After breakfast the next morning Haney said:

"Well, Mr. Wellesly, do you think you would like to go to El Paso to-morrow?"

Wellesly looked him squarely in the eye and replied: "I have no business in El Paso and do not care to go there."

An ugly look came into Haney's face, and Wellesly saw that his captors were ready to throw off all pretense and take extreme measures.

"Well," said Haney; "this is what we've decided to do. We'll give you till to-morrow morning to make up your mind whether you'll go to El Paso and give us ten thousand dollars apiece for taking you there. If you don't want to get away that bad, that big rock will roll down into this canyon and shut up that outlet and you will stay 'ere and starve. We are going to leave you 'ere alone to-day to think the matter over, and we are going to tie you fast to that big tree, so you won't 'ave anything to distract your attention. We'll be back to-night and then you can 'ave your supper and I 'ope we'll find you in a reasonable frame of mind."

Jim approached with a picket rope, and Wellesly whitened with anger. For a moment, earth and sky turned black before him, and before he realized what he was doing he had hit Jim a smashing blow in the jaw. Jim staggered backward, and then, with a howling oath, whipped out and leveled his revolver. Haney, who had grabbed one of Wellesly's wrists and was struggling to keep it in his grasp, jumped between them and shouted in a tone of command: "Don't shoot, Jim, don't shoot! You'll spoil the whole game if you kill 'im!"

Jim lowered his revolver sullenly and vented his anger in vile epithets instead of bullets.

"'Ere, stop your swearing and grab that arm," said Haney. "You can't blame the man for kicking. You or me would do the same thing in 'is place. Now push 'im up against this pine tree and 'and me the rope. I'm sorry we 'ave to treat you this way, Mr. Wellesly, but if you won't be reasonable it's the only thing we can do."

Wellesly struggled at first, but he soon realized that they were much the stronger and wasted no more strength in useless resistance, though grinding his teeth with rage. They tied his arms to his body, and then, standing him upright, bound him close against the tree. They stepped back and Jim shook his fist at the captive.

"I'll get even with you yet," he shouted, "for the way you took me in the jaw! If you ain't ready to do what we want to-morrow morning you won't get a chance to starve, you hear me shout! I'll wait till then, but I won't wait no longer!"

"Shut up, Jim! Don't be a fool!" said Haney. "After 'e's meditated about it all day 'e'll be reasonable."

Wellesly did not speak, but the two men read a "never surrender" in his blazing eyes. Haney laughed excitedly and said, replying to his look:

"You'll feel differently to-night, Mr. Wellesly. That rope's likely to 'ave a big effect on your state of mind. Jim, we don't want to leave any knives on 'im."

They went through his pockets and took out everything they contained, dividing the money between them, while Haney took charge of his papers. Then they made ready for their own trip, saddling their horses and preparing to lead the two others.

"We won't leave 'im the least possibility of getting away," said Haney to Jim, "even if 'e should 'appen to get loose."

"He'll never get out of that rope till we let him out."

"If the 'orses ain't 'ere he won't 'ave any temptation to try. 'E'd never undertake the desert alone and afoot."

As they started, Haney called out, as good-naturedly as if they were the best of friends: "Good morning, Mr. Wellesly! I 'ope we'll find you more reasonable to-night."

Jim took out his revolver and turned in his saddle toward the captive. Haney grabbed his arm.

"Don't you worry," said Jim. "I ain't a-goin' to kill him, like I ought to do. I'm just a-goin' to put my mark on him."

Wellesly heard the clicking of the trigger and the thought sped through his mind that this was his last moment on earth. He saw the flash and heard the report, and then it seemed many long minutes until the whizzing of the bullet filled his ear and he heard it thump into the bark of the tree beside his head. There was a stinging in the rim of his left ear, where it had nicked out a little rounded segment.

"There!" said Jim, with an ugly laugh, as he put away his gun, "he's my maverick now, and if anybody else claims him there'll be war."



CHAPTER XIII

The next morning after his arrest Nick Ellhorn was released on bail. He came out thoroughly sobered, and when he learned what had been the result of his drunken trick his vocabulary of abusive epithets ran dry in his effort to characterize his conduct.

"How did you happen to get drunk, Nick?" Judge Harlin asked. "I thought you had quit. What did you do it for?"

"Sure, and what did I do it for?" said Nick, and the strong Irish accent in his speech told how deeply he felt his misdeed. For he was always most Irish when most moved. "I reckon," he went on, and the rolling intonation fell from his tongue like a faint breath from the green isle itself, "I reckon I did it just to show my friends what a measly, coyote, white-livered, tackey, ornery, spavined, colicky, mangy, blitherin' sort of a beast I am. Sure, now, Judge, I just wanted everybody to know what a gee-whillikined damn fool I can be if I try. And they know, now. Oh, yes, they know. There's nothin' more I can tell. Hold on, Judge! Sure, and I'm thinkin' it all came along of the way I mixed my drinks yesterday when I first struck the Palmleaf. I had beer, and whisky, and some mint juleps, yes, and maybe a cocktail, and I think there was some more beer—yes, there was more beer, and I think likely that I had some brandy up there in that sick man's room. For I seem to remember that I took a drink of brandy because it was goin' to kill him if he drank it, and so I took it in his place. Yes, I must have had some brandy, sure, because nothin' but brandy will set me up that way. Now, just look at that, Judge! Ain't that a fine lay-out for a man to swallow that knows better? If I'd never been inside a saloon before there'd be some excuse. But me a-mixin' my drinks like that! It's plumb ridiculous!"

"Jim Halliday isn't sorry you did it. He's as proud as a boy with his first pants over the haul he made yesterday. I hear he's going to be measured for a brand-new, tailor-made cartridge belt and six-shooter as a memento of the occasion."

"He'd better hurry up, then, before the occasion turns a back somersault on him. I reckon what he needs most is a new hat that will be about six sizes too big for him a week from now. Jim Halliday's all right as long as he keeps to his own side of the street, but he'd better not come over here or he'll be filled so full of bullets that he won't know himself from a dice box. Say, Judge, what's become of that John Chiny's pigtail they say I cut off?"

"I suppose it's in the hands of the district attorney and will be brought in as part of the evidence when your case is tried."

"Harry Gillam's got it, has he? Well, I want it myself. It's mine, and I want it as a reminder not to mix my drinks. What had I better do about this business, Judge?"

"There's only one thing you can do, Nick—plead guilty and throw yourself on the mercy of the court, and trust to your confounded Irish luck to get you off easy."

Nick Ellhorn sent a telegram to Thomson Tuttle to return as quickly as possible and then attended to the shipment of Emerson Mead's cattle. When he appeared on Main street again in the afternoon he found the town dividing itself into two hostile camps. The Palmleaf and the White Horse saloons were, respectively, the headquarters of the two factions, and men were dropping their work and leaving their shops and offices to join the excited crowds that filled the two saloons and gathered in groups on the sidewalks. On the west side of Main street the general temper was pleased, exultant, and inclined to jeer at the other side whenever a Republican met a Democrat. On the east side, anger and the determination to get even, shone in men's eyes and sounded in their talk.

In the afternoon news came that the territorial district court had decided in favor of the Democrats a controversy over the sheriff's office that had been going on ever since the election the previous autumn, when on the face of the returns the Republican candidate, John Daniels, had been declared elected. The Democrats had cried "fraud," and carried the case into the courts, where it had ever since been crawling slowly along, while Daniels held the office. The election had been so hotly contested that each side had counted more votes than had been registered. But each had felt so confident that it could cover up its own misdeeds and hide behind its execration of those of its enemy that neither had had any doubt about the outcome.

The news of the decision embittered the quarrel which had been opened by the arrest of Emerson Mead. There were threats of armed resistance if the Democrats should attempt to take the office, and both John Daniels and Joe Davis, who had been the Democratic candidate, went about heavily armed and attended by armed friends as bodyguards, lest sudden death at the mouth of a smoking gun should end the dispute.

Toward night the angry talk and the buzzing rumors again centered about Emerson Mead. It began to be said on the west side of the street that this whole controversy over the sheriff's office had been worked up by Mead and his friends in order that they might get his party into power and, under its protection, harass the cattle company and by arrests and murders ruin their business and take their stock. As the talk whizzed and buzzed along the street men grew more and more reckless and angry in their assertions. They lashed themselves into a state in which they really believed, for the time being, that Mead's continued existence would be a peril to themselves and a danger to the community. Suggestions of lynching were hazarded and quickly taken up and discussed. There were many who thought this the best thing that could be done, and a little group of these got together in the coolest corner of the White Horse saloon and formed themselves into a secret vigilance committee. News of these things came by way of the back door into Judge Harlin's office. He took the lead on the Democratic side of the street and organized a party of twelve of their bravest men and best shots to guard the jail during the night and resist any attempt to take out Emerson Mead. He was careful also to see that news of what he was doing was carried to the leaders on the other side. Late in the evening he and Ellhorn and the rest of their party posted themselves in dark corners and convenient hiding-places in the neighborhood of the jail. An hour or more passed and there was no sign that the vigilance committee had survived the fervors of the afternoon. Finally Nick Ellhorn began to suspect what had happened and he called Judge Harlin to account.

"I call it downright mean, Judge," he complained, "to bring us fellows out here in the hope of havin' a scrimmage and then send the other side word we're here, so they'll be sure not to come! You'll be runnin' on their ticket next thing we know! Now that we are out here and all ready for business, and nothin' to do, we'd better just slam-bang ourselves against that jail over there and get Emerson out."

