began to die down, and he turned again towards her and drew a step nearer.

"Jess—Jess," he murmured.

Then he took another hesitating step.

But his words seemed to have started her tears afresh, and into his eyes came that painful perplexity again.

Again he ventured, and his step this time brought him close to her side.

"Jess, gal—Jess," he pleaded, with infinite tenderness.

And as the woman continued to sob he stole one arm gently about her waist. She made no move. Only her shaking body calmed, and her tears became more silent.

He strove to draw her towards him, but she clung to the bed-rail with almost child-like persistence, as though she dared not permit herself the hope his encircling arms inspired. But she had not rebuffed him, so with some assertion he thrust his other arm about her, and, exerting force, deliberately turned her towards him.

"Say, don't you to cry, lass," he whispered softly. "Don't you, now. It jest makes me sore right through. It jest makes me feel all of a choke, an'—an' I want to cry, too. Say, gal, I love you good. I do, Jess—I sure do. Ther' ain't nothin' in the world I wouldn't do to stop them tears. Come to home, gal—come to home."

And as he finished speaking he drew her dark head down to his breast, and laid his thin cheek against her wealth of hair. And, pressing her to the home that was for all time hers, his own eyes filled with tears which slowly rolled down his cheeks and mingled themselves with hers.



CHAPTER XXXIII

THE REASON WHY

When Scipio turned his back upon the valley it was with the intention of resting his old mule at the place of the friendly farmer whom he had encountered on his first memorable visit to James' secret abode. From thence, after a night's rest, he would start late next day, and make the creek soon after sundown. For the sake of Jessie he had no desire to make a daylight entry into the camp.

The old mule certainly needed rest. And, besides, it was pleasant to prolong the journey. Moments such as the present were scarce enough in life. And though Jessie was with him for all time now, he greedily hugged to himself these hours alone with her, when there was nothing but the fair blue sky and waving grass, the hills and valleys, to witness his happiness, none of the harshness of life to obtrude upon his perfect joy; nothing, not even the merest duties of daily life, to mar the delicious companionship which his wife's long-desired presence afforded him. The whole journey was to be a sort of honeymoon, a thousand times sweeter for the misery and unhappiness through which they had both passed.

He thought of nothing else. The very existence of James and his gang had passed from his recollection. He had no mind for dangers of any sort. He had no mind for anything or anybody but his Jessie, his beautiful Jessie—his wife.

Had he had the least curiosity or interest in other matters, there were many things, strange things, about the recovery of his wife which might have set him wondering. For instance, he might have speculated as to the desertion of the ranch—the absence of dogs, the absence of all those signs which tell of a busy enterprise—things which could not be adequately accounted for by the mere absence of the head of it, even though he were accompanied by his fighting men. He might have glanced about among the barns and corrals, or—he might even have questioned his Jessie.

Had he done either of these things a certain amount of enlightenment would undoubtedly have penetrated to his unsuspicious mind. He must inevitably have detected the hand or hands of his earthly guardian angels in the manner in which his path had been cleared of all obstructions.

Had he been less occupied with his own happiness, with the joy of having Jessie once more beside him, and chanced to look back into the valley as he left it forever, he would certainly have received enlightenment. But he never knew what had been done for him, he never knew the subtle working for his welfare.

Thus it was, all unobserved by him, the moment he was at sufficient distance from the ranch, three horsemen suddenly appeared from amidst the most adjacent point of the forest on the far side of the valley and galloped across to the house. They ran their horses to cover amongst the buildings and dismounted, immediately vanishing into one of the barns.

And as they disappeared a good deal of laughter, a good deal of forceful talk, came from the place which had swallowed them up. Then, after awhile, the three reappeared in the open, and with them came an old choreman, whose joints ached, and whose villainous temper had seriously suffered under the harsh bonds which had held him secure from interference with Scipio for so long.

The men herded him out before them, quite heedless of his bitter vituperation and blasphemy. And when they had driven him forth Sunny Oak pointed out to him the retreating buckboard as it vanished over the far hillside.

