-----------------------------------------------------------------------

BLAZED TRAIL STORIES

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

OTHER BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR

The Blazed Trail, The Silent Places, Conjuror's House TheWesterners, The Claim Jumpers The Magic Forest, The Forest TheMountains

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration: Thomas Fogarty "FOR A MOMENT HE POISED ERECT IN THEGREAT CALM OF THE PUBLIC PERFORMER. " (Page 6)]

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

BLAZED TRAIL STORIESANDSTORIES OF THE WILD LIFE

BYSTEWART EDWARD WHITE

NEW YORK McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO. MCMIVCopyright 1904, by Stewart Edward WhitePublished September, 1904

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Copyright 1899, 1902, 1903, by The S. S. McClure Co. Copyright 1901, byThe Century Company. Copyright 1899, 1900, by J. B. Lippincott Company. Copyright 1902, by Perry Mason Company. Copyright 1901, by Truth Company. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

CONTENTS

PART IBLAZED TRAIL STORIES PAGE

The Riverman 3

The Foreman 22

The Scaler 39

The River-Boss 58

The Fifth Way 73

The Life of the Winds of Heaven 83

PART IISTORIES OF THE WILD LIFE

The Girl Who Got Rattled 111

Billy's Tenderfoot 132

The Two Cartridges 153

The Race 180

The Saving Grace 198

The Prospector 222

The Girl in Red 246

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

BLAZED TRAIL STORIESANDSTORIES OF THE WILD LIFE

I

THE RIVERMAN

I first met him one Fourth of July afternoon in the middle eighties. Thesawdust streets and high board sidewalks of the lumber town were filledto the brim with people. The permanent population, dressed in thestiffness of its Sunday best, escorted gingham wives or sweethearts; adozen outsiders like myself tried not to be too conspicuous in a citysmartness; but the great multitude was composed of the men of the woods. I sat, chair-tilted by the hotel, watching them pass. Their heavywoollen shirts crossed by the broad suspenders, the red of their sashesor leather shine of their belts, their short kersey trousers "stagged"off to leave a gap between the knee and the heavily spiked "corkboots"--all these were distinctive enough of their class, but mostinteresting to me were the eyes that peered from beneath their littleround hats tilted rakishly askew. They were all subtly alike, thoseeyes. Some were black, some were brown, or gray, or blue, but all weresteady and unabashed, all looked straight at you with a strange humorousblending of aggression and respect for your own business, and allwithout exception wrinkled at the corners with a suggestion of dryhumor. In my half-conscious scrutiny I probably stared harder than Iknew, for all at once a laughing pair of the blue eyes suddenly met minefull, and an ironical voice drawled, "Say, bub, you look as interested as a man killing snakes. Am I yourlong-lost friend?"

The tone of the voice matched accurately the attitude of the man, andthat was quite non-committal. He stood cheerfully ready to meet theemergency. If I sought trouble, it was here to my hand; or if I neededhelp he was willing to offer it. 

"I guess you are, " I replied, "if you can tell me what all this outfit'sheaded for. "

He thrust back his hat and ran his hand through a mop of closely croppedlight curls. 

"Birling match, " he explained briefly. "Come on. "

I joined him, and together we followed the crowd to the river, where weroosted like cormorants on adjacent piles overlooking a patch of clearwater among the filled booms. 

"Drive's just over, " my new friend informed me. "Rear come down lastnight. Fourther July celebration. This little town will scratch fer th'tall timber along about midnight when the boys goes in to take herapart. "

A half-dozen men with peavies rolled a white-pine log of about a footand a half diameter into the clear water, where it lay rocking back andforth, three or four feet from the boom piles. Suddenly a man ran thelength of the boom, leaped easily into the air, and landed with bothfeet square on one end of the floating log. That end disappeared in anankle-deep swirl of white foam, the other rose suddenly, the wholetimber, projected forward by the shock, drove headlong to the middle ofthe little pond. And the man, his arms folded, his knees just bent inthe graceful nervous attitude of the circus-rider, stood upright like astatue of bronze. 

A roar approved this feat. 

"That's Dickey Darrell, " said my informant, "Roaring Dick. He's hell_and_ repeat. Watch him. "

The man on the log was small, with clean beautiful haunches andshoulders, but with hanging baboon arms. Perhaps his most strikingfeature was a mop of reddish-brown hair that overshadowed a littletriangular white face accented by two reddish-brown quadrilaterals thatserved as eyebrows and a pair of inscrutable chipmunk eyes. 

For a moment he poised erect in the great calm of the public performer. Then slowly he began to revolve the log under his feet. The lofty gaze, the folded arms, the straight supple waist budged not by a hair'sbreadth; only the feet stepped forward, at first deliberately, thenfaster and faster, until the rolling log threw a blue spray a foot intothe air. Then suddenly _slap! slap!_ the heavy caulks stamped areversal. The log came instantaneously to rest, quivering exactly likesome animal that had been spurred through its paces. 

"Magnificent!" I cried. 

"Hell, that's nothing!" my companion repressed me, "anybody can birl alog. Watch this. "

Roaring Dick for the first time unfolded his arms. With some appearanceof caution he balanced his unstable footing into absolute immobility. Then he turned a somersault. 

This was the real thing. My friend uttered a wild yell of applause whichwas lost in a general roar. 

A long pike-pole shot out, bit the end of the timber, and towed it tothe boom pile. Another man stepped on the log with Darrell. They stoodfacing each other, bent-kneed, alert. Suddenly with one accord theycommenced to birl the log from left to right. The pace grew hot. Likesquirrels treading a cage their feet twinkled. Then it became apparentthat Darrell's opponent was gradually being forced from the top of thelog. He could not keep up. Little by little, still moving desperately, he dropped back to the slant, then at last to the edge, and so off intothe river with a mighty splash. 

"Clean birled!" commented my friend. 

One after another a half-dozen rivermen tackled the imperturbable Dick, but none of them possessed the agility to stay on top in the pace he setthem. One boy of eighteen seemed for a moment to hold his own, andmanaged at least to keep out of the water even when Darrell hadapparently reached his maximum speed. But that expert merely threw hisentire weight into two reversing stamps of his feet, and the youngfellow dove forward as abruptly as though he had been shied over ahorse's head. 

The crowd was by now getting uproarious and impatient of volunteereffort to humble Darrell's challenge. It wanted the best, and at once. It began, with increasing insistence, to shout a name. 

"Jimmy Powers!" it vociferated, "Jimmy Powers. "

And then by shamefaced bashfulness, by profane protest, by muttered andcomprehensive curses I knew that my companion on the other pile wasindicated. 

A dozen men near at hand began to shout. "Here he is!" they cried. "Comeon, Jimmy. " "Don't be a high banker. " "Hang his hide on the fence. "

Jimmy, still red and swearing, suffered himself to be pulled from hiselevation and disappeared in the throng. A moment later I caught hishead and shoulders pushing toward the boom piles, and so in a moment hestepped warily aboard to face his antagonist. 

This was evidently no question to be determined by the simplicity offorce or the simplicity of a child's trick. The two men stoodhalf-crouched, face to face, watching each other narrowly, but making nomove. To me they seemed like two wrestlers sparring for an opening. Slowly the log revolved one way; then slowly the other. It was a merecourtesy of salute. All at once Dick birled three rapid strokes fromleft to right as though about to roll the log, leaped into the air andlanded square with both feet on the other slant of the timber. JimmyPowers felt the jar, and acknowledged it by the spasmodic jerk withwhich he counterbalanced Darrell's weight. But he was not thrown. 

As though this daring and hazardous manoeuvre had opened the combat, both men sprang to life. Sometimes the log rolled one way, sometimes theother, sometimes it jerked from side to side like a crazy thing, butalways with the rapidity of light, always in a smother of spray andfoam. The decided _spat, spat, spat_ of the reversing blows from thecaulked boots sounded like picket firing. I could not make out thedifferent leads, feints, parries, and counters of this strange method ofboxing, nor could I distinguish to whose initiative the variousevolutions of that log could be described. But I retain still a vividmental picture of two men nearly motionless above the waist, nearlyvibrant below it, dominating the insane gyrations of a stick of pine. 

The crowd was appreciative and partisan--for Jimmy Powers. It howledwildly, and rose thereby to ever higher excitement. Then it forgot itsmanners utterly and groaned when it made out that a sudden splashrepresented its favourite, while the indomitable Darrell still trod thequarter-deck as champion birler for the year. 

I must confess I was as sorry as anybody. I climbed down from mycormorant roost, and picked my way between the alleys of aromatic piledlumber in order to avoid the press, and cursed the little gods heartilyfor undue partiality in the wrong direction. In this manner I happenedon Jimmy Powers himself seated dripping on a board and examining hisbared foot. 

"I'm sorry, " said I behind him. "How did he do it?"

He whirled, and I could see that his laughing boyish face had becomesuddenly grim and stern, and that his eyes were shot with blood. 

"Oh, it's you, is it?" he growled disparagingly. "Well, that's how hedid it. "

He held out his foot. Across the instep and at the base of the toes rantwo rows of tiny round punctures from which the blood was oozing. Ilooked very inquiring. 

"He corked me!" Jimmy Powers explained. "Jammed his spikes into me!Stepped on my foot and tripped me, the----" Jimmy Powers certainly couldswear. 

"Why didn't you make a kick?" I cried. 

"That ain't how I do it, " he muttered, pulling on his heavy woollensock. 

"But no, " I insisted, my indignation mounting. "It's an outrage! Thatcrowd was with you. All you had to do was to _say_ something----"

He cut me short. "And give myself away as a damn fool--sure Mike. Iought to know Dickey Darrell by this time, and I ought to be big enoughto take care of myself. " He stamped his foot into his driver's shoe andtook me by the arm, his good humour apparently restored. "No, don't youlose any hair, bub; I'll get even with Roaring Dick. "

That night, having by the advice of the proprietor moved my bureau andtrunk against the bedroom door, I lay wide awake listening to the takingof the town apart. At each especially vicious crash I wondered if thatmight be Jimmy Powers getting even with Roaring Dick. 

The following year, but earlier in the season, I again visited my littlelumber town. In striking contrast to the life of that other midsummerday were the deserted streets. The landlord knew me, and after I hadwashed and eaten approached me with a suggestion. 

"You got all day in front of you, " said he; "why don't you take a horseand buggy and make a visit to the big jam? Everybody's up there more orless. "

In response to my inquiry, he replied:

"They've jammed at the upper bend, jammed bad. The crew's been pickingat her for near a week now, and last night Darrell was down to see aboutsome more dynamite. It's worth seein'. The breast of her is near thirtyfoot high, and lots of water in the river. "

"Darrell?" said I, catching at the name. 

"Yes. He's rear boss this year. Do you think you'd like to take a lookat her?"

"I think I should, " I assented. 

The horse and I jogged slowly along a deep sand road, through wastes ofpine stumps and belts of hardwood beautiful with the early spring, untilfinally we arrived at a clearing in which stood two huge tents, amammoth kettle slung over a fire of logs, and drying racks about thetimbers of another fire. A fat cook in the inevitable battered derbyhat, two bare-armed cookees, and a chore "boy" of seventy-odd summerswere the only human beings in sight. One of the cookees agreed to keepan eye on my horse. I picked my way down a well-worn trail toward theregular _clank, clank, click_ of the peavies. 

I emerged finally to a plateau elevated some fifty or sixty feet abovethe river. A half-dozen spectators were already gathered. Among them Icould not but notice a tall, spare, broad-shouldered young fellowdressed in a quiet business suit, somewhat wrinkled, whose square, strong, clean-cut face and muscular hands were tanned by the weather toa dark umber-brown. In another moment I looked down on the jam. 

The breast, as my landlord had told me, rose sheer from the water to theheight of at least twenty-five feet, bristling and formidable. Back ofit pressed the volume of logs packed closely in an apparentlyinextricable tangle as far as the eye could reach. A man near informedme that the tail was a good three miles up stream. From beneath thiswonderful _chevaux de frise_ foamed the current of the river, irresistible to any force less mighty than the statics of such a mass. 

A crew of forty or fifty men were at work. They clamped their peavies tothe reluctant timbers, heaved, pushed, slid, and rolled them one by oneinto the current, where they were caught and borne away. They had beendoing this for a week. As yet their efforts had made but slightimpression on the bulk of the jam, but some time, with patience, theywould reach the key-logs. Then the tangle would melt like sugar in thefreshet, and these imperturbable workers would have to escape suddenlyover the plunging logs to shore. 

My eye ranged over the men, and finally rested on Dickey Darrell. He wasstanding on the slanting end of an upheaved log dominating the scene. His little triangular face with the accents of the quadrilateraleyebrows was pale with the blaze of his energy, and his chipmunk eyesseemed to flame with a dynamic vehemence that caused those on whom theirglance fell to jump as though they had been touched with a hot poker. Ihad heard more of Dickey Darrell since my last visit, and was glad ofthe chance to observe Morrison & Daly's best "driver" at work. 

The jam seemed on the very edge of breaking. After half an hour'sstrained expectation it seemed still on the very edge of breaking. So Isat down on a stump. Then for the first time I noticed anotheracquaintance, handling his peavie near the very person of the rear boss. 

"Hullo, " said I to myself, "that's funny. I wonder if Jimmy Powers goteven; and if so, why he is working so amicably and so near RoaringDick. "

At noon the men came ashore for dinner. I paid a quarter into the cook'sprivate exchequer and so was fed. After the meal I approached myacquaintance of the year before. 

"Hello, Powers, " I greeted him, "I suppose you don't remember me?"

"Sure, " he responded heartily. "Ain't you a little early this year?"

"No, " I disclaimed, "this is a better sight than a birling match. "

I offered him a cigar, which he immediately substituted for his corn-cobpipe. We sat at the root of a tree. 

"It'll be a great sight when that jam pulls, " said I. 

"You bet, " he replied, "but she's a teaser. Even old Tim Shearer wouldhave a picnic to make out just where the key-logs are. We've started herthree times, but she's plugged tight every trip. Likely to pull almostany time. "

We discussed various topics. Finally I ventured:

"I see your old friend Darrell is rear boss. "

"Yes, " said Jimmy Powers, dryly. 

"By the way, did you fellows ever square up on that birling match?"

"No, " said Jimmy Powers; then after an instant, "Not yet. "

I glanced at him to recognise the square set to the jaw that hadimpressed me so formidably the year before. And again his face relaxedalmost quizzically as he caught sight of mine. 

"Bub, " said he, getting to his feet, "those little marks are on my footyet. And just you tie into one idea: Dickey Darrell's got it coming. "His face darkened with a swift anger. "God damn his soul!" he said, deliberately. It was no mere profanity. It was an imprecation, and inits very deliberation I glimpsed the flare of an undying hate. 

About three o'clock that afternoon Jimmy's prediction was fulfilled. Without the slightest warning the jam "pulled. " Usually certainpremonitory _cracks_, certain sinkings down, groanings forward, grumblings, shruggings, and sullen, reluctant shiftings of the logs giveopportunity for the men to assure their safety. This jam, afterinexplicably hanging fire for a week, as inexplicably started like asprinter almost into its full gait. The first few tiers toppled smashinto the current, raising a waterspout like that made by a dynamiteexplosion; the mass behind plunged forward blindly, rising and fallingas the integral logs were up-ended, turned over, thrust to one side, orforced bodily into the air by the mighty power playing jack-straws withthem. 

The rivermen, though caught unaware, reached either bank. They heldtheir peavies across their bodies as balancing-poles, and zig-zaggedashore with a calmness and lack of haste that were in reality only anindication of the keenness with which they fore-estimated each chance. Long experience with the ways of saw-logs brought them out. They knewthe correlation of these many forces just as the expert billiard-playerknows instinctively the various angles of incident and reflectionbetween his cue-ball and its mark. Consequently they avoided the centresof eruption, paused on the spots steadied for the moment, dodged movinglogs, trod those not yet under way, and so arrived on solid ground. Thejam itself started with every indication of meaning business, gainedmomentum for a hundred feet, and then plugged to a standstill. The"break" was abortive. 

Now we all had leisure to notice two things. First, the movement had notbeen of the whole jam, as we had at first supposed, but only of a blockor section of it twenty rods or so in extent. Thus between the part thathad moved and the greater bulk that had not stirred lay a hundred feetof open water in which floated a number of loose logs. The second factwas, that Dickey Darrell had fallen into that open stretch of water andwas in the act of swimming toward one of the floating logs. That much wewere given just time to appreciate thoroughly. Then the other section ofthe jam rumbled and began to break. Roaring Dick was caught between twogigantic millstones moving to crush him out of sight. 

An active figure darted down the tail of the first section, out over thefloating logs, seized Darrell by the coat-collar, and so burdened begandesperately to scale the very face of the breaking jam. 

Never was a more magnificent rescue. The logs were rolling, falling, diving against the laden man. He climbed as over a treadmill, atreadmill whose speed was constantly increasing. And when he finallygained the top, it was as the gap closed splintering beneath him and theman he had saved. 

It is not in the woodsman to be demonstrative at any time, but here waswork demanding attention. Without a pause for breath or congratulationthey turned to the necessity of the moment. The jam, the whole jam, wasmoving at last. Jimmy Powers ran ashore for his peavie. Roaring Dick, like a demon incarnate, threw himself into the work. Forty men attackedthe jam at a dozen places, encouraging the movement, twisting aside thetimbers that threatened to lock anew, directing pigmy-like the titanicforces into the channel of their efficiency. Roaring like wild cattlethe logs swept by, at first slowly, then with the railroad rush of thecurbed freshet. Men were everywhere, taking chances, like cowboys beforethe stampeded herd. And so, out of sight around the lower bend swept thefront of the jam in a swirl of glory, the rivermen riding the great boomback of the creature they subdued, until at last, with the slackeningcurrent, the logs floated by free, cannoning with hollow sound oneagainst the other. A half-dozen watchers, leaning statuesquely on theshafts of their peavies, watched the ordered ranks pass by. 

One by one the spectators departed. At last only myself and thebrown-faced young man remained. He sat on a stump, staring withsightless eyes into vacancy. I did not disturb his thoughts. 

The sun dipped. A cool breeze of evening sucked up the river. Over nearthe cook-camp a big fire commenced to crackle by the drying frames. Atdusk the rivermen straggled in from the down-river trail. 

The brown-faced young man arose and went to meet them. I saw him returnin close conversation with Jimmy Powers. Before they reached us he hadturned away with a gesture of farewell. 

Jimmy Powers stood looking after him long after his form haddisappeared, and indeed even after the sound of his wheels had diedtoward town. As I approached, the riverman turned to me a face fromwhich the reckless, contained self-reliance of the woods-worker hadfaded. It was wide-eyed with an almost awe-stricken wonder andadoration. 

"Do you know who that is?" he asked me in a hushed voice. "That'sThorpe, Harry Thorpe. And do you know what he said to me just now, _me_?He told me he wanted me to work in Camp One next winter, Thorpe's One. And he told me I was the first man he ever hired straight into One. "

His breath caught with something like a sob. 

I had heard of the man and of his methods. I knew he had made it apractice of recruiting for his prize camp only from the employees of hisother camps, that, as Jimmy said, he never "hired straight into One. " Ihad heard, too, of his reputation among his own and other woodsmen. Butthis was the first time I had ever come into personal contact with hisinfluence. It impressed me the more in that I had come to know JimmyPowers and his kind. 

"You deserve it, every bit, " said I. "I'm not going to call you a hero, because that would make you tired. What you did this afternoon showednerve. It was a brave act. But it was a better act because you rescuedyour enemy, because you forgot everything but your common humanity whendanger----"

I broke off. Jimmy was again looking at me with his ironically quizzicalgrin. 

"Bub, " said he, "if you're going to hang any stars of Bethlehem on myChristmas tree, just call a halt right here. I didn't rescue thatscalawag because I had any Christian sentiments, nary bit. I was justnaturally savin' him for the birling match next Fourther July. "

II

THE FOREMAN

A man is one thing: a man _plus_ his work is another, entirelydifferent. You can learn this anywhere, but in the lumber woods best ofall. 

