[Illustration: Florence touched his arm. "Ben, " she pleaded, "Ben, forgive me. I've hurt you. I can't say I love you. " Page 114. ]

BEN BLAIRTHE STORY OF A PLAINSMAN

By WILL LILLIBRIDGE

Author of "Where the Trail Divides, " etc. 

A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERSNEW YORK

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COPYRIGHT BYA. C. MCCLURG & CO. A. D. 1905

Entered at Stationers' Hall, London

_All rights reserved_

Published October 21, 1905Second Edition October 28, 1905Third Edition November 29, 1905Fourth Edition December 9, 1905Fifth Edition December 14, 1905Sixth Edition February 28, 1907

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_To My Wife_

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

 I. IN RUDE BORDER-LAND 1 II. DESOLATION 9 III. THE BOX R RANCH 23 IV. BEN'S NEW HOME 37 V. THE EXOTICS 44 VI. THE SOIL AND THE SEED 53 VII. THE SANITY OF THE WILD 66 VIII. THE GLITTER OF THE UNKNOWN 74 IX. A RIFFLE OF PRAIRIE 83 X. THE DOMINANT ANIMAL 94 XI. LOVE'S AVOWAL 106 XII. A DEFERRED RECKONING 117 XIII. A SHOT IN THE DARK 134 XIV. THE INEXORABLE TRAIL 148 XV. IN THE GRIP OF THE LAW 164 XVI. THE QUICK AND THE DEAD 185 XVII. GLITTER AND TINSEL 193XVIII. PAINTER AND PICTURE 204 XIX. A VISITOR FROM THE PLAINS 217 XX. CLUB CONFIDENCES 230 XXI. LOVE IN CONFLICT 242 XXII. TWO FRIENDS HAVE IT OUT 258XXIII. THE BACK-FIRE 270 XXIV. THE UPPER AND THE NETHER MILLSTONES 287 XXV. OF WHAT AVAIL? 304 XXVI. LOVE'S SURRENDER 318

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BEN BLAIR

CHAPTER I

IN RUDE BORDER-LAND

Even in a community where unsavory reputations were the rule, MickKennedy's saloon was of evil repute. In a land new and wild, hisestablishment was the wildest, partook most of the unsubdued, unevolvedcharacter of its surroundings. There, as irresistibly as gravitationcalls the falling apple, came from afar and near--mainly from afar--themalcontent, the restless, the reckless, seeking--instinctivelygregarious--the crowd, the excitement of the green-covered table, thetemporary oblivion following the gulping of fiery red liquor. 

Great splendid animals were the men who gathered there; hairy, powerful, strong-voiced from combat with prairie wind and frontier distance;devoid of a superfluous ounce of flesh, their trousers, uniformly baggyat the knees, bearing mute testimony to the many hours spent in thesaddle; the bare unprotected skin of their hands and faces speakinglikewise of constant contact with sun and storm. 

By the broad glow of daylight the place was anything but inviting. Theheavy bar, made of cottonwood, had no more elegance than the rude sodshanty of the pioneer. The worn round cloth-topped tables, imported atextravagant cost from the East, were covered with splashes of grease andliquor; and the few fly-marked pictures on the walls were coarselysuggestive. Scattered among them haphazard, in one instance through alithographic print, were round holes as large as a spike-head, throughwhich, by closely applying the eye, one could view the world without. When the place was new, similar openings had been carefully refilledwith a whittled stick of wood, but the practice had been discontinued;it was too much trouble, and also useless from the frequency with whichnew holes were made. Besides, although accepted with unconcern by_habitués_ of the place, they were a source of never-ending interest tothe "tenderfeet" who occasionally appeared from nowhere and disappearedwhence they had come. 

But at night all was different. Encircling the room with gleaming pointsof light were a multitude of blazing candles, home-made from tallow ofprairie cattle. The irradiance, almost as strong as daylight, butradically different, softened all surrounding objects. The prairie dust, penetrating with the wind, spread itself everywhere. The reflection fromcheap glassware, carefully polished, made it appear of costly make; thesawdust of the floor seemed a downy covering; the crude heavy chairs, animitation of the artistic furniture of our fathers. Even the face ofbartender Mick, with its stiff unshaven red beard and its singleeye, --merciless as an electric headlight, --its broad flaming scarleading down from the blank socket of its mate, became less repulsiveunder the softened light. 

With the coming of Fall frosts, the premonition of Winter, thefrequenters of the place gathered earlier, remained later, emptied moreof the showily labelled bottles behind the bar, and augmented whenpossible their well-established reputation for recklessness. About thesoiled tables the fringe of bleared faces and keen hawk-like eyes wasmore closely drawn. The dull rattle of poker-chips lasted longer, frequently far into the night, and even after the tardy light of morninghad come to the rescue of the sputtering stumps in the candlesticks. 

On such a morning, early in November, daylight broadened upon acharacteristic scene. Only one table was in use, and around it sat fourmen. One by one the other players had cashed out and left the game. Oneof them was snoring in a corner, his head resting upon the sawdust. Another leaned heavily upon the bar, a half-drained glass before him. Even the four at the table were not as upon the night before. The handswhich held the greasy cards and toyed with the stacks of chips weresteady, but the heads controlling them wavered uncertainly; and the hawkeyes were bloodshot. 

A man with a full beard, roughly trimmed into the travesty of a Vandyke, was dealing. He tossed out the cards, carefully inclining their facesdownward, and returned the remainder of the pack softly to the table. 

"Pass, damn it!" growled the man at the left. 

"Pass, " came from the next man. 

"Pass, " echoed the last of the quartette. 

Five blue chips dropped in a row upon the cloth. 

"I open it. "

The dealer took up the pack lovingly. 

"Cards?"

The man at the left, tall, gaunt, ill-kempt, flicked the pasteboards inhis hand to the floor and ground them beneath his heavy boots. 

"Give me five. "

The point of the Vandyke beard was aimed straight past the speaker. 

"Cards?" repeated the dealer. 

"Five! Can't you hear?"

The man braced against the bar looked around with interest. In the maskof Mick Kennedy the single eye closed almost imperceptibly. Slowly theface of the dealer turned. 

"I can hear you pretty well when you cash into the game. You already oweme forty blues, Blair. "

The long figure stiffened, the face went pale. 

"You--mean--you--" the tongue was very thick. "You cut me out?"

For a moment there was silence; then once more the beard pointed to theplayer next beyond. 

"Cards?" for the third time. 

Five chips ranged in a row beside their predecessors. 

"Three. "

A hand, almost the hand of a gentleman, went instinctively to the gauntthroat of the ignored gambler and jerked at the close flannel shirt;then without a word the owner got unsteadily to his feet and followedan irregular trail toward the interested spectator at the bar. 

"Have a drink with me, pard, " said the gambler, as he regarded theimmovable Mick. "Two whiskeys, there!"

Kennedy did not stir, and for five seconds Blair blinked his dulled eyesin wordless surprise; then his fist came down upon the cottonwood boardwith a mighty crash. 

"Wake up there, Mick!" he roared. "I'm speaking to you! A couple of'ryes' for the gentleman here and myself. "

Another pause, momentary but effective. 

"I heard you. " The barkeeper spoke quietly but without the slightestchange of expression, even of the eye. "I heard you, but I'm not dealingout drinks to deadbeats. Pay up, and I'll be glad to serve you. "

Swift as thought Blair's hand went to his hip, and the rattle ofpoker-chips sympathetically ceased. A second, and a big revolver wastrained fair at the dispenser of liquors. 

"Curse you, Mick Kennedy!" muttered a choking voice, "when I orderdrinks I want drinks. Dig up there, and be lively!"

The man by the speaker's side, surprised out of his intoxication, edgedaway to a discreet distance; but even yet the Irishman made no move. Only the single headlight shifted in its socket until it lookedunblinkingly into the blazing eyes of the gambler. 

"Tom Blair, " commanded an even voice, "Tom Blair, you white liveredbully, put up that gun!"

Slowly, very slowly, the speaker turned, --all but the terribleCyclopean eye, --and moved forward until his body leaned upon the bar, his face protruding over it. 

"Put up that gun, I tell you!" A smile almost fiendish broke over thefurrows of the rugged face. "You wouldn't dast shoot, unless perhaps itwas a woman, you coward!"

For a fraction of a minute there was silence, while over the visage ofthe challenged there flashed, faded, recurred the expression we pay gooddollars to watch playing upon the features of an accomplished actor;then the yellow streak beneath the bravado showed, and the menacing handdropped to the holster at the hip. Once again Kennedy, who seldom made amistake, had sized his man correctly. 

"What do I owe you altogether, Mick?" asked a changed and subdued voice. "Make it as easy as you can. "

Kennedy relaxed into his lounging position. 

"Thirty-five dollars. We'll call it thirty. You've been setting them upto everybody here for a week on your face. "

"Can't you give me just a little more credit, Mick?" An expression meantto be a smile formed upon the haggard face. "Just for old time's sake?You know I've always been a good customer of yours, Kennedy. "

"Not a cent. "

"But I've got to have liquor!" One hand, ill-kept, but long of fingersand refined of shape, steadied the speaker. "I can't get along withoutit!"

"Sell something, then, and pay up. "

The man thought a moment and shook his head. 

"I haven't anything to sell; you know that. It's the wrong time of theyear. " He paused, and the travesty of a smile reappeared. "NextWinter--"

"You've got a horse outside. "

For an instant Blair's gaunt face darkened at the insult; he grew almostdignified; but the drink curse had too strong a grip upon him and theodor of whiskey was in the air. 

"Yes, I've a good horse, " he said slowly. "What'll you give for him?"

"Seventy dollars. "

"He's a good horse, worth a hundred. "

"I'm glad of that, but I'm not dealing in horses. I make the offer justto oblige you. Besides, as you said, it's an off season. "

"You won't give me more?"

"No. "

Blair looked impotently about the room, but his former companions hadreturned to their game. Filling in the silence, the dull clatter ofchips mingled with the drunken snores of the man on the floor. 

"Very well, give me forty, " he said at last. 

"You accept, do you?"

"Yes. "

"All right. "

Blair waited a moment. "Aren't you going to give me what's coming?" heasked. 

Slowly the single eye fixed him as before. 

"I didn't know you had anything coming. "

"Why, you just said forty dollars!"

There was no relenting in Kennedy's face. 

"You owe that gentleman over there at the table for forty blues. I'llsettle with him. "

Instinctively, as before, Blair's thin hand went to his throat, clutching at the coarse flannel. He saw he was beaten. 

"Well, give me a drink, anyway!"

Silently Mick took a big flask from the shelf and set it with a decanterupon the bar. Filling the glass, Blair drained it at a gulp, refilledand drained it--and then again. 

"A little drop to take along with me, " he whined. 

Kennedy selected a pint bottle, filled it from the big flask, andsilently proffered it over the board. 

Blair took the extended favor, glanced once more about the room, andstumbled toward the exit. Mick busied himself wiping the soiled bar witha towel, if possible, even more filthy. At the threshold, his hand uponthe knob, Blair paused, stiffened, grew livid in the face. 

"May Satan blister your scoundrel souls, all of you!" he cursed. 

Not a man within sound of his voice gave sign that he had heard, as theopened door returned to its casing with a crash. 

CHAPTER II

DESOLATION

Ten miles out on the prairies, --not lands plane as a table, as they areusually pictured, but rolling like the sea with waves of tremendousamplitude--stood a rough shack, called by courtesy a house. Like many amore pretentious domicile, it was of composite construction, althoughconsisting of but one room. At the base was the native prairie sod, piled tier upon tier. Above this the superstructure, like the bar ofMick Kennedy's resort, was of warping cottonwood. Built out from thissingle room and forming a part of it was what the designer had called awoodshed; but as no tree the size of a man's wrist was within ten miles, or a railroad within fifty, the term was manifestly a misnomer. Wood inany form it had never contained; instead, it was filled with thatprovidential fuel of the frontiersman, found superabundantly upon theranges, --buffalo chips. 

From the main room there was another and much smaller opening into thesod foundation, and below it, --a dog-kennel. Slightly apart from theshack stood a twin structure even less assuming, its walls and roofbeing wholly built of sod. It was likewise without partition, and wasused as a barn. Hard by was a corral covering perhaps two acres, enclosed with a barbed-wire fence. These three excrescences upon theface of nature comprised the "improvements" of the "Big B Ranch. "

Within the house the furnishings accorded with their surroundings. Twofolding bunks, similar in conception to the upper berths of a Pullmancar, were built end to end against the wall; when they were raised togive room, four supports dangled beneath like paralyzed arms. Ahome-made table, suggesting those scattered about country picnicgrounds, a few cheap chairs, a row of chests and cupboards variouslyremodelled from a common foundation of dry-goods boxes, and a stove, ingeniously evolved out of the cylinder and head of a portable engine, comprised the furniture. 

The morning sunlight which dimmed the candles of Mick Kennedy's saloondrifted through the single high-set window of the Big B Ranch-house, revealing there a very different scene. From beneath the quilts in oneof the folding bunks appeared the faces of a woman and a little boy. Atthe opening of the dog-kennel the head of a mottled yellow-and-whitemongrel dog projected into the room, the sensitive muzzle pointingdirectly at the occupied bunk. The eyes of woman, child, and beast wereopen and moved restlessly about. 

"Mamma, " and the small boy wriggled beneath the clothes, "Mamma, I'mhungry. "

The white face of the woman turned away, more pallid than before. Anunfamiliar observer would have been at a loss to guess the age of theowner. In that haggard, non-committal countenance there was nothing toindicate whether she was twenty-five or forty. 

"It is early yet, son. Go to sleep. "

The boy closed his eyes dutifully, and for perhaps five minutes therewas silence; then the blue orbs opened wider than before. 

"Mamma, I can't go to sleep. I'm hungry!"

"Never mind, Benjamin. The horses, the rabbits, the birds, --all gethungry sometimes. " A hacking cough interrupted her words. "Snuggle closeup to me, little son, and keep warm. "

"But, mamma, I want something to eat. Won't you get it for me?"

"I can't, son. "

He waited a moment. "Won't you let me help myself, then, mamma?"

The eyes of the mother moistened. 

"Mamma, " the child repeated, gently shaking his mother's shoulder, "won't you let me help myself?"

"There's nothing for you to eat, sonny, nothing at all. "

The blue child-eyes widened; the serious little face puckered. 

"Why ain't there anything to eat, mamma?"

"Because there isn't, bubby. "

The reasoning was conclusive, and the child accepted it without furtherparley; but soon another interrogation took form in his active brain. 

"It's cold, mamma, " he announced. "Aren't you going to build a fire?"

Again the mother coughed, and a flush of red appeared upon her cheeks. 

"No, " she answered with a sigh. 

"Why not, mamma?"

There was not the slightest trace of irritation in the answering voice, although it was clearly an effort to speak. 

"I can't get up this morning, little one. "

Mysteries were multiplying, but the small Benjamin was equal to theoccasion. With a spring he was out of bed, and in another moment wasstepping gingerly upon the cold bare floor. 

"I'm going to build a fire for you, mamma, " he announced. 

The homely mongrel whined a welcome to the little lad's appearance, andwith his tail beat a friendly tattoo upon the kennel floor; but thewoman spoke no word. With impassive face she watched the shiveringlittle figure as it hurried into its clothes, and then, with celerityborn of experience, went about the making of a fire. Suddenly a hithertounthought-of possibility flashed into the boy's mind, and leaving hiswork he came back to the bunk. 

"Are you sick, mamma?" he asked. 

Instantly the woman's face softened. 

"Yes, laddie, " she answered gently. 

Carefully as a nurse, the small protector replaced the cover at hismother's back, where his exit had left a gap; then returned to his work. 

"You must have it warm here, " he said. 

Not until the fire in the old cylinder makeshift was burning merrily didhe return to his patient; then, standing straight before her, he lookeddown with an air of childish dignity that would have been comical had itbeen less pathetic. 

"Are you very sick, mamma?" he said at last, hesitatingly. 

"I am dying, little son. " She spoke calmly and impersonally, withouteven a quickening of the breath. The thin hand, lying on the tatteredcover, did not stir. 

"Mamma!" the old-man face of the boy tightened, as, bending over thebed, he pressed his warm cheek against hers, now growing cold and white. 

At the mouth of the kennel two bright eyes were watching curiously. Their owner wriggled the tip of his muzzle inquiringly, but the actionbrought no response. Then the muzzle went into the air, and a whine, long-drawn and insistent, broke the silence. 

The boy rose. There was not a trace of moisture in his eyes, but theuncannily aged face seemed older than before. He went over to a pegwhere his clothes were hanging and took down the frayed garment thatanswered as an overcoat. From the bunk there came another cough, quicklymuffled; but he did not turn. Cap followed coat, mittens cap; then, suddenly remembering, he turned to the stove and scattered fresh chipsupon the glowing embers. 

"Good-bye, mamma, " said the boy. 

The mother had been watching him, although she gave no sign. "Where areyou going, sonny?" she asked. 

"To town, mamma. Someone ought to know you're sick. "

There was a moment's pause, wherein the mongrel whined impatiently. 

"Aren't you going to kiss me first, Benjamin?"

The little lad retraced his steps, until, bending over, his lips touchedthose of his mother. As he did so, the hand which had lain upon thecoverlet shifted to his arm detainingly. 

"How were you thinking of going, son?"

A look of surprise crept into the boy's blue eyes. A question like this, with its obvious answer, was unusual from his matter-of-fact mother. Heglanced at her gravely. 

"I'm going afoot, mamma. "

"It's ten miles to town, Benjamin. "

"But you and I walked it once together. Don't you remember?"

An expression the lad did not understand flashed over the white face ofJennie Blair. Well she remembered that other occasion, one of many likethe present, when she and the little lad had gone in company to thesettlement of which Mick Kennedy's place was a part, in search ofsomeone whom after ten hours' delay they had succeeded in bringinghome, --the remnant and vestige of what was once a man. 

"Yes, I know we did, Bennie. "

The boy waited a moment longer, then straightened himself. 

"I think I'd better be starting now. "

But instead of loosening its hold, the hand upon the boy's shouldertightened. The eyes of the two met. 

"You're not going, sonny. I'm glad you thought of it, but I can't letyou go. "

Again there was silence for so long that the waiting dog, impatient ofthe delay, whined in soft protest. 

"Why not, mamma?"

"Because, Benjamin, it's too late now. Besides, there wouldn't be aperson there who would come out to help me. "

The boy's look of perplexity returned. 

"Not if they knew you were very sick, mamma?"

"Not if they knew I was dying, my son. "

The boy took off hat, mittens, and coat, and returned them to theirplaces. Never in his short life had he questioned a statement of hismother's, and such heresy did not occur to him now. Coming back to thebunk, he laid his cheek caressingly beside hers. 

"Is there anything I can do for you, mamma?" he whispered. 

"Nothing but what you are doing now, laddie. "

Tired of standing, the mongrel dropped within his tracks flat upon hisbelly, and, his head resting upon his fore-paws, lay watching intently. 

 * * * * *

When the door of Mick Kennedy's saloon closed with an emphasis thatshook the very walls, it shut out a being more ferocious, more evil, than any beast of the jungle. For the time, Blair's alcohol-saturatedbrain evolved but one chain of thought, was capable of but oneemotion--hate. Every object in the universe, from its Creator tohimself, fell under the ban. The language of hate is curses; and as hemoved out over the prairie there dripped from his lips continuously, monotonously, a trickling, blighting stream of malediction. Swaying, stumbling, unconscious of his physical motions, instinct kept him uponthe trail; a Providence, sometimes kindest to those least worthy, preserved him from injury. 

Half way out he met a solitary Indian astride a faded-looking mustang, and the current of his wrath was temporarily diverted by a surly "How!"Even this measure of friendliness was regretted when the big revolvercame out of the rancher's holster like a flash, and, head low on theneck of the mustang, heels in the little beast's ribs, the aborigineretreated with a yell, amid a shower of ill-aimed bullets. Long afterthe figure on the pony had passed out of range, Blair stood pulling atthe trigger of the empty repeater and cursing louder than before becauseit would not "pop. "

Two hours later, when it was past noon, an uncertain hand lifted thewooden latch of the Big B Ranch-house door, and, heralded by an inrushof cold outside air, Tom Blair, master and dictator, entered his domain. The passage of time, the physical exercise, and the prairie air, hadsomewhat cleared his brain. Just within the room, he paused and lookedabout him with surprise. With premonition of impending trouble, themongrel bristled the yellow hair of his neck, and, retreating to themouth of his kennel, stood guard; but otherwise the scene was to adetail as it had been in the morning. The woman lay passive within thebunk. The child by her side, holding her hand, did not turn. The veryatmosphere of the place tingled with an ominous quiet, --a silence suchas one who has lived through a cyclone connects instinctively with awhirling oncoming black funnel. 

The new-comer was first to make a move. Walking over to the centre ofthe room, he stopped and looked upon his subjects. 

"Well, of all the infernally lazy people I ever saw!" he commented, "youbeat them, Jennie! Get up and cook something to eat; it's way afternoon, and I'm hungry. "

The woman said nothing, but the boy slid to his feet, facing theintruder. 

"Mamma's sick and can't get up, " he explained as impersonally as to astranger. "Besides, there isn't anything to cook. She said so. "

The man's brow contracted into a frown. 

"Speak when you're spoken to, young upstart!" he snapped. "Out with you, Jennie! I don't want to be monkeyed with to-day!"

He hung up his coat and cap, and loosened his belt a hole; but no oneelse in the room moved. 

"Didn't you hear me?" he asked, looking warningly toward the bunk. 

"Yes, " she replied. 

Autocrat under his own roof, the man paused in surprise. Never beforehad a command here been disobeyed. He could scarcely believe his ownsenses. 

"You know what to do, then, " he said sharply. 

For the first time a touch of color came into the woman's cheeks, andcatching the man's eyes she looked into them unfalteringly. 

"Since when did I become your slave, Tom Blair?" she asked slowly. 

The words were a challenge, the tone was that of some wild thing, wounded, cornered, staring death in the face, but defiant to the end. "Since when did you become my owner, body and soul?"

Any sportsman, any being with a fragment of admiration for even animalcourage, would have held aloof then. It remained for this man, bred amidhigh civilization, who had spent years within college halls, to strikethe prostrate. As in the frontier saloon, so now his hand wentinvoluntarily to his throat, clutched at the binding collar until thebutton flew; then, as before, his face went white. 

"Since when!" he blazed, "since when! I admire your nerve to ask thatquestion of me! Since six years ago, when you first began living withme. Since the day when you and the boy, --and not a preacher within ahundred miles--" Words, a flood of words, were upon his lips; butsuddenly he stopped. Despite the alcohol still in his brain, despite theeffort he made to continue, the gaze of the woman compelled silence. 

"You dare recall that memory, Tom Blair?" The words came more slowlythan before, and with an intensity that burned them into the hearer'smemory. "You dare, knowing what I gave up for your sake!" The eyesblazed afresh, the dark head was raised on the pillows. "You know thatmy son stands listening, and yet you dare throw my coming to you in myface?"

White to the lips went the scarred visage of the man, but the madnesswas upon him. 

"I dare?" To his own ears the voice sounded unnatural. "I dare? To besure I dare! You came to me of your own free-will. You were not achild!" His voice rose and the flush returned to his face. "You knew theprice and accepted it deliberately, --deliberately, I say!"

Without a sound, the figure in the rough bunk quivered and stiffened;the hand upon the coverlet was clenched until the nails grew white, thenit relaxed. Slowly, very slowly, the eyelids closed as though in sleep. 

Impassive but intent listener, an instinct now sent the boy Benjaminback to his post. 

"Mamma, " he said gently. "Mamma!"

There was no answer, nor even a responsive pressure of the hand. 

"Mamma!" he repeated more loudly. "Mamma! Mamma!"

Still no answer, only the limp passivity. Then suddenly, although neverbefore in his short life had the little lad looked upon death, herecognized it now. His mamma, his playmate, his teacher, was like this;she would not speak to him, would not answer him; she would never speakto him or smile upon him again! Like a thunderclap came the realizationof this. Then another thought swiftly followed. This man, --one who hadsaid things that hurt her, that brought the red spots to hercheeks, --this man was to blame. Not in the least did he understand themeaning of what he had just heard. No human being had suggested to himthat Blair was the cause of his mother's death; but as surely as hewould remember their words as long as he lived, so surely did herecognize the man's guilt. Suddenly, as powder responds to the spark, there surged through his tiny body a terrible animal hate for this man, and, scarcely realizing the action, he rushed at him. 

"She's dead and you killed her!" he screamed. "Mamma's dead, dead!" andthe little doubled fists struck at the man's legs again and again. 

Oblivious to the onslaught, Tom Blair strode over to the bunk. 

"Jennie, " he said, not unkindly, "Jennie, what's the matter?"

Again there was no response, and a shade of awe crept into the man'svoice. 

"Jennie! Jennie! Answer me!" A hand fell upon the woman's shoulder andshook it, first gently, then roughly. "Answer me, I say!"

With the motion, the head of the dead shifted upon the pillow and turnedtoward the man, and involuntarily he loosened his grasp. He had noteaten for twenty-four hours, and in sudden weakness he made his way toone of the rough chairs, and sat down, his face buried in his hands. 

Behind him the boy Benjamin, his sudden hot passion over, stood watchingintently, --his face almost uncanny in its lack of childishness. 

For a time there was absolute silence, the hush of a death-chamber; thenof a sudden the boy was conscious that the man was looking at him in away he had never looked before. Deep down below our consciousness, farbeneath the veneer of civilization, there is an instinct, relic of thevigilant savage days, that warns us of personal danger. By this instinctthe lad now interpreted the other's gaze, and knew that it meant ill forhim. For some reason which he could not understand, this man, this biganimal, was his mortal enemy; and, in the manner of smaller animals, hebegan to consider an avenue of escape. 

"Ben, " spoke the man, "come here!"

Tom Blair was sober now, and wore a look of determination upon his facethat few had ever seen there before; but to his surprise the boy did notrespond. He waited a moment, and then said sharply:

"Ben, I'm speaking to you. Come here at once!"

For answer there was a tightening of the lad's blue eyes and an addedwatchfulness in the incongruously long childish figure; but that wasall. 

Another lagging minute passed, wherein the two regarded each othersteadily. The man's eyes dropped first. 

"You little devil!" he muttered, and the passion began showing in hisvoice. "I believe you knew what I was thinking all the time! Anyway, you'll know now. You said awhile ago that I was to blame for your motherbeing--as she is. You're liable to say that again. " A horror greaterthan sudden passion was in the deliberate explanation and in the slowway he rose to his feet. "I'm going to fix you so you can't say itagain, you old-man imp!"

Then a peculiar thing happened. Instead of running away, the boy took astep forward, and the man paused, scarcely believing his eyes. Anotherstep forward, and yet another, came the diminutive figure, until almostwithin the aggressor's reach; then suddenly, quick as a cat, it veered, dropped upon all fours to the floor, and head first, scrambling like arabbit, disappeared into the open mouth of the dog-kennel. 

Too late the man saw the trick, and curses came to his lips, --curses fitfor a fiend, fit for the irresponsible being he was. He himself hadbuilt that kennel. It extended in a curve eight feet into the solid sodfoundation, and to get at the spot where the boy now lay he would haveto tear down the house itself. The temper which had made the man what henow was, a drunkard and fugitive in a frontier country, took possessionof him wholly, and with it came a madman's cunning; for at a suddenthought he stopped, and the cursing tongue was silent. Five minuteslater he left the place, closing the door carefully behind him; butbefore that time a red jet of flame, like the ravenous tongue of afamished beast, was lapping at a hastily assembled pile of tinder-dryfurniture in one corner of the shanty. 

CHAPTER III

THE BOX R RANCH

Mr. Rankin moved back from a well-discussed table, and, the room beingconveniently small, tilted his chair back against the wall. Theprotesting creak of the ill-glued joints under the strain of hisponderous figure was a signal for all the diners, and five other menlikewise drew away from around the board. Rankin extracted a match and astout jack-knife from the miscellaneous collection of useful articles inhis capacious pocket, carefully whittled the bit of wood to a point, andpicked his teeth deliberately. The five "hands, " sun-browned, unshaven, dissimilar in face as in dress, waited in expectation; but thehousekeeper, a shapeless, stolid-looking woman, wife of the foreman, Graham, went methodically about the work of clearing the table. Rankinwatched her a moment indifferently; then without turning his head, hiseyes shifted in their narrow slits of sockets until they rested upon oneof the cowboys. 

"What time was it you saw that smoke, Grannis?" he asked. 

The man addressed paused in the operation of rolling a cigarette. 

"'Bout an hour ago, I should say. I was just thinking of coming in todinner. "

The lids met over Rankin's eyes, then the narrow slit opened. 

"It was in the no'thwest you say, and seemed to be quite a way off?"

Grannis nodded. 

"Yes; I couldn't make out any fire, only the smoke, and that didn't lastlong. I thought at first maybe it was a prairie fire, and started tosee; but it was getting thinner before I'd gone a mile, so I turnedround and by the time I got back to the corral there wasn't nothing atall to see. "

Two of the other hands solemnly exchanged a wink. 

"Think you must have eaten too many of Ma Graham's pancakes thismorning, and had a blur over your eyes, " commented one, slyly. "Prairiefires don't stop that sudden when the grass is like it is now. "

The portly housewife paused in her work to cast a look of scorn upon thespeaker, but Grannis rushed into the breach. 

"Don't you believe it. There was a fire all right. Somebody stopped it, or it stopped itself, that's all. "

Tilting his chair forward with an effort, Rankin got to his feet, and, as usual, his action brought the discussion to an end. The womanreturned to her work; the men put on hats and coats preparatory to goingout of doors. Only the proprietor stood passive a moment absentlydrawing down his vest over his portly figure. 

"Graham, " he said at last, "hitch the mustangs to the light wagon. "

"All right. "

"And, Graham--"

The man addressed paused. 

"Throw in a couple of extra blankets. "

"All right. "

Out of doors the men took up the conversation where they had left off. 

"You better begin to hope the old man finds something that's been afireup there, Grannis, " said the joker of the house. "If he don't, you'vecooked your goose proper. "

Grannis was a new-comer, and looked his surprise. 

"Why so?" he asked. 

"You'll find out why, " retorted the other. "Fire here's 'most asuncommon as rain, and the boss don't like them smoky jokes. "

"But I saw smoke, I tell you, " reiterated Grannis, defensively; "smoke, dead sure!"

"All right, if you're certain sure. "

"Marcom knows what he's talking about, Grannis, " said Graham. "He triedto ginger things up a bit when he was new here, like you are; found alitter of coyotes one September--thought they were timber wolves, Iguess, and braced up with his story to the old man. " The speaker pausedwith a reflective grin. 

"Well, what happened?" asked Grannis. 

"What happened? The boss sent me dusting about forty miles to get somehounds. Nearly spoiled a good team to get back inside sixteen hours, and--they found out Bill here in the next thirty minutes, that was all!"Once more the story ended in a grin. 

"What'd Rankin say?" asked Grannis, with interest. 

"How about it, Bill?" suggested Graham. 

The big cowboy looked a trifle foolish. 

"Oh, he didn't say much; 'tain't his way. He just remarked, sort ofoff-hand, that as far as I was concerned the next year had only aboutfour pay-months in it. That was all. "

 * * * * *

Whatever is worth doing at all, is worth doing at once. This was themotto of the master of the Box R Ranch. In ten minutes' time Rankin'sbig shapeless figure, seated in the old buckboard, was moving northwestat the steady jog-trot typical of prairie travel, and which as the hourspass by annihilates distance surprisingly. Simply a fat, an abnormallyfat, man, the casual observer would have said. It remained for those whocame in actual contact with him to learn the force beneath theforbidding exterior, --the relentless bull-dog energy that had made himdictator of the great ranch, and kept subordinate the restless, roving, dissolute men-of-fortune he employed, --the deliberate and impartialjudgment which had made his word as near law as it was possible for anymandate to be among the motley inhabitants within a radius of fiftymiles. Had Rankin chosen he could have attained honor, position, powerin his native Eastern home. No barrier built of convention or ofconservatism could have withstood him. Society reserves her prizeslargely for the man of initiative; and, uncomely block as he was, Rankinwas of the true type. But for some reason, a reason known to none of hisassociates, he had chosen to come to the West. Some consideration orother had caused him to stop at his present abode, and had made himapparently a fixture in the midst of this unconquered country. 

There was no road in the direction Rankin was travelling, --only theunbroken prairie sod, eaten close by the herds that grazed its everyfoot. Even under the direct sunlight the air was sharp. The regularbreath of the mustangs shot out like puffs of steam from the exhaust ofan engine, and the moisture frosted about their flanks and nostrils. Butthe big man on the seat did not notice temperature. He had produced apipe from the depths beneath the wagon seat, and tobacco from a jarcunningly fitted into one corner of the box, both without moving fromhis place, the seat being hinged and divided in the centre to facilitatethe operation. More a home to him than the ranch-house itself was thatbattered buckboard. Here, on an average, he spent eight hours out of thetwenty-four, and that seat-box was a veritable storehouse of articlesused in his daily life. As the jog-trot measured off the miles hereplenished the pipe again and again, leaving behind him the odor ofstrong tobacco. 

Not until he was within a mile of the "Big B" property, and a rise inthe monotonous roll of the land brought him in range of vision, didRankin show that he felt more than ordinary interest in his expedition;then, shading his eyes, he looked steadily ahead. The sod barn stood inits usual place; the corral, with its posts set close together, stretched by its side; but where the house had stood there could not bedistinguished even a mound. The hand on the reins tightened meaningly, and in sympathy the mustangs moved ahead at a swifter pace, leavingbehind a trail of tobacco-smoke denser than before. 

 * * * * *

When the little Benjamin Blair, fugitive, had literally taken to theearth, it was with definite knowledge of the territory he was entering. He had often explored its depths with childish curiosity, to thedistress of his mother and the disgust of the rightful owner, themongrel dog. Retreating to the farther end of the cave, the instinct ofself-preservation set hands and feet to work like the claws of a gopher, filling with loose dirt the narrow passage through which he had entered. Panting and perspiring with the effort, choked with the dust he raised, all but suffocated, he dug until his strength gave out; then, curling upin his narrow quarters, he lay listening. At first he heard nothing, noteven a sound from the dog; and he wondered at the fact. He could notbelieve that Tom Blair would leave him in peace, and he breathlesslyawaited the first tap of an instrument against his retreat. A minutepassed, lengthened to five--to ten--and with the quick impatience ofchildhood he started to learn the reason of the delay. His active littlebody revolved in its nest. In the darkness a wiry arm scratched at therecently erected barricade. A head with a tousled mass of hair poked itsway into the opening, crowded forward a foot--two feet, then stopped, the whole body quivering. He had passed the curve, and of a sudden itwas as though he had opened the door of a furnace and gazed inside. Instead of the familiar room, a great sheet of flame walled him in. Instead of silence, a roar as of a hurricane was in his ears. Never inhis life had he seen a great fire, but instantly he understood. Instantly the instinctive animal terror of fire gripped him; heretreated to the very depths of the kennel, and burying his small headin his arms lay still. But not even then, child though he was, did heutter a cry. The endurance which had made Jennie Blair stare deathimpassively in the face was part and parcel of his nature. 

For the space of perhaps a minute Ben lay motionless. Louder than beforecame to his ears the roar of the fire. Occasionally a hot tongue offlame intruded mockingly into the mouth of his retreat. The confined airabout him grew close, narcotic. He expected to die, and with thepremonition of death an abnormal activity came to the child-brain. Whatever knowledge he possessed of death was connected with his mother. It was she who had given him his vague impression of another life. Sheherself, as she lay silent and unresponsive, had been the first concreteexample of it. Inevitably thought of her came to him now, --practical, material thought, crowding from his brain the blind terror that had beenits predecessor. Where was his mother now? He pictured again the furnaceinto which he had gazed from the mouth of the kennel. Though perhaps shewould not feel it, she would be burned--burned to a crisp--destroyedlike the fuel he had tossed into the makeshift stove! Instinctively hefelt the sacrilege, and the desire to do something to prevent it. Something--yes, but what? He was himself helpless; he must seek outsideaid--but where? Suddenly there occurred to the child-mind a suggestionapplicable to his difficulty, an adequate solution, for it involvedeverything he had learned to trust in life. He remembered a Being morepowerful than man, more powerful than fire or cold, --a Being whom hismother had called God. Believing in Him, it was necessary only to askfor whatever one wished. For himself, even to save his life, he wouldnot call upon this Being; but for his mamma! In childish faith he foldedhis hands and closed his eyes in the darkness. 

"God, " he prayed, "please put out this fire and save my mamma fromburning!"

The small hands loosened and the lips parted to hear the firstdiminution in the growl of the flame. But it roared on. 

"God!" The hands were clasped again, the voice vibrant with pleading. "God, please put out the fire! Please put it out!"

Silence again within, but without only the steady roaring crackle. Couldit be possible the petition had not been heard? The childish hands metmore tightly than before. The small body fairly writhed. 

"God! God!" he implored for the third time. "Listen to me, please! Savemy mamma, my mamma!"

For a moment the little figure lay still. Surely there would be ananswer now. His mamma had said there would be, and whatever his mammahad told him had always come true. The air about him was so close hecould scarcely breathe; but he did not notice it. Reversing head andfeet, he started out of the kennel. It was certainly time to leave. Theroar he had heard must have been of the wind. Assuredly God had actedbefore this. Head first, gasping, he moved on, reached the curve, andlooked out. 

Indignation took possession of the little figure. The fingers clincheduntil the nails bit deep into the soft palms. The whole body trembled inimpotent anger and outraged self-respect. Upon the face of the small manwas suddenly written the implacable defiance which one sees in carnivorawhen wounded and cornered--intensified as an expression can only beintensified upon a human face--as, almost unconsciously, he returned tothe hollow he had left, and fairly thrust his tousled head into thekindly earth. 

How long he remained there he did not know. The stifling atmosphere ofthe place gradually overcame him. Anger, wonder, the multitude ofthoughts crowding his child-brain, slowly faded away; consciousnesslapsed, and he slept. 

When he awoke it was with a start and a vague wonder as to hiswhereabouts. Then memory returned, and he listened intently. Not a soundcould he distinguish save his own breathing, as he slowly made his wayto the mouth of the kennel. Before him was the opposite sod wall of thehouse standing as high as his head; above that, the blue of the sky;upon what had been the earthen floor, a strewing of ashes; over all, calm, glorious, the slanting rays of the low afternoon sun. A moment theboy lay gazing out; then he crawled to his feet, shaking off the dirt asa dog does. One glance about, and the blue eyes halted. A moisture cameinto them, gathered into drops, and then, breaking over the barrier ofthe long lashes, tears flowed through the accumulated grime, down thethin cheeks, leaving a clean pathway behind. That was all, for aninstant; then a look--terrible in a mature person and doubly so in achild--came over the long face, --an expression partaking of both hateand vengeance. It mirrored an emotion that in a nature such as that ofBenjamin Blair would never be forgotten. Some day, for some one, therewould be a moment of reckoning; for the child was looking at thecharred, unrecognizable corpse of his mother. 

 * * * * *

A half-hour later, Rankin, steaming into the yard of the Big B Ranch, came upon a scene that savored much of a play. It was so dramatic thatthe big man paused in contemplation of it. He saw there the sod andashes of what had once been a home. The place must have burned liketinder, for now, but a few hours from the time when Grannis had firstgiven the alarm, not an atom of smoke ascended. At one end of thequadrangular space enclosed by the walls stood the makeshift stove, discolored with the heat, as was the length of pipe by its side. Near bywas a heap of warped iron and tin cooking utensils. At one side, coveredby an old gunny-sack and a boy's tattered coat, was another object theform of which the observer could not distinguish. 

In the middle of the plat, standing a few inches below the surface, wasa small boy, and in his hands a very large spade. He wore a man'sdiscarded shirt, with sleeves rolled up at the wrist, and neck-bandpinned tight at one side. Obviously, he had been digging, for a smallpile of fresh dirt was heaped at his right. Now, however, he wasmotionless, the blue eyes beneath the long lashes observing thenew-comer inquiringly. That was all, save that to the picture was addedthe background of the unbroken silence of the prairie. 

The man was the first to break the spell. He got out of the wagonclumsily, walked around the wall, and entered the quadrangle by what hadbeen the door. 

"What are you doing?" he asked. 

"Digging, " replied the boy, resuming his work. 

"Digging what?"

The boy lifted out a double handful of dirt upon the big spade. 

"A grave. "

The man glanced about again. 

"For some pet?"

The boy shook his head. 

"No--sir, " the latter word coming as an after-thought. His mother hadtaught him that title of respect. 

Rankin changed the line of interrogation. 

"Where's Tom Blair, young man?"

"I don't know, sir. "

"Your mother, then, where is she?"

"My mother is dead. "

"Dead?"

The child's blue eyes did not falter. 

"I am digging her grave, sir. "

For a time Rankin did not speak or stir. Amid the stubbly beard thegreat jaws closed, until it seemed the pipe-stem must be broken. Hiseyes narrowed, as when, before starting, he had questioned the cowboyGrannis; then of a sudden he rose and laid a detaining hand upon theworker's shoulder. He understood at last. 

"Stop a minute, son, " he said. "I want to talk with you. "

The lad looked up. 

"How did it happen--the fire and your mother's death?"

No answer, only the same strangely scrutinizing look. 

Rankin repeated the question a bit curtly. 

Ben Blair calmly removed the man's hand from his shoulder and looked himfairly in the eyes. 

"Why do you wish to know, sir?" he asked. 

The big man made no answer. Why did he wish to know? What answer couldhe give? He paced back and forth across the narrow confines of the foursod walls. Once he paused, gazing at the little lad questioningly, notas one looks at a child but as man faces man; then, tramp, tramp, hepaced on again. At last, as suddenly as before, he halted, and glancedsidewise at the uncompleted grave. 

"You're quite sure you want to bury your mother here?" he asked. 

The lad nodded silently. 

"And alone?"

Again the nod. 

"Yes, I heard her say once she wished it so. "

Without comment, Rankin removed his coat and took the spade from theboy's hand. 

"I'll help you, then. "

For a half-hour he worked steadily, descending lower and lower into thedry earth; then, pausing, he wiped the perspiration from his face. 

"Are you cold, son?" he asked directly. 

"Not very, sir. " But the lad's teeth were chattering. 

"A bit, though?"

"Yes, sir, " simply. 

"All right, you'll find some blankets out in the wagon, Ben. You'dbetter go out and get one and put it around you. "

The boy started to obey. "Thank you, sir, " he said. 

Rankin returned to his work. In the west the sun dropped slowly beneaththe horizon, leaving a wonderful golden light behind. The waitinghorses, too well trained to move from their places, shifted uneasilyamid much creaking of harness. Within the grave the digger's head sunklower and lower, while the mound by the side grew higher and higher. Thecold increased. Across the prairie, a multitude of black specksadvanced, grew large, whizzed overhead, then retreated, their wingscutting the keen air, and silence returned. 

Darkness was falling when at last Rankin clambered out to the surface. 

"Another blanket, Ben, please. "

Without a glance beneath, he wrapped the object under the old gunny-sackround and round with the rough wool winding-sheet, and, carrying it tothe edge of the grave, himself descended clumsily and placed it gentlyat his feet. The pit was deep, and in getting out he slipped back twice;but he said nothing. Outside, he paused a moment, looking at the boygravely. 

"Anything you wish to say, Benjamin?"

The lad returned the gaze with equal gravity. 

"I don't know of anything, sir. "

The man paused a moment longer. 

"Nor I, Ben, " he said gently. 

Again the spade resumed its work; and the impassive earth returned dullyto its former resting-place. Dusk came on, but Rankin did not look abouthim until the mound was neatly rounded; then he turned to where he hadleft the little boy so bravely erect. But the small figure was notstanding now; instead, it was prone on the ground amid the dust andashes. 

"Ben!" said Rankin, gently. "Ben!"

No answer. 

"Ben!" he repeated. 

"Yes, sir. "

For a moment a small thin face appeared above the dishevelled figure, and a great sob shook the little frame. Then the head disappeared again. 

"I can't help it, sir, " wailed a muffled voice. "She was my mamma!"

CHAPTER IV

BEN'S NEW HOME

Supper was over at the Box R Ranch. From the tiny lean-to the muffledrattle of heavy table-ware proclaimed the fact that Ma Graham wasputting things in readiness for breakfast. Beside the sheet-iron heaterin the front room, her husband, carefully swaddled in a big checkedapron with the strings tied in a bow under his left ear, was busilyengaged in dressing the half-dozen prairie chickens he had trapped thatday. As fast as he removed the feathers he thrust them into the stove, and the pungent odor mingled with the suggestive tang of the bacon thathad been the foundation of the past supper, and with the odor ofcigarettes with which the other four men were permeating the place. 

Graham critically held up to the light the bird upon which he had justbeen operating, removed a few scattered feathers, and, with practisedhand, attacked its successor. 

"If I were doing this job for myself, " he commented, "I'd skin thebeasts. Life is too blamed short to waste it in pulling out feathers!"

Grannis, the new-comer from no one knew where, smiled. 

"It would look to me that you were doing it, " he remarked. "I'd like toask for information, who is if you ain't?"

The clatter of dishes suddenly ceased, and Graham's labor stopped insympathy. 

"My boy, " he asked in reply, "were you ever married?"

Beneath its coat of tan, Grannis's face flushed; but he did not answer. 

A second passed; then the plucking of feathers was continued. 

"I reckon you've never been, though, " Graham went on, "else you'd neverask that question. "

During the remainder of the evening, Grannis sought no furtherinformation; and to Ma Graham's narrow life a new interest was added. 

Ordinarily the cowboys went to their bunks in an adjoining shed almostdirectly after supper, but this evening, without giving a reason, theylingered. The housekeeper finished her work, and, coming into the mainroom, took a chair and sat down, her hands folded in her lap. The grousedressed, Graham ranged them in a row upon the lean-to table, removed theapron, and lit his pipe in silence. The cowboys rolled fresh cigarettesand puffed at them steadily, the four stumps close together glowing inthe dimness of the room. As everywhere upon the prairie, the quiet wasalmost a thing to feel. 

At last, when the silence had become oppressive, the foreman took thepipe from his mouth and blew a short puff of smoke. 

"Seems like the boss ought to've got back before this, " he said with asidelong glance at his wife. 

Ma Graham nodded corroboration. 

"Yes; must have found something wrong, I guess. " She refolded herhands, and once more relapsed into silence. 

It was the breaking of the ice, however. 

"Where d'ye suppose the trouble could have been, Graham?" It was anotherlate-comer, Bud Buck, young and narrow of hips, who spoke. 

"At Blair's, " was the answer. "The Big B is the closest. "

"Blair?" The questioner puffed at his cigarette thoughtfully. "Guess Inever heard of him. "

"Must be a stranger in these parts, then, " said Marcom. "Most everybodyknows Tom Blair. " He paused to give an all-including glance. "At leastwell enough to get a slice of his dough, " he finished with a sarcasticlaugh. 

"Does he handle the pasteboards?" asked Buck, with interest. 

"Tries to, " contemptuously. 

The curiosity of the youthful Bud was now thoroughly aroused. 

"What kind of a fellow is he, anyway?" he went on. "Does he go it aloneup at his ranch?"

At the last question Bill Marcom, discreetly silent, shifted his eyes inthe direction of the foreman, and, following them, Bud surprised acovert glance between Graham and his wife. It was the latter who finallyanswered. 

"Not _exactly_. "

Buck was not without intuition, and he shifted to safer ground. 

"Got much of a herd, has he?"

Marcom rolled a fresh cigarette skilfully, and drew the string of thetobacco pouch taut with his teeth. 

"He did have, one time, but I don't believe he's got many left now. There's been a bunch lost there every storm I can remember. He don'tkeep any punchers to look after 'em, and he's never on hand himself. Thewoman and the kid, " with a peculiar glance at the stout housekeeper, "saved 'em part of the time, but mostly they just drifted. " The speakerblew a great cloud of smoke, and the veins at his temples swelled. "It'sa shame, the way he neglects his stock and lets 'em starve and freeze!"

The blood coursed hot in the veins of Bud Buck. 

"Why don't somebody step in?"

There was a meaning silence, broken at last by Graham. 

"We would've--with a rope--if it hadn't been for the boss. He tried tohelp the fellow; went over there lots of times himself--weather colderthan the devil, too, and with the wind and sleet so bad you couldn't seethe team ahead of you--until one time last Winter Blair came home full, and caught him there. " The narrative paused, and the black pipe puffedreminiscently. "The boss never said much, but I guess they must have hadquite a session. Anyway, Rankin never went again, and from the way helooked when he got back here, half froze, and the mustangs beat out, Ireckon Blair never knew how close he come to a necktie party that day. "

Again silence fell, and remained unbroken until Graham suddenly sprangto his feet, and with "That's him now! I could tell that old buckboardif I was in my grave!" hurried on coat and hat and disappeared into thenight. A minute more and the door through which he had passed openedslowly, and the figure of a small boy, wrapped like an Indian in a bigblanket, stepped timidly inside and stood blinking in the light. 

In anticipation of a very different arrival the housekeeper had risen toher feet, and now in surprise, arms akimbo, she stood looking curiouslyat the stranger. In this land at this time the young of every otheranimal native thereto was common, but a child, a white child, was anovelty indeed. Many a cow-puncher, bachelor among bachelors, couldtestify that it had been years since he had seen the like. But Ma Grahamwas not a bachelor, and in her the maternal instinct, though repressed, was strong. It was barely an instant before she was at the little lad'sside, unwinding the blanket with deft hands. 

"Who be you, anyway, and where'd you come from?" she exclaimed. 

The child observed her gravely. 

"Benjamin Blair's my name. I came with the man. "

The husk was off the lad ere this, and the woman was rubbing his smallhands vigorously. 

"Cold, ain't you? Come right over to the fire!" herself leading the way. "And hungry--I'll bet you're hungrier than a wolf!"

The lad nodded. "Yes, ma'am. "

The woman straightened up and looked down at her charge. 

"Of course you are. All little boys are hungry. " She cast a challengingglance around the group of interested spectators. 

"Fix the fire, one of you, while I get something hot for the kid, " shesaid, and ambled toward the lean-to. 

If the men thought to have their curiosity concerning the youngstersatisfied by word of mouth, however, they were doomed to bedisappointed; for when Rankin himself entered it was as though nothingout of the ordinary had happened. He hung up his coat methodically, and, with the boy by his side, partook of the hastily prepared mealimpassively, as was his wont. It could not have escaped him that thesmall Benjamin ate and ate until it seemed marvellous that one stomachcould accommodate so much food; but he made no comment, and when at lastthe boy succumbed to a final plateful, he tilted back against the wallfor his last smoke for the day. This was the usual signal of dismissal, and the hands put on their hats and filed silently out. 

Without more words the foreman and his wife prepared for the night. Thedishes were cleared away and piled in the lean-to. From either end ofthe room bunks, broad as beds, were let down from the wall, and theblankets that formed their linings were carefully smoothed out. Alongthe pole extending across the middle of the room, another set was drawn, dividing the room in two. Then the two disappeared with a simple"Good-night. "

Rankin and the boy sat alone looking at each other. From across theblanket partition there came the muffled sound of movement, the impactof Graham's heavy boots, as they dropped to the floor, and thensilence. 

"Better go to bed, Ben, " suggested Rankin, with a nod toward the bunk. 

The boy at once went through the process of disrobing, and, crawling inbetween the blankets, pulled them up about his chin. But the blue eyesdid not close. Instead, they rested steadily upon the man's face. Rankinreturned the look, and then the stubby pipe left his mouth. 

"What is it, Ben?"

The boy hesitated. "Am I to--to stay with you?" he asked at last. 

"Yes. "

For an instant the questioner seemed satisfied; then the peculiarinquiring look returned. 

"Anything else, son?"

The lad hesitated longer than before. Beneath the coverings his bodymoved restlessly. 

"Yes, sir, I want to know why nobody would come to help my mamma ifshe'd sent for them. She said they wouldn't. "

The pipe left Rankin's mouth, his great jaws closing with an audibleclick. 

"You wish to know--what did you say, Ben?"

The boy repeated the question. 

For a minute, and then another, Rankin said nothing; then he knocked theashes from the bowl of his brier and laid it upon the table. 

"Never mind now why they wouldn't, son. " He arose heavily and drew offhis coat. "You'll find out for yourself quickly enough--too quickly, myboy. Now go to sleep. "

CHAPTER V

THE EXOTICS

Some men acquire involuntary prominence by being democratic amidaristocratic surroundings. Others, on the contrary, but with the sameresult, continue to live the life to which they were born, even whenplaced amid surroundings that make their actions all but grotesque. Anexample of this latter class was Scotty Baker, whose ranch, as the wildgoose flies, was thirteen miles west of the Box R. 