"Ther' they go, you miser'ble old son of a moose," he cried with a laugh. "Ther' they go. An' I guess when James gits around ag'in you'll likely pay a mighty fine reck'nin'. An' I'll sure say I won't be a heap sorry neither. You've give me a power o' trouble comin' along out here. I ain't had no sort o' rest fer hours an' hours, an' I hate folks that sets me busy."

"You're a pizenous varmint, sure," added Sandy, feeling that Sunny must not be allowed all the talk. "An' your langwidge is that bad I'll need to git around a Bible-class ag'in to disinfect my ears."

"You sure will," agreed Toby, with one of his fatuous grins. "I never see any feller who needed disinfectin' more." Then he turned upon the evil-faced choreman and added his morsel of admonition. "Say, old man, as you hope to git buried yourself when James gits around ag'in, I guess you best go an' dig that miser'ble cur o' yours under, 'fore he gits pollutin' the air o' this yer valley, same as you are at the moment. He's cost me a goodish scrap, but I don't grudge it him noways. Scrappin's an elegant pastime, sure—when you come out right end of it."

After that, cowed but furious, the old man was allowed to depart, and the three guardians of Scipio's person deliberately returned to their charge. Their instructions were quite clear, even though they only partially understood the conditions making their work necessary. Scipio must be safeguarded. They were to form an invisible escort, clearing his road for him and making his journey safe. So they swung into the saddle and rode hot-foot on the trail of their unconscious charge.

For the most part they rode silently. Already the journey had been long and tiresomely uneventful, and Sunny Oak particularly reveled in an impotent peevishness which held him intensely sulky. The widower, too, was feeling anything but amiable. What with his recent futile work on a claim which was the ridicule of the camp, and now the discomfort of a dreary journey, his feelings towards Wild Bill were none too cordial. Perhaps Toby was the most cheerful of the three. The matters of the Trust had been a pleasant break in the daily routine of dispossessing himself of remittances from his friends in the East. And the unusual effort made him feel good.

They had reached the crown of the hill bordering the valley, where the trail debouched upon the prairie beyond, and the effort of easing his horse, as the struggling beast clawed its way up the shelving slope, at last set loose the tide of the loafer's ill-temper. He suddenly turned upon his companions, his angry face dirty and sweating.

"Say," he cried, "of all the blamed fules I'd say we three was the craziest ever pupped."

Sandy turned inquiring, contemptuous eyes in his direction. He always adopted a defensive attitude when Sunny opened out. Toby only grinned and waited for what was to come.

"Meanin'?" inquired Sandy in his coldest manner.

"Meanin'? Gee! it don't need a mule's intellec' to get my meanin'," said the loafer witheringly. "Wot, in the name o' glory, would I mean but this doggone ride we're takin'? Say, here's us three muttons chasin' glory on the tail o' two soppy lambs that ain't got savvee enough between 'em to guess the north end of a hoss when he's goin' south. An', wot's more, we're doin' it like a lot o' cluckin' hens chasin' a brood o' fule chicks. I tell you it jest makes me sick. An' ef I don't git six weeks' rest straight on end after this is thro' I'll be gettin' plumb 'bug,' or—or the colic, or suthin' ornery bum. I've done. Sufferin' Creek ain't no place fer a peace-lovin' feller like me, whose doin' all he knows to git thro' life easy an' without breakin' up a natterally delicate constitootion. I'm done. I quit."

Sandy's face was a study in sneers. Not because he did not agree with the sentiments, but Sunny always irritated him. But Toby only grinned the harder, and for once, while the widower was preparing an adequate retort, contrived to forestall him.

"Seems to me, Sunny, you ain't got a heap o' kick comin' to you," he said in his slow way. "I allow you come in this racket because you notioned it. Mebbe you'll say why you did it, else?"

This unexpected challenge from Toby had the effect of diverting the widower's thoughts. He left the consideration of the snub he had been preparing for the loafer for some future time, and waited for the other's reply. But Sunny was roused, and stared angrily round upon the grinning face of his questioner.