Especially is it true of the camp boss, the foreman. A firm that knowsits business knows this, and so never considers merely what sort of acharacter a candidate may bear in town. He may drink or abstain, mayexhibit bravery or cowardice, strength or weakness--it is all one to thelumbermen who employ him. In the woods his quality must appear. 

So often the man most efficient and trusted in the especial environmentof his work is the most disreputable outside it. The mere dignifyingquality of labour raises his value to the _nth_ power. In it hediscovers the self-respect which, in one form or another, is absolutelynecessary to the man who counts. His resolution to succeed has back ofit this necessity of self-respect, and so is invincible. A good bossgives back before nothing which will further his job. 

Most people in the North Country understand this double standard; butoccasionally someone, either stupid or inexperienced or unobservant, makes the mistake of concluding that the town-character and thewoods-character are necessarily the same. If he acts in accordance withthat erroneous idea, he gets into trouble. Take the case of Silver Jackand the walking boss of Morrison & Daly, for instance. Silver Jackimagined his first encounter with Richard Darrell in Bay City indicatedthe certainty of like results to his second encounter with thatindividual in Camp Thirty. His mistake was costly; but almost anybodycould have told him better. To understand the case, you must first meetRichard Darrell. 

The latter was a man about five feet six inches in height, slenderlybuilt, yet with broad, hanging shoulders. His face was an exacttriangle, beginning with a mop of red-brown hair, and ending with apointed chin. Two level quadrilaterals served him as eyebrows, beneathwhich a strong hooked nose separated his round, brown, chipmunk's eyes. When he walked, he threw his heavy shoulders slightly forward. This, inturn, projected his eager, nervous countenance. The fact that he wasaccustomed to hold his hands half open, with the palms square to therear, lent him a peculiarly ready and truculent air. His name, as hasbeen said, was Richard Darrell; but men called him Roaring Dick. 

For upward of fifteen years he had been woods foreman for Morrison &Daly, the great lumber firm of the Beeson Lake district. That would makehim about thirty-eight years old. He did not look it. His firm thoughteverything of him in spite of the fact that his reputation made itexceedingly difficult to hire men for his camps. He had the name of a"driver. " But this little man, in some mysterious way of his own, couldget in the logs. There was none like him. About once in three months hewould suddenly appear, worn and haggard, at Beeson Lake, where he woulddrop into an iron bed, which the Company maintained for that especialpurpose. Tim Brady, the care-taker, would bring him food at statedintervals. After four days of this, he would as suddenly disappear intothe forest, again charged with the vital, restless energy which kept himon his feet fourteen hours a day until the next break down. When helooked directly at you, this nerve-force seemed to communicate itself toyou with the physical shock of an impact. 

Richard Darrell usually finished banking his season's cut a monthearlier than anybody else. Then he drew his pay at Beeson Lake, took thetrain for Bay City, and set out to have a good time. Whiskey was itsmain element. On his intensely nervous organisation it acted likepoison. He would do the wildest things. After his money was all spent, he started up river for the log-drive, hollow-eyed, shaking. Intwenty-four hours he was himself again, dominant, truculent, fixing hisbrown chipmunk eyes on the delinquents with the physical shock of animpact, coolly balancing beneath the imminent ruin of a jam. 

Silver Jack, on the other hand, was not nervous at all, but very talland strong, with bronze-red skin, and flaxen white hair, mustache andeyebrows. The latter peculiarity earned him his nickname. He was at alltimes absolutely fearless and self-reliant in regard to materialconditions, but singularly unobservant and stupid when it was a questionof psychology. He had been a sawyer in his early experience, but laterbecame a bartender in Muskegon. He was in general a good-humouredanimal enough, but fond of a swagger, given to showing off, andexceedingly ugly when his passions were aroused. 

His first hard work, after arriving in Bay City, was, of course, tovisit the saloons. In one of these he came upon Richard Darrell. Thelatter was enjoying himself noisily by throwing wine-glasses at a beeradvertisement. As he always paid liberally for the glasses, no onethought of objecting. 

"Who's th' bucko?" inquired Silver Jack of a man near the stove. 

"That's Roaring Dick Darrell, walkin' boss for M. & D. , " replied theother. 

Silver Jack drew his flax-white eyebrows together. 

"Roaring Dick, eh? Roaring Dick? Fine name fer a bad man. I s'pose hethinks he's perticular all hell, don't he?"

"I do'no. Guess he is. He's got th' name fer it. "

"Well, " said Silver Jack, drawing his powerful back into a bow, "I ain'tmuch; but I don't like noise--'specially roaring. "

With the words he walked directly across the saloon to the foreman. 

"My name is Silver Jack, " said he, "I come from Muskegon way. I don'tlike noise. Quit it. "

"All right, " replied Dick. 

The other was astonished. Then he recovered his swagger and went on:

"They tell me you're the old he-coon of this neck of th' woods. P'r'apsyou _were_. But I'm here now. Ketch on? I'm th' boss of this shebangnow. "

Dick smiled amiably. "All right, " he repeated. 

This second acquiescence nonplussed the newcomer. But he insisted on hisfight. 

"You're a bluff!" said he, insultingly. 

"Ah! go to hell!" replied Dick with disgust. 

"What's that?" shouted the stranger, towering with threatening bulk overthe smaller man. 

And then to his surprise Dick Darrell began to beg. 

"Don't you hit me!" he cried, "I ain't done nothing to you. You let mealone! Don't you let him touch me!" he called beseechingly to thebarkeeper. "I don't want to get hurt. Stop it! Let me be!"

Silver Jack took Richard Darrell by the collar and propelled him rapidlyto the door. The foreman hung back like a small boy in the grasp of aschoolmaster, whining, beseeching, squirming, appealing for help to thebarkeeper and the bystanders. When finally he was energetically kickedinto the gutter, he wept a little with nervous rage. 

"Roaring Dick! Rats!" said Silver Jack. "Anybody can do him proper. Ifthat's your 'knocker, ' you're a gang of high bankers. "

The other men merely smiled in the manner of those who know. Incidentally Silver Jack was desperately pounded by Big Dan, later inthe evening, on account of that "high-banker" remark. 

Richard Darrell, soon after, went into the woods with his crew, andbegan the tremendous struggle against the wilderness. Silver Jack andBig Dan took up the saloon business at Beeson Lake, and set themselvesto gathering a clientèle which should do them credit. 

The winter was a bad one for everybody. Deep snows put the job behind;frequent storms undid the work of an infinitely slow patience. When thelogging roads were cut through, the ground failed to freeze because ofthe thick white covering that overlaid it. Darrell in his mysteriouscompelling fashion managed somehow. Everywhere his thin eager triangleof a face with the brown chipmunk eyes was seen, bullying the men intotitanic exertions by the mere shock of his nervous force. Over the thincrust of ice cautious loads of a few thousand feet were drawn to thebanks of the river. The road-bed held. Gradually it hardened andthickened. The size of the loads increased. Finally Billy O'Brien drewup triumphantly at the rollway. 

"There's a rim-racker!" he exclaimed. "Give her all she'll stand, Jimmy. "

Jimmy Hall, the sealer, laid his flexible rule over the face of eachlog. The men gathered, interested in this record load. 

"Thirteen thousand two hundred and forty, " announced the scaler at last. 

"Whoopee!" crowed Billy O'Brien, "that'll lay out Rollway Charley by twothousand feet!"

The men congratulated him on his victory over the other teamster, Rollway Charley. Suddenly Darrell was among them, eager, menacing, thrusting his nervous face and heavy shoulders here and there in thecrowd, bullying them back to the work which they were neglecting. Whenhis back was turned they grumbled at him savagely, threatening todisobey, resolving to quit. Some of them did quit: but none of themdisobeyed. 

Now the big loads were coming in regularly, and the railways becamechoked with the logs dumped down on them from the sleighs. There werenot enough men to roll them down to the river, nor to "deck" them therein piles. Work accumulated. The cant-hook men became discouraged. Whatwas the use of trying? They might as well take it easy. They did take iteasy. As a consequence the teamsters had often to wait two, three hoursto be unloaded. They were out until long after dark, feeling their wayhomeward through hunger and cold. 

Dick Darrell, walking boss of all the camps, did the best he could. Hesent message after message to Beeson Lake demanding more men. If therollways could be definitely cleared once, the work would lighten allalong the line. Then the men would regain their content. More help waspromised, but it was slow in coming. The balance hung trembling. At anymoment the foreman expected the crisis, when the men, discouraged by theaccumulation of work, would begin to "jump, " would ask for their "time"and quit, leaving the job half finished in the woods. This catastrophemust not happen. Darrell himself worked like a demon until dark, andthen, ten to one, while the other men rested, would strike feverishlyacross to Camp Twenty-eight or Camp Forty, where he would consult withMorgan or Scotty Parsons until far into the night. His pale, triangularface showed the white lines of exhaustion, but his chipmunk eyes and hiseager movements told of a determination stronger than any protests of amere nature. 

Now fate ordained that Silver Jack for the purposes of his enlightenmentshould select just this moment to drum up trade. He was, in his way, asanxious to induce the men to come out of the woods as Richard Darrellwas to keep them in. Beeson Lake at this time of year was very dull. Only a few chronic loafers, without money, ornamented the saloon walls. On the other hand, at the four camps of Morrison & Daly were threehundred men each with four months' pay coming to him. In the ordinarycourse of events these men would not be out for sixty days yet, butSilver Jack and Big Dan perfectly well knew that it only needed thesuggestion, the temptation, to arouse the spirit of restlessness. That ataste or so of whiskey will shiver the patience of men oppressed by longmonotony is as A B C to the north-country saloon-keeper. Silver Jackresolved to make the rounds of the camps sure that the investment of afew jugs of whiskey would bring down to Beeson Lake at least thirty orforty woods-wearied men. 

Accordingly he donned many clothes, and drove out into the wilderness acutter containing three jugs and some cigars in boxes. He anticipatedtrouble. Perhaps he would even have to lurk in the woods, awaiting hisopportunity to smuggle his liquor to the men. 

However, luck favoured him. At Camp Twenty-eight he was able to dodgeunseen into the men's camp. When Morgan, the camp foreman, finallydiscovered his presence, the mischief had been done. Everybody wassmoking cigars, everybody was happily conscious of a warm glow at thepit of the stomach, everybody was firmly convinced that Silver Jack wasthe best fellow on earth. Morgan could do nothing. An attempt to ejectSilver Jack, an expostulation even, would, he knew, lose him his entirecrew. The men, their heads whirling with the anticipated delights of aspree, would indignantly champion their new friend. Morgan retiredgrimly to the "office. " There, the next morning, he silently made outthe "time" of six men, who had decided to quit. He wondered what wouldbecome of the rollways. 

Silver Jack, for the sake of companionship, took one of the "jumpers" inthe cutter with him. He was pleased over his success, and intended nowto try Camp Thirty, Darrell's headquarters. In regard to Morgan he hadbeen somewhat uneasy, for he had never encountered that individual; butDarrell he thought he knew. The trouble at Bay City had inspired himwith a great contempt for the walking boss. That is where his mistakecame in. 

It was very cold. The snow was up to the horses' bellies, so Silver Jackhad to drive at a plunging walk. Occasionally one or the other of thetwo stood up and thrashed his arms about. At noon they ate sandwiches ofcold fried bacon, which the frost rendered brittle as soon as it leftthe warmth of their inside pockets. Underfoot the runners of the cuttershrieked loudly. They saw the tracks of deer and wolves and partridge, and encountered a few jays, chickadees, and woodpeckers. Otherwise theforest seemed quite empty. By half-past two they had made nine miles, and the sun, in this high latitude, was swinging lower. Silver Jackspoke angrily to his struggling animals. The other had fallen into thesilence of numbness. 

They did not know that across the reaches of the forest a man washurrying to intercept them, a man who hastened to cope with this newcomplication as readily as he would have coped with the emergency of alack of flour or the sickness of horses. They drove confidently. 

Suddenly from nowhere a figure appeared in the trail before them. Itstood, silent and impassive, with forward-drooping, heavy shoulders, watching the approaching cutter through inscrutable chipmunk eyes. Whenthe strangers had approached to within a few feet of this man, thehorses stopped of their own accord. 

"Hello, Darrell, " greeted Silver Jack, tugging at one of the stone jugsbeneath the seat, "you're just the man I wanted to see. "

The figure made no reply. 

"Have a drink, " offered the big man, finally extricating the whiskey. 

"You can't take that whiskey into camp, " said Darrell. 

"Oh, I guess so, " replied Silver Jack, easily, hoping for the peacefulsolution. "There ain't enough to get anybody full. Have a taster, Darrell; it's pretty good stuff. "

"I mean it, " repeated Darrell. "You got to go back. " He seized thehorses' bits and began to lead them in the reversing circle. 

"Hold on there!" cried Silver Jack. "You let them horses alone! You damnlittle runt! Let them alone I say!" The robe was kicked aside, andSilver Jack prepared to descend. 

Richard Darrell twisted his feet out of his snow-shoe straps. "You can'ttake that whiskey into camp, " he repeated simply. 

"Now look here, Darrell, " said the other in even tones, "don't you makeno mistake. I ain't selling this whiskey; I'm _giving_ it away. The lawcan't touch me. You ain't any right to say where I'll go, and, by God, I'm going where I please!"

"You got to go back with that whiskey, " replied Darrell. 

Silver Jack threw aside his coat, and advanced. "You get out of my way, or I'll kick you out, like I done at Bay City. "

In an instant two blows were exchanged. The first marked Silver Jack'sbronze-red face just to the left of his white eyebrow. The second sentRichard Darrell gasping and sobbing into the snow-bank ten feet away. Hearose with the blood streaming from beneath his mustache. His eager, nervous face was white; his chipmunk eyes narrowed; his great hands, held palm backward, clutched spasmodically. With the stealthy motion ofa cat he approached his antagonist, and sprang. Silver Jack stoodstraight and confident, awaiting him. Three times the aggressor wasknocked entirely off his feet. The fourth he hit against the cutterbody, and his fingers closed on the axe which all voyagers through theforest carry as a matter of course. 

"He's gettin' ugly. Come on, Hank!" cried Silver Jack. 

The other man, with a long score to pay the walking boss, seized theiron starting-bar, and descended. Out from the inscrutable white forestmurder breathed like a pestilential air. The two men talked about iteasily, confidently. 

"You ketch him on one side, and I'll come in on the other, " said the mannamed Hank, gripping his short, heavy bar. 

The forest lay behind; the forest, easily penetrable to a man inmoccasins. Richard Darrell could at any moment have fled beyond thepossibility of pursuit. This had become no mere question of a bar-roomfisticuff, but of life and death. He had begged abjectly from the painof a cuff on the ear; now he merely glanced over his shoulder toward thesafety that lay beyond. Then, with a cry, he whirled the axe about hishead and threw it directly at the second of his antagonists. The flatof the implement struck heavily, full on the man's forehead. He fell, stunned. Immediately the other two precipitated themselves on theweapons. This time Silver Jack secured the axe, while Darrell had tocontent himself with the short, heavy bar. The strange duel recommenced, while the horses, mildly curious, gazed through the steam of theirnostrils at their warring masters. 

Overhead the ravens of the far north idled to and fro. When the threemen lay still on the trampled snow, they stooped, nearer and nearer. Then they towered. One of the men had stirred. 

Richard Darrell painfully cleared his eyes and dragged himself to asitting position, sweeping the blood of his shallow wound from hisforehead. He searched out the axe. With it he first smashed in thewhiskey jugs. Then he wrecked the cutter, chopping it savagely until itwas reduced to splinters and twisted iron. By the time this was done, his antagonists were in the throes of returning consciousness. He stoodover them, dominant, menacing. 

"You hit th' back trail, " said he, "damn quick! Don't you let me see you'round these diggings again. "

Silver Jack, bewildered, half stunned, not understanding this littlecowardly man who had permitted himself to be kicked from the saloon, rose slowly. 

"You stand there!" commanded Darrell. He opened a pocket-knife, and cutthe harness to bits, leaving only the necessary head-stalls intact. 

"Now git!" said he. "Pike out!--fer Beeson Lake. Don't you stop at noCamp Twenty-eight!"

Appalled at the prospect of the long journey through the frozen forest, Silver Jack and his companion silently led the horses away. As theyreached the bend in the trail, they looked back. The sun was justsetting through the trees, throwing the illusion of them gigantic acrossthe eye. And he stood there huge, menacing, against the light--thedominant spirit, Roaring Dick of the woods, the incarnation ofNecessity, the Man defending his Work, the Foreman!

III

THE SCALER

Once Morrison & Daly, of Saginaw, but then lumbering at Beeson Lake, lent some money to a man named Crothers, taking in return a mortgage onwhat was known as the Crothers Tract of white pine. In due time, asCrothers did not liquidate, the firm became possessed of this tract. They hardly knew what to do with it. 

The timber was situated some fifty miles from the railroad in a countrythat threw all sorts of difficulties across the logger's path, and hadto be hauled from nine to fifteen miles to the river. Both Morrison andDaly groaned in spirit. Supplies would have to be toted in to last theentire winter, for when the snow came, communication over fifty miles offorest road would be as good as cut off. Whom could they trust among thelesser foremen of their woods force? Whom could they spare among thegreater?

At this juncture they called to them Tim Shearer, their walking bossand the greatest riverman in the State. 

"You'll have to 'job' her, " said Tim, promptly. 

"Who would be hired at any price to go up in that country on a ten-milehaul?" demanded Daly, sceptically. 

"Jest one man, " replied Tim, "an' I know where to find him. "

He returned with an individual at the sight of whom the partners glancedtoward each other in doubt and dismay. But there seemed no help for it. A contract was drawn up in which the firm agreed to pay six dollars athousand, merchantable scale, for all saw-logs banked at a rollway to besituated a given number of miles from the forks of Cass Branch, while onhis side James Bourke, better known as the Rough Red, agreed to put inat least three and one-half million feet. After the latter had scrawledhis signature he lurched from the office, softly rubbing his hairyfreckled hand where the pen had touched it. 

"That means a crew of wild Irishmen, " said Morrison. 

"And _that_ means they'll just slaughter the pine, " added Daly. "They'llsaw high and crooked, they'll chuck the tops--who are we going to sendto scale for 'em?"

Morrison sighed. "I hate to do it: there's only Fitz can make it go. "

So then they called to them another of their best men, namedFitzPatrick, and sent him away alone to protect the firm's interests inthe depths of the wilderness. 

The Rough Red was a big broad-faced man with eyes far apart and a bushyred beard. He wore a dingy mackinaw coat, a dingy black-and-whitechecked-flannel shirt, dingy blue trousers, tucked into high socks andlumberman's rubbers. The only spot of colour in his costume was theflaming red sash of the _voyageur_ which he passed twice around hiswaist. When at work his little wide eyes flickered with a baleful, wicked light, his huge voice bellowed through the woods in a torrent ofimprecations and commands, his splendid muscles swelled visibly evenunder his loose blanket-coat as he wrenched suddenly and savagely atsome man's stubborn cant-hook stock. A hint of reluctance or oppositionbrought his fist to the mark with irresistible impact. Then he wouldpluck his victim from the snow, and kick him to work with a savage jestthat raised a laugh from everybody--excepting the object of it. 

At night he stormed back through the forest at the head of his band, shrieking wild blasphemy at the silent night, irreverent, domineering, bold, with a certain tang of Irish good-nature that made him the belovedof Irishmen. And at the trail's end the unkempt, ribald crew swarmedtheir dark and dirty camp as a band of pirates a galleon. 

In the work was little system, but much efficacy. The men gambled, drank, fought, without a word of protest from their leader. With anordinary crew such performances would have meant slight accomplishment, but these wild Irishmen, with their bloodshot eyes, their ready jests, their equally ready fists, plunged into the business of banking logswith all the abandon of a carouse--and the work was done. 

