His father was too lame to ride fast and Pan, much as he longed to rush, did not want to leave him behind. But it was utterly impossible for Pan to enter into the animated conversation carried on by his father and Blinky. They were talking wagons, teams, harness, grain, homesteads and what not. Pan rode alone, a little ahead of them.

Almost, he loved this wild and rugged land. But that was the ecstasy of the moment. This iron country was too cut up by mountains, with valleys too bare and waterless, to suit Pan. Not to include the rough and violent element of men attracted by gold!

Nevertheless on this bright autumn morning there was a glamour over valley and ridge, black slope and snowy peak, and the dim distant ranges. The sky was as blue as the inside of a columbine, a rich and beautiful light of gold gilded the wall of rock that boldly cropped out of the mountainside; and the wide sweeping expanse of sage lost itself in a deep purple horizon. Ravens and magpies crossed Pan's glad eyesight. Jack rabbits bounded down the aisles between the sage bushes. Far out on the plain he descried antelope, moving away with their telltale white rumps. The air was sweet, intoxicating, full of cedar fragrance and the cool breath from off the heights.

While he saw and felt all this his mind scintillated with thoughts of Lucy Blake. He would see her presently, have the joy of surprising her into betrayal of love. He fancied her wide eyes of changing dark blue, and the swift flame of scarlet that so readily stained her neck and cheek.

He would tell her about the great good fortune that had befallen him; and about the beautiful mare, Little Bay, he had captured for her; and now they could talk and plan endlessly, all the way down to Siccane.

When would Lucy marry him? That was a staggering question. His heart swelled to bursting. Had he the courage to ask her at once? He tried to see the matter from Lucy's point of view, but without much success.

Dreaming thus, Pan rode along without being aware of the time or distance.

"Hey, pard," called Blinky, in loud banter. "Are you goin' to ride past where your gurl lives?"

With a violent start Pan wheeled his horse. He saw that he had indeed ridden beyond the entrance to a farm, which upon second look he recognized. It was, however, an angle with which he had not been familiar. The corrals and barn and house were hidden in trees.

"I'm loco, all right," he replied with a little laugh.

Through gate and lane they galloped, on to the corral, and round that to the barn. This was only a short distance to the house. Pan leaped from his horse and ran.

With an uplift of his heart that was almost pain, he rushed round the corner of the house to the vine-covered porch.

The door was shut. Stealthily he tiptoed across the porch to knock. No answer! He tried the door. Locked! A quiver ran through him.

"Strange," he muttered, "not home this early."

He peered through the window, to see on floor and table ample evidence of recent packing. That gave check to a creeping blankness which was benumbing Pan. He went on to look into his mother's bedroom. The bed looked as if it had been used during the night and had not been made up. Perhaps his mother and Lucy had gone into Marco to purchase necessities.

"But—didn't I tell Lucy not to go?" he queried, in bewilderment.

Resolutely he cast out doubtful speculations. There could hardly be anything wrong. Hurriedly he returned to the barn.

"Wal, I'll tell you," Blinky was holding forth blandly, "this heah grubbin' around without a home an' a woman ain't no good. I'm shore through. I'm agoin'—"

"Nobody home," interrupted Pan.

"Well, that's nothin' to make you pale round the gills," returned his father. "They're gone to town. Mother had a lot of buyin' to do."

"But I particularly told Lucy to stay here."

"S'pose you did," interposed Blinky. "Thet's nothin'. You don't expect this heah gurl to mind you."

"No time for joking, Blink," said Pan curtly. "It just doesn't set right on my chest. I've got to find Lucy pronto. But where to go!"

With a single step he reached his stirrup and swung into his saddle.

"Pan, Lucy an' the wife will be in one of the stores. Don't worry about them. Why, they did all our buyin'."

"I tell you I don't like it," snapped Pan. "It's not what I think, but what I feel. All the same, wherever they are it doesn't change our plans. I'll sure find them, and tell them we're packing to leave pronto..... Now, Dad, buy three wagons and teams, grain, grub, and whatever else we need for two weeks or more on the road. Soon as I find Lucy and Mother I'll meet you and help you with the buying."

"I ought to talk it over with Ma before I buy grub," replied his father, perplexedly scratching his head. "I wish they was home."

"Come on, Blink," called Pan, as he rode out.

Blinky joined him out in the road.

"Pard, I don't get your hunch, but I can see you're oneasy."

"I'm just loco, that's all," returned Pan, forcing himself. "It's—such—such a disappointment not to see—her.... Made me nervous. Makes me think how anything might happen. I never trusted Jim Blake. And Lucy is only a kid in years."

"Ahuh," said Blinky, quietly. "Reckon I savvy. You wouldn't feel thet way fer nothin'."

"Blink, I'm damn glad you're with me," rejoined Pan feelingly, turning to face his comrade. "No use to bluff with you. I wish to heaven I could say otherwise, but I'm afraid there's something wrong."

"Shore. Wal, we'll find out pronto," replied Blinky, with his cool hard spirit, "an' if there is, we'll damn soon make it right."

They rode rapidly until they reached the outskirts of town, when Blinky called Pan to a halt.

"Reckon you'd better not ride through Main Street," he said significantly.

They tied their horses behind a clump of trees between two deserted shacks. Pan removed his ragged chaps, more however to be freer of movement than because they were disreputable.

"Now, Blink, we'll know pronto if the town is friendly to us," he said seriously.

"Huh! I ain't carin' a whoop, but I'll gamble we could own the town. This fake minin', ranchin', hoss-dealin' Hardman was a hunk of bad cheese. Pard, are you goin' to deny you killed him? Fer shore they've been told thet."

"No. Wiggate can do the telling. All I want is to find Lucy and send her back home, then buy our outfit and rustle."

"Sounds pretty. But I begin to feel hunchy myself. Let's have a drink, Pan."

"We're not drinking, cowboy," retorted Pan.

"Ain't we? Excuse me. Shore I figgered a good stiff drink would help some. I tell you I've begun to get hunches."

"What kind?"

"No kind at all. Just feel that all's not goin' the way we hope. But it's your fault. It's the look you got. I'd hate to see you hurt deep, pard."

They passed the wagon shop where Pan's father had been employed, then a vacant lot on one side of the street and framed tents on the other. Presently they could see down the whole of Main Street. It presented the usual morning atmosphere and color, though Pan fancied there was more activity than usual. That might have been owing to the fact that both the incoming and outgoing stages were visible far up at the end of the street.

Pan strained his eyes at people near and far, seeking first some sign of Lucy, and secondly someone he could interrogate. Soon he would reach the first store. But before he got there he saw his mother emerge, drag Bobby, who evidently wanted to stay. Then Alice followed. Both she and her mother were carrying bundles. Pan's heart made ready for a second and greater leap—in anticipation of Lucy's appearance. But she did not come.

"Hello, heah's your folks, pard, figgerin' from looks," said Blinky. "What a cute kid! ... Look there!"

Pan, striding ahead of Blinky saw his mother turn white and reel as if about to faint. Pan got to her in time.

"Mother! Why, Mother," he cried, in mingled gladness and distress. "It's me. I'm all right. What'd you think? ... Hello, Bobby, old dirty face... Alice, don't stare at me. I'm here in the flesh."

His mother clung to him with hands like steel. Her face and eyes were both terrible and wonderful to see. "Pan! Pan! You're alive? Oh, thank God! They told us you'd been shot."

"Me? Well, I guess not. I'm better than ever, and full of good news," went on Pan hurriedly. "Brace up, Mother. People are looking. There... Dad is out home. We've got a lot to do. Where's Lucy?"

"Oh, God—my son, my son!" cried Mrs. Smith, her eyes rolling.

"Hush!" burst out Pan, with a shock as if a blade had pierced his heart. He shook her not gently. "Where is Lucy?"

His mother seemed impelled by his spirit, and she wheeled to point up the street.

"Lucy! There—in that stage—leaving Marco!"

"For God's—sake!" gasped Pan. "What's this? Lucy! Where's she going?"

"Ask her yourself," she cried passionately.

Something terrible seemed to crash inside Pan. Catastrophe! It was here. His mother's dark eyes held love, pity, and passion, which last was not for him.

"Mother, go home at once," he said swiftly. "Tell Dad to rush buying those wagons. You and Alice pack. We shake the dust of this damned town. Don't worry. Lucy will leave with us!"

Then Pan broke into long springy strides, almost a run. Indeed Blinky had to run to keep up with him. "I told you, pard," said his comrade. huskily. "Hell to pay! —— —— the luck!"