"Guess that ain't no affair of yours, anyway," he snorted. "I don't stand fer questions from no remittance guy. Gee! things is gittin' pretty low-down when it comes to that."

"Maybe a remittance man ain't a first-class callin'," said Toby, his grin replaced by a hot flush. "But if it comes to that I'd say a lazy loafin' bum ain't a heap o' credit noways neither. Howsum, them things don't alter matters any. An' I, fer one, is sick o' your grouse—'cos that's all it is. Say, you're settin' ther' on top o' that hoss like a badly sculptured image that needs a week's bathin', an' talkin' like the no-account fule most fellers guess you to be. Wal, show us you ain't none o' them things, show us you got some sort of a man inside your hide, an' tell us straight why you're out on this doggone trail when you're yearnin' fer your blankets."

The attack was so unexpected that for once Sunny had no reply ready. And Sandy positively beamed upon the challenger. And so they rode on for a few moments. Then Toby broke the silence impatiently.

"Wal?" he inquired, his face wreathed in a grin that had none of the amiability usual to it.

Sunny turned; and it was evident all his good-nature was restored. He had suddenly realized that to be baited by the fatuous Toby was almost refreshing, and he spoke without any sort of animosity. It would certainly have been different had the challenge come from the hectoring widower.

"Why for do I do it—an' hate it? Say, that's jest one o' them things a feller can't tell. Y'see, a feller grouses thro' life, a-worritin' hisself 'cos things don't seem right by his way o' thinkin'. That's natteral. He guesses he wants to do things one way, then sudden-like, fer no reason he ken see, he gits doin' 'em another. That's natteral, too. Y'see, ther's two things, it seems to me, makes a feller act. One's his fool head, an' the other—well, I don't rightly know what the other is, 'cep' it's his stummick. Anyways, that's how it is. My head makes me want to go one way, an' my feet gits me goin' another. So it is with this lay-out. An' I guess, ef you was sure to git to rock-bottom o' things, I'd say we're all doin' this thing 'cos Wild Bill said so."

He finished up with a chuckle that thoroughly upset the equilibrium of the widower, and set him jumping at the chance of retort.

"Guess you're scairt to death o' Wild Bill," he sneered.

"Wal," drawled Sunny easily, "I guess he's a feller wuth bein' scairt of—which is more than you are."

Sandy snorted defiantly. But a further wordy war was averted by the remittance man.

"Ther's more of a man to you than I allowed, Sunny," he said sincerely. "There sure is. Bill's a man, whatever else he is. He's sure the best man I've seen on Sufferin' Creek. But you're wrong 'bout him bein' the reason of us worritin' ourselves sick on this yer trail. It ain't your head which needs re-decoratin', neither. Nor it ain't your stummick, which, I allow, ain't the most wholesome part of you. Neither it ain't your splay feet. You missed it, Sunny, an' I allus tho't you was a right smart guy. The reason you're on this doggone trail chasin' glory wot don't never git around, is worryin' along in a buckboard ahead of us, behind ole Minky's mule, an' he's hoofin' to home at an express slug's gait. That's the reason you're on the trail, an' nothin' else. You're jest a lazy, loafin', dirty bum as 'ud make mud out of a fifty-gallon bath o' boilin' soapsuds if you was set in it, but you was mighty sore seein' pore Zip kicked to death by his rotten luck. An' feelin' that always you kind o' fergot to be tired. That's why you're on this doggone trail. 'Cos your fool heart ain't as dirty as your carkis."

And as he fired his last word Toby dashed his spurs into the flanks of his jaded horse, and galloped out of reach of the tide of vituperation he knew full well to be flowing in his wake.



CHAPTER XXXIV

THE LUCK OF SCIPIO

Suffering Creek was again in a state of ferment. It seemed as if there were nothing but one excitement after another in the place now. No sooner was the matter of the gold-stage passed than a fresh disturbance was upon them. And again the established industry of the place was completely at a standstill. Human nature could no more withstand the infection that was ravaging the camp than keep cool under a political argument. The thing that had happened now was tremendous.