Judge Harlin, Ellhorn, Joe Davis and two others were standing in the recess of a deep doorway under a portal. On the top of the portal, stretched at full length, with one ear over the edge, lay a Mexican listening to their talk. He could not hear Harlin's reply to Nick's suggestion, but one of the others quickly agreed. The listener did not wait to hear more, and in five minutes the back room of the White Horse saloon was in a bustle of excitement. John Daniels and Jim Halliday called for a posse of citizens to help them defend the jail, and the party set out at once on a quick run up the street.

Judge Harlin was trying to restrain Ellhorn's enthusiasm over the idea of assaulting the jail. "No, Nick," he said, "we don't want to do anything illegal. We are all right so far, because we are here to protect human life and uphold the law. But the minute you throw yourself against the doors of the jail you forfeit the law's protection and—"

"Here they come!" Nick interrupted excitedly. His quick ear had caught the hurried tramp of the approaching party.

With Daniels, Whittaker and Halliday in the lead and the others trailing on close behind, they came down the middle of the street on a half run, plainly revealed in the bright moonlight. They expected to find the Democrats battering down the jail door, if they were not already taking the prisoner out, and all their attention was turned toward that building. Presently they saw that the entrance and all the street round about were silent and apparently deserted, and they concluded that the rescuing party was already inside the jail. Daniels turned and made a hushing gesture.

"Softly, boys," he said in a repressed voice. "Come along as quietly as you possibly can and get up to the door in a bunch. Have your guns ready."

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when from the darkness and silence of a portal a block beyond them came a flash and a report, and on the instant a dozen more blazed out along that side of the street, for half a block.

The sheriff's party came to a sudden stop, stunned for a moment by the complete surprise. One of their number threw out his hands and sank down groaning into the dust.

"We're ambushed, boys! It's a trick!" shouted a man in the rear, and he started off as fast as his legs could carry him. Another and another followed his example, and three others picked up the wounded man and carried him away. Daniels and Halliday and three or four others returned the fire, guessing at the location of the enemy, but one of their party fell to the ground and another dropped his pistol as his arm suddenly went limp and helpless.

"It's nothin' but a trick to get us out here and kill us," said Daniels.

"It's no use to stand here and make targets of ourselves in the moonlight," added Halliday. "We'd better get out as quick as we can."

They picked up the wounded man, and supporting him between two others, sought the shadow of the sidewalk and hurried away, followed by a jeering "Whoo-oo-oo-ee" in Nick Ellhorn's well-known voice.

"No more shooting, boys!" shouted Judge Harlin. "We've buffaloed 'em—let 'em go!"

"You're always spoilin' the fun, Judge," Nick complained. "This job was too easy! Now, did you ever see such a pack of cowards start on a lynchin' bee? But I reckon they've learned one lesson and won't try to lynch Emerson again in a hurry."

The next day excitement ran higher than ever. The Republicans, smarting under their defeat, were in a white heat of indignation over what they believed was a deliberate plan to ambush and kill their leading men. The Democrats, while they were jubilant over their victory, were equally indignant over what they declared was an attempt, by the very men who ought to have protected him, to lynch Emerson Mead. In reality, each side had been trying to protect him and uphold the law, but each scoffed at and spurned the story of the other. Main street was in two hostile camps and all the fire-arms in the town that were not already in evidence in holsters and hip pockets, were brought to the center of hostilities and placed within handy reaching distance in shops and offices. Behind the bar in each of the saloons was a stack of shot-guns and rifles. The sidewalk on each side of the street was constantly crowded, but nobody crossed from one side to the other.

The women began to feel the war spirit and early in the day Judge Harlin's wife and John Daniels' wife, who were ordinarily the dearest friends, passed each other on the street without speaking. The ladies of Las Plumas were accustomed to meet at frequent teas, luncheons and card parties on terms of the greatest cordiality, but long before night, if any one whose masculine affiliations were on one side met one belonging to the other, they passed with a haughty stare.

Sheriff Daniels was much disturbed over the situation, fearing that he would be unable to keep his prisoner in jail. He talked the matter over with his advisers and together they decided that the best plan would be to get Emerson Mead out of town for the present, and accordingly a telegram was sent to the sheriff of the adjoining county asking permission to lodge Mead temporarily in his jail. The Democrats heard of this plan, and Nick Ellhorn fumed indignantly. Judge Harlin was secretly pleased, and contrived to send word to Colonel Whittaker, Sheriff Daniels and Jim Halliday that he approved their plan and would do his best to control the Democratic faction while they were making the change. He did not tell Nick Ellhorn that he had done this, but he reasoned with that loyal friend at great length on the matter.

"But see here, Judge," Nick replied to all his arguments, "I got Emerson into trouble this time and I've got to get him out. If he hadn't been chasin' around alone, tryin' to get me out of the beastly drunken scrape I'd been fool enough to get into, this wouldn't have happened. You know it wouldn't, Judge. It's all my fault, and I've got to get Emerson out of it."

"That's all right, Nick. Your loyalty to Emerson does you great credit. Much more than your judgment does. But if you'll just wait a week or two the grand jury will pronounce on his case, and they're bound to let the bottom out of the whole thing. They'll never find a true bill against him, with no evidence to go on and no proof even that Will Whittaker is dead. Then Emerson will come out a vindicated man and they will have to let him alone after that. His interests will not suffer now by his being detained a few days, and he will gain in the respect of the community by submitting quietly. Take my advice, Nick, and keep still, and let matters follow their legal course for the next week or two."

"A week or two, Judge! And let Emerson stay in jail all that time? When he's no more right to be there than you or me! Sure, now, Judge! and what do you-all take me for, anyway?"

"For a sensible man, Nick, who will see the reason in what I have been saying and will take my advice in the matter."

Nick leaned his face on his hand and gloomed across the desk at the big judge, who sat calm and judicial on the other side. Judge Harlin pleased himself much by believing that he could handle Nick Ellhorn better than any other man in the county, except Emerson Mead, and he liked to have the opportunity to try his hand, just as he liked to drive a nervous, mettlesome, erratic horse. He could drive the horse, but he could not manage Nick Ellhorn. The tall Texan had learned not to batter words against the judge's determination, which was as big and bulky as his figure. He simply gave tacit acquiescence, and then went away and did as he pleased. If his scheme succeeded he adroitly flattered the judge by giving him the credit; if it failed he professed penitence and said how much better it would have been to follow the judge's advice. He saw that Judge Harlin had decided to allow Emerson Mead to stay in jail until the grand jury should meet, so he presently said:

"Oh, I reckon you-all are right about it, Judge, but it's damn hard on Emerson. But if it's the only way to keep this blamed town from fallin' to and gettin' rid of itself I reckon we'll have to let him stand it." He got up and walked up and down the room for a few minutes and then, with his black eyes dancing and a broad smile curling his mustache around the dimple in each cheek, he went to the telegraph office and sent to Thomson Tuttle a telegram which read:

"Get off the train to-morrow at Escondida and ride to Bosque Grande, where you will find Missouri Bill with horses and instructions." Escondida was the first station on the railroad north of Las Plumas and the Bosque Grande was a river flat, covered with a dense growth of cottonwoods and willow bushes through which the railroad ran, about midway between the two towns. Missouri Bill was one of Mead's cow-boys who had come in with the herd of cattle.

When it became known that Emerson Mead was to be taken to the Silverado county jail to await the session of the grand jury and that the Democrats would not object to the scheme, the war feeling at once began to abate. The town still rested on its arms and glared across Main street, each party from its own side. There was no more talk of extreme measures and there were no more threats of blood letting. So things went on for a few hours, until the matter of Mead's transfer to the Silverado jail was finally settled. Then all the town looked on while Judge Harlin strolled leisurely across the street, nodded to Colonel Whittaker and Sheriff Daniels, and the three men went into the White Horse saloon and clinked glasses together over the bar. A little later Jim Halliday went to the Palmleaf and he and Joe Davis joined in a friendly "here's luck." After which all the town put away its guns and went quietly about its usual affairs.

The Republicans frankly gave out that Emerson Mead would be taken away on the north bound overland train, which passed through Las Plumas in the middle of the day. Nick Ellhorn decided that this was told too openly to be true. He guessed that the journey would be made on a "local" train which passed through the town in the early morning and that Sheriff Daniels hoped, by thus secretly carrying off his prisoner, to forestall any possible attempt at a rescue. Accordingly, he sent another telegram to Tuttle to be in the Bosque Grande for this train and started off Missouri Bill with two extra horses before daybreak on the second morning after the fight.

With Sheriff Daniels beside him and Jim Halliday walking close behind, Emerson Mead stepped into the rear coach of the "local" train with none to witness his departure other than the handful of regular travelers, and a half dozen well armed Republicans who were at the station to help prevent any attempt at escape. Mead greeted these with smiling good nature, as if there were no thought of quarrel between them, and cast his eyes about for sight of his own friends. Not one could he see. He did not know what plan for his assistance Ellhorn and Tuttle might have schemed, he did not even know that Tuttle had gone away, but he felt sure they would not allow him to be taken away from Las Plumas any more than they would allow him to remain in jail longer than the earliest possible moment at which they could get him out. So he went along quietly and good-naturedly with his keepers, his eyes watchful and his mind alert, alike for any relaxation of their vigilance which would give him a chance of escape, and for the first sign from his friends.

Nick Ellhorn did not appear on the station platform at all. He rushed up from the opposite side just as the train was starting and jumped on the steps of the smoking car. Inside he saw a man whom he knew, and, sitting down beside him, they smoked and chatted and laughed together until the train reached the edge of the Bosque Grande, when Nick walked leisurely into the baggage compartment which formed the front half of the smoking car. He nodded a friendly good morning to the baggage man, handed him a cigar, lighted a fresh one himself, and with one eye out at the open door stood and bandied a joke or two with the train man. Presently he caught sight of a bunch of horses behind a willow thicket a little way ahead and saw a big, burly figure near the track.