Scotty was a very English Englishman, with an inborn love of finehorse-flesh and a guileless nature. Some years before he had fallen intothe hands of a promoter, and had bartered a goodly proportion of hisworldly belongings for a horse-ranch in Dakota, to be taken possessionof immediately. Long indeed was the wail which went up from his home inSussex when the fact was made known. Neighbors were fluent indenunciation, relatives insistent in expostulation; his wife, and insympathy their baby daughter, copious in the argument of tears; but thedie was irrevocably cast. Go he would, --not from voluntary stubbornness, but because he must. 

The actual departure of the Bakers was much like the sailing ofColumbus. Probably not one of the friends who saw them off for theirnew home expected ever to see the family again. Indians they wereconfident were rampant, and frantic for scalps. Should any by a miracleescape the savages, the tremendous herds of buffalo, running amuck, hereand there, could not fail to trample the survivors into the dust of theprairie. By comparison, war was a benignant prospect; and sighs mingleduntil the sound was as the wailing of winds. 

Scotty was very cheerful through it all, very encouraging even in theface of incontestibly unfavorable evidence, until, with the few remnantsof civilization they had brought with them, the family arrived at thewind-beaten terminus, a hundred miles from his newly acquired property. Then for the first time he wilted. 

"I've been an ass, " he admitted bitterly, as he glanced in impotentcontempt at the handful of weather-stained buildings which on the mapbore the name of a town; "an ass, an egregious, abominable, bletheringass!"

But, notwithstanding his lack of the practical, Scotty was made of goodstuff. It was not an alternative but a necessity that faced him now, andhe arose right manfully to the occasion. Despite his wife's assertionthat she "never, never would go any farther into this God-forsakencountry, " he succeeded in getting her into a lumber-wagon and headed forwhat he genially termed "the interior. " At last he even succeeded inmaking her smile at his efforts to make the disreputable mule pack-teamhe had secured move faster than a walk. 

Once in possession of his own, however, he returned to his customaryeasy manner of life. It took him a very short time to discover that hehad purchased a gold brick. Horses, especially fine horses, were in nodemand there; but this fact did not alter his course in the least. Ahorse-ranch he had bought, a horse-ranch he would run, though every manwest of the Mississippi should smile. He enlarged his tiny shack to acottage of three rooms; put in floor and ceiling, and papered the walls. Out of poles and prairie sod he fashioned a serviceable barn, and builtan admirable horse paddock. Last of all he planted in his dooryard, inartistic irregularity, a wagon-load of small imported trees. The factthat within six months they all died caused him slight misgiving. He atleast had done what he could to beautify the earth; that he failed wasnature's fault, not his. 

Once settled, he began to make acquaintances. Methodically, to themembers of one ranch at a time, he sent invitations to dinner, and uponthe appointed date he confronted his guests with a spectacle which madethem all but doubt their identity, the like of which most of them hadnever even seen before. Fancy a cowboy rancher, clad in flannel andleather, welcomed by a host and hostess in complete evening dress, ushered into a room which contained a carpet and a piano, and had lacecurtains at the windows; seated later at a table covered with pure linenand set with real china and cut-glass. The experience was like a dreamto the visitor. Temporarily, as in a dream, the evening would passwithout conscious volition upon the latter's part; and not until later, when he was at home, would the full significance of the experienceassert itself, and his wonder and admiration find vent in words. Thenindeed would the fame of Scotty Baker, his wife, and little daughter, be heard in the land. 

Early in his career, Scotty began to cultivate the impassive Rankin. Hefairly bombarded the big rancher with courtesies and invitations. Noholiday (and Scotty was an assiduous observer of holidays) was completeunless Rankin was present to help celebrate. No improvement about theranch was definitely undertaken until Rankin had expressed a favorableopinion concerning the project. Gradually, so gradually that the big manhimself did not realize the change, he fell under Scotty's influence, and more and more frequently he was to be found headed toward the coseyBaker cottage. Now, for a year or more, scarcely a Sunday had passedwithout one or the other of the men finding it possible to traverse thethirty miles intervening between them, to spend a few hours in eachother's company. 

It was in pursuance of this laudable intention that on the secondmorning following Ben Blair's adoption into the Box R Ranch--aSunday--the Englishman hitched a team of his best blooded trotters tothe antiquated phaeton, which was the only vehicle he possessed, andstarted across country at a lively clip. Thus it came to pass that abouttwo hours later, having tied his team at the barn and started for theranch-house, the visitor saw squarely in his path upon the sunny southdoorstep an object that made him pause and blink his near-sighted eyes. Under the concentration of his vision, the object resolved itself into asmall boy perched like a frog upon a rock, his fingers locked across hisshins, his chin upon his knees. For an instant the Englishmanhesitated. Courtesy was instinctive with him. 

"Can you tell me whether Mr. Rankin is at home?" he asked. 

The lad calmly disentangled himself and stood up. 

"You mean the big man, sir?"

Again Scotty was guilty of a breach of etiquette. He stared. 

"Certainly, " he replied at last. 

Ben Blair stepped out of the way. 

"Yes, sir, he is. "

Within the ranch-house Scotty dropped into the nearest chair. 

"Tell me, Rankin, " he began, "who is the new-comer, and where did youget him?" A long leg swung comfortably over its mate. "And, by the way, while you're about it, is he six or sixty? By Jove, I couldn't tell!"

The host looked at his visitor quizzically. 

"Ben, I suppose you mean?"

"Ben, or _Tom_, I don't know. I mean the gentleman on the front steps, the one who didn't know your name, " and the Englishman related therecent conversation. 

The corners of Rankin's eyes tightened into an unwonted smile as helistened, and then contracted until the corner of the large mouth drewupward in sympathy. 

"I'm not surprised, Baker, " he admitted, "that you're in doubt aboutBen's age. He's eight; but I'd be uncertain myself if I didn'tabsolutely know. As to his not knowing my name--it's just struck me thatI've never introduced myself to the little fellow. "

"But how did you come to get him? This isn't a country where one seesmany children roaming around. "

"No, " the big mouth dropped back into its normal shape; "that's a fact. He didn't just drop in. I got him by adoption, I suppose; least ways, Iasked him to come and live with me, and he accepted. " The speaker turnedto his companion directly. "You knew Jennie Blair, did you?"

Scotty looked interested. 

"Knew of her, but never had the pleasure of an acquaintance. I always--"

"Well, " interrupted Rankin impassively, "Ben's her son. She died awhileago, you remember, and somehow it seemed to break Blair all up. Hewouldn't stay here any longer, and didn't want to take the kid with him, so I took the youngster in. As far as I know, the arrangement willstick. "

For a minute there was silence. Scotty observed his host shrewdly, almost sceptically. 

"That's all of the story, is it?" he asked at last. 

"All, as far as I know. "

Scotty continued his observation a moment longer. 

"But not all the kid knows, I judge. "

The host made no comment, and in a distinctively absent manner theEnglishman removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses upon the tail ofhis Sunday frock-coat. 

"By the way, "--Scotty returned the glasses to his nose and sprung thebows over his ears with a snap, --"what day was it that Blair left? Didit happen to be Friday?"

"Yes, Friday. "

"And he doesn't intend ever to return?"

"I believe not. "

The visitor's eyes flashed swiftly around the room. The two men werealone. 

"I think, then, I see through it. " The voice was lower than before. "Oneof my best mares disappeared night before last, and I haven't been ableto get trace of a hoof or hair since. "

"What?" Rankin was interested at last. 

Scotty repeated the statement, and his host eyed him a full half minutesteadily. 

"And you just--tell of it?" he said at last. 

The Englishman shifted uneasily in his seat. 

"Yes. " Forgetting that he had just polished his glasses, he took themoff and went through the process again. 

"Yes, I may as well be honest, I've seen a bit of these Westerners abouthere, and I don't really agree with their scheme of justice. They're aptto put two and two together and make eight where you know it's onlyfour. " For the second time he sprung the bows back over his ears. "Andwhen they find out their beastly mistake--why--oh--it's too late then, perhaps, for some poor devil!"

For another half minute Rankin hesitated; then he reached over andgrasped the other man by the hand. 

"Baker, " he said, "you ain't very practical, but you're dead square. "And he shook the hand again. 

Of a sudden a twinkle came into the Britisher's eyes and he tore himselfloose with an effort. 

"By the way, " he said, "I'd like to ask a question for future guidance. What would you have done if you'd been in my place?"

Rankin stiffened in his seat, and a color almost red surged beneath thetan of his cheeks; then, as suddenly as his companion had done, hesmiled outright. 

"I reckon I'd have done just what you did, " he admitted; and the two menlaughed together. 

"Seriously, though, " said Scotty, after a moment, "and as long as I'vetold you anyway, what ought I to do under the circumstances? Should Ilet Blair off, do you think?"

For a moment Rankin did not answer; then he faced his questionerdirectly, and Scotty knew why the big man's word was so nearly law inthe community. 

"Under the circumstances, " he repeated, "I'd let him go; for severalreasons. First of all, he's got such a start of you now that youcouldn't catch him, anyway. Then he's a coward by nature, and it'll be amighty long time before he ever shows up here again. And last of all, "the speaker hesitated, "last of all, " he repeated slowly, "though Idon't know, I believe you were right when you said the boy could tellmore about it than the rest of us; and if what we suspect is true, Ithink by the time he comes back, if he ever does come, Ben will be oldenough to take care of him. " Again the speaker paused, and his greatjowl settled down into his shirt-front. "If he doesn't, I can't readsigns when I see 'em. "

For a moment the room was silent; then Scotty sprang to his feet as if aload had been taken off his mind. 

"All right, " said he, "we'll forget it. And, speaking of forgetting, I've nearly got myself into trouble already. I have an invitation fromMrs. Baker for you to take dinner with us to-day. In fact, I was sent onpurpose to bring you. Not a word, not a word!" he continued, at sight ofobjections gathering on the other's face; "a lady's invitations aresacred, you know. Get your coat!"

Rankin arose with an effort and stood facing his visitor. 

"You know I'm always glad to visit you, Baker, " he said. "I wasn'tthinking of holding off on my own account, but I've got someone else toconsider now, you know. Ben--"

"Certainly, certainly!" Scotty's voice was eloquent of comprehension. "Throw the kiddie in too. He can play with Flossie; they're about of anage, and she'll be tickled to death to have him. "

Rankin looked at his friend a moment peculiarly. "I know Ben's goingwould be all right with you, Baker, " he explained at last, "but howabout your wife? Considering--everything--she might object. "

The smile left the Englishman's face, and a look of perplexity took itsplace. 

"By Jove!" he said, "you're right! I never thought of that. " He shiftedfrom one foot to the other uneasily. "But, pshaw! What's the use ofsaying anything whatever about the boy's connections? He's nothing but ayoungster, --and, besides, his mother's actions are no fault of his. "

Rankin took his top-coat off its peg deliberately. 

"All right, " he said. "I'll call Ben. " At the door he paused, lookingback, the peculiar expression again upon his face. "As you say, thefaults of Ben's mother are not his faults, anyway. "

CHAPTER VI

THE SOIL AND THE SEED

Within the Baker home three persons, a woman and two men, were sittingbeside a well-discussed table in the perfect content that follows a goodmeal. Strange to say, in this frontier land, the men had cigars, andtheir smoke curled slowly toward the ceiling. Intermittently, with theunconscious attitude of indifference we bestow upon happenings remotefrom our lives, they were discussing the month-old news of the world, which the messenger from town, who supplied at stated intervals thefamily wants, had brought the day before. 

Out of doors, in the warm sunny plat south of the barn, a small boy anda still smaller girl were engaged in the fascinating occupation ofbecoming acquainted. The little girl was decidedly taking theinitiative. 

"How's it come your name is Blair?" she asked, opening fire as soon asthey were alone. 

The boy pondered the question. It had never occurred to him before. Whyshould he be called Blair? No adequate reason suggested itself. 

"I don't know, " he admitted. 

The little girl wrinkled her forehead in thought. 

"It's funny, isn't it?" she said. "Now, my papa's name is Baker, and myname's Florence Baker. You ought to be Ben Rankin--but you aren't. " Shestroked a diminutive nose with a fairy forefinger. "It's funny, " sherepeated. 

"Oh!" commented Benjamin. He understood now, but explanations were not apart of his philosophy. "Oh!" and the subject dropped. 

"Let's play duck on the rock, " suggested Florence. 

The boy's hands were deep in the recesses of his pockets. 

"I don't know how. "

"That's nothing. " The small brunette had the air of one to whomdifficulties were unknown. "I'll show you. Papa and I play, and it'slots of fun--only he beats me. " She looked about for available material. 

"You get that little box up by the house, " she directed, "and we'll havethat for the rock. "

Ben did as ordered. 

"Now bring two tin cans. You'll find a pile back of the barn. "

Once more the boy departed, to return a moment later with a pair of"selects, " each bearing in gaudy illumination a composite picture of theingredients of succotash. 

"Now watch me, " said Florence. 

She carried the box about a rod away and planted it firmly on theground. "This is the rock, " she explained. On the top of the box sheperched one of the cans, open end up. "And this is the duck--my duck. Doyou see?"

The boy had watched the proceedings carefully. "Yes, I see, " he said. 

Florence came back to the barn. "Now the game is for you to take thisother can and knock my duck off. Then we both run, and if you get yourcan on the box ahead of me, I'm _it_, and I'll have to knock off yourduck. Are you ready?"

"Yes. "

"All right. " And the sport was on. 

Ben poised his missile and carefully let fly. 

"He, he!" tittered Florence. "You missed!"

He retrieved his duck without comment. 

"Try again; you've got three chances. "

More carefully than before Ben took aim and tossed his can. 

"Missed again!" exulted the little brunette. "You've only one more try. "And the brown eyes flashed with mischief. 

For the last time Ben stood at position. 

"Be careful! you're out if you miss. "

Even more slowly than before the boy took aim, swung his arm overheadclear from the shoulder, and threw with all his might. There was a flashof gaudy paper through the air, a resounding impact of tin against wood, and the make-believe duck skipped away as though fearful of danger. 

For a moment Florence stood aghast, but only for a moment; then shestamped a tiny foot imperiously. 

"Oh, you naughty boy!" she exclaimed. "You naughty, naughty boy!"

Once more Ben's hands were in his pockets. "Why?" he asked innocently. 

"Because you don't play right!"

"You told me to knock the duck off, and I did!"

"But not that way. " Florence's small chin was high in the air. "I'mgoing in the house. "

Ben made no motion to follow her, none to prevent her going. 

"I'm sorry, " he said simply. 

The little girl took two steps decidedly, a third haltingly, a fourth, then stopped and looked back out of the corner of her eye. 

"Are you very sorry?" she asked. 

Ben nodded his head gravely. 

There was a moment of indecision. "All right, " she said, with apparentreluctance; "but we won't play duck any more. We'll play drop thehandkerchief. "

The boy discreetly ignored the change of purpose. 

"I don't know how, " he admitted once more. 

Such deplorable ignorance aroused her sympathy. 

"Don't Mr. Rankin, or--or anyone--play with you?" she asked. 

Ben shook his head. 

"All right, then, " she said obligingly, "I'll show you. "

With her heel she drew upon the ground a rough circle about ten feet indiameter. 

"You can't cross that place in there, " she said. 

The boy looked at the bare ground critically. No visible barrierpresented itself to his vision. 

"Why not?" he asked. 

Florence made a gesture of disapproval. "Because you can't, " sheexplained. Then, some further reason seeming necessary, she added, "Perhaps there are red-hot irons or snakes, or something, in there. Anyway, you can't cross!"

Ben made no comment, and his instructor looked at him a momentdoubtfully. 

"Now, " she went on, "I stand right here close to the line, and you takethe handkerchief. " She produced a dainty little kerchief with a "B"embroidered in the corner. "Drop it behind me, and get in my place ifyou can before I touch you. If you get clear around and catch me beforeI notice you--you can kiss me. Do you see?"

Ben could see. 

"All right, then. " And the little girl stood at attention, very prim, apparently very watchful, toes touching the line. 

The nature of Benjamin Blair was very direct. The first time he passed, he dropped the handkerchief and proceeded calmly on his journey. Hisback toward her, the little girl turned and gave a surreptitious glancebehind; then quickly shifted to her original position, a look ofinnocence upon her face. Straight ahead went Ben around the circle--thatcontained hot irons, or snakes, or something--back to hisstarting-point, touched the small fragment of femininity upon theshoulder gingerly, as though afraid she would fracture. 

"Here's your handkerchief, " he said, stooping to recover the bit oflinen. "You're it. "

"Oh, dear!" she said, in mock despair; "you dropped it the first time, didn't you?"

Ben agreed to the statement. 

An unaccountable lull followed. In it he caught a curious sidelongglance from the brown eyes under the drooping lashes. 

"I didn't suppose you'd do that the first time, " said the little girl. "Papa never does. "

The observation seemed irrelevant to Ben Blair, at least inadequate tohalt the game; but he made no comment. 

Again there was a lull. 

"Well, " suggested Florence, and a tinge of red surged beneath the softbrown skin. 

Ben began to feel uncomfortable. He had a premonition that all was notwell. 

"You're _it_, ain't you?" he hesitated at last. 

This time, full and fair, the tiny woman looked at him. The color whichbefore had stood just beneath the skin rose burning to her ears, to theroots of her hair. Her big brown eyes flashed fire. 

"Ben Blair, " she flamed, "you're a 'fraid cat!" Tears welled up into hervoice, into her eyes, and she made a motion as if to leave; but thesudden passion of a spoiled child was too strong upon her, the mystifiedface of the other too near, too tempting. With a motion which was allbut involuntary, a tiny brown hand shot out and struck the boy fair onthe mouth. "A 'fraid cat, 'fraid cat, and I hate you!"

Never before in his short life had Benjamin Blair met a girl. The ethicsof sex was a thing unknown to him, but nevertheless some instinctprevented his returning the insult. Except for the red mark upon hislips, his face grew very white. 

"What am I afraid of?" he asked steadily. 

Defiant still, the girl held her ground. 

"Afraid of what?" she jeered. "You're afraid of everything! 'Fraid catsalways are!"

"But what?" pressed the boy. "Tell me something I'm afraid of. "

Florence glanced about her. The tall roof of the barn caught her vision. 

"You wouldn't dare jump off the roof there, for one thing, " sheventured. 

Ben looked up. The point mentioned arose at least sixteen feet, and theearth beneath was frozen like asphalt, but he did not hesitate. At thenorth end, a stack of hay piled against the wall formed a sort ofinclined plane, and making a detour he began to climb. Half-way up helost his footing and came tumbling to the ground; but still he saidnothing. The next time he was more careful, and reached the ridge-polewithout accident. Below, the little girl, brilliant in her red jacket, stood watching him; but he never even glanced at her. Instead, he raisedhimself to his full height, looked once at the ground beneath, andjumped. 

That instant a wave of contrition swept over Florence. In a sort ofvision she saw the boy lying injured, perhaps dead, upon the frozenground, --and all through her fault! She shut her eyes, and clasped herhands over her face. 

A few seconds passed, bringing with them no further sound, and sheslowly opened her fingers. Through them, instead of a prostrate corpse, she saw the boy standing erect before her. There was a smear of dustupon his coat and face where he had fallen, and a scratch upon hischeek, which bled a bit, but otherwise he was apparently unhurt. Frombeneath his long lashes as she looked, the blue eyes met hers, deliberate and unsmiling. 

As swiftly as it had come, the mood of contrition passed. In anindefinite sort of way the girl experienced a sensation ofdisappointment, --a feeling of being deprived of something which was herdue. She was only a child, a spoiled child, and her defiance arose anew. A moment so the children faced each other. 

"Do you still think I'm afraid?" asked the boy at last. 

Again the hot color flamed beneath the brown skin. 

"Pooh!" said the girl, "_that_ was nothing!" She tossed her head inderision. "Anyone could do that!"

Ben slowly took off his cap, slapped it against his knee to shake offthe dust, and put it back upon his head. The action took only a halfminute, but when the girl looked at him again it hardly seemed he wasthe same boy with whom she had just played. His eyes were no longerblue, but gray. The chin, too, with an odd trick, --one she was destinedto know better in future, --had protruded, had become the dominantfeature of his face, aggressive, almost menacing. Except for the size, one looking could scarcely have believed Ben's visage was that of achild. 

"What, " the boy's hands went back into his pockets, "what wouldn'tanyone do, then?" he asked directly. 

At that moment Florence Baker would have been glad to occupy some otherperson's shoes. Obviously, the proper thing for her to do was to admither fault and clear the atmosphere, but that did not accord with herdisposition, and she looked about for a suggestion. One came promptly, but at first she did not speak. Then the brown head tossed again. 

"Some folks would be afraid to ride one of those colts out there!" Sheindicated the pasture near by. "Papa said the other day he'd rather notbe the first to try. "

The colts mentioned were a bunch of four-year-olds that Scotty had justimported from an Eastern breeder. They were absolutely unbroken, butevery ounce thoroughbreds, and full to the ear-tips of what theEnglishman expressively termed "ginger. "

To her credit be it said, the small Florence had no idea that herchallenge would be accepted. Implicit trust in her father was one of hervirtues, and the mere suggestion that another would attempt to do whathe would not, was rankest heresy. But the boy Benjamin started for thebarn, and, securing a bridle and a pan of oats, moved toward the gate. Instinctively Florence took a step after him. 

"Really, I didn't mean for you to try, " she explained in swiftpenitence. "I don't think you're afraid!"

Ben opened and closed the gate silently. 

"Please don't do it, " pleaded the girl. "You'll be hurt!"

But for all the effect her petition had, she might as well have askedthe sun to cease shining. Nothing could stop that gray-eyed boy. Withouta show of haste he advanced toward the nearest colt, shook the oats inthe pan, and whistled enticingly. Full often in his short life he hadseen the trick done before, and he waited expectantly. 

Florence, forgetting her fears, watched with interest. At first thecolt was shy, but gradually, under stimulus of its appetite, it drewnearer, then ran frisking away, again drew near. Ben held out the pan, shook it at intervals, displaying its contents to the best advantage. Colt nature could not resist the appeal. The sleek thoroughbred castaside all scruples, came close, and thrust a silken muzzle deep into thegrain. 

Still without haste, the boy put on the bridle, holding the pan near theground to reach the straps over the ears; then, pausing, looked at theback far above his head. How he was to get up there would have perplexedan observer. For a moment it puzzled the boy; then an idea occurred tohim. Once more holding the remnants of the oats near the ground, hewaited until the hungry nose was deep amongst them, the head welllowered; then, improving his opportunity, he swung one leg over thesleek neck and awaited developments. 

He was not long in suspense. The action was like touching flame topowder; the resulting explosion was all but simultaneous. With a snort, the head went high in air, tossing the grain about like seed, and downthe inclined plane of the neck thus formed the long-legged Benjamin slidto the slippery back. Once there, an instinct told him to grip therounding flank with his ankles, and clutch the heavy mane. 

And he was none too quick. For a moment the colt paused in pure wonderat the audacity of the thing; then, with a neigh, half of anger and halfof fear, it sprang away at top speed, circling and recircling, flashingin and out among the other horses, the fragment of humanity on its backmeanwhile clinging to his place like a monkey. For a minute, thenanother, the youngster kept his seat, pulling upon the reins atintervals, gripping together his small knees until the muscles ached. Then suddenly the colt, changing its tactics, planted its front feetfirmly into the ground, stopped short, and the small Benjamin shotoverhead, to strike the turf beyond with an impact which fairly drovethe breath from his body. But even then, half unconscious as he was, hewouldn't let loose of the reins. Not until the now thoroughly arousedcolt had dragged him for rods, did the leather break, leaving the boyand the bridle in a most disreputable-looking heap upon the earth. 

Florence had watched the scene with breathless interest. While Ben wasmaking his mount, she observed him doubtfully. While he retained hisseat, she clapped her hands in glee. Then, with his downfall, a greatlump came chokingly into her throat, and, without waiting to see theoutcome, she ran sobbing to the house. A moment later she rushed intothe little parlor where her father and Rankin, their cigars finished, were sitting and chatting. 

"Papa, " she pleaded, "papa, go quick! Ben's killed!"

"Great Cæsar's ghost!" exclaimed Scotty, springing up nervously, andholding the little girl at arm's length. "What's the matter?"

"Ben, Ben, I told you! He tried to ride one of the colts, and he'skilled--I know he is!"

"Holy buckets!" Genuine apprehension was in the Englishman's voice. Without waiting for further explanation he shot out of the door, andran full tilt to the paddock behind the barn. There he stopped, andRankin coming up a moment later, the two men stood side by side watchingthe approach of a small figure still some rods away. The boy's face andhands were marked with bloodstains from numerous scratches; one leg ofhis trousers was torn disclosing the skin, and upon that side when hewalked he limped noticeably. All these things the two men observed at adistance. When he came closer, they were forgotten in the look upon hissmall face. The odd trick the boy had of throwing his lower jaw forwardwas now emphasized until the lower teeth fairly overshot the upper. Insympathy, the eyes had tightened, not morosely or cruelly, but with afixed determination which was all but uncanny. Scotty shifted a bituncomfortably. 

"By Jove!" he remarked, with his usual unconscious expletive, "I'drather have a tiger-cat on my trail than that youngster, if he was tolook that way. What do you suppose he's got in his cranium now?"

Rankin shook his head. "I don't know. He's beyond me. "

Scarcely a minute passed before the boy returned. He had another bridlein his hand and a fresh pan of oats. As before, he started to passwithout a word, but Rankin halted him. "What's the matter with yourclothes, Ben?" he queried. 

The lad looked at his questioner. "Horse threw me, sir. "

"And what are you going to do now?"

"Going to try to ride him again, sir. "

Rankin paused, his face growing momentarily more severe. 

"Ben, " he said at last, "did Mr. Baker hire you to break his horses? IfI were you I'd put those things away and ask his pardon. "

The boy looked from one man to the other uncertainly. Obviously, thisphase of the matter had not occurred to him. Obviously, too, the pointof view must be correct, for both Rankin and Scotty were solemn as thegrave. The lad shot out toward the pasture a glance that spoke volumes;then he turned to Baker. 

"I beg your pardon, sir, " he said. 

Scotty caught his cue. "Granted--this time, " he answered. 

A half-hour later, Rankin and Ben, the latter carefully washed, therents in his trousers temporarily repaired, were ready to go home. Notuntil the very last moment did Florence appear; then, her face a bitflushed, she came out to the buckboard. 

"Good-bye, " she said simply. There was a moment's pause; then, with adeepening color, she turned to Ben Blair. "Come again soon, " she addedin a low tone. 

CHAPTER VII

THE SANITY OF THE WILD

Summer, tan-colored, musical with note of katydid and cicada, and theconstant purr of the south wind, was upon the prairie country. Under theeternal law of necessity, --the necessity of sunburnt, stuntedgrass, --the boundaries of the range extended far in every direction. Theherds bearing the Box R brand no longer fed in one body, but scatteredfar and wide. Often for a week at a time the men did not sleep undercover. Morning and night, when a semblance of dew was upon the blightedgrass, the cattle grazed. The life was primitive and natural almostbeyond belief in a world of artificial civilization; but it wasindependent, care-free, and healthy. 

The land surrounding the ranch-house was now almost as bare as the palmof a hand. Only one object relieved the impression of desolation, andthat was a tree. It stood carefully fenced about in the drain from thebig artesian well, --a vivid blot of green against the dun background. The first year after he came, Rankin had imported it, --a goodly sizedsoft maple; and in the pathway of constantly trickling water, it hadgrown and prospered. It was the only tree for miles and miles about, except the scrawny scrub-oaks, cotton-woods, and wild plums that flankedthe infrequent creeks, --creeks which in Summer, save in deepest holes, reverted to mere dry runs. Beneath its shade Rankin had constructed arough bench, and therein Ma Graham, day after day when her housework wasfinished, dozed and sewed and dozed again, apparently as forgetful asthe cowboys upon the prairies that beyond her vision were great citieswhere countless thousands of human beings sweltered and struggled indesperate competition for daily bread. 

So much for the day. With the coming of dusk, a coolness like abenediction took the place of heat. The south wind gradually died downwith the descending sun, until immediately following the setting it wasabsolutely still; now it sprang up anew, and wandered on until the breakof day. 

Such an evening in late July found Rankin and Baker stretched out likeboys upon a pile of hay in the latter's yard. The big man had justarrived; the old buckboard, with its mouse-colored mustangs, stood justas he had driven it up. Scotty knew him well enough to know that he hadcome for a purpose, and he awaited its revelation. Rankin slowly filledand lit his pipe, drew thereon until the glow from the bowl wasreflected upon his face, and blew a great cloud of smoke out into thegathering dusk. 

"Baker, " he asked at last, "what are we going to do for the education ofthese youngsters of ours? We can't let them grow up here like savages. "

Scotty rolled over on his side, and leaned his head comfortably in hishand. 

"I've thought of that, " he answered, "and there seems to me only one oftwo things to do--either move into civilization, or import a pedagogue. "A pause, and a whimsical inflection came into his voice. "Unfortunately, however, neither plan seems exactly practical at this time. "

Rankin smoked a minute in silence. "How would it do to move intocivilization six months of the year--the Winter six?" he suggested. 

Scotty considered for a moment. "Do you mean that seriously?" he asked. 

"Yes. "

By the sense of feeling alone, the Englishman rolled a cigaretteskilfully. "How about the stock here while we're gone, " he saidhesitatingly. "Do you suppose we'd find anything left when we came backin the Spring?"

Rankin crowded the half-burned tobacco down into the pipe-bowl with hislittle finger. "I don't think you got the idea, " he explained. "My planwas for you to go East in the Fall and put the kids in school. I'd stayhere and see that everything ran smoothly while you were gone. Mrs. Baker has said a dozen times that she wanted a change--for a time, anyway. "

Scotty threw one long leg over the other. "As usual you're right, Rankin, " he said slowly. "The Lord knows Mollie gets restless enough attimes. People were like ants in a hill where she was raised, and thatlife was a part of her. " He took a last puff at the cigarette, and witha toss sent the smoking stump spinning like a firefly into the darkness. "And Flossie can't grow up wild--I know that. I'll talk your suggestionover with Mollie first, but I think I'd be safe in saying right nowthat we'll accept. "

For a moment Rankin did not speak; then he knocked the ashes out of hispipe upon his heel. 

"Excuse me if I keep going back to something unpleasant, Baker, " he saidslowly, "but in considering the matter there's one thing I don't wantyou to forget. " Then, after a meaning pause, he went on: "It's the samereason I had for not introducing Ben in the first place. "

Scotty drew out his book of rice-paper again almost involuntarily. 

"I'd thought of that this time, " he said; then paused to finger a gauzysheet absently. "I don't see why I should consider it now, though--seeing I didn't before. "

Rankin said nothing, and conversation lapsed. Irresistibly, but sogradually as to be all but unconscious, the spirit of the prairienight--a sensation, a conception of infinite vastness, of unassailableserenity--stole over and took possession of the men. The ambitious andmanifold artificial needs for which men barter their happiness, theirsense of humanity, even life itself, seemed beyond belief out therealone with the stars, with the prairie night-wind singing in the ears;seemed so puny that they elicited only a smile. The lust of show, ofextravagance, follies, wisdoms, man's loves and hates--how their trueproportions stand revealed against the eternal background ofimmeasurable distance, in nature's vast scheme!

Scotty cleared his throat. "I used to think, when I first came here, that I'd been a fool; but now, somehow, at times like this, I wonder ifI didn't blunder into the wisest act of my life. " The prairie spirithad taken hold of him. "And the longer I stay the more it grows upon methat such a life as this, where one's success is not the measure ofanother's failure, is the only one to live. It is the only life, " headded after a pause. 

Rankin said nothing. 

Scotty was silent for a moment, but the mood was too strong for him toremain so, and he went on. 

"I know the ordinary person would laugh if I said it, but really, Ibelieve I'm developing a distaste for money. It's simply another termfor caste; and that word, with the unreasoning superiority it implies, has somehow become hateful to me. " He looked up into the night. 

"I used to think I was happy back in England. I had my home and myassociates; born so, because their fathers were friends of my father, their grandfathers of my grandfather's class. As a small landlord I hadmy gentlemanly leisure; but as well as I know my name, I realize nowthat I could never return to that life again. Looking back, I see itsintolerable narrowness, its petty smugness. By comparison it's like therelative clearness of the atmosphere there and here. There, perhaps Icould see a few miles: here, I look away over leagues and leagues ofdistance. It's symbolic. " The voice paused; the face, turned directlytoward his companion's, tried in the half-darkness to read itsexpression. "I've been in this prairie country long enough now torealize that financially I've made a mistake. I can earn a living, andthat's all; but nevertheless I'm happy--happier than I ever realized itwas possible for me to be. I've got enough--more would be a burden tome. If I have a trouble in the world, it's because I see the inevitableprospect of money in the future, --money I don't want, for I'm an onlyson and my father is comparatively wealthy. Without turning his hand, his rent-roll is five thousand pounds a year. He's getting along inlife. Some day--it may be five years, it may be fifteen--he will die andleave it to me. I am to maintain and pass on the family name, the familydignity. It was all cut and dried generations back, generations before Iwas born. "

Still Rankin said nothing. For any indication he gave, the other'srevelation might have been only that he had a hundred dollars depositedin the savings bank against a rainy day. 

But Scotty was now fairly under headway. He stripped his reserve andconfidence bare. 

"You see now why I'm glad to consider your proposition. Whatever Ibelieve myself must be of secondary importance. I've others to thinkabout--Florence and her mother. Flossie is only a child, but Mollie is awoman, and has lived her life in sight of the brazen calf. She doesn'trealize, she never can realize, that it is of brass and not of gold. Personally, I believe, as I believe in my own existence, that Flossiewould be immeasurably happier if she never saw the other side oflife, --the artificial side, --but lived right here, knowing what wetaught her and developing like a healthy animal; perhaps, when the timecame, marrying a rancher, having her own home, her own family interests, and living close to nature. But it can't be. I've got to develop her, cultivate her, fit her for any society. " The voice paused, and thespeaker turned his face away. 

"God knows, --and He knows also that I love her dearly, --that lookinginto the future I wish sometimes she were the daughter of another man. "

The minutes passed. The ponies shifted restlessly and then were still. In the lull, the soft night-breeze crooned its minor song, while near orfar away--no human ear could measure the distance--a prairie owl gaveits weird cry. Then silence fell as before. 

Once more Scotty turned, facing his companion. 

"I've a question to ask you, Rankin; may I ask it without offence?"

The big man nodded. By the starlight Baker caught the motion. 

"You told me once that you were a college man, and that you had aMaster's degree. From the very first you started cattle-raising on a bigscale. You must have had money. Still, such being the case, you leftculture and civilization far behind and came here to choose a lifeabsolutely different. I have told you why I wish to educate my daughter. But why, feeling as you must have felt and must still feel, since you'rehere, why do you wish to educate this waif boy you've picked up? By allthe standards of convention, he is at the very bottom of the socialscale. Why do you want to do this?"

It was a psychological moment. Even in the semi-darkness, Rankin feltthe other's eyes fixed piercingly upon him. He passed his hand over hisface; he seemed about to speak. But the habit of reticence was toostrong upon him. Even the inspiration of the Englishman's confidencewas not sufficient to break the seal of his own reserve. He arose slowlyand shook the clinging wisps of hay from his clothes. 

"For somewhat the same reason as your own, " he answered at last. "Ben, like Flossie, is a child, an odd old child to be sure, but neverthelessa child. I have no reason to know that when he grows up his beliefs willbe my beliefs. He must see both sides of the coin, and judge forhimself. "

The speaker paused, then walked slowly over to the old buckboard. "It'sgetting late, and I've got a long drive home. " With an effort he mountedinto the seat and picked up the reins. "Good-night. "

Scotty hesitated a moment, and then said, "Good-night. "

CHAPTER VIII

THE GLITTER OF THE UNKNOWN

Twelve years slipped by. Short as they seemed to those actually livingthem, they had brought great material changes. No longer did the ranchcattle graze at the will of their owners, but, under stress ofcompetition, they browsed within the confines of miles upon miles ofgalvanized fencing. Neighbors, as Rankin said, were near now. There werefour within a radius of twenty miles. To be sure, there was still plentyof land west of them, beyond the broad muddy Missouri, --open rough land, gradually rising in elevation, where a traveller could journey for daysand days without seeing a human face. But this was not then a part ofthe so-called "cattle ranges. " In the parlance of the country, that was"West, "--a place to hunt in, a refuge for criminals, but as yet givingno indication of ever becoming of practical use. 

The Box R Ranch had evolved along with the others, and always well inadvance. The house now boasted six rooms; the barn and stock-sheds hadat a distance the appearance of a town in themselves; the collection ofhaying implements--mowers, loaders, stackers--was almost complete enoughto stock a jobbing house. The herd itself had augmented, despite itsannual reduction, until one artesian well was inadequate to supplywater; and fifteen miles north, at the extreme limit of his home-ranch, Rankin had sunk another well, making a sort of sub-station of thatpoint. From it an observer with good eyes could see the outlines of themodern Big B Ranch property, built on the old site, and ostensiblyoperated by a long-legged Yankee, Rob Hoyt by name, but in realityowned, as had been the remnant of stock Tom Blair left behind him, bysaloon-keeper Mick Kennedy. 

The ranch force had changed very little. Rankin, stouter by aquarter-hundred weight, shaggier of eyebrows and with an accentuateddroop in the upper eyelids, and if possible an increased taciturnity, still lived his daytime life mainly on wheels. The old buckboard hadfinally succumbed, but its counterpart, mud-spattered andweather-bleached, had taken its place. In the kitchen, Ma Graham stillpresided, her accumulated avoirdupois seeming to have been gathered atthe expense of her lord, who in equal ratio thinner and more weazened, danced attendance as of old. Only one of the former cowboys nowremained. That one, strange to say, was Grannis, the "man from nowhere, "who had apparently taken root at last. Regularly on the last day of eachmonth he drew his pay, and without a word of explanation or commentdisappeared upon the back of a cow-pony, to reappear, perhaps in tenhours, perhaps in sixty, dead broke, with a thirst seeminglyunappeasable, but quite non-committal concerning his experience, apparently satisfied and ready to take up the dull routine of his lifeagain. 

Last of all, Benjamin Blair. Precisely as the boy had given promise, theyouth had developed. He was now mature in size, in poise, in action. Long of leg, long of arm, long of face, he stood a half head aboveRankin, who had been the tallest man upon the place. Yet he was notawkward. Physically he was of the type, but magnified, to which allcowboys belong; and no one would ever call him awkward or uncouth. 

There had been less change upon the Baker ranch. Scotty was not anexpansionist. Scarcely a score more horses grazed in his paddock than ofold. The barn, though often repaired, was still of sod and thatch. Thehouse contained the original number of rooms. The experiment with treeshad never been repeated. If possible, the man himself had altered evenless than his surroundings. Scrupulously fresh-shaven each day, fortified beyond the compound lenses of his spectacles, a stranger wouldhave guessed him anywhere from thirty-five to fifty. 

Time had not dealt as kindly with Mrs. Baker. She seemed to have agedenough for both herself and her husband. Notwithstanding the fact thatfor the first eight years of the twelve, the family had spent half theirtime in the East, she had grown careless of her appearance. True to hisinstincts, Scotty still dressed for dinner in his antiquated eveningclothes; but pathetic as was the example, it had long ceased tostimulate her. The last four years had been dead years with MollieBaker. The future held but one promise. She referred to it daily, almosthourly; and at such times only would a trace of youth and beauty returnto the one-time winsome face. She looked forward and dreamed of anevent after which she would do certain things upon which she had set herheart; when, as she said, she would begin to live. It seemed to Scottyghastly to speak about that event, for it was the death of his father. 

The last member of the family had developed with the child's promise, and at seventeen Florence was beautiful; not with a conventionalprettiness, but with a vital feminine attraction. All that the motherhad been, with her dark, oval face, her mass of walnut-brown hair, hergreat dark eyes, her uptilted chin, the daughter was now; but with addedhealth and an augmented femininity that the mother had never known. Moreover, she had an independence, a dominance, born perhaps of the wildprairie influence, that at times made her parents almost gasp. Except inthe minute details of their daily existence, which habit had madeunchangeable, she ruled them absolutely. Even Rankin had become asecondary factor. Scotty probably would have denied the assertionemphatically, yet at the bottom of his consciousness he realized thathad she told him to sell everything he possessed for what he could getand return to old Sussex he would have complied. Considering Mollie'sdaily plaint, it was a constant source of wonder to him that the girldid not do this; but she seemed wholly satisfied with things as theywere. For exercise and excitement she rode almost every horse upon theplace--rode astride like a man. For amusement she read everything shecould lay hands upon, both from the modest Baker library and from thelarger and more creditable collection which Rankin had imported fromthe East. This was the first real library that had ever entered theState, and, subject for speculation, it had uniformly the frontfly-leaves remaining as mere stubs, as though the pages had been tornout by a hurried hand. What name was it that had been in those hundredsof volumes? For what reason had it been so carefully removed? The girlhad often speculated thereon, and fitted theory after theory; but neveryet, wilful as she was, had she had the temerity to ask the only personwho could have given explanation, --Rankin himself. 

In common with her sisters everywhere, Florence had an instinctive loveof a fad. Realizing this fact, Scotty was not in the least deceivedwhen, during a lull at the dinner-table one evening late in the Fall, she broke in with an irrelevant though seemingly innocent remark. 

"I saw several big jack-rabbits when I was out riding this morning. " Thedark eyes turned upon her father quizzically, humorously. "They seem tobe very plentiful. "

"Yes, " said Scotty; "they always are in the Fall. "

Florence ate for a moment in silence. 

"Did you ever think how much sport we could have if we owned a couple ofhounds?" she asked. 

Scotty was silent; but Mollie threw up her hands in horror. "You don'treally mean that you want any of those hungry-looking dogs around, doyou, Flossie?" she protested pettishly. "Seems as though you'd besatisfied with riding the horses tomboy style without going to huntingrabbits that way. "

The daughter's color heightened and the matter dropped; but Scotty knewthe main attack was yet to come. He had learned from experience themethods of his daughter in attaining an object. 

Later in the evening father and daughter were alone beside a well-shadedlamp in the cosey sitting-room. Mollie had retired early, complaining ofa headache, and carrying with her an air of martyrdom even morepronounced than usual; so noticeable, in fact, that, absently watchingthe door through which she had left, an expression of positive gloomformed over Scotty's thin face. Two strong young arms fell suddenlyabout his neck and abruptly changed his thoughts. A soft warm cheek waslaid against his own. 

"Poor old daddy!" whispered a caressing voice. 

For a moment Scotty did not move; then, turning, he looked into thebrown eyes. "Why?" he asked. 

"Because, "--her voice was low, her answering look was steady, --"becauseit won't be but a little while until he'll have to move away--move backinto civilization. "

For a moment neither spoke; then, with a last pressure of her cheekagainst her father's, the girl crossed the room and took another chair. Scotty followed her with his eyes. 

"Are you against me, too, little girl?" he asked. 

Florence reached over to the table, took up an ever-ready strip ofrice-paper, and, rolling a cigarette, tendered it with the air of apeace-offering. 

"No, I'm not against you; but it's got to come. Mamma simply can'tchange. She can't find anything here to interest her, and we've got totake her away--for good. "

Scotty slowly struck a sulphur match, waited until the flame had burnedwell along the wood, then deliberately lit his cigarette and burned itto a stump. 

"Aren't you happy here, Flossie?" he asked gently. 

The girl's hands were folded in her lap, her eyes looked past himabsently. 

"Really, for once in my life, " she answered seriously, "I spoke quiteunselfishly. I was thinking only of mamma. " There was a pause, and adeeper concentration in the brown eyes. "As for myself, I hardly know. Yes, I do know. I'm happy now, but I wouldn't be long. The life here istoo narrow; I'd lose interest in it. At last I'd have a frantic desire, one I couldn't resist, to peep just over the edge of the horizon andtake part in whatever is going on beyond. " She smiled. "I might runaway, or marry an Indian, or do something shocking!"

Scotty flicked off a bit of ashes with his little finger. 

"Can't you think of anything that would interest you and broaden yourlife enough to make it pleasant?" he ventured. 

This time mirth shone upon the girl's face, and a laugh sounded in hervoice. 

"Papa, papa, " she said, "I didn't think that of you! Are you so anxiousto get rid of your daughter?" As swiftly as it had come, the smilevanished, leaving in its place a softer and warmer color. 

"I'm not enough of a hypocrite, " she added slowly, "to pretend not tounderstand what you mean. Yes, I believe if there is a man in the worldI could care enough for to marry, I could live here or anywhere with himand be perfectly happy; but that isn't possible. I'm of the wrongdisposition. " The soft color in the cheek grew warmer, the brown eyessparkled. "I know myself well enough to realize that any man I couldcare for wouldn't live out here. He'd be one who did things, and didthem better than others; and to do things he'd have to be where othersare. No, I never could live here. "

Scotty dropped the dead cigarette stump into an ash-tray, and brushed astray speck of dust from his sleeve. 

"In other words, you could never care for such a man as your father, " heremarked quietly. 

The girl instantly realized what she had said, and springing up shethrew her arms impulsively about her father's neck. 

"Dear old daddy!" she said. "There isn't another man in the world likeyou! I love you dearly, dearly!" The soft lips touched his cheek againand again. But for the first time in her life that Florence couldremember, her father did not respond. Instead, he gently freed himself. 

"Nevertheless, " he said, steadily, "the fact remains. You could nevermarry a man like your father, --one who had no desire to be known of men, but who simply loved you and would do anything in his power to make youhappy. You have said it. " Scotty rose slowly, the youthfulness of hismovements gone, the expression of age unconsciously creeping into thewrinkles at his temples and at the corners of his mouth. "You have hurtme, Florence. "

The girl was at once repentant, but her repentance came too late. Shedropped her face into her hands. 

"Oh, daddy, daddy!" she pleaded, but could not say another word. Indeed, there was nothing to be said. 

Scotty moved silently about the room, closed a book he had laid facedownward upon the table, picked up a paper which had fallen to thefloor, and wound the clock for the night. At the doorway to hissleeping-room he paused. 

"You said something at dinner to-night about wanting some hounds, Florence. I know where I can buy a pair, and I'll see that you havethem. " He opened the door slowly, then quietly closed it. "And about ourleaving here. I have always expected to go sometime, but I hoped itwouldn't be necessary for a while yet. " He paused, fingering the knobabsently. "I'm ready, though, whenever you and your mother wish. "

This time the door closed behind him, and, alone within the room, thegirl sobbed as though her heart would break. 

CHAPTER IX

A RIFFLE OF PRAIRIE

Florence got her dogs promptly. They were two big mouse-coloredgrayhounds, with tails like rats and protruding ribs. They were named"Racer" and "Pacer, " and were warranted by their late owner toout-distance any rabbit that ever drew breath. The girl felt that anevent as important as a coursing should be the occasion of a gatheringof the neighboring ranchers; but at the mere suggestion her conventionalmother threw up her hands in horror. It was bad enough for her daughterto go out alone, but as the one woman among all that lot of cowboys--itwas too much for her to endure. Finally, as a compromise, Florenceagreed to invite only the people of the Box R Ranch to the first event. So the invitations for a certain day, composed with fitting formality, were sent, and in due time were ceremoniously accepted. 

The chase was scheduled to begin soon after daybreak, and before thattime Rankin and Ben Blair were at the Baker house. They wore theirordinary clothes of wool and leather, but Scotty appeared in a wonderfulred hunting-coat, which, though a bit moth-eaten in spots, neverthelessshowed glaringly against the brown earth of the ranch-house yard. 

With the exception of the dogs, which were kept properly hungry for thehunt, and Mollie, who had washed her hands of the whole affair, theparty all had breakfast, Scotty himself serving the coffee with theskill of a head-waiter. Then the old buckboard, carefully oiled andtightened for the occasion, was gotten out, a team of the fastest, wiriest mustangs the Box R possessed was attached, and Rankin and Bakerupon the seat, Florence and Ben, well-mounted, trailing behind, theparty sallied forth. In order to avoid fences they had agreed to go tenmiles to the south before beginning operations. There a great tract ofgovernment land, well grazed but untouched by the hand of man, gave allbut unlimited room. 

The morning was beautiful and clear beyond the comprehension of citydwellers, a typical day of prairie Dakota in late Fall. Far out over thebroad expanse, indefinite as to distance, the rising sun seemed restingupon the very rim of the world. All about, near at hand, stretching intothe horizon, glistening, sparkling, innumerable frost crystals, productof the past night, gleamed like scattered gems, showing in theircoloring every blended shade of the rainbow. The glory of it allappealed to the girl, and throwing back her head she drew in deepbreaths of the tonic air. 

"I'm going to miss these mornings terribly when I'm gone, " she saidsoberly. 

Ben Blair scrutinized the backs of the two men in the buckboard withapparent interest. 

"I didn't know you intended leaving, " he said. "Where are you going?"

Florence regarded her companion from the corner of her eye. 

"I'm going away for good, " she said. 

Ben shifted half around in the saddle and folded back the rim of his bigsombrero. 

"For good, you say?"

The girl's brown eyes were cast down demurely. "Yes, for good, " sherepeated. 

They had been losing ground. Now in silence they galloped ahead, theregular muffled patter of their horses' feet upon the frozen sodsounding like the distant rattle of a snare-drum. Once again even withthe buckboard, they lapsed into a walk. 

"You haven't told me where you're going, " repeated Blair. 

The question seemed to be of purest politeness, as a host inquires ifhis visitor has rested well; yet for a dozen years they two had livednearest neighbors, and had grown to maturity side by side. She concludedthere were some phases of this silent youth which she had not yetlearned. 

"We haven't decided where we're going yet, " she replied. "Mamma wants togo to England, but papa and I refuse to leave this country. Then daddywants to live in a small town, and I vote for a big one. Just now we'reat deadlock. "

A smile started in Ben's blue eyes and spread over his thin face. 

"From the way you talk, " he said, "I have a suspicion the deadlock won'tlast long. If I stretch my imagination a little I can guess pretty closeto the decision. "

Florence was sober a moment; then a smile flashed over her face and leftthe daintiest of dimples in either cheek. 

"Maybe you can, " she said. 

For the second time they galloped ahead and caught up with the slowerbuckboard. 

"Florence, " Ben threw one leg over the pommel of his saddle and facedhis companion squarely, "I've heard your mother talk, and of course Iunderstand why she wants to go back among her folks, but you were raisedhere. Why do you want to leave?"

The girl hesitated, and ran her fingers through her horse's mane. 

"Mamma's been here against her will for a good many years. We ought togo for her sake. "

Ben made a motion of deprecation. "What I want to know is the realreason, --your own reason, " he said. 

The warm blood flushed Florence's face. "By what right do you ask that?"she retorted. "You seem to forget that we've both grown up since we wentto school together. "

Ben looked calmly out over the prairie. 

"No, I don't forget; and I admit I have no right to ask. But I may askas a friend, I am sure. Why do you want to go?"

Again the girl hesitated. Logically she should refuse to answer. To dootherwise was to admit that her first answer was an evasion; butsomething, an influence that always controlled her in Ben's presence, prevented refusal. Slow of speech, deliberate of movement as he was, there was about him a force that dominated her, even as she dominatedher parents, and, worst of all--to her inmost self she admitted thefact--it fascinated her as well. With all her strength she rebelledagainst the knowledge and combated the influence, but in vain. Insteadof replying, she chirruped to her horse. "It seems to me, " she said, "it's just as well to begin hunting here as to go further. I'm going onahead to ask papa and Mr. Rankin. "

With a grave smile, Blair reached over and caught her bridle-rein, saying carelessly: "Pardon me, but you forget something you were goingto tell me. "

The girl's brown cheeks crimsoned anew, but this time there was nohesitation in her reply. 

"Very well, since you insist, I'll answer your question; but don't besurprised if I offend you. " A dainty hand tugged at the loosened buttonof her riding-glove. "I'm going away, for one reason, because I want tobe where things move, and where I don't always know what is going tohappen to-morrow. " She turned to her companion directly. "But most ofall, I'm going because I want to be among people who have ambitions, whodo things, things worth while. I am tired of just existing, like theanimals, from day to day. I was only a young girl when we were going toschool, but now I know why I liked that life so well. It was because ofthe intense activity, the constant movement, the competition, theevolution. I like it! I want to be a part of it!"

"Thank you for telling me, " said Ben, quietly. 

But now the girl was in no hurry to hasten on. She forgot that herexplanation was given under protest. It had become a confession. 

"Up to the last few years I never thought much about the future--I tookit for granted; but since then it has been different. Unconsciously, I've become a woman. All the little things that belong to women's lives, too small to tell, begin to appeal to me. I want to live in a good houseand have good clothes and know people. I want to go to shops andtheatres and concerts; all these things belong to me and I intend tohave them. "

"I think I understand, " said Ben, slowly. "Yes, I'm sure I understand, "he repeated. 