Staid miners, old experienced hands whose lives were wedded to their quest of gold, whose interest in affairs was only taken from a standpoint of their benefit, or otherwise, to the gold interest, were caught in the feverish tide, and sent hurtling along with the rushing flood. Men whose pulses usually only received a quickening from the news of a fresh gold discovery now found themselves gaping with the wonder of it all, and asking themselves how it was this thing had happened, and if, indeed, it had happened, or were they dreaming.

The whole thing was monstrous, stupendous, and here, happening in their midst, practically all Suffering Creek were out of it. But in spite of this the fever of excitement raged, and no one was wholly impervious to it. Opinions ran riot—opinions hastily conceived and expressed without consideration, which is the way of people whose nerves have been suddenly strung tight by a matter of absorbing interest. Men who knew nothing of the nature of things which could produce so astonishing a result found themselves dissecting causes and possibilities which did not exist, and never could exist. They hastily proceeded to lay down their own law upon the subject with hot emphasis. They felt it necessary to do this to disguise their lack of knowledge and restore their personal standing. For the latter, they felt, had been sorely shaken by this sudden triumph of those whom they had so lately ridiculed.

And what was this wonderful thing that had happened? What was it that had set these hardened men crazy with excitement? It had come so suddenly, so mysteriously. It had come during the hours of darkness, when weary men hugged their blankets, and dreamed their dreams of the craft which made up their whole world.

There was no noise, no epoch-making upheaval, no blatant trumpetings to herald its coming. And the discovery was made by a single man on his way to his work just after the great golden sun had risen.

He was trailing his way along the creek bank over the road which led eventually to Spawn City. He was slouching along the wood-lined track at that swinging, laborious gait of a heavy-booted man. And his way lay across the oozy claim of Scipio.

But he never reached the claim. Long before he came in view of it he found himself confronted with a sluggish stream progressing slowly along the beaten sand of the trail. For a moment he believed that the creek had, for some freakish reason, suddenly overflowed its banks. But this thought was swiftly swept aside, and he stood snuffing the air like some warhorse, and gaping at the stream as it lapped about his feet.

It came on slowly but irresistibly. And ahead of him, and amongst the trailside bush, he beheld nothing but this rising flood. Then of a sudden something of its meaning penetrated his dazed comprehension, and, turning abruptly, he started to run for the higher ground. He sped swiftly through the surrounding bush, dodging tree-trunks, and threading his way circuitously in the direction where stood the great cut bank of quartz which backed Scipio's claim. The smell of the air had told him its tale, and he knew that he had made a wonderful, an astounding discovery. And with this knowledge had come the thought of his own possible advantage. Eagerly he began to seek the source of the flood.

But his hopes were completely dashed the moment he reached the bank overlooking Scipio's claim. There lay the source of the flood, right in the heart of the little man's despised land. A great gusher of coal-oil was belching from the mouth of the shaft which Sandy Joyce had been at work upon, and the whole clearing, right from the oozy swamp beyond to the higher ground of the river bank, stealing its way along trail and through bush, lay a vast shallow lake of raw coal-oil.

The disappointed man waited just sufficiently long to realize the magnitude of Scipio's luck, and then set off at a run for the camp.

And in half-an-hour the camp was in a raging fever. In half-an-hour nearly the whole of Suffering Creek had set out for the claim, that they might see for themselves this wonderful thing that had happened. In half-an-hour the whole thing was being explained in theory by everybody to everybody else. In half-an-hour everybody was inquiring for Scipio, and each and all were desirous of being first to convey the news.

And when it was discovered that Scipio was from home, and knew nothing of his good fortune, a fresh thought came to every mind. What had become of him? They learned that he had borrowed Minky's buckboard, and had driven away. And immediately in the public mind crept an unexpressed question. Had Zip abandoned the place in the face of his ill-luck, and, if so, what about this gigantic oil find?