Then he leaped to the top of the tender, and in another moment was sitting with his long legs dangling from the front end of the coal box. "Whoo-oo-oo-ee!" sounded in the ears of the engineer and fireman, above the rattle of the train and the roar of the engine. They looked around, astonished and startled by the sudden yell, and saw themselves covered by two cocked revolvers.

"Stop your old engine before she gets to that trestle yonder or I'll blow both of you through your headlight!" yelled Nick.

The engineer knew Ellhorn and he yelled back, "What for, Nick?"

"Never mind what for! Stop her quick or—one, two—"

The engineer waited no longer, but let his lever forward with a sudden jerk. The wheels ground and scraped and the train trembled and stood still with the rear coach only a few feet in front of Tuttle's post.

Inside the car, Halliday, who sat in the seat behind Mead and the sheriff, had walked to the front end of the car and was drinking at the ice-water tank when the train came to a sudden stop. He went to the front platform and looked up the track to see what was the matter. Seeing nothing there he turned to face the rear. By that time Tom Tuttle was on the back platform and nothing was to be seen in that direction. So he turned to the other side of the platform and looked diligently up and down the road. Sheriff Daniels and his prisoner were sitting on the opposite side of the train from that on which Tuttle was entering. The sheriff stepped into the next seat and put his head out of the window. Mead's faculties were on the alert, and when he heard a quick, heavy step leaping up the back steps of the car he knew, without turning his head, that it was either Tuttle or Ellhorn. He leaned over the back of the seat in front of him and jerked the sheriff's pistol from its holster just as Tuttle stood beside him. Daniels jumped back, as he felt his gun drawn out, and found himself, unarmed, confronted by cocked revolvers in the hands of two of the best shots in the territory. He yelled for Halliday, and Mead and Tuttle backed quickly toward the rear door. The train was moving again as Halliday came rushing in, and Tuttle, disappearing through the back door, transferred his aim from the sheriff to the deputy. Halliday knew well that if he fired he would shoot to his own death, and he paused midway of the car, with his gun half raised, as the two men leaped from the moving train.

"Much obliged!" yelled Nick Ellhorn, jumping to the ground from his perch on the coal box. Daniels and Halliday stood on the rear platform as the three men leaped on the horses which Missouri Bill had ready beside the track. Daniels shook his fist at them in rage, and Halliday emptied the chambers of his six-shooter, but the bullets did no more damage than to cut some hairs from the tail of Mead's horse. Ellhorn waved his sombrero and shouted his loudest and longest "Whoo-oo-oo-ee!" Tuttle yelled "Buffaloed!" and Mead kissed his hand to the two angry men on the rear platform of the departing train. Then they put spurs to their horses and rode away over the plains and the mountains. They stopped over night at Muletown, and reached Mead's ranch about noon the next day.



CHAPTER XIV

Wellesly waited in silence and apparent resignation until his captors disappeared down the canyon and the last sound of the horses' feet stumbling over the boulders melted into the distance. Then he began wriggling his body and twisting his arms to see if there were any possibility of loosening the rope. It would give just enough everywhere to allow a very slight movement of limbs and body, but it was impossible to work this small slack from any two of the loops into one. Wellesly pulled and worked and wriggled for a long time without making any change in his bonds. Then he put all his attention upon his right arm, which he could move up and down a very little. He had a narrow hand, with thumb and wrist joints as supple as a conjurer's, so that he could almost fold the palm upon itself and the hand upon the arm. One turn of the rope which bound his arms to his body was just above the wrist, and by working his hand up and down, until he rubbed the skin off against the bark of the tree, he managed to get this band a little looser, so that, by doubling his hand back, he could catch it with his thumb. Then it was only a matter of a few minutes until he had the right arm free to the elbow. On the ground at his feet lay a match, which had dropped there when his captors rifled his pockets. If he could only get it he might possibly burn through some of the bands of rope. He thought that if he could get rid of the rope across his chest he might be able to reach the match. He worked at this with his one free hand for some time, but could neither loosen nor move it. He picked at it until his finger-ends were bleeding, but he could make no impression on its iron-like strands.

A breeze blew the lapel of his light coat out a little way and there his eye caught the glint of a pin-head. He remembered that Marguerite Delarue had pinned a rose in his buttonhole the day before he left Las Plumas. He had been saying pretty, half-loverlike nothings to her about her hair and her eyes, and to conceal her embarrassed pleasure she had turned away and plucked a rosebud from the vine that clambered over the veranda. He had begged for the flower, and she, smiling and blushing so winsomely that he had been tempted to forget his discretion, had pinned it in his buttonhole. It had fallen out unnoticed and he had forgotten all about it until the welcome sight of the pin brought the incident back to his memory. With a little exclamation of delight he thrust his free hand upward for the pin, but he could not reach it. Neither could he pull his coat down through the bands of rope. He worked at it for a long time, and finally stopped his efforts, baffled, despairing, his heart filled with angry hopelessness. Again the breeze fluttered the lapel, and with a sudden impulse of revengeful savagery he thrust down his head and snapped at the coat. Unexpectedly, he caught it in his teeth. Filled with a new inspiration, he kept fast hold of the cloth and by working it along between his lips, he finally got the head of the pin between his teeth. Then he easily drew it out, and, leaning his head over, transferred it to his fingers.

He drew a deep breath of exultation. "Now," he thought, "this settles the matter, and I'll soon be free—if I don't drop the pin. My blessed Marguerite! I could almost marry you for this!"

Carefully he began picking the rope with the pin, fiber by fiber, and slowly, strand by strand, the hard, twisted, weather-beaten cords gave way and stood out on each side in stubby, frazzled ends. The pin bent and turned in his fingers, and the blood oozed from their raw ends. But he held a tight grip upon his one hope of freedom, and finally the rope was so nearly separated that a sudden wrench of his body broke the last strands. He put the bent, twisted, bloody pin carefully away in his pocket and, stooping over, found that he could barely reach the match on the ground. He was able to grasp also two or three dry twigs and sticks that lay near it. On the bark of the pine tree to which he was tied were many little balls and drops of pitch. He felt over the surface of the tree as far as he could reach and pulled off all that he could get of this. Then he found that the only part of the rope that he could at once reach and see was that directly in front of his body. He turned and twisted, but there was no other way. If he attempted to burn it anywhere else he would have to guess at the best way to hold the match, and he might waste the precious heat in which lay his only hope.

He stuck the pitch in a ring around the rope where it circled his body just below the stomach. Then he set his teeth together, and with his face gone all white and sick-looking, lighted the match and held it under the pitch. Eagerly he watched the little flames dart upward over the rope. He flattened his body against the tree as the scorching heat reached his skin. The match burned low, and by its dying flame he lighted one of the dry twigs. It was full of pitch and burned up brightly. The flame leaped up and caught his shirt. Holding the burning stick in his mouth he slapped the fire with the palm of his one free hand and soon smothered it, before it had done more than scorch the skin of his chest. The cloth of his trousers charred under the fire and held a constant heat against his body, and the pain from the blistering wound almost made him forget his desperation. Twice he started impulsively to fling away the tiny brand, but quick remembrance of his desperate situation stopped the instinctive movement, and, with grinding teeth, he held it again under the rope. The smell of the burning flesh rose to his nostrils and sickened him. He felt himself turning faint. "I can not stand it!" he groaned and flung away the burning twig. In an instant he realized what he had done, and stooping over he tried to reach it where it blazed upon the ground. But it was too far away. In an agony of hopelessness he seized the rope with his one free hand and jerked it with all his strength. It broke at the burned place and left him free as far as the hips, although the left arm was still bound to his body.

An empty tin can caught his eye in the grass a little way off. It was out of his reach, but he saw a stick on the ground part way around the tree. By twisting and stretching his body to the utmost he could reach the stick, and by its aid he soon had the can in his hand. The top had been almost cut out, and holding the can in his hand and the flying leaf of tin in his teeth he worked and twisted and pulled until he tore it out. Its edge was sharp and jagged, and sawing and cutting with it he soon freed himself from the remaining bonds of rope. As the last one dropped away and he stood up and stretched himself in the shade of the pine tree he found that he was trembling like a leaf and that a cold sweat covered him from head to foot. Shivering, he stepped out into the hot sunshine.

But he had no time to waste on a nervous collapse. He found some tea in the pack, and hastily stirring up the embers of the breakfast fire, he made the coffee pot full of a brew as strong as he could drink. There was also part of a small sack of flour, and he quickly mixed a paste of flour and water and spread it over the deep, blistered burn on his abdomen. Then, with a can of baked beans in one hand and the coffee pot of tea in the other, he started down the canyon.

The tiny stream from the spring grew smaller and smaller and finally lost itself in the thirsty earth. For a little way farther the straggling vegetation and the moist sand showed its course, but long before he reached the mouth of the canyon all sign of water disappeared and nothing remained but hot sand and barren rocks. When he reached the larger canyon through which they had come up from the plain two days before, he hid behind some huge boulders and watched and listened for sign of his captors. He thought he heard the faint sound of a horse's hoofs far in the distance. He started from his hiding-place and ran down the canyon, hoping to get out of sight, if it should be his two enemies returning, before they could reach the place. He was still trembling with the exhaustion of the forenoon's long nervous strain, and when his foot slipped upon a stone he could not save himself from a fall. He went down full length upon the sand, and half his precious store of tea was spilled. He dared not take the time to go back and make more. There was still left nearly a quart of the strong liquid, and he thought that if he would be very careful and remember to swallow only a little each time it might take him safely across the desert. He hurried on, running where the way was smooth and hard enough, and again clambering over boulders or ploughing heavily through the sand.