But the girl did not heed him. "Last of all, there's another reason, "she went on. "I don't know why I shouldn't speak it, as well as thinkit, for it's the greatest of all. I'm a young woman. I won't remain suchlong. I don't want to be a spinster. I know I'm not supposed to saythese things, but why not? I want to meet men, men of my own class, myparents' class, men who know something besides the weight of a steer andthe value of a bronco, --some man I could respect and care for. " Againshe turned directly to her companion. "Do you wonder I want to change, that I want to leave these prairies, much as I like them?"

It was long before Ben Blair spoke. He scarcely stirred in his seat;then of a sudden, rousing, he threw his leg back over the saddle. 

"No, " he said slowly, "I don't wonder--looking at things your way. It'sall in the point of view. But perhaps yours is wrong, maybe you don'tthink of the other side of that life. There usually is another side toeverything, I've noticed. " He glanced ahead. A half-mile on, theblackboard had stopped, and Scotty was standing up on the seat andmotioning the laggards energetically. 

"I think we'd better dust up a little. Your father seems to have strucksomething interesting. "

Florence seemed inclined to linger, but Scotty's waving cap wasinsistent, and they galloped ahead. 

They found Rankin sitting upon the wagon seat, smoking impassively asusual; but the Englishman was upon the ground holding the two hounds bythe collars. Behind the big compound lenses his eyes were twinklingexcitedly, and he was smiling like a boy. 

"Look out there!" he exclaimed with a jerk of his head, "over to thewest. We all but missed him! Are you ready?"

They all looked and saw, perhaps thirty rods away, a grayish-whitejack-rabbit, distinct by contrast with the brown earth. The hounds hadalso caught sight of the game and pulled lustily at their collars. 

Instantly Florence was all excitement. "Of course we're ready! No, waita second, until I see about my saddle. " She dismounted precipitately. "Tighten the cinch a bit, won't you, Ben? I don't mind a tumble, but itmight interfere at a critical moment. " She put her foot in his extendedhand, and sprang back into her seat. "Now, I'm ready. Come on, Ben! Letthem go, papa! Be in at the finish if you can!" and, a second behind thehounds, she was away. Simultaneously, the great jack-rabbit, scentingdanger, leaped forward, a ball of animate rubber, bounding farther andfarther as he got under full motion, speeding away toward the bluedistance. 

The chase that followed was a thing to live in memory. From the natureof the land, gently rolling to the horizon without an obstruction theheight of a man's hand, there was no possibility of escape for thequarry. The outcome was as mathematically certain as a problem inarithmetic; the only uncertain element was that of time. At first thejack seemed to be gaining, but gradually the greater endurance of thehounds began to count, and foot by foot the gap between pursuers andpursued lessened. In the beginning the rabbit ran in great leaps, asthough glorying in the speed that it would seem no other animal couldequal, but very soon his movements changed; his ears were flattenedtight to his head, and, with every muscle strained to the utmost, he ranwildly for his life. 

Meanwhile, the four hunters were following as best they might. In theall but soundless atmosphere, the rattle of the old buckboard could beheard a quarter of a mile. Alternately losing and gaining ground as theycut off angles and followed the diameter instead of the circumference ofthe great circles the rabbit described, the drivers were always withinsight. Closer behind the hounds and following the same course, Florencerode her thoroughbred like mad, with Ben Blair at her side. The pace wasterrific. The rush of the crisp morning air sang in their ears and cutkeenly at their faces. The tattoo of the horses' feet upon the hardearth was continuous. Beneath her riding-cap, the girl's hair wasloosened and swept free in the wind. Her color was high, her eyessparkled. Never before had the man at her side seen her so fair to gazeupon; but despite the excitement, despite the rush of action, there wasa jarring note in her beauty. Deep in his nature, ingrained, elemental, was the love of fair play. Though he was in the chase and a part of it, his sympathies were far from being with the hounds. That the girl shouldfavor the strong over the weak was something he could not understand--ablemish that even her beauty did not excuse. 

A quarter-hour passed. The sun rose from the lap of the prairie andscattered the frost-crystals as though they had been mist. The chase wasnear its end. All moved more slowly. A dozen times since they hadstarted, it seemed as if the hounds must soon catch their prey, that inanother second all would be over; but each time the rabbit had escaped, had at the last instant shot into the air, while the hounds rushedharmlessly beneath, and, ere they recovered, had gained a goodly leadagain in a new course. But now that time was past, and he was tired andweak. It was a straight-away race, with the hounds scarcely twenty feetbehind. Back of the latter, perhaps ten rods, were the riders, stillside by side as at first. Their horses were covered with foam andblowing steadily, but nevertheless they galloped on gallantly. Bringingup the rear, just in sight but now out of sound, was the buckboard. Thusthey approached the finish. 

Inch by inch the dogs gained upon the rabbit. Standing in his stirrups, Ben Blair, the seemingly stolid, watched the scene. The twenty feetlessened to eighteen, to fifteen, and, turning his head, the man lookedat his companion. Beautiful as she was, there now appeared to his eye anexpression of anticipation, --anticipation of the end, anticipation of adeath, --the death of a weaker animal!

A determination which had been only latent became positive with Blair. He urged on his horse to the uttermost and sprang past his companion. His right hand went to his hip and lingered there. His voice rang outabove the sound of the horses' feet and of their breathing. 

"Hi, there, Racer, Pacer!" he shouted. "Come here!"

There was no response from the hounds; no sign that they had heard him. They were within ten feet of the rabbit now, and no voice on earth couldhave stopped them. 

"Pacer! Racer!" shouted Ben. There was a pause, and then the quick barkof a revolver. A puff of dust arose before the nose of the leading dog. 

Again no response, only the steadily lessening distance. 

For a second Ben Blair hesitated; but it was for a second only. Florencewatched him, too surprised to speak, and saw what for a moment made herdoubt her own eyes. The hand that held the big revolver was raised, there was a report, then another, and the two dead hounds went tumblingover and over with their own momentum upon the brown prairie. Beyondthem the rabbit bounded away into distance and safety. 

Without a word Ben Blair drew rein, returned the revolver to itsholster, and came back to where the girl had stopped. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said. "I'll pay you for the dogs, if you like. "A pause and a straight glance from out the blue eyes. "I couldn't helpdoing what I did. "

Having in mind the look he had last seen upon the girl's face, heexpected an explosion of wrath; but he was destined to surprise. Therewas silence, instead, while two great tears gathered slowly in her softeyes, and brimmed over upon the brown cheeks. 

"I don't want you to pay for the dogs; I'm glad they're gone. " Shebrushed back a straggling lock of hair. "It's a horrid sport, and I'llnever have anything to do with it again. " A look that set the youth'sheart bounding shot out sideways from beneath the long lashes. "I'm veryglad you did--what you did. "

Just then the noisy old buckboard, with Rankin and Scotty clinging tothe seat, drove up and stopped short, with a protest from every joint ofthe ancient vehicle. 

CHAPTER X

THE DOMINANT ANIMAL

The chance to sell his stock, ostensibly his reason for delayingdeparture, came to Scotty Baker much more quickly than he hadanticipated. Within a week after the hunt--in the very first mail hereceived, in fact--came an offer from a Minneapolis firm to take everyscrap of horse-flesh he could spare. With much compunction and a dolefulface he read the letter aloud in the family council. 

"That means 'go' for sure, I suppose, " he commented at its conclusion. 

Involuntarily Florence laughed. "You look as though you'd just got wordthat the whole herd had stampeded over a ravine, instead of having had awave of good fortune, " she bantered. "I believe you'd still back out ifyou could. "

Scotty's face did not lighten. "I know I would, " he admitted. 

"We'll not give you the chance, though, " broke in Mollie, with the firstindication of enthusiasm she had shown in many a day. "Florence and Iwill begin packing right away, and you can carry the things along withyou when you drive the horses to town. "

Scotty looked at his wife steadily and caught the trace of excitement inher manner. 

"Yes, that is a good suggestion, " he replied slowly. "It's liable toturn cold any time now, and as long as we're going it may as well bebefore Winter sets in. " He filled a stubby meerschaum pipe with tobacco, and put on cap and coat preparatory to going out of doors. "I spoke toRankin about the place the other day, " he added, "and he says he'll takeit and pay cash whenever I'm ready. I'll drive over and see him thismorning. "

Rankin was not at home--so Ma Graham told Scotty when he arrived--andprobably he wouldn't return till afternoon; but Ben was around the barnsomewhere, more than likely out among the broncos. He usually was, whenhe had nothing else in particular to do. 

Following her direction the Englishman loitered out toward the stockquarters, looked with interest into the big sheds where the hayingmachinery was kept, stopped to listen to the rush of water through thefour-inch pipe of the artesian well, lit his pipe afresh, and moved onreflectively to the first of the great stock-yards that stretchedbeyond. A tight board fence, ten feet high, built as a windbreak on twosides, obstructed his way; and he started to walk around it. At the endthe windbreak merged into a well-built fence of six wires, and, awagon's breadth between, a long row of haystacks, built as a furtherprotection against the wind. These, together with the wires, formed thethird side of the yard. Leaning on the latter, Scotty looked into theenclosure, at first carelessly, then with interest. A moment later, without making his presence known, he stepped back to the hay, and, selecting a pile of convenient height, sat down in the sunshine towatch. 

What he saw was a tall slim young man, in chaparejos and sombrero, theinevitable "repeater" at his hip, solitarily engaged in the process ofbreaking a bronco. Ordinarily in this cattle-country the first time oneof these wiry little ponies is ridden is on a holiday or a Sunday, whenever a company of spectators can be secured to assist or to applaud;but this was not Ben Blair's way. By nature solitary, whenever possiblehe did his work as he took his pleasure, unseen of men. At present, ashe went methodically about his business, he had no idea that a personsave Ma Graham was within miles, or that anyone anywhere had theslightest interest in what he was doing. 

"Yard One, " as the cowboys designated this corral, was the most used ofany on the ranch. Save for a single stout post set solidly in itscentre, it was entirely clear, and under the feet of hundreds of cattlehad been tramped firm as a pavement. At present it contained ahalf-dozen horses, and one of these, a little mustang that was Ben'sparticular pride, he was just saddling when Scotty appeared; the others, a wild-eyed, evil-looking lot, scattering meantime as far as theboundaries of the corral would permit. 

Very deliberately Ben mounted the pony, hitched up the legs of hisleather trousers, folded back the brim of the big sombrero, andcritically inspected the ponies before him. One of them, a demoniacallooking buckskin, appeared more vixenish than the others, and verypromptly the youth made this selection; but to get in touch of the wilylittle beast was another matter. Every time the rancher made a moveforward the herd found it convenient likewise to move, and to the limitof the corral fence. Once clear around the yard the rider humored them;and Scotty, the spectator, felt sure he must be observed. But Ben neverlooked outside the fence. 

Starting to make the circle a second time, the rancher spoke a singleword to the little mustang and they moved ahead at a gallop. Instantlyresponsive, the herd likewise broke into a lope, maintaining their lead. Twice, three times, faster and faster, the rider and the riderlesscompleted the circle, the hard ground ringing with the din, the dustrising in a filmy cloud; then of a sudden the figure on the mustangpassed from inaction into motion, the left hand on the reins tightenedand turned the pony's head to the side, straight across the diameter ofthe circle. Simultaneously the right dropped to the lariat coiled on thepummel of the saddle, loosed it, and swung the noose at the end freelyin air. On galloped the broncos, unmindful of the trick--on around thelimiting fence, until suddenly they found almost in their midst theanimal, man, whom they so feared, whom they were trying so to escape. Then for a moment there was scattering, reversal, confusion, a densercloud of dust; but for one of their number, the buckskin, it was toolate. Ben Blair rose in his stirrups, the rawhide rope that had beencircling above his sombrero shot out, spread, dropped over the upliftedyellow head. The little mustang the man rode recognized the song of thelariat; well he knew what would follow. In anticipation he stopped dead;his front legs stiffened. There was a shock, a protest of strainingleather which Scotty could hear clear beyond the corral, as, checkedunder speed, the buckskin rose on his hind-feet and all but lost hisbalance. That instant was Blair's opportunity. He turned his mustangswiftly and headed straight for the centre-post, dragging the strugglingand half-strangled bronco; he rode around the post, sprang from thesaddle, took a skilful half-hitch in the lariat--and the buckskin was aprisoner. 

Scotty polished his glasses excitedly. He was wondering how the sleekyoung men with whom he would soon be mingling in the city would go at ajob like that; and he smiled absently. 

To "snub" the bronco up to the post so that he could scarcely turn hishead was an easy matter. To exchange the bridle to the new mount wasalso comparatively simple. To adjust the great saddle, with theunwilling victim struggling like mad, was a more difficult task; buteventually all these came to pass, and Ben paused a moment to inspecthis handiwork. To a tenderfoot observer it might have seemed that thebattle was about over; but as a matter of fact it had scarcely begun. Tochronicle on paper that a certain person on a certain day rode a certainbronco for the first time sounds commonplace; but to one who has seenthe deviltry lurking in those wild prairie ponies' eyes, who knows theirdogged fighting disposition, the reality is very different. 

Only a moment Ben Blair paused. Almost before Scotty had got hisspectacles back to his nose he saw the long figure spring into thesaddle, observed that the lariat which had held the bronco helpless tothe post had been removed, and knew that the fight was on in earnest. 

And emphatically it was on. With his first leap the pony went straightinto the air, to come down with a mighty jolt, stiff-legged; but BenBlair sat through it apparently undisturbed. If ever an animal showedsurprise it was the buckskin then. For an instant he paused, looked backat the motionless rider with eyes that seemed almost green, thensuddenly started away at full speed around the corral as though Satanhimself were in pursuit. 

Instantly with the diminutive horse swift anger took the place ofsurprise. Scotty, the spectator, could read it in the tightening of therippling muscles beneath the skin, in the toss of the sleek head. Fearhad passed long ago, if the little beast had ever really known thesensation. It was now merely animal against animal, dogged obstinacyagainst dogged tenacity, a fight until one or the other gave in, noquarter asked or accepted. 

As before, the bronco was the aggressor. One by one, so swiftly thatthey formed a continuous movement, he tried all the tricks whichinstinct or ingenuity suggested. He bucked, his hind-quarters in the airuntil it seemed he would reverse. He reared up until his front feet wereon the level of a man's head, until Scotty held his breath for fear theanimal would lose his balance backward; but when he resumed the normalhe found the man, ever relentless, firmly in place, impassively awaitingthe next move. He grew more furious with each failure. The sweat oozedout in drops that became trickling streams beneath the short hair. Hisbreath came more quickly, whistling through the wide nostrils. A newlight came into the gray-green eyes and flashed from them fiendishly. Assuddenly as he had made his previous attacks he played his last trump. Like a ball of lead he dropped in his tracks and tried to roll; but thegreat saddle prevented, and when he sprang up again, there, as firmlyseated as before, was the hated man upon his back. 

Then overpowering and unreasoning anger, the wrath of a frenzied lion ina cage, of a baited bull in a ring, took possession of the buckskin. Hewent through his tricks anew, not methodically as before, but furiously, desperately. The sweat churned into foam beneath the saddle and betweenhis legs. He screamed like a demon, until the other broncos retreated interror, and Scotty's hair fairly lifted on his head. But one ideapossessed him--to kill this being on his back, this hated thing he couldnot move or dislodge. A suggestion of means came to him, and straight asa line he made for the high board fence. There was no misunderstandinghis purpose. 

Then for the first time Ben Blair roused himself. The hand on the reintightened, as the lariat had tightened, until the small head with thedainty ears curled back in a half-circle. Simultaneously the long rowelsof a spur bit deep into the foaming flank, the swish of a quirt soundedkeenly, a voice broke out in one word of command, "Whoa!" and repeated, "Whoa!"

It was like thunder out of a clear sky, like an unseen blow in the dark. Within three feet of the fence the bronco stopped and stood trembling inevery muscle, expecting he knew not what. 

It was the man's time now--the beginning of the end. 

"Get up!" repeated the same authoritative voice, and the hand on the bitloosened. "Get up!" and rowel and quirt again did their work. 

In terror this time the bronco plunged ahead, felt the guiding rein, andstarted afresh around the circle of the corral fence. "Get up!" repeatedBen, and like a streak of yellowish light they spun about the trail. Round and round they went, the body of the man and horse alike tilted inat an angle, the other ponies plunging to clear the way. Scotty countedten revolutions; then he awaited the end. It was not long in coming. Ofa sudden, as before, directly in front of where he sat, the bridle-reinstightened, and he heard the one word, "Whoa!" and pony and rider stoppedlike figures in clay. For a moment they stood motionless, save for theirlabored breathing; then very deliberately Ben Blair dismounted. Not amovement did the buckskin make, either of offence or to escape; hemerely waited. Still deliberately, the man removed the saddle andbridle, while not a muscle of the bronco's body stirred. Scotty watchedthe scene in fascination. Every trace of anger was out of the pony'sgray-green eyes now, every indication of terror as well. Dozens ofhorses the Englishman had seen broken; but one like this--never before. It was as though in the last few minutes an understanding had come aboutbetween this fierce wild thing and its conqueror; as though, like everyhuman being with whom he came in contact, the latter had dominated bythe sheer strength of his will. It was all but uncanny. 

Slowly Blair laid the bridle beside the saddle, and stepping over to hislate mount he patted the damp neck and gently stroked the silken muzzle. 

"I think, old boy, you'll remember me when we meet again, " Scotty heardhim say. "Good luck to you meantime, " and with a last pat he picked uphis riding paraphernalia and started for the sheds. 

Scotty stood up. "Hello, " he called. 

Ben halted and turned about, looking his surprise. 

"Well, in the name of all that's proper!" he ejaculated slowly; "where'dyou drop down from?"

Scotty smiled broadly; frank admiration for the dusty cowboy was in hisgaze. 

"I didn't drop down at all; I walked around here about half an hour ago. You were rather preoccupied at the time and didn't notice me. "

Blair came back to the fence and swung over the saddle and bridle. "Youtook in the whole show then?" he asked. A trace of color came into hisface, as he vaulted over the rails. "I hope you enjoyed it. "

Scotty observed the latest feat, unconscious as its predecessor, withaugmented admiration. "I certainly did, " he said, and the subject wasdropped. 

The two men walked together toward the ranch-house. 

"I came over to see Rankin, " remarked the Englishman, "but I'm afraidI'll have to wait a bit. "

"I guess you will, " replied Ben. "He went up to the north well thismorning. They're building some sheds up there, and he's superintendingthe job. He's as liable to forget about dinner as not. Nothing I can dofor you, is there?"

Scotty thrust his hands into his pockets. 

"No, I guess not. I came over to see about selling him my place. We'regoing to leave in a few days. "

Ben Blair made no comment, and for a moment they walked on in silence;then an idea suddenly occurred to the Englishman. 

"Come to think of it, " he said, "there is something you can do for me. Bill and I have got to drive all the stock over to the station. I'd be athousand times obliged if you would help us. "

For a half-dozen steps Blair did not answer; then he turned fairly tohis companion. 

"You won't be offended if I refuse?" he asked. 

"No, certainly not. "

"Well, then, I don't want to help you myself, but I'll get Grannis to gowith you. He'll be just as useful. "

Ordinarily, despite his assertion to the contrary, Scotty would havebeen offended; but he knew this long youth quite too well tomisunderstand. 

"Would you mind telling me why you refuse?" he said at last. 

Ben shifted the heavy saddle to his other shoulder. 

"No, I don't mind, " he said bluntly. "I won't help you because I don'twant you to go. "

Scotty pondered, and a light dawned on his slow-moving brain. He lookedat Ben sympathetically. "My boy, " he said, "I'm sorry for you; by Jove!I am. "

They were even with the horse-barn now, and without a word Ben went inand hung up the saddle, each stirrup upon a nail. Relieved of his loadhe came back, slapping the dust from his clothes with his big gauntlets. 

"If it's a fair question, " he asked, "why do I merit your sympathy?"

The Englishman's hands went deeper into his pockets. 

"Why?" He all but stared. "Because you haven't a ghost of a chance withFlorence. She'd laugh at you!"

Ben's blue eyes were raised to a level with the other's glasses. "She'dlaugh at me, you think?" he asked quietly. 

Scotty shifted uneasily. "Well, perhaps not that, " he retracted, "butanyway, you haven't a chance. I like you, Ben, and I'm dead sorry thatshe is different. She comes, if I do say it, of a good family, andyou--" of a sudden the Englishman found himself floundering in deepwater. 

"And I am--an unknown, " Ben finished for him. 

At that moment Scotty heartily wished himself elsewhere, but wishing didnot help him. "Yes, to put it baldly, that's the word. It's unfortunate, damned unfortunate, but true, you know. "

Ben's eyes did not leave the other man's face. "You've talked with her, have you?" he asked. 

Scotty fidgeted more than before, and swore silently that in future hewould keep his compassions to himself. 

"No, I've never thought it necessary so far; but of course--"

Ben Blair lifted his head. "Don't worry, Mr. Baker, I'll tell her mypedigree myself. I supposed she already knew--that everybody who hadever heard of me knew. "

Scotty forgot his nervousness. "You'll--tell her yourself, you say?"

"Certainly. "

The Englishman said nothing. It seemed to him there was nothing to say. 

For a moment there was silence. "Mr. Baker, " said Blair at last, "aslong as we've started on this subject I suppose we might as well finishit up. I love your daughter; that you've guessed. If I can keep herhere, I'll do so. It's my right; and if there's a God who watches overus, He knows I'll do my best to make her happy. As to my mother, I'lltell her about that myself--and consider the matter closed. "

Again there was silence. As before, there seemed to the Englishmannothing to say. 

Blair turned toward the ranch-house. "I saw Ma Graham motioning fordinner quite a while ago, " he said. "Let's go in and eat. "

CHAPTER XI

LOVE'S AVOWAL

A distinct path, in places almost a beaten road, connected the Box R andthe Baker ranches. Along it a tall slim youth was riding a buckskinpony. He was clean-shaven and clean-shirted; but the shirt was of roughbrown flannel. His leather trousers were creased and baggy at the knees. At his hip protruded the butt of a big revolver. Upon his head, seemingly a load in itself, was a broad sombrero; and surrounding it, beneath a band which at one time had been very gaudy but was now soberedby sun and rain, were stuck a score or more of matches. Despite themotion of the horse the youth was steadily smoking a stubby bull-dogpipe. 

The time was morning, early morning; it was Winter, and the sun wasstill but a little way up in the sky. The day, although the month wasDecember, was as warm as September. There had not even been a frost theprevious night. Mother Nature was indulging in one of her many whims, and seemed smiling broadly at the incongruity. 

Though the rider was out thus early, his departure had been by no meanssurreptitious. "I'm going over to Baker's, and may not be back beforenight, " he had said at the breakfast table; and, impassive as usual, theolder man had made no comment, but simply nodded and went about hiswork. Likewise there was no subterfuge when the youth arrived at hisdestination. "I came to see Florence, " he announced to Scotty in thefront yard; then, as he tied the pony, he added: "I spoke to Grannis, and he said he'd come over and help you. Do you know exactly when you'llwant him?"

"Yes, day after to-morrow. This weather is too good to waste. "

Ben turned toward the house. "All right. I'll see that he's over herebright and early. "

The visitor found the interior of the Baker home looking like a cornerin a storage warehouse. Florence, in a big checked apron reaching to herchin, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, was busily engaged in stillfurther dismantling the once cosey parlor. Amidst the confusion, andapparently a part of it, Mrs. Baker wandered aimlessly about. The frontdoor was wide open, letting in a stream of sunlight. 

"Good-morning, " said Ben, appearing in the doorway. 

Mrs. Baker stopped long enough to nod, and Florence looked up from herwork. 

"Good-morning, " she replied. A deliberate glance took in the new-comer'sdress from head to foot, and lingered on the exposed revolver hilt. "Areyou hunting Indians or bear?"

Ben Blair returned the look, even more deliberately. 

"Bear, I judge from the question. I came in search of you. "

There was no answer, and the man came in and sat down on the corner ofa box. "You seem to be very busy, " he said. 

The girl went on with her packing. "Yes, rather busy, " she saidindifferently. 

Ben dangled one long leg over the side of the box. 

"Are you too busy to take a ride with me? I want to talk with you. "

"I'm pretty busy, " non-committally. 

"Suppose I should ask it as a favor?"

"Suppose I should decline?"

The long leg stopped its swinging. "You wouldn't, though. "

The girl's brown eyes flashed. "How do you know I wouldn't?"

Ben stood up and folded his arms. "Because it would be the first favor Iever asked of you, and you wouldn't refuse that. "

They eyed each other a moment. 

"Where do you want to go?" temporized Florence. 

"Anywhere, so it's with you. "

"You don't want to stay long?"

"I'll come back whenever you say. "

Florence rolled down her sleeves and sighed with assumed regret. "Iought to stay here and work. "

"I'll help you when we come back, if you like. "

"Very well. " She said it hesitatingly. 

"All right. I'll get your horse ready for you. "

Scotty watched them peculiarly, Molly doubtfully, as they rode out ofthe ranch yard; but neither made any comment, and they moved away insilence. 

"That's an odd looking pony you've got there, " remarked the girlcritically, when they had turned into the half-beaten trail which ledsouth. "How does it happen you're on him instead of the other?"

Ben patted the smooth neck before him, and the pony twitched his earsappreciatively. 

"Buckskin and I had the misfortune not to meet until lately. We just gotacquainted a few days ago. "

The girl glanced at her companion quickly and caught the look upon hisface. 

"I believe you're fonder of your horses and cattle and things than youare of people, " she flashed. 

The man's hand continued patting the pony's yellow neck. 

"More fond than I am of some people, maybe you meant to say. "

"Perhaps so, " she conceded. 

"Yes, I think I am, " he admitted. "They're more worthy. They never abusea kindness, and never come down to the insult of class distinctions. They're the same to-day, to-morrow, a year from now. They'll workthemselves to death for you, instead of sacrificing you to theirpersonal gain. Yes, they make better friends than some people. "

Florence smiled as she glanced at her companion. 

"Is that what you want to tell me? If it is, seeing I've just made mychoice and decided to return to civilization and mingle with humanbeings of whom you have such a poor opinion, I think we may as well goback. Mamma and I have been racking our brains for two days to find aplace for the china, and I've just thought of one. "

Blair was silent a moment; then he said, "I promised to return wheneveryou wished, but I've not said what I wanted to say yet. "

Florence looked at the speaker with feigned surprise. "Is that so? I'mvery curious to hear!"

Ben returned the look deliberately. "You'd like to hear now what I haveto say?"

The girl's breath came more quickly, but she persisted in her banter. "Ican scarcely wait!"

The line of the youth's big jaw tightened, "I won't keep you in suspenseany longer then. First of all, I want to relate a little personalhistory. I was eight years old, as you know, when I was taken into theBox R ranch. In those eight years, as far as I can remember, not oneperson except Mr. Rankin ever called at my mother's home. "

Again the girl felt a thrill of anticipation, but the brown eyes openedarchly. "You must have kept a big fierce dog, or--or something. "

"No, that was not the reason. "

"I can't imagine what it could be, then. "

"The explanation is simple. My mother and Tom Blair were never married. "

Swiftly the color mounted into Florence's cheeks, and she drew up herhorse with a jerk. 

"So that is what you brought me out here to tell me!" she blazed. 

Ben drew up likewise, and wheeled his pony facing hers. 

"I beg your pardon, but I'm not to blame for the way I told you--ofmyself. You forced it. For once in my life at least, Florence, I'm indead earnest to-day. "

The girl hesitated. Tears of anger, or of something else, came into hereyes. "I'm going home, " she announced briefly, and turned back the waythey had come. 

The man silently wheeled his buckskin and for five minutes, ten minutes, they rode toward home together. 

"Florence, " said the youth steadily, "I had something more I wished tosay to you; will you listen?"

No answer--only the sound of the solid steps of the thoroughbred and thedaintier tread of the mustang. 

"Florence, " he repeated, "I asked you a question. "

The girl's face was turned away. "Oh, you are cruel!" she said. 

Ben touched his pony, advanced, caught the bridle of the girl's horse, and brought both to a standstill. The girl did not turn her head to lookat him, but she did not resist. Deliberately the man dismounted, loosedthe rolled blanket he carried back of his saddle, spread it upon theground, then looked fairly up into her brown eyes. 

"Florence, " he said, as he held out his hand to assist her to dismount, "I've something I wish very much to say to you. Won't you listen?"

Florence Baker looked steadily down into the clear blue eyes. Why shedid not refuse she could not have told, could never tell. As well as sheknew her own name she realized what was coming--what it was the manwished to say to her; but she did not refuse to listen. 

"Florence, " he said gently, "I'm waiting, " and as in a dream shestepped into the proffered hand, felt herself lowered to the ground, followed the young man over to the blanket, and sat down. The sun, nowhigh above them, shone down warmly and approvingly. Scarcely a breath ofair was stirring. Not a sound came from over the prairies. As completelyas though they were the only two people on the earth, they were alone. 

The man stretched himself at his companion's feet, where he could lookinto her face and catch its every expression. 

"Florence Baker, " his voice came to her ears like the sound of onespeaking afar off, "Florence Baker, I love you. In all that I'm going tosay, bear this in mind; don't forget it for a moment. To me you willalways be the one woman on earth. Why I haven't told you this before, why I waited until you were passing from my life before I said it, Idon't know; but now I'm as sure as that I'm looking at you that it isso. " The blue eyes never shifted. Presently one big strong hand reachedover and enfolded within its grasp another tiny resistless hand, whichlay there passive. 

"You're getting ready to go away, Florence, " he went on, "leaving thiscountry where you've spent almost your life, changing it for anuncertainty. Don't do it--not for my sake, but for your own. You knownothing of the city, its pleasures, its rush, its excitement, itsambitions. Granted that you've been there, that we've both been there;but we were only children then and couldn't see beneath the thinnestsurface. Yet there must be something beneath the glitter, somethingyou've never thought of and cannot realize; something which makes thelife hateful to those who have felt and known it. I don't know what itis, you don't; but it must be there. If it weren't so, why would menlike your father, like Mr. Rankin, college men, men of wealth, men whohave seen the world, leave the city and come here to stay? They wereborn in cities, raised in cities. The city was a part of their life; butthey left it, and are glad. " The man clasped the little hand moretightly, shook it gently. "Florence, are you listening?"

"Yes, I'm listening. "

"I repeat then, don't go. You belong here. This life is your life. Everything that is best for your happiness you will find here. You spokethe other day of your birthright--to love and to be loved--as thoughthis could only be realized in a city. Do you think I don't care for youas much as though my home were in a town?"

Passive, motionless, Florence listened, feeling the subtle sympathywhich ever existed between her and this boy-man drawing them closertogether. His strong magnetism, never before so potent, gripped heralmost like a physical force. His personality, original, masterful, convincing, fascinated her. For the time the tacit consent of herposition never occurred to her. It seemed but natural and fitting thathe should hold her hand. She had no desire to speak or move, merely tolisten. 

"Florence, " the voice was very near now, and very low. "Florence, I loveyou. I can't have you go away, can't have you pass out of my life. I'lldo anything for you, --live for you, die for you, fight for you, slavefor you, --anything but give you up. " Of a sudden his arms were abouther, his lips touched her cheek. "Can't you love me in return? Speak tome, tell me--for I love you, Florence!"

The girl started, and drew away involuntarily. "Oh, don't, don't! pleasedon't!" she pleaded. The dream faded, and she awoke to the reality ofher position. The brown head bowed, dropped into her hands. Her wholebody shook. "Oh, what have I done!" she sobbed. "Oh, what have I done!Oh--oh--oh--"

For a time, neither of them realized nor cared how long, they sat sideby side, though separate now. Warmly and brightly as before, the sunshone down upon them. A breath of breeze, born of the heated earth, wandered gently over the land. The big thoroughbred shifted on its feetand whinnied suggestively. 

Gradually the girl's hysterical weeping grew quieter. The sobs came lessfrequently, and at last ceased. Ben Blair slowly arose, folded his arms, and waited. Another minute passed. Florence Baker, the storm over, glanced up at her companion--at first hesitatingly, then openly andsoberly. She stood up, almost at his side; but he did not turn. Awe, contrition, strange feelings and emotions flooded her anew. She reachedout her hand and touched him on the arm; at first hesitatingly, thenboldly, she leaned her head against his shoulder. 

"Ben, " she pleaded, "Ben, forgive me. I've hurt you terribly; but Ididn't mean to. I am as I am; I can't help it. I can't promise to dowhat you ask--can't say I love you now, or promise to love you in thefuture. " She looked up into his face. "Won't you forgive me?"

Still the man did not turn. "There's nothing to forgive, Florence, " hesaid sadly. "I misunderstood it all. "

"But there is something for me to say, " she went on swiftly. "I knewfrom the first what you were going to tell me, and knew I couldn't giveyou what you asked; yet I let you think differently. It's all my fault, Ben, and I'm so sorry!" She gently and timidly stroked the shoulder ofthe rough flannel shirt. "I should have stopped you, and told you myreasons; but they seemed so weak, and somehow I couldn't help listeningto you. " There was a hesitating pause. "Would you like to hear myreasons now?"

"Just as you please. " There was no unkindness in the voice--onlyresignation and acceptance of the hard fact she had already made knownto him. 

Florence hesitated. A catch came into her throat, and she dropped herhead to the broad shoulder as before. 

"Ben, Ben!" she almost sobbed, "I can't tell you, after all. It'll onlyhurt you again. "

He was looking out over the prairies, watching the heat-waves that arosein fantastic circles, as in Spring. "You can't hurt me again, " he saidwearily. 

The vague feeling of irreparable loss gripped the girl anew; but thistime she rushed on desperately, in spite of it. "Oh, why couldn't I havemet you somewhere else, under different circumstances?" she wailed. "Whycouldn't your mother have been--different?" She paused, the brown headraised, the loosened hair tossed back in abandon. "Maybe, as you say, it's a rainbow I'm seeking. Maybe I'll be sorry; but I can't help it. Iwant them all--the things of civilization. I want them all, " shefinished abruptly. 

Gently the man disengaged himself. "Is that all you wished to say?"

"Yes, " hesitatingly, "I guess that's all. "

Ben picked up the blanket and returned it to his saddle; then he led thehorse to the girl's side. "Can I help you up?"

His companion nodded. The youth held down his hand, and upon it Florencemounted to the saddle as she had done many times before. The thoughtcame to her that it might be the last time. 

Not a word did Ben speak as they rode back to the ranch-house; not oncedid he look at his companion. At the door he held out his hand. 

"Good-bye, " he said simply. 

"Good-bye, " she echoed feebly. 

Ben made his adieu to Mrs. Baker, and then rode out to the barn whereScotty was working. "Good-bye, " he repeated. "We'll probably not meetagain before you go. " The expression upon the Englishman's face caughthis eye. "Don't, " he said. "I'd rather not talk now. "

Scotty gripped the extended hand and shook it heartily. 

"Good-bye, " he said, with misty eyes. 

The youth wheeled the buckskin and headed for home. Florence and hermother were still standing in the doorway watching him, and he liftedhis big sombrero; but he did not glance at them, nor turn his head inpassing. 

CHAPTER XII

A DEFERRED RECKONING

Time had dealt kindly with the saloon of Mick Kennedy. A hundredelectric storms had left it unscathed. Prairie fires had passed it by. Only the relentless sun and rain had fastened the mark of theirhandiwork upon it and stained it until it was the color of the earthitself. Within, man had performed a similar office. The same oldcottonwood bar stretched across the side of the room, taking up a thirdof the available space; but no stranger would have called it cottonwoodnow. It had become brown like oak from continuous saturation withvarious colored liquids; and upon its surface, indelible record of theyears, were innumerable bruises and dents where heavy bottles andglasses had made their impress under impulse of heavier hands. Thecontinuous deposit of tobacco smoke had darkened the ceiling, modulatingto a lighter tone on the walls. The place was even gloomier than before, and immeasurably filthier under the accumulated grime of a dozen years. Once in their history the battered tables had been recovered, but no onewould have guessed it now. The gritty decks of cards had been oftenreplaced, but from their appearance they might have been those withwhich Tom Blair long ago bartered away his honor. 

Time had left its impress also on bartender Mick. A generous sprinklingof gray was in his hair; the single eye was redder and fiercer, seemingby its blaze to have consumed the very lashes surrounding it; the cheekswere sunken, the great jaw and chin prominent from the loss of teeth. Otherwise Mick was not much changed. The hand which dealt out his wares, which insisted on their payment to the last nickel, was as steady as ofyore. His words were as few, his control of the reckless and oftendrunken frequenters was as perfect. He was the personified spirit of theplace--crafty, designing, relentless. 

Bob Hoyt, the foreman, shambled into Mick's lair at the time of day whenthe lights were burning and smoking on the circling shelf. He peeredthrough the haze of tobacco smoke at the patrons already present, received a word from one and a stare from another, but from none aninvitation to join the circle. 

Bob sidled up to the bar where Kennedy was impassively waiting. "Warmerout, " he advanced. 

Mick made no comment. "Something?" he suggested. 

Bob's colorless eyes blinked involuntarily. "Yes, a bit of rye. "

Mick poured a very small drink into a whiskey glass, set it with anotherof water before the customer, on a big card tacked upon the wall added afresh line to those already succeeding the other's name, and leaned hiselbows once more upon the bar. 

Upon the floor of his mouth Bob Hoyt laid a foundation of water, overthis sent down the fiery liquor with a gulp, and followed the retreatwith the last of the water, unconsciously making a wry face. 

Kennedy whisked the empty glasses through the doubtful contents of aconvenient pail, and set them dripping upon a perforated shelf. "Foundthe horses yet?" he queried, in an undertone. 

Bob shifted uncomfortably and searched for a place for his hands, butfinding none he let them hang awkwardly over the rail of the bar. 

"No, not even a trail. "

"Looked, have you?" The single searchlight turned unwinkingly upon theother's face. 

"Yes, I've been out all day. Made a circle of the places within fortymiles--Russel's of the Circle R, Stetson's of the 'XI, ' Frazier's, Rankin's--none of them have seen a sign of a stray. "

"That settles it, then. Those horses were stolen. " The red face with itsbristle of buff and gray came closer. "I didn't think they'd strayed. The two best horses on a ranch don't wander off by chance; if they'dbeen broncos it might have been different. It's the same thing as threeyears ago; pretty nearly the same date too--early in January it was, youremember!"

Bob's long head nodded confirmation. "Yes. We thought then they'd comearound all right in the next round up, but they didn't, and never have. "

Kennedy stepped back, spread his hands palm down upon the bar, leanedhis full weight upon them, and gazed meditatively at the other occupantsof the room. A question was in his mind. Should he take these men intohis confidence and trust to their well-known method of dealing withrustlers--a method very effective when successful in catching theoffender, but infinitely deficient in finesse--or depend wholly upon hisown ingenuity? He decided that in this instance the latter offeredlittle hope. His province was in dealing with people at close range. 

"Boys, "--his voice was normal, but not a man in the room failed to giveattention, --"boys, line up! It's on the house. "

Promptly the card games ceased. In one, the pot lay as it was, itsownership undecided, in the centre of the table. The loungers' feetdropped to the floor. An inebriate, half dozing in the corner, awoke. Well they knew it was for no small reason that Mick interrupted theirdiversions. Up they came--Grover of the far-away "XXX" ranch, who hadbeen here for two days now, and had lost the price of a small herd;Gilbert of the "Lost Range, " whose brand was a circle within a circle;Stetson of the "XI, " a short heavy-set man, with an immovable pugilist'sface, to-night, as usual, ahead of the game; Thompson, one-armed butformidable, who drove the stage and kept the postoffice and inadequategeneral store just across to the north of the saloon; McFadden, a wirylittle Scotchman with sandy whiskers, Rankin's nearest neighbor to thesouth; a half-dozen lesser lights, in distinction from the big rancherscalled by their first names, "Buck" or "Pete" or "Bill" as the casemight be, mere cowmen employed at a salary. Elbow to elbow they leanedupon the supporting bar, awaiting with interest the something they knewKennedy had to say. 

Kennedy did not ask a single man what he would have. It was needless. Silently he placed a glass before each, and starting a bottle of redliquor at one end of the line, he watched it, as, steadily emptying, itpassed on down to the end. 

"I never use it, you know, " he explained, as, the preparation complete, they looked at him expectantly. 

"Take something else, then, " pressed McFadden. 

Mick poured out a glass of water and set it on the bar before him; butnot an observer smiled. They knew the man they were dealing with. 

"All right, boys, "--McFadden's glass went up on a level with his eye, and one and all the others followed the motion, --"all right, boys!Here's to you, Kennedy!"--mouthing the last word as though it were a hotpebble, and in unison the dozen odd hands led the way to theirrespective owners' mouths. There was a momentary pause; then a musicalclinking, as the empty glasses returned to the board. Silence, expectantsilence, returned. 

"Boys, "--Mick looked from face to face intimately, --"we've got workahead. Hoyt here reported this morning that two of the best horses onthe Big B were missing. He's made a forty-mile circuit to-day, and noone has seen anything of them. You all know what that means. "

Stetson turned to the foreman. "What time did you see them last, Hoyt?"

"About nine last evening. "

"Sure?"

Bob's long head nodded emphatically. "Yes, one of the boys had the teamout mending fence in the afternoon, and when he was through he turnedthem into the corral with the broncos. I'm sure they were there. "

"I'm not surprised, " commented Thompson, swinging on his single elbow toface the others. "It's been some time now since we've had a necktieparty and it's bound to come. The wonder is it hasn't come before. "

Gilbert and Grover, comparatively elderly men, said nothing, lookednothing; but upon the faces of the half-dozen cowboys there appeareddistinct anticipation. The hunt of a "rustler" appealed to them as acircus does to a small boy, as the prospect of a football game does to acollege student. 

Meanwhile, McFadden had been thinking. One could always tell when thisprocess was taking place with the Scotchman, from his habit of tappinghis chest with his middle finger as though beating time to the movementof his mental machinery. 

"Got any plan, Kennedy?" he queried. "Whoever's done you has got a goodstart by this time; but if we're going to do anything, there's no use ingiving him longer. How about it?"

Mick's single eye shifted as before, and went from face to face. "No, Ihaven't; but I've got an idea. " A pause. "How many of you boys remembersTom Blair?" he digressed. 

"I do, " said Grover. 

"Same here. " It was Gilbert of the Lost Range who spoke. 

"I've heard of him, " commented one of the cowboys. 

"I guess we all have, " added another. 

Again Mick's eye, like a flashlight, passed from man to man. 

"Well, " he announced, "I may be wrong, but I've got reason to believe itwas Tom Blair who did the job last night, and that he's somewhere thisside the river right now. "

For a moment there was silence, while the idea took root. 

"I supposed he was dead long ago, " remarked Stetson at last. 

"So did I, until a month ago--until the last time I was in town stockingup. I met a fellow there then from the country west of the river, and itall came out. Blair's been stampin' that range for a year, and they'resuspicious of him. He disappears every now and then, and they think hekeeps in with a gang of rustlers who have their headquarters over in theJohnson's Hole country in Wyoming. The fellow said he kept upappearances by claiming he owned a ranch on this side--the Big B. That'show we came to speak of him. "

"Queer, " commented Stetson, "that if it's Blair, he hasn't been aroundbefore. It's been ten years now since he disappeared, hasn't it?"

"More than that, " corrected Mick. "That's another reason I believe it'shim; that, and the fact that I didn't do nothin' the last time I washeld up. It must be one lone rustler who's operating or there'd bemore'n a couple of hosses missing. Then it must be some feller thatknows the Big B, and has a particular grudge against it, or why wouldthey have passed the Broken Kettle or the Lone Buffalo on the west?Morris has a whole herd, and his main hoss sheds are in an old creek-beda mile away from the ranch-house. I tell you it's some feller who knowsthis country and knows me. "

"I believe you're right about him being this side of the river, " brokein Thompson. "When I was over after the mail two days ago there waswater running on the ice; and it's been warmer since. It must be wideopen in spots now. A man who knows the crossings might make it afoot, but he couldn't take a hoss over. "

Mick's lone eye burned more ominously than before. "Of course he can't. He's run into a trap, and all we've got to do is to make a spread andround him up. I'll bet a hundred to one we find him somewhere this side, waiting for a freeze. " Again the half-emptied bottle came from the shelfand passed to the end of the line. "Have another whiskey on me, boys. "

They silently drank. Then grim Stetson suggested that they drinkagain--"to our success"; and cowboy Buck, not to be outdone, proposedanother toast--"to the necktie party--after. " The big bottle, empty now, dinned on the surface of the bar. 

"By God! I hope we get him, " flamed Grover. "He ought to be hung, anyway. He killed his wife and burned up the body, they say, before heleft!"

"Someone must call for Rankin and Ben, " suggested another, "Benparticularly. He ought to be there at the finish. Lord knows he's gotgrudge enough. "

"We'll let him pull the trap, " broke in Stetson grimly. 

Of a sudden above the confusion there sounded a snarl, almost like thecry of an animal. Surprised, for the moment silenced, the men turned inthe direction whence it had come. 

"Rankin!" It was Mick Kennedy who spoke, but it was Mick transformed. "Rankin!" The great veins of the bartender's neck swelled; the red facecongested until it became all but purple. "No! We won't go near him!He'd put a stop to the whole thing. What we want is men, not cowards!"

A moment only the silence lasted. "All right, " agreed Stetson. "Haveanother, boys! We'll drop Rankin!"

Anew, louder than before, broke forth the confusion. The games of ashort time ago were forgotten. A heap of coin lay on the shelf behindthe bar where Mick, the banker, had placed it; but winner and loseralike ignored its existence. The savage, ever so near the surface ofthese rough frontiersmen, had taken complete possession of them. DropRankin--forget civilization--ignore the slow practices of law and order!

"Come on!" someone yelled. "We're enough to do the business. To theriver!"

Instantly the crowd burst through the single front door. Momentarilythere followed a lull, while in the half darkness each rider found hismount. Then sounded an "All ready!" from cowboy Buck, first in motion, astraining of leather, a swish of quirts, a grunting of ponies as thespurs dug into their flanks, a rush of leaping feet, a wild medley ofyells, and westward across the prairie, beneath the stars, there passeda swiftly moving black shadow that grew momentarily lighter, and backfrom which came a patter, patter, patter, that grew softer and softer;until at last over the old saloon and its companion store fell silenceabsolute. 

It was 10:28 when they left Kennedy's place. It was 12:36 when, withouthaving for a moment stopped their long swinging gallop, they pulled upat the "Lone Buffalo" ranch, twenty-five miles away, and the last ranchbefore they reached the river. The house was dark and silent as thegrave at their approach; but it did not remain so long. The display offireworks with which they illumined the night would have done credit toan Independence Day celebration. The yells which accompanied it werehair-raising as the shrieks from a band of maniacs. Instantly lightsbegan to burn, and the proprietor himself, Grey--a long Southerner withan imperial--came rushing to the door, a revolver in either hand. 

But the visitors had not waited for him. With one impulse they hadridden straight into the horse corral, had thrown off saddles andbridles from their steaming mounts, and, every man for himself, hadchosen afresh from the ranch herd. Passing out in single-file throughthe gate, they came upon Grey; but still they did not stop. The one word"rustler" was sufficient password, and not five minutes from the timethey arrived they were again on the way, headed straight southwest fortheir long ride to the river. 

Hour after hour they forged ahead. The mustangs had long since puffedthemselves into their second wind, and, falling instinctively into theirsteady swinging lope, they moved ahead like machines. The country grewmore and more rolling, even hilly. From between the tufts of buffalograss now and then protruded the white face of a rock. Over one such, all but concealed in the darkness, Grover's horse stumbled, and with agroan, the rancher beneath, fell flat to earth. By a seeming miracle theman arose, but the horse did not, and an examination showed the jaggededge of a fractured bone protruding through the hide at the shoulder. There was but one thing to do. A revolver spoke its message of relief, ahastily-cast lot fell to McFadden, and without a word he faced his ownmount back the way they had come, assisted Grover to a place behind him, turned to wish the others good luck, and found himself already too late. Where a minute ago they had been standing there was now but vacancy. Thenight and the rolling ground had swallowed the avengers up as completelyas though they had never existed; and the Scotchman rode slowly back. 

It was yet dark, but the eastern sky was reddening, when they reachedthe chain of bluffs bordering the great river. They had made their plansbefore, so that now without hesitating they split as though upon theedge of a mighty wedge, half to the right, half to the left, eachdivision separating again into its individual members, until the whole, like two giant hands whereof the cowboys, half a mile apart from eachother, were the fingers, moved forward until the end finger all buttouched the river itself. 

Still there was no pause. The details had been worked out to a nicety. They had bent far to the south, miles farther than any man aiming at theWyoming border would have gone, and now, having arrived at the barrier, they wheeled north again. It was getting daylight, and cowboy Pete, --inour simile the left little finger, --first to catch sight of the surfaceof the stream, waved in triumph to the nearest rider on his right. 

"We've got him, sure!" he yelled. "She's open in spots"; and though theothers could not hear, they understood the meaning, and the message wenton down the line. 

On, on, more swiftly now, at a stiff gallop, for it was day, the ridersadvanced. As they moved, first one rider and then another woulddisappear, as a depression in the uneven country temporarily swallowedthem up--but only to reappear again over a prominent rise, stillgalloping on. They watched each other closely now, searching thesurrounding country. They were nearing a region where they might expectaction at any moment, --the remains of a camp-fire, a clue to him theysought, --for it was on a line directly west of the Big B ranch. 

And they were not to be disappointed. Observing closely, Stetson, whowas nearest to Pete, saw the latter suddenly draw up his horse and cometo a full stop. At last the end had arrived--at last; and the rancherturned to motion to his right. Only a moment the action took, but whenhe shifted back he saw a sight which, stolid gambler as he was, sent athrill through his nerves, a mumbling curse to his lips. Coming towardhim, crazy-scared, bounding like an antelope, mane flying, stirrupsflapping, was the pony Pete had ridden, but now riderless. Of the cowboyhimself there was not a sign. Stetson had not heard a sound or caught amotion. Nevertheless, he understood. Somewhere near, just to the west, lay death, death in ambush; but he did not hesitate. Whatever hisfaults, the man was no coward. A revolver in either hand, the reins inhis teeth, he spurred straight for the river. 

It took him but a minute to cover the distance--a minute until, almostby the rivers bank, he saw ahead on the brown earth the sprawling formof a dead man. With a jerk he drew up alongside, and, the muzzles of bigrevolvers following his eye, sent swiftly about him a sweeping glance. Of a sudden, three hundred yards out, seemingly from the surface of theriver itself, he caught a tiny rising puff of smoke, heardsimultaneously a sound he knew so well, --the dull spattering impact of abullet, --realized that the pony beneath him was sinking, felt the shockas his own body came to earth, and heard just over his head the singingpassage of a rifle-ball. 

Unconscious profanity flowed from the rancher's lips in a stream; butmeanwhile his brain worked swiftly, and, freeing himself, he crawledback hand over hand until a wave in the ground covered the river fromview; then springing to his feet he ran toward the others, approachingnow as fast as spurs would bring them, waving, shouting a warning as hewent. Within a minute they were all together listening to his story. Within another, the rifles from off their saddles in their hands, theponies left in charge of lank Bob Hoyt, the eight others now remainingmoved back as Stetson had come: at first upright, then, crawling, handover hand until, peeping over the intervening ridge, they saw lyingbefore them the mingled ice patches and open running water of thelow-lying Missouri. Beside them at their left, very near, was the bodyof Pete; but after a first glance and an added invective no man for thepresent gave attention. He was dead, dead in his tracks, and theiraffair was not with such, but with the quick. 

At first they could see nothing which explained the mystery of death, only the forbidding face of the great river; then gradually to one afteranother there appeared tell-tale marks which linked together into clues. 

"Ain't that a hoss-carcass?" It was cowboy Buck who spoke. "Look, ahundred yards out, down stream. "

Gilbert's swift glance caught the indicated object. 

"Yes, and another beyond--farther down--amongst that ice-pack! Do yousee?"

"Where?" Mick Kennedy trained his one eye like a fieldpiece upon thelocality suggested. "Where? Yes! I see them now--both of them. Blair'sown horse, if he had one, is probably in there too, somewhere. "

Meanwhile Stetson had been scrutinizing the spot on the river's facefrom which had come the puff of smoke. 

"Say, boys!" a ring as near excitement as was possible to one of histemperament was in his voice. "Ain't that an island, that brown patchout there, pretty well over to the other side? I believe it is. "

The others followed his glance. Near the farther bank was a longlow-lying object, like a jam of broken ice-cakes, between which and themthe open water was flowing. At first they thought it was ice; then underlonger observation they knew better. They had seen too many otherformations of the kind in this shifting treacherous stream to be longdeceived. A flat sandy island it was, sure enough; and what they thoughtwas ice was driftwood. 

Almost simultaneously from the eight there burst forth an exclamation, arumbling curse of comprehension. They understood it all now as plainlyas though their own eyes had seen the tragedy. Blair had reached theriver and, despite its rotten ice, had tried to cross. One by one thehorses had broken through, had been abandoned to their fate. He alone, somehow, had managed to reach this sandy island, and he was there now, intrenched behind the driftwood, waiting and watching. 