However, there was nothing to be done at present but wait. The flow of oil could not be checked, and the tremendous waste must go on. The gusher would flow on until the pressure below lessened, and after that it would die down, and require pumps to further exhaust it.

So the camp resigned itself to a contemplation of this wonderful new industry that had sprung up unsought in their midst; and the luck of Scipio was upon everybody's lips. Nor was there only the wonder of it in every mind, for, after the first feelings of envy and covetousness had passed away, the humor of the thing became apparent. And it was Joe Brand, in the course of discussing the matter with Minky, who first drew attention to the queer pranks which fortune sometimes plays.

"Say, don't it lick creation?" he cried. "Can you beat it? No, sirree. It's the best ever—it sure is. Say, here's the worstest mule-head ever got foothold on this yer continent sets out to chase gold in a place no one outside a bug-house would ever find time to git busy, an' may I be skinned alive an' my bones grilled fer a cannibal's supper if he don't find sech a fortune in ile as 'ud set all the whole blamed world's ile market hatin' itself. Gee!"

And Minky nodded his head. He also smiled slyly upon those who stood about him.

"Ther' sure is elegant humor to most things in this yer life," he said dryly. "Which 'minds me Wild Bill bo't ha'f o' that claim o' Zip's 'fore he set out fer Spawn City."

And at his words somehow a curious thoughtfulness fell upon his hearers. Nor was there any responsive smile among them. The humor he spoke of seemed to have passed them by, leaving them quite untouched by its point. And presently they drifted away, joining other groups, where the reminder that Bill had been derided by the whole camp for his absurd purchase had an equally damping effect.

But the day was to be more eventful even than the promise of the morning had suggested. And the second surprise came about noon.

Excitement was still raging. Half the camp was down at Zip's claim watching the miracle of the oil gusher, and the other half was either on their way thither or returning from it. Some of them were gathering the raw oil in cans and tubs, others were hurrying to do so. And none of them quite knew why they were doing it, or what, if any, the use they could put the stuff to. They were probably inspired by the fact that there was the stuff going to waste by the hundreds of gallons, and they felt it incumbent upon them to save what they could. Anyway, it was difficult to tear themselves away from the fascinations of Nature's prodigal outburst, and so, as being the easiest and most pleasurable course, they abandoned themselves to it.

So it was that Minky found his store deserted. He lounged idly out on to the veranda and propped himself against one of the posts. And, standing there, his thoughtful eyes roamed, subtly attracted to the spot where Zip's luck had demonstrated itself.

He stood there for some time watching the hurrying figures of the miners as they moved to and fro, but his mind was far away. Somehow Zip's luck, in spite of the excessive figures which extravagant minds had estimated it at, only took second place with him. He was thinking of the man who had journeyed to Spawn City. He was worrying about him, his one and only friend.

He had understood something of that self-imposed task which the gambler had undertaken, though its full significance had never quite been his. Now he felt that in some way he was responsible. Now he felt that the journey should never have been taken. He felt that he should have refused to ship his gold. And yet he knew full well that his refusal would have been quite useless. Wild Bill was a man whom opposition only drove the harder, and he would have contrived a means of carrying out his purpose, no matter what barred his way.

However, even with this assurance he still felt uncomfortably regretful. His responsibility was no less, and for the life of him he could not rise to enthusiasm over this luck of Scipio's. It would have been different if Bill had been there to discuss the matter with him.

And as the moments passed his spirits fell lower and lower, until at last a great depression weighed him down.

It was in the midst of this depression, when, for the hundredth time, he had wished that his friend had never started out on his wild enterprise, that he suddenly found himself staring out across the river at the Spawn City trail. He stared for some moments, scarcely comprehending that at which he looked. Then suddenly he became aware of a horseman racing down the slope towards the river, and in a moment mind and body were alert, and he stood waiting.