When he came to the mouth of the canyon and looked out over the low, rocky hills and the sandy, white waste beyond, the sun was already in its downward course. He was red and panting with the heat, which had been well nigh intolerable between the high, narrow walls of the canyon, and his whole body smarted and glowed as if it had been encased in some stinging hot metal. He carefully studied the sky line of the Fernandez mountains, which rimmed the desert on the west, and marked the pass through which he and his companions had come, impressing it upon his mind that he must keep that constantly before his eyes. It seemed easy enough, and he said to himself that if he just kept his face toward that pass he would have no trouble and that he would certainly reach it before noon the next day. He listened intently for sounds from the canyon, but could hear nothing, and with much relief he decided that he must have been mistaken and that he would be safe from immediate pursuit.

"I'm lucky so far," he said to himself as he started on the faintly marked trail across the barren foothills, "even if I did spill my tea. If they should follow me, it would be my last day on earth. That damned Jim would shoot me down as soon as he could get near enough." Then he remembered that this was Thursday, and that Colonel Whittaker would expect him in Las Plumas that afternoon. "He'll send to the ranch to inquire about me when I don't show up to-morrow," Wellesly thought, "and then everybody will turn out to search for me. But, Good Lord! I needn't pin any hopes to that! I'd be dead and my bones picked and bleached long before anybody would think of looking in this hell hole for me. There would be absolutely no way of tracing me. My only hope is to—now, where is that pass! Yes, there it is. I'm headed all right."

He walked rapidly over the low, rocky hills, still fearing possible pursuit and frequently looking back, until he reached the sandy levels of the desert. There the trail was so faint that he could scarcely follow it with his eye. He stopped, perplexed and doubtful, for he could not remember that it seemed so blind when he traveled it before. "But there is the pass," he thought. "I'm headed all right, and this must be the road. It is just another indication of my general stupidity about everything out of doors. I never look at a road, or think about directions, or notice the lay of the land, as long as there is anybody with me upon whom I can depend. I might as well pay no more attention to this trail and strike straight across the desert. If I keep my face toward the pass I'm all right."

As long as the road kept a straight course across the sand and alkali wastes he followed it. But when it bent away in a detour he chose the air line which he constantly drew from his objective point, and congratulated himself that he would thus save a little space. He tramped along, in and out among the cactus and greasewood, and finally, near sunset, he came upon a great, field-like growth of prickly-pear cactus. The big, bespined joints spread themselves in a thick carpet over the sand and climbed over one another in great hummocks and stuck out their millions upon millions of needles in every direction. The growth looked as if it might cover hundreds of acres.

"So that's the reason the trail bent like a bow," thought Wellesly as he looked at the field of cactus in dismay. "I ought to have known there was some good reason for it. If I'm lucky enough to find it again I'll know enough to stick to it. Well, I must skirt along this field of devil's fingers till I find the road again. I wonder if I'll know it when I see it."

The sun went down, a dazzling ball of yellow fire, behind the rounded, rolling outlines of the Fernandez mountains, and from out the towering crags of the Oro Fino range the moon rose, white and cool, looking like a great, round wheel of snow. Wellesly had planned to keep on with his journey through the greater part of the night, in order to take advantage of the cooler atmosphere. But the trail was so faint he feared he might not recognize it in the less certain light of the moon, and so he decided to stop where he was for the night. With his heel and a sharp-edged stone he stamped in the head of the can of baked beans and with his fingers helped himself to a goodly share of its contents. He forced himself to drink sparingly of what remained of his tea. Not more than a pint was left and he dared take no more than a few sips. To keep from pouring the whole of it down his throat in great gulps strained his will power to the utmost. His whole body clamored for drink. He would seize the coffee pot with a savage grip and carry it half way to his lips, stop it there with gritting teeth, and with conjured visions of men dying with thirst force himself to put it down again. He said to himself that of all the times in his life which had required self-control none had ever made such sweeping demands upon his will power as did this. After he had finished his supper and was ready to lie down on the sand to sleep, he carried the coffee pot some rods away, to the edge of the growth of cactus, and hid it there under the protection of the branching, needle-covered joints of the prickly-pear, where he could not get it without having his hands pierced and stung by the spines. For he feared that his thirst might rouse him in the night and that, with his faculties benumbed with sleep, he might drink the whole of the precious store.

By midnight the air of the desert had cooled enough for him to sleep with comfort, save for the thirst that now and again wakened him with parched mouth and clinging tongue. In the morning, he resolutely ate his breakfast of cold baked beans, helping himself with his fingers, forcing himself to swallow the very last morsel he could choke down, before he took the coffee pot from its hiding-place. His eyelids fell, and with a gasping breath he put it to his lips. Then he summoned all his will power and took two small swallows.

As he plodded through the sand he wondered what would be the outcome of his journey, even if he should succeed in getting safely across the desert and beyond the mountain pass. He remembered that there was no sign of water and no human habitation between the desert and the ranch where his misfortunes had begun. He had seen no one there but the Englishman, and he wondered whether he would find the place deserted or whether he would run into the arms of other members of the same gang that had lured him away. No matter. He would find water there, and he was ready to face any danger or run any risk for the chance of once more having all the water he could drink.

The sun was well up in the sky and the desert glowed like an oven. Hot winds began to blow across it—light, variable winds, rushing now this way and now that. They made little whirlwinds that picked up the sand, carried it some distance, and then dropped it and died away. Wellesly saw one of these sand clouds dancing across the plain not far away, and instantly the hopeful thought flashed upon him that it was the dust raised by some horsemen. He ran toward it, shouting and waving his hat. It turned and whirled along the sandy levels in another direction, and he turned too and ran toward a point at which he thought he could intercept it. Presently it vanished into the heated air and he stopped, bewildered, and for a moment dazed, that no horsemen came galloping out of the cloud. He looked helplessly about him and saw another, a high, round column that reached to mid-sky, swirling across the plain. Then he knew that he had been chasing a "dust-devil." He swore angrily at himself and started on, and when next he swept the mountain range with his eye for the pass that was his objective point he could not find it. Suddenly he stopped and shut his eyes, and a shuddering fear held his heart. Slowly he turned squarely around and looked up, afraid and trembling. There were the Fernandez mountains and there was the pass he wished to reach. He had no idea how long he had been traveling in the backward direction. A sudden panic seized him and he ran wildly about, now in one direction and now in another. Panting with the exertion he savagely grasped the coffee pot and drained it of its last drop.

"Now I have signed my death warrant," he thought, as he threw away the empty vessel. He sank down on the hot sands and buried his face in his arms. For the first time his courage was all gone. Presently he felt the effects of the tea and he stood up, ready to go on.

"It is no use trying to find the road again," he mused. "It would be just so much lost time and effort. I'll just keep my eye on the pass and go directly toward it, as nearly as I can."

He tried to eat more of the beans, but they stuck in his parched throat. The tin was so hot that it burned his fingers, and, believing they would be of no more use to him, he threw them away. The draught of tea had much refreshed him and he started across the trackless waste of sand and alkali with renewed determination.

He tramped on and on, the sun blazed down from a cloudless sky and beat upon the level plain, and the sand, filled with heat, threw back the rays into the scorching air. The heat seemed to fill the plain as if it were a deep, transparent lake of some hot, shimmering liquid. At a little distance every object loomed through the heat-haze distorted, elongated and wavering. The hot sand burned Wellesly's feet through his boots. The notion seized him that if he touched his body anywhere it would blister his fingers. Even the blood in his veins felt fiery hot and as if it were ready to burst through its channels. The sun seemed to follow him and blaze down upon him with the malicious persecution of a personal enemy. He shook his fist and swore at the ball of fire.

For a long time he kept his eyes resolutely upon the Fernandez pass and would look neither to left nor right. But after a while his brain grew dizzy and his determination faltered. He stopped and looked about him. Off to one side he thought he saw a lake, lying blue and limpid in a circlet of gray sand, and he ran panting toward it, reaching out his hands, and ready to plunge into its cool depths. He ran and ran, until he stumbled and fell with exhaustion. It happened that he lay in the shadow of a big clump of greasewood, and after a little he revived and sat up. Then he rose and looked all about—and knew that the longed-for lake was only the lying cheat of the desert sands. He fastened his eyes again upon the mountain pass and trudged on over the burning waste and through the burning heat, mumbling oaths of threat and anger. His tongue seemed to fill his whole mouth, and tongue and mouth and throat burned like red-hot metal.

The stories he had heard from Jim and Haney constantly haunted him. He could not drive them away. In imagination he saw himself lying on the white, hot sands with open mouth, protruding tongue, black face and sightless eyes. The picture sent a thrill of horror through him and moved his dizzy, flagging brain to fresh resolution. He stumbled on through the blazing, parching, cruel heat, sometimes falling and lying motionless for a time, then pulling himself up and going on with will newly braced by the fear that he might not rise again. Once he sank, groaning, his courage quite broken, and mumbled to himself that he could go no farther. As he fell the loud whirr of a rattlesnake sounded from the bush of greasewood beside him. Instinctive fear instantly mettled his nerves and he sprang up and leaped away from the hidden enemy. The fear of this danger, of which he had not thought before, steadied his brain once more and helped him bend his will unyieldingly to the task of going on and on and on, forever and forever, through the burning, blasting heat.