In the brain of every cowboy there formed an unuttered curse. Theirimpotence to go farther, to mete out retribution to this murderer oftheir companion, came over them in a blind wave of fury. The sun, nowwell above the horizon, shone warmly down upon them. They were in themidst of an infrequent Winter thaw. The full current of the river wasbetween them and the desperado. It might be days, a week, before icewould again form; yet, connecting the island with the western bank, itwas even now in place. Blair had but to wait until cover of night, anddepart in peace--on foot, to be sure, but in the course of days a mancould travel far afoot. Doubtless he realized all this. Doubtless he waslaughing at them now. The curses redoubled. 

Stetson had been taking off his coat. He now draped it about hisrifle-stock, and placed his sombrero on top. "All ready, boys, " hecautioned, and raised it slowly into view. 

Instantly from the centre of the driftwood heap there arose a tracing ofblue smoke. Simultaneously, irregular in outline as though punched by adull instrument, a jagged hole appeared in the felt of the hat. 

As instantly, eight rifles on the bank began to play. The crackling oftheir reports was like infantry, the sliding click of the ejectingmechanism as continuous and regular as the stamp-stamp of many presses. The smoke rose over their heads in a blue cloud. Far out on the river, under impact of the bullets, splinters of the rotted driftwood leapedhigh into the air. Now and then the open water in front splashed intospray as a ball went amiss. Not until the rifle magazines were empty didthey cease, and then only to reload. Again and once again they repeatedthe onslaught, until it would seem no object the size of a human beingupon the place where they aimed could by any possibility remain alive. Then, and not until then, did silence return, did the dummy uponStetson's rifle again raise its head. 

But this time there was no response. They waited a minute, twominutes--tried the ruse again, and it was as before. Had they really hitthe man out there, as they hoped, or was he, conscious of a trick, merely lying low? Who could tell? The uncertainty, the inaction, goadedall that was reckless in cowboy Buck's nature, and he sprang to hisfeet. 

"I'm going out there if I have to walk on the bottom of the river!" heblazed. 

Instantly Stetson's hands were on his legs, pulling him, prostrate. 

"Down, you fool!" he growled. "At the bottom of the river is where you'dbe quick enough. " The speaker turned to the others. "One of us is donefor already. There's no use for the rest to risk our lives without ashow. We've either potted Blair or we haven't. There's nothing more tobe done now, anyway. We may as well go back. "

For a moment there was a murmur of dissent, but it was short-lived. Oneand all realized that what the rancher said was true. For the present atleast, nature was against them, on the side of the outlaw; and to combatnature was useless. Another time--yes, there would surely be anothertime; and grim faces grew grimmer at the thought. Another time it wouldbe different. 

"Yes, we may as well go. " It was Mick Kennedy who spoke. "We can't stayhere long, that's sure. " He tossed his rifle over to Stetson. "Carrythat, will you?" and rising, regardless of danger, he walked over tocowboy Pete, took the dead body in his arms, without a glance behindhim, stalked back to where the horses were waiting, laid his burdenalmost tenderly across the shoulder of his own mustang, and mountedbehind. Coming up, the others, likewise in silence, got into theirsaddles, not as at starting, with one bound, but heavily, by aid ofstirrups. Still in silence, Mick leading, the legs of dead Pete danglingat the pony's shoulder, they faced east, and started moving slowly alongthe backward trail. 

CHAPTER XIII

A SHOT IN THE DARK

Winter, long delayed, came at last in earnest. On the morning of theseventeenth of January--the ranchers did not soon forget the date--awarm snow, soft with moisture, drove tumbling in from the east. All themorning it came, thicker and thicker, until on the level, several incheshad fallen; then, so rapidly that one could almost discern the change, the temperature began lowering, the wind shifting from the east to thenorth, from north to west, and steadily rising. The surface of the snowfroze to ice, the snowflakes turned to sleet, and went bounding andgrinding, forming drifts but to disperse again, journeying aimlessly on, cutting viciously at the chance animal who came in their path like amyriad of tiny knives. 

All that day the force of the Box R ranch labored in the increasingstorm to get the home herds safely behind the shelter of the corral. Itwas impossible for cattle long to face such a storm; but with this veryemergency in mind, Rankin had always in Winter kept the scatteredbunches to the north and west, and under these conditions the feat wasaccomplished by dusk, and the half-frozen cowboys tumbled into theirbunks, to fall asleep almost before they assumed the horizontal. Theother ranchers wondered why it was that Rankin was so prosperous and whyhis herd seldom diminished in Winter. Had they been observant, theycould have learned one reason that day. 

All the following night the storm moaned and raged, and the cold becamemore and more intense. It came in through the walls of houses andthrough bunk coverings, and bit at one like a living thing. Nothingcould stop it, nothing unprotected could withstand it. In the greatcorral behind the windbreak, the cattle, all headed east, were jammedtogether for warmth, a conglomerate mass of brown heads and bodies fromwhich projected a wilderness of horns. 

The next morning broke with a clear sky but with the thermometer markingmany degrees below zero. Out of doors, when the sun had arisen, thelight was dazzling. As far as eye could reach not a spot of brownrelieved the white. The layer of frozen snow lay like a vast carpetstretched tight from horizon to horizon. Although it was only snow, yetso far as the herds of the ranchers were concerned it might have been aprotecting armor of steel. Well did the tired cowboys, stiff from theprevious day's struggle, know what was before them, when at daylightGraham routed them out. Food the helpless multitude must have. If theycould not find it for themselves it must be found for them; and instolid disapproval the men ate a hasty breakfast by the light of akerosene lamp and went forth to the inevitable. 

Rankin and Ben and Graham were already astir, and under theirsupervision the campaign was rapidly begun. For a few days the stockmust be fed on hay, and seven of the available fifteen men of the ranchforce were detailed to keep full the great racks in the cattlestockade--a task in itself, with the myriad hungry mouths swarming onevery hand, all but Herculean. The others, Rankin himself among thenumber, undertook the greater feat of in a measure opening the range forthe future. 

The device which the big man had evolved for this purpose, and had usedon previous similar occasions, was a simple triangular snow-ploughseveral feet in width, with guiding handles behind. Comparatively narrowas was the ribbon path cleared by this appliance, its length was onlylimited by the endurance of the horses and the driver, and in the courseof the day many an acre could be uncovered. Half an hour after sunrise, the eight outfits thus equipped were lined up side by side and headeddue northwest to a range which had been but little pastured. 

For five miles straight as a taut line they went, leaving behind themeight brown stripes alternating with bands of white between. Then backand forth, back and forth, for the distance of another mile theyvibrated until it was noon, when eight more connecting brown ribbonswere stretched beside their predecessors back to the ranch-house. In theafternoon the labor was repeated, until by night the clearing, agigantic mottled fan with an abnormally long handle, lay in vividcontrast against the surrounding white. 

The second day was the same, except that but seven bands stretched outbehind the moving squad. Rankin, game as he was, could scarcely put onefoot ahead of the other, and in consequence, changing his tactics, hemounted the old buckboard and departed on a tour of inspection towardthe north range. He was late in returning, and, as usual, very taciturn;but after supper, as he and Ben were smoking in friendly silence by thekitchen fire, he turned to the younger man. 

"Someone stayed at the north range last night, " he announced abruptly. "He slept there and had a fire. "

Ben showed no surprise. "I thought so, probably, " he replied. "Late thisafternoon I ran across a trail leading in from the west along ourclearing, and headed that way. It was one lone chain of footprints. "

Rankin shivered, and replenished the fire. His long drive had chilledhim through and through. 

"I suppose you have an idea who made that trail?" he said. 

Though each knew that the other had heard the details of Pete's death, neither had mentioned the incident. To do so had seemed superfluous. Now, however, each realized the thought in the other's mind, and chosenot to avoid it. 

"Yes, " answered Ben, simply. "I suppose it was made by Tom Blair. "

Never before had Rankin heard Benjamin Blair speak that name. Hestretched back heavily in his chair and lit his pipe afresh. 

"Ben, " he said, "I'm getting old. I never began to realize the factuntil this Winter; but I sha'n't last many more years. " Puff, puff wenttwo twin clouds of smoke toward the ceiling. "Civilization has someadvantages over the frontier, and this is one of them: it's kinder tothe old. "

Never before had Rankin spoken in this way, and the other understood thestrength of his conviction. 

"You work too hard, " he said soberly, though he felt the inadequacy ofthe trite remark. "It's unnecessary. I wish you wouldn't do it. "

Rankin threw an outward motion with his powerful hand. "Yes, I know; butwhen I quit moving I want to die. I know I could get a steam-heated backroom in a quiet street of a sleepy town somewhere and coddle myself intoa good many years yet; but it isn't worth the price. I love this bigfree life too well ever to leave it. Most of the people one meets hereare rough, but in time that will all change. It's changing now; andmeantime nature compensates for everything. "

There was a moment's silence, and then, as though there had been nodigression, Rankin went back to the former subject. "Yes, " he saidslowly, "I think you're right about those being Tom Blair's tracks. " Heturned and faced the younger man squarely. "If it is, Ben, it means he'sbeen frozen out from his hiding-place, wherever that is, and he's crazydesperate. He'd do anything now. He wouldn't ever come back hereotherwise. "

Ben Blair's blue eyes tightened until the lashes were all but parallel. 

"Yes, " Rankin repeated, "he's crazy desperate to come here atall--especially so now. " A pause, but the eyes did not shift. "God knowsI'm sorry he ever came back. I was glad we found that trail too late tofollow it to-day; but it's only postponing the end. I believe he'll behere at the ranch to-night. He's got to get a horse--he's got to dosomething right away; and I'm going to watch. If he don't come I'll takeup the old trail in the morning. "

Once more the pause, more intense than words. "He can't escape again, unless--unless he gets me first--He must be desperate crazy. "

Rankin arose heavily and knocked the ashes out of his pipe preparatoryto bed. 

"There are a lot of things I might say now, Ben, but I won't say them. We're not living in a land of law. We haven't someone always at hand toshift our responsibility onto. In self-protection, we've got to takejustice more or less into our own hands. One thing I will say, though, and I hope you'll never forget it. Think twice before you ever take thelife of another human being, Ben; think twice. Be sure your reasons aremighty good--and then think again. Don't ever act in hot blood, or aslong as you live you'll know remorse. " The speaker paused and his breathcame fast. Something more--who knew how much?--trembled on the end ofhis tongue. He roused himself with an effort and turned toward his bunk. "Good-night, Ben. I trust you as I'd trust my own son. "

The younger man watched the departing figure and felt the irony of theseparation that keeps us silent even when we wish to be nearest and mosthelpful to our friends and makes our words a mockery. 

"Thank you, sir, I shall not forget. Good-night, " he said. 

When a few minutes later the young man sauntered out to the barns, everything was peaceful as usual. From the horse-stalls came the steadymonotonous grind of the animals at feed. In the cattle-yards was heardthe sleepy breathing of the multitude of cattle. Perfect contentment andoblivion was the keynote of the place, and the watcher looked at thelethargic mass thoughtfully. He had always responded instinctively tothe moods of dumb animals. He did so now. The passive trustfulness ofthe great herd affected him deeply. Twice he made the circuit of thebuildings, but finding nothing amiss returned to his place. The sound ofthe horses feeding had long since ceased. The sleepy murmur of thecattle was lower and more regular. In the increasing coldness the vaporof their breath, even though the night was dark and moonless, arose inan indistinct cloud, like the smoke of smouldering camp-fires over thetents of a sleeping army. For two days the man had been doing theheaviest kind of work. Gradually, amid much opening and closing ofeyelids, consciousness lapsed into semi-consciousness, and he dozed. 

Suddenly--whether it was an hour or a minute afterwards, he did notknow--he awoke and sat up listening. Some sound had caught and held hissub-conscious attention. He waited a moment, intent, scarcely breathing, and then sprang swiftly to his feet. The sound now came definitely fromthe sheds at the left. It was the deep chesty groan of a horse in pain. 

Once upon his feet, Ben Blair ran toward the barn, not cautiously butprecipitately. He had not grown to maturity amid animals withoutlearning something of their language; but even if such had been thecase, he could scarcely have mistaken that sound. Mortal pain and mortalterror vibrated in those tones. No human being could have cried for helpmore distinctly. The frozen snow squeaked under the rancher's feet as heran. "Stop there!" he shouted. "Stop there!" and throwing open thenearest door, unmindful of danger, he dashed into the interior darkness. 

The barn was eighty odd feet in length, and as Ben swung open the doorat the east corner there was a flash of fire from the extreme west end, and a bullet splintered the wood just back of his head. His precipitateentry had been his salvation. He groped his way ahead, the groans of thehorses in his ears--for now he detected more than one voice. A growingrealization of what he would find was in his mind, and then a dark formshot through the west door, and he was alone. Impulse told him tofollow, but the sound of pain and struggle kept him back. He struck amatch, held it like a torch above him, moved ahead, stopped. The flameburned down the dry pine until it reached his fingers, blackened them, went out; but he did not stir. He had expected the thing he saw, expected it at the first cry he heard; yet infinitely more horrible thana picture of imagination was the reality. He did not light anothermatch, he did not wish to see. To hear was bad enough--to hear and toknow. He started for the door; and behind him three great horses, hopelessly maimed and crippled, struggled to rise, and failing, groanedanew. 

It seemed Ben's fate this night to be just too late for service. Beforehe reached the exit there sounded, spattering and intermittent, like thefirst popping kernels of corn in a pan, a succession of pistol-shotsfrom the ranch-house. There was no answer, and as he stepped out intothe air the sound ceased. As he did so, the kitchen of the house sprangalight from a lamp within. There was a moment of apparent inactivity, and then, the door swinging open, fair against the lighted background, shading his eyes to look into the outer darkness, stood Rankin. Instantly a wave of premonition flooded the watching Benjamin. 

"Go back!" he shouted. "Go back! Back, quick!" and careless of personaldanger, he started running for the ranch-house as before he had racedfor the barn. 

The warning might as well have been ungiven. Almost before the lastwords were spoken there came from the darkness at Ben's right the soundhe had been expecting--a single vicious rifle report; and as though amighty invisible weight were crushing him down, Rankin sank to thefloor. 

Then for the first time in his history Ben Blair lost self-control. Quick as thought he changed his course from the house to the directionfrom which the shot had come. The great veins of his throat swelleduntil it seemed he could scarcely breathe. Curses, horrible, blightingcurses, combinations of malediction which had never even in thoughtentered his mind before, rolled from his lips. His brain seemed afire. But one idea possessed him--to lay hands upon this intruding being whohad in cold blood done that fiendish deed in the barn, and now had shothis best friend on earth. The rage of primitive man who knew not steelor gunpowder was his; the ferocity of the great monkey, the aborigine'spredecessor, whose means of offence were teeth and nails. Straight aheadthe man rushed, seeming not to run, but fairly to bound, turned suddenlythe angle at the corner of the machinery shed, stumbled over asnow-plough drawn up carelessly by one of the men, fell, regained hisfeet, and heard in his ears the thundering hoof-beats of a horse urgedaway at full speed. 

For a moment Ben Blair stood as he had risen, gazing westward where theother had departed, but seeing nothing, not even a shadow. Clouds hadformed over the sky, and the night was of intense darkness. To attemptto follow a trail now was waste of time; and gradually, as he stoodthere, the unevolved fury of the man transformed. His tongue becamesilent; not a human being had heard the outburst. The physical paroxysmrelaxed. As he returned to the ranch-house no observer would havedetected in him other than the usual matter-of-fact rancher; yet beneaththat calm was a purpose infinitely more terrible than the animal blazeof a few minutes before, a tenacity more relentless than a tiger on thetrail of its quarry, than an Indian stalking his enemy; a formulatedpurpose which could patiently wait, but eventually and inevitably wouldgrind its object to powder. 

Meanwhile, back at the scene of the tragedy, there had been feverishaction. Many of the cowboys were already about the barns, and lanternsgleamed in the horse corral. Within the house, in the nearest bunk wherethey had laid him, stretched the proprietor of the ranch. About himwere grouped Grannis, Graham, and Ma Graham. The latter was weepinghysterically--her head buried in her big checked apron, the great massof her body vibrating with the effort. As Ben approached, her husbandglanced up. Upon his face was the dull unreasoning indecision of a steerwhich had lost its leader; an animal passivity which awaited command. 

"Rankin's dead, " he announced dully. "He's hit here. " A withered handindicated a spot on the left breast. "He went quick. "

Grannis said nothing, and walking up Ben Blair stopped beside the bunk. He took a long look at the kindly heavy face of the only man he had evercalled friend; but not a feature of his own face relaxed, not a musclequivered. Grannis watched him fixedly, almost with fascination. Gray-haired gambler and man of fortune that he was, he realized asGraham could never do the emotions which so often lie just back of thelocked countenance of a human being; realized it, and with the grimcarelessness of a frontiersman admired it. 

Of a sudden there was a grinding of frosty snow in the outer yard, aconfused medley of human voices, a snorting of horses; and, turning, Benwent to the door. One glance told him the meaning of the cluster ofcowboys. He walked out toward them deliberately. 

"Boys, " he said steadily, "put up your horses. You couldn't find amountain in the darkness to-night. " A pause. "Besides, " slowly, "this ismy affair. Put them up and go to bed. "

For a moment there was silence. The hearers could scarcely believe theirears. 

"You mean we're to let him go?" queried a hesitating voice at last. 

Blair folded up the broad brim of his hat and looked from face to faceas it was revealed by the uncertain light from the window. 

"I mean what I said, " he repeated evenly. "I'll attend to this mattermyself. "

For a moment again there was silence, but only for a moment. 

"No you won't!" blazed a voice suddenly. "Rankin was the whitest manthat ever owned a brand. Just because the kyote that shot him lived withyour mother won't save him. I'm going--and now. "

Quicker than a cat, so swiftly that the other cowboys scarcely realizedwhat was happening, the long gaunt Benjamin was at the speaker's side. With a leap he had him by the throat, had dragged him from the back ofthe horse, and held him at arm's length. 

"Freeman, "--the voice was neither raised nor lowered, but steady as thedrip of falling water, --"Freeman, you know better than that, and youknow you know better. " The grip of the long left hand on the throattightened. The fingers of the right locked. "Say so--quick!"

Face to face, looking fair into each other's eyes, stood the two men, while the spectators watched breathlessly as they would have done at aclimax in a play. It was a case of will against will, elemental managainst his brother. 

"I'm waiting, " suggested Blair, and even in the dim light Freeman sawthe blue eyes beneath the long lashes darken. Instinctively the victim'shand went to his hip and lingered there; but he could no more havewithdrawn the weapon which he felt there than he could have struck hisown mother. He started to speak; but his lips were dry, and he moistenedthem with his tongue. 

"Yes, I know better, " he admitted low. 

Ben Blair dropped his hand and turned to the spectators. "Men, " he saidslowly and distinctly, "for the present at least I'm master of thisranch, and when I give an order I expect to be obeyed. " Again his eyewent from face to face fearlessly, dominantly. "Does any other man doubtme?"

Not a voice broke the stillness of the night. Only the restless movementof the impatient mustangs answered. 

"Very well, then, you heard what I said. Go to bed, and to-morrow go onwith your work as usual. Grannis will be in charge while I'm gone, " andwithout a backward glance the long figure returned to the ranch-house. 

The weazened foreman and the tall adventurer had been watching himimpassively from the doorway. In silence they made room for him to pass. 

"Grannis, " he asked directly, "have those horses been taken care of?"

"No, sir. "

"See to it at once then. "

"Yes, sir. "

The blue eyes rested for a moment on the other's face. 

"You heard who I said would be in charge while I'm away?"

"Yes, sir, " again. 

Ben moved over to the bunk opposite to that in which lay the dead manand took off his hat and coat. 

"Graham!"

The foreman came close, stood at attention. 

"Keep awake and call me before daylight, will you?"

"I will. "

"And, Graham!"

"Yes. "

"I may be gone several days. You and Ma attend to the--burial. Dig thegrave out under the big maple. " A pause. "I think, " steadily, "he wouldhave liked it there. "

The foreman nodded silently. 

Benjamin Blair dropped into the bunk, drew the blankets over him andclosed his eyes. As he did so, from the direction of the barn there camea succession of pistol shots--one, two, three. Then again silence fell. 

CHAPTER XIV

THE INEXORABLE TRAIL

Once more, westward across the prairie country, there moved a tall andsinewy youth astride a vicious looking buckskin. This time, however, itwas very early in the morning. The rider moved slowly, his eyes on theground. His outfit was more elaborate than on the former journey. Aheavy blanket and a light camp kit were strapped behind his saddle, andso attached that they could be quickly transferred to his back. A bigrifle was stretched across his right knee and the saddle-horn. At eitherhip rode a great holster. The air, despite the cloudiness, was bittercold; and he wore a heavy sheepskin coat with the wool turned in, andlong gauntlets reaching half-way to his elbows. A broad leather beltheld the heavy coat in place, and attached to it was a thin sheath fromwhich protruded the stout handle of a hunting-knife. He also woreanother belt, fitted with many loops, each holding a gleaming littlebrass cylinder. No one seeing the man this morning could have made themistake of considering him, as before, on a journey to see a lady. 

Slowly day advanced. The east resolved itself from flaming red into theneutral tint of the remainder of the sky. The sun shone through theclouds, dissipated them, was obscured, and shone again. The somethingwhich the man had been watching so intently gradually grew clearer. Itwas the trail of another horse--a galloping horse. It was easy tofollow, and the rider looked about him. After a few miles, when themustang had warmed to his second wind, a gauntleted hand dropped to theyellow neck and stroked it gently. 

"Let 'em out a bit, Buck, " said a voice, "let 'em out!" and with a flickof the dainty ears, almost as if he understood, the little beast fellinto the steady swinging lope which was his natural gait, and which hecould follow if need be without a break from sun to sun. 

On they went, the trail they were following unwinding like a great tapesteadily before them, the crunch of the frozen snow in their ears, tinyparticles of it flying to the side and behind like spray. But, bravelyas they were going, the horse ahead which had unwound that band oftracks had moved more swiftly. Not within inches did the best efforts ofthe buckskin approach those giant strides. It had been a desperate riderwho had urged such a pace; and the grim face of the tall youth grewgrimmer at the thought. 

Not another sound than of their own making did they hear. Not an objectuncovered of white did they see, until, thirteen miles out, they passednear the deserted Baker ranch; but the trail did not stop, nor did they, and ere long it faded again from view. The course was dipping well tothe north now, and Ben realized that not again on his journey would hepass in sight of a human habitation. 

All that mortal day the buckskin pounded monotonously ahead. The sunrose to the meridian, gazed warmly down upon them, softened the surfaceof the frozen snow until the crunch sounded mellower, and slowlydescended to their left. The dainty ears of the pony, as the day waned, flattened close to his head. Foam gathered beneath the saddle andbetween the animal's legs; but doggedly relentless as his rider, heforged ahead. Much in common had these two beings; more closely thanever was their comradery cemented that day. Many times, with the samemotion as at first, the man had leaned over and patted that muscularneck, dark and soiled now with perspiration. "Good old Buck, " he said asto a fellow, "good old Buck!" and each time the set ears had flickedintelligently in response. 

It was nearing sunset when they came in sight of the hills bordering theriver, and the last mile Ben drew the buckskin to a walk. The chain ofhoof-tracks had changed much since the morning. The buckskin could equalthe strides of the other now, and the follower was content. The eveningswere very short at this season of the year, and they would not attemptto go farther to-night. At the margin of the stream Ben rode along untilhe found a spot where the full strength of the current ate into thebank. There on the thinner ice he hammered with the butt of his heavyrifle until he broke a hole; then, the dumb one first, the two friendsdrank their fill. After that, side by side, they walked back until inthe shelter of a high knoll the man found a space of perhaps half anacre where the grass, thick and unpastured, was practically bare ofsnow. Here he removed saddle and bridle, and without lariat orhobble--for they knew each other now, these two--he turned the ponyloose to graze. He himself, with the kit and blanket and a handful ofdead wood, went to the hill-top, where he could see for miles around, built a tiny fire, an Indian's fire, made a can of strong black coffee, and ate of the jerked beef he had brought. Later, he cleared a spot thesize of a man's grave, and with grass and the blanket built a shallownest, in which he stretched himself, his elbow on the earth, his face inhis hand, thinking, thinking. 

The night came on. As the eastern sky had done in the morning, so nowthe west crimsoned gloriously, became the color of blood, then graduallyshaded back until it was neutral again, and the stars from a fewscattering dots increased in numbers and filled the dome as scatteredsand-grains cover a floor. Darkness came, and with it the slight wind ofthe day died down until the air was perfectly still. The cold, which hadretreated for a time, returned, augmented. As though it were a livething moving about, its coming could be heard in the almostindistinguishable crackling of the snow-crust. As beneath a crushingweight, the ice of the great river boomed and crackled from its touch. 

Wide-eyed but impassive, the man watched and listened. Scarcely a muscleof his body moved. Not once, as the hours slipped by, did he drowse; notfor an instant was he off his guard. With the first trace of morning inthe east, he was astir. As on the night before, he made his Indian'sfire, ate his handful of beef, and drank of the strong black coffee. The pony, sleepy as a child, was aroused and saddled. The ice which hadfrozen during the night over their drinking-hole was broken. Then, bothman and horse stiff and sore from the exposure and the previousexertion, the trail was taken up anew. 

For five miles, until both were warmed to their work, the man and beasttrotted along side by side. "Now, Buck, old boy!" said Ben, andmounting, they were off in earnest. At first the trail they werefollowing was that of a horse that walked; but later it stretched outinto the old long-strided gallop, and the pursuer read the tale of quirtand spur which had forced the change. 

Three hours out, thirty odd miles from the river as the rider calculatedthe distance, he came to the first break in the seemingly endless trailof hoofprints he was following. A heap of snow scraped aside and twobrown spots on the earth told the story of where the pursued man andhorse had paused to rest and sleep. No water was near. Neither the humannor the beast had strayed from the direct line; they had merely haltedand dropped almost within their tracks. Just beyond was the spot wherethe man had remounted, where the flight began anew; and again a tale laywritten on the surface of the snow. The prints of the horse's feet werenow unsteady and irregular. Within a few rods there was on the right ared splash of blood; then others, a drop at a time. Very hard it hadbeen to put life into the beast at starting; deep the rowels of thegreat spur had been dug. Ben Blair lightly touched the neck of hisbuckskin and gave the word to go. 

"They were only thirty miles ahead last night, Buck, old chap, " he said, "and very tired. We'll gain on them fast to-day. "

But though they gained--the record of the tracks told that--they did notgain fast. Notwithstanding he still galloped doggedly ahead, the gallantlittle buckskin was plainly weakening. The eternal pounding through thesnow was eating up his strength, and though his spirit was indomitablethe end of his endurance was in sight. No longer would the dainty earsrespond to a touch on the neck. With head lowered he moved forward likea machine. While the sun was yet above the horizon, the lope diminishedto a trot, the trot to a walk--a game walk, but only a walk. 

Then, for the second time that day, Ben dismounted. Silently he removedsaddle and bridle, transferred the blanket and kit to his own back, andthen, the rifle under his arm, stopped a moment by the pony's side andlaid the dainty muzzle against his face. 

"Buck, old boy, " he said, "you've done mighty well--but I can beat younow. Maybe some day we'll meet again. I hope we shall. Anyway, we'rebetter for having known each other. Good-bye. "

A moment longer his face lay so, as his hand would have lain in afriend's hand at parting; then, with a last pat to the silken nose, hestarted on ahead. 

At first the man walked steadily; then, warming to the work, he brokeinto the swinging jog-trot of the frontiersman, the hunter who travelsafoot. Many Indians the youth had known in his day, and from them he hadlearned much; one thing was that in walking or running to stepstraight-footed instead of partially sideways, as the white man plantshis sole, was to gain inches at every motion, besides making it easierto retrace his steps should he wish to do so. This habit had become apart of him, and now the marks of his own trail were like thealternately broken line which represents a railroad on a map. 

As long as he could see to read from the white page of the snow-blanket, Ben Blair jogged ahead. Hot anger, that he could not repress, was withhim constantly now, for the trail before him was very fresh, and, distinct beside it, more and more frequent were the red marks of ananimal's suffering. He knew what horse it was the other had stolen. Itwas "Lady, " one of Scotty's prize thoroughbred mares, the one Florencehad ridden so many times. Often during those last hours the man wonderedat the endurance of the mare. None but a thoroughbred would have stoodup this long; and even she, if she ever stopped, --but the man aheaddoubtless knew this also, for he would not let her stop, not so long aslife remained and spur and quirt had power to torture. 

Thus night came on, folding within its concealing arms alike the hunterand the pursued. Ben did not build a fire this night. First of all, though during the day at different times he had been able to see thebordering trees of the White River at his left and the Bad River at hisright, the trail hung to the comparatively level land of the greatdivide between, and not a scrap of wood was within miles. Again, although he did not actually know, he could not believe he was farbehind, and he would run no risk of giving a warning sign to eyes whichmust be watching the backward trail. The fierce hunger of a healthyanimal was his; but his supply of beef was limited, and he ate a meagreallowance, washing it down with a draught of river water from hiscanteen. Rolled up in the blanket, through which the stinging coldpierced as though it were gossamer, shivering, beating his hands andfeet to prevent their stiffening, longing for protecting fur like a wolfor a buffalo, keeping constant watch about him as does a great prairieowl, the interminably long hours of his second night dragged by. 

"The beginning of the end, " he soliloquized, when once more it was lightenough so that standing he could see the earth at his feet. Well he knewthat ere this the other horse was eliminated from the chase--that it wasnow man against man. God! how his joints ached when he stretchedthem!--how his muscles pained at the slightest motion! He ground histeeth when he first began to walk, and hobbled like a rheumatic cripple;but within a half-hour tenacity had won, and the relentless jog-trot ofthe interrupted line was measuring off the miles anew. 

The chase was nearing an end. Long ere noon, in the distance towardwhich he was heading, Blair detected a brown dot against the white. Steadily, as he advanced, it resolved itself into the thing he hadexpected, and stood revealed before him, the centre of a horriblylegible page, the last page in the biography of a noble horse. Let uspass it by: Ben did, looking the other way. But a new and terriblevitality possessed him. His weariness left him, as pain passes under anopiate. He did not pause to eat, to drink. Tireless as a waterfall, watchful as a hawk, he jogged on, on, a mile--two miles--five--came to arise in the great roll of the lands--stopped, his heart suddenlypounding the walls of his chest. Before him, not half a mile away, moving slowly westward, was the diminutive black shape of a mantravelling afoot!

Instantly the primal hunting instinct of the Anglo-Saxon awoke in thelank Benjamin. The incomparable fascination which makes man-hunting thesport supreme of all ages gripped him tight. The stealthy cunning of asavage became on the moment his. A plan of ambush, one which couldscarcely fail, flashed into his mind. The trail of the divide narrowingnow, stretched for miles and miles straight before them. That blackfigure would scarcely leave it. The pursuer had but to make a greatdetour, get far in advance, find a point of concealment, and wait. 

Swift as thought was action. Back on his trail until he was out of sightwent Ben Blair; then, turning to his right, he made straight for theconcealing bed of Bad River. Once there, he turned west again, followingthe winding course of the stream toward its source. Faster than ever hemoved, the pat-pat of his feet on the deadening snow drowning the soundof the great breaths he drew into his lungs and sent whistling out againthrough his nostrils. As with the horse, the sweat oozed at every pore. Collecting on his brow and face, it dripped slowly from his great chin. Dampening, his clothes clung binding-tight to his body; but he nevernoticed. He looked neither to the right nor to the left, nor behindhim; but, like a sprinter approaching the wire, only straight ahead. 

Under him the miles flowed past like water. Five, ten, a dozen hecovered; then of a sudden he turned again to the south, quitting hisshelter of the river-bed. For a time the country was very rough, but hescarcely slackened his pace. Once he fell through the crust of a drift, and went down nearly to his neck; but he crowded his way through bysheer strength, emerging a powdered figure from the snow which clung tohis damp clothes. The sun was down now, and he knew darkness would comevery quickly and he must reach the divide, the probable trail, before itfell, and there select his point of waiting. 

As he moved on, he saw some miles ahead that which decided him. A lowchain of hills, stretching to the north and south, crossed the greatdivide as a fallen log spans a path. In these hills, appreciable even atthis distance, there was a dip, an almost level pass. A small diversityit was on the face of nature, but to a weary man, fleeing afoot, seen inthe distance it would irresistibly appeal. Almost as certain as thoughhe saw the black figure already heading for it, the hunter felt it wouldbe utilized. Anyway, he would take the chance; and with a last spurt ofspeed he put himself fairly in its way. To clear a narrow strip ofground the length of his body, and build around it like a breastwork aborder of snow, was the work of but a few minutes; then, wrapped in hisblanket, too deadly tired to even attempt to eat, he dropped behind thecover like a log. At first the rest was that of Paradise; but swiftlycame the reaction, the chill. To lie there in his present conditionmeant but one thing, that never would he arise again; and with an effortthe man got to his feet and started walking. It was dark again now, andthe sky was becoming rapidly overcast. Within an hour it began to snow, a steady big-flaked snow that fairly filled the air and lay where itfell. The night grew slightly warmer, and, rolling in the blanket oncemore, Ben lay down; but the warning chill soon had him again upon hisfeet, walking back and forth in the one beaten path. 

Very long the two previous nights had been. Interminable seemed thisthird. As long as the sun or moon or stars were shining, the man neverfelt completely alone; but in this utter darkness the hours seemed likedays. The steadily falling snowflakes added to the impression ofloneliness and isolation. They were like the falling clods of earth in agrave: something crowding between him and life, burying and suffocatinghim where he stood. Try as he might, the man could not shake off theweird impression, and at last he ceased the effort. Grimly stolid, helit his pipe, and, his damp clothing having dried at last, cleared afresh spot and lay down, the horrible loneliness still tugging at hisheart. 

Finally, after an eternity of waiting, the morning came. With it thestorm ceased and the sun shone brightly. Behind the barricade, Ben Blairate the last of his beef and drank the few remaining swallows of waterfrom his canteen. His muscles were stiff from the inaction, and, notwishing to show himself, he kicked vigorously into space as he lay. Atintervals he made inspection of the east, looking out over the glitterof white; but not a living thing was in sight. An hour he watched, twohours, while the sun, beating down obliquely, warmed him back intoactivity; then of a sudden his eyes became fixed, the grip upon hisrifle tightened. Far to the southeast, something dark against the snowwas moving, --was coming toward him. 

Rapidly the figure approached, while lower behind the barricade droppedthe body of Benjamin Blair. The sun was in his eyes, so that as yet hecould not make out whether it was man or beast. Not until the object waswithin three hundred yards, until it passed by to the north, did Benmake out that it was a great gray wolf headed straight for the bed ofBad River. 

Again two hours of unbroken monotony passed. The sun had almost reachedthe meridian, and the man behind the barricade had all but decided hemust have miscalculated somehow, when in the dim distance as beforethere appeared a tiny dark object, but this time directly from the east. For five minutes Ben watched it fixedly, his hand shading his eyes;then, slowly as moves the second-hand of a great clock, a changeindescribable came over his face. No need was there now to ask whetherit was a human being that was approaching. There was no mistaking thatslow, swinging man-motion. At last the moment was approaching for whichthe youth had been striving so madly for the last few days, the momenthe had for years been conscious would some day come. It would soon behis; and with the thought his teeth set firmer, and a fierce joy tuggedat his heart. 

Five minutes, ten minutes dragged by; yet no observer, however close, could have seen a muscle stir in the long body of the waiting man. Likea great panther cat he lay there, the blue eyes peering just over thesurface of the ambush. Not ten paces away could an observer have toldthe tip of that motionless sombrero from the protruding top of aboulder. Gradually the approaching figure grew more distinct. A redhandkerchief showed clearly about the man's neck. Then a slight limp inthe left leg intruded itself, and a droop of the shoulders that spokeweariness. He was very near by this time, so near that the black beardwhich covered his face became discernible, likewise the bizarre breadthof the Mexican belt above the baggy chaperejos. The crunch of thesnow-crust marked his every foot-fall. 

And still Ben Blair had not stirred. Slowly, as the other hadapproached, the big blue eyes had darkened until they seemed almostbrown. Involuntarily the massive chin had moved forward; but that wasall. On the surface he was as calm as a lake on a windless night; butbeneath, --God! what a tempest was raging! Each one of those minutes hewaited so impassively marked the rush of a year's memories. Human hate, primal instinct all but uncontrollable, throbbed in his acceleratedpulse-beats. Like the continuous shifting scenes in a panorama, theincidents of his life in which this man had played a part appearedmockingly before his mind's eye. Plainly, as though in his physical ear, he heard the shuffle of an uncertain hand upon a latch; he saw a figurewith bloodshot eyes lurch into a rude floorless room, saw it approach abunk whereon lay a sick woman, his mother; heard the swift passage ofangry words, words which had branded themselves into his memory forever. Once more he was on all fours, scurrying for his life toward the darkopening of a protecting kennel. As plainly as though the memory were ofyesterday, he gazed into the blazing mouth of a furnace, felt itsscorching breath on his cheek. Swiftly the changing scenes danced beforehis eyes. A rifle-shot, real almost as though he could smell the burningpowder, sounded in his brain. Within the circle of light from a kerosenelamp a great figure sank in a heap to a ranch house floor. Against abackground of unbroken white a trail of red blotches ended in the mutelypathetic figure of a prostrate dying horse--a noble thoroughbred. Whatvaried horrors seethed in the watcher's brain, crowded each other, recurred and again recurred! How the long sinewy fingers itched toclutch that throat above the red neckerchief! He could see the man'sface now, as, ignorant of danger so close, he was passing by fifty feetto the left, looking to neither side, doggedly heading toward the pass. With the first motion since the figure had appeared, the hand of thewatcher tightened on the rifle, raised it until its black muzzle peepedover the elevation of snow. A pair of steady blue eyes gazed down thelong barrel, brought the sights in line with a spot between theshoulders and the waist of the unsuspecting man, the trigger-fingertightened, almost--

A preventing something, something not primal in the youth, gripped him, held him for a second motionless. To kill a man from an ambush, evensuch a one as this without giving him a chance--no, he could not quitedo that. But to take him by the throat with his bare hands, and thenslowly, slowly--

As noiselessly as the rifle had raised, it dropped again. The muscles ofthe long legs tightened as do those of a sprinter awaiting the startingpistol. Then over the barricade, straight as a tiger leaps, shot a tallyouth with steel-blue eyes, hatless, free of hand, straight for thatlistless, moving figure; the scattered snow flying to either side, theimpact of the bounding feet breaking the previous stillness. Tom Blair, the outlaw, could not but hear the rush. Instinctively he turned, and inthe fleeting second of that first glance Ben could see the face abovethe beard-line blanch. As one might feel should the Angel of Deathappear suddenly before him, Tom Blair must have felt then. As thoughfallen from the sky, this avenging demon was upon him. He had not timeto draw a revolver, a knife; barely to swing the rifle in his handupward to strike, to brace himself a little for the oncoming rush. 

With a crash the two bodies came together. Simultaneously the rifledescended, but for all its effectiveness it might have been a deadweed-stalk in the hands of a child. It was not a time for artificialweapons, but only for nature's own; a war of gripping, strangling hands, of tooth and nail. Nearly of a size were the two men. Both alike werehardened of muscle; both realized the battle was for life or death. Fora moment they remained upright, clutching, parrying for an advantage;then, locked each with each, they went to the ground. Beneath and aboutthem the fresh snow flew, filling their eyes, their mouths. Squirming, straining, over and over they rolled; first the beardless man on top, then the bearded. The sound of their straining breath was continuous, the ripping of coarse cloth an occasional interruption; but from thefirst, a spectator could not but have foreseen the end. The elder manwas fighting in self-defence: the younger, he of the massive protrudingjaw--a jaw now so prominent as to be a positive disfigurement--inunappeasable ferocity. Against him in that hour a very giant could nothave held his own. Merely a glimpse of his face inspired terror. Againand again as they struggled his hand had clutched at the other's throat, but only to have his hold broken. At last, however, his adversary wasweakening under the strain. Blind terror began to grip Tom Blair. Atfirst a mere suggestion, then a horrible certainty, possessed him as tothe identity of the relentless being who opposed him. Again the other'shand, like the creeping tentacle of an octopus, sought his throat, wouldnot be stayed. He struggled with all his might against it, until itseemed the blood-vessels of his neck would burst, but still the holdtightened. He clutched at the long fingers desperately, bit at them, felt his breath coming hard. Freeing his own hand, he smashed with hisfist again and again into that long thin face so near his own, knew thatanother tentacle had joined with the first, felt the impossibility ofdrawing air into his lungs, realized that consciousness was desertinghim, saw the sun over him like a mocking face--then knew no more. 

CHAPTER XV

IN THE GRIP OF THE LAW

How long Tom Blair was unconscious he did not know. When he awoke hecould scarcely believe his own senses; and he looked about him dazedly. The sun was shining down as brightly as before. The snow was as white. He had for some reason been spared, after all, and hope arose in hisbreast. He began to look around him. Not two rods away, his face clearlyin sight, his eyes closed, dead asleep, lay the figure of the man whohad waylaid him. For a moment he looked at the figure steadily; then, indistinct animal cunning, the lids of the close-set eyes tightened. Stealthily, almost holding his breath, he started to rise, then fellback with a jerk. For the first time he realized that he was bound handand foot, so he could scarcely stir. He struggled, at first cautiously, then desperately, to be free; but the straps which bound him, thosewhich had held his own blanket, only cut the deeper; and he gave it up. Flat on his back he lay watching the sleeper, his anger increasing. Again his eyes tightened. 

"Wake up, curse you!" he yelled suddenly. 

No answer, only the steady rise and fall of the sleeper's chest. 

"Wake up, I say!" repeated the voice, in a tone to raise the dead. 

This time there was response--of action. Slowly Ben Blair roused, andgot up. A moment he looked about him; then, tearing a strip off hisblanket, he walked over, and, against the other's protests and promisesof silence, forced open the bearded lips, as though giving a horse thebit, and tied a gag full in the cursing mouth. Without a word or asuperfluous look he returned and lay down. Another minute, and theregular breathing showed he was again asleep. 

During all the warmth of that day Ben Blair slept on, as a child sleeps, as sleep the very aged; and although the bearded man had freed himselffrom the gag at last, he did not again make a sound. Too miserablehimself to sleep, he lay staring at the other. Gradually through thehaze of impotent anger a realization of his position came to him. Hecould not avoid the issue. To be sure, he was still alive; but what ofthe future? A host of possibilities flashed into his mind, but in everyone there faced him a single termination. By no process of reasoningcould he escape the inevitable end; and despite the chilliness of theair a sweat broke out over him. Contrition for what he had done he couldnot feel--long ago he had passed even the possibility of that; but fear, deadly and absorbing fear, had him in its clutch. The passing of theyears, years full of lawlessness and violence, had left him the same manwhom bartender "Mick" had terrorized in the long ago; and for the firsttime in his wretched life, personal death--not of another but ofhimself--looked at him with steady eyes, and he could not return thegaze. All he could do was to wait, and think--and thoughts were madness. Again and again, knowing what the result would be, but seeking merely adiversion, he struggled at the straps until he was breathless; butrelentless as time one picture kept recurring to his brain. In it was arope, a stout rope, dangling from something he could not distinctlyrecognize; but what he could see, and see plainly, was a figure of aman, a bearded man--_himself_--at its end. The body swayed back andforth as he had once seen that of a "rustler" whom a group of cowboyshad left hanging to the scraggly branch of a scrub-oak; as a pendulummarks time, measuring the velocity of the prairie wind. 

With each recurrence of the vision the perspiration broke out over theman anew, the sunburned forehead paled. This was what it was coming to;he could not escape it. If ever purpose was unmistakably written on ahuman face, it had been on the face of the man who lay sleeping so near, the man who had trailed him like a tiger and caught him when he thoughthe was safe. From another, there might still be hope; but from this one, Jennie Blair's son--The vision of a woman lying white and motionless onthe coarse blankets of a bunk, of a small boy with wonderfully clearblue eyes pounding harmlessly at the legs of the man looking down; thesound of a childish voice, accusing, menacing, ringing out over all, "You've killed her! You've killed her!"--this like a chasm stood betweenthem, and could never be crossed. Clasped together, the long nervousfingers, a gentleman's fingers still, twined and gripped each other. No, there was no hope. Better that the hands he had felt about histhroat in the morning had done their work. He shut his eyes. A hot waveof anger, anger against himself, swept all other thoughts before it. Why, having gotten safely away, having successfully hidden himself, hadhe ever returned? Why, having in the depths of his nest in the middle ofthe island escaped once, had a paltry desire for revenge against the manhe fancied had led the attack sent him back? What satisfaction was it, if in taking the life of the other man it cost him his own? Fool that hehad been to imagine he could escape where no one had ever escapedbefore! Fool! Fool! Thus dragged by the long hours of the afternoon. 

With the coming of the chill of evening, Ben Blair awoke and rubbed hiseyes. A moment later he arose, and, walking over to his captive, lookeddown at him, steadily, peculiarly. So long as he could, Tom Blairreturned the gaze; but at last his eyes fell. A voice sounded in hisears, a voice speaking low and clearly. 

"You're a human being, " it said. "Physically, I'm of your species, modelled from the same clay. " A long pause. "I wonder if anywhere in mymake-up there's a streak of such as you!" Again a moment of silence, inwhich the elder man felt the blue eyes of the younger piercing himthrough and through. "If I thought there was a trace, or the suggestionof a trace, before God, I'd kill you and myself, and I'd do it now!" Thespeaker scanned the prostrate figure from head to foot, and back again. "And do it now, " he repeated. 

Silence fell; and in it, though he dared not look, coward Tom Blairfancied he heard a movement, imagined the other man about to put thethreat into execution. 

"No, no!" he pleaded. "People are different--different as day and night. You belong to your mother's kind, and she was good and pure. " Everytrace of the man's nerve was gone. But one instinct was active--toplacate this relentless being, his captor. He fairly grovelled. "I swearshe was pure. I swear it!"

Without speaking a word, Ben turned. Going back to his snow-blind, hepacked his blanket and camp kit swiftly and strapped them to hisshoulders. Returning, he gathered the things he had found upon theother's person--the rifle, the revolvers, the sheath-knife--into a pile;then deliberately, one against the other, he broke them until they wereuseless. Only the blanket he preserved, tossing it down by the side ofthe prostrate figure. 

"Tom Blair, " he said, no indication now that he had ever been nearer tothe other than a stranger, "Tom Blair, I've got a few things to say toyou, and if you're wise you'll listen carefully, for I sha'n't repeatthem. You're going with me, and you're going free; but if you try toescape, or cause me trouble, as sure as I'm alive this minute I'll stripoff every stitch of clothing you wear and leave you where I catch youthough the snow be up to your waist. "

Slowly he reached over and untied first the feet then the hands. "Getup, " he ordered. 

Tom Blair arose, stretched himself stiffly. 

"Take that, " Ben indicated the blanket, "and go ahead straight for theriver. "

The bearded man obeyed. To have secured his freedom he could not havedone otherwise. 

For ten minutes they moved ahead, only the crunching snow breaking thestillness. 

"Trot!" said Ben. 

"I can't. "

"Trot!" There was no misunderstanding the tone. 

In single file they jogged ahead, reached the river, and descended tothe level surface of its bed. 

"Keep to the middle, and go straight ahead. "

On they went--jog, jog, jog. 

Of a sudden from under cover of the bank a frightened cottontail sprangforth and started running. Instantly there was the report of a bigrevolver, and Tom jumped as though he felt the bullet in his back. Againthe report sounded, and this time the rabbit rolled over and over in thesnow. 

Without stopping, Ben picked up the still struggling game and slipped acouple of fresh cartridges into the empty revolver chambers. The bankswere lined with burrows and tracks, and within five minutes a secondcottontail met the fate of the first. 

"Come back!" called Ben to the man ahead. 

Again Tom obeyed. He would have gone barefoot in the snow without aquestion now. 

"Can you make a fire?"

"Yes. "

"Do it, then. I left the matches in your pocket. "

On opposite sides of the fire, from long forked sticks of green ash, they broiled strips of the meat which Ben dressed and cut. Likewisefronting each other, they ate in silence. Darkness was falling, and theglow from the embers lit their faces like those of two friends campingafter a day's hunt. Had it not all been such deadly earnest, the scenewould have been farce-comedy. Suddenly Tom Blair raised his eyes. 

"What are you going to do with me?" he asked directly. 

Ben said nothing. 

The question was not repeated, but another trembled on the speaker'slips. At last it found words. 

"When you had me down I--I thought you had done for me. Why did you--letme up?"

A pause followed. Then Ben's blue eyes raised and met the other's. 

"You'd really like to know?"

"Yes. "

Another moment of hesitation, but the youth's eyes did not move. "Verywell, I'll tell you. " More to himself than to the other he was speaking. His voice softened unconsciously. "A girl saved you that time, TomBlair, a girl you never saw. You haven't any idea what it means, but Ilove that girl, and I could never look her in the face again with bloodon my hands, even such blood as yours. That's the reason. "

For a moment Tom Blair was silent; then into his brain there flashed asuggestion, and he grasped at it as a drowning man at a straw. 

"Wouldn't it be blood on your hands just the same if you take me backwhere we're headed, back to Mick Kennedy and--"

With a single motion, swift as though raised by a spring, Ben was uponhis feet. 

"Pick up your blanket!"

"But--"

"Silence!" The big square jaw shot forward like the piston of an engine. "Not another word of that, now or ever. Not another word!"

For a second the other paused doggedly, then taking up his load he movedahead into the shadow. 

Hour after hour they advanced, alternately walking and trotting, following the winding bed of the stream. Darkness fell, until they couldnot see each other's faces, until they were merely two black passingshadows; but the figure behind was relentless. Stimulating, compelling, he forced himself close. Ever and anon they could hear the frighteneddash of a rabbit away from their path. More than once a snow-owlfluttered over their heads; but they took no notice. Twice the man inadvance stumbled and fell; but though Ben paused he spoke no word. Likea soldier of the ranks on secret forced march, ignorant of hisdestination, given only conjecture as to what the morrow would bringforth, Tom Blair panted ahead. 

With the coming of daylight Ben slowed to a walk, and looked about inquest of breakfast. Game was plentiful along the shelter of the stream, and before they had advanced a half-mile farther he saw ahead a flock ofgrouse roosting in the diverging branches of a cottonwood tree. At twohundred yards, selecting those on the lowest branches, he dropped half adozen, one after the other, with the rifle; and still the remainder ofthe flock did not fly. Very different were they from the open-landprairie chicken, whom a mere sound will send a-wing. 

As on the night before, they broiled each what he wished, and, carefullycleaning the others, Ben packed them with his kit. Then, stolid as anIndian, he cleared a spot of earth, and wrapping himself in his blanketlay down full in the sunshine, smoking his pipe impassively. Taking thecue, Tom Blair likewise curled up like a dog near at hand. 

Slowly and more slowly came the puffs of smoke from the captor's pipe;at last they ceased entirely. The lids of the youth's eyes closed, hisbreath came deep and regular. Beneath the blanket a muscle here andthere twitched involuntarily, as in one who is very weary and asleep. 

An hour passed, an hour without a sound; then, looking closely, aspectator could have seen one of Tom Blair's eyes open and closefurtively. Again it opened, and its mate as well--to remain so. For aminute, two minutes, they studied the companion face uncertainly, suspiciously, then savagely. Another minute, and the body had risen tohands and knees. Still Ben did not stir, still the great expanse of hischest rose and fell. Tom Blair was satisfied. Hand over hand, feelinghis way like a cat, he advanced toward the prostrate figure. Despite hiscaution, the crust of the snow crackled once beneath his touch, and hepaused, a soundless curse forming upon his lips; but the warning passedunheeded, and, bolder than before, he padded on. 

Eight feet he gained, then ten. His color heightened, the repressedarteries throbbed above the gaudy neckerchief, the skulking animalintensified in the tightened muscles of the temples. As many feet again;but a few more minutes--then liberty and life. The better to guard hismovements, his gaze fell. Out and down went his right hand, then hisleft, as his lithe body slid forward. Again he glanced up, paused--andon the instant every muscle of his tense body went suddenly lax. Insteadof the closed eyes and sleeping face he had expected, two steady eyeswere giving him back look for look. There had not been a motion; theface was yet that of a sleeper; the chest still rose and fell steadily;but the eyes!

Tom Blair's teeth ground each other like those of a dog with rabies. Thesuggestion of froth came to his lips. 

"Curse you!" he cried. "Curse you forever!"

A moment they lay so, a moment wherein the last vestige of hope left themind of the captive; but in it Ben Blair spoke no word. Maddening, immeasurably worse than denunciation, was that relentless silence. Itwas uncanny; and the bearded man felt the hairs of his head rising asthe mane of a dog or a wolf lifts at a sound it does not understand. 