* * * * *

Minky was still standing on his veranda. But he was no longer leaning against the post; he was holding a letter in his hand which he had just finished reading. It was a painful-looking document for all its neat, clear writing. It was stained with patches of dark red that were almost brown, and the envelope he held in his other hand was almost unrecognizable for the same hideous stain that completely covered it.

The man who had delivered it was resting on the edge of the veranda. He had told his story; and now he sat chewing, and watching his weary horse tethered at the hitching-post a few yards away.

"An' he drove that cart fer six hours—dead?" Minky asked, without removing his eyes from the blood-stained letter.

"That's sure how I sed," returned the messenger, and went stolidly on with his chewing. The other breathed deeply.

Then he read the letter over again. He read it slowly, so as to miss no word or meaning it might contain. And, curiously, as he read a feeling of wonder filled him at the excellence of the writing and composition. He did not seem to remember having seen Bill's writing before. And here the rough, hard-living gambler was displaying himself a man of considerable education. It was curious. All the years of their friendship had passed without him discovering that his gambling friend was anything but an illiterate ruffian of the West, with nothing but a great courage, a powerful personality and a moderately honest heart to recommend him.

"My Dear Minky,

"I'm dead—dead as mutton. Whether I'm cooked mutton, or raw, I can't just say. Anyway, I'm dead—or you wouldn't get this letter.

"Now this letter is not to express regrets, or to sentimentalize. You'll agree that's not my way. Death doesn't worry me any. No, this letter is just a 'last will and testament,' as the lawyers have it. And I'm sending it to you because I know you'll see things fixed right for me. You see, I put everything into your hands for two reasons: you're honest, and you're my friend. Now, seeing you're rich and prosperous I leave you nothing out of my wad. But I'd like to hand you a present of my team—if they're still alive—team and harness and cart. And you'll know, seeing I always had a notion the sun, moon and stars rose and set in my horses, the spirit in which I give them to you, and the regard I had for our friendship. Be good to them, old friend.

For the rest, my dollars, and anything else I've got, I'd like Zip's kids to have. They're bright kids, and I've got a notion for them. And, seeing Zip's their father, maybe dollars will be useful to them. You can divide things equally between them.

"And in conclusion you can tell Zip if he can do a good turn, which I don't suppose he'll be able to, to either Sunny Oak, or Sandy Joyce, or Toby Jenks, he'd best do it. Because he owes them something he'll probably never hear about.

"This is the last will and testament, as the lawyers say, of

"Your old friend, "Wild Bill. "(A no-account gambler, late of Abilene.)"

Minky looked up from the letter again, and his eyes were shadowed. He felt that that letter contained more of the gambler's heart than he would ever have allowed himself to display in life.

And into his mind came many memories—memories that stirred him deeply. He was thinking of the days when he had first encountered Bill years ago, when the name of Wild Bill was a terror throughout Texas and the neighboring States. And he smiled as he remembered how a perturbed Government had been forced, for their own peace of mind, and for the sake of the peace of the country, to put this "terror" on the side of law and order, and make him a sheriff of the county. And then, too, he remembered the trouble Bill was always getting into through mixing up his private feuds with his public duties. Still, he was a great sheriff, and never was such order kept in the county.

He turned again to the man at his side.

"An' he got thro' with the gold?" he inquired slowly.

"Jest as I sed," retorted the weary messenger. "Guess I helped sheriff to deposit it in the bank."

"And he's dead?"

The man stirred impatiently and spat.

"Dead—as mutton."

Minky sighed.

"An' you come along the Spawn City trail?" he asked presently.

"I ain't got wings."

"An' you saw—?"

"The birds flappin' around—nigh chokin' with human meat."

The man laughed cynically.

"Did you recognize—?"

"I see James. He was dead—as mutton, too—an' all his gang. Gee! It must 'a' bin a hell of a scrap."

The man spat out a stream of tobacco juice and rubbed his hands.

"It sure must," agreed Minky. And he passed into the store.