Pan had only one conscious thought—to see Lucy. All else seemed damming behind flood gates.

People rushed into the street to get out of the way of the cowboys. Others stared and made gestures. Booted men on the porch of the Yellow Mine stamped noisily as they trooped to get inside. Voices of alarm and mirth rang out. Pan took only a fleeting glance into the wide doorway. He saw nothing, thought nothing. His stride quickened as he passed Black's store, where more men crowded to get inside.

"Save your—wind, pard," warned Blinky. "You might—need it."

They reached the end of the street and across the wide square stood the outgoing stage, before the express office. There was no driver on the front seat. Smith, the agent, was emerging from the office with mailbags.

"Slow up, pard," whispered Blinky, at Pan's elbow.

Pan did as he was advised, though his stride still retained speed. Impossible to go slowly! There were passengers in the stagecoach. When Pan reached the middle of the street he saw the gleam of golden hair that he knew. Lucy! Her back was turned to him. And as he recognized her, realized he had found her, there burst forth in his mind a thundering clamor of questioning voices.

A few more strides took him round the stage. Men backed away from him. The door was open.

"Lucy!" he called, and his voice seemed to come piercingly from a far-off place.

She turned a strange face, but he knew her eyes, saw the swift transition, the darkening, widening. How white she turned! What was this! Agony in recognition! A swift unuttered blaze of joy that changed terror. He saw her lips frame his name, but no sound came.

"Lucy!" he cried. "What does this mean? Where are you going?"

She could not speak. But under her pallor the red of shame began to burn. Pan saw it, and he recognized it. Mutely he gazed at the girl as her head slowly sank. Then he asked hoarsely: "What's it mean?"

"Pard, take a peep round heah," drawled Blinky in slow cool speech that seemed somehow to carry menace.

Pan wheeled. He had the shock of his life. He received it before his whirling thoughts recorded the reason. It was as if he had to look twice. Dick Hardman! Fashionably and wonderfully attired! Pan got no farther than sight of the frock coat, elaborate vest, flowing tie, and high hat. Then for a second he went blind.

When the red film cleared he saw Hardman pass him, saw the pallor of his cheek, the quivering of muscle, the strained protruding of his eye.

He got one foot on the stage step when Pan found release for his voice.

"Hardman!"

That halted the youth, as if it had been a rope, but he never turned his head. The shuffling of feet inside the coach hinted of more than restlessness. There was a scattering of men from behind Pan.

He leaped at Hardman and spun him round.

"Where are you going?"

"Frisco, if it's—any of your business," replied Hardman incoherently.

"Looks like I'll make it my business," returned Pan menacingly. He could not be himself here. The shock had been too great. His mind seemed stultified.

"Hardman—do you mean—do you think—you're taking her—away?" queried Pan, as if strangling.

"Ha!" returned Hardman with an upfling of head, arrogant, vain for all his fear. "I know it.... She's my wife!"



CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Destruction, death itself seemed to overthrow Panhandle Smith's intensity of life. He reeled on his feet. For a moment all seemed opaque, with blurred images. There was a crash, crash, crash of something beating at his ears.

How long this terrible oblivion possessed Pan he did not know. But at Hardman's move to enter the stage, he came back a million times more alive than ever he had been—possessed of devils.

With one powerful lunge he jerked Hardman back and flung him sprawling into the dust.

"There! Once more!..." cried Pan, panting. "Remember—the schoolhouse? That fight over Lucy Blake! Damn your skunk soul!... Get up, if you've got a gun!"

Hardman leaned on his hand. His high hat had rolled away. His broadcloth suit was covered with dust. But he did not note these details of his abasement. Like a craven thing fascinated by a snake he had his starting eyes fixed upon Pan, and his face was something no man could bear to see.

"Get up—if you've got a gun!" ordered Pan.

"I've no—gun—" he replied, in husky accents.

"Talk, then. Maybe I can keep from killing you."

"For God's sake—don't shoot me. I'll tell you anything."

"Hardman, you say you—you married my—this girl?" rasped out Pan, choking over his words as if they were poison, unable to speak of Lucy as he had thought of her all his life.

"Yes—I married her."

"Who married you?"

"A parson from Salt Lake. Matthews got him here."

"Ah-uh!—Matthews. How did you force her?"

"I swear to God she was willing," went on Hardman. "Her father wanted her to."

"What? Jim Blake left here for Arizona. I sent him away."

"But he never went—I—I mean he got caught—put in jail again. Matthews sent for the officers. They came. And they said they'd put Blake away for ten years. But I got him off... Then Lucy was willing to marry me—and she did. There's no help for it now... too late."

"Liar!" hissed Pan. "You frightened her—tortured her."

"No, I—I didn't do anything. It was her father. He persuaded her."

"Drove her, you mean. And you paid him. Admit it or I'll—" Pan's move was threatening.

"Yes—yes, I did," jerked out Hardman in a hoarser, lower voice. Something about his lifelong foe appalled him. He was abject. No confession of his guilt was needed.

"Go get yourself a gun. You'll have to kill me before you start out on your honeymoon. Reckon I think you're going to hell.... Get up.... Go get yourself a gun...."

Hardman staggered to his feet, brushing the dirt from his person while he gazed strickenly at Pan.

"My God, I can't fight you," he said. "You won't murder me in cold blood... Smith, I'm Lucy's husband... She's my wife."

"And what is Louise Melliss?" whipped out Pan. "What does she say about your marriage? You ruined her. You brought her here to Marco. You tired of her. You abandoned her to that hellhole owned by your father. He got his just deserts and you'll get yours."

Hardman had no answer. Like a dog under the lash he cringed at Pan's words.

"Get out of my sight," cried Pan, at the end of his endurance. "And remember the next time I see you, I'll begin to shoot."

Pan struck him, shoved him out into the street. Hardman staggered on, forgetting his high hat that lay in the dust. He got to going faster until he broke into an uneven half-run. He kept to the middle of the street until he reached the Yellow Mine, where he ran up the steps and disappeared.

Pan backed slowly, step by step. He was coming out of his clamped obsession. His movement was now that of a man gripped by terror. In reality Pan could have faced any peril, any horror, any physical rending of flesh far more easily than this girl who had ruined him.

She had left the stage and she stood alone. She spoke his name. In the single low word he divined fear. How long had she been that dog's wife? When had she married him? Yesterday, or the day before—a week, what did it matter?

"You—you!" he burst out helplessly in the grip of deadly hate and agony. He hated her then—hated her beauty—and the betrayal of her fear for him. What was life to him now? Oh, the insupportable bitterness!

"Go back to my mother," he ordered harshly, and averted his face.

Then he seemed to forget her. He saw Blinky close to him, deeply shaken, yet composed and grim. He heard the movement of many feet, the stamping of hoofs.

"All aboard for Salt Lake," called the stage driver. Smith the agent passed Pan with more mailbags. The strain all about him had broken.

"Pard," Pan said, laying a hand on Blinky. "Go with her—take her to my mother.... And leave me alone."

"No, by Gawd!" replied Blinky sullenly. "You forget this heah is my deal too. There's Louise.... An' Lucy took her bag an' hurried away. There, she's runnin' past the Yellow Mine."

"Blink, did she hear what I said to Hardman about Louise?" asked Pan bitterly.

"Reckon not. She'd keeled over aboot then. I shore kept my eye on her. An' I tell you, pard—"

"Never mind," interrupted Pan. "What's the difference? Hellsfire! Whisky! Let's get a drink. It's whisky I want."

"Shore. I told you thet a while back. Come on, pard. It's red-eye fer us!"

They crossed to the corner saloon, a low dive kept by a Chinaman and frequented by Mexicans and Indians. These poured out pellmell as the cowboys jangled up to the bar. Jard Hardman's outfit coming to town had prepared the way for this.

"Howdy," was Blinky's greeting to the black bottle that was thumped upon the counter. "You look mighty natural ... heah's to Panhandle Smith!"

Pan drank. The fiery liquor burned down to meet and coalesce round that gnawing knot in his internals. It augmented while it soothed. It burned as it cooled. It inflamed, but did not intoxicate.

"Pard, heah's to the old Cimarron," said Blinky, as they drank again.

Pan had no response. Memory of the Cimarron only guided his flying mind over the ranges to Las Animas. They drank and drank. Blinky's tongue grew looser.

"Hold your tongue, damn you," said Pan.

"Imposshiblity. Lesh have another."

"One more then. You're drunk, cowboy."

"Me drunk? No shir, pard. I'm just tongue-tied.... Now, by Gawd, heah's to Louise Melliss!"