Law in that wilderness was not, saving that which the Rough Red chose toadminister. Except in one instance, penalty more severe than a beatingthere was none, for the men could not equal their leader in breaking thegreater and lesser laws of morality. The one instance was that of youngBarney Mallan, who, while drunk, mishandled a horse so severely as tolame it. Him the Rough Red called to formal account. 

"Don't ye know that horses can't be had?" he demanded, singularlyenough without an oath. "Come here. "

The man approached. With a single powerful blow of a starting-bar theRough Red broke one of the bones of his tibia. 

"Try th' lameness yerself, " said the Rough Red, grimly. He glared aboutthrough the dimness at his silent men, then stalked through the doorinto the cook-camp. Had he killed Barney Mallan outright, it would havebeen the same. No one in the towns would have been a word the wiser. 

On Thanksgiving Day the entire place went on a prolonged drunk. TheRough Red distinguished himself by rolling the round stove through thedoor into the snow. He was badly burned in accomplishing this delicatejest, but minded the smart no more then he did the admiring cheers ofhis maudlin but emulative mates. FitzPatrick extinguished a dozen littlefires that the coals had started, shifted the intoxicated Mallan's legout of the danger of someone's falling on it, and departed from thatroaring hell-hole to the fringe of the solemn forest. And this brings usto FitzPatrick. 

FitzPatrick was a tall, slow man, with a face built square. The lines ofhis brows, his mouth, and his jaw ran straight across; those of histemples, cheeks, and nose straight up and down. His eye was very quietand his speech rare. When he did talk, it was with deliberation. Fordays, sometimes, he would ejaculate nothing but monosyllables, lookingsteadily on the things about him. 

He had walked in ahead of the tote-team late one evening in the autumn, after the Rough Red and his devils had been at work a fortnight. Thecamp consisted quite simply of three buildings, which might have beenidentified as a cook-camp, a sleeping-camp, and a stable. FitzPatrickentered the sleeping-camp, stood his slender scaling-rule in the corner, and peered about him through the dusk of a single lamp. 

He saw a round stove in the centre, a littered and dirty floor, bunksfilled with horrible straw and worse blankets jumbled here and there, old and dirty clothes drying fetidly. He saw an unkempt row ofhard-faced men along the deacon-seat, reckless in bearing, with thelight of the dare-devil in their eyes. 

"Where is the boss?" asked FitzPatrick, steadily. 

The Rough Red lurched his huge form toward the intruder. 

"I am your scaler, " explained the latter. "Where is the office?"

"You can have the bunk beyand, " indicated the Rough Red, surlily. 

"You have no office then?"

"What's good enough fer th' men is good enough for a boss; and what'sgood enough fer th' boss is good enough fer any blank blanked scaler. "

"It is not good enough for this one, " replied FitzPatrick, calmly. "Ihave no notion of sleepin' and workin' in no such noise an' dirt. I needan office to keep me books and th' van. Not a log do I scale for ye, Jimmy Bourke, till you give me a fit place to tally in. "

And so it came about, though the struggle lasted three days. The RoughRed stormed restlessly between the woods and the camp, deliveringtremendous broadsides of oaths and threats. FitzPatrick sat absolutelyimperturbable on the deacon-seat, looking straight in front of him, hislegs stretched comfortably aslant, one hand supporting the elbow of theother, which in turn held his short brier pipe. 

"Good-mornin' to ye, Jimmy Bourke, " said he each morning, and after thatuttered no word until the evening, when it was, "Good-night to ye, Jimmy Bourke, " with a final _rap, rap, rap_ of his pipe. 

The cook, a thin-faced, sly man, with a penchant for the _PoliceGazette_, secretly admired him. 

"Luk' out for th' Rough Red; he'll do ye!" he would whisper hoarselywhen he passed the silent scaler. 

But in the three days the Rough Red put his men to work on a littlecabin. FitzPatrick at once took his scaling-rule from the corner and setout into the forest. 

His business was, by measuring the diameter of each log, to ascertainand tabulate the number of board feet put in by the contractor. On thebasis of his single report James Bourke would be paid for the season'swork. Inevitably he at once became James Bourke's natural enemy, and soof every man in the crew with the possible exception of the cook. 

Suppose you log a knoll which your eye tells you must grow at least ahalf-million; suppose you work conscientiously for twelve days; supposeyour average has always been between forty and fifty thousand a day. Andthen suppose the scaler's sheets credit you with only a little over thefour hundred thousand! What would you think of it? Would you not beinclined to suspect that the scaler had cheated you in favour of hismaster? that you had been compelled by false figures to work a day or sofor nothing?

FitzPatrick scaled honestly, for he was a just man, but exactitude andoptimism of estimate never have approximated, and they did not in thiscase. The Rough Red grumbled, accused, swore, threatened. FitzPatricksmoked "Peerless, " and said nothing. Still it was not pleasant for him, alone there in the dark wilderness fifty miles from the nearestsettlement, without a human being with whom to exchange a friendly word. 

The two men early came to a clash over the methods of cutting. The RoughRed and his crew cut anywhere, everywhere, anyhow. The easiest way wastheirs. Small timber they skipped, large timber they sawed high, topsthey left rather than trim them into logs. FitzPatrick would not havethe pine "slaughtered. "

"Ye'll bend your backs a little, Jimmy Bourke, " said he, "and cut th'stumps lower to th' ground. There's a bunch of shingles at least inevery stump ye've left. And you must saw straighter. And th' contractcalls for eight inches and over; mind ye that. Don't go to skippin' th'little ones because they won't scale ye high. 'Tis in the contract so. And I won't have th' tops left. There's many a good log in them, an' yetrim them fair and clean. "

"Go to hell, you--" shouted the Rough Red. "Where th' blazes did yelearn so much of loggin'? I log th' way me father logged, an' I'm not tobe taught by a high-banker from th' Muskegon!"

Never would he acknowledge the wrong nor promise the improvement, butboth were there, and both he and FitzPatrick knew it. The Rough Redchafed frightfully, but in a way his hands were tied. He could donothing without the report; and it was too far out to send for anotherscaler, even if Daly would have given him one. 

Finally in looking over a skidway he noticed that one log had not beenblue-pencilled across the end. That meant that it had not been scaled;and that in turn meant that he, the Rough Red, would not be paid for hislabour in cutting and banking it. At once he began to bellow through thewoods. 

"Hey! FitzPatrick! Come here, you blank-blanked-blank of a blank! Comehere!"

The sealer swung leisurely down the travoy trail and fronted the otherwith level eyes. 

"Well?" said he. 

"Why ain't that log marked?"

"I culled it. "

"Ain't it sound and good? Is there a mark on it? A streak of punk orrot? Ain't it good timber? What the hell's th' matter with it? You triedto do me out of that, you damn skunk. "

A log is culled, or thrown out, when, for any reason, it will not makegood timber. 

"I'll tell you, Jimmy Bourke, " replied FitzPatrick, calmly, "th' stickis sound and good, or was before your murderin' crew got hold of it, butif ye'll take a squint at the butt of it ye'll see that your gang hassawed her on a six-inch slant. They've wasted a good foot of th' log. Ispoke of that afore; an' now I give ye warnin' that I cull every log, big or little, punk or sound, that ain't sawed square and true acrossth' butt. "

"Th' log is sound and good, an' ye'll scale it, or I'll know th' reasonwhy!"

"I will not, " replied FitzPatrick. 

The following day he culled a log in another and distant skidway whosebutt showed a slant of a good six inches. The day following he culledanother of the same sort on still another skidway. He examined itclosely, then sought the Rough Red. 

"It is useless, Jimmy Bourke, " said he, "to be hauling of the same poorlog from skidway to skidway. You can shift her to every travoy trail inth' Crother tract, but it will do ye little good. I'll cull it whereverI find it, and never will ye get th' scale of that log. "

The Rough Red raised his hand, then dropped it again; whirled away witha curse; whirled back with another, and spat out:

"By God, FitzPatrick, ye go too far! Ye've hounded me and harried methrough th' woods all th' year! By God, 'tis a good stick, an' ye shallscale it!"

"Yo' and yore Old Fellows is robbers alike!" cried one of the men. 

FitzPatrick turned on his heel and resumed his work. The men ceasedtheirs and began to talk. 

That night was Christmas Eve. After supper the Rough Red went directlyfrom the cook-camp to the men's camp. FitzPatrick, sitting lonely in thelittle office, heard the sounds of debauch rising steadily likemysterious storm winds in distant pines. He shrugged his shoulders, andtallied his day's scaling, and turned into his bunk wearily, for ofholidays there are none in the woods, save Sunday. About midnightsomeone came in. FitzPatrick, roused from his sleep by aimlessblunderings, struck a light, and saw the cook looking uncertainly towardhim through blood-clotted lashes. The man was partly drunk, partly hurt, but more frightened. 

"They's too big fer me, too big fer me!" he repeated, thickly. 

FitzPatrick kicked aside the blankets and set foot on the floor. 

"Le' me stay, " pleaded the cook, "I won't bother you; I won't even makea noise. I'm skeered!"

"Course you can stay, " replied the scaler. "Come here. "

He washed the man's forehead, and bound up the cut with surgeon'splaster from the van. The man fell silent, looking at him in wondermentfor such kindness. 

Four hours later, dimly, through the mist of his broken sleep, FitzPatrick heard the crew depart for the woods in the early dawn. Onthe crest of some higher waves of consciousness were borne to himdrunken shouts, maudlin blasphemies. After a time he arose and demandedbreakfast. 

The cook, pale and nervous, served him. The man was excited, irresolute, eager to speak. Finally he dropped down on the bench oppositeFitzPatrick, and began. 

"Fitz, " said he, "don't go in th' woods to-day. The men is fair wild width' drink, and th' Rough Red is beside hi'self. Las' night I heerd them. They are goin' to skid the butt log again, and they swear that if youcull it again, they will kill you. They mean it. That's all why theywint to th' woods this day. "

FitzPatrick swallowed his coffee in silence. In silence he arose andslipped on his mackinaw blanket coat. In silence he thrust his beechwoodtablets into his pocket, and picked his pliable scaler's rule from thecorner. 

"Where are ye goin'?" asked the cook, anxiously. 

"I'm goin' to do th' work they pay me to do, " answered FitzPatrick. 

He took his way down the trail, his face set straight before him, thesmoke of his breath streaming behind. The first skidway he scaled withcare, laying his rule flat across the face of each log, entering thefigures on his many-leaved tablets of beech, marking the timbers swiftlywith his blue crayon. 

The woods were empty. No ring of the axe, no shout of the driver, nofall of the tree broke the silence. FitzPatrick comprehended. He knewthat at the next skidway the men were gathered, waiting to see what hewould do; gathered openly at last in that final hostility which had beenmaturing all winter. He knew, besides, that most of them were partlydrunk and wholly reckless, and that he was alone. Nevertheless, afterfinishing conscientiously skidway number one, he moved on to skidwaynumber two. 

There, as he had expected, the men were waiting in ominous silence, their eyes red with debauch and hate. FitzPatrick paid them no heed, butset about his business. 

Methodically, deliberately, he did the work. Then, when the lastpencil-mark had been made, and the tablets had been closed with a snapof finality, the Rough Red stepped forward. 

"Ye have finished with this skidway?" asked the foreman in softcat-tones. 

"I have, " answered FitzPatrick, briefly. 

"Yo' have forgot to scale one stick. "

"No. "

"There is a stick still not marked. "

"I culled it. "

"Why?"

"It was not sawed straight. "

FitzPatrick threw his head back proudly, answering his man at ease, asan accomplished swordsman. The Rough Red shifted his feet, almost awedin spite of himself. One after another the men dropped their eyes andstood ill at ease. The scaler turned away; his heel caught a root; hestumbled; instantly the pack was on him, for the power of his eye wasbroken. 

Mad with rage they kicked and beat and tore at FitzPatrick's huddledform long after consciousness had left it. Then an owl hooted from theshadow of the wood, or a puff of wind swept by, or a fox barked, or someother little thing happened, so that in blind unreasoning panic theyfled. The place was deserted, save for the dark figure against thered-and-white snow. 

FitzPatrick regained his wits in pain, and so knew he was still onearth. Every movement cost him a moan, and some agency outside himselfinflicted added torture. After a long time he knew it was the cook, whowas kindly kneading his limbs and knuckling his hair. The man proved tobe in a maze of wonderment over his patient's tenacity of life. 

"I watched ye, " he murmured soothingly, "I did not dare interfere. ButI kem to yo' 's soon as I could. See, here's a fire that I built for ye, and some tea. Take a little. And no bones broke! True for ye, ye're ahearty man, and strong with th' big muscles on ye fit to fight th' RoughRed man to man. Get th' use of yere legs, darlint, an' I'll tak' ye tocamp, for its fair drunk they are by now. Sure an' I tole ye they'd killye!"

"But they didn't, " muttered FitzPatrick with a gleam of humour. 

"Sure 'twas not their fault--nor yer own!"

Hours later, as it seemed, they moved slowly in the direction of camp. The cold had stiffened FitzPatrick's cuts and bruises. Every step shot ared wave of torture through his arteries to his brain. They came insight of camp. It was silent. Both knew that the men had drunkthemselves into a stupor. 

"I'd like t' kill th' whole lay-out as she sleeps, " snarled the cook, shaking his fist. 

"So would I, " replied FitzPatrick. 

Then as they looked, a thin wreath of smoke curled from under the opendoorway and spread lazily in the frosty air. Another followed; another;still another. The cabin was afire. 

"They've kicked over th' stove again, " said FitzPatrick, seatinghimself on a stump. His eyes blazed with wrath and bitterness. 

"What yo' goin' to do?" asked the cook. 

"Sit here, " replied FitzPatrick, grimly. 

The cook started forward. 

"Stop!" shouted the scaler, fiercely; "if you move a step, I'll breakyour back!"

The cook stared at him through saucer eyes. 

"But they'd be burnt alive!" he objected, wildly. 

"They ought to be, " snarled the scaler; "it ain't their fault I'm hereto help them. 'Tis their own deed that I'm now lyin' beyant there in th'forest, unable to help myself. Do you understand? I'm yet out there inth' woods!"

"Ah, wirra, wirra!" wailed the cook, wringing his hands. "Th' poorlads!" He began to weep. 

FitzPatrick stared straight in front of him for a moment. Then he struckhis forehead, and with wonderful agility, considering the injuries hehad but just received, tore down the hill in the direction of thesmouldering cabin. The cook followed him joyfully. Together they put outthe fire. The men snored like beasts, undisturbed by all the tumult. 

"'Tis th' soft heart ye have after all, Fitz, " said the cook, delightedly, as the two washed their hands in preparation for a lunch. "Ye could not bear t' see th' lads burn. "

FitzPatrick glowered at him for an instant from beneath his squarebrows. 

"They can go to hell for all of me, " he answered, finally, "but mypeople want these logs put in this winter, an' there's nobody else toput them in. "

IV

THE RIVER-BOSS

"Obey orders if you break owners" is a good rule, but a really efficientriver-boss knows a better. It runs, "Get the logs out. Get them outpeaceably if you can, but _get them out_. " He does not need afield-telephone to headquarters to teach him how to live up to thespirit of this rule. That might involve headquarters. 

Jimmy was such a river-boss. Therefore when Mr. Daly, of the firm ofMorrison & Daly, unexpectedly contracted to deliver five million feet oflogs on a certain date, and the logs an impossible number of miles upriver, he called in Jimmy. 

Jimmy was a small man, changeless as the Egyptian sphinx. A number ofyears ago a French comic journal published a series of sketches supposedto represent the Shah of Persia influenced by various emotions. Undereach was an appropriate caption, such as Surprise, Grief, Anger, orAstonishment. The portraits were identically alike, and uniformlyimpassive. 

Well, that was Jimmy. He looked always the same. His hair, thick andblack, grew low on his forehead; his beard, thick and black, mountedover the ridge of his cheek-bones; and his eyebrows, thick and black, extended in an uninterrupted straight line from one temple to the other. Whatever his small, compact, muscular body might be doing, the mask ofhis black and white imperturbability remained always unchanged. Generally he sat clasping one knee, staring directly in front of him, and puffing regularly on a "meerschaum" pipe he had earned by saving thetags of Spearhead tobacco. Whatever you said to him sank without splashinto this almost primal calm and was lost to your view forever. Perhapsafter a time he might do something about it, but always withoutexplanation, calmly, with the lofty inevitability of fate. In fact, henever explained himself, even to his employers. 

Daly swung his bulk back and forth in the office chair. Jimmy sat boltupright, his black hat pendant between his knees. 

"I want you to take charge of the driving crew, Jimmy, " said the bigman; "I want you to drive those logs down to our booms as fast as youcan. I give you about twenty days. It ought to be done in that. Sanderswill keep time for you, and Merrill will cook. You can get a pretty goodcrew from the East Branch, where the drive is just over. "

When Daly had quite finished his remarks, Jimmy got up and went outwithout a word. Two days later he and sixty men were breaking rollwaysforty-five miles up-stream. 

Jimmy knew as well as Daly that the latter had given him a hard task. Twenty days was too brief a time. However, that was none of hisbusiness. 

The logs, during the winter, had been piled in the bed of the stream. They extended over three miles of rollways. Jimmy and his crew began atthe down-stream end to tumble the big piles into the current. Sometimesonly two or three logs would rattle down; at others the whole deck wouldbulge outward, hover for a moment, and roar into the stream like grainfrom an elevator. Shortly the narrows below the rollways jammed. Twelvemen were detailed as the jam crew. Their business was to keep the streamfree in order that the constantly increasing supply from the rollwaysmight not fill up the river. It was not an easy business, nor a verysafe. As the "jam" strung out over more and more of the river, the jamcrew was constantly recruited from the men on the rollways. Thus some ofthe logs, a very few, the luckiest, drifted into the dam pond at GrandRapids within a few days; the bulk jammed and broke and jammed again ata point a few miles below the rollways, while a large proportionstranded, plugged, caught, and tangled at the very rollways themselves. 

Jimmy had permitted himself two days in which to "break out" therollways. It was done in two. Then the "rear" was started. Men in therear crew had to see that every last log got into the current. When ajam broke, the middle of it shot down-stream in a most spectacularfashion, but along the banks "winged out" most distressingly. Sometimesthe heavy sticks of timber had been forced right out on the dry land. The rear crew lifted them back. When an obstinate log grounded, theyjumped cheerfully into the water--with the rotten ice swirling aroundthem--and pried the thing off bottom. Between times they stood uprighton single, unstable logs and pushed mightily with poles, while theice-water sucked in and out of their spiked river shoes. 

As for the compensations, naturally there was a good deal of rivalrybetween the men on the right and left banks of the river as to which"wing" should advance the fastest; and one experiences a certainphysical thrill in venturing under thirty feet of jammed logs for thesole purpose of teasing the whole mass to cascade down on one, or ofshooting a rapid while standing upright on a single timber. I believe, too, it is considered the height of glory to belong to a rear crew. Still, the water is cold and the hours long, and you have to sleep in atent. 

It can readily be seen that the progress of the "rear" measures theprogress of the drive. Some few logs in the "jam" may run fifty miles aday--and often do--but if the sacking has gone slowly at the rear, thedrive may not have gained more than a thousand yards. Therefore Jimmystayed at the rear. 

Jimmy was a mighty good riverman. Of course he had nerve, and could doanything with a log and a peavy, and would fight at the drop of ahat--any "bully boy" would qualify there--but also he had judgment. Heknew how to use the water, how to recognise the key log of jams, whereto place his men--in short, he could get out the logs. Now Jimmy alsoknew the river from one end to the other, so he had arranged in hismind a sort of schedule for the twenty days. Forty-eight hours for therollways; a day and a half to the upper rapids; three days into the dampond; one day to sluice the drive through the Grand Rapids dam; threedays for the Crossing; and so on. If everything went well, he could doit, but there must be no hitches in the programme. 