* * * * *

It was dark when Scipio urged the old mule up the bank at the fork of the creek. He was very weary, and Jessie was asleep beside him, with her head pillowed upon his shoulder. His arm was about her, supporting her, and he sat rigid, lest the bumping of the rattling vehicle should waken her. The position for him was trying, but he never wavered. Cramped and weary as he was, he strove by every means in his power to leave her undisturbed.

And as he passed the river three ghostly figures ambled down to the bank, and, after drinking their horses, likewise passed over. But while Scipio kept to the trail, they vanished amidst the woods. Their task was over, and they sought the shortest route to their homes.

And so Scipio came to his claim. And such was his state of mind, so was he taken up with the happiness which the presence of his wife beside him gave him, and such was his delight in looking forward to the days to come, that he saw nothing of that which lay about him.

The air to him was sweet with all the perfumes his thankful heart inspired in his thoughts. His road was a path of roses. The reek of oil was beyond his simple ken. Nor did he heed the slush, slush of his mule's feet, as the old beast floundered through the lake of oil spread out on all sides about him. The gurgling, the sadly bubbling gusher, even, might have been one of the fairy sounds of night, for all thought he gave to it.

No; blind to all things practical as he always was, how was it possible that Scipio, leaving Suffering Creek a poor, struggling prospector, should realize by these outward signs that he had returned to it, possibly, a millionaire?



CHAPTER XXXV

HOME

Scipio stood in the doorway of his hut with a hopelessly dazed look in his pale eyes and a perplexed frown upon his brow. He had just returned from Minky's store, whither he had been to fetch his twins home. He had brought them with him, leading them, one in each hand. And at sight of their mother they had torn themselves free from their father's detaining hands and rushed at her.

Jessie, strangely subdued, but with a wonderful light of happiness in her eyes, was in the midst of "turning out" the bedroom. She had spent the whole morning cleaning and garnishing with a vigor, with a heartwhole enjoyment, such as never in all her married life had she displayed before. And now, as the children rushed at her, their piping voices shrieking their joyous greeting, she hugged them to her bosom as though she would squeeze their precious lives out of them. She laughed and cried at the same time in a way that only women in the throes of unspeakable joy can. Her words, too, were incoherent, as incoherent as the babble of the children themselves. It was a sight of mother-love rarely to be witnessed, a sight which, under normal conditions, must have filled the simple heart of Scipio with a joy and happiness quite beyond words.

But just now it left him untouched, and as he silently looked on he passed one hand helplessly across his forehead. He pushed his hat back so that his stubby fingers could rake amongst his yellow hair. And Jessie, suddenly looking up from the two heads nestling so close against her bosom, realized the trouble in her husband's face. Her realization came with a swiftness that would have been impossible in those old days of discontent.

"Why, Zip," she cried, starting to her feet and coming quickly towards him, "what—what's the matter? What's wrong?"

But the little man only shook his head dazedly, and his eyes wandered from her face to the two silently staring children, and then to the table so carefully laid for the midday meal.

"Here, sit down," Jessie hurried on, darting towards a chair and setting it for him beside the stove. "You're sick, sure," she declared, peering into his pale face, as he silently, almost helplessly, obeyed her. "It's the sun," she went on. "That's what it is—driving in the sun all yesterday. It's—it's been too much for you."

Again the man passed a hand across his brow. But this time he shook his head.

"'Tain't the sun, Jess," he said vaguely. "It's—it's oil!"

For a moment the woman stared. Then she turned to the gaping twins, and hustled them out of the room to play. Poor Zip's head had suddenly gone wrong, she believed, and—

But as she came back from the door she found that he had risen from the chair in which she had set him, and was standing looking at her, and through her, and beyond her, as though she were not there at all. And in an instant she was at his side, with an arm thrown protectingly about his shoulders.

"Tell me, Zip—oh, tell me, dear, what's wrong? Surely—surely, after all that has gone—Oh, tell me! Don't keep me in suspense. Is—is it James?" she finished up in a terrified whisper.

The mention of that detested name had instant effect. Scipio's face cleared, and the dazed look of his eyes vanished as if by magic. He shook his head.