"I drink to that," flashed Pan, as he drained his glass.

The afternoon had waned. Matthews lay dead in the street. He lay in front of the Yellow Mine, from which he had been driven by men who would no longer stand the strain.

The street was deserted except for that black figure, lying face down with a gun in his right hand. His black sombrero lay flat. The wind had blown a high hat down the street until it had stopped near the sombrero. Those who peeped out from behind doors or from windows espied these sinister objects.

Pan had patrolled the street. He had made a house-to-house canvass, searching for Jim Blake. He had entered every place except the Yellow Mine. That he reserved for the last. But he did not find Blake. He encountered, however, a slight pale man in clerical garb.

"Are you the parson Matthews brought to Marco?" demanded Pan harshly.

"Yes, Sir," came the reply.

"Did you marry young Hardman to—to—" Pan could not end the query.

The minister likewise found speech difficult, but his affirmative was not necessary.

"Man, you may be innocent of evil intent. But you've ruined my—girl ... and me! You've sent me to hell. I ought to kill you."

"Pard, shore we mushn't kill thish heah parson just yet," drawled Blinky, thickly. "He'll come in handy."

"Ahuh! Right you are, Blinky," returned Pan, with a ghastly pretense of gaiety. "Parson, stay right here till we come for you.—Maybe you make up a little for the wrong you did one girl."

The Yellow Mine stood with glass uplifted and card unplayed.

Pan had entered from the dance hall entrance. Blinky, unsteady on his feet, came in from the street. After a tense moment the poker players went on with their game, and the drinkers emptied their glasses. But voices were low, glances were furtive.

Pan had seen every man there before he had been seen himself. Only one interested him—that was Jim Blake. What to do to this man or with him Pan found it hard to decide. Blake had indeed fallen low. But Pan gave him the benefit of one doubt—that he had been wholly dominated by Hardman. Yet there was the matter of accepting money for his part in forcing Lucy to marry Dick.

The nearer end of the bar had almost imperceptibly been vacated by drinkers sliding down toward the other rear end. Pan took the foremost end of the vacated position. He called for drink. As fast as he had drunk, the fiery effects had as swiftly passed away. Yet each drink for the moment kept up that unnatural stimulus.

Pan beckoned for Blinky. That worthy caused a stir, then a silence, by going round about the tables, so as not to come between Pan and any men there.

"Blink, do you know where Louise's room is?" queried Pan.

"Shore. Down thish hall—third door on left," replied Blinky.

"Well, you go over there to Blake and tell him I want to talk to him. Then you go to Louise's room. I'll follow directly."

Blake received the message, but he did not act promptly. Pan caught his suspicious eye, baleful, gleaming. Possibly the man was worse than weak. Presently he left the poker game which he had been watching and shuffled up to Pan. He appeared to be enough under the influence of liquor to be leeringly bold.

"Howdy," he said.

"Blake, today I got from Hardman the truth about the deal you gave me and Lucy," returned Pan, and then in cold deliberate tones he called the man every infamous name known to the ranges. Under this onslaught, Blake sank into something akin to abasement.

"Reckon you think," concluded Pan, "that because you're Lucy's father I can't take a shot at you. Don't fool yourself. You've killed her soul—and mine. So why shouldn't I kill you? ... Well, there isn't any reason except that away from Hardman's influence you might brace up. I'll take the chance. You're done in Marco. Jard Hardman is dead and Dick's chances of seeing the sun rise are damn thin.... Now you rustle out that door and out of Marco. When you make a man of yourself come to Siccane, Arizona."

Blake lurched himself erect, and met Pan's glance with astonished bewildered eyes; then he wheeled to march out of the saloon.

Pan turned into the hallway leading into the hotel part of the building, and soon encountered Blinky leaning against the wall.

"Blink, isn't she in?" asked Pan, low voiced and eager.

"Shore, but she won't open the door," replied Blinky dejectedly.

Pan knocked and called low: "Louise, let us in."

There was a long wait, then came a low voice: "No."

"Please, it's very important."

"Who are you?"

"It's Panhandle Smith," replied Pan.

"That cowboy's drunk and I—no—I'm sorry."

"Louise I'm not drunk, but I am in bad temper. I ask as a friend. Don't cross me here. I can easy shove in this door."

He heard soft steps, a breathless exclamation, then a key turned in the lock, and the door opened. The lamplight was not bright, Louise stood there half dressed, her bare arms and bosom gleaming. Pan entered, dragging Blinky with him, and closed the door all but tight.

"Louise, it wasn't kind of you to do that," said Pan reproachfully. "Have you any better friends than Blinky or me?"

"God knows—I haven't," faltered the girl. "But I've been ill—in bed—and am just getting out. I—I—heard about you—today—and Blink being with you—drunk."

Pan stepped to the red-shaded lamp on a small table beside the bed, and turned up the light. The room had more comfort and color than any Pan had seen for many a day.

He bent searching eyes upon Louise. She did look ill—white, with great dark shadows under her eyes, but she seemed really beautiful. What a tragic face it was, betrayed now by lack of paint! Pan had never seen her like this. If he had needed it, this would have warmed his heart to her.

"What do you want of me?" she asked, with a nervous twisting of hands she tried to hide.

Pan took her hands and pulled her a little toward him.

"Louise, you like me, don't you, as a friend or brother?" he asked gently.

"Yes, when I'm sober," she replied wanly.

"And you like Blinky, here, don't you—like him a lot?"

"I did. I couldn't help it, the damn faithful little cowboy," she returned. "But I hate him when he's drunk, and he hates me when I'm drunk."

"Blink, go out and fetch back a bottle—presently. We'll all get drunk."

The cowboy stared like a solemn owl, then very quietly went out.

"Louise, put something over your shoulders. You'll catch cold. Here," said Pan and he picked a robe off the bed and wrapped it round her. "I didn't know you were so pretty. No wonder poor Blink worships you."

She drew away from him and sat upon the bed, dark eyes questioning, suspicious. Yet she seemed fascinated. Pan caught a slight quivering of her frame. Where was the audacity, the boldness of this girl? But he did not know her, and he had her word that drink alone enabled her to carry on. He had surprised her. Yet could that account for something different, something quite beyond his power to grasp? Surely this girl could not fear him. Suddenly he remembered that Hardman had fled to this house—was hidden there now. Pan's nerves tautened.

"Louise," he began, taking her hand again, and launching directly into the reason for this interview he had sought, "we've had a great drive. Blink and I have had luck. Oh, such luck! We sold over fifteen hundred horses.... Well, we're going to Arizona, to a sunny open country, not like this.... Now Blink and I want you to go with us."

"What! Go away with you? How, in God's name?" she gasped in utter amaze.

"Why, as Blink's wife, of course. And I'll be your big brother," replied Pan, not without agitation. It was a pregnant moment. She stared a second, white and still, with great solemn searching eyes on his. Pan felt strangely embarrassed, yet somehow happy that he had dared to approach her with such a proposition.

Suddenly she kissed him, she clung to him, she buried her face on his shoulder and he heard her murmur incoherently something about "honest-to-God men."

"What do you say, little girl?" he went on. "It's a chance for you to be good again. It'll save that wild cowboy, who never had a decent ambition till he met you. He loves you. He worships you. He hates what you have to suffer here. He—"

"So this is Panhandle Smith?" she interrupted, looking up at him with eyes like dark stars. "No! No! No! I wouldn't degrade even a worthless cowboy."

"You're wrong. He'll not be worthless, if you repay his faith. Louise, don't turn your back on hope, on love, on a home."

"No!" she flashed, passionately.

"Why?" he returned, in sharp appeal.

"Because he's too good for me. Because I don't deserve your friendship. But so help me God I'll love you both all the rest of my miserable life—which won't be long."

He took her in his arms, as if to add force to argument. "But, you poor child, this is no place for you. You'll only go to hell—commit suicide or be killed in a drunken brawl."

"Panhandle, I may end even worse," she replied, in bitter mockery. "I might marry Dick Hardman. He talks of it—when he's drunk."

Pan released her, and leaned back to see her face. "Marry you! Dick Hardman talks of that?" he burst out incredulously.

"Yes, he does. And I might let him when I'm drunk. I'd do anything then."

At that moment the door opened noiselessly and Blinky entered carrying a bottle and glasses.

"Good, Blink, old pard," said Pan, breathing heavily. "Louise and I have just made up our minds to get drunk together. Blink, you stay sober."

"I cain't stay what I ain't," retorted Blinky. "An' I won't stay heah, either, to see her drink. I hate her then."