"Say something, " he pleaded desperately. "Shoot me, kill me, doanything--but don't look at me like that!" and, fairly writhing, hecrawled back to his blanket and buried his head in its depths. 

With the coming of evening coolness, Ben again made preparation for thejourney. Neither of the men made reference to the incidents of the day, but on Tom Blair's face there was a new expression, like that of acriminal on his passage from the cell to the hangman's trap. If theyounger man saw it, he gave no sign; and as on the night before, theyjogged ahead. Before daylight broke, the comparatively smooth bed of BadRiver merged into the irregular surface of the Missouri. Then theyhalted. Why they stopped there, Tom Blair could not at the time tell;but with the coming of daylight he understood. Where he had crossed andBen had followed there was not now a single track, but many--a score atleast. At the margin of the stream, where the cavalcade had stopped, thesnow was tramped hard as a stockade; and in the centre of the beatenplace, distinct against the white, was a dark spot where a greatcamp-fire had been built. At the river the party had stopped. Obviously, there the last snow had obliterated the trail, and, seeing that they hadturned back, Tom Blair gave a sigh of relief. Whatever the future had instore for him, it could reveal nothing so fearful as a meeting withthose whom intuition told him had made up that party. 

But his relief was short-lived. Again, after they had breakfasted fromthe grouse in the pack, Ben ordered the onward march, along the bank ofthe great river. As they moved ahead, a realization of their destinationat last came to the captive, and for the first time he balked. 

"Do what you wish with me, " he cried. "I'll not go a step farther. "

They were perhaps a mile down the river. The bordering hills enclosedthem like an arena. 

"Very well. " Ben Blair spoke as though the occurrence were one ofevery-day repetition. "Give me your clothes!"

Tom's face settled stubbornly. 

"You'll have to take them. "

The youth's hand sought his hip, and a bullet spat at the snow withinthree inches of the other's feet. There was a meaning pause. Slowly thebravado left the other's face. 

"Don't keep me waiting!" urged Ben. 

Slowly, very slowly, off came the captive's coat and vest. Despite hisefforts, the hands which loosened the buttons trembled uncontrollably. Following the vest came the shirt, then a shoe, and the sock beneath. His foot touched the snow. For the first time a faint realization of thething he was choosing came to him. The vicious bite of the frost uponthe bare skin was not a possibility of the future, but a condition ofthe immediate now; and he weakened. But in the moment of his indecision, the wave of stubbornness and of blinding hate again flooded him, and arush of hot curses left his lips. 

For a moment, the last time in their lives, the two men eyed each otherfairly. Indescribable hate was written upon one face; the other was asblank as the surrounding snow. Its very immobility chilled Tom Blair andcowed him into silence. Without a word he replaced shoe and coat andtook up his blanket. An advancing step sounded behind him, and, understanding, he moved ahead. After a while the foot-fall again gainedupon him, and once more the walk merged into the interminable jog-jog ofthe back-trail. 

It was morning when the two began that last relay. It was four o'clockin the afternoon when they arrived amid the outskirts of the scatteredprairie terminus which was their destination. Within ten minutesthereafter the two had separated. The older man, in charge of a lank, unshaven frontiersman, chiefly noticeable from a quid of tobacco whichswelled one cheek like an abscess, and a nickle-plated star which hewore on the lapel of his coat, was headed for the pretentious whitepainted building known as the court-house. The younger, catching sightof a wind-twisted sign lettered "Hotel, " made for it as though sightingthe promised land. In the office, as he passed through, was a crowd ofmen entirely too large to have gathered by chance in a frontierhostelry, who eyed him peculiarly; but he took no notice, and fiveminutes later, upon the bedraggled bed of the unplastered upper roomthat the landlord gave him, without even his boots removed, he was deepin the realm of oblivion. 

Some time later--he had no idea of the hour save that all was dark--hewas awakened by a confusion of voices in the room below, a slamming ofdoors, a thumping of great boots upon the bare floor. Scarcelyremembering his whereabouts, he rolled from his bed and thrust his headout of the narrow window. Here and there about the town were scatteredlights--some stationary, others, which he took to be lanterns, moving. On the street beneath his window two men went by on a run. Half way upthe block, before the well-lighted front of a saloon, a motley crowd wasshifting back and forth, restless as ants in a hill, the murmur of theirvoices sounding menacing as the distant hum of swarming bees. All atonce from out the door there burst fair into the crowd a heavy man withgreat shoulders and a bull neck. About him, even in the uncertain light, there seemed to the watcher something very familiar. What he said, Bencould not understand; but he turned his head this way and that, and hismotions were unmistakable. The crowd made way before him as sheep beforea dog, and closing behind followed steadily in his wake. Gradually asthe leader advanced the mass gained momentum. At first the pace had beena slow walk. In the space of seconds it became a swift one, then a run, with a wild scramble by those in the rear to gain front place. Thefrozen ground rumbled under their rushing feet. The direction of theirmovement, at first uncertain, became definite. It was a direct line forthe centrally located court-house; and, no longer doubtful of theirpurpose, Ben left the window, fairly tumbled downstairs, and rushedthrough the now deserted office into the equally deserted street. 

The court-house square was but two blocks away; but the mob had a goodlead, and when the youth arrived he found the space within thesurrounding chain fence fairly covered. Where the people could all havecome from struck him even at that moment as a mystery. Certainly alltold the town could not in itself have mustered half the number. Elbowing his way among them, however, he began soon to understand. Hereand there among the mass he caught sight of familiar faces, --Russell ofthe Circle R Ranch, Stetson of the "XI, " each taking no part, but withhats slouched low over their eyes watching every movement of the drama. Passing around a jam he could not press through, Ben felt a detaininghand upon his arm, and turning, he was face to face with Grannis. Thegrip of the overseer tightened. 

"I've been looking for you, Blair, " he said, "I know what you've beentrying to do, but most of the crowd don't and won't. They're ugly. You'dbetter keep back. "

For answer Ben eyed the cowboy squarely. 

"I thought I left you in charge of the ranch, " he said evenly. 

The weather-stained face of the foreman reddened in the shifting lanternlight, but the eyes did not drop. 

"I have been. I just got here. " A dignity which well became him spoke inthe steady voice. "I had a reason for coming. "

Ben released his gaze. 

"The others are here too?"

"No, they're all at the ranch. Graham and I attended to that. "

"I just saw Russell and Stetson. They couldn't possibly have got hereto-day from home. Has--has this been planned?"

Grannis nodded. "Yes. Kennedy and his gang have been watching here andat the ranch for days. They thought you'd show up at one place or theother. The whole country is out. There are lots of strangers here, fromranches I never heard of before. Seems as though everybody knew Rankinand heard of his being shot. You'd better let them have it their way. It'll amount to the same in the end, and death itself couldn't stop themnow. "

He took a step forward; for Ben, understanding all, had at last movedon. 

"Blair!" he called after him, again extending a detaining hand. Hisvoice took on a new note--intimate, personal, a tone of which no onewould have thought it capable. "Blair, listen to me! Stop!"

But he might as well have spoken to the swiftly flowing water beneaththe ice of the great river. Of a sudden, from out a passage leading intothe cell-room of the court-house basement, a black swarm of men hademerged, bearing by sheer animal force a struggling object in theirmidst. The silence of those who waited, the lull before the storm, onthe instant ended. A very Babel of voices took its place. By commonconsent, as though drawn by centripetal force, actors and spectatorscrowded together until they were a solid block of humanity. Caught inthe midst, Grannis and Ben alike could for a moment but move with themass. So fierce was the crush that their very breath seemed imprisonedin their lungs. 

Like molten metal the crowd began to flow--to the right, in thedirection of the railroad track. With each passing moment the confusionwas, if possible, greater than before. Here and there a cowboy, unableto control his excess of feeling, emptied his revolver into the air. Once Ben heard the wailing yelp of a dog caught under foot of the mass. To his left, a little man with a white collar, obviously a merespectator, pleaded loudly to be released from the pressure. Adding tothe confusion, the bell on the town-hall began ringing furiously. 

On they went, a hundred yards, two hundred, reached the railroad track, stopped. In the midst of the leaders, looming over their heads, was awhitened telegraph pole. Of a sudden a lariat shot up over the paintedcross-arm, and dropped, the two ends dangling free; and, understandingit all, the spectators again became silent. Everything moved likeclockwork. From somewhere in the darkness a bare-backed pony wasproduced and brought directly under the dangling rope. Astride him adark-bearded figure with hands tied behind his back was placed andfirmly held. Swiftly a running noose, fashioned from the ends of thelariat, was slipped over the captive's neck. A man grasped the bit ofthe mustang. Before him, the crowd began to give way. The greatbull-necked leader--Mick Kennedy, every one now saw it was--held up hishand for silence, and turned to the helpless figure astride the pony. 

"Tom Blair!" he said, --and such was now the silence that a whisper wouldhave been audible, --"Tom Blair, have you anything you wish to say?"

The dark shape took no notice. Apparently it did not hear. 

Mick Kennedy hesitated. Upon his lips a repetition of the question wasforming--but it got no farther. In the midst of the mass of spectatorsthere was a sudden tumult, a scattering from one spot as from a lightedbomb. 

"Make way!" demanded an insistent voice. "Let me through!" Andfor a moment, forgetting the other interest, the spectators turned tothis newer one. 

At first they could distinguish nothing perfectly; then amidst theconfusion they made out the form of a long-armed, long-faced youth, hishead lowered, his shoulder before him like a wedge, crowding his way tothe fore. 

"Make room there!" he repeated. "Make room!" and again into the crowd, like a snow-plough into a drift, he penetrated until his momentum wasexhausted, then paused for a fresh plunge. 

But before him a pathway was forming. Seemingly the thing wasimpossible, but the trick of a spoken name was sufficient. 

"It's Ben Blair!" someone had announced, and others had loudly taken upthe cry. "It's Ben Blair! Let him through!"

Along the pathway thus cleared the youth made his way and approached thecentre of activity. Previously the drama had moved swiftly, --so swiftlythat the spectators could merely watch developments, but under theinterruption it halted. The man at the pony's bridle--cowboy Buck itwas--paused, uncertain what to do, doubtful of the intent of thelong-faced man who so suddenly had come beside him. Not so Mick Kennedy. Well he knew what was in store, and reaching over he gave the pony aresounding slap on the flank. 

"Let him go, Buck!" he commanded of the cowboy. "Hurry!"

But already he was too late. With a grip like a trap, Ben's hand waslikewise on the rein, holding the little beast, despite his struggles, fairly in his tracks. Ben's head turned, met the bartender's Cyclopeaneye squarely, and held it with a look this bulldozer of men had neverbefore received in all his checkered career. 

"Mick Kennedy, " he said quietly, "another move like that, and in fiveminutes you'll be hanging from the other side. "

For the fraction of a second there was a pause; but, short as it was, the Irishman felt the sweat start. "The day of such as you has passed, Mick Kennedy. "

There was no time for more. As bystanders gather around a street fight, the grim cowmen had closed in from all sides. On the outskirts menmounted each other's shoulders the better to see. Of a sudden, frombehind, Ben felt himself grasped by a multitude of hands. Angry voicessounded in his ears. 

"String him up too if he interferes!" suggested one. 

"That's the talk!" echoed a third. "Swing him, too!"

The lust of blood was upon the crowd, crying to be satisfied. But theyhad reckoned wrongly, and were soon to learn their error. Every atom ofthe long youth's fighting blood was raised to boiling pitch. On theinstant, the all but superhuman strength at which we marvel in theinsane was his. Like flails, his doubled fists shot out in everydirection, meeting resistance at each blow. By the dim light he caughtthe answering glint on sheath knives, but he took no notice. His hat hadcome off, and his abundant brown hair shook about his shoulders. Hisblue eyes blazed. A figure of war incarnate he stood, and a vacantcircle which no one cared to cross formed about him. One long hand, withfingers outstretched, was raised above his head. The brilliant eyessearched the surrounding sea of faces for those he knew; as one by onehe found them, lingered, conquered. Silence fell intense. 

"Men! Gentlemen!" The words went out like pistol-shots reaching everyacute ear. "Listen to me. I've a right to speak. Stop a moment, all ofyou, and think. This is the twentieth century, not the first. We're inAmerica, free America. Think, I say, think! Don't act blindly! Think!This man is guilty. We all know it. He's caught red-handed. But he can'tescape. Remember this, men, and think! As you value your ownself-respect, as you honor the country you live in, don't be savages, don't do this deed you contemplate, this thing you've started doing. Letthe law take its course!"

The speaker paused for breath, and, as though fascinated by his audacityor something else, friend and enemy remained motionless and waiting. Well fitting the drama was its setting: the darkness of night broken bythe flickering lanterns; on the pony the huddled helpless figure with arunning noose about its neck; the row upon row of rugged faces, ofgleaming eyes!

"Ranchers, stockmen!" rushed on the insistent voice, "you knowresponsibility; it's to you I'm talking. A principle is at stakehere, --the principle of law or of lawlessness. One of these--you knowwhich--has run this range too long; it's gripping us at this moment. Before we can be free we must call it halt. Let's do it now; don't waitfor the next time or the next, but now, now!" Once more he paused, hiseyes for the last time making the circle swiftly, his hand in the air, palm forward. "For law, the law of J. L. Rankin, instead of JudgeLynch!" he challenged. "For civilization instead of savagery--notto-morrow but now, now! Help me to uphold the law!"

So swiftly that the spectators scarcely realized what he was doing, hestepped over to the limp figure upon the pony, loosed the noose fromaround the neck, and lifted him to the ground. 

"Sheriff Ralston!" he called; "come and take your prisoner! Russell!Stetson! Grannis!" designating each by name, "every man who values life, help me now!"

The cry was the trumpet for action. Instantly every one was in motion. Again arose the Babel of voices, --voices cursing, arguing, encouraging. The circle of malevolent faces which had surrounded the youth would notlonger be stayed, closed hotly in. He felt the press of their bodiesagainst his, their breath in his face. With an effort, marking hisplace, the extended right hand went up once more into the air. Theslogan again sprang to his tongue. 

"For the law of J. L. Rankin, men! The law of--"

The sentence died on his lips. Suddenly, something lightning-like, scorching hot, caught him beneath his right shoulder-blade. Before hiseyes the faces, the lighted lanterns, faded into darkness. A sound likefalling waters roared in his ears. 

CHAPTER XVI

THE QUICK AND THE DEAD

When Ben Blair again woke to consciousness the sunlight was pouring uponhim steadily. He was in a strange bed in a strange room; and he lookedabout him perplexedly. Amid the unfamiliarity his eye caught an objecthe recognized, --the broad angular back of a man. Memory slowly adjusteditself. 

"Grannis--"

The back reversed, showing a rather surprised face. 

"Where am I, Grannis?"

The foreman came over to the bed. "In the hotel. In the bridal chamber, they informed me, to be exact. "

Ben did not smile. Memory was clear now. "What happened after they--gotme last night?"

Grannis's face showed distinct animation. "A lot of things--and mightyfast. You missed the best part. " Of a sudden he paused and looked at hischarge doubtfully. "But I forgot. You're not to talk: the doctor saidso. "

Ben made a grimace. "But I can listen, can't I?"

"I suppose so, " still doubtfully. 

"Well--"

Grannis hearkened equivocally. No one was about, likely to overhear himdisobeying instructions, and the temptation was strong. 

"You know McFadden?" he queried suddenly. 

Blair nodded. 

"Well, say, that Scotchman is a tiger. He got to the front somehow whenyou called for reinforcements, and when you went down he wasJohnny-on-the-spot taking your place. Some of the rest of us got inthere pretty soon, and for a bit things was lively. It was rather closerange for gun-work, but knives were as thick as frogs after a shower. "With a sudden movement Grannis slipped up the sleeve of his left arm, showing a bandage through which the blood had soaked and dried. "All ofus got scratched some. One fellow of the opposition--Mick Kennedy--metwith an accident. "

"Serious?"

"Rather. We planted him after things had quieted down. "

For a moment the two men looked at each other steadily, and the subjectwas dropped. 

"Well, " suggested Blair once more. 

"That's all, I guess--except that Ralston has the prisoner. " A grimreminiscent smile came to the speaker's lips. "That is, he's got him ifthe floors of the cells here are paved good and thick. Last time I sawT. Blair he was fairly shaking post-holes into the ground with hisfeet. "

Ben tried to shift in bed, but with the movement a sudden pain made himgrit his teeth to keep from uttering a groan. For the first time hethought of himself. 

"How much am I hurt, Grannis?" he queried directly. 

The foreman busied himself doing nothing about the room. "You?"cheerfully. "Oh, you're all right. "

Ben looked at the other narrowly. "Nothing to bother about, I judge?"

"No, certainly not. "

Beneath the bedclothes the long body lifted, but despite anything itcould do the face went pale. 

"Very well, I guess I'll get up then. "

Instantly Grannis was beside him, motioning him back, genuine concernupon his face. 

"No, please don't. Not yet. "

"But if I'm not hurt much--"

Grannis fingered his forelock in obvious discomfort. 

"Well, between you and me, it's this way. They ripped a seam for you--sofar, " he indicated, "and it's open yet. "

Turning his free left arm, Ben touched the bandage at his side, and thehand came back moist and red. Now that it occurred to him, he wasridiculously weak. 

"I see. I'm liable to rip it more, " he commented slowly. 

The other nodded. "Yes; don't talk. I ought to have stopped you beforethis. "

"Grannis!" There was no escaping the blue eyes this time. "Honestly, now, am I liable to be--done for, or not?"

The foreman became instantly serious. "Honest, if you keep quiet you'reall right. Doc said so not an hour ago. At first he thought different, that you'd never wake up; you bled like a pig with its throat cut; butthis is what he told me when he left. 'Keep him quiet. It may take amonth for that gap to heal, but if you're careful he'll pull through. '"Again the look of concern, and this time of contrition as well. "I oughtto be ashamed of myself for letting you talk at all; but this isstraight. Now don't say any more. "

This time Ben obeyed. He couldn't well do otherwise. He had suddenlygrown weak and drowsy, and almost before Grannis was through speaking hewas again asleep. 

The doctor was right about the time of healing. During the remainder ofthat month and well into the next, despite his restless protests, BenBlair was a prisoner in that dull little room; and through it allGrannis remained with him. 

"You don't have to stay with me unless you like, " Ben had said more thanonce; but each time Grannis had displayed his own wound, at firstopenly, at last, carefully concealed by bandages, whimsically. 

"Got to take good care of this arm of mine, " he explained. "Bloodpoisoning's liable to set in at any minute, and that's something awful, they tell me. "

The invalid made no comment. 

 * * * * *

It was the evening following the afternoon of Blair's return to the BoxR ranch. In the cosey kitchen, around the new range which Rankin hadimported the previous Fall, sat three people, --Grannis, Graham, and MaGraham. The two men were smoking steadily and silently. The woman, herhands folded in her lap, her eyes glued to the floor, was breathingloudly with the difficulty of the very corpulent. Of a sudden, interrupting, the door connecting with the room adjoining opened and BenBlair appeared. 

"Grannis, " he requested, "come here a moment, please. "

In silence Blair closed the door behind them, motioned his companion toa seat, and took another opposite him. He was very quiet, even for histaciturn self; and, glancing at a heap of papers on a nearby table, Grannis understood. For a long minute the two men eyed each othersilently. Not without result had they lived the events of the lastmonths together. It was the younger man who first spoke. 

"Grannis, " he said impassively, "I'm going to ask you a question, and Iwant an honest answer. Whatever you may think it leads to must cut nofigure. Will you give it?"

Equally impassively the elder man nodded, "Yes. "

Blair selected a paper from the litter, and looked at it steadily. "WhatI want to know is this: have I, has anyone, no matter what the incentivemay be, the right to make known after another's death things whichduring that person's life were carefully concealed?"

The steady gaze shifted to his companion, held there compellingly. "Inother words, is a tragedy any less a tragedy, any more public property, because the actors are dead? Answer me honest, Grannis. "

Impassively as before the overseer shook his head. "No, I think not, "he said. "Let the dead past bury its dead. "

A moment longer the other remained motionless, then, before hiscompanion realized what he was doing, Ben had opened the door of thesheet-iron heater and tossed the paper in his fingers fair among theglowing coals. 

"Thank you, Grannis, " he said, "I agree with you. " He stood a secondlooking into the suddenly kindled blaze. "As you say, to the living, life. Let the dead past bury its dead. "

The flame died down until upon the coals lay a thin, curling film ofcarbon. Grannis shifted in his seat. 

"Nevertheless, " he commented indifferently, "you've done a foolish act. "A pause; then he went on deliberately as before. "You've destroyed theonly evidence that proves you Rankin's son. "

Involuntarily Blair stiffened, seeming about to speak. But he did not. Instead, he closed the stove and resumed his former seat. 

"By the way, " he digressed, "I just received a letter from Scotty Baker. I wrote him some time ago about--Mr. Rankin. He answered from England. "

Grannis made no comment, and, the conversation being obviously at anend, after a bit he rose, and with a taciturn "Good-night, " left theroom. 

 * * * * *

Days and weeks passed. The dead rigor of Winter gave way to traces ofSpring. On the high places the earth began to turn brown, the buffalograss to peep into view. By day the water slushed under the feet of thecattle, and ran merrily in the draws of the rolling country. By nightit froze into marvellous frost-work; daintier and more intricate ofpattern than any made by man. Overhead, flocks of wild ducks inirregular geometric patterns sailed north at double the speed of expresstrains. With their mellow "Honk--honk, " sweetest sound of all to afrontiersman's ears, harbingers of Spring indeed, far above the level ofthe ducks, amid the very clouds themselves, the geese, in regulartriangles, winged their way toward the snow-lands. At first they seemedto pass only by day; then, as the season advanced, the nights weremelodious with the sound of their voices. Themselves invisible, farbelow on the surface of earth the swish of their migratory wings soundedso distinctly that to a listening human ear it almost seemed it were atroop of angels passing overhead. 

After them came the myriad small birds of the prairie, --the countlessflocks of blackbirds, whose "fl-ee-ce, " in continuous chorus filled allthe daylight hours; the meadow-larks, singly or in pairs, announcingtheir arrival with a guttural "tuerk" and a saucy flit of the tail, oradmonishing "fill your tea-kettle, fill your tea-kettle" with apersistence worthy a better cause. 

Ere this the earth was bare and brown. The chatter of the snow streamshad ceased. In the high places, on southern slopes, there was even asuggestion of green. At last, on the sunny side of a knoll, there peepedforth the blue face of an anemone. The following day it had severalcompanions. Within a week a very army of blue had arrived, stood erectat attention so far as the eye could reach and beyond. No longer wasthere a doubt of the season. Not precursors of Spring, but Springitself had come. 

Meanwhile, on the Box R ranch everything moved on as of yore. Save onthat first night, Ben Blair made no man his confidant, accepted withoutquestion his place as Rankin's successor. Most silent of these silentpeople, he did his work and did it well, burying deep beneath animpenetrable mask his thoughts and feelings. Not until an early Summerwas almost come did he make a move. Then at last a note of threesentences went eastward:

 "Miss Baker: I'll be in New York in a few days, and if convenient to you will call. The prairies send greetings in advance. I saw the first wild rose of the season to-day. 

 "Ben Blair. "

A week later, after giving directions for the day's work to Grannis onemorning, Ben added some suggestions for the days to follow. As to time, they were rather indefinite, and the overseer looked a question. 

"I'm going away for a bit, " explained Ben, simply, in answer. Then heturned to Graham. "Hitch up the buckboard right away, please. I want youto take me to town in time to catch the afternoon train East. "

CHAPTER XVII

GLITTER AND TINSEL

Clarence Sidwell--Chad, his friends called him--leaned farther back inthe big wicker chair, with an involuntary motion adjusted hiswell-creased trousers so there might be no tension at the knees, andlooked across the tiny separating table at his _vis-a-vis_, while hiseyelids whimsically tightened. 

"Well, " he queried, "what do you think of it?"

The little brunette, his companion, roused herself almost with a start, while a suggestion of conscious red tinged her face. "I beg yourpardon?" she said, inquiringly. 

The man smiled. "Forgotten already, wasn't I?" he bantered. 

"No, certainly not. I--"

A hand, delicate and carefully manicured as a woman's, was raised inprotest. "Don't prevaricate, please. The occasion isn't worth it. " Thehand returned to the chair-arm with a play of light upon the solitaireit bore. The smile broadened. "You were caught. Confess, and thesentence will be lighter. "

As a wave recedes, the red flood began to ebb from the girl's face. "Iconfess, then. I was--thinking. "

"And I was--forgotten. My statement was correct. "

She looked up, and the two smiled companionably. 

"Admitted. I await the penalty. "

The man's expression changed into mock sternness. "Very well, MissBaker; having heard your confession and remembering a promise toexercise clemency, this court is about to impose sentence. Are youprepared to listen?"

"I'm growing stronger every minute. "

The court frowned, the heavy black eyebrows making the face reallyformidable. 

"I fear the defendant doesn't realize the enormity of the offence. However, we'll pass that by. The sentence, Miss Baker, brings me back tothe starting-point. You are directed to answer the question justpropounded, the question which for some inexplicable reason you didn'thear. What do you think of it--this roof-garden, and things in general?"The stern voice paused; the brows relaxed, and he smiled again. "Butfirst, you're sure you won't have something more--an ice, a weebottle--anything?"

The girl shook her head. 

"Then let's make room here at this table for a better man; to hint atvacating for a better woman would be heresy! It's pleasanter over therein the corner out of the light, where one can see the street. "

They found a vacant bench behind a skilfully arranged screen of palms, and Sidwell produced a cigar. 

"In listening to a tale or a confession, " he explained, "one shouldalways call in the aid of nicotine. I fancy Munchausen's listeners musthave been smokers. "

The girl steadily inspected the dark mobile face, half concealed in theshadow. "You're making sport of me, " she announced presently. 

Instantly her companion's smile vanished. "I beg your pardon, MissBaker, but you misunderstood. I thought by this time you knew me betterthan that. "

"You really are interested, then? Would you truly like to know--what youasked?"

"I truly would. "

Florence hesitated. Her breath came a trifle more quickly. She had notyet learned the trick of repression of the city folk. 

"I think it's wonderful, " she said. "Everything is wonderful. I feellike a child in fairyland; only the fairies must be giants. This greatbuilding, for instance, --I can't make it seem a product of mere six-footman! In spite of myself, I keep expecting a great genie to emergesomewhere. I suppose this seems silly to you, but it's the feeling Ihave, and it makes me realize my own insignificance. "

Sidwell smoked in silence. 

"That's the first impression--the most vivid one, I think. The next isabout the people themselves. I've been here nearly a half-year now, buteven yet I stare at them--as you caught me staring to-night--almost withopen mouth. To see these men in the daylight hours down town one wouldthink they cared more for a minute than for their eternal happiness. I'malmost afraid to speak to them, my little affairs seem so tiny incomparison with the big ones it must take to make men work as they do. And then, a little later, --apparently for no other reason than that thesun has ceased to shine, --I see them, as here, for instance, unconsciousthat not minutes but hours are going by. They all seem to have doublelives. I get to thinking of them as Jekylls and Hydes. It makes me a bitafraid. "

Still Sidwell smoked in silence, and Florence observed him doubtfully. "You really wish me to chatter on in this way?" she asked. 

"I was never more interested in my life. "

The girl felt her face grow warm. She was glad they were in the shadow, so the man could not see it too clearly. For a moment she looked abouther, at the host of skilful waiters, at the crowd of brightly dressedpleasure-seekers, at the kaleidoscopic changes, at the lights andshadows. From somewhere invisible the string orchestra, which for a timehad been silent, started up anew, while her answering pulses beat toswifter measure. The air was a familiar one, heard everywhere abouttown; and she was conscious of a childish desire to join in singing it. The novelty of the scene, the sparkle, the animation, the motionintoxicated her. She leaned back in her seat luxuriously. 

"This is life, " she murmured. "I never grasped the meaning of the worduntil within the last few months, but now I begin to understand. To workmightily when one works, to abandon one's self completely when onerests--that is the secret of life. "

The man in the shadow shifted his position, and, looking up, Florencefound his eyes upon her. "Do you really believe that?" he asked. 

"I do, most certainly. "

Sidwell lit a fresh cigar, and for a moment the light of the burningmatch showed his face clearly. He seemed about to say more; but he didnot, and Florence too was silent. In the pause that followed, the greatexpress elevator stopped softly at the roof floor. The gate opened witha musical click, and a woman and a man stepped out. Both wereimmaculately dressed, both had the unmistakable air of belonging to theleisure class. They spied the place Florence and Sidwell had leftvacant, and leisurely made their way to it. A waiter appeared, a coinchanged hands, an order was given. The man drew out a cigarette casethat flashed in colors from the nearby arc-light. Smilingly the womanheld a match, and a moment later wreath after wreath of curling bluesmoke floated above them into the night. 

Florence Baker watched the scene with a strange fascination. She wasconscious of having at some time visited a play wherein a similar actionhad taken place. She had thought it merely a creation of the writer'simagination at the time, but in her present broadened experience sheknew better. It was real, --real as the air she breathed. She simply hadnot known the meaning of life then; she was merely existing. Now sheknew!

The waiter returned, bearing something in a cooler. There were a fewswift motions, a pop distinctly heard above the drone of the orchestra. The man tossed aside his cigarette and leaned forward. Two glasses withslender stems, each containing a liquid that effervesced and sparkled, one in the man's hand, one in the woman's, met midway of the board. Theempty glasses returned to the table. 

Many other seekers of pleasure were about, but Florence had no eyes forthem. This pair alone, so indifferent to their surroundings, sothoroughly a part of them, perfectly fulfilled her newly formedconception. They had solved this puzzle of existence, solved it socompletely that she wondered it could ever have appealed to her as apuzzle at all. Again the formula, distinct as the handwriting upon thewall, stood revealed before her. One had but to _live_ life, not reasonit, and all would be well. 

Again and again, the delicate glasses sparkled to waiting lips, andreturned empty to the table. The man lit another cigarette, and itssmoke mingled with the darkness above. In the hands of the waiter thecooler disappeared, and was returned; a second cork popped as had thefirst. The woman's eyes sparkled as brilliantly as the gems upon herfingers. The languor of the man had passed. With the old actionrepeated, the brimming glasses touched across the board, were exchangedafter the foreign fashion, and again were dry. The figure of the manleaned far over the table. He spoke earnestly, rapidly. Unconsciousmotions of his hands added emphasis to his words. Neither he nor she wholistened was smiling now. Instead, there was a look, identical uponeither face, a look somehow strangely familiar to the watcher, one shehad met with before, somewhere--somewhere. Memory flew back on lightningwings, searched all the paths of her experience, the dimall-but-forgotten crannies, stopped with pointing finger; and with a tugat her very being, she looked, and unbelieving looked again. Ah, couldit be possible--could it? Yes, there it was, unmistakable; the sameexpression as this before her--there, blazing from the eyes of a groupof strange street-loafers, as she herself, she, Florence Baker, passedby!

In the shadow the face of the spectator crimsoned, the hot flood burnedat her ears, a tightness like a physical hand gripped at her throat; butit seemed that her eyes could not leave the figures before her. Not thealien interest of a watcher at the play, but a more intense, a morepersonal meaning, was in her gaze now. Something of vital moment to herown life was taking place out there so near, and she must see. Afleeting wonder as to whether her own companion was likewise watchingcame to her, but she did not turn to discover. The denouement, inevitable as death, was approaching, might come if she for an instantlooked away. 

The man out there under the electric globe was still talking; the woman, his companion, still listened. Florence caught herself straining herears to hear what he was saying; but to no purpose. She heard only therepressed murmur of his well-modulated, resonant voice; yet that initself was enough. The old song of the sirens was flowing from his lips, and passion flamed in his eyes. Farther and farther across the tinyintervening table, nearer the woman's face, his own approached. The lastempty bottle, the thin-stemmed glasses, stood in his way, and he movedthem aside with his elbow. So near now was he that their breathsmingled, and as the drone of his voice ceased, the music of theorchestra, a waltz, flowed into the rift with its steady one-two-three. He was motionless; but his eyes, intense blue eyes under long lashes, were fixed absorbingly on hers. 

It was the woman's turn to move. Gradually, gracefully, unconsciously, her own face came forward toward his. Sparkling in the light, a jewelledhand rested on the surface of the table. A tinge of crimson mounted thelong white neck, and colored it to the roots of her hair. The arteriesat the throat throbbed under the thin skin. Simultaneously, the openinggate of the elevator clicked, and a man--another with that unmistakableair of leisure--approached; but still she did not notice, did not hear. Instead, with a sudden motion, heedless of surroundings, reckless ofspectators, her face crossed the gap intervening between her and hercompanion; her lips touched his lips, caught fire with the contact, metthem again and again. 

Watching, scarcely breathing, Florence saw the figure of the man comecloser. His eyes also were upon the pair. He caught their every motion;but he did not hurry. On he came, leisurely, impassively, as though outfor a stroll. He stopped by their side, a darkening shadow with amask-like face. Instinctively the two glanced up. There was a crash ofglassware, as the tiny table lurched in the woman's hand--and they wereon their feet. A moment the three looked into each others' eyes, lookeddeep and long; then together, without a word, they turned toward theelevator. Again, droning monotonously, the car appeared and disappeared. After them, vibrant, mocking, there beat the unvarying rhythm of thewaltz, one-two-three, one-two-three. 

In the shadow, Florence Baker's face dropped into her hands. When atlast she glanced up another couple, likewise immaculate of attire, likewise debonair and smiling, were seated at the little table. Sheturned to her companion. His cigar was still glowing brightly. He hadnot moved. 

"I think I'll go home now, if you please, " she said, and every trace ofanimation had left her voice. "I'm rather tired. "

The man roused himself. "It's early yet. There'll be vaudeville here ina little while, after the theatre. "

The girl observed him curiously. "It's early, did you say?"

Sidwell smiled indulgently. "Beg your pardon. I had forgotten ourstandards were not yet in conformity. It is so considered--here. "

Florence was very quiet until they reached the steps of her own home. Alight was in the open vestibule, another in the library, where Scotty, his feet comfortably enclosed in carpet-slippers and elevated above hishead, was reading. Then she turned to her escort. 

"You won't be offended, Mr. Sidwell, if I ask you a question?"

The electric light on the nearby corner shone full upon her soft brownface, a very serious face now, and the man's glance lingered there. "Certainly not, " he answered. 

Florence hesitated. Somehow, now that the moment for speaking hadarrived, the thing she had in mind to say did not seem so easy afterall. At last she spoke, hesitatingly: "You seem to be interested in me, seem to take pleasure in being in my company. For the last few months wehave been together almost daily, but up to that time we had lived livesas unlike as--as the city is from the prairie. I know you have manyother friends, friends you've known all your life, whose ideals andpoints of view came from the same experience as your own. " Shestraightened with dignity. "Why is it that you leave those friends tocome here? Why do you find pleasure in taking me about as you do? Why isit?"

Not once while she was speaking had the man's eyes left her face; notonce had he stirred. Even after she was silent he remained so; anddespite the compelling influence which had prompted the question, Florence could not but realize what she had done, what she had all butsuggested. The warm color flooded her face, though she held her eyes upbravely. "Tell me why, " she repeated firmly. 

Sidwell still hesitated. Complex product of the higher civilization, mixture of good and bad, who knows what thoughts were running riot inhis brain? At last he aroused and came closer. "You ask me a very hardquestion, " he said steadily; "the most difficult, I think, you couldhave chosen; one, also, which perhaps I have already asked myself. "Again he took a step nearer. "It is a question, Florence, that admits ofbut one answer; one both adequate and inadequate. It is because you areyou and woman, and I am I and man. " Of a sudden his dark face grewswarthier still, his voice lapsed from its customary impersonal. "Itmeans, Florence Baker--"

But the sentence was not completed. As suddenly as the change had cometo the man's face, the girl had understood. With an impulse she couldnot have explained to herself, she had drawn away and swiftly mountedthe steps of the house. Not until she reached the porch did she turn. 

"Don't, don't, please!" she urged. "I beg your pardon. I shouldn't haveasked what I did. Forget that I spoke at all. " She was struggling forwords, for breath. Her color came and went. "Good-night. " And nottrusting herself to look back, oblivious of courtesy, she almost raninto the house. 

Standing as she had left him, his hat in his hand, Clarence Sidwellwatched her pass through the lighted vestibule into the darknessbeyond. 

CHAPTER XVIII

PAINTER AND PICTURE

Scotty Baker dropped a lump of sugar into his coffee and stirred themixture carefully, glancing the while smilingly at his wife anddaughter. 

"By Jove!" he exclaimed; "it seems good to be back here again. "

Mrs. Baker was deep in a letter she had just opened, but Florencereturned the smile companionably. 

"And it seems mighty good to have you back, daddy, " she replied. "Justthink of our being alone, a pair of poor defenceless women, three wholemonths without a man about the house! If you ever dare do it againyou're liable to find one in your place when you return. Isn't he, mamma?"

Her mother looked up reproachfully. "For shame, Florence!" she cried. 

But Scotty only observed his daughter quizzically. "I did--almost, thistime, didn't I?" he bantered. "By the way, who is this wonderful being, this Sidwell, I've heard so much about the last few hours?" He was asobtuse as a post to his wife's meaning look. "Tell me about him, won'tyou?"

Florence laughed a bit unnaturally. It seemed her words had a way ofreturning like a boomerang. 

"He's a writer, " she explained laconically. 

"A writer?" Scotty paused, a teaspoonful of coffee between the cup andhis mouth. "A real one?"

The smile left the girl's face. "His family is one of the oldest in thecity, " she explained coldly. "His work sells by the thousand. You canjudge for yourself. "

Scotty sipped his coffee impassively, but behind the big glasses thetwinkle left his eyes. 

"The inference you suggest would have been more obvious if you hadn'tmade the first remark, " he said a little sharply. "I've noticed thematter of good family has quite an influence in this world. "

The subject was dropped, but nevertheless it left its aftermath. Easy-going Scotty did not often say an unpleasant thing, and for thatvery reason Florence knew that when he did it had an especialsignificance. 

"By the way, " he observed after a moment, "we ought to celebrate to-dayin some manner. I rather expected to find a band at the station towelcome me yesterday upon my return, but I didn't, and I fear there'sbeen no public demonstration arranged. What do you say to our packing upour dinner, taking the elevated, and spending the day in the country?What say you, Mollie?"

His wife looked at her daughter helplessly. "Just as Florence says. I'mwilling, " she replied. 

"What speaks the oracle?" smiled Scotty. "Shall we or shall we not?Personally, I feel a desire for cooling springs, to step on a good-sizedplat of green without having a watchful bluecoat loom in the distance. "

Florence fingered the linen of the tablecloth with genuine discomfort. "You two can go. I'll help you get ready, " she ventured at last. "I'msorry, but I promised Mr. Sidwell last night I'd visit the art gallerywith him this afternoon. He says they've some new canvases hung lately, one of them by a particular friend of his. He's such a student of art, and I know so little about it that I hate to miss going. "

Again the smile left Scotty's eyes. "Can't you write a note explaining, and postpone the visit until some other time?" It took quite an effortfor this undemonstrative Englishman to make the request. 

The girl glanced out the window with a look her father understood verywell. "I hardly think so, " she said. "He's going away for the Summersoon, and his time is limited. "

Scotty said no more, and soon after he left the table and went into thelibrary. Florence sat for a moment abstractedly; then with her oldimpulsive manner she followed him. 

"Daddy, " the girl's arms clasped around his neck, her cheek pressedagainst his, "I'm awful sorry I can't go with you to-day. I'd like to, really. "

But for one of the very few times that Florence could remember herfather did not respond. Instead, he removed her arms rather coldly. 

"Oh, that's all right, " he said; "I hope you'll have a good time. " Andpicking up the morning paper he lit a cigar and moved toward the shadyveranda. 

Watching him, the girl had a desire to follow, to prevent his leavingher in that way. But she hesitated and the moment passed. 

Yet, although a cloud shadowed Florence Baker's morning, by afternoon ithad departed. Sidwell's carriage came promptly, creating something of astir behind the drawn shades of the adjoining residences--for the Bakerswere not located in a fashionable quarter. Sidwell himself, immaculate, smiling, greeted her with the deference which became him well, and initself conveyed a delicate compliment. Neither made any reference to theincident of the night before. His manner gave no hint of the constraintwhich under the circumstances might have been expected. A few monthsbefore, the girl would have thought he had taken her request literally, and had forgotten; but now she knew better. In this fascinating new lifeone could pass pleasantries with one's dearest enemy and still smile. Inthe old life, under similar circumstances, there would have beengun-play, and probably later a funeral; but here--they knew better howto live. Already, in the few social events she had attended, she hadseen them juggle with emotions as a conjurer with knives--to emergeunhurt, unruffled. To be sure, she could not herself do it--yet; but sheunderstood, and admired. 

Out of doors the sun was uncomfortably hot, but within the high walledgallery it was cool and pleasant. Florence had been there before, butearlier in the season, and many other visitors were present. To-day sheand Sidwell were practically alone, and she faced him with a littlereceptive gesture. 

"You're always getting me to talk, " she said. "To-day I'm going toexchange places. Don't expect me to do anything but listen. "

Sidwell smiled. "Won't you even condescend to suggest channels in whichmy discourse may flow?" he bantered. 

The girl hesitated. "Perhaps, " she ventured, "if I find it necessary. "

For an hour they wandered about, moving slowly, and pausing often torest. Sidwell talked well, but somewhat impersonally. At last, in anout-of-the-way corner, they came to the modest canvas of his friend, andthey sat down before it. The picture was unnamed and unsigned. Withoutbeing extraordinary as a work of art, its subject lent its chief claimto distinction. Interested because her companion seemed interested, Florence looked at it steadily. At first there appeared to her nothingbut a mountain, steep and rugged, and a weary man who, climbing it, hadlain down to rest. Far down at the mountain's base she saw where thefigure had begun its ascent. The way was easy there, and the trail, through the abundant grasses crushed underfoot, was of one who had movedrapidly. Gradually, with the upward incline, obstacles had increased, and the footprints drew nearer together. Still higher, from a straightline the trail had become tortuous and irregular. Here the climber hadpassed around a thicket of trees; there a great boulder had stood in thepath; but, ever indomitable, the way had been steadily upward towardsome point the climber had in view. Steeper and steeper the way hadgrown. The prints on the rocky mountain-side, from being those of feetonly, merged into those made by hands. The man had begun to crawl, making his way inch by inch. Fragments of his torn clothing hung on thepoints of rocks. Dim brown lines showed the path his body had taken, ashe sometimes slipped back. Breaks in the scant vegetation told where hisfingers had clutched desperately to halt his descent. Yet each time thereverse had been but temporary; he had returned, and mounted higher andhigher. But at last there had come the end. He had reached his presentplace in the picture. By gripping tightly he could hold his own, but toadvance was impossible. Straight above him, a sheer wall, many times hisown height, was the blank, unbroken face of the rock. That he had triedto scale even this was evident, for finger-marks from bleeding handswere thick thereon; but he had finally abandoned the effort. Physically, he was conquered. It seemed that one could almost hear the quick comingand going of his breath. Yet, prostrate as he lay, his eyes were turnedtoward the barrier his body could not scale, to a something whichcrowned its utmost height, --something indefinite and unattainable, --thesupreme desire and purpose of his life. 

The two spectators sat silent. Other visitors came near, glanced at thecanvas and at the pair of observers, and passed on with muffledfootsteps. 

The girl turned, and, as on the night at the roof-garden, found theman's eyes upon her. 

"What name does your friend give to his work?" she asked. 

"He calls it 'The Unattainable. '"

"And what is its meaning?"

"Ambition, perfection, complete happiness--anything striven for withone's whole soul. "

Florence was studying her companion now as steadily as he had beenstudying her a moment before. "To your--friend it meant--"

"Happiness. "

The girl's hands were clasped in her lap in a way she had when herthoughts were concentrated. "And he never found it?" she asked. 

Unconsciously one of Sidwell's hands made a downward motion ofdeprecation. "He did not. We made the circuit of the earth together inpursuit of it--but all was useless. It seemed as though the more hesearched the more he was baffled in his quest. "

For a moment the girl made no reply, but in her lap her hands claspedtighter and tighter. A thought that made her finger-tips tingle wastaking form in her mind. A dim comprehension of the nature of this manhad first suggested it; the fact that the canvas was unsigned had helpedgive it form. The speaker's last words, his even tone of voice, had notpassed unnoticed. She turned to the canvas, searched the skilfullyconcealed outlines of the tattered figure with the upturned eyes. Theclasped hands grew white with the tension. 

"I didn't know before you were an artist as well as a writer, " she saidevenly. 

Sidwell turned quickly. The girl could feel his look. "I fear, " he said, "I fail to grasp your meaning. You think--"

Florence met the speaker's look steadily. "I don't think, " she said, "Iknow. You painted the picture, Mr. Sidwell. That man there on themountain-side is you!"

Her companion hesitated. His face darkened; his lips opened to speak andclosed again. 

The girl continued watching him with steady look. "I can hardly believeit, " she said absently. "It seems impossible. "

Sidwell forced a smile. "Impossible? What? That I should paint a daublike that?"

The girl's tense hands relaxed wearily. 

"No, not that you paint, but that the man there--the one findinghappiness unattainable--should be you. "

The lids dropped just a shade over Sidwell's black eyes. "And why, ifyou please, should it be more remarkable that I am unhappy thananother?"

This time Florence took him up quickly. "Because, " she answered, "youseem to have everything one can think of that is needed to make a humanbeing happy--wealth, position, health, ability--all the prizes otherpeople work their lives out for or die for. " Again the voice dropped. "Ican't understand it. " She was silent a moment. "I can't understand it, "she repeated. 

From the girl's face the man's eyes passed to the canvas, and restedthere. "Yes, " he said slowly, "I suppose it is difficult, almostimpossible, for you to realize why I am--as I am. You have never had thepersonal experience--and we only understand what we have felt. Thetrouble with me is that I have experienced too much, felt too much. I'veceased to take things on trust. Like the youth and the key flower I'veforgotten the best. " The voice paused, but the eyes still kept to thecanvas. 

"That picture, " he went on, "typifies it all. I painted it, not becauseI'm an artist, but because in a fashion it expresses something Icouldn't put into words, or express in any other way. When I began toclimb, the object above me was not happiness but ambition. Wealth andsocial place, as you say, I already had. They meant nothing to me. WhatI wanted was to make a name in another way--as a literary man. " The darkeyes shifted back to the listener's face, the voice spoke more rapidly. 

"I went after the thing that I wanted with all the power and tenacitythat was in me. I worked with the one object in view; worked withoutresting, feverishly. I had successes and failures, failures andsuccesses--a long line of both. At last, as the world puts it, I_arrived_. I got to a position where everything I wrote sold, and soldwell; but in the meantime the thing above me, which had been ambition, gradually took on another shape. Perfection it was I longed for now, perfection in my art. It was not enough that the public had accepted meas I was; I was not satisfied with my work. Try as I might, nothing thatI wrote ever reached my own standard in its execution. I worked harderthan ever; but it was useless. I was confronting the blank wall--thewall of my natural limitations. "

The voice paused, and for a moment lowered. "I won't say what I didthen; I was--mad almost--the finger-marks of it are on the rock. "

The girl could not look longer into the speaker's eyes. She felt as ifshe were gazing upon a naked human soul, and turned away. 

"At last, " he went on in his confession, "I came to myself, and wasforced to see things as they were. I saw that as well as I thought I hadunderstood life I had not even grasped its meaning. I had fancied theattainment of my object the supreme end, and by every human standard Ihad succeeded in my purpose; but the thing I had gained was trash. Wealth, power, notoriety--what were they? Bubbles, nothing more; bubblesthat broke in the hand of him who clasped them. The real meaning andobject of existence lay deeper, and had nothing whatever to do with theestimate of a person by his fellows. It was a frame of mind of theindividual himself. "

Florence's face turned farther away, but Sidwell did not notice. "Then, for the last time, " he hurried on, "the unattainable changed form forme, and became what it seems now--happiness. For a little time I think Iwas happy--happy in merely having made the discovery. Then came thereaction. I was as I was, as I am now--a product of my past life, of acivilization essentially artificial. In striving for a false ideal I hadunfitted myself for the real when at last I discovered it. "

Unconsciously the man had come closer, and his eyes glowed. At last hisapathy was shaken off, and his words came in a torrent. "What I was thenI am to-day. Mentally, I am like an inebriate, who no longer findssatisfaction in plain food and drink, but craves stimulants. I demandactivity, excitement, change. In every hour of my life I realize thenarrowness and artificiality of it all; but without it I am unhappy. Isometimes think Mother Nature herself has disowned me; when I try to getnear her she draws away--I fancy with a shudder. Solitude of desert, offorest, or of prairie is no longer solitude to me. It is filled withvoices--accusing voices; and I rush back to the crowd and the unrest ofthe city. Even my former pleasures seem to have deserted me. You havespoke often of accomplishing big things, doing something better thananyone else can do it, as an example of pleasure supreme. If yourealized what you were saying you would know its irony. You cannot do athing better than anyone else. People, like water, strike a dead level. No matter how you strive, dozens of others can do the thing you aredoing. Were you to die, your place would be filled to-morrow, and theworld would wag on just the same. There is always someone just beneathyou watchfully waiting, ready to seize your place if you relax youreffort for a moment. The term 'big things' is relative. To speak it ismerely to refer to something you do not personally understand. Nothingseems really big to the one who does it. Nothing is difficult when youunderstand it. The growing of potatoes in a backyard is just aswonderful a performance as the painting of one of these pictures; itwould be more so were it not so common and so necessary. Theconstruction of a steam-engine or an electric dynamo is incomparablymore remarkable than the merging of separate thousands of capital intomillions of combination, yet multitudes of men everywhere can do eitherof the former things and are unnoticed. We worship what we do notunderstand, and call it big; but the man in the secret realizes themockery and smiles. "

Closer came the dark face. The black eyes, intense and flashing, heldthe listener in their gaze. 

"I said that even my pleasures seem to have deserted me. It is true. Iused to like to wander about the city, to see it at its busiest, toloiter amid the hum and the roar and the ceaseless activity. I saw in itthen only friendly rivalry, like a hurdle race or a footballgame--something pleasing and stimulating. Now it all affects me in justthe reverse way. I look beneath the surface, and my heart sinks to findnot friendly competition, but a battle, where men and women fight fordaily bread, where the weak are crowded and trampled upon by the strong. In ordinary battle the maimed and the crippled are spared, but here theystill fight on. Mercy or quarter is unknown. Oh, it is ghastly! I usedto take pleasure in books, in the work of others; but even thissatisfaction has been taken from me--except such grim satisfaction as aphysician may feel at a _post mortem_. The very labor that made me asuccess in literature caused me to be a dissector of things around me. To learn how others attained their ends I must needs tear their workapart and study the fragments. This habit has become a part of me. Ioverlook the beauty of the product in the working of the machinery thatproduced it. I watch the mixing of literary confections, served to thereader so that upon laying down the book he may have a good taste in hismouth. People themselves, those I meet from day to day, inevitably gothrough the same metamorphosis. I see them as characters in a book. Their foibles and peculiarities are grist for my mill. Everything, everyone, when I appear, slips into the narrow confines of a printedpage. I can't even spare myself. Fragments of me can be had for a priceat any of the book-stalls. I've become public property--and with no oneto blame but myself. "

The flow of speech halted. The speaker's face was so near now that thegirl could not avoid looking at it. 

"Do you wonder, " he concluded, "that I am not happy?"

The girl looked up. The two pairs of brown eyes met. Outwardly, she whoanswered was calm; but in her lap the small hands were clasping eachother tightly, so that the blood had left the fingers. 

"No, I do not wonder now, " she answered simply. 

"And you understand?"

"Yes, I--no, there's so much--Oh, take me home, please!" The sentenceended abruptly in a plea. The slender body was trembling as with cold. "Take me home, please. I want to--to think. "

"Florence!" The word was a caress. "Florence!"

But the girl was already on her feet. "Don't say any more to-day! Ican't stand it. Take me home!"

Sidwell looked at her closely for a moment; then the mask ofconventionality, which for a time had lifted from his face, dropped oncemore, and he also arose. In silence, side by side, the two made theirway down the long hall to the exit. Out of doors, the afternoon sun, serene and smiling, gave them a friendly greeting. 

CHAPTER XIX

A VISITOR FROM THE PLAINS

"Papa, " said Florence, next morning, as they two sat alone at breakfast, her mother having reported a headache and failed to appear, "let's gosomewhere, away from folks, for a week or so. "

"Why this sudden change of front?" her father queried. "Not being of theenemy I'm entitled to the plan of campaign, you know. "

Florence observed him steadily, and the father could not but notice howmuch more mature she seemed than the prairie girl of a few months ago. 