"James is dead," he said simply. And Jessie breathed a sigh of such relief that even he observed it, and it gladdened him. "Yes," he went on, "James is sure dead. Wild Bill done him up and his whole gang. But Bill's gone, too."

"Bill, too?" Jessie murmured.

Scipio nodded; and perplexity stole over his face again.

"Yes. I—I don't seem to understand. Y'see, he done James up, an'—an' James done him up—sort o' mutual. Y'see, they told me the rights of it, but—but ther's so many things I—I don't seem to got room for them all in my head. It seems, too, that Bill had quite a piece of money. An' he's kind of given it to the kids. I—I don't—"

"How much?" demanded the practical feminine.

"Seventy thousand dollars," replied the bewildered man.

"Seventy thou—Who told you?"

"Why—Minky. Said he'd got it all. But—but that ain't the worst."

"Worst?"

Jessie was smiling now—smiling with that motherly, protecting confidence so wonderfully womanly.

Scipio nodded; and his eyes sought hers for encouragement.

"Ther's the oil, millions an' millions of it—gallons, I mean."

"Oil? Millions of gallons? Oh, Zip, do—do be sensible."

Jessie stood before him, and his worried look seemed to have found a reflection upon her handsome face.

"It isn't me. It ain't my fault. It sure ain't, Jess," he declared wistfully. "I've seen it. It's there. My pore claim's jest drowned with it. I'll never find that gold now—not if I was to pump a year. It's just bubbling up an' up out o' the bowels of the earth, an'—an' Minky says I'll have to set up pumps an' things, an' he's goin' to help me. So is Sunny Oak, an' Toby, an' Sandy, an' he sez we'll find the gold sure if we pump the oil. Sez it's there, an' I'll be rich as Rockefeller an' all them millionaires. But I can't seem to see it, if the gold's drownded in that messy, smelly oil. Maybe you ken see. You're quicker'n me. You—"

But Jessie never let him finish.

"Oil?" she cried, her eyes swimming with tears of joy and gentle affection for the simple soul so incapable of grasping anything but his own single purpose. "Oil?" she cried. "Oh, Zip, don't you understand? Don't you see? It's oil—coal-oil. You've been searching for gold and found oil. And there's millions of dollars in coal-oil."

But the little man's face dropped.

"Seems a pity," he said dispiritedly. "I could 'a' swore ther' was gold there—I sure could. I'd have found it, too—if the oil hadn't washed us out. Bill thought so, too; an' Bill was right smart. Guess we'll find it, though, after we pumped the oil."

Suddenly the woman reached out both arms and laid her hands upon his diminutive shoulders. Her eyes had grown very tender.

"Zip," she cried gently, "Zip, I think God has been very good to me. He's been kinder to me than He has been to you. You deserve His goodness; I don't. And yet He's given me a man with a heart of—of gold. He's given me a man whose love I have trampled under-foot and flung away. He's given me a man who, by his own simple honesty, his goodness, has shown me the road to perfect happiness. He's given me all this in return for a sin that can never be wiped out—"

But suddenly Scipio freed himself from the gentle grasp of her restraining hands, and caught her in his arms.

"Don't you—don't you to say it, Jess," he cried, all his great love shining in his eyes. His perplexity and regret were all gone now, and only had he thought of his love. "Don't you to say nuthin' against yourself. You're my wife—my Jessie. An' as long as I've got life I don't want nothin' else—but my Jessie. Say, gal, I do love you."

"And—and—oh, if you can only believe me, Zip, I love you."

The man reached up and drew the woman's face down to his, and kissed her on the lips.

"It don't matter 'bout not finding that gold now," he cried, and kissed her again.

"No, it—"

"Say, momma, ain't it dinner yet?"

"Ess, me want din-din."

The man and woman sprang guiltily apart before the wondering eyes of their children, and the next moment both of the small creatures were caught up and hugged in loving arms.

"Why, sure, kiddies," cried Scipio, his face wreathed in happy smiles. "Momma's got dinner all fixed—so come right along."

THE END