She poured the dark red liquor out into the glasses. "Boy, I want you to hate me. I'll make you hate me... Here's to Panhandle Smith!"

While she drank Blinky moved backwards to the door, eyes glinting brightly into Pan's and then he was gone.

In the mood under which Pan labored, liquor had no effect upon him but to act as fire to body and mind. The girl, however, was transformed into another creature. Bright red spots glowed in her cheeks, her eyes danced and dilated, her whole body answered to the stimulus. One drink led to another. She could not resist the insidious appetite thus created. She did not see whether Pan drank or not. She grew funny, then sentimental, and finally lost herself in that stage of unnatural abandon for which, when sober, she frankly confessed she drank.

Pan decided that presently he would wrap a blanket around her, pick her up and pack her out. Blinky would shoot out the lights in the saloon, and the rest would be easy. If she knew that Hardman was in the house, as Pan had suspected, she had now no memory of it.

"You big handsome devil," she called Pan. "I told you—to keep away from me."

"Louise, don't make love to me," replied Pan.

"Why not? Men are all alike."

"No, you're wrong. You forget what you said a little while ago. I've lost my sweetheart, and my heart is broken."

She leered at him, and offered him another drink. Pan took the glass away from her. It was possible he might overdo his part.

"So you're liable to marry young Hardman?" he asked deliberately.

The question, the name, gave her pause, as if they had startled her memory.

"Sure I am."

"But, Louise, how can you marry Hardman when he already has a wife?" asked Pan.

She grasped that import only slowly, by degrees.

"You lie, you gun-slinging cowboy!" she cried.

"No, Louise. He told me so himself."

"He did! ... When?" she whispered, very low.

"Today. He was at the stage office. He meant to leave today. He was all togged up, frock coat, high hat.... Oh, God—Louise, I know, I know, because it—was—my—sweetheart—he married."

Pan ended gaspingly. What agony to speak that aloud—to make his own soul hear that aloud!

"Your sweetheart? ... Little Lucy—of your boyhood—you told me about?"

Pan was confronted now by something terrible. He had sought to make this girl betray herself, if she had anything to betray. But this Medusa face! Those awful eyes!

"Yes, Lucy, I told you," he said, reaching for her. "He forced her to marry him. They had Lucy's father in jail. Dick got him out. Oh, it was all a scheme to work on the poor girl. She thought it was to save her father.... Why, Dick paid her father. I made him tell me... yes, Dick Hardman in his frock coat and high hat! But when I drove him out to get his gun, he forgot that high hat."

"Ah! His high hat!"

"Yes, it's out in the street now. The wind blew it over where I killed Matthews. Funny! ... And Louise, I'm going to kill Dick Hardman, too."

"Like hell you are!" she hissed, and leaped swiftly to snatch something from under the pillow.

Pan started back, thinking that she meant to attack him. How tigerishly she bounded! Her white arm swept aside red curtains. They hid a shallow closet. It seemed her white shape flashed in and out. A hard choking gasp! Could that have come from her? Pan did not see her drawn lips move. Something hard dropped to the floor with metallic sound.

The hall door opened with a single sweep. Blinky stood framed there, wild eyed. And the next instant Dick Hardman staggered from that closet. He had both hands pressed to his abdomen. Blood poured out in a stream. Pan heard strange watery sounds. Hardman reeled out into the hall, groaning. He slipped along the wall. Pan leaped, to see him slide down into a widening pool of blood.

It was a paralyzing moment. But Pan recovered first. The girl swayed with naked arms outstretched against the wall. On her white wrist showed a crimson blot. Pan looked no more. Snatching a blanket off the bed he threw it round her, wrapped it tight, and lifted her in his arms.

"Blink, go ahead," he whispered, as he went into the hall. "Hurry! Shoot out the lights! Go through the dance hall!"

The cowboy seemed galvanized into action. He leaped over Hardman's body, huddled and lax, and down the hall, pulling his guns.

Pan edged round the body on the floor. He saw a ghastly face—protruding eyes. And on the instant, like lightning, came the thought that Lucy was free. Almost immediately thundering shots filled the saloon. Crash! Crash! Crash! The lights faded, darkened, went out. Yells and scraping chairs and overturned tables, breaking glass, pounding boots merged in a pandemonium of sound.

Pan hurried through the dance hall, where the windows gave dim light, found the doorway, gained the side entrance to the street. Blinky waited there, smoking guns in his hands.

"Heah—this—way," he directed in a panting whisper, as he sheathed the guns, and took the lead. Pan followed in the shadow of the houses.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The street down that way was dark, with but few lights showing. Blinky kept looking back in the direction of the slowly subsiding tumult. Pan carried Louise at rapid pace, as if she made no burden at all. In the middle of the next block Blinky slowed up, carefully scrutinizing the entrances to the buildings. They came to an open hallway, dimly lighted. Pan read a sign he remembered. This was the lodging house.

"Go in, Blink," directed Pan quickly. "If you find our parson chase everybody but him and call me pronto."

Blinky ran into the place. Pan let Louise down on her feet. She could not stand alone.

"Cowboy—smozzer me," she giggled, pulling at the fold of blanket round her face.

Pan rearranged the blanket over her bare shoulders, and folded it round more like a coat. He feared she might collapse before they could accomplish their design. The plight of this girl struck deeply into his heart.

"Whaz—mazzer, cowboy?" she asked. "Somebody's raid us?"

"Hush, Louie," whispered Pan shaking her. "There'll be a gang after us."

"Hell with gang.... Shay, Pan, whaz become of Dick?"

She was so drunk she did not remember. Pan thanked God for that! How white the tragic face! Her big eyes resembled bottomless gulfs. Her hair hung disheveled round her.

A low whistle made Pan jump. Blinky stood inside in a flare of light from an open door. He beckoned. Pan lifted the girl and carried her in.

Five minutes later they came out, one on each side of Louise, trying to keep her quiet. She was gay, maudlin. But once outside again, the rush of cold mountain air aided them. They hurried down the dark street, almost carrying the girl between them. A few people passed, fortunately on the other side. These pedestrians were hurrying in the other direction. Some excitement uptown, Pan thought grimly! Soon they passed the outskirts of Marco and gained the open country. Pan cast off what seemed a weight of responsibility for Blinky and Louise. Once he got them out of town they were safe.

Suddenly Blinky reached behind the girl and gave Pan a punch. Turning, Pan saw his comrade point back. A dull red flare lighted up the sky. Fire! Pan's heart gave a leap. The Yellow Mine was burning. The crowd of drinkers and gamblers had fled before Blinky's guns. Pan was hoping that only he and Blinky would ever know who had killed Dick Hardman.

From time to time Pan glanced back over his shoulder. The flare of red light grew brighter and higher. One corner of Marco would surely be wiped out.

The road curved. Soon a dark patch of trees, and a flickering light, told Pan they had reached his father's place. It gave him a shock. He had forgotten his parents. They entered the lane and cut off through the dew-wet grass of the orchard to the barn. Pan caught the round pale gleam of canvas-covered wagons.

"Good! Dad sure rustled," said Pan with satisfaction. "If he got the horses, too, we can leave tomorrow."

"Shore, we will anyhow," replied Blinky, who was now sober and serious.

They found three large wagons and one smaller, with a square canvas top.

"Blink, hold her, till I get some hay," said Pan.

He hurried into the open side of the barn. It was fairly dark but he knew where to go. He heard horses munching grain. That meant his father had bought the teams. Pan got an armful of hay, and carrying it out to the wagon, he threw it in, and spread it out for a bed.

"Reckon we'd better put Louise here," said Pan, stepping down off the wheel. "I'll get some blankets from Dad."

Blinky was standing there in the starlight holding the girl in his arms. His head was bowed over her wan face.

They lifted Louise into the wagon and laid her down upon the hay.

"Whish you—gennelmanz my hushband?" she asked thickly.

Pan had to laugh at that, but Blinky stood gazing intently down upon the pale gleam of face. Pan left him there and strode toward the house. Though the distance was short, he ran the whole gamut of emotions before he stopped at a lighted window. He heard his father's voice.

"Dad," he called, tapping on the window. Then he saw his mother and Alice. They had started up from packing. One glance at the suffering expressed in his mother's face was enough to steady Pan. The door opened with a jerk.

"That you—Pan?" called his father, with agitation.

"Nobody else, Dad," replied Pan, trying to calm his voice. "Tell Mother I'm here safe and sound."

His mother heard and answered with a low cry of relief.

"Dad, come out.... Shut the door," returned Pan sharply.