Often he turned from his course and wandered aimlessly about in wrong directions, forgetting for a time his objective point and remembering only that he must keep going. Once he came upon human bones, with shreds of clothing lying about, and stood staring at them, his eyes held by the fascination of horror. Finally he forced himself to move on, and after he had tramped through the scorching sand for a long time, he found himself staring again at the bleaching skeleton. Through his heat-dazed brain the thought made way that the fascination of this white, nameless thing had cast a spell upon him and had drawn him back to die here, where his bones might lie beside these that had whitened this desert spot for so many months. Perhaps this poor creature's soul hovered over his death place and in its loneliness and desolation had fastened ghoulish talons into his and would pin him down to die in the same spot. The idea took instant possession of his bewildered mind and filled him with such quaking fear and horror that he turned and ran with new strength and speed, as if the clawing, clamoring ghost were really at his heels.

By mere blind luck he ran in the right direction, and when next he had conscious knowledge of his surroundings he was lying on the ground at the mouth of the Fernandez pass, well up in the mountains, with the white moonlight all about him. Dazedly he thought it would be better for him to lie still and rest, but from somewhere back in his mind came the conviction that there was something upon which he must keep his eyes fastened, some place toward which he must go, and that he must keep on going and going, until he should reach it. Determination rose spontaneously, and he got up and stumbled on, frequently falling, but always soon rising again and keeping on with his journey. After a long time he saw something that glittered in the moonlight. His first thought was "water!" and with a cry that died in his parched, swollen throat he sprang forward and seized it. But it was only a bottle, a flat, empty whisky flask. He turned it over and over in his hands with a haunting notion that in some way it was connected with his past.

Slowly the recollection shaped itself in his heat-bewildered faculties that he and the two men who were luring him away had drunk from this flask here and that then he had thrown it beside the road. Presently the idea grew out of this recollection that he was on the right road and that soon he would come to the house where there was water. The thought made him spring forward again, and he rushed on aimlessly, thinking of nothing but that somewhere ahead of him there was water. He ran on and on, now this way and now that, falling and lying unconscious, then, revived by the cool night air of the mountains, rising and staggering on again. The sun rose and looked hotly down upon him as he dragged himself along, hatless, haggard, his skin burned to a blister, his eyes red and his swollen, blackened tongue hanging from his mouth.

After a time he caught sight of a clump of green trees with something shining behind them, which he thought was the water he was looking for—water, for which every boiling drop of blood in his body was fiercely calling; water, which his blistering throat and tongue must have; water, for which the very marrow of his bones cried out—water—water—and he ran with all the speed his frenzied longing could force into his legs. Presently he could hear the rustle of green leaves, and he thought it was the purring of wavelets on the bank, the white, shining bank that beckoned him on. He put out his hands to plunge into the cool, bright waves. They struck a blank, white hall, and he fell unconscious beside the doorway of Emerson Mead's ranch house.



CHAPTER XV

Three horsemen galloped around the curve in the road that half circled the house and the corral and the stables at Emerson Mead's ranch. One of them swung his hat and shouted a loud "Whoo-oo-oo-ee!" But there was no response from the house. Doors and windows were closed and not a soul appeared in sight.

"That's queer," said Tuttle. "What's become of Billy Haney?"

"Boys, there's a man lyin' beside the door!" exclaimed Mead. "Somebody is either drunk or dead!"

They swung off their horses and rushed to the prostrate figure, which lay almost on its face.

"Great God, boys, it's Wellesly, and he's dying of thirst!" cried Mead. "Nick, bring water, lots of it, cold from the pump! Here, Tom, help me put him in the hammock."

They laid him in the hammock, in the cool shade of the cottonwoods, where he had slept, to his own undoing, three days before. They moistened his black, protruding tongue and let a few drops of the cool liquid trickle down his parched throat. They poured water carefully over his head and neck and on his wrists, and then drenched him from head to foot with pailful after pailful of the fresh, cold water.

The patient moaned and moved his head. "He's alive, boys. We'll save him yet," said Mead.

Through dim, half-awakened consciousness Wellesly heard the swish of the water as it poured over his body, and felt the cool streams trickling down his face. He gasped and his dry, cracked lips drew back wolfishly from his teeth as he threw up his hands and seized the cup from which Mead was carefully pouring the water over his head. Mead's fingers closed tightly over the handle and his arm stiffened to iron.

"Softly, there, softly," he said in a gentle voice. "I can't let you drink any now, because it would kill you. You shall have some soon."

With a choking yell Wellesly half raised himself and clung to the cup with both hands, trying to force it to his mouth. Nick Ellhorn sprang to his side and took hold of his shoulders.

"Sure, now, Mr. Wellesly," he began, and the Irish accent was rich and strong in his coaxing, wheedling tones, "sure, now, you don't want to be killin' yourself, after you've held out this far. Just you-all do as we say and we'll bring you through all right. Sure, and you shall be after havin' all the water you want, but you must take it on the outside first. Ah, now, but isn't this shower bath nice!"

While he talked he gently forced the patient back and as Wellesly lay down again Mead poured a little water into his mouth.

"If he goes luny now that's the end of him," said Emerson in a repressed, tense voice. "We must not let him get excited. Nick, you'd better stand there and keep him quiet, if you can, and pour water over his face and head and put a little in his mouth sometimes."

Tuttle carried the water for their use, two pailsful at a time, and Mead kept his body well drenched. Ellhorn stooped over the hammock and continued his coaxing talk, drawling one sentence after another with slurred r's and soft southern accents. With one hand he patted the patient's head and shoulders and with the other he dashed water over his face or trickled it, drop by drop, into his mouth. After a while they gave the half-conscious man some weak tea, took off his wet clothes and put him to bed. There they looked after him carefully, giving him frequent but small instalments of food in liquid form and an occasional swallow of water. After some hours they decided he was out of danger and would recover without an illness. Then Nick Ellhorn mounted a horse and rode away. When he returned he carried a burden tied in a gunny sack, which he suspended from the limb of a tree and carefully drenched with water many times before he retired. The next day he anxiously watched the bag, keeping it constantly wet and shaded and free to the breezes. And in the afternoon, with a smile curling his mustache almost up to his eyes, he spread before Wellesly a big, red watermelon, cold and luscious. With delight in his face and chuckling in his voice he watched the sick man eat as much as Emerson would allow him to have, and then begged that he be given more. To get the melon Ellhorn had ridden fifteen miles and back, to the nearest ranch beyond Mead's.

"I never saw a man look happier that you-all do right now," he said as he watched Wellesly.

"And you never saw anybody who felt happier than I do with this melon slipping down my throat," Wellesly responded. "I feel now as if I should never want to do anything but swallow wet things all the rest of my life. By the way, did one of you fellows stand beside me a long time yesterday, coaxing me to lie still?"

"Yes," said Nick, "it was me. We had to make you keep quiet, or you'd have gone luny because we wouldn't give you all the water you wanted to drink. It would have killed you to drink the water, and if you had yelled and fought yourself crazy for it I reckon you'd have died anyway."



"Well, I guess you saved my life, then. For if you hadn't kept me quiet I'd have fought all creation for water. The notion took hold of me that I was a helpless baby and that my mother was beside me, turning a crank and making it rain into my mouth, and that all I had to do was to lie still and listen to her voice and hold my mouth open so that the drops could trickle down my throat. Lord! How good they did feel! That was how I happened to lie still so contentedly."

"Nick could quiet a whole insane asylum when he gets on that Blarneystone brogue of his," said Emerson.

All that day they did not allow Wellesly to do much talking, but kept him lying most of the time in the hammock, in the shade of the cottonwoods, where he slept or luxuriously spent the time slowly swallowing the cool drinks the others brought to him.

In the early evening of the next day, when he had sufficiently recovered his strength, they heard his story. He lay in the hammock, with the mountain breeze blowing across his face and a pitcher of cold tea beside him, and told them all that had happened to him from the time he started for Las Plumas until consciousness failed him, with his hands against the solid wall of Mead's house. The three tall Texans listened gravely, Mead and Tuttle sitting one on each side of the hammock and Ellhorn leaning against the tree at its foot. They said nothing, but their eyes were fastened on his with the keenest interest, and now and then they exchanged a nod or a look of appreciation. When he finished silence fell on the group for a moment. Then Mead stretched out a sun-browned hand and shook Wellesly's.

"I've never been a friend of yours, Mr. Wellesly," he said, "or considered you one of mine. But I want to say, right now, that you've got more grit than anybody I know in the southwest, and I'm proud to have had the chance to save as brave a man as you are."

Tuttle seized Wellesly's other hand and exclaimed, "That's so! That's straight talk! I'm with you there, Emerson!"

Ellhorn walked up to Wellesly's side and put his hand in a brotherly way on the invalid's arm.

"I tell you what, Mr. Wellesly, we've fought you and the cattle company straight from the shoulder, and I reckon we're likely to keep on fightin' you as long as you fight us, but if you're goin' to give us the sort of war you showed that desert—well, I reckon Emerson will need all the help Tom and me can give him!"

Wellesly laughed in an embarrassed way and Ellhorn went on: "Now, just see how things turn out. There's been another war over in Las Plumas and we-all have been fightin' you and your interests and the cattle company and the Republicans for all we were worth. They arrested Emerson again on that same old murder fake, to say nothin' of me for bein' drunk and disorderly, which I sure was, and there was hell to pay for two days. They tried to take Emerson out of town, and Tom and me held up the train they had him on. I buffaloed the engineer while they took care of Daniels and Halliday, and then we pulled our freight. And here we ride up to the ranch, fugitives from justice, just barely in time to save you-all."