"There is no change of front or plan of campaign as far as I know, " shereplied. "I simply want to get away a bit, that's all. " She returned toher neglected breakfast. "There's such a thing as mental dyspepsia, youknow, and I feel a twinge of it now and then. I think this new life isbeing fed to me in doses too large for my digestion. "

Mr. Baker eventually acquiesced, as anyone who knew him could haveforetold he would do. His wife, also, when the plan was broached to her, hesitatingly agreed, but at the last moment balked and declined to go;so they left without her. 

The small town to which they went had ample grass and trees, and a smalllake convenient. A farmer's family reluctantly consented to board andlodge them; also to give them the use of a bony horse and a disreputableone-seated wagon. After their arrival they promptly proceeded tosegregate themselves from their fellow-boarders. The first day theyfished a little, talked, read, slept, meditated, and smoked--that is, Mr. Baker did, enough for two; and Florence assisted by rollingcigarettes when the bowl of the meerschaum grew uncomfortably hot. Thenext day they repeated the programme, and also the next, and the next. 

"I think I could stay here always, " said Mr. Baker. 

"I rather like it myself, " Florence admitted. 

Nevertheless, they returned promptly on schedule-time. Mrs. Baker wasawaiting them, her stiff manner indicating that she had not been doingmuch else while they were away. Without finesse, one member of the twodelinquents was informed that a certain man of considerable socialprominence, Clarence Sidwell by name, had called daily, and, Mrs. Bakerfancied, with increasing dissatisfaction at their absence. Florencefound in her mail a short note, which after some consideration shehanded without comment to her father. 

He read--and read again. "When was this mailed?" he asked. 

"Over a week ago, " answered Florence. "It has been here for severaldays. "

It was therefore no surprise to the Englishman when that very evening, as he sat on the front veranda, his heels on the railing, watching thepassage of equipages swift and slow, he saw a tall young man, at whompassers-by stared more than was polite, coming leisurely up thesidewalk, inspecting the numbers on the houses. As he came closer, Mr. Baker took in the details of the long free stride, of the broad chest, the square uplifted chin, with something akin to admiration. Vitalityand power were in every motion of the supple body; health--a life freeas the air and sunshine--was written in the brown of the hands, the tanof the face. Even his clothes, though not the conventional costume ofcity streets, seemed a part of their wearer, and had a freedom all theirown. The broad-brimmed felt hat was obviously for comfort andprotection, not for show. The light-brown flannel shirt was the color ofthe sinewy throat. The trousers, of darker wool, rolled up at thebottom, exposed the high-heeled riding-boots. About the whole man--forhe was very near now--there was that immaculate cleanliness which theworld prizes more than godliness. 

Scotty dropped his feet from the railing and advanced to the steps. "Hello, Ben Blair!" he said. 

The visitor paused and smiled. "How do you do, Mr. Baker?" he answered. "I thought I'd find you along here somewhere. " He swung up the shortwalk, and, mounting the steps, grasped the Englishman's extended hand. For a moment the two said nothing. Then Scotty motioned to a chair. "Sitdown, won't you?" he invited. 

Ben stood as he was. The smile left his face. "Would you really--like meto?" he asked directly. 

"I really would, or I wouldn't have asked you, " Scotty returned, withequal directness. 

Ben took the proffered chair, and crossed his legs comfortably. The twosat for a moment in silent companionship. 

"Tell me about Rankin, " suggested Scotty at last. 

Ben did so. It did not take long, for he scarcely mentioned himself, andquite omitted that last incident of which Grannis had been witness. 

"And--the man who shot him?" Scotty found it a bit difficult to put thequery into words. 

"They swung him a few days later. Things move rather fast out there whenthey move at all. "

"Were 'they' the cowboys?"

"No, the sheriff and the rest. It was all regular--scarcely anyspectators, even, I heard. "

"And now about yourself. Shall you be in the city long?"

"I hardly know. I came partly on business--but that won't take me long. "He looked at his host significantly. "I also had another purpose incoming. "

Scotty moved uncomfortably in his seat. "Ben, " he said at last, "I'dlike to ask you to stay with us if I could, but--" he paused, lookingcautiously in at the open door--"but Mollie, you know--It would mean thedickens' own time with her. "

Ben showed neither surprise nor resentment. "Thank you, " he replied. "Iunderstand. I couldn't have accepted had you invited me. Let's notconsider it. "

Again the seat which usually fitted the Englishman so well grewuncomfortable. He was conscious that through the curtains of the librarywindow some one was watching him and the new-comer. He had a mortaldread of a scene, and one seemed inevitable. 

"How's the old ranch?" he asked evasively. 

"It's just as you left it. I haven't got the heart somehow to changeanything. We use up a good many horses one way and another during ayear, and when I get squared around I'm going to start a herd there withone of the boys to look after it. It was Rankin's idea too. "

"You expect to keep on ranching, then?"

"Why not?"

"I thought, perhaps, now that you had plenty to do with--You're young, you know. "

Ben looked out across the narrow plat of turf deliberately. 

"Am I--young? Really, I'd never thought of it in that way. "

The Englishman's feet again mounted the railing in an attempt atnonchalance. 

"Well, usually a man at your age--" He laughed. "If it were an oldfellow like me--"

"Mr. Baker, I thought you said you really wished me to sit down and chatawhile?"

Scotty colored. "Why, certainly. What makes you think--"

"Let's be natural then. "

Scotty stiffened. His feet returned to the floor. 

"Blair, you forget--" But somehow the sentence, bravely begun, halted. Few people in real life acted a part with Benjamin Blair's blue eyesupon them. "Ben, " he said instead, "I'm an ass, and I beg your pardon. I'll call Florence. "

But the visitor's hand restrained him. 

"Don't, please. She knows I am here. I saw her a bit ago. Let her do asshe wishes. " He drew himself up in the cane rocker. "You asked me aquestion. As far as I know I shall ranch it always. It suits me, andit's the thing I can do best. Besides, I like being with live things. The only trouble I have, " he smiled frankly, "is in selling stock afterI raise them. I want to keep them as long as they live, and put them ingreener pastures when they get old. It's the off season, but I brought acouple of car-loads along with me to Chicago, to the stock-yards. I'llnever do it again. It has to be done, I know; people have to be fed; butI've watched those steers grow from calves. "

Scotty searched his brain for something relevant and impersonal, butnothing suggested itself. "Ben Blair, " he ventured, "I like you. "

"Thank you, " said Ben. 

They were silent for a long time. Pedestrians, singly and in pairs, sauntered past on the walk. Vehicle after vehicle scurried by in thestreet. At last a team of brown thoroughbreds, with one man driving, drew up in front of the house. The man alighted, tied the horses to thestone hitching-post, and came up the walk. Simultaneously Ben saw thecurtains at the library window sway as though in a sudden breeze. 

"Splendid horses, those, " he commented. 

"Yes, " answered Scotty, wishing he were somewhere else just then. "Yes, "he repeated, absently. 

"Good-evening, Mr. Baker!" said the smiling driver of the thoroughbreds. 

"Good-evening, " echoed Scotty. Then, with a gesture, he indicated thepassive Benjamin. "My friend Mr. Blair, Mr. Sidwell. "

Sidwell mounted the steps. Ben arose. The library curtains trembledagain. The two men looked each other fairly in the eyes and then shookhands. 

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Blair, " said Sidwell. 

"Thank you, " responded Ben, evenly. 

Down in the depths of his consciousness, Scotty was glad this frontieryouth had seen fit to come to town. Taking off his big glasses hepolished them industriously. 

"Won't you sit down?" he invited the new-comer. 

Sidwell moved toward the door. "No, thank you. With your permission I'llgo inside. I presume Miss Baker--"

But the Englishman was ahead of him. "Yes, " he said, "she's at home. I'll call her, " and he disappeared. 

Watching the retreating figure, Sidwell's black eyes tightened, but hereturned and took the place Scotty had vacated. He gave his companion aglance which, swift as a flash of light upon a sensitized plate, took inevery detail of the figure, the bizarre dress, the striking face. 

"You are from the West, I judge, Mr. Blair?" he interrogated. 

"Dakota, " said Ben, laconically. 

Sidwell's gaze centred on the sombrero. "Cattle raising, perhaps?" heventured. 

Ben nodded. "Yes, I have a few head east of the river. " He returned theother's look, and Sidwell had the impression that a searchlight wassuddenly shifted upon him. "Ever been out there?"

The city man indicated an affirmative. "Yes, twice: the last time aboutfour years ago. I went out on purpose to see a steer-roping contest, onthe ranch of a man by the name of Gilbert, I remember. A cowboy theycalled Pete carried off the honors; had his 'critter' down and tied inforty-two seconds. They told me that was slow time, but I thought itlightning itself. "

"The trick can be done in thirty-five with the wildest, " commented Ben. 

Sidwell looked out on the narrow street meditatively. "I think thatcowboy exhibition, " he went on slowly, "was the most typically Americanscene I have ever witnessed. The recklessness, the dash, the splendidanimal activity--there's never been anything like it in the world. " Hiseyes returned to Ben's face. "Ever hear of Gilbert, did you?"

"I live within twenty-three miles of him. "

Sidwell looked interested. "What ranch, if I may ask?"

"The Right Angle Triangle we call it. "

"Oh, yes, " Sidwell nodded in recollection. "Rankin is the proprietor--abig man with a grandfather's-shay buckboard. I saw him while I wasthere. "

Involuntarily one of Ben's long legs swung over the other. "That's theplace! You have a good memory. "

Sidwell smiled. "I couldn't help having in this case. He reminded me ofthe satraps of ancient Persia. He was monarch of all he surveyed. "

Ben said nothing. 

"He's still the big man of the country, I presume?"

"He is dead. "

"Dead?"

"I said so. "

The light of understanding came to the city man. "I see, " he observed. "He is gone, and you--"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Sidwell, " interrupted the other, "but suppose wechange the subject?"

Sidwell colored, then he laughed. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Blair. Nooffence was intended, I assure you. Mr. Rankin interested me, that wasall. "

Again Ben said nothing, and the conversation lapsed. 

Meanwhile within doors another drama had been taking place. A verydiscomposed young lady had met Scotty just out of hearing. 

"What made you stop Mr. Sidwell, papa?" she asked indignantly. "Whydidn't you let him come in?"

"Because I didn't choose to, " explained Scotty, bluntly. 

"But I wanted him to, " she said imperiously. "I don't care to see Bento-night. "

Her father looked at her steadily. "And I wish you to see him, " heinsisted. "You must be hypnotized to behave the way you're doing! Youforget yourself completely!"

The brown eyes of the girl flashed. "And you forget yourself! I'm nolonger a child! I won't see him to-night unless I wish to!"

Easy-going Scotty was aroused. His weak chin set stubbornly. 

"Very well. You will see neither of them, then. I won't have a maninsulted without cause in my own house. I'll tell them both you'resick. "

"If you do, " flamed Florence, "I'll never forgive you! You're--horrid, if you are my father. I--" She took refuge in tears. "Oh, you ought tobe ashamed to treat your daughter so!"

The Englishman flicked a speck of ash off his lounging coat. "I _am_ashamed, " he admitted; "but not of what you suggest. " He turned towardthe door. 

"Daddy, " said a pleading voice, "don't you--care for me any more?"

An expression the daughter had never seen before, but one that everafter haunted her, flashed over the father's face. 

"Care for you?" he exclaimed. "Care for you? That is just the trouble! Icare for you--have always cared for you--too much. I have sacrificed myself-respect to humor you, and it's all been a mistake. I see it now toolate. "

For a moment the two looked at each other; then the girl brushed pasthim. "Very well, " she said calmly, "if I must see them both, at leastpermit me to see them by myself. "

The men on the porch arose as Florence appeared. Their manner of doingso was characteristic of each. Sidwell got to his feet languidly, a bitstiffly. He had not forgotten the past week. Ben Blair aroserespectfully, almost reverently, unconscious that he was following amere social form. Six months had passed since he had seen this littlewoman, and his soul was in his eyes as he looked at her. 

Just without the door the girl halted, her color like the sunset. It wasthe city man she greeted first. 

"I'm very glad to see you again, " she said, and a dainty hand went outto meet his own. 

Sidwell was human. He smiled, and his hand detained hers longer than wasreally necessary. 

"And I'm happy indeed to have you back, " he responded. "I missed you. "

The girl turned to the impassive but observing Benjamin. 

"I am glad to see you, too, Mr. Blair, " she said, but the voice was asformal as the handshake. "Papa introduced you to Mr. Sidwell, Isuppose?"

Her reserve was quite unnecessary. Outwardly, Ben was as coldly politeas she. He placed a chair for her deferentially and took anotherhimself, while Sidwell watched the scene with interest. Somewhere, sometime, if he lived, that moment would be reproduced on a printed page. 

"Yes, " responded Ben, "Mr. Sidwell and I have met. " He turned his chairso that he and the girl faced each other. "You like the city, your newlife, as well as you expected, I trust?"

They chatted a few minutes as impersonally as two chance acquaintancesmeeting by accident; then again Ben arose. "I judge you were goingdriving, " he said simply. "I'll not detain you longer. "

Florence melted. Such delicate consideration was unexpected. 

"You must call again while you are in town, " she said. 

"Thank you, I shall, " Ben responded. 

Sidwell felt that he too could afford to be generous. 

"If there's anything in the way of amusement or otherwise that I can dofor you, Mr. Blair, let me know, " he said, proffering his address. "I amat your service at any time. "

Ben had reached the walk, but he turned. For a moment wherein Florenceheld her breath he looked steadily at the city man. 

"We Western men, Mr. Sidwell, " he said at last slowly, "are more or lesssolitaries. We take our recreation as we do our work, alone. In allprobability I shall not have occasion to accept your kindness. But I maycall on you before I leave. " He bowed to both, and replaced his hat. A"good-night" and he was gone. 

Watching the tall figure as it disappeared down the street, Sidwellsmiled peculiarly. "Rather a positive person, your friend, " he remarked. 

Like an echo, Florence took up the word. "Positive!" The small handspressed tightly together in the speaker's lap. "Positive! You didn't geteven a suggestion of him by that. I saw a big prairie fire once. Itswept over the country for miles and miles, taking everything clean; andthe men fighting it might have been so many children in arms. I alwaysthink of it when I think of Ben Blair. They are very much alike. "

The smile left Sidwell's face. "One can start a back-fire on theprairie, " he said reflectively. "I fancy the same process might worksuccessfully with Blair also. "

"Perhaps, " admitted Florence. The time came when both she and Sidwellremembered that suggestion. 

But the subject was too large to be dropped immediately. 

"Something tells me, " Sidwell added, after a moment, "that you are a bitfearful of this Blair. Did the gentleman ever attempt to kidnap you--oranything?"

Florence did not smile. "No, " she answered. 

"What was it, then? Were you in love, and he cold--or the reverse?"

Florence dropped her chin into her hands. "To be frank with you, itwas--the reverse; but I would rather not speak of it. " She was silentfor a moment. "You are right, though, " she continued, rather recklessly, "when you say I'm afraid of him. I don't dare think of him, even. I wantto forget he was ever a part of my life. He overwhelms me like sleepwhen I'm tired. I am helpless. "

Unconsciously Sidwell had stumbled upon the closet which held theskeleton. "And I--" he queried, "are you afraid of me?"

The girl's great brown eyes peered out above her hands steadily. 

"No; with us it is not of you I'm afraid--it's of myself. " She aroseslowly. "I'm ready to go driving if you wish, " she said. 

CHAPTER XX

CLUB CONFIDENCES

Late the same evening, in the billiard-room of the "Loungers Club"Clarence Sidwell met one Winston Hough, seemingly by chance, though infact very much the reverse. Big and blonde, addicted to laughter, Houghwas one of the few men with whom Sidwell fraternized, --why, only theProvidence which makes like and unlike attract each other could haveexplained. However, it was with deliberate intent that Sidwell enteredthe most brilliantly lighted room in the place and sought out the groupof which Hough was the centre. 

"Hello, Chad!" the latter greeted the new-comer. "I've just trimmed upWatson here, and I'm looking for new worlds to conquer. I'll roll youfifty points to see who pays for a lunch afterward. "

Sidwell smiled tolerantly. "I think it would be better for my reputationto settle without playing. Put up your stick and I'm with you. "

Hough shook his head. "No, " he objected, "I'm not a Weary Willie. Iprefer to earn my dole first. Come on. "

But Sidwell only looked at him. "Don't be stubborn, " he said. "I want totalk with you. "

Hough returned his cue to the rack lingeringly. "Of course, if you putit that way there's nothing more to be said. As to the stubbornness, however--" He paused suggestively. 

Sidwell made no comment, but led the way directly toward the street. 

"What's the matter?" queried Hough, when he saw the direction they weretaking. "Isn't the club grill-room good enough for you?"

Sidwell pursued his way unmoved. "I said I wished to talk with you. "

"I guess I must be dense, " Hough answered gayly. "I certainly never sawany house rules that forbid a man to speak. "

Sidwell looked at his companion with a whimsical expression. "Thetrouble isn't with the house rules but with you. A fellow might as welltry to monopolize the wheat-pit on the board of trade as to keep youalone here. You're too confoundedly popular, Hough! You draw people asthe proverbial molasses-barrel attracts flies. "

The big man laughed. "Your compliment, if that's what it was, is a bitinvolved, but I suppose it'll have to do. Lead on!"

Sidwell sought out a modest little _café_ in a side street and selecteda secluded booth. 

"What'll you have?" he asked, as the waiter appeared. 

Hough's blue eyes twinkled. "Are you with me, whatever I order?"

Sidwell nodded. 

"Club sandwiches and a couple of bottles of beer, " Hough concluded. 

His companion made no comment. 

"Been some time, hasn't it, since you surprised your stomach withanything like this?" bantered the big man, when the order had arrivedand the waiter departed. 

Sidwell smiled. "I shall have to confess it, " he admitted. 

"I thought so, " remarked Hough dryly. "Next time you depict a plebeianscene you can remember this and thank me. "

This time Sidwell did not smile. "You're hitting me rather hard, oldman, " he said. 

"You deserve it, " laconically answered Hough. 

"But not from you!"

Hough meditatively watched the beads bursting on the surface of theliquor. 

"Admitted, " he said; "but the people who ought to touch you up areafraid to do so, and someone ought to. " He smiled across the table. "Pardon the brutal frankness, but it's true. "

Sidwell returned the glance. "You think it's the duty of some intimateto perform the kindness of this--touching up process occasionally, doyou?"

Hough drank deep and sighed with satisfaction. "Jove! that tastes good!I limbered up my joints with a two-mile walk before I went to the clubthis evening, and I've been as dry as a harvest-hand ever since. All thewine in France or elsewhere won't touch the spot like a little good oldbrew when a man is really healthy. " He recalled himself. "Your pardon, Sidwell. Seriously, I do think it's the duty of our best friends tobring us back to earth now and then when we've strayed too far away. Noone who doesn't care for us will take the trouble. "

"Our _very_ best friends, I judge, " suggested Sidwell. 

"Certainly. " The big man wondered what was coming next. 

"A--wife, for instance. "

Hough straightened in his chair. His jolly face grew serious. 

"Are you in earnest, Chad, " he queried, "or are you just drawing meout?"

"I never was more in earnest in my life. "

Hough lost sight of the original question in the revelation itsuggested. 

"Do you mean you're really going to get married at last?"

Sidwell forced a smile. "If the matter were already settled, it would betoo late to consider the advisability of the move, wouldn't it?" hereturned. "It would be an established fact, and as such useless todiscuss. I haven't asked the lady, if that answers your question. "

Hough made a gesture of impatience. "Theoretically, yes, butpractically, no. In your individual case, desire and gratificationamount to the same. You're mighty fascinating with the ladies, Chad. Fewwomen would refuse you, if you made an effort to have them do thereverse. "

"Thank you, " said Sidwell, equivocally. 

His companion scowled. "Appreciation is unnecessary. I'm not even surethe remark was complimentary. "

They sat a moment in silence, while the beer in their glasses grewstale. 

"Suppose I were to consider marriage, as you suggest, " said Sidwell atlast. "What do you think would be the result? Judging from yourexpression, some opinion thereon is weighing heavily upon your mind. "

The blonde man looked up keenly. One would hardly have recognized him asthe easy-going person of a few moments before. 

"It will, of course, depend entirely upon whom you choose. That'shackneyed. From the motions of straws, though, this Summer, I presumeit's admissible that I jump at conclusions concerning the lady. "

The other nodded. 

"In that case, Chad, as surely as night follows day it'll be a failure. "The blue eyes all but flashed. "Moreover, it's a hideous injustice tothe girl. "

Sidwell stiffened involuntarily. 

"Your prediction sounds a bit strong from one who is himself abenedict, " he returned coldly. "Upon what, if you please, do you baseyour opinion?"

Hough fidgeted in his chair. 

"You want me to be frank, brutally frank, once more?"

"Anything you wish. I'd like to know why you spoke as you did. "

"The reason, then, is this. You two would no more mix than oil andwater. "

Sidwell's face did not change. "You and Elise seem to jog along fairlywell together, " he observed. 

Hough scowled as before. "Yes, but there's no possible similaritybetween the cases. You and I are no more alike than a dog and a rabbit. To come down to the direct issue, you're city bred, and Miss Baker hasbeen reared in the country. She--"

Sidwell held up his hand deprecatingly. "To return to the illustration, Elise was originally from the country. "

"And to repeat once more, " exclaimed Hough, "there's again nosimilarity. Elise and I have been married eight years. We met atcollege, and grew together normally. We were both young and adaptable. Besides, at the risk of being tedious, I reiterate that you and I aretotally unlike. I'm only partially urban; you are completely so--to yourvery finger-tips. I'm half savage, more than half. I like to be out inthe country, among the mountains, upon the lakes. I like to hunt andfish, and dawdle away time; you care for none of these things. I canmake money because I inherited capital, and it almost makes itself; butit's not with me a definite ambition. I have no positive object in life, unless it is to make the little woman happy. You have. Your work absorbsthe best of you. You haven't much left for friendships, even mild oneslike ours. I've been with you for a good many years, old man, and I knowwhat I'm talking about. You are old, older than your years, and you'renot young even in them. You're selfish--pardon me, but it'strue--abominably selfish. Your character, your point of view, yourhabits--are all formed. You'll never change; you wouldn't if you could. Miss Baker is hardly more than a child. I know her--I've made it apoint to know her since I saw you were interested in her. Everything inthe world rings genuine to her as yet. She hasn't learned to detect thecounterfeit, and when the knowledge does come it will hurt her cruelly. She'll want to get back to nature as surely as a child with a bruisedfinger wants its mother; and you can't go with her. Most of all, Chad, she's a woman. You don't know what that means--no unmarried man doesknow. Even we married ones never grasp the subtleties of woman-naturecompletely. I've been studying one for eight years, and at times sheescapes me. But one thing I have learned; they demand that they shall befirst in the life of the man they love. Florence Baker will demand this, and after the first novelty has worn off you won't satisfy her. I repeatonce more, you're too selfish for that. As sure as anything can be, ChadSidwell, if you marry that girl it will end in disaster--in divorce, orsomething worse. "

The voice ceased, and the place was of a sudden very quiet. Sidwelltapped on his thin drinking-glass with his finger-nail. His companionhad never seen him nervous before. At last he looked up unshiftingly. "You've given me a pretty vivid portrait of myself, of what I'm goodfor, and what not, " he said. "Would you like me to return thecompliment?"

Again Hough wondered what was coming. "Yes, I suppose so, " he answeredhesitatingly. 

"You've often remarked, " said Sidwell, slowly, "that you knew of no workfor which you were especially adapted. I think I could fit you outexactly to your liking. Just get a position as guard to a lake ofbrimstone in the infernal regions. "

Hough laughed, but Sidwell did not. "I fancy, " he continuedmonotonously, "I see you now, a long needle-pointed spear in your hands, jabbing back the poor sinners who tried to crawl out. "

"Chad!" interrupted the other reproachfully. "Chad!" But Sidwell did notstop. 

"You'd stand well back, so that the sulphur fumes wouldn't irritate yourown nostrils, and so that when the bubbles from the boiling broke theywouldn't spatter you, and with the finest kind of intuition and the mostdelicate aim you'd select the tenderest place in your intended victim'sanatomy for your spear-point. " He smiled ironically at the picture. "Gad! you'd be a howling success there, old man!"

An expression of genuine contrition formed on Hough's jolly face. "I'mdead sorry I hurt you, Chad, " he said, "but you asked me to be frank. "

"You certainly were frank, " rejoined the other bluntly. 

"What I said, though, was true, " reiterated Hough. 

Sidwell leaned a bit forward, his face, handsome in spite of itsshadings of discontent, clear in the light. 

"Perhaps, " he went on. "The trouble with you is that you don't give mecredit for a single redeeming virtue. No one in this world is whollygood or wholly bad. You forget that I'm a human being, with naturalfeelings and desires. You make me out a sort of machine, cunninglyconstructed for a certain work. You limit my life to that work alone. Ahuman being, even one born of the artificial state called civilization, isn't a contrivance like a typewriter which you can make work and thenshut up in a box until it is wanted again. There are certain emotions, certain wants, you can't suppress by logic. Even a dog, if you imprisonhim alone, will go mad in time. I'm a living man, with red blood insteadof ink in my veins, not an abstract mathematical problem. I've had myfull share of work and unhappiness. You'll have to give me a betterreason for remaining without the gate of the promised land than you'veyet done. "

Hough looked at the speaker impotently. "You misunderstood me, Chad, ifyou thought I was trying to keep you from your due, or from anythingwhich would really make for your happiness. I was simply trying toprevent something I feel morally certain you'll regret. Because oneisn't entirely happy is no adequate reason why he should make himselfmore unhappy. I can't say any more than I've already said; there'snothing more to say. My best reason for disapproving your contemplatedaction I gave you first, and you've not considered it at all. It's theinjustice you do to a girl who doesn't realize what she is doing. Withyour disposition, Chad, you'd take away from her something which neitherGod nor man can ever give her back--her trust in life. "

Sidwell's long fingers restlessly twirled the glass before him. Theremainder of the untouched beer was now as so much stagnant water. 

"If I don't undeceive her someone else will, " he said. "It's inevitable. She'll have to adjust herself to things as they are, as we all have todo. "

Hough made a motion of deprecation. 

"Miss Baker is no longer a child, " continued Sidwell. "If you've studiedher as you say you've done, you've discovered that she has very definiteideas of her own. It's true that I haven't known her long, but she hashad an opportunity to know me well such as no one else has ever had, noteven you. No one can say that she is leaping in the dark. Time and timeagain, at every opportunity, I have stripped my very soul bare for herobservation. The thing has not been easy for me; indeed, I know ofnothing I could have done that would have been more difficult. Thoughthe present instance seems to give the statement the lie, I am noteasily confidential, my friend. I have had a definite object in doing asI have done with Miss Baker. I am trying, as I never tried before in mylife, to get in touch with her--as I'll never try again, no matter howthe effort results, to get in touch with a person. She knows the goodand bad of me from A to Z. She knows the life I lead, the kind of peoplewho make up that life, their aims, their amusements, their standards, social and moral, as thoroughly as I can make her know them. I havetaken her everywhere, shown her every phase of my surroundings. For oncein my life at least, Hough, I have been absolutely what Iam, --absolutely frank. Farther than that I cannot go. I am not mybrothers keeper. She is an individual in a world of individuals; a freeagent, mental, moral, and physical. The decision of her future actions, the choice she makes of her future life, must of necessity rest withher. For some reason I cannot point to a definite explanation and saythis or that is why she is attractive to me. She seems to offer thesolution of a want I feel. No system of logic can convince me that, after having been honest as I have been with her, if she of her own freewill consents to be my wife, I have not a moral right to make her so. "

Again Hough made a deprecatory motion. "It is useless to argue withyou, " he said helplessly, "and I won't attempt it. If I were to try, Icouldn't make you realize that the very methods of frankness you haveused to make Miss Baker know you intimately have defeated their ownpurpose, and have unconsciously made you an integral part of her life. Isaid before that when you wish you're irresistibly fascinating withwomen. All that you have said only exemplifies my statement. It doesnot, however, in the least change the homely fact that oil and waterwon't permanently mix. You can shake them together, and for a time itmay seem that they are one; but eventually they'll separate, and stayseparate. As I said before, though, I do not expect you to realize this, or to apply it. I can't make what I know by intuition sufficientlyconvincing. I wish I could. I feel that somehow this has been myopportunity and I have failed. "

For the instant Sidwell was roused out of himself. He looked at hiscompanion with appreciation. "At least you can have the consolation ofknowing you have honestly tried, " he said earnestly. 

Hough returned the look with equal steadiness. "But nevertheless I havefailed. "

Sidwell put on his hat, its broad brim shading his eyes and concealingtheir expression. 

"Providence willing, " he said finally, "I shall ask Miss Baker to be mywife. "

CHAPTER XXI

LOVE IN CONFLICT

The habits of a lifetime are not changed in a day. Ben Blair wasaccustomed to rising early, and he was astir next morning long beforethe city proper was thoroughly awake. In the hotel where he wasstopping, the night clerk looked his surprise as he nodded a stereotyped"Good-morning. " The lobby was in confusion, undergoing its early morningscrubbing, and the guest sought the street. The sun was just risen, butthe air was already sultry, casting oppression and languor over everydetail of the scene. The bare brick and stone fronts of the buildings, the brown cobblestones of the pavements, the dull gray of the sidewalks, all looked inhospitable and forbidding. Few vehicles were yet inmotion--distributors of necessities, of ice, of milk, of vegetables--andthey partook of the general indolence. The horses' ears swayedlistlessly, or were set back in dogged endurance. The drivers loungedstolidly in their seats. Even the few passengers on the monotonouslydroning cars but added to the impression of tacit conformity to theinevitable. Poorly dressed as a rule, tired looking, they gazed at theirfeet or glanced out upon the street with absent indifference. It was alldepressing. 

Ben, normal, vigorous, country bred, shook himself and walked on. He wasas susceptible as a child to surrounding influences, and to those nowabout him he was distinctly antagonistic. Life, as a whole, particularlywork, the thing that does most to fill life, he had found good. Thatothers should so obviously find it different grated upon him. He wantedto get away from their presence; and making inquiry of the firstpoliceman he met, he sought the nearest park. 

All his life he had heard of the beauty of the New York parks. The fewpeople he knew who had visited them emphasized this beauty above allother features. Perhaps in consequence he was expecting the impossible. At least, he was disappointed. Here was nature, to be sure, but natureimprisoned under the thumb of man. The visitor had a healthy desire toroll on the grass, to turn himself loose, to stretch every joint andmuscle; yet signs on each side gave warning to "keep off. " The trees, itmust be admitted, were beautiful and natural, --they could not live andbe otherwise; but somehow they had the air of not being there of theirown free-will. 

Ben chose a bench and sat down. A listlessness was upon him that theozone of the prairies had never let him feel. He felt cramped for room, as though, should he draw as full a breath as he wished, it wouldexhaust the supply. A big freshly-shaven policeman strolled by, eyinghim suspiciously. It gave the young man the impression of being aprisoner out on good behavior; and in an indefinite way it almostinsulted his self-respect. For the lack of something better to do hewatched the minion of the law as he pursued his beat. Not Ben Blairalone, but every person the officer passed, went through thischallenging inspection. The countryman had been too much preoccupied tonotice that he had companions; but now that his interest was aroused, hebegan inspecting the occupants of the other benches. The person nearesthim was a little old man in a crumpled linen suit. Most of the time hisnose was close to his morning paper; but now and then he raised his faceand looked away with an absent expression in his faded near-sightedeyes. Was he enjoying his present life? Ben would have taken his oath tothe contrary. Again there flashed over him the impression of a prisonwith this fellow-being in confinement. There was indescribable pathos inthat dull retrospective gaze, and Ben looked away. In the land fromwhich he came there could not be found such an example of hopeless anduseless age. There the aged had occupation, --the care of theirchildren's children, a garden, an interest in crops and growing things, a fame as prophets of weather, --but such apathy as this, never. 

A bit farther away was another type, also a man, badly dressed andunshaven. His battered felt hat was drawn low over the upper half of hisface, and he was stretched flat upon the narrow bench. He was far toolong for his bed, and to accommodate his superfluous length his kneeswere bent up like a jack-knife. Carrying with them the baggytrousers, --he wore no underclothes, --they left a hairy expanse betweentheir ends and the yellow, rusty shoes. His chest rose and fell in themotion of sleep. 

Ben Blair had seen many a human derelict on the frontier; the countrywas full of them, --adventurers, searchers after lost health--popularlydenominated "one-lungers"--soldiers of fortune; but he had never knownsuch a class as this man represented, --useless cumberers of the earth, wanderers by day, sleepers on the benches of public parks by night. Hadhe been a student of sociology he might have found a certain morbidinterest in the spectacle; but it was merely depressing to him; itdestroyed what pleasure he might otherwise have taken in the place. Thisman was but a step beneath those dull toilers he had seen on the cars. They had not yet given up the struggle against the inevitable, or weretoo stolid to rebel; while he--

Ben sprang to his feet and began retracing his steps. People bred in thecity might be callous to the miseries of their fellows; those providedwith plenty might be content to live their lives side by side with suchhopeless poverty, might even apply to their own profit the necessitiesof others; but his was the hospitality and consideration of thefrontier, the democracy that shares its last loaf with its fellow nomatter who he may be, and shares it without question. The heartlessselfishness of the conditions he was observing almost made his bloodboil. He felt that he was amid an alien people: their standards were notas his standards, their lives were not of his life, and he wanted tohurry through with his affairs and get away. He returned to the hotel. 

Breakfast was ready by this time, and after some exploration hesucceeded in finding the dining-room. The head-waiter showed him to aseat and held his chair obsequiously. Another, a negro of uncertainage, fairly exuding dignity and impassive as a sphinx, poured water overthe ice in his glass with a practised hand, produced the menu, andwaited for his order. Without intending it, the countryman had selecteda rather fashionable place, and the bill of fare was unintelligible asSanskrit to him. He looked at it helplessly. A man across the table, observing his predicament, smiled involuntarily. Ben caught theexpression, looked at its bearer meaningly, looked until it vanished, and until a faint red, obviously a stranger to that face, took itsplace. By a sudden inspiration Blair's hand went to his pocket andreturned with a silver coin. 

"Bring me what a healthy man usually eats at this time of day, andplenty of it, " he said. He glanced absently, blandly past his companion. 

The gentleman of color looked at the speaker as though he were a strangeanimal in a "zoo. "

"Yes, sah, " he said. 

While he was waiting, Ben looked around him with interest. The room wasbig, high, massive of pillars and of beams. Every detail had beencarefully arranged. The heavy oak tables, the spotless linen, thesparkling silver and glassware appealed to the sense of luxury. Thecoolness of the place, due to unseen ventilating fans which he heardfaintly droning somewhere in the ceiling, and increased by the tilefloor and the skilfully adjusted shades, was delightful. The few otherpeople present were as immaculate as bath, laundry, tailor, and modistecould make them. From one group at which Ben looked came the suppressedsound of a woman's laugh; from another, a man's voice, well modulated, illustrated a point with a story. At a small table in an alcove sat fouryoung men, and notwithstanding the fact that for them it was yet veryearly in the day, the pop of a champagne cork was heard, and soonrepeated. Blair, fresh from a glimpse of the outer and under world, observed it all, and drew comparisons. Again he saw the huddled figureof the tramp on the bench; and again he heard the careless music of thewoman's laugh. He saw the dull animal stare of workers on their way touncongenial toil; the hands still unsteady from yesterday's excesseslifting to dry lips the wine that would make them still more unsteady onthe morrow. Could these contrasts be forever continued? he wondered. Would they be permitted to exist indefinitely side by side? Again, problem more difficult, could it be possible that the condition in whichthey existed was life? He could not believe it. His nature rebelled atthe thought. No; life was not an artificial formula like this. It wasbroad and free and natural, as the prairies, his prairies, were naturaland free. This other condition was a delirium, a momentary oblivion, ofwhich the four young men in the alcove were a symbol. Transientpleasure, the life might mean; but the reverse, the inevitable reactionas from all intoxication, that--

Finishing his breakfast, Ben lit a cigar and sauntered out to thestreet. He had intended spending the morning seeing the town; but forthe present he felt he had had enough--all he could mentally digest. Without at first any definite destination, in mere excess of healthyanimal activity, he began to walk; but his principal object in comingto the city, the object he made no effort to conceal, acted upon himlike a lodestone, and almost ere he was aware he was well out in theresidence portion of the city and headed directly for the Baker home. Hewas unaware that morning was not the fashionable time to call upon alady. To him the fact of inclination and of presence in the vicinity wassufficient justification; and mounting the well-remembered steps he rangthe doorbell stoutly. A prim maid in cap and diminutive apron, a recentaddition to the household, answered his ring. 

"I'd like to see Miss Baker, if you please, " said Ben. 

The girl inspected the visitor critically. Beneath her surface decorumhe had a suspicion that she was inclined to smile. 

"I hardly think Miss Baker is up yet, " she announced at last. "Will youleave your card?"

Ben looked at the sun, now well elevated in the sky, with an eye trainedin the estimate of time. He drew mental conclusions silently. 

"No, " he said. "I will call later. "

He did call later, --two hours later, --to receive from Scotty himself theintelligence that Florence was out but would soon return. Evidently theEnglishman had been instructed; for, though he added an invitation towait, it was only half-hearted, and being declined the matter was notpressed. 

Ben returned to the hotel, ate his lunch, and considered the situation. A lesser man would have given up the fight and hidden his bruise; butBenjamin Blair was in no sense of the word a little man. He had come totown with definite intent of seeing a certain girl alone, and see heralone he would. At four o'clock in the afternoon he again pressed thebutton on the Baker door-post, and again waited. 

Again it was the maid who answered, and at the expected query she smiledoutright. It seemed to her a capital joke that she was assisting inplaying upon this man of unusual attire. 

"Miss Baker is engaged, " she announced, with the glibness of previouspreparation. 

To her surprise the visitor did not depart. Instead, he gave her a lookwhich sent her mirth glimmering. 

"Very well, " he said. The door leading into the vestibule and fromthence into the library was open, and without form of invitation heentered. "Tell her, please, that I will wait until she is not engaged. "

The girl hesitated. This particular exigency had not been anticipated. 

"Shall I give her a name?" she suggested, with an attempt at formality. 

Ben Blair did not turn. "Tell her what I said. "

He chose a chair facing the entrance and sat down. Departing on hermission, he heard the maid open another door on the same floor. Therewas for a moment a murmur of feminine voices, one of which herecognized; then silence again, as the door closed. 

A half-hour passed, lengthened into an hour, all but repeated itself, and still apparently Florence was engaged; and still the visitor sat on. No power short of fire or an earthquake could have moved him now. Everyfragment of the indomitable perseverance of his nature was aroused, andinstead of discouraging him each minute as it passed only made hisdetermination the stronger. He shifted his chair so that it faced thewindow and the street, crossed his legs comfortably, half closed hiseyes, resting yet watchful, and meditatively observed the growingprocession of homeward bound wage-earners in car and on foot. 

Suddenly there was the rustle of a woman's skirts, and he was consciousthat he was no longer alone. He turned as he saw who it was, sprang tohis feet, and despite the intentional slight of the long wait, a smileflashed to his face. He started to advance, but stopped. 

"You wished to see me, I understand, " a voice said coldly, as thespeaker halted just within the doorway. 

Ben Blair straightened. The hot blood mounted to his brain, throbbing athis throat and temples. It was not easy for him to receive insult; butoutwardly he gave no sign. 

"I think I have demonstrated the fact you mention, " he replied calmly. 

Florence Baker clasped her hands together. "Yes, your persistency isadmirable, " she said. 

Ben Blair caught the word. "Persistency, " he remarked, "seems the onlyrecourse when past friendship and common courtesy are ignored. "

Florence made no reply, and going forward Ben placed a chairdeferentially. "It seems necessary for me to reverse the position ofhost and guest, " he said. "Won't you be seated?"

The girl did not stir. 

"I hardly think it necessary, " she answered. 

"Florence, " Ben Blair's great chin lifted meaningly, "I will not beoffended whatever you may do. I have something I wish to say to you. Please sit down. "

The girl hesitated, and almost against her will looked the man fairly inthe eyes, while her own blazed. Once more she felt his dominancecontrolling her, felt as she did when, in what seemed the very long ago, he had spread his blanket for her upon the prairie earth. 

She sat down. 

Ben drew up another chair and sat facing her. "Why, " he was leaning abit forward, his elbow on his knee, "why, Florence Baker, have you doneeverything in your power to prevent my seeing you? What have I done oflate, what have I ever done, to deserve this treatment from you?"

The girl evaded his eyes. "It is not usually considered necessary for alady to give her reasons for not wishing to see a gentleman, " sheparried. The handkerchief in her lap was being rolled unconsciously intoa tight little ball. "The fact itself is sufficient. "

Ben's free hand closed on the chair-arm with a mighty grip. "I beg yourpardon, " he said, "but I cannot agree with you. There's a certain amountof courtesy due between a woman and a man, as there is between man andman. It is my right to repeat the question. "

The girl felt the cord drawing tighter, felt that in the end she wouldbend to his will. 

"And should I refuse?" she asked. 

"You won't refuse. "

The girl's eyes returned to his. Even now she wondered that they did so, that try as she might she could not deny him. His dominance over her waswell-nigh absolute. Yet she was not angry. An instinct that she had feltbefore possessed her; the longing of the weaker for the stronger--theimpulse to give him what he wished. Her whole womanhood went out to him, with an entire confidence that she would never give to another humanbeing. Naturally, he was her mate; naturally, --but she was not natural. She hesitated as she had done once before, a multitude of conflictingdesires and ambitions seething in her brain. If she could but eliminatethe artificial in her nature, the desire for the empty things of theworld, then--But she could not yet give them up, and he could never bemade to care for them with her. She was nearer now to giving them up, togiving up everything for his sake, than when she had sat alone with himout on the prairie. She realized this with an added complexity ofemotion; but even yet, even yet--

A minute passed in silence, a minute of which the girl was unconscious. It was Ben Blair's voice repeating his first question that recalled her. This time she did not hesitate. 

"I think you know the reason as well as I do. If we were mere friends oracquaintances I would be only too glad to see you; but we are not, andnever can be merely friends. We have got to be either more or less. " Thevoice, brave so far, dropped. A mist came over the brown eyes. "And wecan't be more, " she added. 

The man's grip on the chair-arm loosened. He bent his face fartherforward. "Miss Baker, " he exclaimed. "Florence!"

Interrupting, almost imploring, the girl drew back. "Don't! Pleasedon't!" she pleaded; then, as she saw the futility of words, with theold girlish motion her face dropped into her hands. "Oh, I knew it wouldmean this if I saw you!" she wailed. "You see for yourself we cannot bemere friends!"

The man did not stir, but his eyes changed color and seemed to growdarker. "No, " he said, "we cannot be mere friends; I care for you toomuch for that. And I cannot be silent when I came away off here to seeyou. I would never respect myself again if I were. You can do what youplease, say what you please, and I'll not resent it--because it is you. I will love you as long as I live. I am not ashamed of this, because itis you I love, Florence Baker. " He paused, looking tenderly at thegirl's bowed head. 

"Florence, " he went on gently, "you don't know what you are to me, orwhat your having left me means. I often go over to your old ranch of anight and sit there alone, thinking of you, dreaming of you. Sometimesit is all so vivid that I almost feel that you are near, and before Iknow it I speak your name. Then I realize you are not there, and I feelso lonely that I wish I were dead. I think of to-morrow, and the nextday, and the next--the thousands of days that I'll have to live throughwithout you--and I wonder how I am going to do it. "

The girl's face sank deeper into her hands. A muffled sob escaped her. "Please don't say any more!" she pleaded. "Please don't! I can't standit!"

But the man only looked at her steadily. 

"I must finish, " he said. "I may never have a chance to say this to youagain, and something compels me to tell you of myself, for you are mygood angel. In many ways it is of necessity a rough life I lead, but youare always with me, and I am the better for it. I haven't drank a dropsince I came to know that I loved you, and we ranchers are notaccustomed to that, Florence. But I never will drink as long as I live;for I'll think of you, and I couldn't then if I would. Once you saved mefrom something worse than drink. There was a man who shot Mr. Rankin andbefore this, from almost the first thought I can remember, I had swornthat if I ever met him I would kill him. We did meet. I followed him dayafter day until at last I caught up with him, until he was down and myhands were upon his throat. But I didn't hurt him, Florence, after all;I thought of you just in time. "

He was silent, and suddenly the place seemed as still as an emptychurch. The girl's sobs were almost hysterical. The man's mood changed;he reached over and touched her gently on the shoulder. 

"Forgive me for hurting you, Florence, " he said. "I--I couldn't helptelling you. "

Involuntarily the girlish figure straightened. 

"Forgive you!" A tear-stained face was looking into his. "Forgive you!I'll never be able to forgive myself! You are a million times too goodfor me, Ben Blair. Forgive you! I ought never to cease asking you toforgive me!"

"Florence!" pleaded the man. "Florence!"

But the girl, in her turn, went on. "I have felt all the while thatcertain things I saw here were unreal, that they were not what theyseemed. I have prevaricated to you deliberately. I haven't really beenhere long, but it seems to me now that it's been years. As you said Iwould, I've looked beneath the surface and seen the sham. At first Iwouldn't believe what I saw; but at last I couldn't help believing it, and, oh, it hurt! I never expect to be so hurt again. I couldn't be. Onecan only feel that way once in one's life. " The small form trembled withthe memory, and the listener made a motion as if to stop her; but sheheld him away. 

"It isn't that I'm any longer blind; I am acting now with my eyes wideopen. It is something else that keeps me from you now, something thatcrept in while I was learning my lesson, something I can't tell you. "Once more the girl could not control herself, and sobbing, trembling, she covered her face. "Ben, Ben, " she wailed, "why did you ever let mecome here? You could have kept me if you would--you can do--anything. Iwould have loved you--I did love you all the time; only, only--" Shecould say no more. 

For a second the man did not understand; then like a flash camerealization, and he was upon his feet pacing up and down the narrowroom. To lose an object one cares for most is one thing; to have itfilched by another is something very different. He was elemental, thisman from the plains, and in some phases very illogical. The ways of thehigher civilization, where man loves many times, where he dines andwines in good fellowship with him who is the husband of a formerlove--these were not his ways. White anger was in his heart, not againstthe woman, but against that other man. His fingers itched to be at histhroat, regardless of custom or law. Temporarily, the rights and wishesof the woman, the prize of contention, were forgotten. Two young bucksin the forest do not consider the feelings of the doe that is the rewardof the victor in the contest when they meet; and Ben Blair was very likethese wild things. Only by an effort of the will could he keep fromgoing immediately to find that other man, --intuition made it unnecessaryto ask his name. As it was, he wanted now to be away. The tiny roomseemed all at once stifling. He wanted to be out of doors where the sunshone, out where he could think. He seized his hat, then suddenlyremembered, paused to glance--and that instant was his undoing, andanother man's--Clarence Sidwell's--salvation. 

And Florence Baker, at whom he had glanced? She was not tearful orhysterical now. Instead, she was looking at him out of wide-open eyes. Well she knew this man, and knew the volcano she had aroused. 

"You won't hurt him, Ben!" she said. "You won't hurt him! For my sake, say you won't!"

The devil lurking in the cowboy's blue eyes vanished, but the great jawwas still set. He reached out and caught the girl by the shoulder. "Florence Baker, " he said, "on your honor, is he worth it--is he worththe sacrifice you ask of me? Answer!"

But the girl did not answer, did not stir. "You won't hurt him!" sherepeated. "Say you won't!"

A moment longer Ben Blair held her; then his hands dropped and he turnedtoward the vestibule. 

"I don't know, " he said. "I don't know. "

CHAPTER XXII

TWO FRIENDS HAVE IT OUT

Clarence Sidwell was alone in his down-town bachelor quarters; that is, alone save for an individual the club-man's friends termed his "ManFriday, " an undersized and very black negro named Alexander HamiltonBrown, but answering to the contraction "Alec. " Valet, man of all work, steward, Alec was as much a fixture about the place as the floor or theceiling; and, like them, his presence, save as a convenience, wasignored. 

The rooms themselves were on the eleventh floor of a down-townoffice-building, as near the roof as it had been possible for him tosecure suitable quarters. For eight years Sidwell had made them his homewhen he was in town. The circle of his friends had commented, his motherand sisters (his father had been long dead) had protested, when, a muchyounger man, he first severed himself from the semi-colonial mansionwhich for three generations had borne the name of Sidwell; but as usual, he had had his own way. 

"I want to work when I feel so inclined, when the mood is on me, whetherit's two o'clock of the afternoon or of the morning, '" he had explained;"and I can't do it without interruption here with you and yourfriends. "

For the same reason he had chosen to live near the sky. There, highabove the noise and confusion, he could observe and catch the influenceof the activity which is in itself a powerful stimulant, withoutexperiencing its unpleasantness. Essentially, the man was an æsthete. Ifhe went to a race or a football game he wished to view it at a distance. To be close by, to mingle in the dust of action, to smell the sweat ofconflict, to listen to the low-voiced imprecations of the defeated, detracted from his pleasure. He could not prevent thesefeatures--therefore he avoided them. 

This particular evening he was doing nothing, which was very unusual forhim. The necessity for society, or for activity, physical or mental, hadlong ago become as much a part of his nature as the desire for food. Dilettante musician as well as artist, when alone at this time of theevening he was generally at the upright piano in the corner. Even Alecnoticed the unusual lack of occupation on this occasion, and exposed thekey-board suggestively; but, observing the action, Sidwell only smiled. 

"Think I ought to, Alec?" he queried. 

The negro rolled his eyes. Despite his long service, he had never quitelost his awe of the man he attended. 

"Sho, yo always do that, or something, sah, " he said. 

Sidwell smiled again; but it was not a pleasant smile. So this was theway of it! Even his servant had observed his habitual restlessness, andhad doubtless commented upon it to his companions in the way servantshave of passing judgment upon their employers. And if Alec had noticedthis, then how much more probable it was that others of Sidwell'snumerous acquaintances had noticed it also! He winced at the thought. That this was his skeleton, and that he had endeavored to keep ithidden, Sidwell did not attempt to deny to himself. One of the reasonshe had _not_ given to his family for establishing these down-townquarters was this very one. Time and again, when he had felt the mood ofprotest strong upon him, he had come here and locked the doors to fightit out alone. But after all, it had been useless. The fact had beenobvious, despite the trick; mayhap even more so on account of it. Likethe Wandering Jew he was doomed, followed by a relentless curse. 

He shook himself, and walking over to the sideboard poured out a glassof Cognac and drank it as though it were wine. Sidwell did not oftendrink spirits. Experience had taught him that to begin usually meant toend with regret the following day; but to-night, with his present moodupon him, the action was as instinctive as breathing. He moved back tohis chair by the window. 

The evening was hot, on the street depressingly so, but up here afterthe sun was set there was always a breeze, and it was cool andcomfortable. The man looked out over the sooty, gravelled roofs of thesurrounding lower buildings, and down on the street, congested with itsflowing stream of cars, equipages, and pedestrians. Times without numberhe had viewed the currents and counter-currents of that scene, but neverbefore had he so caught its vital spirit and meaning. Born of theelect, --reared and educated among them, --the supercilious superiority ofhis class was as much a part of him as his name. While he realized thatphysically the high and the low were constructed on practically the sameplan, he had been wont to consider them as on totally separate mentalplanes. That the clerk and the roustabout on ten dollars a week, breathing the same atmosphere, --seeing daily, hourly, minute by minute, from separate viewpoints, the same life, --that they should have incommon the constant need of diversion had never before occurred to him. Multitudes of times, as a sociologist, or as a literary man in search ofrealism, he had visited the haunts of the under-man. Languidly, critically, as he would have observed at the "zoo" an animal with whosehabits he was unacquainted, he had watched this rather curious under-manin his foolish, or worse than foolish, endeavor to find amusement oroblivion. He had often been interested, as by a clown at a circus; butmore frequently the sight had merely inspired disgust, and he hadreturned to his own diversions, his own efforts to secure the same end, with an all but unconscious thankfulness that he was not such as thatother. To-night, for the first time, and with a wonder we all feel whenthe obvious but long unseen suddenly becomes apparent, the primary factof human brotherhood, irrespective of caste, came home to him. To-nightand now he realized, diminutive in the distance as they were, that theswarm of figures that he had hitherto considered mere animals vain ofdisplay were impelled upon the street, compelled to keep moving, moving, without a pre-arranged destination, by the same spirit of unrest thathad sent him to the buffet. At that moment he was probably nearer to hisfellow-man than ever before in his life; but the truth revealed madehim the more unhappy. He had grown to consider his own unhappinesstotally different and infinitely more acute than that of others; he hadeven taken a sort of morbid, paradoxical pleasure in considering it so;and now even this was taken from him. Not only had his own secretskeleton been visible when he believed it concealed, but all around himthere suddenly sprang up a very cemetery of other skeletons, grinning athis blindness and discomfiture. His was not a nature to extract contentfrom common discomfort, and but one palliative suggested itself, --thedull red decanter on the sideboard. Rising again and filling a glass, hereturned and stood for a moment full before the open casement of thewindow gazing down steadily. 