Once outside his father saw the great flare of light above the town.

"Look! What's that? Must be fire!" he burst out.

"Reckon it is fire," returned Pan shortly. "Blinky shot out the lamps in the Yellow Mine. Fire must have caught from that."

"Yellow Mine!" echoed Smith, staring in momentary stupefaction.

Pan laid a heavy hand on him. It was involuntary, an expression of a sudden passion rising in Pan. He had a question to put that almost stifled him.

"Lucy! ... Did she—come home?" he forced out.

"Sure. Didn't you know? She was home when I got here at noon. Son, I bought all our outfit in no time."

"What did Lucy tell you?"

"Nothin' much," replied his father, in earnest wonder. "She was in an awful state. Said she couldn't go because you were not dead ... poor girl! She had hysterics. But mother got her quieted down by suppertime."

"Where is she now?"

"In bed, I reckon. Leastways she's in her room."

"Dad, does she know? But of course she couldn't ... nor could you!"

"Son, I know aplenty," replied his father, solemnly. "Lucy told mother when she saw you come to the stagecoach that it nearly killed her. They believed you dead—mother an' Lucy.... She told how you threw Hardman out of the stage on to the street. Said she almost fainted then. But she came to in time to see you kick him—drive him off."

"Is that all she knows?" queried Pan.

"Reckon it is. I know more, but I didn't tell her," replied Smith, lowering his voice to a whisper. "I heard about them drivin' Matthews out to meet you.... McCormick told me you hadn't lost any friends."

"Ah-huh!" ejaculated Pan somberly. "Well, better tell Lucy at once.... Reckon that's best—the sooner the better."

"Tell Lucy what?" asked Smith anxiously.

"That she's a widow."

"It—is Dick Hardman dead—too?" gasped out Smith.

"Yes."

"My God! Son—did—did you—"

"Dad, I didn't kill him," interrupted Pan. "Dick Hardman was—was knocked out—just before Blinky shot out the lights. Reckon it's a good bet no one will ever know. He sure was burned up in that fire."

"Alive?" whispered Smith.

"He might still have been alive, but he was far gone—unconscious when I passed him in the hall. You needn't tell Lucy that. Just tell her Hardman is dead and that I didn't kill him."

"All right, I'll go right an' do it," replied his father huskily.

"Before you do it fetch me a roll of blankets. We haven't any beds. And Blinky's wife is with us."

"Wife? I didn't know Blinky had one. Fetch her in. We'll make room somewhere."

"No, we've already fixed a place for her in that wagon with the square top," went on Pan. "She's been sick. Rustle, Dad. Fetch me the blankets."

"Got them right inside. We bought new ones," said Smith, opening the door to hurry in.

"Mother," called Pan, "everything's all right. We'll be leaving early tomorrow."

Then his father reappeared with a roll of blankets. Pan found Blinky exactly as he had left him, leaning over the wagon.

"Blink, put a couple of these blankets over her," directed Pan.

"She went right off, asleep, like she was daid," whispered the cowboy, and he took the blankets and stepped up on the wheel hub to lay the blankets softly over the quiet form Pan saw dimly in the starlight.

"Come here, cowboy," called Pan.

And when Blinky got down and approached, Pan laid hold of him with powerful hand.

"Listen, pard," he began, in low voice. "We're playing a deep game, and by God, it's an honest game, even though we have to lie.... Louise will never remember she cut that traitor's heart out. She was too crazy. If it half returns to her we'll lie—you understand—lie.... Nobody will ever know who did kill Hardman, I'll gamble. I intended to, and all Marco must have known that. If he burned up they can't ever be sure. Anyway, that doesn't matter. It's our women folks we've got to think of. I told Dad you'd brought your wife—that she'd been sick. He'll tell Mother and Lucy. They don't know, and they never will know what kind of a girl Louise has been.... Savvy, pard?"

"Reckon I do," replied Blinky, in hoarse trembling accents. "But won't we have hell with Louise—when she wakes up sober?"

"Cowboy, you bet we will," returned Pan grimly. "But we'll be far on our way when she wakes up. You can drive this wagon. We'll keep watch on her. And, well—leave it to me, Blink."

"Pan, we feel the same aboot Louie? Shore I don't mean thet you love her. Reckon it's hard fer me to find words."

"I understand, Blink," replied Pan, earnestly, hoping to dispel the groping and doubt of his comrade's soul. "For you and me Louie's past is dead. We're gambling on life. And whatever way you put it, whatever the future brings, we're better for what happened tonight."

Pan strode off in the starlight, across the orchard, down along the murmuring stream to the cottonwood tree with the bench.

It was useless for him to try to sleep. To and fro he paced in the starlight. Alone now, with the urgent activities past for the time, he reverted to the grim and hateful introspection that had haunted his mind.

This once, however, the sinister strife in his soul, that strange icy clutch on his senses—the aftermath of instinctive horror following the death of a man by his hand—wore away before the mounting of a passion that had only waited.

It did not leap upon him unawares, like an enemy out of ambush. It grew as he walked, as his whirling thoughts straightened in a single line to—Lucy. She had betrayed him. She had broken his heart. What if she had thought him dead—sacrificed herself to save her father?—She had given herself to that dog Hardman. The thought was insupportable. "I hate her," he whispered. "She's made me hate her."

The hours passed, the stars moved across the heavens, the night wind ceased, the crickets grew silent, and the murmuring stream flowed on at Pan's feet. Spent and beaten he sat upon the bench. His love for Lucy had not been killed. It lived, it had grown, it was tremendous—and both pity and reason clamored that he be above jealousy and hate. After all there was excuse for Lucy. She was young, she had been driven by grief over his supposed death and fear for her father. But oh! The pity of it—of this hard truth against the sweetness and purity of his dream! Life and love were not what he had dreamed them as he had ridden the lonely ranges. He must suffer because he had left Lucy to fight her battles.

"I'll try to forget," he whispered huskily. "I've got to. But not yet. I can't do it yet.... We'll leave this country far behind. And some day we can go on with—with all we planned."

Pan went back to the barn and threw himself upon the hay, where exhausted brain and body sank to sleep and rest. It seemed that a voice and a rude hand tore away the sweet oblivion.

"Pard, are you daid?" came Blinky's voice, keen and full with newer note. "Sunup an' time to rustle. Your dad's heah an' he says breakfast is waitin'."

Pan rose and stretched. His muscles ached as though he had been beaten. How bright the sun! Night was gone and with it something dreadful.

"Pan, shore you're a tough lookin' cowboy this mawnin'," said Blinky. "Wash an' shave yourself like I did. Heah's my razor. There's a basin an' water up under the kitchen porch."

"Howdy, bridegroom," returned Pan with appreciative eyes on Blinky's shiny face and slick hair. "How's your wife?"

"Daid to the world," whispered Blinky, blushing red as a rose. "I took a peep. Gee! Pard, I hope she sleeps all day an' all night. Shore I'm scared fer her to wake."

"I don't blame you, cowboy. It'll be funny when she finds out she's got a boss."

"Pard, if we was away from this heah town I'd be happy, I swear. Wouldn't you?" returned Blinky shyly.

"Why, Blink, I believe I would," said Pan, and strode off toward the house.

He made himself presentable before anyone saw him. Then he waited for his father and Blinky, whom he heard talking. When they came up he joined them. Wild horses could not have dragged him into the house alone. As they entered the kitchen Bobby let out a yell and made for him. That loosened a strain for Pan and he picked up the lad. When he faced his mother it was with composure that belied the state of his feelings. She appeared to be in a blaze of excitement, and at once he realized that all she had needed was his return, safe and sound. Then he heard Alice's voice and Lucy's in reply. As he set Bobby down, thrilling all over, the girls entered the kitchen. Alice's reply to his greeting was at once bright and shy. Lucy halted in the doorway, with a hand on her breast. Her smile, slow and wistful, seemed to blot out traces of havoc in her face. But her eyes were dark purple, a sign of strong emotion. Pan's slight inclination, unaccompanied by word of greeting, was as black a pretense as he had ever been guilty of. Sight of her had shot him through and through with pangs of bitter mocking joy. But he gave no sign. During the meal he did not look at her again.

"Dad, have you got everything we'll need?" queried Pan presently.

"I guess so," replied Smith. "You can start loadin' the wagons. An' by the time two of them are done we'll have everythin' packed."

"Blink can drive one wagon, you another, and I'll take the third till we get out to Snyder's. Then we'll need another driver, for it'll take two of us to handle the wild horses."