Even from this imperfect fragment of the schedule the inexperiencedmight imagine Jimmy had allowed an altogether disproportionate time tocover the mile or so from the rapids to the dam pond. As it turned, however, he found he had not allowed enough, for at this point the riverwas peculiar and very trying. 

The backwater of the dam extended up-stream a half mile; then occurred arise of four feet, down the slope of which the water whirled andtumbled, only to spread out over a broad fan of gravel shallows. Theseshallows did the business. When the logs had bumped through thetribulations of the rapids, they seemed to insist obstinately on restingin the shallows, like a lot of wearied cattle. The rear crew had to wadein. They heaved and pried and pushed industriously, and at the end of ithad the satisfaction of seeing a single log slide reluctantly into thecurrent. Sometimes a dozen of them would clamp their peavies on eitherside, and by sheer brute force carry the stick to deep water. When youreflect that there were some twenty thousand pieces in the drive, andthat a good fifty per cent. Of them balked below the rapids, you can seethat a rear crew of thirty men had its work cut out for it. Jimmy'sthree days were three-fourths gone, and his job not more than a thirdfinished. McGann, the sluice boss, did a little figuring. 

"She'll hang over thim twinty days, " he confided to Jimmy. "Shure!"

Jimmy replied not a word, but puffed piston-like smoke from his pipe. McGann shrugged in Celtic despair. 

But the little man had been figuring, too, and his arrangements weremore elaborate and more nearly completed than McGann suspected. Thatvery morning he sauntered leisurely out over the rear logs, his hands inhis pockets. Every once in a while he stopped to utter a few low-voicedwords to one or another of the men. The person addressed first lookedextremely astonished; then shouldered his peavy and started for camp, leaving the diminished rear a prey to curiosity. Soon the word wentabout. "Day and night work, " they whispered, though it was a littledifficult to see the difference in ultimate effectiveness between a halfcrew working all the time and a whole crew working half the time. 

About now Daly began to worry. He took the train to Grand Rapids, anxiety written deep in his brows. When he saw the little inadequatecrew pecking in a futile fashion at the logs winged out over theshallows, he swore fervidly and sought Jimmy. 

Jimmy appeared calm. 

"We'll get them out all right, Mr. Daly, " said he. 

"Get them out!" growled Daly. "Sure! But when? We ain't _got_ all thesummer this season. Those logs have got to hit our booms in fourteendays or they're no _good_ to us!"

"You'll have 'em, " assured Jimmy. 

Such talk made Daly tired, and he said so. 

"Why, it'll take you a week to get her over those confounded shallows, "he concluded. "You got to get more men, Jimmy. "

"I've tried, " answered the boss. "They ain't no more men to be had. "

"Suffering Moses!" groaned the owner. "It means the loss of afifty-thousand-dollar contract to me. You needn't tell _me_! I've beenon the river all my life. I _know_ you can't get them off inside of aweek. "

"I'll have 'em off to-morrow morning, but it may cost a littlesomething, " asserted Jimmy, calmly. 

Daly took one look at the mass of logs, and the fifteen men pulling outan average of one a minute. Then he returned in disgust to the city, where he began to adjust his ideas to a loss on his contract. 

At sundown the rear crew quit work, and swarmed to the encampment ofwhite tents on the river-bank. There they hung wet clothes over a bigskeleton framework built around a monster fire, and ate a dozen eggsapiece as a side dish to supper, and smoked pipes of strong "Peerless"tobacco, and swapped yarns, and sang songs, and asked questions. To thelatter they received no satisfactory replies. The crew that had beenlaid off knew nothing. It appeared they were to go to work after supper. After supper, however, Jimmy told them to turn in and get a little moresleep. They did turn in, and speedily forgot to puzzle. 

At midnight, however, Jimmy entered the big tent quietly with a lantern, touching each of the fresh men on the shoulder. They arose withoutcomment, and followed him outside. There they were given tools. Then thelittle band filed silently down river under the stars. 

Jimmy led them, his hands deep in his pockets, puffing whitesteam-clouds at regular intervals from his "meerschaum" pipe. Aftertwenty minutes they struck the Water Works, then the board-walk of CanalStreet. The word passed back for silence. Near the Oriole Factory theirleader suddenly dodged in behind the piles of sawed lumber, motioningthem to haste. A moment later a fat and dignified officer passed, swinging his club. After the policeman had gone, Jimmy again took up hismarch at the head of fifteen men, now thoroughly aroused to the factthat something unusual was afoot. Soon a faint roar lifted the nightsilence. They crossed a street, and a moment after stood at one end ofthe power-dam. 

The long smooth water shot over, like fluid steel, silent andinevitable, mirroring distorted flashes of light that were the stars. Below, it broke in white turmoil, shouting defiance at the calm velvetrush above. Ten seconds later the current was broken. A man, his heelscaught against the combing, up to his knees in water, was braced back atthe exact angle to withstand the rush. Two other men passed down to hima short heavy timber. A third, plunging his arms and shoulders into theliquid, nailed it home with heavy, inaudible strokes. As though by magica second timber braced the first, bolted through sockets already cut forit. The workers moved on eight feet, then another eight, then another. More men entered the water. A row of heavy, slanted supports grew outfrom the shoulder of the dam, dividing the waters into long, arrow-shaped furrows of light. At half-past twelve Tom Clute was sweptover the dam into the eddy. He swam ashore. Purdy took his place. 

When the supports had reached out over half of the river's span, and thewater was dotted with the shoulders of men gracefully slanted againstthe current, Jimmy gave orders to begin placing the flash-boards. Heavyplanks were at once slid across the supports, where the weight of theracing water at once clamped them fast. Spikes held the top board beyondthe possibility of a wrench loose. The smooth, quiet river, interruptedat last, murmured and snarled and eddied back, only to rush withincreased vehemence around the end of the rapidly growing obstruction. 

The policeman, passing back and forth on Canal Street, heard no soundof the labour going on. If he had been an observant policeman, he wouldhave noted an ever-changing tone in the volume of sound roaring up fromthe eddy below the dam. After a time even he remarked on a certainobvious phenomenon. 

"Sure!" said he; "now, that's funny!"

He listened a moment, then passed on. The vagaries of the river were, after all, nothing to him. He belonged on Canal Street, east side; andCanal Street, east side, seemed peaceful. 

The river had fallen absolutely silent. The last of Jimmy's flash-boardswas in place. Back in the sleeping town the clock in Pierce's Towerstruck two. 

Jimmy and his men, having thus raised the level of the dam a good threefeet, emerged dripping from the west-side canal, and cheerfully tooktheir way northward to where, in the chilly dawn, their companions weresleeping the sleep of the just. As they passed the riffles they paused. A heavy grumbling issued from the logs jammed there, a grumbling brutishand sullen, as though the reluctant animals were beginning to stir. Thewater had already backed up from the raised dam. 

Of course the affair, from a river-driver's standpoint, at once becameexceedingly simple. The slumbering fifteen were aroused to astoundeddrowsiness. By three, just as the dawn was beginning to differentiatethe east from the west, the regular _clank, clank, clink_ of thepeavies proclaimed that due advantage of the high water was beingseized. From then until six was a matter of three hours more. A greatdeal can be accomplished in three hours with flood-water. The lastlittle jam "pulled" just about the time the first citizen of the westside discovered that his cellar was full of water. When that startledfreeman opened the front door to see what was up, he uttered atremendous ejaculation; and so, shortly, came to the construction of araft. 

Well, the papers got out an extra edition with scare-heads about"Outrages" and "High-handed Lawlessness!" and factory owners by thecanals raised up their voices in bitterness over flooded fire-rooms; andproperty owners of perishable cellar goods howled about damage suits;and the ordinary citizen took to bailing out the hollow places of hisdomain. Toward nine o'clock, after the first excitement had died, andthe flash-boards had been indignantly yanked from their illegal places, a squadron of police went out to hunt up the malefactor. The latterthey discovered on a boom-pole directing the sluicing. From thisposition he declined to stir. One fat policeman ventured a toppling yardor so on the floating timber, threw his hands aloft in loss ofequilibrium, and with a mighty effort regained the shore, where he satdown, panting. To the appeals of the squad to come and be arrested, Jimmy paid not the slightest heed. He puffed periodically on his"meerschaum" pipe, and directed the sluicing. Through the twenty-footgate about a million feet an hour passed. Thus it happened that a littleafter noon Jimmy came peaceably ashore and gave himself up. 

"You won't have no more trouble below, " he observed to McGann, hislieutenant, watching reflectively the last logs shoot through the gate. "Just tie right into her and keep her hustling. " Then he refilled hispipe, lit it, and approached the expectant squad. 

At the station-house he was interviewed by reporters. That is, theyasked questions. To only one of them did they elicit a reply. 

"Didn't you know you were breaking the law?" inquired the _Eagle_ man. "Didn't you know you'd be arrested?"

"Sure!" replied Jimmy, with obvious contempt. 

The next morning the court-room was crowded. Jimmy pleaded guilty, andwas fined five hundred dollars or ninety days in jail. To the surpriseof everybody he fished out a tremendous roll and paid the fine. Thespectators considered it remarkable that a river-boss should carry suchan amount. They had not been present at the interview between Jimmy andhis principal the night before. 

The latter stood near the door as the little man came out. 

"Jimmy, " said Mr. Daly, distinctly, so that everyone could hear, "I amextremely sorry to see you in this trouble; but perhaps it may prove alesson to you. Next time you must understand that you are not supposedto exceed your instructions. "

Thus did the wily Daly publicly disclaim his liability. 

"Yes, sir, " said Jimmy, meekly. "Did you get the logs in time, Mr. Daly?"

They looked at each other steadily. Then, for the first and only time, the black and white mask of Jimmy's inscrutability melted away. In hisleft eye appeared a faint glimmer. Then the left eyelid slowlydescended. 

V

THE FIFTH WAY

The prophet confessed four things as beyond his understanding--the wayof an eagle in the air, the way of a serpent upon the rock, the way of aship in the midst of the sea, and the way of a man with a maid--but weof modern times must add a fifth, and that is the way of justice. Foroften a blunderer caught red-handed escapes with slight punishment, while the clever man who transgresses, yet conceals his transgressioncraftily, pays at the end of a devious sequence with his life. Of thisfashion was the death of Regis Brugiere. 

It happened that in the fall of the year two strangers came to Ste. Jeanne for the purpose of shooting grouse, and Regis Brugiere hiredhimself to them as guide. His duties were not many. He had simply todrive them from one hardwood belt to another. But in his leisure heoften followed them about, and so fell in love with Jim. 

Jim was a black-and-white setter dog. Regis Brugiere watched him as hetrotted carefully through the woods, his four legs working like pistons, his head high, his soft, intelligent eyes spying for the likely cover. Then when he caught a faint whiff of the game, he would stop short, andlook around, and wag his tail. Not one step would he take towardassuring his point until the man had struggled through the thicket tohis side. Thus his master obtained many shots at birds flushing wildbefore the dog which otherwise he would not have had. 

But when the bird lay well, then Jim would tread carefully forward asthough on eggs, until, his nostrils filled with the warm body-scent, hestood rigid, a living statue of beauty. A moment of breathlessexcitement ensued. With a burst of sound the bird roared away. Therefollowed the quick crack of the fowling-piece, a cloud of feathers inthe air, a long slanting fall. Jim looked up, eager but self-controlled. 

"Fetch, Jim, " said the man. 

At once the dog bounded away, to return after a moment in the pride ofan army with banners, carrying the grouse daintily between his jaws. 

Or the shot failed. Jim waited until he heard the click of the gun asits breech closed after reloading, then moved forward with well-bredrestraint to sniff long and inquiringly where the bird had been. 

These things Regis Brugiere saw, following the hunt through thethickets, so that he broke the tenth commandment and coveted Jim with agreat love. He worshipped the dog's aloof dignity, his gentlemanlydemeanour of unhasting grace in the woods, his well-bred far-away gazeas he sat on his haunches staring into the distance. 

So Regis Brugiere stole Jim, the black-and-white setter, and concealedhim well. To him it was a little thing to do. He did not know Jim'svalue, for in the north country a dog is a dog. After the strangers hadgone, bewailing their loss, Regis Brugiere loaded a toboggan withsupplies and traps and set out into the northwest on his annual trappingexcursion. He took with him Jim, by now entirely accustomed to his newmaster. 

The two journeyed far through the forest, over many rivers and muskegs, through many swamps and ranges of hills. Regis Brugiere drew thetoboggan after him. The task should have been Jim's, but to the trapperthat would have seemed like harnessing Ignace St. Cloud, the seigneurof Ste. Jeanne, to an apple-cart. So Jim ranged at large in diagonalshaving a good time, while the man enjoyed himself by watching theanimal. In due course they came to a glade through which ran a soggy, choked, little spring-creek. Here Regis Brugiere kicked off hissnow-shoes with an air of finality. Here he erected a cabin, andestablished himself and Jim. 

Over a circumference of forty miles then he set his traps, for thebeaver, the mink, the fox, the fisher, the muskrat, and the otherfur-bearing animals of the north. At regular intervals he visited thesetraps one after the other, crunching swiftly along on his snow-shoes. Jim always accompanied him. When the snow was deep, he wallowedpainfully after in the tracks made by Regis Brugiere. When it was not sodeep, he looked for grouse or ptarmigan, investigated many strangethings, or ran at large over the frozen surfaces of the little lakes. 

At the trapping-places Jim had to stay behind. The man left with him hiscapote and snow-shoes, which Jim imagined himself to be guardingfaithfully. Thus he was satisfied. 

Then on the return journey the two had fun. Regis Brugiere liked to pickJim up and throw him bodily into the deepest snow. Jim liked to havehim do so, and would disappear with an ecstatic yelp. In a moment hewould burst out of the drift and would dance about on the tips of histoes growling fiercely in mock deprecation of a repetition for which hehoped. These were the only occasions in which Jim relaxed his solemnity. At all other times his liquid brown eyes were mournful with thetempered, delicious sorrow of affection. 

In the woods Jim acquired bad habits. He reverted to the original dog. Finding that Regis Brugiere paid little attention to the grouse socarefully pointed, Jim resolved to hunt on his own account. At first hisconscience hurt him so that the act amounted to sin. But afterward thedelighted applause of his new master reassured him. He crouched, hetrailed, he flushed, he chased, he broke all the commandments of asporting-dog's morality. In this was demoralisation, but also greatprofit. For Jim came to be an adept at surprising game in the snow. Hispoint now became exactly what it used to be in the primordial dog--apause of preparation before the spring. Jim was beautifully independent. Except in the matter of delicacies, he supported himself. 

But one thing he knew not, and that was the deer. To him they were ashorses or sheep. He could not understand, nor did he care greatly, whythey should flee so suddenly when he appeared. So Regis Brugiere triedto teach him, but vainly. Thus it happened that often Jim had to be leftat home, for to a solitary trapper the deer is a necessity. There is inhim food and clothing. 

At such times Regis Brugiere was accustomed to pile high the fireplacewith wood in order that his friend might be comfortable during hisabsence. Then he would leave the dog disconsolate. On the first of theseoccasions Jim effected an escape, and rejoined his master at a distancewith every symptom of delight. Regis Brugiere, returning disgusted, found the cabin-door sprawled wide: Jim had learned to pull it towardhim with his teeth. Shortly the trapper was forced to make a latch sothat the dog could not pull it ajar by the strength of his jaws andlegs. Perhaps it is well here to explain that ordinarily such acabin-door merely jams shut against the spring of a wand of hickory. 

Now mark you this: If Regis Brugiere had not coveted and stolen the dogJim, he would not have been forced to construct the latch; without thelatch, he could easily have pushed open the door by leaning against it;if he could have pushed open the door, all would have been well withboth himself and Jim. And in this we admire the wonder of the fifthway--the way of justice by which a man's life is bartered for a fault. 

One morning in the midwinter, when it was very cold with seventy degreesof frost, Regis Brugiere resolved to hunt the deer. As usual, he filledthe fireplace, spread a robe for Jim's accommodation, thrust thelatch-string through the small hole bored for that purpose, and set outin the forest. When he reached the swamp edge, he removed his snow-shoesand began carefully to pick his way along the fallen tops. Mounting on asnow-covered root, he thrust his right foot down into an unsuspectedcrevice, stumbled, and fell forward on his face. 

When the blur of pain had cleared away, and he was able to take stock ofwhat had happened, Regis Brugiere found that he had snapped the bones ofhis leg short off below the knee. 

The first part of his journey home to the cabin was one of profanity;the second of prayer; the third of grim silence. In the first he losthis rifle; in the second his courage; in the third his knowledge ofwhat was about him. Like a crippled rabbit he dragged himself over thesnow, a single black spot against the whiteness. The dark forest-treesgathered curiously about his wavering consciousness to look down on himin aloof compassion. And over him, invisible, palpable, hovered thedreadful north-country cold, waiting to stoop. 

Regis Brugiere, by the grace of a woodsman's perseverance and theinstinct of a wild creature, gained at last the clearing in which hiscabin stood. Behind him wavered a long, deep-gouged furrow-trail, pitiful attest of suffering. His strength was water, but he was home. After a long time he reached the door, and rested. The incident wascruel, but it was only one of many in a cruel way of life. 

The twilight was coming down with thronging mysterious voices. Amongthem clamoured fiercely the voice of the cold. Regis Brugiere felt itsbreath on his heart, and, in alarm, broke through the apathy of hiscondition. It was time to recall his forces, to enter where could befound provisions and warmth. Painfully he turned on his right side andprepared to reach the latch-string. His first movement brought him anagony to be endured only with teeth and eyes closed, only by summoningto the minute task of thrusting his hand upward along the rough door allthe forces of his being down to the last shred of vitality. At once theindomitable spirit of the woods-runner answered the call. Regis Brugiereconcentrated his will on a pinpoint. Like a sprinter his volition wasfixed on a goal, beyond which lay collapse. 

Inch by inch the hand kept on, blindly groping. It reached thelatch-string; passed it by. 

Then, like a flame before it expires, the spirit of Regis Brugiereblazed out. With strange contortions of the body and writhings of theface his form came upright, the arm still reaching. So it swayed for amoment, then fell. The man's will-power ran from him in a last supremeeffort. Twice more he struggled blindly, but the efforts were feeble. Atlast with a sigh he gave himself to the cold, which had been waiting. And the cold was kind. Regis Brugiere fell asleep. 

Five days later Jim, the black-and-white setter-dog, ceased his restlesswanderings to and fro, ceased trying to leap to the oiled window beyondwhich lay the forest and food in abundance, ceased vain clawings belowthe shelf-high supplies of flour and bacon, to curl himself by the dooras near as possible to the master who lay without. There he starved, dreaming in a merciful torpor of partridges in the snow. Thus was theway of justice fulfilled in the case of Regis Brugiere and thesetter-dog Jim. 

VI

THE LIFE OF THE WINDS OF HEAVEN

I

Barbara hesitated long between the open-work stockings and theplain-silk, but finally decided on the former. Then she vouchsafed apleased little smile to her pleasant little image in the mirror, andstepped through the door into the presence of her aunt. The aunt wasappropriately astonished. This was the first time Barbara had spread herdainty chiffon wings in the air of the great north woods. Strangely, daintily incongruous she looked now against the rough walls of thecabin, against the dark fringe of the forest beyond the door. 

Barbara was a petite little body with petite little airs of babylikedecision. She knew that her greatest attraction lay in the strangebackward poise of her head, bringing her chin, pointed and adorable, tothe tilt of maddening charm. She was perfectly aware, too, of her veryfull red lips, the colour of cherries, but with the satiny finish of thepeach; and she could not remain blind to the fact that her light hairand her velvet-black eyes were in rare and delicious contrast. All thesethings, and more, Barbara knew because a dozen times a day her mirrorswore them true. That she was elusively, teasingly, judicially, calmlydistracting she knew because, ever since she could remember, men hadtold her so with varying degrees of bitter humour. She accepted thefact, and carried herself in all circumstances as a queen surrounded byan indefinite number of rights matured to her selection. 