How long he stood there he hardly knew. Once Alec's dark face peeredinto the room, and disappeared as suddenly. At last there was a knock atthe door. 

"Come in, " invited Sidwell, without moving. The door opened and closed, and Winston Hough stood inside. The big man gave one glance at thesurroundings, saw the empty glass, and backed away. "Pardon myintrusion, " he said with his hand on the knob. 

Sidwell turned. "Intrusion--nothing!" He placed the decanter withglasses and a box of cigars on a convenient table. "Come and have adrink with me, " and the liquor flowed until both glasses were nearlyfull. 

Hough hesitated in a reluctance that was not feigned. He felt thatdiscretion was the better part of valor, and that it would be well toescape while he could, even at the price of discourtesy. 

"Really, " he said, "I only dropped in to say hello. I--"

"Nonsense!" interrupted Sidwell. "You must think I'm as innocent as anew-born lamb. Come over here and sit down. "

Hough hesitated, but yielded. 

Sidwell lifted his glass. "Here's to--whatever the trouble may be thatbrought you here. People don't visit me for pleasure, or unless theyhave nowhere else to go. Drink deep!"

They drank; and then Sidwell looking at Hough said, "Well, what is itthis time? Going to reform again, or something of that kind, are you?"

Hough did not attempt evasion. He knew it would be useless. "No, " hesaid; "to tell you the truth, I'm lonesome--beastly lonesome. "

Sidwell smiled. "Ah, I thought so. But why, pray? Aren't you a marriedman with an ark of refuge always waiting?"

Hough made a grimace. "Yes, that's just the trouble. I'm too muchmarried, too thoroughly domesticated. "

The other looked blank. "I fail to understand. Certainly you and Elisehaven't at last--"

"No, no; not that. " Hough repelled the suggestion with a gesture asthough it were a tangible object. "Elise left to-day to spend a monthwith her uncle up in northern Wisconsin, and I can't get out of town fora week. I feel as I fancy a small bird feels when it has fallen out ofthe nest while its mother is away. The bottom seems to have dropped outof town and left me stranded. "

The host observed his guest humorously--a bit maliciously. "It is goodfor you, you complacent benedict, " he remarked unsympathetically. "Youcan understand now the normal state of mind of bachelors. Perhaps aftera few more days you'll have been tortured enough to retract the argumentyou made to me about matrimony. I repeat, it's poetic justice, and goodfor a man now and then to have a dose of his own medicine. "

Hough smiled as at an oft-heard joke. "All right, old man, have it asyou please; only let's steer clear of a useless discussion of thesubject to-night. "

"With all my heart, " said Sidwell. The decanter was once more in hishand. "Let's drink to the very good health of Elise on her journey. "

Hough hesitated. He had a feeling that there was an obscure desecrationin the toast, but it was not tangible enough to resent. "To her verygood health, " he repeated in turn. 

For a moment he looked steadily into the face of his companion, now atrifle flushed. Again an inward monitor warned him it were better to go;but the first flood of the liquor had reached his brain, and thetemptation to remain was strong. 

"By the way, how are you coming on with your own affair of the heart?Have you propounded the momentous question to the lady?"

Sidwell pulled forward the box of cigars and helped himself to one. "No, " he returned with deliberation. "I haven't had a good opportunity. A gentleman from the West, where they wear their hair long and theircoat-tails short, has suddenly appeared like an obscuring cloud on theBaker sky. I have a suspicion that he has aspirations for the hand ofthe lady in question. Anyhow, he's haunted the house like a ghostto-day. Mother Baker has for some reason taken a fancy to your humbleservant, and over the 'phone she has kept me informed of the stranger'stribulations. He seems to be meeting with sufficient difficultieswithout my interposition, so out of the goodness of my heart I've givenhim an open field. I hope you appreciate my consideration. I fear he'snot of a stripe to do so himself. "

Hough lit his cigar. "Yes, it certainly was kind of you, " he said. "Verykind. "

With a sweep of his hand Sidwell brought the two glasses together with aclick. "I think so. Kind enough to deserve commemoration by a taste ofthe elixir of life, don't you agree?" and the liquor flowed beneath ahand steady in the first stages of intoxication. 

Hough pushed back his chair. "No, " he protested. "I've had enough. "

"Enough!" The other laughed unmusically. "Enough! You haven't begun yet. Drink, and forget your loneliness, you benedict disconsolate!"

But again the big man shook his head. "No, " he repeated. "I've hadenough, and so have you. We'll be drunk, both of us, if we keep up thisclip much longer. "

The smile left the host's face. "Drunk!" he echoed. "Since when, pray, has that exalted state of the consciousness begun to inspire terror inyou? Drunk! Winston Hough, you're the last man I ever thought would failto prove game on an occasion like this! We're no nearer being babesthan we were the last time we got together, unless the termination oflife approximates the beginning. Drink!"

But still, this time in silence, Hough shook his head. From a partiallyopen door leading into the adjoining room the negro's eyes peered out. 

Sidwell shifted in his seat with exaggerated deliberation and leanedforward. His dark mobile face worked passionately, compellingly. "Winston Hough, " he challenged, "do you wish to remain my friend?"

"I certainly do. "

"Then you know what to do. "

Deep silence fell upon the room. Not only the eyes but the whole ofAlec's face appeared through the doorway. Hough could no more haveresisted longer than he could have leaped from the open window. Theydrank together. 

"Now, " said Sidwell, "just to show that you mean it, we'll haveanother. "

And soon the enemy that puerile man puts into his mouth to steal hisbrains was enthroned. 

Sidwell sank into his chair, and lighting his cigar sent a great cloudof smoke curling up over his head. Hand and tongue were steady, unnaturally so, but the mood of irresponsible confidence was upon him. 

"Since you've decided to remain my friend, " he said, "I'm going to tellyou something confidential, very confidential. You won't give it away?"

"Never!" Hough shook his head. 

"On your honor?"

The big man crossed his hands over his heart in the manner of smallboys. 

Sidwell was satisfied. "All right, then. This is the last time you and Iwill ever get--this way together. "

Hough looked as solemn as though at a funeral. "Why so?" he protested. "Are you angry with me yet?"

"No, it's not that. I've forgiven you. "

"What is it, then?" Hough felt that he must know the reason of his lostposition, and if in his power remove it. 

"I'm going to quit drinking after to-night, for one thing, " explainedSidwell. "It isn't adequate. But even if I didn't, I don't expect we'llever be together again after a few days, after you go away. "

The listener looked blank. Even with his muddled brains he had anintimation that there was more in the statement than there seemed. 

"I don't see why, " he said bewilderedly. 

Again Sidwell leaned forward. Again his face grew passionate andmagnetic. 

"The reason why is this. I have had enough, and more than enough, ofthis life I've been living. Unless I can find an interest, anextenuation, I would rather be dead, a hundred times over. I've become anightmare to myself, and I won't stand it. In a few days you'll havedeparted, and before you return I'll probably have gone too. Nothing butan intervention of Providence can prevent my marrying Florence Bakernow. Life isn't a story-book or we who live it undiscerning clods. Sheknows I am going to ask her to marry me, and I know what her answerwill be. We'll be away on our wedding-trip long before you and Elisereturn in the Fall. " The speaker's voice was sober. Only the heightenedcolor of his face betrayed him. 

"I say I'm through with this sort of thing, " he repeated, "and I meanit. I've tried everything on the face of the earth to find aninterest--but one--and Florence Baker represents that one. I hopeagainst hope that I'll find what I'm searching for there, but I amskeptical. I have been disappointed too many times to expect happinessnow. This is my last trump, old man, and I'm playing it deliberately andcarefully. If it fails, Florence will probably return; but before God, Inever will! I have thought it all out. I will leave her more money thanshe can ever spend--enough if she wishes to buy the elect of the elect. She is young, and she will soon forget--if it's necessary. With me, myactions have largely ceased to be a matter of ethics. I am desperate, Hough, and a desperate man takes what presents itself. "

But Hough was in no condition to appreciate the meaning of the selfishrevelation of his friend's true character. Since he married his lapseshad been infrequent, and already his surroundings were becoming a bitvague. His one ambition was to appear what he was not--sober; and hestraightened himself stiffly. 

"I see, " he said, "sorry to lose you, old pal, very sorry; but what mustbe must be, I s'pose, " and he drew himself together with a jerk. 

Sidwell glanced at the speaker sarcastically, almost with a shade ofcontempt. "I know you're sorry, deucedly sorry, " he mocked. "So sorrythat you'd probably like to drown your excess of emotion in the flowingbowl. " Again the ironic glance swept the other's face. "Another smilewould be good for you, anyway. You're entirely too serious. Here youare!" and the decanter once more did service. 

Hough picked up his glass and nodded with gravity "Yes, I always was asad devil. " By successive movements the liquor approached his lips. "Lots of troubles and tribulations all my--"

The sentence was not completed; the Cognac remained untasted. At thatmoment there was a knock upon the door. 

CHAPTER XXIII

THE BACK-FIRE

When Ben Blair left the Baker home he went back to his room at thehotel, closed and locked the door, and, throwing off coat and hat, stretched himself full-length upon the floor, gazing up at the ceilingbut seeing nothing. It had been a hard fight for self-control there onthe prairie the day Florence rejected him, but it was as nothing to thetumult that now raged in his brain. Then, despite his pain, hope hadremained. Now hope was lost, and in its place stood a maddeningmight-have-been. Under the compulsion of his will, the white flood ofanger had passed, but it only made more difficult the solution of theproblem confronting him. Under the influence of passion the situationwould have been a mere physical proposition; but with opportunity tothink, another's wishes and another's rights--those of the woman heloved--challenged him at every turn. 

At first it seemed that a removal of his physical presence, a going awaynever to return, was adequate solution of the difficulty; but he soonrealized that it was not. Deeper than his own love was his desire forthe happiness of the girl he had known from childhood. Had he beencertain that she would be happy with the man who had fascinated her, hecould have conquered self, could have returned to his prairies, hiscattle, his work, and have concealed his hurt. But it was impossible forhim to believe she would be happy. Without volition on his part he hadbecome an actor in this drama, this comedy, this tragedy, --whatever itmight prove to be; and he felt that it would be an act of cowardice uponhis part to leave before the play was ended. He was not in the leastreligious in the sense of creed and dogma. In all his life he hadscarcely given a thought to religion. His knowledge of the Almighty byname had been largely confined to that of a word to conjure with inmastering an obstreperous bronco; but, in the broad sense of personalcleanliness and individual duty, he was religious to the core. He wouldnot shirk a responsibility, and a responsibility faced him now. 

Hour after hour he lay prone while his active brain suggested one courseafter another, all, upon consideration, proving inadequate. Graduallyout of the chaos one fundamental fact became distinct in his mind. Hemust know more of this man Clarence Sidwell before he could leave thecity, and this decision brought him to his feet. Under thecircumstances, a strategist might have employed others to gathersurreptitiously the information desired; but such was not the nature ofBenjamin Blair. One thing he had learned in dealing with his fellows, which was that the most effective way to secure the thing one wished wasto go direct to the man who had it to give. In this case Sidwell was theman. With a grim smile Ben remembered the invitation and the address hehad received the first night he was in town. He would avail himself ofboth. 

Night had fallen long ere this; when Ben arose the room was in darkness, save for the reflected light which came through the heavily curtainedwindows from the street lamps. He turned on an electric bulb and made ahasty toilet. In doing so his eye fell upon the two big revolvers withinthe drawer of the dresser; and the same impulse that had caused him tobring them into this land of civilization made him thrust them into hiship pockets. It was more habit than anything else, just as a man with adog friend feels vaguely uncomfortable unless his pet is with him. Blairhad the vigorously recurring appetite of a healthy animal, and itsuddenly occurred to him that he had not yet dined. Descending to thestreet, he sought a _café_ and ate a hearty meal. 

A half-hour later, the elevator boy of the Metropolitan Block, whereSidwell had his quarters, was surprised, on answering the indicator, tofind a young man in an abnormally broad hat and flannel shirt awaitinghim. The youth was of vivid imagination, and knowing that a Wild Westtroupe was performing in town, one glance at Ben's hat, his suspicionsbecame certainty. 

"Eleventh floor, " he announced, when the passenger had told hisdestination; then as the car moved upward he gathered courage and lookedthe rancher fair in the eye. 

"Say, Mister, " he ventured, "give me a pass to the show, will you?"

For an instant Ben looked blank; then he understood, and his handsought his trousers' pocket. "Sorry, " he explained, "but I don't happento have any with me. Will this do instead?" and he produced ahalf-dollar. 

The boy brought the car deftly to a stop within a half-inch of the levelof the desired floor. "Thank you. Mr. Sidwell--straight ahead, and turnto the left down the short hall, " he said obligingly. 

Blair stepped out, saying, "Don't fail to be around to-morrow when I domy stunt. "

With open-mouthed admiration the boy watched the frontiersman's longfree stride--a movement that struck the floor with the springiness of acat, very different from the flat-footed jar of pedestrians on pavedstreets. 

"I won't!" he called after him. "I'd rather see't than a dozenball-games! I'll look for you, Mister!"

At the interrupting tap upon the door, Sidwell voiced a languid "Comein, " and merely shifted in his seat; but his big companion, with thehospitality of inebriation, had returned his glass unsteadily to thetable and arisen. He had taken a couple of uncertain steps, as if toopen the door, when, in answer to the summons, Ben Blair stepped inside. Hough halted with a suddenness which all but cost him his equilibrium. The expansive smile upon his face vanished, and he stared as though thebottomless pit had opened at his feet. For a fraction of a minute notone of the three men spoke or stirred, but in that time the steady blueeyes of the countryman took in the details of the scene--the luxuriousfurnishings, the condition of the two men--with the rapidity andminuteness of a sensitized plate. Ironic chance had chosen anunpropitious night for his call. Intoxication surrounding a bar, underthe stimulus of numbers, and preceding or following some exciting event, he could understand, could, perhaps, condone; but this solitarydissipation, drunkenness for its own sake, was something new to him. Theobserving eyes fastened themselves upon the host's face. 

"In response to your invitation, " he said evenly, "I've called. "

Sidwell roused himself. His face flushed. Despite the liquor in hisbrain, he felt the inauspicious chance of the meeting. 

"Glad you did, " he said, with an attempt at ease. "Deucedly glad. Idon't know of anyone in the world I'd rather see. Just speaking of you, weren't we?" he said, appealing to Hough. "By the way, Mr. --er--Blair, shake hands with Mr. Hough, Mr. Winston Hough. Mighty good fellow, Hough, but a bit melancholy. Needs cheering up a bit now and then. Needed it badly to-night--almost cried for it, in fact"; and the speakersmiled convivially. 

Hough extended his hand with elaborate formality. "Delighted to meetyou, " he managed to articulate. 

"Thank you, " returned the other shortly. 

Sidwell meanwhile was bringing a third chair and glass. "Come over, gentlemen, " he invited, "and we'll celebrate this, the proudest momentof my life. You drink, of course, Mr. Blair?"

Ben did not stir. "Thank you, but I never drink, " he said. 

"What!" Sidwell smiled sceptically. "A cattle-man, and not refreshyourself with good liquor? You refute all the precedents! Come over andtake something!"

Ben only looked at him steadily. "I repeat, I never drink, " he saidconclusively. 

Sidwell sat down, and Hough followed his lead. 

"All right, all right! Have a cigar, then. At least you smoke?"

"Yes, " assented Blair, "I smoke--sometimes. "

The host extended the box hospitably. "Help yourself. They're good ones, I'll answer for that. I import them myself. "

Ben took a step forward, but his hands were still in his pockets. "Mr. Sidwell, " he said, "we may as well save time and try to understand eachother. In some ways I am a bit like an Indian. I never smoke except witha friend, and I am not sure you are a friend of mine. To be candid withyou, I believe you are not. "

Hough stirred in his chair, but Sidwell remained impassive save that theconvivial smile vanished. 

A quarter of a minute passed. Once the host took up his glass as if todrink, but put it down untasted. At last he indicated the vacant chair. 

"Won't you be seated?" he invited. 

Ben sat down. 

"You say, " continued Sidwell, "that I am not your friend. The statementand your actions carry the implication that of necessity, then, we mustbe enemies. "

The speaker was sparring for time. His brain was not yet normal, but itwas clearing rapidly. He saw this was no ordinary man he had to dealwith, no ordinary circumstance; and his plan of campaign was unevolved. 

"I fail to see why, " he continued. 

"Do you?" said Ben, quietly. 

Sidwell lit a cigar nonchalantly and smoked for a moment in silence. 

"Yes, " he reiterated. "I fail to see why. To have made you an enemyimplies that I have done you an injury, and I recall no way in which Icould have offended you. "

Ben indicated Hough with a nod of his head. "Do you wish a third partyto hear what we have to say?" he inquired. 

Sidwell looked at the questioner narrowly. Deep in his heart he wasthankful that they two were not alone. He did not like the look in thecountryman's blue eyes. 

"Mr. Hough, " he said with dignity, "is a friend of mine. If either ofyou must leave the room, most assuredly it will not be he. " His eyesreturned to those of the visitor, held there with an effort. "By thebye, " he challenged, "what is it we have to say, anyway? So far as I cansee, there's no point where we touch. "

Ben returned the gaze steadily. "Absolutely none?" he asked. 

"Absolutely none. " Sidwell spoke with an air of finality. 

The countryman leaned a bit forward and rested his elbow upon his knee, his chin upon his hand. 

"Suppose I suggest a point then: Miss Florence Baker. "

Sidwell stiffened with exaggerated dignity. "I never discuss myrelations with a lady, even with a friend. I should be less apt to do soin speaking with a stranger. "

The lids of Ben's eyes tightened just a shade. "Then I'll have to askyou to make an exception to the rule, " he said slowly. 

"In that case, " Sidwell responded quickly, "I'll refuse. "

For a moment silence fell. Through the open window came the ceaselessdrone of the shifting multitude on the street below. 

"Nevertheless, I insist, " said Ben, calmly. 

Sidwell's face flushed, although he was quite sober now. "And I muststill refuse, " he said, rising. "Moreover, I must request that you leavethe room. You forget that you are in my home!"

Ben arose calmly and walked to the door through which he had entered. The key was in the lock, and turning it he put it in his pocket. Stillwithout haste he returned to his seat. 

"That this is your home, and that you were its dictator before I cameand will be after I leave, I do not contest, " he said; "but temporarilythe place has changed hands. I do not think you were quite in earnestwhen you refused to talk with me. "

For answer, Sidwell jerked a cord beside the table. A bell rangvigorously in the rear of the apartments, and the big negro hurried intothe room. 

"Alec, " directed the master, "call a policeman at once! At once--do youhear?"

"Yes, sah, " and the servant started to obey; but the visitor's eyecaught his. 

"Alec, " said Ben, steadily, "don't do that! I'll be the first person toleave this room!"

Instantly Sidwell was on his feet, his face convulsed with passion. "Curse you!" he cried. "You'll pay for this! I'll teach you what itmeans to hold up a man in his own house!" He turned to his servant witha look that made the latter recoil. "I want you to understand that whenI give an order I mean it. Go!"

Blair was likewise on his feet, his long body stretched to its fullheight, his blue eyes fastened upon the face of the panic-strickendarky. 

"Alec, " he repeated evenly, "you heard what I said. " Without a motionsave of his head he indicated a seat in the corner of the room. "Sitdown!"

Sidwell took a step forward, his clenched fists raised menacingly. 

"Blair! you--you--"

"Yes. "

"You--"

"Certainly, I--"

That was all. It was not a lengthy conversation, or a brilliant one, butit was adequate. Face to face, the two men stood looking in each other'seyes, each taking his opponent's measure. Hough had also risen; heexpected bloodshed; but not once did Blair stir as much as an eyelid, and after that first step Sidwell also halted. Beneath his superciliouscaste dominance he was a physical coward, and at the supreme test heweakened. The flood of anger passed as swiftly as it had come, leavinghim impotent. He stood for a moment, and then the clenched fist droppedto his side. 

For the first time, Ben Blair moved. Unemotionally as before, his nodindicated the chair in the corner. 

"Sit over there as long as I stay, Alec, " he directed; and the negroresponded with the alacrity of a well-trained dog. 

Ben turned to the big man. "And you, too, Hough. My business has nothingto do with you, but it may be well to have a witness. Be seated, please. "

Hough obeyed in silence. Sober as Sidwell now, his mind grasped thesituation, and in spite of himself he felt his sympathy going out tothis masterful plainsman. 

Ben Blair now turned to the host, and as he did so his wiry figureunderwent a transformation that lived long in the spectators' minds. With his old characteristic motion, his hands went into his trousers'pockets, his chest expanded, his great chin lifted until, looking down, his eyes were half closed. 

"You, Mr. Sidwell, " he said, "can stand or sit, as you please; but onething I warn you not to do--don't lie to me. We're in the home of liesjust now, but it can't help you. Your face says you are used to havingyour own way, right or wrong. Now you'll know the reverse. So long asyou speak the truth, I won't hurt you, no matter what you say. If youdon't, and believe in God, you'd best make your peace with Him. Do youdoubt that?"

One glance only Sidwell raised to the towering face, and his eyes fell. Every trace of fight, of effrontery, had left him, and he dropped weaklyinto his chair. 

"No, I don't doubt you, " he said. 

Ben likewise sat down, but his eyes were inexorable. 

"First of all, then, " he went on, "you will admit you were mistaken whenyou said there was no point where we touched?"

"Yes, I was mistaken. "

"And you were not serious when you refused to talk with me?"

A spasm of repugnance shot over the host's dark face. He heard thelabored breathing of the negro in the corner, and felt the eyes of hisbig friend upon him. 

"Yes, I was not serious, " he admitted slowly. 

Ben's long legs crossed, his hands closed on the chair-arms. 

"Very well, then, " he said. "Tell me what there is between you and MissBaker. "

Sidwell lit a cigar, though the hand that held the match trembled. 

"Everything, I hope, " he said. "I intend marrying her. "

The ranchman's face gave no sign at the confession. 

"You have asked her, have you?"

"No. Your coming prevented. I should otherwise have done so to-day. "

The long fingers on the chair-arms tightened until they grew white. 

"You knew why I came to town, did you not?"

Sidwell hesitated. 

"I had an intuition, " he admitted reluctantly. 

Again silence fell, and the subdued roar of the city came to their ears. 

"You have not called at the Baker home to-day, " continued Blair. "Was itconsideration for me that kept you away?" The thin, weather-browned facegrew, if possible, more clean-cut. "Remember to talk straight. "

Sidwell took the cigar from his lips. An exultation he could not quiterepress flooded him. His eyes met the other's fair. 

"No, " he said, "it was anything but consideration for you. I knew shewas going to refuse you. "

In the corner the negro's eyes widened. Even Hough held his breath; butnot a muscle of Ben Blair's body stirred. 

"You say you knew, " he said evenly. "How did you know?"

Sidwell flicked the ash from his cigar steadily. He was regaining, ifnot his courage, at least some of his presence of mind. This seemingdesperado from the West was a being upon whom reason was not altogetherwasted. 

"I knew because her mother told me--about all there was to tell, Iguess--of your relations before Florence came here. I knew if sherefused you then she would be more apt to do so now. "

Still the figure in brown was that of a statue. 

"She told you--what--you say?"

Sidwell shifted uncomfortably. He saw breakers ahead. 

"The--main reason at least, " he modified. 

"Which was--" insistently. 

Sidwell hesitated, his new-found confidence vanishing like the smokefrom his cigar. But there was no escape. 

"The reason, she said, was because you were--minus a pedigree. "

The last words dropped like a bomb in the midst of the room. Ben Blairswiftly rose from his seat. The negro's eyes rolled around in search ofsome place of concealment. With a protesting movement Hough was on hisfeet. 

"Gentlemen!" he implored. "Gentlemen!"

But the intervention was unnecessary. Ben Blair had settled back in hisseat. Once more his hands were on the chair-arms. 

"Do you, " he insinuated gently, "consider the reason she gave anadequate one? Do you consider that it had any rightful place in thediscussion?"

The question, seemingly simple, was hard to answer. An affirmativetrembled on the city man's tongue. He realized it was his opportunityfor a crushing rejoinder. But cold blue eyes were upon him and themeaning of their light was only too clear. 

"I can understand the lady's point of view, " he said evasively. 

Ben Blair leaned forward, the great muscles of his jaw and templestightening beneath the skin. 

"I did not ask for the lady's point of view, " he admonished, "I askedfor your own. "

Again Sidwell felt his opportunity, but physical cowardice intervened. No power on earth could have made him say "yes" when the other looked athim like that. 

"No, " he lied, "I do not see that it should make the slightestdifference. "

"On your honor, you swear you do not?"

Sidwell repeated the statement, and sealed it with his honor. 

Ben Blair relaxed, and Hough mopped his brow with a sigh of relief. EvenSidwell felt the respite, but it was short-lived. 

"I think, " Ben resumed, "that what you've just said and sworn to givesthe lie to your original statement that you have given me no cause forenmity. According to your own showing you are the one existing obstaclebetween Florence Baker and myself. Is it not so?"

Like a condemned criminal, Sidwell felt the noose tightening. 

"I can't deny it, " he admitted. 

For some seconds Ben Blair looked at him with an expression almostmenacing. When he again spoke the first trace of passion was in hisvoice. 

"Such being the case, Clarence Sidwell, " he went on, "caring forFlorence Baker as I do, and knowing you as I do, why in God's nameshould I leave you, coward, in possession of the dearest thing to me inthe world?" For an instant the voice paused, the protruding lower jawadvanced until it became a positive disfigurement. "Tell me why I shouldsacrifice my own happiness for yours. I have had enough of thisword-play. Speak!"

In every human life there is at some time a supreme moment, a tragicclimax of events; and Sidwell realized that for him this moment hadarrived. Moreover, it had found him helpless and unprepared. Artificialto the bone, he was fundamentally disqualified to meet such anemergency; for artifice or subterfuge would not serve him now. One hastyglance into that relentless face caused him to turn his own away. Longago, in the West, he had once seen a rustler hung by a posse ofranchers. The inexorable expression he remembered on the surroundingfaces was mirrored in Ben Blair's. His brain whirled; he could notthink. His hand passed aimlessly over his face; he started to speak, buthis voice failed him. 

Ben Blair shifted forward in his seat. The long sinewy fingers grippedthe chair like a panther ready to spring. 

"I am listening, " he admonished. 

Sidwell felt the air of the room grow stifling. A big clock was tickingon the wall, and it seemed to him the second-beats were minutes apart. His downcast eyes just caught the shape of the hands opposite him, andin fancy he felt them already tightening upon his throat. Like adrowning man, scenes in his past life swarmed through his brain. He sawhis mother, his sisters, at home in the old family mansion; his friendsat the club, chatting, laughing, drinking, smoking. In an impersonalsort of way he wondered how they would feel, what they would say, whenthey heard. On the vision swept. It was Florence Baker he sawnow--Florence, all in fleecy white; the girl and himself were on thebroad veranda of the Baker home. They were not alone. Anotherfigure--yes, this same menacing figure now so near--was on the walkbelow them, his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, but leaving. Florencewas speaking; a smile was upon her lips. 

Like a flash of lightning the images of fancy passed, the presentreturned. At last came the solution once before suggested, --theback-fire! Sidwell straightened, every nerve in his body tense. Hespoke--and scarcely recognized his own voice. 

"There is a reason, " he said, "a very adequate reason, one whichconcerns another more than it does us. " With a supreme effort of willthe man met the blue eyes of his opponent squarely. "It is becauseFlorence Baker loves me and doesn't love you. Because she would neverforgive you, never, if you did--what you think of doing now. "

For an instant the listening figure remained tense, and it seemed toSidwell that his own pulse ceased beating; then the long sinewy bodycollapsed as under a physical blow. 

"God!" said a low voice. "I forgot!"

Not one of the three spectators stirred or spoke. Like sheep, theyawaited the lead of their master. 

And it came full soon. Stiffly, clumsily, still in silence, Ben Blairarose. His face was drawn and old, his step was slow and halting. Likeone walking in his sleep, he made his way to the door, took the key fromhis pocket, and turned the lock. Not once did he speak or glance back. The door closed softly, and he was gone. 

Behind him for a second there was silence, inactive incredulity as at amiracle performed; then, in a blaze of long repressed fury, Sidwellstood beside the table. Not pausing for a glass, he raised the reddecanter to his lips and drank, drank, as though the liquor were water. 

"Curse him! I'll marry that girl now if for no other reason than to geteven with him. If it's the last act of my life, I swear I'll marryher!"

CHAPTER XXIV

THE UPPER AND THE NETHER MILLSTONES

Out on the street once more, Ben Blair looked about him as one awakeningfrom a dream. From the darkened arch of a convenient doorway he watchedthe endless passing throng with a dull sort of wonder. He was surprisedthat the city should be awake at that late hour; and stepping out intothe light he held up his watch. The hands indicated a few minutes pastten, and in surprise he carried the timepiece to his ear. Yes, it wasrunning, and must be correct. He had seemed to be up there on theeleventh floor for hours; but as a matter of fact it had been onlyminutes. Practically, the whole night was yet before him. 

Slowly, in a listless way, he started to walk back to his hotel. Insteadof the night becoming cooler it had grown sultrier, and in places thewalk was fairly packed with human beings. More than once he had to turnout of his way to pass the chattering groups. In so doing he was oftenconscious that the flow of small talk suddenly ceased, and that, nudgingeach other, the chatterers pointed his way. At first he looked about tosee what had attracted them, but he very soon realized that he himselfwas the object of attention. Even here, cosmopolitan as were thesurroundings, he was a marked man, was recognized as a person from awholly different life; and his feeling of isolation deepened. He movedon more swiftly. 

The sidewalk in front of his hotel was fringed with a row of chairs, inwhich sat guests in various stages of negligee costume. Nearly every manwas smoking, and the effect in the semi-darkness was like that offootlights turned low. Steps and lobby were likewise crowded; but Benmade his way straight to his room. One idea now possessed him. Hisbusiness was finished, and he wanted to be away. Turning on a light, hefound a railroad guide and ran down the columns of figures. There was nolate night train going West; he must wait until morning. Extinguishingthe light, he drew a chair to the open window and lit a cigar. 

With physical inactivity, consciousness of his surroundings forcedthemselves on his attention. Subdued, pulsating, penetrating, the murmurof the great hotel came to his ears; the drone of indistinguishablevoices, the pattering footsteps of bell-boys and _habitués_, the purr ofthe elevator as it moved from floor to floor, the click of the gate asit stopped at his own level, the renewed monotone as it passed by. 

Continuous, untiring, the sounds suggested the unthinking vitality of asteam-engine or of a dynamo in a powerhouse. A mechanic by nature, as aschool-boy Ben had often induced Scotty to take him to the electriclight station, where he had watched the great machines with afascination bordering on awe, until fairly dragged away by the prosaicEnglishman. This feeling of his childhood recurred to him now withirresistible force. The throb of the motor of human life was pulsatingin his ears; but added to it was something more, something elusive, intangible, but all-powerful. The moment he had arrived within the citylimits he had felt the first trace of its presence. As he approached thecentre of congestion it had deepened, had become more and more a guidinginfluence. Since then, by day or by night, wherever he went, augmentingor diminishing, it was constantly with him. And it was not with himalone. Every human being with whom he came in contact was likewiseconsciously or unconsciously under the spell. The crowds he had passedon the streets were unthinkingly answering its guidance. The trolleycars echoed its voice. It was the spirit of unrest--a thing ubiquitousand all-penetrating as the air that filled their lungs--a subtlestimulant that they took in with every breath. 

Ben Blair arose and put on his hat. He had been sitting only a fewminutes, but he felt that he could not longer bear the inactivity. To doso meant to think; and thought was the thing that to-night he wasattempting to avoid. Moreover, for one of the few times in his life hecould remember he was desperately lonely. It seemed to him that nowherewithin a thousand miles was another of his own kind. Instinctively hecraved relief, and that alleviation could come in but one way, --throughphysical activity. Again he sought the street. 

To some persons a great relief from loneliness is found in mingling witha crowd, even though it be of strangers; but Ben was not like these. Hisdesire was to be away as far as possible from the maddening drone. Boarding a street car, he rode out into the residence section, clear tothe end of the loop; then, alighting, he started to walk back. A fullmoon had arisen, and outside the shadow-blots of trees and buildings theearth was all alight. The asphalt of the pavements and the cement of thewalks glistened white under its rays. Loth to sacrifice the comparativeout-of-door coolness for the heat within, practically every house hadits group on the doorsteps, or scattered upon the narrow lawns. Accustomed to magnificent distances, to boundless miles of surroundingcountry, to privacy absolute, Ben watched this scene with a return ofthe old wonder, --the old feeling of isolation, of separateness. Side byside, young men and women, obviously lovers, kept their places, indifferent to his observation. Other couples, still more careless, satwith circling arms and faces close together, returning his gazeimpassively. Nothing, apparently, in the complex gamut of human naturewas sacred to these folk. To the solitary spectator, the revelation wasmore depressing than even the down-town unrest; and he hurried on. 

Further ahead he came to the homes of the wealthy, --great piles of stoneand brick, that seemed more like hotels than residences. The forbiddingdarkness of many of the houses testified that their owners were out oftown, at the seaside or among the mountains; but others were brilliantlylighted from basement to roof. Before one a long line of carriages wasdrawn up. Stiffly liveried footmen, impassive as automatons, waited theerratic pleasure of their masters. A little group of spectators wasalready gathered, and Ben likewise paused, observing the spectaclecuriously. 

A social event of some sort was in progress. From some concealed placecame the music of a string orchestra. Every window of the great pile wasopen for ventilation, and Ben could hear and see almost as plainly asthe guests themselves. For a time, deep, insistent, throbbing inmeasured beat, came the drone of the 'cello, the wail of the clarionet, and, faintly audible beneath, the rustle of moving feet. Then the musicceased; and a few seconds later a throng of heated dancers swarmedthrough the open doorway to the surrounding veranda, and simultaneouslya chatter broke forth. Fans, like gigantic butterfly wings, vibrated toand fro. Skilful waiters, in black and white, glanced in and out. Laughter, thoughtless and care-free, mingled in the general scene. 

The music still, Ben Blair was about to move on, when suddenly a man anda girl in the shadow of a window on the second floor caught and held hisattention. As far as he could see, they were alone. Evidently one or theother of them knew the house intimately, and had deliberately sought theplace. From the veranda beneath, the flow of talk continueduninterruptedly; but they gave it no attention. The spectator coulddistinctly see the man as he leaned back in the light and spokeearnestly. At times he gesticulated with rapid passionate motions, suchas one unconsciously uses when deeply absorbed. Now and again, with thebodily motions that we have learned to connect with the French, hisshoulders were shrugged expressively. He was obviously talking againsttime; for his every motion showed intense concentration. No spectatorcould have mistaken the nature of his speech. Passion supreme, abandonabsolute, were here personified. As he spoke, he gradually leanedfarther forward toward the woman who listened. His face was no longer inthe light. Suddenly, at first low, as though coming from a distance, increasing gradually until it throbbed into the steady beat of a waltz, the music recommenced. It was the signal for action and for throwing offrestraint. The man leaned forward; his arm stretched out and closedabout the figure of the woman. His face pressed forward to meet hers, again and again. 

Not Ben alone, but a half-dozen other spectators had watched the scene. An overdressed girl among the number tittered at the sight. 

But Ben scarcely noticed. With the strength of insulted womanhood, thegirl had broken free, and now stood up full in the light. One look shegave to the man, a look which should have withered him with its scorn;then, gathering her skirts, she almost ran from the room. 

Only a few seconds had the girl's face been clear of the shadow; yet ithad been long enough to permit recognition, and instantly liquid fireflowed in the veins of Benjamin Blair. His breath came quick and shortas that of a runner passing under the wire, and his great jaw set. Thewoman he had seen was Florence Baker. 

With one motion he was upon the terrace leading toward the house. Another second, and he would have been well upon his way, when a handgrasped him from behind and drew him back. With a half-articulatedimprecation Ben turned--and stood fronting Scotty Baker. TheEnglishman's face was very white. Behind the compound lenses his eyesglowed in a way Ben had not thought possible; but his voice was steadywhen he spoke. 

"I saw too, Ben, " he said, "and I understand. I know what you want todo, and God knows I want to do the same thing myself; but it would do nogood; it would only make the matter worse. " He looked at the younger manfixedly, almost imploringly. His voice sank. "As you care for Florence, Ben, go away. Don't make a scene that will do only harm. Leave her withme. I came to take her home, and I'll do so at once. " The speakerpaused, and his hand reached out and grasped the other's with a gripunmistakable. "I appreciate your motive, my boy, and I honor it. I knowhow you feel; and whatever I may have been in the past, from this timeon I am your friend. I am your friend now, when I ask you to go, " and hefairly forced his companion away. 

Once outside the crowd, Ben halted. He gave the Englishman one longlook; his lips opened as if to speak; then, without a word, he movedaway. 

There was no listlessness about him now. He was throbbing with repressedenergy, like a great engine with steam up. His feet tapped with theregularity of clock-ticks over mile after mile of the city walks. Helonged for physical weariness, for sleep; but the day, with its manifoldmental exaltations and depressions, prevented. It seemed to him that hecould never sleep again, could never again be weary. He could only walkon and on. 

Down town again, he found the crowds smaller and the border of chairs infront of his hotel largely empty. A few cigars still burned in thehalf-light, but they were the last flicker of a conflagration now allbut extinguished. The restless throb of the human dynamo was lower andmore subdued. The street cars were practically empty. Instead of aconstant stream of vehicles, an occasional cab clattered past. The citywas preparing for its brief hours of fitful rest. 

Straight on Ben walked, between the towering office buildings, besidethe now darkened department-store hives, past the giant wholesaleestablishments and warehouses; until, quite unintentionally on his part, and almost before he realized it, he found himself in another world, another city, as distinct as though it were no part of the cosmopolitanwhole. Again he came upon throbbing life; but of quite another type. Once more he met people in abundance, noisy, chattering human beings;but more frequently than his own he now heard foreign tongues that hedid not understand, and did not even recognize. No longer were thepedestrians well dressed or apparently prosperous. Instead, poverty andsqualor and filth were rampant. More loth even than the well-to-do ofthe suburbs to go within doors, the swarming mass of humanity coveredthe steps of the houses, and overflowed upon the sidewalk, even upon thestreet itself. There were men, women, children; the lame, the halt, theblind. The elders stared at the visitor, while the youngsters, securein numbers, guyed him to their hearts' content. 

It was all as foreign to any previous experience of this countryman asthough he had come from a different planet. He had read of the cityslums as of Stanley's Central African negro tribes with unpronounceablenames; and he had thought of them in much the same way. To him they hadbeen something known to exist, but with which it was but remotelyprobable he would ever come in contact. Now, without preparation orpremeditation, thrown face to face with the reality, it brought upon hima sickening feeling, a sort of mental nausea. Ben was not aphilanthropist or a social reformer; the inspiring thought of theinexhaustible field for usefulness therein presented had never occurredto him. He wished chiefly to get away from the stench and ugliness; and, turning down a cross street, he started to return. 

The locality he now entered was more modern and better lighted than theone he left behind. The decorated building fronts, with their dazzlingelectric signs, partook of the characteristics of the inhabitants, whoseemed overdressed and vulgarly ostentatious. The gaudily trappedsaloons, _cafés_, and music halls, spoke a similar message. This was therecreation spot of the people of the quarter; their land of lethe. Sonear were the saloons and drinking gardens that from their open doorwaysthere came a pungent odor of beer. Every place had instrumental music ofsome kind. Mandolins and guitars, in the hands of gentlemen of color, were the favorites. Pianos of execrable tone, played by youths withdefective complexions, or by machinery, were a close second. Before oneplace, a crowd blocked the sidewalk; and there Ben stopped. A vaudevilleperformance was going on within--an invisible dialect comedian doing aGerman stunt to the accompaniment of wooden clogs and disarranged verbs. A barker in front, coatless, his collar loosened, a black string tiedangling over an unclean shirt front, was temporarily taking amuch-needed rest. An electric sign overhead dyed his cheeks withshifting colors--first red, then green, then white. Despite its veneerof brazen effrontery, the face, with its great mouth and two days'growth of beard, was haggard and weary looking. Ben mentally pictured, with a feeling of compassion, other human beings doing their idiotic"stunts" inside, sweltering in the foul air; and he wondered how, if anatom of self-respect remained in their make-up, they could fail todespise themselves. 

But the comedian had subsided in a roar of applause, and again thebarker's hands were gesticulating wildly. 

"Now's your time, ladies and gentlemen, " he harangued. "It's continuous, you know, and Madame--"

But Ben did not wait for more. Elbow first, he pushed into the crowd, and as it instantly closed about him the odor of unclean bodies made himfairly hold his breath. 

Straight ahead, looking neither to right nor to left, went thecountryman; he turned the corner of the block, a corner without a light. Suddenly, with an instinctive tightening of his breath, he drew back. Hehad nearly stepped upon a man, dead drunk, stretched half in a darkeneddoorway, half on the walk. The wretch's head was bent back over one ofthe iron steps until it seemed as if he must choke, and he was snoringheavily. 

Not a policeman was in sight, and Ben, in great physical disgust, carried the helpless hulk to one side, out of the way of pedestrians, took off the tattered coat and rolled it into a pillow for the head, andthen moved on with the sound of the stertorous drunken breathing stillin his ears. 

Still other experiences were in store for him. He made a half blockwithout further interruption; then he suddenly heard at his back afrightened scream, and a young woman came running toward him, followedat a distance by a roughly dressed man, the latter apparently the worsefor liquor. Blair stopped, and the girl coming up, caught him by the armimploringly. 

"Help me, Mister, please!" she pleaded breathlessly. "He--Tom, backthere--insulted me. I--" A burst of hysterical tears interrupted theconfession. 

Meanwhile, seeing the turn events had taken, the pursuer had likewisestopped, and now he hesitated. 

"All right, " replied Ben. "Go ahead! I'll see that the fellow doesn'ttrouble you again. " And he started back. 

But the girl's hand was again upon his arm. "No, " she protested, "notthat way, please. He's my steady, Tom is, only to-night he's drank toomuch, and--and--he doesn't realize what he's doing. " The grip on his armtightened as she looked imploringly into his face. "Take me home, please!" A catch was in her voice. "I'm afraid. "

Ben hesitated. Even in the half-light the petitioner's face hintedbrazenly of cosmetics. 

"Where do you live?" he asked shortly. 

"Only a little way, less than a block, and it's the direction you'regoing. Please take me!"

"Very well, " said Blair, and they moved on, the girl still clinging tohim and sobbing at intervals. Before a dark three-story and basementbuilding, with a decidedly sinister aspect, she stopped and indicated astairway. 

"This is the place. "

"All right, " responded Ben. "I guess you're safe now. Good-night!"

But she clung to him the tighter. "Come up with me, " she insisted. "We're only on the second floor, and I haven't thanked you yet. Really, I'm so grateful! You don't know what it means to be a girl, and--and--"Her feelings got the better of her again, and she paused to wipe hereyes on her sleeve. "My mother will be so thankful too. She'd neverforgive me if I didn't bring you up. Please come!" and she led the wayup the darkened stair. 

Again Ben hesitated. He did not in the least like the situation in whichcircumstances had placed him. The prospect of the girl's mother, likeherself, scattering grateful tears upon him was not alluring; but itseemed the part of a cad to refuse, and at last he followed. 

His guide led him up a short flight of stairs and turned to the right, down a dimly lighted hall. The ground-floor of the building was used forstore purposes. This second floor was evidently a series of apartments. Lights from within the rooms crept over the curtained transoms. Voicessounded; glasses clinked. A piano banged out ragtime like mad. 

At the fourth door the girl stopped. "Thank you so much for coming, " shesaid. "Walk right in, " and throwing open the door she fairly shoved thevisitor inside. 

From out the semi-darkness, Ben now found himself in a well-lightedroom, and the change made him blink about him. Instead of the motherlyold lady in a frilled cap, whom he had expected to see, he found himselfin the company of a half-dozen coatless young men and under-dressedwomen, lounging in questionable attitudes on chairs and sofas. At hisadvent they all looked up. A sallow youth who had been operating thepiano turned in his seat and the music stopped. Not yet realizing thetrick that had been played upon him, Ben turned to look for his guide;but she was nowhere in sight, and the door was closed. His eyes shiftedback and met a circle of amused faces, while a burst of mocking laughterbroke upon his ears. 

Then for the first time he understood, and his face went white withanger. Without a word he started to leave the room. But one of the womenwas already at his side, her detaining hand upon his sleeve. "No, no, honey!" she said, insinuatingly. "We're all good fellows! Stay awhile!"

Ben shook her off roughly. Her very touch was contaminating. But one ofthe men had had time to get between him and the door; a sarcastic smilewas upon his face as he blocked the way. 

"I guess it's on you, old man!" he bantered. "About a half-dozen quartswill do for a starter!" He nodded to a pudgy old woman who was watchinginterestedly from the background. "You heard the gent's order, mother!Beer, and in a hurry! He looks dry and hot. "

Again a gale of laughter broke forth; but Ben took no notice. He madeone step forward, until he was within arm's reach of the humorist. 

"Step out of my way, please, " he said evenly. 

Had the man been alone he would have complied, and quickly. No humanbeing with eyes and intelligence could have misread the warning on BenBlair's countenance. He started to move, when the girl who had firstcome forward turned the tide. 

"Aw, Charley!" she goaded. "Is that all the nerve you've got!" and shelaughed ironically. 

Instantly the man's face reddened, and he fell back into his firstposition. 

"Sorry I can't oblige you, pal, " he said, "but you see it's agin dehouse. Us blokes has got--"

The sentence was never completed. Ben's fist shot out and caught thespeaker fair on the point of his jaw, and he collapsed in his tracks. For a second no one in the room stirred; then before Ben could open thedoor, the other men were upon him. The women fled screaming to thefarthest corner of the room, where they huddled together like sheep. Returning with the tray, the old woman realized an only too familiarcondition. 

"Gentlemen!" she pleaded. "Gentlemen!"

But no one paid the slightest attention to her. Forced by sheer odds ofmass toward a corner, Ben's long arms were working like flails. Anotherman fell, and was up again. The first one also was upon his feet now, his face white, and a tiny stream of blood trickling from his bruisedjaw. A heavy beer-bottle flung by one of the women crashed on the wallover the countryman's head, the contents spattering over him like rain. One of the men had seized a chair and swung it high, to strike, withmurder in his eye. Attracted by the confusion, the other occupants ofthe floor had rushed into the hall. The door was flung open andinstantly blocked with a mass of sinister menacing faces. 

Until then, Ben had been silent as death, silent as one who realizesthat he is fighting for life against overwhelming odds. Now of a suddenhe leaped backward like a great cat, clear of all the others. From histhroat there issued a sound, the like of which not one of those wholistened had ever heard before, and which fairly lifted their hair--theIndian war-whoop that the man had learned as a boy. With the oldinstinctive motion, comparable in swiftness to nothing save the passageof light, the cowboy's hands went to his hips, and as swiftly returnedwith the muzzles of two great revolvers protruding like elongated indexfingers. With equal swiftness, his face had undergone a transformation. His jaw was set and his blue eyes flashed like live coals. 

"Stand back, little folks!" he ordered, while the twin weapons revolvedin circles of reflected flame about his trigger fingers. "You seem towant a show, and you shall have it!" The whirling circles vanished. Adeep report fell upon the silence, and a gaudy vase on the mantle flewinto a thousand pieces. "Stand back, people, or you might get hurt!"

Awed into dumb helplessness, the spectators stared with widening eyes;but the spectacle had only begun. Like the reports of giantfire-crackers, only seconds apart, the great revolvers spoke. A nudelysuggestive cast in the corner followed the vase. A quaintly carved clockpaused in its measure of time, its hands chronicling the minute ofinterruption. A decanter of whiskey burst spattering over a table. Twobacchanalian pictures on the wall suddenly had yawning wounds in theircentre. The portrait of a queen of the footlights leaped into the air. One of the beer-bottles, which the madame had placed on a convenienttable, popped as though it were champagne. Fragments of glass andporcelain fell about like hail. The place was lighted by a tuft of threebig incandescent globes; and, last of all, one by one, they crashed intoatoms, and the room was in total darkness. Then silence fell, startlingin contrast to the late confusion, while the pungent odor of burntgunpowder intruded upon the nostrils. 

For a moment there was inaction; then the assembly broke into motion. Nothought was there now of retaliation or revenge; only, as at a suddenconflagration or a wreck, of individual safety and escape. The hallwaywas cleared as if by magic. Within the room the men and women jostledeach other in the darkness, or jammed imprecating in the narrow doorway. In a few seconds Ben was alone. Calmly he thrust the empty revolversback into his pockets and followed leisurely into the hall. There thedim light revealed an empty space; but here and there a lock turnedgratingly, and from more than one room as he passed came the sound offurniture being hastily drawn forward as a barricade. 

No human being ever knew what occurred behind the locked door of BenBlair's room at the hotel that night. Those hours were buried as deep aswhat took place in his mind during the months intervening between thecoming of Florence Baker to the city and his own decision to follow her. By nature a solitary, he fought his battles alone and in silence. Thathe never once touched his bed, the hotel maids could have testified thenext morning. As to the decision that followed those sleepless hours, his own action gave a clue. He had left a call for an early train West, and at daylight a tap sounded on his door, while a voice announced thetime. 

"Yes, " answered the guest; but he did not stir. 

In a few minutes the tap was repeated more insistently. "You've onlytime to make your train if you hurry, " warned the voice. 

For a moment Blair did not answer. Then he said: "I have decided not togo. "

CHAPTER XXV

OF WHAT AVAIL?

It was late next morning, almost noon in fact, when Florence Bakerawoke; and even then she did not at once rise. A physical listlessness, very unusual to her, lay upon her like a weight. A year ago, by thistime of day, she would have been ravenously hungry; but now she had afeeling that she could not have taken a mouthful of food had her lifedepended on it. The room, although it faced the west and was wellventilated, seemed hot and depressing. A breeze stirred the lacecurtains at the window, but it was heated by the blocks of citypavements over which it had come. The girl involuntarily compared thisawakening with that of a former life in what now seemed to her the verylong ago. She remembered the light morning wind of the prairies, which, always fresh with the coolness of dew and of growing things, had driftedin at the tiny windows of the Baker ranch-house. She recalled the sweetscent of the buffalo grass with a vague sense of depression andirrevocable loss. 

She turned restlessly beneath the covers, and in doing so her face camein contact with the moistened surface of her pillow. Propping herself upon her elbow, she looked curiously at the tell-tale bit of linen. Obviously, she had been crying in her sleep; and for this there musthave been a reason. Until that moment she had not thought of theprevious night; but now the sudden recollection overwhelmed her. She wasonly a girl-woman--a child of nature, incapable of repression. Two greattears gathered in her soft brown eyes; with instinctive desire ofconcealment the fluffy head dropped to the pillow, and the sobs brokeout afresh. 

Minutes passed; then her mother's hesitating steps approached the door. 

"Florence, " called a voice. "Florence, are you well?"

The dishevelled brown head lifted, but the girl made no motion to lether mother in. 

"Yes--I am well, " she echoed. 

For a moment Mrs. Baker hesitated, but she was too much in awe of herdaughter to enter uninvited. 

"I have a note for you, " she announced. "Mr. Sidwell's man Alec justbrought it. He says there's to be an answer. "

But still the girl did not move. It was an unpropitious time to mentionthe club-man's name. The fascination of such as he fades at earlymorning; it demands semi-darkness or artificial light. Just now thethought of him was distinctly depressing, like the sultry breeze thatwandered in at the window. 

"Very well, " said Florence, at last. "Leave it, please, and tell Alec towait. I'll be down directly. "

In response, an envelope with a monogram in the corner was slipped inunder the door, and the bearer's footsteps tapped back into silence. 

Slowly the girl crawled from her bed, but she did not at once take upthe note. Instead, she walked over to the dresser, and, leaning on itspolished top, gazed into the mirror at the reflection of hertear-stained face, with its mass of disarranged hair. It was not a happyface that she saw; and just at this moment it looked much older than itreally was. The great brown eyes inspected it critically andrelentlessly. 

"Florence Baker, " she said to the face in the mirror, "you are gettingto be old and haggard. " A prophetic glimpse of the future came to hersuddenly. "A few years more, and you will not be even--good-looking. "

She stood a moment longer, then, walking over to the door, she picked upthe envelope and tore it open. 

"Miss Baker, " ran the note, "there is to be an informal littlegathering--music, dancing, and a few things cool--at the Country Clubthis evening. You already know most of the people who will be there. MayI call for you?--Sidwell. "

Florence read the missive slowly; then slowly returned it to its cover. There was no need to tell her the meaning of the unwritten message sheread between the lines of those few brief sentences. It is only instory-books that human beings do not even suspect the inevitable untilit arrives. As well as she knew her own name, she realized that in heranswer to that evening's invitation lay the choice of her future life. She was at the turning of the ways--a turning that admitted of noreconsideration. Dividing at her feet, each equally free, were thetrails of the natural and the artificial. For a time they kept side byside; but in the distance they were as separate as the two ends of theearth. By no possibility could both be followed. She must choose betweenthem, and abide by her decision for good or for ill. 