"No, we won't," replied his father. "Your mother an' Lucy can drive as well as I. Son, I reckon we don't want anybody except our own outfit."

"I'd like that myself," admitted Pan thoughtfully. "If you've got good gentle teams maybe Mother an' Lucy can take turns. We'll try it, anyhow."

"I'll help you hitch up," said Smith, following Pan out. "Son, do you look for any trouble this mornin'?"

"Lord no. I'm not looking for trouble," replied Pan. "I've sure had enough."

"Huh!" ejaculated Blinky. "Your dad means any backfire from Marco. Wal, I say there'll be nothin'. All the same we want to move, pronto."

"I'd like to hear what happened after we left," said Pan.

"Somebody will tell us," returned Smith.

They had reached the end of the arbor when Lucy's voice called after them: "Pan—please wait."

He turned to see her coming, twisting her apron in nervous hands. Pan's father and Blinky kept on toward the barn. Lucy came hurriedly, unevenly, pale, with parted lips, and eyes that held him.

"Mother said you knew but—I must tell you—myself," she said brokenly, as she halted close to him. "Day before yesterday—those men brought word you'd been—killed in a fight over wild horses. It broke my heart.... I'd have taken my own life but for my father. I didn't care what happened.... Dick pressed me hard. Father begged me to save him from prison.... So I—I married Dick."

"Yes, I know—I figured it out that way," returned Pan in strange thick utterance. "You didn't need to tell me."

"Why, Pan, you—you seem different," she said, as if bewildered. "Your look—your voice ... oh, dear. I know yesterday was awful. It must have driven you mad."

"By heaven, it did!" muttered Pan under his breath.

"But you—you forgive me?" she faltered, reaching to touch him with a shaking hand. The gesture, so supplicating, so tender, the dark soft hunger of her eyes, the sweetness of her then roused a tumult in him. How could she look at him like that? How dared she have such love light in her eyes?

"Forgive you for?—" he cried in fierce passion. But he could not put into words what she had done. "I meant to kill that dog, Dick Hardman. But I didn't.... Forgive you—" he broke off, unable to go on.

She was slow to grasp his intimation, though not his fury. Suddenly her eyes dilated in horror. Then a great wave of scarlet blood swept over her white neck and face. Pan saw in it the emblem of her shame. With a rending of his heart he swung away and left her.

He plunged into the work at hand, and during the next couple of hours recovered from the shock of resisting Lucy's appeal. He hated himself for the passion he could not subdue. When, however, it had slunk away for the time being, he began to wonder at her innocence and simplicity. He could not understand her.

Presently his father and Blinky hunted him up with news of strong purport plain in their faces.

"Son, Marco is with you to a man!"

"Pard, I guess mebbe I didn't hev them hombres figgered?"

"What happened? Out with it," replied Pan sharply.

"Evans drove out bringin' stuff I bought yesterday," returned his father. "He was full as a tick of news. By some miracle, only the Yellow Mine burned. It was gutted, but the bucket brigade saved the houses on each side.... Hardman's body was found burned to a crisp. It was identified by a ring. An' his dance-hall girl was found dead too, burned most as bad as he.... Accordin' to Evans most everybody in Marco wants to shake hands with Panhandle Smith."

The covered wagons wound slowly down the hill toward Snyder's pasture. Pan, leading Blink's horse, held to the rear. The day, in some respects, had been as torturing to him as yesterday—but with Marco far behind and the open road ahead, calling, beckoning, the strain began to lessen.

At the pasture gate the drivers halted the wagon teams, waiting for Pan to come up. Gus had opened the wide-barred gate, and now stood there with a grin of relief and gladness.

"Drive in," shouted Pan from behind. "We'll camp here tonight."

"Howdy thar, you ole wild-hoss night wrangler," yelled Blinky to Gus.

"Howdy, yourself," was the reply. "You can bet your roll that I never expected to see you agin. What'd you do to Marco?"

They drove in along the west fence, where a row of trees shaded the still hot sun.

"Gus, I see our wild horses are still keeping you company," remarked Pan, as he loosened the cinch of his saddle.

"Shore. But they ain't so wild no more. I've fooled around with them for two days now," replied Gus.

Pan smacked Sorrel on the flank: "There! Go take a look at your rival, Whitefoot." But the sorrel hung around camp. He had been spoiled by an occasional nose bag of grain. Pan lent a hand all around, and took note of the fact that Blinky lingered long around his wagon. Pan peeped over the wagon side. Louise lay on her side with face exposed. It was pale, with eyelids tight. In sleep her features betrayed how life had wronged her.

"Reckon you're wise, Blink, to keep your wagon away from the others like this," said Pan. "Because when your wife wakes up there's liable to be hell. Call me pronto."

"Pard, you're shore she ain't in a stupor or somethin'?" queried Blinky, apprehensively.

"Blink, you know she was ill for ten days. Then she drank a lot. Reckon she's knocked out. But there's nothing to worry about, except she'll jump the traces when she comes to."

"You mean when she finds out—I—she—we're married?"

"That's what, Pard Blink. I wish you didn't have to tell her."

"Me? My Gawd, I cain't tell her," replied Blinky, in consternation. "Shore you gotta do that."

"All right, Blink. I'll save what little hair you have left," returned Pan, good humoredly.

He walked out to take a look at the horses, which were scattered on the far side of the pasture. They could not be closely approached, yet were not nearly so wild as he had expected them to be. The saddle and wagon horses grazed among them. The blue roan looked vastly better for two days' rest. Whitefoot was a noble stallion. Sight of Little Bay brought keen pain to Pan. What boundless difference between his state of mind when he had caught that beautiful little horse and what it was now!

Pan went back to the campfire. Supper was in progress, with the capable Mrs. Smith bustling about. Lucy and Alice were assisting. Pan stole a glance at Lucy. Her face was flushed from the wind and sun; she wore a white apron; her sleeves were rolled up to show round strong arms. Bobby and his two puppies were much in the way.

"Pan, how is Mrs. Somers?" inquired his mother solicitously.

"Who?" queried Pan, puzzled.

"Why, your partner's wife."

"Oh, Blinky! ... Gee, I'd clean forgot his right name," laughed Pan, mentally kicking himself. "She's still sound asleep. I told Blinky not to wake her. She looked white and worn out."

"But she'll starve," interposed Lucy, with questioning eyes on Pan. Indeed their meaning had no relation to her words. "You men don't know anything. Won't you let me wake her?"

"Thanks. Better let her alone till tomorrow," replied Pan briefly.

Presently there came the call to supper, which had been laid upon a new tarpaulin spread on the ground. The men flopped down, and sat cross-legged, each with silent or vociferous appreciation of that generous repast.

"Shades of the grub line!" ejaculated Blinky. "Am I ridin' or dreamin'?"

"Mother, this is heaven for a cowboy. And think, we'll be three weeks on the road," added Pan.

"But, son, our good things to eat won't last that long," she replied, much gratified by his compliment.

"Aw, the good Lord shore remembered me when he throwed me in with this outfit," declared the usually reticent Gus.

Pan observed that both Alice and his mother strictly avoided serving him with those things that had to be carried hot from the campfire. They let Lucy do it. Pan did not look up at her, and murmured his thanks in monosyllables. Once her hand touched his and the contact was like a galvanizing current. For the moment he could not go on eating.

During the sunset hour Pan helped grease the wagon wheels, something that had been neglected, and had retarded their progress. Other tasks used up the time until dark. Bobby got himself spanked by falling out of the wagon after he had been put to bed.

It was after nightfall when Pan heard Blinky's call. He hurried over to the wagon, where he found his comrade tremendously excited.

"Pard, she's waked up," he whispered.

Pan strode to the wagon. There was enough light for him to see the girl sitting up, with hands pressed to her head.

"Hello, Louie," he said gently.

"Where the hell am I?" she replied huskily, dropping her hands to stare at him.

"On the way to Arizona."

"Well, if it isn't handsome Panhandle ... and Blinky!"

"Howdy—Louie," said Blinky fearfully.

"I've been drunk?" she queried.

"Reckon you have—a little," replied Pan.

"And you boys have kidnapped me?" she went on.

"I'm afraid that's so, Louie."

"Get me a drink. Not water! My head's bursting. And help me out of this haymow."

She threw aside the blanket that partially covered her and got to her knees. Pan lifted her out of the wagon. Then he ran off toward camp to get a flask. Upon returning he found Blinky trying to put a blanket round Louise's shoulders. She threw it off.

"Wait till I cool off," she said. "Panhandle, did you get it?—I'm shaky, all right.... Thanks. Some day I'll take my last drink."