Wellesly laughed. "I am very glad you did it. My only regret is that you didn't break jail several days earlier."

"I don't know whether or not you-all understand the position I take about that Whittaker case," said Mead. "I reckon likely you think I break jail every time you get me in just out of pure cussedness. But I don't. I do it because I think you-all haven't any reason but pure cussedness for puttin' me in. I consider that you haven't any right to arrest me on mere suspicion, and I shall keep on resistin' arrest and breakin' jail just as long as you fellows keep on tryin' to run me in without any proof against me. Why, you don't even know that Will Whittaker's dead! Now, Mr. Wellesly, I'll make a bargain with you." Mead's eyes were fastened on Wellesly's with an intent look which gripped the invalid's attention. Wellesly's eyelids suddenly half closed and between them flashed out the strips of pale, brilliant gray.

"All right, go on. I must hear it before I assent."

"It is this: I won't ask you to have any evidence that I had a hand in the killing of Will Whittaker, if he is dead. But whenever you can prove that he is dead and show that he died by violence, I give you my word, and my friends here, Tom Tuttle and Nick Ellhorn, will add theirs to mine, I give you my word that I'll submit quietly to arrest and will stand trial for his murder. But unless you can do that I shall keep on fightin' you till kingdom come!"

Tuttle and Ellhorn nodded. "He's right!" they exclaimed. "We'll stick to what he says."

Wellesly considered Mead's challenge in silence for a moment. He was wondering whether this was the courage of innocence or whether it was mere bluffing audacity. It was very like the former, but he decided that it must be the latter, because he was quite convinced that Mead had killed Whittaker.

"Of course," he said, "after what you have done for me here—you have saved my life and showed me the greatest kindness and generosity—I can not allow any further proceedings to be taken against you, if I can prevent them, which is not—"

"Oh, hang all that!" Mead interrupted with a gesture of irritation. "I don't expect and don't want anything we have done just now to make any difference with your feelings toward me, or change the policy of the Fillmore Cattle Company. And I don't want it to influence the actions of the Republicans in Las Plumas, either. We didn't do it for that purpose, and I'm not buying protection for myself that way. What we did was the barest humanity."

"No, Mr. Wellesly," Nick Ellhorn broke in, "you needn't have it on your conscience that you must be grateful to us, because if we hadn't saved you the Republicans over in Plumas would have said that we killed you. We sure had to save you to save our own skins."

There was a general laugh at this, and Mead added quietly: "As it was my men who were to blame for your condition, I suppose I would have been, in a way, responsible."

Tuttle rose and began walking about uneasily. "When are we goin' to start after 'em, Nick?" he said.

"I'm ready whenever you are."

"All right. To-morrow morning, then."

Wellesly looked up in surprise. It was the first word he had heard from either of the three concerning his captors, and he was startled by the calm assurance with which Tom had taken it for granted that he and Nick would "go after 'em." "You two won't go alone!" he exclaimed.

"We're enough," Tuttle replied, a grim, expectant look on his big, round face.

"You bet we are!" added Nick. "If they see Tom and me comin' they'll know they've got to give up. They've seen us shoot, and that scrub, Haney, has got some sense, though I reckon Jim would be just fool enough to get behind a rock and pop at us till we blowed his brains out."

"Oh, I say, now! This is a foolhardy scheme! Let them go, and if they come out of there alive we'll get hold of them somehow. It would be dangerous to the last degree for you two alone to attempt to bring them out across that desert."

"Don't you worry," said Nick. "We ain't 'lowing to bring 'em out."

The next morning Tuttle and Ellhorn, with two loaded pack horses, set out on their journey to the Oro Fino mountains, where they felt sure the two kidnappers would still be engaged in their hunt for the lost Winters mine. Mead had already sent word to the Fillmore ranch that Wellesly was at his house and that some one might meet them at Muletown that afternoon and carry him on to Las Plumas.

When the two men parted they looked each other in the eyes and shook hands. Wellesly began to acknowledge his debt of gratitude. Mead cut him short.

"That's all right, Mr. Wellesly," he said, "but I don't want you to think for a minute that I expect this little affair to make any difference in our relations. In the cattle business I still consider you my enemy, and I propose to fight you as long as you try to prevent what I hold to be just and fair dealing between the Fillmore Company and the rest of us cattle raisers. We still stand exactly where we did before."

Wellesly smiled admiringly. "Personally, I like your pluck, Mr. Mead, but, if you will pardon my saying so, I think it is very ill-advised. I'll frankly admit that you've beaten us this year at every turn. But you can't keep up this sort of thing year after year, against the resources and organization of a big company. The most distinctive commercial feature of this period is the constant growth of big interests at the expense of smaller ones. It is something that the individual members of a big concern can't help, because it is bigger than they are. Our stock-holders will undoubtedly wish to enlarge their holdings and increase their profits, and I, being only one of a number, can have no right to put my personal feelings above their interests. You ought to see that the result is going to be inevitable in your case, just as it is everywhere else. The little fellows can't hold their own against the big ones. I am telling you all this in the most friendly spirit, and I assure you it will be to your interest to take my advice and compromise the whole matter. I'll guarantee that the Fillmore people will meet you half way, and I am sure it will cost you less in the long run."

As he listened to Wellesly the good-natured smile left Mead's face, his lips shut in a hard line, and the defiant yellow flame, the light of battle, which his friends knew to be the sign that he would fight to the death, leaped into his eyes. He stared into Wellesly's face a moment before he spoke.

"Compromise! I've got nothing to compromise! I reckon that means that you want my two water holes and grazing land that join yours! Well, you can't have them! But if you want any more fight over this cattle business you can have all you want, and whenever you want it!" And he turned on his heel and walked away. "I reckon they would like me to compromise," he said to himself. "It would be lots of money in their pockets, and holes in mine. It's a pity that a man with Wellesly's grit should be such a hog!"

Wellesly shrugged his shoulders and climbed into the carriage that was to take him to Las Plumas. "I can't help it," he thought, "if he chooses to look at it that way. I told him the truth, and I put it in the kindest way. The little fellows are sure to go down before the big ones. That is the law that governs all commerce nowadays. He is bound to be eaten up, and he ought to have sense enough to see it. He'd save himself trouble and money if he would take my advice, compromise, and get out now with what he can. He can't stop things from taking their natural course, and the more he fights the sooner he'll go under. Of course, I don't like to do anything against him, after he has saved my life, but my private sentiments can't interfere with the company's interests, and measures will have to be taken before next fall's round-up to put a stop to this whole thing. I offered the olive branch, and he refused it, and now he can have all the war he wants. He is the head and backbone of all the opposition to us, and if we were rid of him the Fillmore Company could double its profits. I don't doubt for a minute that he killed Will Whittaker, and if we could prove it that would solve the whole matter. He said he would submit to arrest and trial if we could prove that Will died a violent death. That means, of course, that nobody saw him commit the murder and that he has hid the body where he thinks it can't be found.

"Then it must be very much out of the way, where he is sure nobody would think of looking for it. Probably it isn't any where near the traveled road, the cattle ranges, nor the ranches in the foothills. It must be in some out of the way corner of the Fernandez plain. Whittaker says the searching parties have been all over this part of the country, so it must be farther up toward the north. The White Sands are up that way, I remember, and if a body were buried there, deep enough, it might as well be at the bottom of the sea. Yes, I think that's a pretty good idea. Whittaker must send a searching party up to the White Sands as soon as he can get one together. If we can find that body—there's adios to Emerson Mead and the fight against us. He'll have to hang or go to the penitentiary for life."

When Wellesly reached Las Plumas he found the town basking in peace and friendliness. Colonel Whittaker and Judge Harlin were enjoying a midday mint julep together over the bar of the Palmleaf saloon; John Daniels and Joe Davis were swapping yarns over a watermelon in the back room of Pierre Delarue's store, while Delarue himself was laughing gleefully at their stories, and Mrs. Harlin was assisting Mrs. Daniels in preparations for the swellest card party of the summer, which the sheriff's wife was to give that afternoon.

In the late afternoon Wellesly sat beside Marguerite Delarue on her veranda and told her the story of his abduction and of his fight, which he had come so near to losing, with the fiends of heat and thirst. He showed her the bent and bloody pin which had helped to liberate him from his captivity in the canyon and in soft and lover-like tones told her that he owed his life to her and that a lifetime of devotion would not be sufficient to express his gratitude. But he stopped just short of asking her to accept the lifetime of devotion. She was much moved and her tender blue eyes were misty with tears as she listened to the story of his sufferings. He thought he had never seen her look so sweet and attractive and so entirely in accord with his ideal of womanly sympathy. When he told her how Emerson Mead and his two friends had worked over him and by what a narrow margin they had saved him from severe illness and probably from death, her face brightened and she seemed much pleased. She asked some questions about Mead, and was evidently so interested in this part of the story that Wellesly, much to his surprise, felt a sudden impulse of personal dislike and enmity toward the big Texan. That night, as he sat at his window smoking and looking thoughtfully at the lop-sided moon rising over the Hermosa mountains, he was thinking about Marguerite Delarue and the advisability of asking her to marry him.

"Undoubtedly," he owned to himself, "I think more of her than I usually do of women, because I never before cared a hang what their feelings were toward other men. I must have been mistaken in thinking there was anything between her and Mead. Her heart is as fresh as her face, and I can go in and take it, and feel there have been no predecessors, if I want to. Do I want to? I don't know. She's handsome and she's got a stunning figure. Her feet aren't pretty, but they would look better if she didn't wear such clumsy shoes. Well, I'd see that she didn't. She seems to be sweet and gentle and sympathetic, and the sort of woman that would be absorbed in her husband and his interests. She's overfond of flattery, moral, mental and physical. Gets that from Frenchy, I suppose, for you can start him strutting like a rooster any time with a dozen words. But that isn't much of a fault in a wife, after all, for if a fellow can only remember about it it's the easiest way in the world to keep a woman happy. Well, I'll think about it. There are no rivals in the field, and it will be time enough to decide when I make my next visit to Las Plumas."