As slowly as she had read the note, Florence dressed; and even then shedid not leave the room. Bathing her reddened eyes, she drew a chair infront of the window and gazed wistfully down at the handful of greengrass, with the unhealthy-looking elm in its centre, which made theBaker lawn. Against her will there came to her a vision of the natural, impersonated in the form of Ben Blair as she had seen him yesterday. Masterful, optimistic, compellingly honest, splendidly vital, with lovesand hates like elemental forces of nature, he intruded upon her horizonat every crisis. Try as she would to eliminate him from her life, shecould not do it. With a little catch of the breath she remembered thatlast night, when that man had done--what he did--it was not of what herfather or Clarence Sidwell would think, if either of them knew, but ofwhat Ben Blair would think, what he would do, that she most cared. Reluctant as she might be to admit it even to herself, yet in her innerconsciousness she knew that this prairie man had a power over her thatno other human being would ever have. Still, knowing this, she wasdeliberately turning away from him. If she accepted that invitation forto-night, with all that it might mean, the separation from Ben would beirrevocable. Once more the brown head dropped into the waiting hands, and the shoulders rocked to and fro in indecision and perplexity. 

"God help me!" she pleaded, in the first prayer she had voiced inmonths. "God help me!"

Again footsteps approached her door, and a hand tapped insistentlythereon. 

"Florence, " said her father's voice. "Are you up?"

The girl lifted her head. "Yes, " she answered. 

"Let me in, then. " The insistence that had been in the knock spoke inthe voice. "I wish to speak with you. "

Instantly an expression almost of repulsion flashed over the girl'sbrown face. Never in his life had the Englishman understood hisdaughter. He was a glaring example of those who cannot catch thepsychological secret of human nature in a given situation. From thegirl's childhood he had been complaisant when he should have beensevere, had stepped in with the parental authority recognized by hisrace when he should have held aloof. 

"Some other time, please, " replied Florence. "I don't feel like talkingto-day. "

Scotty's knuckles met the door-panel with a bang. "But I do feel likeit, " he responded; "and the inclination is increasing every moment. Youwould try the patience of Job himself. Come, I'm waiting!" and heshifted from one foot to the other restlessly. 

Within the room there was a pause, so long that the Englishman thoughthe was going to be refused point-blank; then an even voice said, "Comein, " and he entered. 

He had expected to find Florence defiant and aggressive at theintrusion. If he did not understand this daughter of his, he at leastknew, or thought he knew, a few of her phases. But she had not evenrisen from her seat, and when he entered she merely turned her headuntil her eyes met his. Scotty felt his parental dignity vanishing likesmoke, --his feelings very like those of a burglar who, invading asimilar boudoir, should find the rightful owner at prayer. His firstinstinct was to beat a retreat, and he stopped uncertainly just withinthe doorway. 

"Well?" questioned Florence, and the pupils of her brown eyes widened. 

Scotty flushed, but memory of the impassive Alec waiting below returned, and his anger arose. 

"How much longer are you going to keep that negro waiting?" he demanded. "He has been here an hour already by the clock. "

A look of almost childlike surprise came over the face of the girl, anexpression implying that the other was making a mountain out of amole-hill. "I really don't know, " she said. 

Scotty took a chair, and ran his long fingers through his hairperplexedly. "Florence, " he said, "at times you are simply maddening;and I do not want to be angry with you. Alec says he is waiting for ananswer. What is it an answer to, please? It is my right to know. "

Again there was a pause, so long that Scotty expected unqualifiedrefusal: and again he was disappointed. Without a word, the girl removedthe note from the envelope and passed it over to him. 

Scotty read it and returned the sheet. 

"You haven't written an answer yet, I judge?"

"No. "

The Englishman's fingers were tapping nervously on the edge of thechair-seat. 

"I wish you to decline, then. "

The childish expression left the girl's eyes, the listlessness left herattitude. 

"Why, if I may ask?" A challenge was in the query. 

Scotty arose, and for a half-minute walked back and forth across thedisordered room. At last he stopped, facing his daughter. 

"The reason, first of all, is that I do not like this man Sidwell in anyparticular. If you respect my wishes you will have nothing to do withhim or with any of his class in future. The second reason is that it ishigh time some one was watching the kind of affairs you attend. " Thespeaker looked down on the girl sternly. "I think it unnecessary tosuggest that neither of us desires a repetition of last night'sexperience. "

Of a sudden, her face very red, Florence was likewise upon her feet. Inthe irony of circumstances, Sidwell could not have had a more powerfulally. Her decision was instantly formed. 

"I quite agree with you about the incident of last evening, " she flamed. "As to who shall be my associates, and where I shall go, however, I amof age--" and she started to leave the room. 

But preventing, Scotty was between her and the door. "Florence, "--hisface was very white and his voice trembled, --"we may as well have anunderstanding now as to defer it. Maybe, as you say, I have no authorityover you longer; but at least I can make a request. You know that Ilove you, that I would not ask anything which was not for your good. Knowing this, won't you at my request cease going with this man? Won'tyou refuse his invitation for to-night?"

Nearer than ever before in his life was the Englishman at that moment tograsping the secret of control of this child of many moods. Had he butlearned it a few years, even a few months, sooner--But again was thesatire of fate manifest, the same irony which, jealously withholding therewards of labor, keeps the student at his desk, the laborer at hisbench, until the worse than useless prizes flutter about like Autumnleaves. 

For a moment following Scotty's request there was absolute silence andinaction; then, with a little appealing movement, the girl came close tohim. 

"Oh, daddy!" she cried. "Dear old daddy! You make it so hard for me! Iknow you love me, and I do want to do as you wish; I want to be good;but--but"--the brown head was upon Scotty's shoulder, and two soft armsgripped him tight, --"but, " the voice was all but choking, "I can't lethim go now. It's too late!"

 * * * * *

The driving of his own conveyance was to Sidwell a source of pride. Itwas therefore no surprise to Florence that at dusk he and his pair ofthoroughbreds should appear alone. The girl, very grave, very quiet, hadbeen waiting for him, and was ready almost before he stopped. With asmile of parental pride upon her face, Mollie was on the porch to saygood-bye. At the last moment she approached and kissed her daughter onthe cheek. Not in months before had the mother done such a thing asthat; and despite herself, as she walked toward the waiting carriage, there came to the girl the thought of another historic kiss, and of aJudas, the betrayer. Once within the narrow single-seated buggy shelooked back, hoping against hope; but her father was nowhere in sight. 

After the first greeting, neither she nor Sidwell spoke for someminutes. For a time Florence did not even look at her companion. She hada suspicion that he already knew most if not all that had taken place inthe Baker home the last day; and the thought tinged her face scarlet. Atlast she gave a furtive glance at him. He was not looking, and her eyeslingered on his face. It was paler than she had ever seen it before;there were deep circles under the eyes, and he looked nervous and tired;but over it all there was an expression of exaltation that could havebut one meaning to her. 

"You must let me read it when you get it in shape, " she began suddenly. 

Sidwell turned blankly. "Read what, please?" he asked. 

The girl smiled triumphantly. "The story you have just written. I knowby your face it must be good. "

The flame of exaltation vanished. The man understood now. 

"What if I should refute your theory?" he asked. 

"I hardly believe that is possible. I know of nothing else which couldmake you look like that. "

Sidwell hesitated. "There are but few things, " he admitted, "butnevertheless I spoke the truth. It was one of them this time. "

Florence smiled interestedly. "I am very curious, " she suggested. 

The brown eyes and the black met steadily. "Very well, then, " said theman, "I'll tell you. The reason was, because I have with me thehandsomest girl in the whole city. "

Instantly the brown eyes dropped; the face reddened, but not with theflush of pleasure. Florence was not yet sufficiently artificial for suchempty compliment. 

"I'd rather you wouldn't say such things, " she said simply. "They hurtme. "

"But not when they're true, " he persisted. 

There was no answer, and they drove on again in silence; the tap of thethoroughbreds' feet on the asphalt sounding regular as the rattle of asnare-drum, the rows of houses at either side running past like theshifting scenes of a panorama. They passed numbers of other carriages, and to the occupants of several Sidwell lifted his hat. Each as he didso glanced at his companion curiously. The man was far too well known tohave his actions pass without gossip. At last they reached a semblanceof the open country, and a few minutes later Sidwell pointed out the rowof lights on the broad veranda of the big one-story club-house. Theaffair had begun in the afternoon with a golf tournament, and when thetwo drove up and Sidwell turned over his trotters to a man in waiting, the entertainment was in full blast, although the hour was still early. 

The building itself, ordinarily ample for the organization's ratherexclusive membership, was fairly crowded on this occasion. Theclub-house had been given up to the orchestra and dancers, andrefreshments were being served on the lawn and under the adjoiningtrees. Even the veranda had been cleared of chairs. 

As Sidwell and his companion approached the place, he said in anundertone, "Let's not get in the crush yet; if we do, we won't escapeall the evening. " His dark eyes looked into his companion's facemeaningly. "I have something I wish especially to say to you. "

Florence did not meet his eyes, but she well knew the message therein. She nodded assent to the request. 

Making a detour, they emerged into the park, and strolled back to aplace where, seeing, they themselves could not be seen. Sidwell found abench, and they sat down side by side. The girl offered no suggestion, no protest. Since that row of lights had appeared in the distance shehad become passive. She knew beforehand all that was to take place;something that she had decided to accede to, the details of which wereunimportant. An apathy which she did not attempt to explain held her. The music heard so near, the glimpses of shifting, faultlessly dressedfigures, the loveliness of a perfect night--things that ordinarily wouldhave been intensely exhilarating--now passed by her unnoticed. Hersenses were temporarily in lethargy. If she had a conscious wish, it wasthat the inevitable would come, and be over with. 

From without this land of unreality she was suddenly conscious of avoice speaking to her. "Florence, " it said, "Florence Baker, you knowbefore I say a word the thing I wish to tell you, the question I wish toask. You know, because more than once I've tried to speak, and at thelast moment you have prevented. But you can't stop me to-night. We haverun on understanding each other long enough; too long. I have never liedto you yet, Florence, and I am not going to begin now. I will not evenanalyze the feeling I have for you, or call it by name. I know this isan unheard-of-way to talk to a girl, especially one so impressionable asyou; but I cannot help it. There is something about you, Florence, thatkeeps me from untruth, when probably under the same circumstances Iwould lie to any other woman in the world. I simply know that youimpersonate a desire of my nature ungratified; that without you I haveno wish to live. "

Strange and cold-blooded as this proposal would have seemed to alistener, Florence heard it without a sign. It did not even affect herwith the shock of the unexpected. It was merely a part of thatinevitable something she had anticipated, and had for months watchedslowly taking form. 

"I suppose it seems unaccountable to you, " the voice went on, "that Ishould have been attracted to you in the first place. It has often beenso to me, and I've tried to explain it. Beautiful, you undeniably are, Florence; but I do not believe it was that. It was, I think, because, despite your ideals of something which--pardon me--doesn't exist, youwere absolutely natural; and the women I'd met before were the reverseof that. Like myself, they had tasted of life and found it flat. Idanced with them, drank with them, went the round of so-called gayetywith them; but they repelled me. But you, Florence, are very different. You make me think of a prairie anemone with the dew on its petals. Ihaven't much to offer you save money, which you already have in plenty, and an empty fame; but I'll play the game fair. I'll take you anywherein the world, do anything you wish. " Out of the shadow an arm creptaround the girl's waist, closed there, and she did not stir. "I amwriting an English story now, and the principal character, a soldier, has been ordered to India. To catch the atmosphere, I've got to be onthe spot. The boat I wish to take will leave in ten days. Will you gowith me as my wife?"

The voice paused, and the face so near her own remained motionless, waiting. Into the pause crept the music of the orchestra--beat, beat, beat, like the throbbing of a mighty heart. Above it, distinct for aninstant, sounded the tinkle of a woman's laugh; then again silence. Itwas now the girl's turn to speak, to answer; but not a sound left herlips. She had an odd feeling that she was playing a game of checkers, and that it was her turn to play. "Move!" said an inward monitor. "Move!move!" But she knew not where or how. 

The man's arm tightened around her; his lips touched hers again andagain; and although she was conscious of the fact, it carried noparticular significance. It all seemed a part of the scene that wasgoing on in which she was a silent actor--of the game in which she was aplayer. 

"Florence, " said an insistent voice, "Florence, Florence Baker! Don'tsit like that! For God's sake, speak to me, answer me!"

This time the figure stirred, the head drooped in assent. 

"Yes, " she said. 

Again the circling arm tightened, and the man's lips touched her own, again and again. The very repetition aroused her. 

"And you will sail with me in ten days?"

Fully awake was Florence Baker now, fully conscious of all that hadhappened and was happening. 

"Yes, " she said. "The sooner the better. I want to have it over with. " Amoment longer she sat still as death; then suddenly the mood of apathydeparted, and in infinite weakness, infinite pathos, the dark headburied itself on the man's shoulder. "Promise me, " she pleaded brokenly, "that you will be kind to me! Promise me that you always will be kind!"

CHAPTER XXVI

LOVE'S SURRENDER

Scotty Baker was not an adept at concealing his emotions, and he staredin unqualified surprise at the long figure in brown which of a suddenintruded into his range of vision. The morning paper upon his kneesfluttered unnoticed to the floor of the porch. 

"Ben Blair, by all that's good and proper!" he exclaimed to the man who, without a look to either side, turned up the short walk. "Where inheaven's name did you come from? I supposed you'd gone home a week ago. "

Blair stopped at the steps, and deliberately wiped the perspiration fromhis face. 

"You were misinformed about my going, " he explained. "I changed hotels, that was all. "

Scotty stared harder than before. 

"But why?" he groped. "I inquired of the clerk, and he said you had goneby an afternoon train. I don't see--"

Ben mounted the steps and took a chair opposite the Englishman. 

"If you will excuse me, " he said, "I would rather not go into details. The fact's enough--I am still here. Besides--pardon me--I did not callto be questioned, but to question. You remember the last time I sawyou?"

Scotty nodded an affirmative. He had a premonition that the unexpectedwas about to happen. 

"Yes, " he said. 

Ben lit a cigar. "You remember, then, that you made me a certainpromise?"

Scotty threw one leg over the other restlessly. "Yes, I remember, " herepeated. 

The visitor eyed him keenly. "I would like to know if you kept it, " hesaid. 

Scotty felt the seat of his chair growing even more uncomfortable thanbefore, and he cast about for an avenue of escape. One presented itself. 

"Is that what you stayed to find out?" he questioned in his turn. 

Ben blew out a cloud of smoke, and then another. 

"No, not the main reason. But that has nothing to do with the subject. Ihave a right to ask the question. Did you or did you not keep yourpromise?"

The Englishman's first impulse was to refuse point-blank to answer;then, on second thought, he decided that such a course would be unwise. The other really did have a right to ask. 

"I--" he hesitated, "decided--"

But interrupting, Ben raised his hand, palm outward. 

"Don't dodge the question. Yes or no?"

Scotty hesitated again, and his face grew red. 

"No, " he said. 

The visitor's hand, fingers outspread, returned to his knee. 

"Thank you. I have one more question to ask. Do you intend, withouttrying to prevent it, to let your daughter throw away her every chanceof future happiness? Are you, Florence's father, going to let her marrySidwell?"

With one motion Scotty was on his feet. The eyes behind the thick lensesfairly flashed. 

"You are insulting, sir, " he blazed. "I can stand much from you, BenBlair, but this interference in my family affairs I cannot overlook. Irequest you to leave my premises!"

Blair did not stir. His face remained as impassive as before. 

"Your pardon again, " he said steadily, "but I refuse. I did not come toquarrel with you, and I won't; but we will have an understanding--now. Sit down, please. "

The Englishman stared, almost with open mouth. Had any one told him hewould be coerced in this way within his own home he would have calledthat person mad; nevertheless, the first flash of anger over, he said nomore. 

"Sit down, please, " repeated Ben; and this time, without a word or aprotest, he was obeyed. 

Ben straightened in his seat, then leaned forward. "Mr. Baker, " he said, "you do not doubt that I love Florence--that I wish nothing but hergood?"

Scotty nodded a reluctant assent. 

"No; I don't doubt you, Ben, " he said. 

The thin face of the younger man leaned forward and grew more intense. 

"You know what Sidwell is--what the result will be if Florence marrieshim?"

Scotty's head dropped into his hands. He knew what was coming. 

"Yes, I know, " he admitted. 

Ben paused, and had the other been looking he would have seen that hisordinarily passive face was working in a way which no one would havethought possible. 

"In heaven's name, then, " he said, slowly, "why do you allow it? Haveyou forgotten that it is only three days until the date set? God! man, you must be sleeping! It is ghastly--even the thought of it!"

Surprised out of himself, Scotty looked up. The intensity of the appealwas a thing to put life into a figure of clay. For an instant he feltthe stimulant, felt his blood quicken at the suggestion of action; thenhis impotence returned. 

"I have tried, Ben, " he explained weakly, "but I can do nothing. If Iattempted to interfere it would only make matters worse. Florence is ascompletely out of my control as--" he paused for a simile--"as thesunshine. I missed my opportunity with her when she was young. She hasalways had her own way, and she will have it now. It is the same as whenshe decided to come to town. She controls me, not I her. "

Blair settled back in his chair. The mask of impassivity dropped backover his face, not again to lift. He was again in command of himself. 

"You expect to do nothing more, then?" he asked finally. 

Scotty did not look up. "No, " he responded. "I can do nothing more. Shewill have to find out her mistake for herself. "

Ben regarded the older man steadily. It would have been difficult toexpress that look in words. 

"You'd be willing to help, would you, " he suggested, "if you saw a way?"

The Englishman's eyes lifted. Even the incredible took on an air ofpossibility in the hands of this strong-willed ranchman. 

"Yes, " he repeated. "I will gladly do anything I can. "

For half a minute Ben Blair did not speak. Not a nerve twitched or amuscle stirred in his long body; then he stood up, the broad sinewyshoulders squared, the masterful chin lifted. 

"Very well, " he said. "Call a carriage, and be ready to leave town inhalf an hour. "

Scotty blinked helplessly. The necessity of sudden action always threwhim into confusion. His mind needed not minutes but days to adjustitself to the unpremeditated. 

"Why?" he queried. "What do you intend doing?"

But Ben did not stop to explain. Already he was at the door of thevestibule. "Don't ask me now. Do as I say, and you'll see!" And hestepped inside. 

Within the entrance, he paused for a moment. He had never been in anyroom of the house except the library adjoining; and after a fewseconds, walking over, he tapped twice on the door. 

There was no answer, and he stepped inside. The place was empty, but, listening from the dining-room on the left he heard the low intermittentmurmur of voices in conversation and the occasional click of china. Sliding doors connected the rooms, and again for an instant hehesitated. Then, pulling them apart, he stood fairly in the aperture. 

As he had expected, Florence and her mother were at breakfast. The doorshad slid noiselessly, and for an instant neither observed him. Florencewas nearest, half-facing him, and she was the first to glance up. As shedid so, the coffee-cup in her hand shook spasmodically and a great brownblotch spread over the white tablecloth. Simultaneously her eyeswidened, her cheeks blanched, and she stared as at a ghost. Her mother, too, turned at the spectacle, and her color shifted to an ashen gray. 

For some seconds not one of the three spoke or stirred. It was Mrs. Baker who first arose and advanced toward the intruder, as threateninglyas it was possible for her to do. 

"Who, if I might ask, invited you to come this way?" she challenged. 

Ben took one step inside the room and folded his arms. 

"I came without being asked, " he explained evenly. 

Mollie's weak oval face stiffened. She felt instinctively that herchiefest desires were in supreme menace. But one defense suggesteditself--to be rid of the intruder at once. 

"I trust, then, you are enough of a gentleman to return the way youcame, " she said icily. 

Ben did not even glance at her. He was looking at the dainty littlefigure still motionless at the table. 

"If that is the mark of a gentleman, I am not one, " he answered. 

The mother's face flamed. Like Scotty, her brain moved slowly, and onthe spur of the moment inadequate insult alone answered her call. 

"I might have expected such a remark from a cowman!" she burst forth. 

Instantly Florence was upon her feet; but Ben Blair gave no indicationthat he had heard. His arms still folded, he took two steps nearer thegirl, then stopped. 

"Florence, " he said steadily, "I have just seen your father. Wethree--he, you, and I--are going back home, back to the prairies. Ourtrain leaves at eleven o'clock. The carriage will be here in half anhour. You have plenty of time if you hurry. "

Again there was silence. Once more it was the mother who spoke first. 

"You must be mad, both of you!" she cried. "Florence is to be married inthree days, and it would take two to go each way. You must be mad!"

It was the girl's turn to grow pale. She began to understand. 

"You say you and papa evolved this programme?" she said sarcastically. "What part, pray, did he take?"

Blair was as impassive as before. 

"I suggested it, and your father acquiesced. "

"And the third party, myself--" The girl's eyes were very bright. 

"I undertook the task of having you ready when the carriage comes. "

One of Florence's brown hands grasped the back of the chair before her. 

"I trust you did not underestimate the difficulty, " she commentedironically. "Otherwise you might be disappointed. "

Ben said nothing. He did not even stir. 

Another group of seconds were gathered into the past. The inactivitytugged at the girl's nerves. 

"By the way, " she asked, "where are we going to stay when we arrive, andfor how long?"

"You are to be my guests, " answered Blair. "As to the length of time, nothing has been arranged. "

Florence made one more effort to consider the affair lightly. 

"You speak with a good deal of assurance, " she commented. "Did it neveroccur to you that at this particular time I might decide not to go?"

Ben returned her look. 

"No, " he said. 

Beneath the trim brown figure one foot was nervously tapping the floor. 

"In other words, you expect to take me against my will, --by physicalforce?"

"No. " Ben again spoke deliberately. "You will come of your own choice. "

"And leave Mr. Sidwell?"

"Yes. "

"Without an explanation?"

"None will be necessary, I think. The fact itself will be enough. "

"And never--marry him?"

"And never marry him. "

"You think he would not follow?"

"I know he would not!"

There was a pause in the swift passage of words. The girl's breath wascoming with difficulty. The spell of this indomitable rancher wassettling upon her. 

"You really imagine I will do such an unheard-of thing?" she askedslowly. 

"I imagine nothing, " he answered quickly. "I know. "

It was the crisis, and into it Mollie intruded with clumsy tread. "Florence, " she urged, "Florence, don't listen to him any longer. Hemust be intoxicated. Come with me!" and she started to drag the girlaway. 

Without a word, Ben Blair walked across to the door leading into theroom beyond, and stood with his hand on the knob. 

"Mrs. Baker, " he said slowly, "I thought I would not speak an unkindword to-day, no matter what was said to me; but you have offended toooften. " His glance took in the indolently shapeless figure from head totoe, and back again until he met her eye to eye. "You are thepersonification of cowardice, of selfishness and snobbery, that makesone despise his kind. For mere personal vanity you would sacrifice yourown daughter--your own flesh and blood. Probably we shall never meetagain; but if we should, do not dare to speak to me. Do not speak to menow!" He swung open the door, and indicated the passage with a nod ofhis head. "Go, " he said, "and if you are a Christian, pray for a betterheart--for forgiveness!"

The woman hesitated; her lips moved, but she was dumb. She wanted torefuse, but the irresistible power in those relentless blue eyescompelled her to obey. Without a word she left the room and closed thedoor behind her. 

Ben Blair came back. The girl had not moved. 

"Florence, " he said, "there are but twenty minutes left. I ask you againto get ready. "

The girl's color rose anew; her blood flowed tumultuously, until shecould feel the beating of the pulses at her wrists. 

"Ben Blair, " she challenged, "you are trying to prevent my marryinganother man! Is it not so?"

The rancher folded his arms again. 

"I am preventing it, " he said. 

Florence's brown eyes blazed. She clasped her hands together until thefingers were white. 

"You admit it, then!" she cried, looking at her companion steadily, aworld of scorn in her face. "I never thought such a thing possible--thatyou would let your jealousy get the better of you like this!" Shepaused, and hurled the taunt she knew would hurt him most. "You are thelast person on earth I would have selected to become a dog in themanger!"

Ben did not stir, although the brown of his sun-tanned face went white. 

"I looked for that, " he said simply. 

Florence's brown eyes widened in wonder--and in somethingmore--something she did not understand. Her heart was beating morewildly than before. She felt her self-control slipping from her grasp, like a rope through her hands. 

"There seems nothing more to be said, then, " she said, "except that Iwill not go. "

Even yet Blair did not move. 

"You will go. The carriage comes in ten minutes, " he reiterated calmly. 

The small figure stiffened, the dainty chin tilted in the air. 

"I defy you to tell me how you can force me to go!"

It was the supreme moment, but Benjamin Blair showed no trace ofexcitement or of passion. His folded arms remained passive across hischest. 

"Florence Baker, did I ever lie to you?"

The girl's lip trembled. She knew now what to expect. 

"No, " she said. 

"You are quite sure?"

"Yes, I am quite sure. "

"Did I ever say I would do anything that I did not do?"

The girl had an all but irrepressible desire to cry out, to cover herface like a child. A flash of anger at her inability to maintain herself-control swept over her. 

"No, " she admitted. "I never knew you to break your word. "

"Very well, then, " still no haste, no anger, --only the relentless calmwhich was infinitely more terrible than either. "I will tell you why ofyour own choice you will go with me. It is because you value the life ofClarence Sidwell; because, as surely as I have not lied to you or to anyhuman being in the past, there is no power on earth that can otherwisekeep me away from him an hour longer. "

Realization came instantaneously to Florence Baker and blotted outself-consciousness. The nervous tension vanished as fog before the sun. 

"You would not do it, " she said, very steadily. "You could not do it!"

Ben Blair said not a word. 

"You could not, " repeated the girl swiftly; "could not, becauseyou--love me!"

One of the man's hands loosened in an unconscious gesture. 

"Don't repeat that, please, or trust in it, " he answered. "You misled meonce, but you can't mislead me again. It is because I love you that Iwill do what I said. "

There was but one weapon in the arsenal adequate to meet the emergency. With a sudden motion, the girl came close to him. 

"Ben, Ben Blair, " her arms flashed around the man's neck, the browneyes--moist, sparkling--were turned to his face, "promise me you willnot do it. " The dainty throat swelled and receded with her short quickbreaths. "Promise me! Please promise me!"

For a second the rancher did not stir; then, very gently, he freedhimself and moved a step backward. 

"Florence, " he said slowly, "you do not know me even yet. " He drew outhis big old-fashioned silver watch, once Rankin's. "You still have fourminutes to get ready--no more, no less. "

Silence like that of a death-chamber fell over the bright littledining-room. From the outside came the sound of Mollie's step as shemoved back and forth, back and forth, but dared not enter. A boy wasclipping the lawn, and the muffled purr of the mower, accompanied by thebit of popular ragtime he was whistling, stole into the room. 

Suddenly a carriage drove up in front of the house, and leaping from hisseat the driver stood waiting. The door of the vestibule opened, andScotty himself stepped uncertainly within. At the library entrance hehalted, but the odor of the black cigar he was smoking was wafted in. 

Through it all, neither of the two in that room had stirred. It wouldhave been impossible to tell what Ben Blair was thinking. His eyes neverleft the watch in his hand. During the first minute the girl had notlooked at her companion. Unappeasable anger seemed personified in her. For half of the next minute she still stood impassive; then she glancedup almost surreptitiously. For the long third minute the eyes held wherethey had lifted, and slowly over the soft brown face, taking the placeof the former expression, came a look that was not of anger or ofhatred, not even of dislike, but of something the reverse, something allbut unbelievable. Her dark eyes softened. A choking lump came into herthroat; and still, in seeming paradox, she was of a sudden happier thanat any time she could remember. 

Before the last minute was up, before Ben Blair had replaced the watch, she was in the adjoining room saying good-bye to Mollie hurriedly;saying something more, --a thing that fairly took the mother's breath. 

"Florence Baker!" she gasped, "you shall not do it! If you do, I willdisown you! I will never forgive you--never! never!"

But, unheeding, the girl was already back, and looking into Ben's face. Her eyes were very bright, and there was about her a suppressedexcitement that the other did not clearly understand. 

"I am ready, " she said, "on one condition. "

Blair's blue eyes looked a question. In any other mood he would haverecognized Florence, but this strange person he hardly seemed to know. 

"I am listening, " he said. 

The girl hesitated, the rosy color mounting to her cheeks. Decision ofaction was far easier than expression. 

"I will go with you, " she faltered, "but alone. "

A suggestion of the flame on the other's face sprang to the man's also. 

"I think, under the circumstances, " he stammered, "it would be better tohave your father go too. "

The dainty brown figure stiffened. 

"Very well, then--I will not go!"

The man stood for a moment immovable, with unshifting eyes, like afigure in clay; then, turning, without a word, he started to leave theroom. He had almost reached the door, when he heard a voice behind him. 

"Ben Blair, " it said insistently, "Ben Blair!"

He paused, glanced back, and could scarcely believe his eyes. The girlwas coming toward him; but it was a Florence he had not previouslyknown. Her face was rosier than before, red to her very ears and to thewaves of her hair. Her chin was held high, and beneath the thin brownskin of the throat the veins were athrob. 

"Ben Blair, " she repeated intensely, "Ben Blair, can't you understandwhat I meant? Must I put it into words?" The soft brown eyes werelooking at him frankly. "Oh, you are blind, blind!"

For a second, like the lull before the thunderclap, the man did notmove; then of a sudden he grasped the girl by the shoulders, and heldher at arm's length. 

"Florence, " he cried, "are you playing with me?"

She spoke no word, but her gaze held his unfalteringly. 

Minutes passed, but still the man could not believe the testimony of hiseyes. The confession was too unexpected, too incredible. Unconsciouslythe grip of his hands tightened. 

"Am I--mad?" he gasped. "You care for me--you are willing to go--becauseyou love me?"

Even yet the girl did not answer; but no human being could longerquestion the expression on her face. Ben Blair could not doubt it, andthe reflection of love glowing in the tear-wet eyes flashed into hisown. The past, with all that it had held, vanished like the memory of anunpleasant dream. The present, the vital throbbing present, aloneremained. Suddenly the tense arms relaxed. Another second, and the brownhead was upon his shoulder. 

"Florence, " he cried passionately, "Florence, Florence!"

He could say no more, only repeat over and over her dear name. 

"Ben, " sobbed the girl, "Ben! Ben!" An interrupting memory drew her tohim closer and closer. "I loved you all the time!--loved you!--and yet Iso nearly--can you ever forgive me?"

Wondering at the prolonged silence, Scotty came hesitatingly into thelibrary, peered in at the open doorway, and stood transfixed. 

 THE END

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Adventures of Captain Kettle. Cutcliffe Hyne. Adventures of Gerard. A. Conan Doyle. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. A. Conan Doyle. Alton of Somasco. Harold Bindloss. Arms and the Woman. Harold MacGrath. Artemus Ward's Works (extra illustrated). At the Mercy of Tiberius. Augusta Evans Wilson. Battle Ground, The. Ellen Glasgow. Belle of Bowling Green, The. Amelia E. Barr. Ben Blair. Will Lillibridge. Bob, Son of Battle. Alfred Ollivant. Boss, The. Alfred Henry Lewis. Brass Bowl, The. Louis Joseph Vance. Brethren, The. H. Rider Haggard. By Snare of Love. Arthur W. Marchmont. By Wit of Woman. Arthur W. Marchmont. Cap'n Erie. Joseph C. Lincoln. Captain in the Ranks, A. George Cary Eggleston. Cardigan. Robert W. Chambers. Casting Away of Mrs. Lecks and Mrs. Aleshine. Frank R. Stockton. Circle, The. Katherine Cecil Thurston (author of "The Masquerader, ""The Gambler"). Conquest of Canaan, The. Booth Tarkington. Courier of Fortune, A. Arthur W. Marchmont. Darrow Enigma, The. Melvin Severy. Deliverance, The. Ellen Glasgow. Exploits of Brigadier Gerard. A. Conan Doyle. Fighting Chance, The. Robert W. Chambers. For a Maiden Brave. Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. For Love or Crown. Arthur W. Marchmont. Fugitive Blacksmith, The. Charles D. Stewart. Heart's Highway, The. Mary E. Wilkins. Holladay Case, The. Burton Egbert Stevenson. Hurricane Island. H. B. Marriott-Watson. Indifference of Juliet, The. Grace S. Richmond. Infelice. Augusta Evans Wilson. In the Name of a Woman. Arthur W. Marchmont. Lady Betty Across the Water. C. N. And A. M. Williamson. Lane That Had No Turning, The. Gilbert Parker. Leavenworth Case, The. Anna Katharine Green. Lilac Sunbonnet, The. S. R. Crockett. Lin McLean. Owen Wister. Long Night, The. Stanley J. Weyman. Maid at Arms, The. Robert W. Chambers. Man from Red Keg, The. Eugene Thwing. Marathon Mystery, The. Burton Egbert Stevenson. Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. A. Conan Doyle. Millionaire Baby, The. Anna Katharine Green. Missourian, The. Eugene P. Lyle, Jr. My Friend the Chauffeur. C. N. And A. M. Williamson. My Lady of the North. Randall Parrish. Mystery of June 13th. Melvin L. Severy. Mystery Tales. Edgar Allen Poe. Nancy Stair. Elinor Macartney Lane. None But the Brave. Hamblen Sears. Order No. 11. Caroline Abbot Stanley. Pam. Bettina von Hutten. Pam Decides. Bettina von Hutten. Partners of the Tide. Joseph C. Lincoln. Phra the Phoenician. Edwin Lester Arnold. President, The. Alfred Henry Lewis. Princess Passes, The. C. N. And A. M. Williamson. Private War, The. Louis Joseph Vance. Prodigal Son, The. Hall Caine. Queen's Advocate, The. Arthur W. Marchmont. Quickening, The. Francis Lynde. Richard the Brazen. Cyrus Townsend Brady and Edward Peple. Rose of the World. Agnes and Egerton Castle. Sarita the Carlist. Arthur W. Marchmont. Seats of the Mighty, The. Gilbert Parker. Sir Nigel. A. Conan Doyle. Sir Richard Calmady. Lucas Malet. Speckled Bird. Augusta Evans Wilson. Spoilers, The. Rex Beach. Sunset Trail, The. Alfred Henry Lewis. Sword of the Old Frontier, A. Randall Parrish. Tales of Sherlock Holmes. A. Conan Doyle. That Printer of Udell's. Harold Bell Wright. Throwback, The. Alfred Henry Lewis. Trail of the Sword, The. Gilbert Parker. Two Vanrevels, The. Booth Tarkington. Up From Slavery. Booker T. Washington. Vashti. Augusta Evans Wilson. Viper of Milan, The (original edition). Marjorie Bowen. Voice of the People, The. Ellen Glasgow. Wheel of Life, The. Ellen Glasgow. When I Was Czar. Arthur W. Marchmont. When Wilderness Was King. Randall Parrish. Woman in Grey, A. Mrs. C. N. Williamson. Woman in the Alcove, The. Anna Katharine Green. 

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A. L. BURT CO. , Publishers, 52-58 Duane St. , New York City

BURT'S SERIES of STANDARD FICTION. 

RICHELIEU. A tale of France in the reign of King Louis XIII. By G. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. With four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1. 00. 

 In 1829 Mr. James published his first romance, "Richelieu, " and was recognized at once as one of the masters of the craft. 

 In this book he laid the story during those later days of the great cardinal's life, when his power was beginning to wane, but while it was yet sufficiently strong to permit now and then of volcanic outbursts which overwhelmed foes and carried friends to the topmost wave of prosperity. One of the most striking portions of the story is that of Cinq Mar's conspiracy; the method of conducting criminal cases, and the political trickery resorted to by royal favorites, affording a better insight into the state-craft of that day than can be had even by an exhaustive study of history. It is a powerful romance of love and diplomacy, and in point of thrilling and absorbing interest has never been excelled. 

A COLONIAL FREE-LANCE. A story of American Colonial Times. By ChaunceyC. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. With four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1. 00. 

 A book that appeals to Americans as a vivid picture of Revolutionary scenes. The story is a strong one, a thrilling one. It causes the true American to flush with excitement, to devour chapter after chapter, until the eyes smart, and it fairly smokes with patriotism. The love story is a singularly charming idyl. 

THE TOWER OF LONDON. A Historical Romance of the Times of Lady JaneGrey and Mary Tudor. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. With fourillustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1. 00. 

 This romance of the "Tower of London" depicts the Tower as palace, prison and fortress, with many historical associations. The era is the middle of the sixteenth century. 

 The story is divided into two parts, one dealing with Lady Jane Grey, and the other with Mary Tudor as Queen, introducing other notable characters of the era. Throughout the story holds the interest of the reader in the midst of intrigue and conspiracy, extending considerably over a half a century. 

IN DEFIANCE OF THE KING. A Romance of the American Revolution. ByChauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. With four illustrations by J. WatsonDavis. Price, $1. 00. 

 Mr. Hotchkiss has etched in burning words a story of Yankee bravery, and true love that thrills from beginning to end, with the spirit of the Revolution. The heart beats quickly, and we feel ourselves taking a part in the exciting scenes described. His whole story is so absorbing that you will sit up far into the night to finish it. As a love romance it is charming. 

GARTHOWEN. A story of a Welsh Homestead. By Allen Raine. Cloth, 12mo. With four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1. 00. 

 "This is a little idyl of humble life and enduring love, laid bare before us, very real and pure, which in its telling shows us some strong points of Welsh character--the pride, the hasty temper, the quick dying out of wrath. .. . We call this a well-written story, interesting alike through its romance and its glimpses into another life than ours. A delightful and clever picture of Welsh village life. The result is excellent. "--Detroit Free Press. 

MIFANWY. The story of a Welsh Singer. By Allan Raine. Cloth, 12mo. With four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1. 00. 

 "This is a love story, simple, tender and pretty as one would care to read. The action throughout is brisk and pleasing; the characters, it is apparent at once, are as true to life as though the author had known them all personally. Simple in all its situations, the story is worked up in that touching and quaint strain which never grows wearisome, no matter how often the lights and shadows of love are introduced. It rings true, and does not tax the imagination. "--Boston Herald. 

DARNLEY. A Romance of the times of Henry VIII. And Cardinal Wolsey. ByG. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. With four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1. 00. 

 As a historical romance "Darnley" is a book that can be taken up pleasurably again and again, for there is about it that subtle charm which those who are strangers to the works of G. P. R. James have claimed was only to be imparted by Dumas. 

 If there was nothing more about the work to attract especial attention, the account of the meeting of the kings on the historic "field of the cloth of gold" would entitle the story to the most favorable consideration of every reader. 

 There is really but little pure romance in this story, for the author has taken care to imagine love passages only between those whom history has credited with having entertained the tender passion one for another, and he succeeds in making such lovers as all the world must love. 

WINDSOR CASTLE. A Historical Romance of the Reign of Henry VIII. , Catharine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth. 12mo. With four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1. 00. 

 "Windsor Castle" is the story of Henry VIII. , Catharine, and Anne Boleyn. "Bluff King Hal, " although a well-loved monarch, was none too good a one in many ways. Of all his selfishness and unwarrantable acts, none was more discreditable than his divorce from Catharine, and his marriage to the beautiful Anne Boleyn. The King's love was as brief as it was vehement. Jane Seymour, waiting maid on the Queen, attracted him, and Anne Boleyn was forced to the block to make room for her successor. This romance is one of extreme interest to all readers. 

HORSESHOE ROBINSON. A tale of the Tory Ascendency in South Carolina in1780. By John P. Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. With four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1. 00. 

 Among the old favorites in the field of what is known as historical fiction, there are none which appeal to a larger number of Americans than Horseshoe Robinson, and this because it is the only story which depicts with fidelity to the facts the heroic efforts of the colonists in South Carolina to defend their homes against the brutal oppression of the British under such leaders as Cornwallis and Tarleton. 

 The reader is charmed with the story of love which forms the thread of the tale, and then impressed with the wealth of detail concerning those times. The picture of the manifold sufferings of the people, is never over-drawn, but painted faithfully and honestly by one who spared neither time nor labor in his efforts to present in this charming love story all that price in blood and tears which the Carolinians paid as their share in the winning of the republic. 

 Take it all in all, "Horseshoe Robinson" is a work which should be found on every book-shelf, not only because it is a most entertaining story, but because of the wealth of valuable information concerning the colonists which it contains. That it has been brought out once more, well illustrated, is something which will give pleasure to thousands who have long desired an opportunity to read the story again, and to the many who have tried vainly in these latter days to procure a copy that they might read it for the first time. 

THE PEARL OF ORR'S ISLAND. A story of the Coast of Maine. By HarrietBeecher Stowe. Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated. Price, $1. 00. 

 Written prior to 1862, the "Pearl of Orr's Island" is ever new; a book filled with delicate fancies, such as seemingly array themselves anew each time one reads them. One sees the "sea like an unbroken mirror all around the pine-girt, lonely shores of Orr's Island, " and straightway comes "the heavy, hollow moan of the surf on the beach, like the wild angry howl of some savage animal. "

 Who can read of the beginning of that sweet life, named Mara, which came into this world under the very shadow of the Death angel's wings, without having an intense desire to know how the premature bud blossomed? Again and again one lingers over the descriptions of the character of that baby boy Moses, who came through the tempest, amid the angry billows, pillowed on his dead mother's breast. 

 There is no more faithful portrayal of New England life than that which Mrs. Stowe gives in "The Pearl of Orr's Island. "

BURT'S SERIES _of_ STANDARD FICTION. 

THE SPIRIT OF THE BORDER. A Romance of the Early Settlers in the OhioValley. By Zane Grey. Cloth, 12mo. With four illustrations by J. WatsonDavis. Price, $1. 00. 

 A book rather out of the ordinary is this "Spirit of the Border. " The main thread of the story has to do with the work of the Moravian missionaries in the Ohio Valley. Incidentally the reader is given details of the frontier life of those hardy pioneers who broke the wilderness for the planting of this great nation. Chief among these, as a matter of course, is Lewis Wetzel, one of the most peculiar, and at the same time the most admirable of all the brave men who spent their lives battling with the savage foe, that others might dwell in comparative security. 

 Details of the establishment and destruction of the Moravian "Village of Peace" are given at some length, and with minute description. The efforts to Christianize the Indians are described as they never have been before, and the author has depicted the characters of the leaders of the several Indian tribes with great care, which of itself will be of interest to the student. 

 By no means least among the charms of the story are the vivid word-pictures of the thrilling adventures, and the intense paintings of the beauties of nature, as seen in the almost unbroken forests. 

 It is the spirit of the frontier which is described, and one can by it, perhaps, the better understand why men, and women, too, willingly braved every privation and danger that the westward progress of the star of empire might be the more certain and rapid. A love story, simple and tender, runs through the book. 

CAPTAIN BRAND, OF THE SCHOONER CENTIPEDE. By Lieut. Henry A. Wise, U. S. N. (Harry Gringo). Cloth, 12mo. With four illustrations by J. WatsonDavis. Price, $1. 00. 

 The re-publication of this story will please those lovers of sea yarns who delight in so much of the salty flavor of the ocean as can come through the medium of a printed page, for never has a story of the sea and those "who go down in ships" been written by one more familiar with the scenes depicted. 

 The one book of this gifted author which is best remembered, and which will be read with pleasure for many years to come, is "Captain Brand, " who, as the author states on his title page, was a "pirate of eminence in the West Indies. " As a sea story pure and simple, "Captain Brand" has never been excelled, and as a story of piratical life, told without the usual embellishments of blood and thunder, it has no equal. 

NICK OF THE WOODS. A story of the Early Settlers of Kentucky. ByRobert Montgomery Bird. Cloth, 12mo. With four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1. 00. 

 This most popular novel and thrilling story of early frontier life in Kentucky was originally published in the year 1837. The novel, long out of print, had in its day a phenomenal sale, for its realistic presentation of Indian and frontier life in the early days of settlement in the South, narrated in the tale with all the art of a practiced writer. A very charming love romance runs through the story. This new and tasteful edition of "Nick of the Woods" will be certain to make many new admirers for this enchanting story from Dr. Bird's clever and versatile pen. 

GUY FAWKES. A Romance of the Gunpowder Treason. By Wm. HarrisonAinsworth. Cloth, 12mo. With four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1. 00. 

 The "Gunpowder Plot" was a modest attempt to blow up Parliament, the King and his Counsellors. James of Scotland, then King of England, was weak-minded and extravagant. He hit upon the efficient scheme of extorting money from the people by imposing taxes on the Catholics. In their natural resentment to this extortion, a handful of bold spirits concluded to overthrow the government. Finally the plotters were arrested, and the King put to torture Guy Fawkes and the other prisoners with royal vigor. A very intense love story runs through the entire romance. 

TICONDEROGA: A Story of Early Frontier Life in the Mohawk Valley. ByG. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. With four page illustrations by J. WatsonDavis. Price, $1. 00. 

 The setting of the story is decidedly more picturesque than any ever evolved by Cooper: The frontier of New York State, where dwelt an English gentleman, driven from his native home by grief over the loss of his wife, with a son and daughter. Thither, brought by the exigencies of war, comes an English officer, who is readily recognized as that Lord Howe who met his death at Ticonderoga. As a most natural sequence, even amid the hostile demonstrations of both French and Indians, Lord Howe and the young girl find time to make most deliciously sweet love, and the son of the recluse has already lost his heart to the daughter of a great sachem, a dusky maiden whose warrior-father has surrounded her with all the comforts of a civilized life. 

 The character of Captain Brooks, who voluntarily decides to sacrifice his own life in order to save the son of the Englishman, is not among the least of the attractions of this story, which holds the attention of the reader even to the last page. The tribal laws and folk lore of the different tribes of Indians known as the "Five Nations, " with which the story is interspersed, shows that the author gave no small amount of study to the work in question, and nowhere else is it shown more plainly than by the skilful manner in which he has interwoven with his plot the "blood" law, which demands a life for a life, whether it be that of the murderer or one of his race. 

 A more charming story of mingled love and adventure has never been written than "Ticonderoga. "

ROB OF THE BOWL: A Story of the Early Days of Maryland. By John P. Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. With four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1. 00. 

 It was while he was a member of Congress from Maryland that the noted statesman wrote this story regarding the early history of his native State, and while some critics are inclined to consider "Horse Shoe Robinson" as the best of his works, it is certain that "Rob of the Bowl" stands at the head of the list as a literary production and an authentic exposition of the manners and customs during Lord Baltimore's rule. The greater portion of the action takes place in St. Mary's--the original capital of the State. 

 As a series of pictures of early colonial life in Maryland, "Rob of the Bowl" has no equal, and the book, having been written by one who had exceptional facilities for gathering material concerning the individual members of the settlements in and about St. Mary's, is a most valuable addition to the history of the State. 

 The story is full of splendid action, with a charming love story, and a plot that never loosens the grip of its interest to its last page. 

BY BERWEN BANKS. By Allen Raine. 

 It is a tender and beautiful romance of the idyllic. A charming picture of life in a Welsh seaside village. It is something of a prose-poem, true, tender and graceful. 

IN DEFIANCE OF THE KING. A romance of the American Revolution. ByChauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. With four illustrations by J. WatsonDavis. Price, $1. 00. 

 The story opens in the month of April, 1775, with the provincial troops hurrying to the defense of Lexington and Concord. Mr. Hotchkiss has etched in burning words a story of Yankee bravery and true love that thrills from beginning to end with the spirit of the Revolution. The heart beats quickly, and we feel ourselves taking a part in the exciting scenes described. You lay the book aside with the feeling that you have seen a gloriously true picture of the Revolution. His whole story is so absorbing that you will sit up far into the night to finish it. As a love romance it is charming. 

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BURT'S HOME LIBRARY is a series which includes the standard works of theworld's best literature, bound in uniform cloth binding, gilt tops, embracing chiefly selections from writers of the most notable English, American and Foreign Fiction, together with many important works in thedomains of History, Biography, Philosophy, Travel, Poetry and theEssays. 

A glance at the following annexed list of titles and authors willendorse the claim that the publishers make for it--that it is the mostcomprehensive, choice, interesting, and by far the most carefullyselected series of standard authors for world-wide reading that has beenproduced by any publishing house in any country, and that at prices socheap, and in a style so substantial and pleasing, as to win for itmillions of readers and the approval and commendation, not only of thebook trade throughout the American continent, but of hundreds ofthousands of librarians, clergymen, educators and men of lettersinterested in the dissemination of instructive, entertaining andthoroughly wholesome reading matter for the masses. 

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Abbe Constantin. By Ludovic Halevy. Abbott. By Sir Walter Scott. Adam Bede. By George Eliot. Addison's Essays. Edited by John Richard Green. Aeneid of Virgil. Translated by John Connington. Aesop's Fables. Alexander, the Great, Life of. By John Williams. Alfred, the Great, Life of. By Thomas Hughes. Alhambra. By Washington Irving. Alice in Wonderland, and Through the Looking-Glass. By Lewis Carroll. Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Blackmore. All Sorts and Conditions of Men. By Walter Besant. Alton Locke. By Charles Kingsley. Amiel's Journal. Translated by Mrs. Humphrey Ward. Andersen's Fairy Tales. Anne of Geirstein. By Sir Walter Scott. Antiquary. By Sir Walter Scott. Arabian Nights' Entertainments. Ardath. By Marie Corelli. Arnold, Benedict, Life of. By George Canning Hill. Arnold's Poems. By Matthew Arnold. Around the World in the Yacht Sunbeam. By Mrs. Brassey. Arundel Motto. By Mary Cecil Hay. At the Back of the North Wind. By George Macdonald. Attic Philosopher. By Emile Souvestre. Auld Licht Idylls. By James M. Barrie. Aunt Diana. By Rosa N. Carey. Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin. Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. By O. W. Holmes. Averil. By Rosa N. Carey. Bacon's Essays. By Francis Bacon. Barbara Heathcote's Trial. By Rosa N. Carey. Barnaby Rudge. By Charles Dickens. Barrack Room Ballads. By Rudyard Kipling. Betrothed. By Sir Walter Scott. Beulah. By Augusta J. Evans. Black Beauty. By Anna Sewell. Black Dwarf. By Sir Walter Scott. Black Rock. By Ralph Connor. Black Tulip. By Alexandre Dumas. Bleak House. By Charles Dickens. Blithedale Romance. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Bondman. By Hall Caine. Book of Golden Deeds. By Charlotte M. Yonge. Boone, Daniel, Life of. By Cecil B. Hartley. Bride of Lammermoor. By Sir Walter Scott. Bride of the Nile. By George Ebers. Browning's Poems. By Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Browning's Poems. (selections. ) By Robert Browning. Bryant's Poems. (early. ) By William Cullen Bryant. Burgomaster's Wife. By George Ebers. Burn's Poems. By Robert Burns. By Order of the King. By Victor Hugo. Byron's Poems. By Lord Byron. Caesar, Julius, Life of. By James Anthony Froude. Carson, Kit, Life of. By Charles Burdett. Cary's Poems. By Alice and Phoebe Cary. Cast Up by the Sea. By Sir Samuel Baker. Charlemagne (Charles the Great), Life of. By Thomas Hodgkin, D. C. L. Charles Auchester. By E. Berger. Character. By Samuel Smiles. Charles O'Malley. By Charles Lever. Chesterfield's Letters. By Lord Chesterfield. Chevalier de Maison Rouge. By Alexandre Dumas. Chicot the Jester. By Alexandre Dumas. Children of the Abbey. By Regina Maria Roche. Child's History of England. By Charles Dickens. Christmas Stories. By Charles Dickens. Cloister and the Hearth. By Charles Reade. Coleridge's Poems. By Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Columbus, Christopher, Life of. By Washington Irving. Companions of Jehu. By Alexandre Dumas. Complete Angler. By Walton And Cotton. Conduct of Life. By Ralph Waldo Emerson. Confessions of an Opium Eater. By Thomas de Quincey. Conquest of Granada. By Washington Irving. Conscript. By Erckmann-Chatrian. Conspiracy of Pontiac. By Francis Parkman, Jr. Conspirators. By Alexandre Dumas. Consuelo. By George Sand. Cook's Voyages. By Captain James Cook. Corinne. By Madame de Stael. Countess de Charney. By Alexandre Dumas. Countess Gisela. By E. Marlitt. 

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Transcriber's notes:

Punctuation normalized. 

The phrase "Box R" has been used where a literal cattle brand symbolof the letter R inside two sides of a box was used in the original text. Similarly, an R within a circle indicating a ranch has been rendered asthe "Circle R" ranch in this transcription. 

Page 113, "life" changed to "city" (The city was part of their life). 

Page 210, "clapsed" changed to "clasped" (girls hands were clasped). 

Page 341, "Sewall" changed to "Sewell" (Anna Sewell).