"Louie, I hope that will be soon," rejoined Pan.

"You know I hate whisky.... Oh, my head!—And my legs are cramped. Let me walk a little."

Pan drew Blinky aside in the gloom. "She hasn't begun to think yet. Reckon you'd better stay away from her. Let her come back to the wagon."

"Pard, shore she took our kidnappin' her all right," whispered Blinky, hopefully.

"Blink, I'll bet a million she'll be glad—after it all comes out," responded Pan.

Presently Louise interrupted their whispered colloquy. "Help me up. I'm sick—and weak."

They lifted her back into the wagon and covered her. In the pale starlight her eyes looked unnaturally big and black.

"No use—to lie," she said drowsily, her head rolling. "I'm glad to leave—Marco.... Take me anywhere."

Then her eyes closed. Again Pan drew Blinky away into the gloom.

"It's the way I figured," whispered Pan swiftly. "She'll never remember what happened."

"Thank Gawd fer thet," breathed Blinky.

They found the campfire deserted except for Gus and Pan's father. Evidently Pan's advent interrupted a story that had been most exciting to Gus.

"Son, I—I was just tellin' Gus all I know about what come off yesterday," explained Smith, frankly, though with some haste. "But there are some points I'd sure like cleared up for myself."

Pan had expected this, and had fortified himself against the inevitable.

"Well, get it over then once and for all," he replied, not too civilly.

"You come damn near buttin' right into the weddin'!" ejaculated Smith, with a sense of what dramatic possibility had just been missed.

Pan, whose back had been turned to the campfire light, suddenly whirled as if on a pivot.

"What?" he cried. Then there seemed to be a cessation of all his faculties.

"Why, son, you needn't jump out of your boots," returned the father, somewhat offended. "Lucy was married to Hardman in the stage office just before you got there. Fact was, she'd just walked out to get in the stage when you came.... Now, I was only sayin' how funny it'd been if you had got there sooner."

"Who—told—you—that?"

"Lucy told me. An' she said tonight she didn't believe you knew," returned his father.

There was a blank silence. Pan slowly turned away from the light.

"No. I had an idea—she'd been married—days," replied Pan in queer strangled voice.

"You should have asked some questions," said Smith bluntly. "It was a damn unfortunate affair, but it mustn't be made worse for Lucy than it actually was.... She was Dick Hardman's wife for less than five minutes before you arrived."

Without another word Pan stalked away into the darkness. He heard his father say: "Bet that's what ailed him—the darned idiot!"

Pan gained the pasture fence under the dark trees, and he grasped it tightly as if his hold on life had been shaken. The shock of incredulous amaze passed away, leaving him in the grip of joy and gratitude and remorse. How vastly different was this vigil under the stars!



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It was Pan who routed out the campers next morning when the first rose of dawn flushed the clear-cut horizon line.

He had the firewood collected, and the saddle horses in for their grain before Blinky presented himself. Wild eyed, indeed, was the cowboy.

"Pard," he whispered, huskily, dragging Pan aside some paces, "the cyclone's busted."

"Yes?" queried Pan in both mirth and concern.

"I was pullin' on my boots when Louise pokes her head above the wagon an' says: 'Hey, you bow-legged gurl snatcher, where's my clothes?'

"'What clothes?' I answers. An' she snaps out, 'Mine. Didn't you fetch my clothes?'

"'Louie,' I says, 'we shore forgot them an' they burned up with all the rest of the Yellow Mine. An' if you want to know, my dear, I'm darn glad of it.'

"Then, Pan, she began to cuss me, an' I jumps up mad, but right dignified an' says, 'Mrs. Somers, I'll require you to stop usin' profanity.'

"'Mrs. Somers!' she whispers, her eyes poppin'. 'Are you crazy?' An' I told her I shore wasn't crazy an' I shore was sober. An' thet my name wasn't Moran, but Somers.

"She gave a gasp an' fell back in the wagon. An' you bet I run fer you. Now, pard, for Gawd's sake, what'll I do?" finished Blinky with a groan.

"Cowboy, you've done noble," replied Pan in great satisfaction.

"Wha-at!—Say, Pan, you look queer this mawnin'. Sort of shiny eyed an' light-footed. You don't look drunk or loco. So what ails you?"

"Blink, I'm as crazy as you," responded Pan, almost hugging his friend. "But don't worry another minute. I swear I can fix it up with Louise. I swear I can fix anything."

With that, Pan strode across the dew-wet grass to the trees under which stood Blinky's wagon. There was no sign of the girl. Pan breasted the wagon side to look down. She was there, wide-eyed, with arms under her head, staring at the colored leaves.

"Morning, Louie, how are you?" he began cheerfully, smiling down upon her.

"I don't know," she replied.

"Well, you look better, that's sure."

"Pan, am I that cowboy's wife?" she queried, gravely.

"Yes," he replied, just as gravely.

"Did he force me to marry him when I was drunk?"

"No. Blink is innocent of all except loving you, Louie," answered Pan, deliberately choosing his words. He had planned all he meant to say. Last night under the trees, in the dark, many truths had come to him. "It was I who forced you to marry him."

She covered her eyes with her hands and pressed hard as if to make clear her bewildering thoughts. "Oh, I—I can't remember."

"Louie, don't distress yourself," he said, soothingly. "You bet I can remember, and I'll tell you."

"Wait. I want to get up. But you forgot my clothes. I can't go round in a blanket."

"By golly, I never thought of that. But we didn't have much time.... See here, Louise, I can fix it. You're about the same height as Lucy. I'll borrow some of her clothes for you."

"Lucy?" she echoed, staring at him.

"Yes, Lucy," he replied, easily. "And while I'm at it, I'll fetch a basin of hot water—and everything."

Whereupon he hurried over to the campfire, where he found Mrs. Smith busy and cheerful. "Lucy up yet?" he asked briskly.

"Yes, Pan," she replied with hurried glad smile. "She's brushing her hair there, by the wagon."

Pan strode up to Lucy where she stood before the wagon, a mass of golden hair hanging down her back, to which she was vigorously applying a brush.

"Hello, Lucy," he said coolly.

"Oh—how you startled—me!" she exclaimed, turning with a blush.

"Say, won't you help us out?" he went on, not so coolly. "The other night, in the excitement we forgot to fetch Louise's clothes.... Fact is, we grabbed her up out of a sick bed, with only a dressing gown and a blanket. Won't you lend her some clothes, shoes, stockings—and—everything?"

"Indeed I will," responded Lucy and with alacrity she climbed into the covered wagon.

Pan waited, and presently began to pace to and fro. He was restless, eager, buoyant. He could not stand still. His thoughts whirled away from the issue at hand, back to Lucy and the glory that had been restored to him.

"Here, Pan," called Lucy, reappearing with a large bundle. "Here's all she'll need, I think. Lucky I bought some new things. Alice and I can get along with one mirror, brush and comb."

"Thanks," he said. "It was lucky.... Sure our luck has changed."

"Don't forget some warm water," added Lucy practically, calling after him.

Thus burdened, Pan hurried back to Louise's wagon and deposited the basin on the seat, and the bundle beside her. "There you are, pioneer girl," he said cheerily, and with swift hands he let down the canvas curtains of the wagon, shutting her in.

"Come on, Blink," he called to the cowboy watching from behind the trees. "Let's wrangle the teams."

"Gus an' your dad are comin' in with them now," replied Blinky joining him and presently, when they got away from the wagon he whispered: "How aboot it?"

"Blink, I swear it'll go through fine," declared Pan earnestly. "She knows she's your wife—that I got her drunk and forced her into it. She doesn't remember. I'm hoping she'll not remember anything, but even if she does I'll fix it."

"Shore—you're Panhandle Smith—all right," returned Blinky unsteadily.

At this juncture they were called to breakfast. Pan needed only one glance at his father, his mother and Lucy to gather that bewilderment and worry had vanished. They knew that he knew. It seemed to Pan that the bursting sun knew the dark world had been transformed to a shining one. Yet he played with his happiness like a cat with a mouse.

"Mrs. Smith," begged Blinky presently, "please fix me up some breakfast fer Louise. She's better this mawnin' an' I reckon in a day or so will be helpin' you an' Lucy."

Pan set himself some camp tasks for the moment, and annoyed his mother and embarrassed Lucy by plunging into duties they considered theirs.

"Mother, don't you and Lucy realize we are going to a far country?" he queried. "We must rustle.... There's the open road. Ho for Siccane—for sunny Arizonaland!"