After her plain old backwoods aunt had admired and exclaimed over thebutterfly so unexpectedly developed from the brown tailor-madechrysalis, Barbara determined to take a walk. She knew that over throughthat cool, fascinating forest, only a half-mile away, dwelt the Adamses. The Adamses, too, were only of the woods people, but they were human, and chiffon was chiffon, in the wilderness as in the towns. So Barbaraannounced her intention, and stepped into the sunlight. 

The parasol completed her sense of happiness. She raised it, andslanted it over her shoulder, and drew one of its round tips across herface, playing out to herself a pretty little comedy as she sauntereddeliberately down the trail between the stumps and tangled blackberryvines of the clearing. She tilted her chin, and glanced shyly frombeneath the brim of her big hat at the solemn stumps, and looked just aspretty as she possibly could for the benefit of the bold, noisy finches. With her light summer dress and her picture-hat and her open-workstockings and her absurd little high-heeled, silver-buckled shoes shehad somehow regained the feminine self-confidence which her thick bootsand sober brown woods dress had filched from her. For the first time inthis whimsical visit to a new environment she was completely happy. Dearlittle Barbara; she was only eighteen. 

Pretty soon the trail entered the great, cool, green forest. Barbaraclosed her parasol and carried it under one arm, while with the samehand she swept her skirt clear of the ground. She was now a _grandemarquise_ in the Forest of Fontainebleau. Through little round holes inthe undergrowth she could see away down between the trees to dashes ofsunlight and green shadows. Always Barbara conducted herself as though, in the vista, a cavalier was about to appear, who would sweep off hisplumed hat in a bow of knightly adoration. She practised the courtesy inreturn, sinking on one little high-pointed heel with a downward droop ofher pretty head and an upward cast of her pretty eyes. 

"Oui, c'est un rêve, un rêve doux d'amour, " she hummed, as the hem ofher outspread skirt just swept the ground. 

"_Phew!_" came a most terrible, dreadful sound from the thicket close athand. 

Barbara dropped her parasol, and clasped her heart with both hands, andscreamed. From the thicket two slender ears pointed inquiringly towardher, two wide brown eyes stared frightened into hers, a delicate nosedilated with terror. "_Phew!_" snorted the deer again, and vanished in aseries of elastic stiff-legged springs. 

"Oh!" cried Barbara. "You horrid thing! How you frightened me!"

She picked up her parasol, and resumed her journey in some perturbationof mind, reflecting on the utter rudeness of the deer. Gradually thetrail seemed to become more difficult. After a time it was obstructedby the top of a fallen basswood. Barbara looked about her. She was noton the trail at all. 

This was distinctly annoying. Barbara felt a little resentful on accountof it. She gathered her skirts closely about her ankles, and tried topick her way through the undergrowth to the right. The brush wasexceedingly difficult to avoid, and a little patch of briers was worse. Finally an ugly stub ripped a hole in the chiffon skirt. This wasunbearable. Barbara stamped her foot in vexation. She wanted to cry; andfully made up her mind to do so as soon as she should have regained thetrail. In a little while the high beech-ridge over which she had beentravelling ended in a narrow cedar-swamp. Then Barbara did a foolishthing; she tried to cross the swamp. 

At first she proceeded circumspectly, with an eye to the chiffon. It wastorn in a dozen places. Then she thrust one dear little slipper throughthe moss into black water. Three times the stiff straight rods of thetamarack whipped her smartly across the face. When finally she emergedon the other side of the hundred feet of that miserable cedar-swamp, shehad ceased to hold up the chiffon skirt, and was most vexed. 

"I think you're just _mean_!" she cried, pettishly, to the still forest;and then caught her breath in the silence of awe. 

The forest had become suddenly unfriendly; its kindliness had somehowvanished. In all directions it looked the same; straight toweringtrunks, saplings, undergrowth. It had shut her in with a wall of green, and hurry in whatever direction she would, Barbara was always inclosedin apparently the same little cell of leaves. 

Frightened, but with determination, she commenced to walk rapidly in thedirection she believed would lead her out. The bushes now caught at herunheeded. She tore through briers, popples, moose-maples alike. Thechiffon was sadly marred, the picture-hat stained and awry, the bravelittle shoes with their silver buckles and their pointed high heels weredull with wet. And suddenly, as the sun shadows began to lift in thelate afternoon, her determined stock of fortitude quite ran out. Shestopped short. All about her were the same straight towering trunks, thesaplings, the undergrowth. Nothing had changed. It was useless. 

She dropped to the ground and gave way to her wild terror, weeping withthe gulping sobs of a frightened child, but even in extremity dabbingher eyes from time to time with an absurd tiny handkerchief ofdrawn-work border. 

Poor little Barbara: she was lost!

II

After a while, subtly, she felt that someone was standing near her. Shelooked up. 

The somebody was a man. He was young. Barbara saw three things--that hehad kindly gray eyes, which just now were twinkling at her amusedly;that the handkerchief about his neck was clean; and that the line of hisjaw was unusually clear cut and fine. An observant person would havenoticed further that the young man carried a rifle and a pack, that hewore a heavily laden belt about his waist, and moccasins on his feet, that his blue-flannel shirt, though clean, was faded, that his skin wasas brown as pine-bark. Barbara had no use for such details. The eye waskindly, the jaw was strong, the neatness indicated the gentleman. And astrong, kindly gentleman was just what poor little lost Barbara neededthe most. Unconsciously she tilted her pointed chin forward adorably, and smiled. 

"Oh, now it's all right, isn't it?" said she. 

"I am glad, " he replied, the look of amusement deepening in his grayeyes. "And a moment ago it was all wrong. What was the matter?"

"I am lost, " answered Barbara, contentedly, as one would say, "My shoesare a little dusty. "

"That's bad, " sympathised the other. "Where are you lost from?"

"The Adamses' or the Maxwells', I don't know which. I started to go fromone to the other. Then there was the deer, and so I got lost. "

"I see, " he agreed with entire assurance. "And now what are you going todo?"

"I am not going to do anything. You are to take me home. "

"To the Adamses or the Maxwells?"

"To whichever is nearest. "

The young man seemed to be debating. Barbara glanced at his thoughtful, strong face from under the edge of her picture-hat, which slyly she hadrearranged. She liked his face. It was so good-humoured. 

"It is almost sunset, " replied the youth at length. "You can see theshadows are low. How do you hope to push through the woods after dark?There are wild animals--wolves!" he added, maliciously. 

Barbara looked up again with sudden alarm. 

"But what shall we do?" she cried, less composedly. "You _must_ take mehome!"

"I can try, " said he, with the resignation of the man who can but die. 

The tone had its effect. 

"What do you advise?" she asked. 

"That we camp here, " he proposed, calmly, with an air of finality. 

"_Oh!_" dissented Barbara in alarm. "Never! I am afraid of the woods! Itwill be wet and cold! I am hungry! My feet are just sopping!"

"I will watch all night with my rifle, " he told her. "I will fix you atent, and will cook you a supper, and your feet shall not be wet andcold one moment longer than you will. "

"Isn't your home nearer?" she asked. 

"My home is where night finds me, " he replied. 

Barbara meditated. It was going to be dreadful. She knew she would catchher death of cold. But what could she do about it?

"You may fix the wet-feet part, " she assented at last. 

"All right, " agreed the young man with alacrity. He unslung the packfrom his back, and removed from the straps a little axe. "Now, I am notgoing to be gone but a moment, " he assured her, "and while I am away, you must take off your shoes and stockings and put these on. " He hadbeen fumbling in his pack, and now produced a pair of thick woollenlumberman's socks. 

Barbara held one at arm's length in each hand, and looked at them. Thenshe looked up at the young man. Then they both laughed. 

While her new protector was away, Barbara not only made the suggestedchanges, but she did marvels with the chiffon. Really, it did not lookso bad, considering. 

When the young man returned with an armful of hemlock bark and theslivers of a pine-stump, he found her sitting bolt upright on a log, herfeet tucked under her. Before the fire he shortly hung the two webs ofgossamer and the two dear little ridiculous little high-heeled shoes, with their silver buckles. Then in a most business-like fashion hepitched a diminutive shelter-tent. With equal expedition he built asecond fire between two butternut-logs, produced a frying-pan, and setabout supper. 

The twilight was just falling. Somehow the great forest had lost its airof unfriendliness. The birds were singing in exactly the same way theyused to sing in the tiny woods of the Picnic Grounds. It was difficultto believe in the wilderness. The young man moved here and there withaccustomed ease, tending his pot and pan, feeding the fire. Barbarawatched him interestedly. Gradually the conviction gained on her that hewas worth while, and that he had not once glanced in her direction sincehe had begun his preparations. At the moment he was engaged in turningover sizzling things in the pan. 

"If you please, " said Barbara, with her small air of decision, "I amvery thirsty. "

"You will have to wait until I go to the spring, " replied the manwithout stirring. 

Barbara elevated her small nose in righteous indignation. After a longtime she just peeped in his direction. He was laughing to himself. Shehastily elevated her nose again. After all it was very lonely in thewoods. 

"Supper is ready, " he announced after a time. 

"I do not think I care for any, " she replied, with dignity. She was verytired and hungry and cross, and her eyes were hot. 

"Oh, yes you do, " he insisted, carelessly. "Come now, before it getscold. "

"I tell you I do not care for any, " she returned, haughtily. 

For answer he picked her up bodily, carried her ten feet, and depositedher on another log. Beside her lay a clean bit of bark containing abroiled deer-steak, toasted bread, and a cup of tea. She struggledangrily. 

"Don't be a fool, " the man commanded, sternly, "you need food. You willeat supper, now!"

Barbara looked up at him with wide eyes. Then she began to eat thevenison. By and by she remarked, "You _are_ rather nice, " and after shehad drained the last drop of tea she even smiled, a trifle humbly. "Thank you, " said she. 

It was now dark, and the night had stolen down through the sentry treesto the very outposts of the fire. The man arranged the rubber blanketbefore it. Barbara sat upon the blanket and leaned her back against thelog. He perched above her, producing a pipe. 

"May I?" he asked. 

Then, when he had puffed a few moments in quiet content, he inquired:"How did you come to get lost?"

She told him. 

"That was very foolish, " he scolded, severely. "Don't you know anybetter than to go into the woods without your bearings? It wasidiotic!"

"Thank you, " replied Barbara, meekly. 

"Well, it was!" he insisted, the bronze on his cheek deepening a little. 

She watched him for some time, while he watched the flames. She liked tosee the light defining boldly the clean-shaven outline of his jaw; sheliked to guess at the fire of his gray eyes beneath the shadow of hisbrow. Not once did he look toward her. Meekly she told herself that thiswas just. He was dreaming of larger things, seeing in the coals picturesof that romantic, strenuous, mysterious life of which he was a part. Hehad no room in the fulness of his existence for such as she--she, sillylittle Barbara, whose only charm was a maddening fashion of pointingoutward her adorable chin. She asked him about it, this life of thewinds of heaven. 

"Are you always in the woods?" she inquired. 

"Not always, " said he. 

"But you live in them a great deal?"

"Yes. "

"You must have a great many exciting adventures. "

"Not many. "

"Where did you come from just now?"

"South. "

"Where are you going?"

"Northwest. "

"What are you going to do there?"

There ensued a slight pause before the stranger's reply. "Walk throughthe woods, " said he. 

"In other words, it's none of my business, " retorted Barbara, a littletartly. 

"Ah, but you see it's not entirely mine, " he explained. 

This offered a new field. 

"Then you are on a mission?"

"Yes. "

"Is it important?"

"Yes. "

"How long is it going to take you?"

"Many years. "

"What is your name?"

"Garrett Stanton. "

"You are a gentleman, aren't you?"

A flicker of amusement twinkled subtly in the corner of his eye. "Isuppose you mean gently bred, college-educated. Do you think it's ofvast importance?"

Barbara examined him reflectively, her chin in her hand, her elbow onher knee. She looked at his wavy hair, his kindly, humorous gray eyes, the straight line of his fine-cut nose, his firm lips with the quaintupward twist of the corners, the fine contour of his jaw. 

"No-o-o, " she agreed, "I don't suppose it does. Only I know you _are_ agentleman, " she added, with delightful inconsistence. Stanton bowedgravely to the fire in ironic acknowledgment. 

"Why don't you ever look at me?" burst out Barbara, vexed. "Why do youstare at that horrid fire?"

He turned and looked her full in the face. In a moment her eyes droppedbefore his frank scrutiny. She felt the glow rising across her forehead. When she raised her head again he was staring calmly at the fire asbefore, one hand clasped under his arm, the other holding the bowl ofhis brier pipe. 

"Now, " said he, "I will ask a few questions. Won't this all-nightabsence alarm your relatives?"

"Oh, no. I often spend the night at the Adamses'. They will think I amthere. "

"Parents are apt to be anxious. "

"But mine are not here, you see. "

"What is your name?"

"Barbara Lowe. "

He fell silent. Barbara was distinctly piqued. He might have exhibiteda more flattering interest. 

"Is that all you want to know about me?" she cried in an injured tone. 

"I know all about you now. Listen: Your name is Barbara Lowe; you comefrom Detroit, where you are not yet 'out'; you are an only child; andeighteen or nineteen years of age. "

"Why, who has been telling you about me?" cried Barbara, astonished. 

Stanton smiled. "Nobody, " he replied. "Don't you know that we woodsmenlive by our observation? Do you see anything peculiar about that tree?"

Barbara examined the vegetable in question attentively. "No, " sheconfessed at last. 

"There is an animal in it. Look again. "

"I can see nothing, " repeated Barbara, after a second scrutiny. 

Stanton arose. Seizing a brand from the fire, he rapped sharply on thetrunk. Then slowly what had appeared to be a portion of the hole beganto disintegrate, and in a moment a drowsy porcupine climbed rattling toa place of safety. 

"That is how I know about you, " explained the woodsman, returning to thefire. "Your remark about staying overnight told me that you werevisiting the Maxwells rather than the Adamses; I knew the latter must berelatives, because a girl who wears pretty summer dresses would notvisit mere friends in the wilderness; you would get tired of this lifein a few weeks, and so will not care to stay longer; you wear yourschool-pin still, so you are not yet 'out'; the maker's name in yourparasol caused me to guess you from Detroit. "

"And about my being an only child?"

"Well, " replied Stanton, "you see, you have a little the manner of onewho has been a trifle----"

"Spoiled!" finished Barbara, with wicked emphasis. 

Stanton merely laughed. 

"That is not nice, " she reproved, with vast dignity. 

A cry, inexpressibly mournful, quivered from the woods close at hand. 

"Oh, what is that?" she exclaimed. 

"Our friend the porcupine. Don't be frightened. "

Down through the trees sighed a little wind. "_Whoo! whoo! whoo_!"droned an owl, monotonously. The sparks from the fire shot up andeddied. A chill was in the air. Barbara's eyes grew heavier and heavier. She tucked her feet under her and expanded in the warmth like afireside kitten. Then, had she known it, the man was looking at her, looking at her with a strange, wistful tenderness in his gray eyes. Dear, harmless, innocent little Barbara, who had so confidingly trustedin his goodness!

"Come, little girl, " he said, softly, at last. 

He arose and held out his hand. Awakened from her abstraction, shelooked at him with a faint smile and eyes from which all coquetry hadgone, leaving only the child. 

"Come, " he repeated, "time to turn in. "

She arose dutifully. The little tent really looked inviting. The balsambed proved luxurious, soft as feathers. 

"When you are ready, " he told her, "let me know. I want to open thetent-flap for the sake of warmth. "

The soft woollen blanket was very grateful. When the flap was open, Barbara found that a second fire had been built with a backing of greenlogs so arranged as to reflect the heat directly into her shelter. 

She was very sleepy, yet for a long time she lay awake. The noises ofthe woods approached mysteriously, and drew about the little camp theirmystic circle. Some of them were exceedingly terrifying, but Barbaradid not mind them, for he sat there, his strong, graceful figuresilhouetted against the light, smoking his pipe in contemplation. Barbara watched him for a long time, until finally the firelightblurred, and the great, solemn shadows stopped dancing across theforest, and she dozed. 

Hours later, as it seemed, some trifling sound awakened her. The heatstill streamed gratefully into the tiny shelter; the solemn shadowsstill danced across the forest; the contemplative figure still staredinto the embers, strongly silhouetted by the firelight. A tendercompunction stole into Barbara's tender little heart. 

"The poor dear, " said she, "he has no place to sleep. He is guarding mefrom the dangers of the forest. " Which was quite ridiculous, as anywoodsman will know. 

Her drowsy eyes watched him wistfully--her mystery, her hero of romance. Again the fire blurred, again the solemn shadows paused. A last thoughtshaped itself in Barbara's consciousness. 

"Why, he must be very old, " she said to herself. "He must betwenty-six. "

So she fell asleep. 

III

Barbara awoke to the sun and the crisp morning air and a delightfulfeeling that she had slept well and had not been uncomfortable at all. The flap of the tent was discreetly closed. When ready she peepedthrough the crack and saw Stanton bending over the fire. 

In a moment he straightened and approached the tent. When within a fewfeet he paused. Through the hollow of his hands he cried out the long, musical, morning call of the woodsman. 

"R-o-o-oll out!" he cried. The forest took up the sound in dyingmodulations. 

For answer Barbara threw aside the tent-flap and stepped into the sun. 

"Good-morning, " said she. 

"_Salut!_" he replied. "Come and I will show you the spring. "

"I am sorry I cannot offer you a better variety for your breakfast. Itis only the supper over again, " he explained, after she had returned, and had perched like a fluffy bird of paradise on the log. Her cheekswere very pink from the cold water, and her eyes were very beautifulfrom the dregs of dreams, and her hair very glittering from the kissingof the early sun. And, wonderful to say, she forgot to thrust out herpointed chin in the fashion so entirely adorable. 

She ate with relish, for the woods-hunger was hers. Stanton saidnothing. The time was pregnant with unspoken things. All the charmingelements of the little episode were crystallising for them, andinstinctively Barbara felt that in a few moments she would be compelledto read their meaning. 

At last the man said, without stirring:

"Well, I suppose we'd better be going. "

"I suppose so, " she replied. 

They sat there some time longer, staring abstractedly at the kindlygreen forest; then Stanton abruptly arose and began to construct hispack. The girl did not move. 

"Come, " he said at last. 

She arose obediently. 

"Follow close behind me, " he advised. 

"Yes, " said she. 

They set off through the greenery. It opened silently before them. Barbara looked back. It had already closed silently behind them, shutting out the episode forever. The little camp had ceased to exist;the great, ruthless, calm forest had reclaimed its own. Nothing wasleft. 

Nothing was left but the memory and the dream--yes, and the Beginning. Barbara knew it must be that--the Beginning. He would come to see her. She would wear the chiffon, another chiffon, altogether glorious. Shewould sit on the highest root of the old elm, and he would lie at herfeet. Then he could tell her of the enchanted land, of the life of thewinds of heaven. He would be her knight, to plunge into the wildernesson the Quest, returning always to her. The picture became at onceinexpressibly dear to her. 

Then she noticed that he had stopped, and was looking at her indeprecation, and was holding aside the screen of moose-maples. Beyondshe could see the familiar clearing, and the smoke from the Maxwellcabin. 

She had slept almost within sight of her own doorstep. 

"Please forgive me, " he was saying. "I meant it only as an interestinglittle adventure. It has been harmless enough, surely--to you. "

His eyes were hungry. Barbara could not find words. 

"Good-by, " he concluded. "Good-by. You will forgive me in time--orforget, which is much the same. Believe me, if I have offended you, mypunishment is going to be severe. Good-by. "

"Good-by, " said Barbara, a little breathlessly. She had alreadyforgotten the trick. She could think only that the forest, theunfriendly forest, was about to recall her son. 