The next day he went to tell Marguerite good-bye and sat talking with her a long time upon her veranda. Las Plumas had noticed the frequency of his calls at the Delarue house on his last trip to the town, and when it saw him there again two days in succession it felt sure that a love story was going on under the roses and honeysuckles. The smoke of the engine which carried him away had scarcely melted on the horizon before people were saying to one another that it would be a splendid match and what a fine thing it was for Marguerite Delarue that so rich a man as Wellesly had fallen in love with her.

Judge Harlin at once drove out to Emerson Mead's ranch in order that he might learn, from Mead's own lips, exactly what had happened to Wellesly and what sort of a compact Mead had made with him concerning the finding of Will Whittaker's body. They sat under the trees discussing Wellesly's character, after Mead had told the whole story down to their parting at Muletown.

"By the way," said Harlin, "they are saying, over in town, that Wellesly is stuck on Frenchy Delarue's daughter, and that they are to be married next fall. She is a stunning pretty girl, and as good as she is pretty, but it seems to me rather odd for Wellesly to come down here to get a wife. He's the sort of man you would expect to look for money and position in a wife, rather than real worth."



CHAPTER XVI

When Thomson Tuttle and Nick Ellhorn reached the little canyon in the Oro Fino mountains they saw that the two would-be kidnappers must have been there since Wellesly's departure for three of the four horses were quietly grazing, with hobbled feet, beside the rivulet. They speculated upon what the absence of the fourth horse might mean while they staked their own beasts and started on the trail of the two men. Up the larger canyon a little way they saw buzzards flying low and heavily.

"That looks as if one of 'em was dead," said Nick.

"It would be just like the scrubs," Tom grumbled, "for both of 'em to go and die before we get a pop at 'em. I want to see the color of their hair just once. Confound their measly skins, they might have got Emerson into a worse scrape than this Whittaker business."

They were both silent for some moments, watching the buzzards as they swooped low over some dark object on the floor of the canyon. As they came nearer they saw that the dead thing on which the birds were feeding was the missing horse.

"They killed it for meat," said Nick, pointing to a clean cut which had severed one hind leg from the body.

"Yes, and not so very long ago, either," Tom assented, "or the buzzards wouldn't have left this much flesh on it, and it would be dried up more."

"Say, Tom, they brought this beast up here to kill it, and they sure wouldn't have brought it so far away if they had wanted the meat down there in that canyon. They must have changed camp."

"Then there's water higher up. They're in here yet, Nick, and we'll find 'em. We must keep our eyes and ears peeled, so they can't get the first pop."

They picked their way carefully up the canyon, watching the gorge that lengthened beyond them and the walls that towered above their heads, listening constantly for the faintest sounds of human voice or foot, speaking rarely and always in a whisper. The floor of the canyon was strewn with boulders large and small, and its sides rose above them in rugged, barren, precipitous cliffs. Nowhere did they see the slightest sign of vegetation to relieve the wilderness of sand and rock and barren walls. Not even a single grass blade thrust a brave green head between forbidding stones. Above them was a sky of pure, brilliant blue, and around them was the gray of the everlasting granite. Except for the sound of their own footsteps, the canyon was absolutely silent. There was no call of animals one to another, or twitter of birds, or whirr of feathered wings, or piping of insects. Now and then a slender, graceful lizard darted silently out of the sunshine to hide beneath a stone, and far behind them in the canyon the buzzards wheeled in low, awkward flights above the carcass of the dead horse. But aside from these no living creature was to be seen.

The sun shone squarely down upon the canyon and the baking heat between its narrow walls would have dazed the brains and shaken the knees of men less hardy and less accustomed to the fierce, pounding sunshine of the southwest. Tuttle stole several inquiring glances at Nick's face. Then he stopped and cast a searching look all about them, carefully scanning the canyon before and behind them and its walls above their heads. He looked at Nick again and then threw another careful glance all about. He coughed a little, came close to Nick's side, wiped the sweat from his face, and finally spoke, hesitatingly, in a half whisper:

"Say, Nick, what do you-all think about Will Whittaker? Do you reckon Emerson killed him?"

Ellhorn shut one eye at the jagged peak which seemed to bore into the blue above them, considered a moment, and replied: "Well, I reckon if he did Will needed killin' almighty bad."

"You bet he did," was Tom's emphatic response.

They trudged on to the head of the canyon and explored most of the smaller ones opening into it. But no trace of human presence, either recent or remote, did they find anywhere. When night came on they returned to their camp somewhat disappointed that they had seen no sign of the two men. Early the next morning they started out again, and searched carefully through the remaining canyons that were tributary to the large one, climbed again to its head, and clambered over the ridge at its source. There they looked down the other side of the mountain, over a barren wilderness of jagged cliffs and yawning chasms, with here and there a little clump of scrub pines or cedars clinging and crawling along the mountain side. They examined the summit of the peak and walked a little way down the eastern slope, looking into the gorges and searching the scrub-dotted slopes until the sinking sun drove them back to their camp. But they found neither water, save some strongly alkaline springs, nor any trace of human beings. As they discussed the day's adventures over their supper, Tom said:

"There must have been some reason why they killed that horse just where they did."

"Yes," said Nick, "if they had moved their camp to some other canyon higher up, or on the other side of the mountain, they might just as well have driven the beast farther up before they killed it."

"If they had wanted the meat down here," added Tom, "they wouldn't have driven it so far away. They must have wanted it right there."

They looked at each other with a sudden flash of intelligence in their puzzled eyes and Nick thwacked his knee resoundingly. Then he spoke the thought that had burst into each mind:

"There must be a trail up the canyon wall!"



Early the next morning they were examining more closely than they had done before the walls of the canyon near the carcass. On the right hand side, the same side on which was the canyon where they had their camp, they found a narrow ledge beginning several feet above the boulders which strewed the floor of the canyon at the base of the wall. They found that with care they could walk along it, although in some places it was so narrow that there was scarcely room for Tuttle's big bulk. Nick was in constant fear lest his friend might topple over, and finally insisted that Tom should go back and wait until he reached the top of the wall or the end of the ledge. Tuttle blankly refused to do anything of the sort.

They were then in the narrowest place they had found, and it was only by flattening their bodies against the rock and clinging with all the strength in their fingers to the little knobs and crevices which roughened the wall that they could keep their footing. Nick, standing flat against the precipice with a hand stretched out on each side, looked over his shoulder at Tom, who was a few feet in the rear. He also was facing the wall, clinging with both hands and shuffling his feet along sidewise, a few inches at each step. Beyond, the ledge rose in a gradual incline to the top of the cliff, perhaps six hundred feet farther on. Below, the wall dropped abruptly a hundred feet to the boulder covered floor of the canyon.

"Tommy," said Nick, "you-all better go back. It ain't safe for a man of your size."

"Go back! Not much!"

"Well, I shan't go any farther until you do!"

"Then you'll have to hang on by your eyelids till I get past you!"

"Tom, don't be a fool!"

"Don't you, neither."

"Tom, you're the darnedest obstinate cuss I ever saw in my life. You'll tip over backwards first thing you know."

"Nick, if Emerson was here it would sure be his judgment that we-all can get to the top of this cliff. So you shut up and go on."

"I tell you I won't do it till you go back! Darn your skin, I wouldn't be as pig-headed as you are for a hundred dollars a minute!"

"Well, I wouldn't be as big a fool as you are for a thousand!"

"Tommy, if you-all don't go back, I'll be no friend of yours after this day!"

"Well, if you don't go on and shut up that fool talk I don't want to be friends any longer with any such hen-headed, white-livered—"

"Tom!"

"Well, then, shut up and go on, or I'll call you worse names than that!"

"You obstinate son of a sea-cook, I tell you I won't go on unless you go back!"

"Nick, it will take me just about half a minute to get near enough to push you off. And I'm goin' to do it, too, if you don't hold your jackass jaw and go on."

There was silence for the space of full twenty seconds while Ellhorn watched Tuttle edging his way carefully along the narrow shelf. Then he spoke:

"Well, anyway, Tom, don't you try to take a deep breath or that belly of yours will tip the mountain over and make it mash somebody on the other side!" Then he turned his head and shuffled along toward the top of the cliff.

The shelf widened again presently and they found the rest of it comparatively easy traveling. At one place there were some drops of dried blood on the ledge and in another a bloody stain on the wall at about the height of a man's shoulders. This confirmed their belief that Haney and Jim had found and climbed this narrow ledge with the meat and camp supplies on their backs. When they reached the top Nick held out his hand and said:

"Say, old man, I reckon we-all didn't mean anything we said back there."

Tom took the proffered hand and held it a moment:

"No, I guess not. I sure reckon Emerson would say we didn't. Nick, what made you get that fool notion in your head that I didn't have sand to get through?"

"I didn't think you didn't have sand, Tommy. I thought—the trail was so narrow, I thought you'd tumble off." A broad grin sent the curling ends of his mustache up toward his eyes and he went on: "Tom, you sure looked plumb ridiculous!"