When he presented himself before Louise he scarcely recognized her in the prim, comely change of apparel. The atmosphere of the Yellow Mine had vanished. She had managed to eat some breakfast. Blinky discreetly found a task that took him away.

"We've a little time to talk now, Louie," said Pan. "They'll be packing the wagons."

He led her under the cottonwoods to the pasture fence where he found a seat for her.

"Pan, why did you do this thing?" she asked.

That was the very question he had hoped she would put first.

"Because my friend loves you and you told me you tried to keep him away from you—that if you didn't you would like him too well," answered Pan. "Blink had never been any good in the past. Just a wild reckless hard-drinking cowpuncher. But his heart was big. Then you were going straight to hell. You'd have been knifed or shot in some brawl, or have killed yourself with drink. A few more months of the Yellow Mine would have been your end.... Well, I thought, here's an opportunity to make a man out of my friend, and save the soul of a girl who hasn't had a chance. I never hesitated about taking advantage of you. That was only a means to an end. So I planned it and did it."

"But, Pan—how impossible!" she replied brokenly.

"Why, I'd like to know?"

"I am—degraded."

"No! I've a different notion. You were not when you were sober. But even so, that is past."

"Blink might have been what you said, but still I—I'm no fit wife for him."

"You can be," went on Pan with strong feeling. "Just blot out the past. Begin now. Blink will make a good man, a successful rancher. He has money enough to start with. He'll never drink again. No matter what you call yourself, you're the only girl he ever loved. You're the only one who can make him earnest. Blink saw as well as I the pity of it—your miserable existence there in that gambling hell."

"Pan, you talk—like—oh, you make me think of what might have been," she cried. "But I'll not consent. I'll not give men the right to point their fingers at Blink.... I'll run away—or—or kill myself."

"Louie, that is silly talk," censured Pan sharply. "Don't make me regret my interest in you—my affection. You are judging this thing with your mind on the past. You're not considering the rough wild raw life we cowboys have lived. We must make way for the pioneers and become pioneers ourselves. In fifty years, when the West is settled, who will ever recall such as you and Blinky? These are hard days. You can do as much for the future of the West as any woman, Louise Melliss!"

"Pan, I understand—I—I could—I know, if I dared to bury it all. But I want to play square."

"Could you come to love my friend—in time—I mean? That's the great thing."

"I believe I love him now," she murmured. "That's why I can't risk it.—Someone who knew me would turn up. To disgrace my husband—and—and children, if I had any."

"Not one chance in a million," flashed Pan, feeling that she could not withstand him. "We're going far—into another country.... Besides, everyone in Marco believes you lost your life in the fire."

"What—fire?"

"The Yellow Mine burned. It must have caught—when we shot out the lamps ... Dick Hardman was burned, and a girl they took for you."

Suddenly Louise leaped up, ghastly pale.

"I remember now... Blink came to my room," she said hoarsely. "I wouldn't let him in. Then you came... oh, I remember now. I let you in when all the time Dick Hardman was hiding in my closet."

"I knew you had him hidden," rejoined Pan.

"You meant to kill him! The yellow dog!... He came to me when I was sick in bed. He begged me to hide him. And I did.... Then you talked to me, as you're talking now ... Blink came with the whisky. Oh, I see it all now!"

"Sure. And Louie—what did I tell you about Hardman?" returned Pan, sure of his ground now and stern in his forcefulness.

"I don't remember."

"You told me Hardman said he'd marry you, and that some day when you were drunk you'd do it."

"Yes, he said that, and I might have agreed, but I don't remember telling you."

"Well, you did. And then I told you Hardman had forced my sweetheart, Lucy, to marry him."

"What? He did that?"

"Reckon he did. I got there too late. But I drove him off to get a gun. Then he hid there with you."

"So that was why?" she pondered, as if trying to penetrate the cloudiness of her mind. "Something comes like a horrible dream."

"Sure," he hurried on. "Let me get it over.... I told you he couldn't marry you when he already had a wife. You went crazy then. You betrayed Hardman.... He came rushing out of the closet. Pretty nasty, he was, Louie ... well, I left him lying in the hall! I grabbed you—wrapped you in a blanket—and ran out. Blink was waiting. He shot out the lights in the saloon. We got away. The place burned up, with some girl they took for you—and Hardman—"

"My God! Burned alive?"

"No," replied Pan hoarsely.

"Pan—you—you avenged me—and your Lucy—you?—" she whispered, clinging to him.

"Hush! Don't speak it! Don't ever think it again," he said sternly. "That's our secret. Rumor has it he fled from me to hide with you, and you were both burned up."

"But Lucy—your mother!" she cried.

"They know nothing except that you're my friend's wife—that you've been ill," he replied. "They're all kindness and sympathy. Dad never saw you, and Gus will keep his mouth shut. Play your part now, Louise. You and Blink make up your past. Just a few simple statements.... Then bury the past forever."

"Oh—I'm slipping—slipping—" she whispered, bursting into tears. "Help me—back to the wagon."

She walked a few rods with Pan's arm supporting her. Then she collapsed. He had to carry her to the wagon, where he deposited her, sobbing and limp behind the canvas curtains. Pan pitied her with all his heart, yet he was glad indeed she had broken down. It had been easier than he had anticipated.

Then he espied Blinky coming in manifest concern.

"Pard," said Pan in his ear, "you've a pat hand. Play it for all you're worth."

The wagons rolled down the long winding open road.

For the shortest, fullest eight hours Pan had ever experienced he matched his wits against the wild horses that he and Gus had to drive. It was a down grade and the wagons rolled thirty miles before Pan picked a camp site in the mouth of a little grassy canyon where the wild horses could be corralled. Jack rabbits, deer, coyotes ranged away from the noisy invasion of their solitude. It was wild country. Marco was distant forty miles up the sweeping ridges—far behind—gone into the past.

As the wagons rolled one by one up to the camping place. Pan observed that Blinky, the last to arrive, had a companion on the driver's seat beside him. Pan waved a glad hand. It was Louise who waved in return. Wind and sun had warmed the pallor out of her face.

Four days on the way to Siccane! The wild horses were no longer wild. The travelers to the far country had become like one big family. They all had their tasks. Even Bobby sat on his father's knee and drove the team down the open road toward the homestead where he was to grow into a pioneer lad.

So far Pan had carried on his pretense of aloofness from Lucy, apparently blind to the wondering appeal in her eyes. Long ago he had forgiven her. Yet he waited, divining surely that some day or night when an opportune moment came, she would voice the question in her eyes. He thought he could hold out longer than she could.

That very evening when he went to fetch water she waylaid him, surprised him.

"Panhandle Smith, you are killing me!" she said, with great eyes of accusation.

"How so?" he asked weakly.

"You know," she retorted. "And I won't stand it longer."

"What is it you won't stand?" teased Pan.

But suddenly Lucy broke down. "Don't. Don't keep it up," she cried desperately. "I know it was a terrible thing to do. But I told you why.... I couldn't have gone away with him—after I'd seen you."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that. I was mad enough to think you might—even care for him."

"Pan, I love only you. All my life it's been only you."

"Lucy!... Tomorrow we ride into Green River. Will you marry me there?"

"Yes—if you—love me," she whispered, going close to him.

Pan dropped both of the buckets, splashing water everywhere.

Arizonaland!

It was not only a far country attained, but another, strange and beautiful. Siccane lay a white and green dot far over the purple sage. The golden-walled mesas stood up, black fringed against the blue. In the bold notches burned the red of autumn foliage. Valleys spread between the tablelands. There was room for a hundred homesteads. Pan's keen eye sighted only a few and they were farther on, green squares in the gray. Down toward Siccane cattle made tiny specks on the vast expanse. Square miles of bleached grass contended with the surrounding slopes of sage, sweeping with slow graceful rise up to the bases of the walls and mesas.

"Water! Grass! No fences!" exclaimed Pan's father, with a glad note of renewed youth.

"Dad. Lucy. Look," replied Pan, pointing across the valley. "See that first big notch in the wall? Thick with bright green? There's water. And see the open canyon with the cedars scattered? What a place for a ranch! It has been waiting for us all these years ... That's where we'll homestead."

"Wal, pard, an' you, Louie—look over heah aways," drawled Blinky, with long arm outstretched. "See the red circle wall, with the brook shinin' down like a ribbon. Lookin' to the south! Warm in winter—cool in summer. Shore's I was born in the West thet's the homestead fer me."

The wagons rolled on behind wild horses that needed little driving. Down the long winding open road across the valley! And so on into the rich grass where no wheel track showed—on into the sage toward the lonely beckoning walls.

THE END