"Good-by, " he repeated again. He should have gone, but did not. Thesituation became strained. 

"When are you coming to see me?" she inquired at length. "I shall behere two weeks yet. "

"Never, " he replied. 

"What do you mean?" she asked after a moment. 

"After Painted Rock, the wilderness, " he explained, almost bitterly, "the wilderness and solitude for many years--forever!"

"Don't go until to-morrow, " she urged. 

"I must. "

"Why?"

"Because I must be at Painted Rock by Friday, and to reach it I musttravel fast and long. "

"And if you do not?"

"My mission fails, " he replied. 

They stood there silent. Barbara dug tiny holes with the tip of herparasol. 

"And that is ruin?" she asked softly, without looking up. 

"I have struggled hard for many years. The result is this chance. "

"I see, " she replied, bending her head lower. "It would be a veryfoolish thing for you to stay, then, wouldn't it?"

He did not reply. 

"But you are going to, aren't you?" she went on in a voice almostinaudible. "You must not go like that. I ask you to stay. "

Again the pause. 

"I cannot, " he replied. 

She looked up. He was standing erect and tall, his face set in thebronze lines of a resolution, his gray eyes levelled straight and steadybeyond her head. Instantly her own spirit flashed. 

"I think now you'd better go!" said she superbly. 

They faced each other for a moment. Then Barbara dropped her head again, extending her hand. 

"You do not know, " she whispered, "I have much to forgive. "

He hesitated, then touched the tips of her fingers with his lips. Shedid not look up. With a gesture, which she did not see, he stooped tohis pack and swung into the woods. 

Barbara stood motionless. Not a line of her figure stirred. Only thechiffon parasol dropped suddenly to the ground. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

STORIES OF THE WILD LIFE

I

THE GIRL WHO GOT RATTLED

This is one of the stories of Alfred. There are many of them stillfloating around the West, for Alfred was in his time very well known. Hewas a little man, and he was bashful. That is the most that can be saidagainst him; but he was very little and very bashful. When on horsebackhis legs hardly reached the lower body-line of his mount, and only hisextreme agility enabled him to get on successfully. When on foot, strangers were inclined to call him "sonny. " In company he neveradvanced an opinion. If things did not go according to his ideas, hereconstructed the ideas, and made the best of it--only he could make themost efficient best of the poorest ideas of any man on the plains. Hisattitude was a perpetual sidling apology. It has been said that Alfredkilled his men diffidently, without enthusiasm, as though loth to takethe responsibility, and this in the pioneer days on the plains waseither frivolous affectation, or else--Alfred. With women he was lost. Men would have staked their last ounce of dust at odds that he had neverin his life made a definite assertion of fact to one of the oppositesex. When it became absolutely necessary to change a woman'spreconceived notions as to what she should do--as, for instance, discouraging her riding through quicksand--he would persuade somebodyelse to issue the advice. And he would cower in the background blushinghis absurd little blushes at his second-hand temerity. Add to thisnarrow, sloping shoulders, a soft voice, and a diminutive pink-and-whiteface. 

But Alfred could read the prairie like a book. He could ride anything, shoot accurately, was at heart afraid of nothing, and could fight like alittle catamount when occasion for it really arose. Among those whoknew, Alfred was considered one of the best scouts on the plains. Thatis why Caldwell, the capitalist, engaged him when he took his daughterout to Deadwood. 

Miss Caldwell was determined to go to Deadwood. A limited experience ofthe lady's sort, where they have wooden floors to the tents, towels tothe tent-poles, and expert cooks to the delectation of the campers, hadconvinced her that "roughing it" was her favorite recreation. So, ofcourse, Caldwell senior had, sooner or later, to take her across theplains on his annual trip. This was at the time when wagon-trains wentby way of Pierre on the north, and the South Fork on the south. Incidental Indians, of homicidal tendencies and undeveloped ideas as tothe propriety of doing what they were told, made things interestingoccasionally, but not often. There was really no danger to a good-sizedtrain. 

The daughter had a fiancé named Allen who liked roughing it, too; so hewent along. He and Miss Caldwell rigged themselves out bountifully, andprepared to enjoy the trip. 

At Pierre the train of eight wagons was made up, and they were joined byAlfred and Billy Knapp. These two men were interesting, but tyrannicalon one or two points--such as getting out of sight of the train, forinstance. They were also deficient in reasons for their tyranny. Theyoung people chafed, and, finding Billy Knapp either imperturbable orthick-skinned, they turned their attention to Alfred. Allen annoyedAlfred, and Miss Caldwell thoughtlessly approved of Allen. Between themthey succeeded often in shocking fearfully all the little man's finersensibilities. If it had been a question of Allen alone, the annoyancewould soon have ceased. Alfred would simply have bashfully killed him. But because of his innate courtesy, which so saturated him that hisphilosophy of life was thoroughly tinged by it, he was silent andinactive. 

There is a great deal to recommend a plains journey at first. Later, there is nothing at all to recommend it. It has the same monotony as avoyage at sea, only there is less living room, and, instead of beingcarried, you must progress to a great extent by your own volition. Alsothe food is coarse, the water poor, and you cannot bathe. To aplainsman, or a man who has the instinct, these things are as nothing incomparison with the charm of the outdoor life, and the pleasing tinglingof adventure. But woman is a creature wedded to comfort. She also has astrange instinctive desire to be entirely alone every once in a while, probably because her experiences, while not less numerous than man's, are mainly psychical, and she needs occasionally time to get "thought upto date. " So Miss Caldwell began to get very impatient. 

The afternoon of the sixth day Alfred, Miss Caldwell, and Allen rodealong side by side. Alfred was telling a self-effacing story ofadventure, and Miss Caldwell was listening carelessly because she hadnothing else to do. Allen chaffed lazily when the fancy took him. 

"I happened to have a limb broken at the time, " Alfred was observing, parenthetically, in his soft tones, "and so----"

"What kind of a limb?" asked the young Easterner, with direct brutality. He glanced with a half-humourous aside at the girl, to whom the littleman had been mainly addressing himself. 

Alfred hesitated, blushed, lost the thread of his tale, and finally ingreat confusion reined back his horse by the harsh Spanish bit. He fellto the rear of the little wagon-train, where he hung his head, and wenthot and cold by turns in thinking of such an indiscretion before a lady. 

The young Easterner spurred up on the right of the girl's mount. 

"He's the queerest little fellow _I_ ever saw!" he observed, with alaugh. "Sorry to spoil his story. Was it a good one?"

"It might have been if you hadn't spoiled it, " answered the girl, flicking her horse's ears mischievously. The animal danced. "What didyou do it for?"

"Oh, just to see him squirm. He'll think about that all the rest of theafternoon, and will hardly dare look you in the face next time youmeet. "

"I know. Isn't he funny? The other morning he came around the corner ofthe wagon and caught me with my hair down. I _wish_ you could have seenhim!"

She laughed gayly at the memory. 

"Let's get ahead of the dust, " she suggested. 

They drew aside to the firm turf of the prairie and put their horses toa slow lope. Once well ahead of the canvas-covered schooners they sloweddown to a walk again. 

"Alfred says we'll see them to-morrow, " said the girl. 

"See what?"

"Why, the Hills! They'll show like a dark streak, down past that buttethere--what's its name?"

"Porcupine Tail. "

"Oh, yes. And after that it's only three days. Are you glad?"

"Are you?"

"Yes, I believe I am. This life is fun at first, but there's a certainmonotony in making your toilet where you have to duck your head becauseyou haven't room to raise your hands, and this barrelled water pallsafter a time. I think I'll be glad to see a house again. People likecamping about so long----"

"It hasn't gone back on me yet. "

"Well, you're a man and can do things. "

"Can't you do things?"

"You know I can't. What do you suppose they'd say if I were to ride outjust that way for two miles? They'd have a fit. "

"Who'd have a fit? Nobody but Alfred, and I didn't know you'd gottenafraid of him yet! I say, just _let's_! We'll have a race, and then comeright back. " The young man looked boyishly eager. 

"It would be nice, " she mused. They gazed into each other's eyes like apair of children, and laughed. 

"Why shouldn't we?" urged the young man. "I'm dead sick of staying inthe moving circle of these confounded wagons. What's the sense of itall, anyway?"

"Why, Indians, I suppose, " said the girl, doubtfully. 

"Indians!" he replied, with contempt. "Indians! We haven't seen a signof one since we left Pierre. I don't believe there's one in the wholeblasted country. Besides, you know what Alfred said at our last camp?"

"What did Alfred say?"

"Alfred said he hadn't seen even a teepee-trail, and that they must beall up hunting buffalo. Besides that, you don't imagine for a momentthat your father would take you all this way to Deadwood just for alark, if there was the slightest danger, do you?"

"I don't know; I made him. "

She looked out over the long sweeping descent to which they were coming, and the long sweeping ascent that lay beyond. The breeze and the sunplayed with the prairie grasses, the breeze riffling them over, and thesun silvering their under surfaces thus exposed. It was strangelypeaceful, and one almost expected to hear the hum of bees as in a NewEngland orchard. In it all was no sign of life. 

"We'd get lost, " she said, finally. 

"Oh, no, we wouldn't!" he asserted with all the eagerness of the amateurplainsman. "I've got that all figured out. You see, our train is goingon a line with that butte behind us and the sun. So if we go ahead, andkeep our shadows just pointing to the butte, we'll be right in theirline of march. "

He looked to her for admiration of his cleverness. She seemed convinced. She agreed, and sent him back to her wagon for some article of inventednecessity. While he was gone she slipped softly over the little hill tothe right, cantered rapidly over two more, and slowed down with a sighof satisfaction. One alone could watch the directing shadow as well astwo. She was free and alone. It was the one thing she had desired forthe last six days of the long plains journey, and she enjoyed it now tothe full. No one had seen her go. The drivers droned stupidly along, aswas their wont; the occupants of the wagons slept, as was their wont;and the diminutive Alfred was hiding his blushes behind clouds of dustin the rear, as was not his wont at all. He had been severely shocked, and he might have brooded over it all the afternoon, if a discovery hadnot startled him to activity. 

On a bare spot of the prairie he discerned the print of a hoof. It wasnot that of one of the train's animals. Alfred knew this, because justto one side of it, caught under a grass-blade so cunningly that only thelittle scout's eyes could have discerned it at all, was a single bluebead. Alfred rode out on the prairie to right and left, and found thehoof-prints of about thirty ponies. He pushed his hat back and wrinkledhis brow, for the one thing he was looking for he could not find--thetwo narrow furrows made by the ends of teepee-poles dragging along oneither side of the ponies. The absence of these indicated that the bandwas composed entirely of bucks, and bucks were likely to mean mischief. 

He pushed ahead of the whole party, his eyes fixed earnestly on theground. At the top of the hill he encountered the young Easterner. Thelatter looked puzzled, in a half-humourous way. 

"I left Miss Caldwell here a half-minute ago, " he observed to Alfred, "and I guess she's given me the slip. Scold her good for me when shecomes in--will you?" He grinned, with good-natured malice at the idea ofAlfred's scolding anyone. 

Then Alfred surprised him. 

The little man straightened suddenly in his saddle and uttered a ferventcurse. After a brief circle about the prairie, he returned to the youngman. 

"You go back to th' wagons, and wake up Billy Knapp, and tell himthis--that I've gone scoutin' some, and I want him to _watch out_. Understand? _Watch out!_"

"What?" began the Easterner, bewildered. 

"I'm a-goin' to find her, " said the little man, decidedly. 

"You don't think there's any danger, do you?" asked the Easterner, inanxious tones. "Can't I help you?"

"You do as I tell you, " replied the little man, shortly, and rode away. 

He followed Miss Caldwell's trail quite rapidly, for the trail wasfresh. As long as he looked intently for hoof-marks, nothing was to beseen, the prairie was apparently virgin; but by glancing the eye fortyor fifty yards ahead, a faint line was discernible through the grasses. 

Alfred came upon Miss Caldwell seated quietly on her horse in the verycentre of a prairie-dog town, and so, of course, in the midst of an areaof comparatively desert character. She was amusing herself by watchingthe marmots as they barked, or watched, or peeped at her, according totheir distance from her. The sight of Alfred was not welcome, for hefrightened the marmots. 

When he saw Miss Caldwell, Alfred grew bashful again. He sidled hishorse up to her and blushed. 

"I'll show you th' way back, miss, " he said, diffidently. 

"Thank you, " replied Miss Caldwell, with a slight coldness, "I can findmy own way back. "

"Yes, of course, " hastened Alfred, in an agony. "But don't you think weought to start back now? I'd like to go with you, miss, if you'd let me. You see the afternoon's quite late. "

Miss Caldwell cast a quizzical eye at the sun. 

"Why, it's hours yet till dark!" she said, amusedly. 

Then Alfred surprised Miss Caldwell. 

His diffident manner suddenly left him. He jumped like lightning fromhis horse, threw the reins over the animal's head so he would stand, andran around to face Miss Caldwell. 

"Here, jump down!" he commanded. 

The soft Southern _burr_ of his ordinary conversation had given place toa clear incisiveness. Miss Caldwell looked at him amazed. 

Seeing that she did not at once obey, Alfred actually began to fumblehastily with the straps that held her riding-skirt in place. This was sounusual in the bashful Alfred that Miss Caldwell roused and slippedlightly to the ground. 

"Now what?" she asked. 

Alfred, without replying, drew the bit to within a few inches of theanimal's hoofs, and tied both fetlocks firmly together with thedouble-loop. This brought the pony's nose down close to his shackledfeet. Then he did the same thing with his own beast. Thus neither animalcould so much as hobble one way or the other. They were securelymoored. 

Alfred stepped a few paces to the eastward. Miss Caldwell followed. 

"Sit down, " said he. 

Miss Caldwell obeyed with some nervousness. She did not understand atall, and that made her afraid. She began to have a dim fear lest Alfredmight have gone crazy. His next move strengthened this suspicion. Hewalked away ten feet and raised his hand over his head, palm forward. She watched him so intently that for a moment she saw nothing else. Thenshe followed the direction of his gaze, and uttered a little sobbingcry. 

Just below the sky-line of the first slope to eastward was silhouetted afigure on horseback. The figure on horseback sat motionless. 

"We're in for fight, " said Alfred, coming back after a moment. "He won'tanswer my peace-sign, and he's a Sioux. We can't make a run for itthrough this dog-town. We've just got to stand 'em off. "

He threw down and back the lever of his old 44 Winchester, and softlyuncocked the arm. Then he sat down by Miss Caldwell. 

From various directions, silently, warriors on horseback sprang intosight and moved dignifiedly toward the first-comer, forming at the lasta band of perhaps thirty men. They talked together for a moment, andthen one by one, at regular intervals, detached themselves and begancircling at full speed to the left, throwing themselves behind theirhorses, and yelling shrill-voiced, but firing no shot as yet. 

"They'll rush us, " speculated Alfred. "We're too few to monkey with thisway. This is a bluff. "

The circle about the two was now complete. After watching the whirl offigures a few minutes, and the motionless landscape beyond, the eyebecame dizzied and confused. 

"They won't have no picnic, " went on Alfred, with a little chuckle. "Dog-hole's as bad fer them as fer us. They don't know how to fight. Ifthey was to come in on all sides, I couldn't handle 'em, but they alwaysrush in a bunch, like _damn_ fools!" and then Alfred became suffusedwith blushes, and commenced to apologise abjectly and profusely to agirl who had heard neither the word nor its atonement. The savages andthe approaching fight were all she could think of. 

Suddenly one of the Sioux threw himself forward under his horse's neckand fired. The bullet went wild, of course, but it shrieked with therising inflection of a wind-squall through bared boughs, seeming to comeever nearer. Miss Caldwell screamed and covered her face. The savagesyelled in chorus. 

The one shot seemed to be the signal for a spattering fire all along theline. Indians never clean their rifles, rarely get good ammunition, andare deficient in the philosophy of hind-sights. Besides this, it is noteasy to shoot at long range in a constrained position from a runninghorse. Alfred watched them contemptuously in silence. 

"If they keep that up long enough, the wagon-train may hear 'em, " hesaid, finally. "Wisht we weren't so far to nor-rard. There, it'scomin'!" he said, more excitedly. 

The chief had paused, and, as the warriors came to him, they threw theirponies back on their haunches, and sat motionless. They turned, theponies' heads toward the two. 

Alfred arose deliberately for a better look. 

"Yes, that's right, " he said to himself, "that's old Lone Pine, surething. I reckon we-all's got to make a _good_ fight!"

The girl had sunk to the ground, and was shaking from head to foot. Itis not nice to be shot at in the best of circumstances, but to be shotat by odds of thirty to one, and the thirty of an out-landish andterrifying species, is not nice at all. Miss Caldwell had gone to piecesbadly, and Alfred looked grave. He thoughtfully drew from its holsterhis beautiful Colt's with its ivory handle, and laid it on the grass. Then he blushed hot and cold, and looked at the girl doubtfully. Asudden movement in the group of savages, as the war-chief rode to thefront, decided him. 

"Miss Caldwell, " he said. 

The girl shivered and moaned. 

Alfred dropped to his knees and shook her shoulder roughly. 

"Look up here, " he commanded. "We ain't got but a minute. "

Composed a little by the firmness of his tone, she sat up. Her face hadgone chalky, and her hair had partly fallen over her eyes. 

"Now, listen to every word, " he said, rapidly. "Those Injins is goin' torush us in a minute. P'r'aps I can break them, but I don't know. In thatpistol there, I'll always save two shots--understand?--it's alwaysloaded. If I see it's all up, I'm a-goin' to shoot you with one of 'em, and myself with the other. "

"Oh!" cried the girl, her eyes opening wildly. She was paying closeenough attention now. 

"And if they kill me first"--he reached forward and seized her wristimpressively--"if they kill me first, you must take that pistol andshoot yourself. Understand? Shoot yourself--in the head--here!"

He tapped his forehead with a stubby forefinger. 

The girl shrank back in horror. Alfred snapped his teeth together andwent on grimly. 

"If they get hold of you, " he said, with solemnity, "they'll first takeoff every stitch of your clothes, and when you're quite naked they'llstretch you out on the ground with a raw-hide to each of your arms andlegs. And then they'll drive a stake through the middle of your bodyinto the ground--and leave you there--to die--slowly!"

And the girl believed him, because, incongruously enough, even throughher terror she noticed that at this, the most immodest speech of hislife, Alfred did not blush. She looked at the pistol lying on the turfwith horrified fascination. 

The group of Indians, which had up to now remained fully a thousandyards away, suddenly screeched and broke into a run directly toward thedog-town. 

There is an indescribable rush in a charge of savages. The little poniesmake their feet go so fast, the feathers and trappings of the warriorsstream behind so frantically, the whole attitude of horse and man is soeager, that one gets an impression of fearful speed and resistlesspower. The horizon seems full of Indians. 

As if this were not sufficiently terrifying, the air is throbbing withsound. Each Indian pops away for general results as he comes jumpingalong, and yells shrilly to show what a big warrior he is, whileunderneath it all is the hurried monotone of hoof-beats becoming everlouder, as the roar of an increasing rainstorm on the roof. It does notseem possible that anything can stop them. 

Yet there is one thing that can stop them, if skilfully taken advantageof, and that is their lack of discipline. An Indian will fight hard whencornered, or when heated by lively resistance, but he hates to go intoit in cold blood. As he nears the opposing rifle, this feeling getsstronger. So often a man with nerve enough to hold his fire, can break afierce charge merely by waiting until it is within fifty yards or so, and then suddenly raising the muzzle of his gun. If he had gone toshooting at once, the affair would have become a combat, and the Indianswould have ridden him down. As it is, each has had time to think. By thetime the white man is ready to shoot, the suspense has done its work. Each savage knows that but one will fall, but, cold-blooded, he does notwant to be that one; and, since in such disciplined fighters it is eachfor himself, he promptly ducks behind his mount and circles away to theright or the left. The whole band swoops and divides, like a flock ofswift-winged terns on a windy day. 