Shaking hands again, they turned to their work. They stood on the steep, sloping side of the mountain, which was cracked and seamed with a network of chasms and gulches. A ridge ran slantingly down the mountain and the intricate, irregular network of narrow, steep-sided cracks and gulches which filled the slope finally gave, on the right hand, into the deep, gaping canyon which had been their thoroughfare, and on their left into another, apparently similar, some distance to the south. Farther up, toward the backbone of the ridge, there seemed to be a narrow stretch, unbroken by the gulches, which extended to the next canyon. They made their way thither and walked slowly along, stopping now and then to scan the mountain side or to sweep with their eyes the visible portions of the canyons below and behind them. They had covered more than half the distance between the two canyons when Tom, who had been studying one particular spot far down the mountain, exclaimed:

"Nick, there's water down there! See where the top of that pine tree comes up above the rocks, away down there, nearly to the divide?"

"You're sure right," said Nick, looking carefully over the ground which Tom indicated. A moment later he went on: "That's the head of the spring in the canyon where our camp is! You can follow the course of the gulch right along. I reckon that's where we'll find what we're looking for!"

They turned to retrace their steps, their faces eager and alert and their feet quickening beneath them, when through the silence came the dull, far-away thud of a pistol shot. It was behind them and seemed to come from the canyon toward which they had been walking. With one glance at each other they drew their pistols and ran toward its head. They clambered over the boulders and, with reckless leaps and swings, let themselves down to its floor. Pausing only a moment to reconnoiter, they hurried down the gulch, casting quick glances all about them for the first sign of a living being. After a little they stopped and listened intently, each holding a cocked revolver, but not the faintest sound broke the midday stillness.

"Do you reckon it was in this canyon?" said Tom in a hoarse whisper.

"Got to be," Nick replied, poking out his lower jaw. "We've been sniffing the trail long enough. We'll give them a bait now."

He raised his revolver to shoot into the air, but even before his finger touched the trigger, a pistol shot resounded from down the canyon and its echoes rolled and rumbled between the walls. An instant later they saw the smoke curling upward and dissolving in the still, clear air, perhaps half way toward the canyon's mouth. But they could see no sign of man, nor of any moving thing in its vicinity. They hurried on, cautiously watching the walls and the canyon in front of them, and now and then turning for a quick backward glance, to guard against attack in the rear. As they neared the point from which the smoke had risen, they saw that one of the narrow, deep chasms in the mountain side opened there, with a wide, gaping mouth, into the canyon. A mound of debris was heaped in front. Stepping softly, they peered around the pile of rocks and saw, lying in the mouth of the chasm, a man with a revolver gripped in his right hand. Blood stained his clothing and ran out over the rocks and sand. He was a tall man with a short, bushy, iron-gray beard covering his face. Tuttle and Ellhorn covered him with their revolvers and walked to his side. He put up a feeble, protesting hand.

"It's all right, strangers. You've nothing to fear from me. I'll be dead in ten minutes."

"Who killed you?"

"Was it the two ornery scrubs we're after?"

"I've put the last shot in myself. If you'd been half an hour earlier I might have had a chance."

"What's the matter? What's happened? Tom, give him a drink out of the flask."

"No, give me water," said the man. "I emptied my canteen this morning."

Nick lifted his head and Tom held their canteen to his lips. He drank deeply, and as he lay down again he looked at Tom curiously.

"Two days ago I had a fight with two men, and I've been lying here ever since. They did me up, so that I knew I'd got to die if no help came. And I knew that was just about as likely as a snowstorm, but I couldn't help bankin' on the possibility. So I laid here two days and threw rocks at the coyote that came and sat on that heap of stones and waited for me to die. This morning I drank the last of the water and I said to myself that if nobody came by the time the sun was straight above that peak yonder I'd put a bullet into my heart. I had two left, and I used one on the coyote that had been a-settin' on that rock watchin' me the whole morning. I was bound he shouldn't pick my bones, he'd been so sassy and so sure about it. You'll find his carcass down the canyon a ways. That tired my arm and I waited and rested a spell before I tried it on myself. But I was weaker than I thought and I couldn't hold the gun steady, and the bullet didn't go where I meant it to. But I'm bleedin' to death."

"The two men—what became of them? I reckon they're the ones we're lookin' for!" exclaimed Nick.

"Are you? Well, I guess you'll find 'em scattered down the canyon, or else up there," and he pointed to the mountain side above. "They couldn't get very far."

"Did you kill 'em?" asked Tom anxiously. "You've spoiled a job we've come here for if you did."

The man scanned Tom's face again and a light of recognition broke into his eyes. "I reckon I did," he replied complacently. "Anyway, I hope so."

"What was the matter? Did they do you up?"

"Well, I'll tell you about the whole business. My name's Bill Frank, and I've been here in the mountains since—well, a long time, huntin' for the lost Dick Winter's mine. I found it, too. It was right in here behind me, but he'd worked it clean out. I reckon it was nothin' but a pocket, but a mighty big, rich one, and then the vein had pinched. So then I went to work and hunted for the gold he'd taken out. I found it all, or all he told me about. You see, I knew Dick. I was with him when he died, and he told me what he'd got. There was a Dutch oven and a pail and a coffee pot, all full of lumps, and two tomato cans full of little ones, and a whisky flask full of dust, and a gunny sack full of ore that was just lousy with gold. Much good it will do me now, or them other fellows, either, damn their souls! Well, I'd hid the coffee pot and the pail and the Dutch oven and the whisky flask and one tomato can down by the spring, where I had my camp. I knew pretty well where the rest of it was, after I'd found that much, and I came up here two days ago, in the morning, and looked around till I found the gunny sack. I brought it here and threw it inside this place, which poor Dick Winters had blasted out, never dreamin' of such a thing as that anybody would show up. Then I went away again to find the other tomato can, and when I came back two men were here packin' out my sack of ore."

"What did they look like?" Nick exclaimed.

"One was tall and thin and youngish like, with a bad look, and the other was short and stout and a good deal older, and he had a red, round face."

"The damned, ornery scrubs! They're the ones we're after," Tom exclaimed, jumping up. "You didn't kill 'em, stranger?" he added pleadingly.

"I guess I did. I sure reckon you'll find 'em scattered promiscuous down the canyon. I drew my gun and told 'em to drop it, that it was mine. They began to shoot, and so did I, and I backed 'em out, and made 'em drop the sack, and started 'em on the run. They couldn't shoot as well as I could, and I know I hit one of 'em in the head and the other one mighty near the heart. I poked my head out for a last blaze at 'em, to make sure of my work, and the short one, he let drive at me and took me in the lung, and that's the one that did me up. But they'd broken one leg before."

"Can't you-all pull through if we tote you out of here?" asked Nick.

Bill Frank shook his head. His breath was beginning to fail and his voice sank to a whisper with each sentence.

"No; I'm done for. You can't do nothin' for me." Then he turned to Tom. "Pardner, I did you a bad trick when I saw you before, though I had to do it. And when I told you good-bye I said I hoped that if I ever saw you again I could treat you whiter than I did that time. Well, I've got the chance now. That tomato can and that gunny sack are over there behind your pardner, and you and him can have 'em. The other tomato can and the whisky flask and the coffee pot and the pail and the Dutch oven are under some big rocks behind a boulder south from the spring, if them two thieves didn't carry 'em away, and you and your pardner can have it all. The trail takes you to the spring."

Tom was staring at him in wide-eyed amazement, trying to recall his face. Nick exclaimed hurriedly:

"Hold on, pard! Ain't you-all got some folks somewhere who ought to have this? Tell us where they are and we'll see that they get it."

The man shook his head. His breath was labored, and he spoke with difficulty as he whispered: "There ain't anybody who'd care whether I'm dead or alive, except to get that gold, and I'd rather you'd have it. You're white, anyway, and you've treated me white, both of you, and I've always been sorry I had to play Thomson Tuttle here that mean trick, because he was a gentleman about it, and sand clean through."

Tom was still staring at him. "Stranger," he said, "you've got the advantage of me. I can't remember that I've ever set eyes on you before."

The death glaze was coming in the man's eyes and his failing whisper struggled to get past his stiffening lips.

"I held you up, and held a gun on you-all one night, last spring, up near the White Sands."

"Oh, that time!" Tom exclaimed. "That was all right. I reckoned you-all had good reason for it."

Bill Frank nodded. "Yes," he whispered, "we had to—in the wagon—" Some of his words were unintelligible, but a sudden flash of inspiration leaped through Nick's mind.

"Did you have Will Whittaker's body? Who killed him? Tom, the whisky, quick! We must keep him alive till he can tell!"

The man's lips were moving and Nick put his ear close to them and thought he caught the word "not," but he was not sure. Bill Frank's head moved from side to side, but whether he meant to shake it, or whether it was the death agony, they could not tell. Tom put the flask to his lips, but he could not swallow, and in another moment the death rattle sounded in his throat.

They waited beside the dead man's body until every sign of life was extinct. They closed his eyes, straightened his limbs, and folded his hands upon his breast. Then said Tom:

"Nick, he was too white a man to leave for the coyotes. We must do something with him."

"You're sure right, Tommy. But what can we do? This sand ain't deep enough to keep 'em from diggin' him up, even if we bury him."

Tom looked about him and considered the situation a moment. "We'll have to rock him up in here, Nick, in Dick Winters' mine."

At one side of the wide, blasted out mouth of the deep crack in the mountain from which Dick Winters had taken his gold, and level with the bottom of the crevice, there was a long, oval hollow, half as wide as a man's body. The solid rock had cracked out of it after some giant-powder blast. They laid the body of Bill Frank in this shallow crypt and began to pile rocks around it. Suddenly Tom stopped, looked at Nick inquiringly, hesitated and cleared his throat.