This Alfred relied on in the approaching crisis. 

The girl watched the wild sweep of the warriors with strained eyes. Shehad to grasp her wrist firmly to keep from fainting, and she seemedincapable of thought. Alfred sat motionless on a dog-mound, his rifleacross his lap. He did not seem in the least disturbed. 

"It's good to fight again, " he murmured, gently fondling the stock ofhis rifle. "Come on, ye devils! Oho!" he cried as a warrior's horse wentdown in a dog-hole, "I thought so!"

His eyes began to shine. 

The ponies came skipping here and there, nimbly dodging in and outbetween the dog-holes. Their riders shot and yelled wildly, but none ofthe bullets went lower than ten feet. The circle of their advance lookedsomehow like the surge shoreward of a great wave, and the similarity washeightened by the nodding glimpses of the light eagles' feathers intheir hair. 

The run across the honey-combed plain was hazardous--even to Indianponies--and three went down kicking, one after the other. Two of theriders lay stunned. The third sat up and began to rub his knee. The ponybelonging to Miss Caldwell, becoming frightened, threw itself and lay onits side, kicking out frantically with its hind legs. 

At the proper moment Alfred cocked his rifle and rose swiftly to hisknees. As he did so, the mound on which he had been kneeling caved intothe hole beneath it, and threw him forward on his face. With a furiouscurse, he sprang to his feet and levelled his rifle at the thick of thepress. The scheme worked. In a flash every savage disappeared behind hispony, and nothing was to be seen but an arm and a leg. The band dividedon either hand as promptly as though the signal for such a drill hadbeen given, and swept gracefully around in two long circles until itreined up motionless at nearly the exact point from which it hadstarted on its imposing charge. Alfred had not fired a shot. 

He turned to the girl with a short laugh. 

She lay face upward on the ground, staring at the sky with wide-open, horror-stricken eyes. In her brow was a small blackened hole, and underher head, which lay strangely flat against the earth, the grasses hadturned red. Near her hand lay the heavy Colt's 44. 

Alfred looked at her a minute without winking. Then he nodded his head. 

"It was 'cause I fell down that hole--she thought they'd got me!" hesaid aloud to himself. "Pore little gal! She hadn't ought to have didit!"

He blushed deeply, and, turning his face away, pulled down her skirtuntil it covered her ankles. Then he picked up his Winchester and firedthree shots. The first hit directly back of the ear one of the stunnedIndians who had fallen with his horse. The second went through the otherstunned Indian's chest. The third caught the Indian with the broken legbetween the shoulders just as he tried to get behind his strugglingpony. 

Shortly after, Billy Knapp and the wagon-train came along. 

II

BILLY'S TENDERFOOT

During one spring of the early seventies Billy Knapp ran a species ofroad-house and hotel at the crossing of the Deadwood and Big Horn trailsthrough Custer Valley. Travellers changing from one to the otherfrequently stopped there over night. He sold accommodations for man andbeast, the former comprising plenty of whiskey, the latter plenty ofhay. That was the best anyone could say of it. The hotel was of logs, two-storied, with partitions of sheeting to insure a certain privacy ofsight if not of sound; had three beds and a number of bunks; and boastedof a woman cook--one of the first in the Hills. Billy did not run itlong. He was too restless. For the time being, however, he wasinterested and satisfied. 

The personnel of the establishment consisted of Billy and the woman, already mentioned, and an ancient Pistol of the name of Charley. Thelatter wore many firearms, and had a good deal to say, but had never, asBilly expressed it, "made good. " This in the West could not be for lackof opportunity. His functions were those of general factotum. 

One evening Billy sat chair-tilted against the walls of the hotelwaiting for the stage. By and by it drew in. Charley hobbled out, carrying buckets of water for the horses. The driver flung the reinsfrom him with the lordly insolence of his privileged class, descendedslowly, and swaggered to the bar-room for his drink. Billy followed toserve it. 

"Luck, " said the driver, and crooked his elbow. 

"Anything new?" queried Billy. 

"Nope. "

"Held up?"

"Nope. Black Hank's over in th' limestone. "

That exhausted the situation. The two men puffed silently for a momentat their pipes. In an instant the driver turned to go. 

"I got you a tenderfoot, " he remarked then, casually; "I reckon he'soutside. "

"Guess I ambles forth and sees what fer a tenderfoot it is, " repliedBilly, hastening from behind the bar. 

The tenderfoot was seated on a small trunk just outside the door. As heheld his hat in his hand, Billy could see his dome-like bald head. Beneath the dome was a little pink-and-white face, and below thatnarrow, sloping shoulders, a flat chest, and bandy legs. He wore a lightcheck suit, and a flannel shirt whose collar was much too large for him. Billy took this all in while passing. As the driver climbed to the seat, the hotel-keeper commented. 

"Say, Hen, " said he, "would you stuff it or put it under a glass case?"

"I'd serve it, a lay Tooloose, " replied the driver, briefly, and broughthis long lash 8-shaped across the four startled backs of his horses. 

Billy turned to the reinspection of his guest, and met a deprecatingsmile. 

"Can I get a room here fer to-night?" he inquired in a high, pipingvoice. 

"You kin, " said Billy, shortly, and began to howl for Charley. 

That patriarch appeared around the corner, as did likewise the cook, ablack-eyed, red-cheeked creature, afterward counted by Billy as one ofhis eight matrimonial ventures. 

"Snake this stranger's war-bag into th' shack, " commanded Billy, "and, Nell, jest nat'rally rustle a few grub. "

The stranger picked up a small hand-satchel and followed Charley intothe building. When, a little later, he reappeared for supper, he carriedthe hand-bag with him, and placed it under the bench which flanked thetable. Afterward he deposited it near his hand while enjoying a pipeoutside. Naturally, all this did not escape Billy. 

"Stranger, " said he, "yo' seems mighty wedded to that thar satchel. "

"Yes, sir, " piped the stranger. Billy snorted at the title. "I has somepersonal belongin's which is valuable to me. " He opened the bag andproduced a cheap portrait of a rather cheap-looking woman. "My motherthat was, " said he. 

Billy snorted again and went inside. He hated sentiment of all kinds. 

The two men sat opposite each other and ate supper, which was served bythe red-cheeked girl. The stranger kept his eyes on his plate while shewas in the room. He perched on the edge of the bench with his feettucked under him and resting on the toes. When she approached, themuscles of his shoulders and upper arms grew rigid with embarrassment, causing strange awkward movements of the hands. He answered inmonosyllables. 

Billy ate expansively and earnestly. Toward the close of the mealCharley slipped into place beside him. Charley was out of humour, andfound the meat cold. 

"Damn yore soul, Nell, " he cried, "this yere ain't fitten fer a _hog_ toeat!"

The girl did not mind; nor did Billy. It was the country's mode ofspeech. The stranger dropped his knife. 

"I don't wonder you don't like it, then, " said he, with a funny littleblaze of anger. 

"Meanin' what?" shouted Charley, threateningly. 

"You sure mustn't speak to a lady that way, " replied the stranger, firmly, in his little piping voice. 

Billy caught the point and exploded in a mighty guffaw. 

"Bully fer you!" he cried, slapping his knee; "struck pyrites (hepronounced it pie-rights) fer shore that trip, Charley. "

The girl, too, laughed, but quietly. She was just a little touched, though only this winter she had left Bismarck because the place wouldhave no more of her. 

In the face of Billy's approval, the patriarch fell silent. 

About midnight the four inmates of the frontier hotel were awakened by atremendous racket outside. The stranger arose, fully clothed, from hisbunk, and peered through the narrow open window. A dozen horses werestanding grouped in charge of a single mounted man, indistinguishable inthe dark. Out of the open door a broad band of light streamed from thesaloon, whence came the noise of voices and of boots tramping about. 

"It is Black Hank, " said Billy, at his elbow, "Black Hank and hisoutfit. He hitches to this yere snubbin'-post occasional. "

Black Hank in the Hills would have translated to Jesse James farthersouth. 

The stranger turned suddenly energetic. 

"Don't you make no fight?" he asked. 

"Fight?" said Billy, wondering. "Fight? Co'se not. Hank don't plunder_me_ none. He jest ambles along an' helps himself, and leaves th' dustfer it every time. I jest lays low an' lets him operate. I never has no_dealin's_ with him, understand. He jest nat'rally waltzes in an' plantshis grub-hooks on what he needs. _I_ don't know nothin' about it. _I'm_dead asleep. "

He bestowed a shadowy wink on the stranger

Below, the outlaws moved here and there. 

"Billy!" shouted a commanding voice, "Billy Knapp!"

The hotel-keeper looked perplexed. 

"Now, what's he tollin' _me_ for?" he asked of the man by his side. 

"Billy!" shouted the voice again, "come down here, you Siwash. I want topalaver with you!"

"All right, Hank, " replied Billy. 

He went to his "room, " and buckled on a heavy belt; then descended thesteep stairs. The bar-room was lighted and filled with men. Some of themwere drinking and eating; others were strapping provisions into portableform. Against the corner of the bar a tall figure of a man leanedsmoking--a man lithe, active, and muscular, with a keen dark face, andblack eyebrows which met over his nose. Billy walked silently to thisman. 

"What is it?" he asked, shortly. "This yere ain't in th' agreement. "

"I know that, " replied the stranger. 

"Then leave yore dust and vamoose. "

"My dust is there, " replied Black Hank, placing his hand on a buckskinbag at his side, "and you're paid, Billy Knapp. I want to ask you aquestion. Standing Rock has sent fifty thousand dollars in greenbacks toSpotted Tail. The messenger went through here to-day. Have you seenhim?"

"Nary messenger, " replied Billy, in relief. "Stage goes empty. "

Charley had crept down the stairs and into the room. 

"What in hell are yo' doin' yere, yo' ranikaboo ijit?" inquired Billy, truculently. 

"That thar stage ain't what you calls _empty_, " observed Charley, unmoved. 

A light broke on Billy's mind. He remarked the valise which the strangerhad so carefully guarded; and though his common-sense told him that aninoffensive non-combatant such as his guest would hardly be chosen asexpress messenger, still the bare possibility remained. 

"Yo're right, " he agreed, carelessly, "thar is one tenderfoot, who knowsas much of ridin' express as a pig does of a ruffled shirt. "

"I notes he's almighty particular about that carpet-bag of his'n, "insisted Charley. 

The man against the counter had lost nothing of the scene. Billy'sdenial, his hesitation, his half-truth all looked suspicious to him. With one swift, round sweep of the arm he had Billy covered. Billy'shands shot over his head without the necessity of command. 

The men ceased their occupations and gathered about. Scenes of this sortwere too common to elicit comment or arouse excitement. They knewperfectly well the _laissez-faire_ relations which obtained between thetwo Westerners. 

"Now, " said Black Hank, angrily, in a low tone, "I want to know why inhell you tried that monkey game!"

Billy, wary and unafraid, replied that he had tried no game, that he hadforgotten the tenderfoot for the moment, and that he did not believe thelatter would prove to be the sought-for express messenger. 

One of the men, at a signal from his leader, relieved Billy's heavy beltof considerable weight. Then the latter was permitted to sit on acracker-box. Two more mounted the stairs. In a moment they returned toreport that the upper story contained no human beings, strange orotherwise, except the girl, but that there remained a small trunk. Underfurther orders, they dragged the trunk down into the bar-room. It wasbroken open and found to contain nothing but clothes--of the plainsman'scut, material, and state of wear; a neatly folded Mexican saddle showinguse, and a raw-hide quirt. 

"Hell of a tenderfoot!" said Black Hank, contemptuously. 

The outlaws had already scattered outside to look for the trail. In thisthey were unsuccessful, reporting, indeed, that not the faintest signindicated escape in any direction. 

Billy knew his man. The tightening of Black Hank's close-knit browsmeant but one thing. One does not gain chieftainship of any kind in theWest without propping his ascendency with acts of ruthless decision. Billy leaped from his cracker-box with the suddenness of the puma, seized Black Hank firmly about the waist, whirled him into a sort ofshield, and began an earnest struggle for the instant possession of theoutlaw's drawn revolver. It was a gallant attempt, but an unsuccessfulone. In a moment Billy was pinioned to the floor, and Black Hank wasrubbing his abraded fore-arm. After that the only question was whetherit should be rope or bullet. 

Now, when Billy had gone downstairs, the stranger had wasted no furthertime at the window. He had in his possession fifty thousand dollars ingreenbacks which he was to deliver as soon as possible to the SpottedTail agency in Wyoming. The necessary change of stage lines had forcedhim to stay over night at Billy Knapp's hotel. 

The messenger seized his bag and softly ran along through thecanvas-partitioned room wherein Billy slept, to a narrow window which hehad already noticed gave out almost directly into the pine woods. Thewindow was of oiled paper, and its catch baffled him. He knew it shouldslide back; but it refused to slide. He did not dare break the paperbecause of the crackling noise. A voice at his shoulder startled him. 

"I'll show you, " whispered the red-cheeked girl. 

She was wrapped loosely in a blanket, her hair falling about hershoulders, and her bare feet showed beneath her coverings. The littleman suffered at once an agony of embarrassment in which the thought ofhis errand was lost. It was recalled to him by the girl. 

"There you are, " she whispered, showing him the open window. 

"Thank you, " he stammered, painfully, "I assure you--I wish----"

The girl laughed under her breath. 

"That's all right, " she said, heartily, "I owe you that for calling oldwhiskers off his bronc, " and she kissed him. 

The messenger, trembling with self-consciousness, climbed hastilythrough the window; ran the broad loop of the satchel up his arm; and, instead of dropping to the ground, as the girl had expected, swunghimself lightly into the branches of a rather large scrub-oak that grewnear. She listened to the rustle of the leaves for a moment as he nearedthe trunk, and then, unable longer to restrain her curiosity in regardto the doings below, turned to the stairway. 

As she did so, two men mounted. They examined the three rooms of theupper story hastily but carefully, paying scant attention to her, anddeparted swearing. In a few moments they returned for the stranger'strunk. Nell followed them down the stairs as far as the doorway. Thereshe heard and saw things, and fled in bitter dismay to the back of thehouse when Billy Knapp was overpowered. 

At the window she knelt, clasping her hands and sinking her head betweenher arms. Women in the West, at least women like Nell, do not weep. Butshe came near it. Suddenly she raised her head. A voice next her ear hadaddressed her. 

She looked here and there and around, but could discover nothing. 

"Here, outside, " came the low, guarded voice, "in the tree. "

Then she saw that the little stranger had not stirred from his firstalighting-place. 

"Beg yore pardon, ma'am, fer startling you or fer addressing you at all, which I shouldn't, but----"

"Oh, never mind that, " said the girl, impatiently, shaking back herhair. So deprecating and timid were the tones, that almost without aneffort of the imagination she could picture the little man's blushes andhis half-sidling method of delivery. At this supreme moment hislittleness and lack of self-assertion jarred on her mood. "What're youdoin' there? Thought you'd vamoosed. "

"It was safer here, " explained the stranger, "I left no trail. "

She nodded comprehension of the common-sense of this. 

"But, ma'am, I took the liberty of speakin' to you because you seems tobe in trouble. Of course, I ain't got no right to _ask_, an' if youdon't care to tell me----"

"They're goin' to kill Billy, " broke in Nell, with a sob. 

"What for?"

"I don't jest rightly make out. They's after someone, and they thinksBilly's cacheing him. I reckon it's you. Billy ain't cacheing nothin', but they thinks he is. "

"It's me they's after, all right. Now, you know where I am, why don'tyou tell them and save Billy?"

The girl started, but her keen Western mind saw the difficulty at once. 

"They thinks Billy pertects you jest th' same. "

"Do you love him?" asked the stranger. 

"God knows I'm purty tough, " confessed Nell, sobbing, "but I jest dothat!" and she dropped her head again. 

The invisible stranger in the gloom fell silent, considering. 

"I'm a pretty rank proposition, myself, " said he at last, as if tohimself, "and I've got a job on hand which same I oughta put throughwithout givin' attention to anything else. As a usual thing folks don'tcare fer me, and I don't care much fer folks. Women especial. Theydrives me plumb tired. I reckon I don't stack up very high in th' bluechips when it comes to cashin' in with the gentle sex, anyhow; but ingeneral they gives me as much notice as they lavishes on a doodle-bug. Iain't kickin', you understand, nary bit; but onct in a dog's age I kindof hankers fer a decent look from one of 'em. I ain't never had nowomen-folks of my own, never. Sometimes I thinks it would be somescrumptious to know a little gal waitin' fer me somewhere. They ain'tnone. They never will be. I ain't built that way. You treated me whiteto-night. You're th' first woman that ever kissed me of her own accord. "

The girl heard a faint scramble, then the soft _pat_ of someone landingon his feet. Peering from the window she made out a faint, shadowy formstealing around the corner of the hotel. She put her hand to her heartand listened. Her understanding of the stranger's motives was vague atbest, but she had caught his confession that her kiss had meant much tohim, and even in her anxiety she felt an inclination to laugh. She hadbestowed that caress as she would have kissed the cold end of a dog'snose. 

The men below stairs had, after some discussion, decided on bullet. Thiswas out of consideration for Billy's standing as a frontiersman. Besides, he had stolen no horses. In order not to delay matters, theexecution was fixed for the present time and place. Billy stood with hisback to the logs of his own hotel, his hands and feet bound, but hiseyes uncovered. He had never lost his nerve. In the short respite whichpreparation demanded, he told his opponents what he thought of them. 

"Proud?" he concluded a long soliloquy as if to the reflector of thelamp. "Proud?" he repeated, reflectively. "This yere Hank's jest thatproud he's all swelled up like a poisoned pup. Ain't everyone kin coralla man sleepin' and git fifty thousand without turnin' a hair. "

Black Hank distributed three men to do the business. There were noheroics. The execution of this man was necessary to him, not because hewas particularly angry over the escape of the messenger--he expected tocapture that individual in due time--but in order to preserve hisauthority over his men. He was in the act of moving back to give theshooters room, when he heard behind him the door open and shut. 

He turned. Before the door stood a small consumptive-looking man in alight check suit. The tenderfoot carried two short-barrelled Colt'srevolvers, one of which he presented directly at Black Hank. 

"'Nds up!" he commanded, sharply. 

Hank was directly covered, so he obeyed. The new-comer's eye had astrangely restless quality. Of the other dozen inmates of the room, eleven were firmly convinced that the weapon and eye not directlylevelled at their leader were personally concerned with themselves. Thetwelfth thought he saw his chance. To the bewildered onlookers thereseemed to be a flash and a bang, instantaneous; then things were asbefore. One of the stranger's weapons still pointed at Black Hank'sbreast; the other at each of the rest. Only the twelfth man, he who hadseen his chance, had collapsed forward to the floor. No one could assurehimself positively that he had discerned the slightest motion on thepart of the stranger. 

"Now, " said the latter, sharply, "one at a time, gentlemen. Drop yoregun, " this last to Black Hank, "muzzle down. Drop it! Correct!"

One of the men in the back of the room stirred slightly on the ball ofhis foot. 

"Steady, there!" warned the stranger. The man stiffened. 

"Next gent, " went on the little man, subtly indicating another. Thelatter obeyed without hesitation. "Next. Now you. Now you in th'corner. "

One after another the pistols clattered to the floor. Not for an instantcould a single inmate of the apartment, armed or unarmed, flatterhimself that his slightest motion was unobserved. They were like tigerson the crouch, ready to spring the moment the man's guard lowered. Itdid not lower. The huddled figure on the floor reminded them of whatmight happen. They obeyed. 

"Step back, " commanded the stranger next. In a moment he had themstanding in a row against the wall, rigid, upright, their hands overtheir heads. Then for the first time the stranger moved from hisposition by the door. 

"Call her, " he said to Billy, "th' girl. "

Billy raised his voice. "Nell! Oh, Nell!"

In a moment she appeared in the doorway at the foot of the stairs, without hesitation or fear. When she perceived the state of affairs, shebrightened almost mischievously. 

"Would you jest as soon, ma'am, if it ain't troubling you too much, jestnat'rally sort of untie Billy?" requested the stranger. 

She did so. The hotel-keeper stretched his arms. 

"Now, pick up th' guns, please. "

The two set about it. 

"Where's that damn ol' reprobate?" inquired Billy, truculently, lookingabout for Charley. 

The patriarch had quietly slipped away. 

"You kin drop them hands, " advised the stranger, lowering the muzzles ofhis weapons. The leader started to say something. 

"You shut up!" said Billy, selecting his own weapons from the heap. 

The stranger suddenly picked up one of the Colt's single-actionrevolvers which lay on the floor, and, holding the trigger back againstthe guard, exploded the six charges by hitting the hammer smartly withthe palm of his hand. In the thrusting motion of this discharge heevidently had design, for the first six wine-glasses on Billy's bar wereshivered. It was wonderful work, rattling fire, quicker than aself-cocker even. He selected another weapon. From a pile of tomato-canshe took one and tossed it into the air. Before it had fallen he hadperforated it twice, and as it rolled along the floor he helped itsprogression by four more bullets which left streams of tomato-juicewhere they had hit. The room was full of smoke. The group watched, fascinated. 

Then the men against the wall grew rigid. Out of the film of smoke long, vivid streams of fire flashed toward them, now right, now left, like thealternating steam of a locomotive's pistons. _Smash, smash! Smash, smash!_ hit the bullets with regular thud. With the twelfth dischargethe din ceased. Midway in the space between the heads of each pair ofmen against the wall was a round hole. No one was touched. 

A silence fell. The smoke lightened and blew slowly through the opendoor. The horses, long since deserted by their guardians in favour ofthe excitement within, whinnied. The stranger dropped the smoking Colts, and quietly reproduced his own short-barrelled arms from hisside-pockets, where he had thrust them. Billy broke the silence at last. 

"That's _shootin'_!" he observed, with a sigh. 

"Them fifty thousand is outside, " clicked the stranger. "Do you wantthem?"

There was no reply. 

"I aims to pull out on one of these yere hosses of yours, " said he. "Billy he's all straight. He doesn't know nothin' about me. "

He collected the six-shooters from the floor. 

"I jest takes these with me for a spell, " he continued. "You'll findthem, if you look hard enough, along on th' trail--also yore broncs. "

He backed toward the door. 

"I'm layin' fer th' man that sticks his head out that door, " he warned. 

"Stranger, " said Black Hank as he neared the door. 

The little man paused. 

"Might I ask yore name?"

"My name is Alfred, " replied the latter. 

Black Hank looked chagrined. 

"I've hearn tell of you, " he acknowledged. 

The stranger's eye ran over the room, and encountered that of the girl. He shrank into himself and blushed. 

"Good-night, " he said, hastily, and disappeared. A moment later the beatof hoofs became audible as he led the bunch of horses away. 

For a time there was silence. Then Billy, "By God, Hank, I means tostand in with you, but you let that kid alone, or I plugs you!"

"Kid, huh!" grunted Hank. "Alfred a kid! I've hearn tell of him. "

"What've you heard?" inquired the girl. 

"He's th' plumb best scout on th' southern trail, " replied Black Hank. 

The year following, Billy Knapp, Alfred, and another man named JimBuckley took across to the Hills the only wagon-train that dared set outthat summer. 

III

THE TWO CARTRIDGES

This happened at the time Billy Knapp drove stage between Pierre andDeadwood. I think you can still see the stage in Buffalo Bill's show. Lest confusion arise and the reader be inclined to credit Billy withmore years than are his due, it might be well also to mention that theperiod was some time after the summer he and Alfred and Jim Buckley hadmade their famous march with the only wagon-train that dared set out, and some time before Billy took to mining. Jim had already moved toMontana. 

The journey from Pierre to Deadwood amounted to something. All day longthe trail led up and down long grassy slopes, and across sweeping, intervening flats. While climbing the slopes, you could never get yourexperience to convince you that you were not, on topping the hill, aboutto overlook the entire country for miles around. This never happened;you saw no farther than the next roll of the prairie. While hurtlingdown the slopes, you saw the intervening flat as interminably broad andhot and breathless, or interminably broad and icy and full of arcticwinds, according to the season of the year. Once in a dog's age you cameto a straggling fringe of cottonwood-trees, indicating a creek bottom. The latter was either quite dry or in raging flood. Close under the hillhuddled two buildings, half logs, half mud. There the horses werechanged by strange men with steel glints in their eyes, like those yousee under the brows of a north-country tug-boat captain. Passengerscould there eat flap-jacks architecturally warranted to hold togetheragainst the most vigorous attack of the gastric juices, and drink greentea that tasted of tannin and really demanded for its properaccommodation porcelain-lined insides. It was not an inspiring trip. 

Of course, Billy did not accompany the stage all of the way; only thelast hundred miles; but the passengers did, and by the time they reachedBilly they were usually heartily sick of their undertaking. Once atenderfoot came through in the fall of the year, simply for the love ofadventure. He got it. 

"Driver, " said he to Billy, as the brakes set for another plunge, "wereyou ever held up?"

Billy had been deluged with questions like this for the last two hours. Usually he looked straight in front of him, spat accurately between thetail of the wheel-horse and the whiffle-tree, and answered inmonosyllables. The tenderfoot did not know that asking questions was notthe way to induce Billy to talk. 

"Held up?" replied Billy, with scorn. "Young feller, I is held upthirty-seven times in th' last year. "

"Thunderation!" exclaimed the tenderfoot. "What do you do? Do you havemuch trouble getting away? Have you had much fighting?"

"Fight nothin'. I ain't hired to fight. I'm hired to drive stage. "

"And you just let them go through you?" cried the tenderfoot. 

Billy was stung by the contempt in the stranger's tone. 

"Go through nothin', " he explained. "They isn't touchin' _me_ nonewhatever. Put her down fer argument that I'm damn fool enough tosprinkle lead 'round some, and that I gets away. What happens? Nex' timeI drives stage some of these yere agents massacrees me from behind abush. Whar do I come in? Nary bit!"

The tenderfoot, struck by the logic of this reasoning, fell silent. After an interval the sun set in a film of yellow light; then theafterglow followed; and finally the stars pricked out the true immensityof the prairies. 

"_He's_ the feller hired to fight, " observed the shadowy Billy, jerkinghis thumb backward. 

The tenderfoot now understood the silent, grim man who, unapproachableand solitary, had alone occupied the seat on top of the stage. Lookingwith more curiosity, the tenderfoot observed a shot-gun with abnormallyshort barrels, slung in two brass clips along the back of the seat infront of the messenger. The usual revolvers, too, were secured, insteadof by the regulation holsters, in brass clips riveted to the belt, sothat in case of necessity they could be snatched free with one forwardsweep of the arm. The man met his gaze keenly. 

"Them Hills ain't fur now, " vouchsafed Billy, as a cold breeze from thewest lifted the limp brim of his hat, and a film of cloud drew withuncanny and silent rapidity across the stars. 

The tenderfoot had turned again to look at the messenger, who interestedhim exceedingly, when the stage came to a stop so violent as almost tothrow him from his seat. He recovered his balance with difficulty. Billy, his foot braced against the brake, was engaged in leisurelywinding the reins around it. 

"_Hands up, I say!_" cried a sharp voice from the darkness ahead. 

"Meanin' you, " observed Billy to the tenderfoot, at the same timethrusting his own over his head and settling down comfortably on thesmall of his back. "Time!" he called, facetiously, to the darkness. 

As though at the signal the night split with the roar of buckshot, andsplintered with the answering crackle of a six-shooter three timesrepeated. The screech of the brake had deceived the messenger as to thewhereabouts of the voice. He had jumped to the ground on the wrong sideof the stage, thus finding himself without protection against hisopponent, who, firing at the flash of the shot-gun, had brought him tothe ground. 

The road-agent stepped confidently forward. "Billy, " said he, pleasantly, "jest pitch me that box. "

Billy climbed over the seat and dropped a heavy, iron-bound case to theground. "Danged if I thinks anybody _kin_ git Buck, thar, " he remarked, in thoughtful reference to the messenger. 

"Now, drive on, " commanded the road-agent. 

Three hours later Billy and the sobered tenderfoot pulled into Deadwood. Ten minutes taught the camp what had occurred. 

Now, it must be premised that Deadwood had recently chosen a sheriff. Hedid not look much like a sheriff, for he was small and weak and bald, and most childlike as to expression of countenance. But when I tell youthat his name was Alfred, you will know that it was all right. To himthe community looked for initiative. It expected him to organise aposse, which would, of course, consist of every man in the place nototherwise urgently employed, and to enter upon instant pursuit. He didnot. 

"How many is they?" he asked of Billy. 

"One lonesome one, " replied the stage-driver. 

"I plays her a lone hand, " announced Alfred. 

You see, Alfred knew well enough his own defects. He never could makeplans when anybody else was near, but always instinctively took thesecond place. Then, when the other's scheme had fallen into ruins, hewould construct a most excellent expedient from the wreck of it. In thecase under consideration he preferred to arrange his own campaign, andtherefore to work alone. 

By that time men knew Alfred. They made no objection. 

"Snowin', " observed one of the chronic visitors of the saloon door. There are always two or three of such in every Western gathering. 

"One of you boys saddle my bronc, " suddenly requested Alfred, and beganto examine his firearms by the light of the saloon lamp. 

"Yo' ain't aimin' to set out to-night?" they asked, incredulously. 

"I am. Th' snow will make a good trail, but she'll be covered comemornin'. "

So Alfred set out alone, at night, in a snowstorm, without the guidanceof a solitary star, to find a single point in the vastness of theprairie. 

He made the three hours of Billy and the tenderfoot in a little over anhour, because it was mostly down hill. So the agent had apparently fourhours the start of him, which discrepancy was cut down, however, by thetime consumed in breaking open the strong-box after Billy and the stagehad surely departed beyond gunshot. The exact spot was easily marked bythe body of Buck, the express messenger. Alfred convinced himself thatthe man was dead, but did not waste further time on him: the boys wouldtake care of the remains next day. He remounted and struck out sharp forthe east, though, according to Billy's statement, the agent had turnednorth. 

"He is alone, " said Alfred to himself, "so he ain't in that Black Hankoutfit. Ain't nothin' to take him north, an' if he goes south he has tohit way down through the South Fork trail, which same takes him twoweeks. Th' greenbacks in that plunder is numbered, and old Wells-Fargohas th' numbers. He sure has to pike in an' change them bills afore heis spotted. So he goes to Pierre. "

Alfred staked his all on this reasoning and rode blindly eastward. Fortunately the roll of the country was sufficiently definite to enablehim to keep his general direction well enough until about three o'clock, when the snow ceased and the stars came out, together with the waningmoon. Twenty minutes later he came to the bed of a stream. 

"Up or down?" queried Alfred, thoughtfully. The state of the weatherdecided him. It had been blowing all night strongly from the northwest. Left without guidance a pony tends to edge more or less away from thewind, in order to turn tail to the weather. Alfred had diligentlycounteracted this tendency all night, but he doubted whether, in thehurry of flight, the fugitive had thought of it. Instead of keepingdirectly east toward Pierre, he had probably fallen away more or lesstoward the south. "Down, " Alfred decided. 

He dismounted from his horse and began to lead the animal parallel tothe stream, but about two hundred yards from it, first taking care toascertain that a little water flowed in the channel. On discovering thatthere did, he nodded his head in a satisfied manner. 

"He doesn't leave no trail till she begins to snow, " he argued, "an' henat'rally doesn't expect no mud-turkles like me a followin' of himeastward. _Consequently_ he feeds when he strikes water. This yere iswater. "

All of which seemed satisfactory to Alfred. He walked on foot in orderto discover the trail in the snow. He withdrew two hundred yards fromthe bank of the stream that his pony might not scent the other man'shorse, and so give notice of approach by whinnying. After a time he cameacross the trail. So he left the pony and followed it to thecreek-bottom on foot. At the top of the bluff he peered over cautiously. 

"Well, you got nerve!" he remarked to himself. "If I was runnin' thisyere game, I'd sure scout with my blinders off. "

The fugitive evidently believed himself safe from pursuit, for he hadmade camp. His two ponies cropped browse and pawed for grass in thebottom land. He himself had prepared a warm niche and was sleeping in itwith only one blanket over him, though by now the thermometer was welldown toward zero. The affair had been simple. He had built a long, hotfire in the L of an upright ledge and the ground. When ready to sleep hehad raked the fire three feet out from the angle, and had lain down onthe heated ground between the fire and the ledge. His rifle and revolverlay where he could seize them at a moment's notice. 

Alfred could stalk a deer, but he knew better than to attempt to stalk aman trained in the West. Instead, he worked himself into a protectedposition and carefully planted a Winchester bullet some six inches fromthe man's ear. The man woke up suddenly and made an instinctive grabtoward his weapons. 

"Drop it!" yelled Alfred. 

So he dropped it, and lay like a rabbit in its form. 

"Jest select that thar six-shooter by the end of the bar'l and hurl herfrom you some, " advised the sheriff. "Now the Win_ches_ter. Now stand upan' let's look at you. " The man obeyed. "Yo' don't really need thatother gun, under th' circumstances, " pursued the little man. "No, don'tfetch her loose from the holster none; jest unbuckle th' whole outfit, belt and all. Good! Now, you freeze, and stay froze right whar you are. "

So Alfred arose and scrambled down to the bottom. 

"Good-mornin', " he observed, pleasantly. 

He cast about him and discovered the man's lariat, which he picked upand overran with one hand until he had loosened the noose. 

"You-all are some sizable, " he remarked, in conversational tones, "an'like enough you eats me up, if I gets clost enough to tie you. Handsup!"

With a deft twist and flip he tossed the open noose over his prisoner'supheld wrists and jerked it tight. 

"Thar you be, " he observed, laying aside his rifle. 

He loosened one of his revolvers suggestively and approached to tie theknot. 

"Swing her down, " he commanded. He contemplated the result. "Don't likethat nohow--tied in front. Step through your hands a whole lot. " The manhesitated. "Step, I say!" said Alfred, sharply, at the same timepricking the prisoner with his long knife. 

The other contorted and twisted awkwardly, but finally managed to thrustfirst one foot, then the other, between his shackled wrists. Alfredbound together his elbows at the back. 

"You'll do, " he approved, cheerfully. "Now, we sees about grub. "

Two flat stones placed a few inches apart improvised a stove when firethrust its tongue from the crevice, and a frying-pan and tin-cup laidacross the opening cooked the outlaw's provisions. Alfred hospitablyladled some bacon and coffee into their former owner. 

"Not that I needs to, " he observed, "but I'm jest that tender-hearted. "

At the close of the meal, Alfred instituted a short and successfulsearch for the plunder, which he found in the stranger's saddle-bag, open and unashamed. 

"Yo're sure a tenderfoot at this game, stranger, " commented the sheriff. "Thar is plenty abundance of spots to cache such plunder--like thelinin' of yore saddle, or a holler horn. Has you any choice of cayusesfor ridin'?" indicating the grazing ponies. 

The man shook his head. He had maintained a lowering silence throughoutall these cheerful proceedings. 

Alfred and his prisoner finally mounted and rode northwest. As soon asthey had scrambled up the precipitous side of the gully, the affairbecame a procession, with the stranger in front, and the stranger'ssecond pony bringing up an obedient rear. Thus the robber was first tosee a band of Sioux that topped a distant rise for a single instant. Ofcourse, the Sioux saw him, too. He communicated this discovery toAlfred. 

"Well, " said Alfred, "they ain't hostile. "

"These yere savages is plenty hostile, " contradicted the stranger, "anddon't you make no mistake thar. I jest nat'rally lifts that pinto offenthem yisterday, " and he jerked his thumb toward the black-and-white ponyin the rear. 

"And you camps!" cried Alfred, in pure astonishment. "You must be plumblocoed!"

"I ain't had no sleep in three nights, " explained the other, in apology. 

Alfred's opinion of the man rose at once. 

"Yo' has plumb nerve to tackle a hold-up under them circumstances, " heobserved. 

"I sets out to git that thar stage; and I gits her, " replied the agent, doggedly. 

The savages appeared on the next rise, barely a half-mile away, andheaded straight for the two men. 

"I reckon yere's where you takes a hand, " remarked Alfred simply, and, riding alongside, he released the other's arms by a single slash of hisknife. The man slipped from his horse and stretched his arms wide apartand up over his head in order to loosen his muscles. Alfred likewisedismounted. The two, without further parley, tied their horses' nosesclose to their front fetlocks, and sat down back to back on the surfaceof the prairie. Each was armed with one of the new 44-40 Winchesters, just out, and with a brace of Colt's revolvers, chambering thesame-sized cartridge as the rifle. 

"How you heeled?" inquired Alfred. 

The stranger took stock. 

"Fifty-two, " he replied. 

"Seventy for me, " vouchsafed Alfred. "I goes plenty organised. "

Each man spread a little semicircle of shells in front of him. At thecommand of the two, without reloading, were forty-eight shots. 

When the Indians had approached to within about four hundred yards ofthe white men they paused. Alfred rose and held his hand toward them, palm outward, in the peace sign. His response was a shot and a chorus ofyells. 

"I tells you, " commented the hold-up. 

Alfred came back and sat down. The savages, one by one, broke away fromthe group and began to circle rapidly to the left in a constantlycontracting spiral. They did a great deal of yelling. Occasionally theywould shoot. To the latter feature the plainsmen lent an attentive ear, for to their trained senses each class of arm spoke with a differentvoice--the old muzzle-loader, the Remington, the long, heavy Sharp's 50, each proclaimed itself plainly. The mere bullets did not interest themin the least. Two men seated on the ground presented but a small mark tothe Indians shooting uncleaned weapons from running horses at three orfour hundred yards' range. 

"That outfit is rank outsiders, " concluded Alfred. "They ain't over adozen britch-loaders in the lay-out. "

"Betcher anything you say I drops one, " offered the stranger, taking aknee-rest. 

"Don't be so plumb fancy, " advised Alfred, "but turn in and help. "

He was satisfied with the present state of affairs, and was hacking atthe frozen ground with his knife. The light snow on the ridge-tops hadbeen almost entirely drifted away. The stranger obeyed. 

On seeing the men thus employed, the Indians turned their horsesdirectly toward the group and charged in. At the range of perhaps twohundred yards the Winchesters began to speak. Alfred fired twice and thestranger three times. Then the circle broke and divided and passed by, leaving an oval of untrodden ground. 

"How many did you get?" inquired Alfred, with professional interest. 

"Two, " replied the man. 

"Two here, " supplemented Alfred. 

A commotion, a squeal, a thrashing-about near at hand caused both toturn suddenly. The pinto pony was down and kicking. Alfred walked overand stuck him in the throat to save a cartridge. 

"Move up, pardner, " said he. 

The other moved up. Thus the men became possessed of protection from oneside. The Indians had vented a yell of rage when the pony had dropped. Now as each warrior approached a certain point in the circle, he threwhis horse back on its haunches, so that in a short time the entire bandwas once more gathered in a group. Alfred and the outlaw knew that thismanoeuvre portended a more serious charge than the impromptu affairthey had broken with such comparative ease. An Indian is extremelygregarious when it comes to open fighting. He gets a lot ofencouragement out of yells, the patter of many ponies' hoofs, and theflutter of an abundance of feathers. Running in from the circumferenceof a circle is a bit too individual to suit his taste. 

Also, the savages had by now taken the measure of their white opponents. They knew they had to deal with experience. Suspicion of this must havebeen aroused by the practised manner in which the men had hobbled theirhorses and had assumed the easiest posture of defence. The idea wouldhave gained strength from their superior marksmanship; but it would havebecome absolute certainty from the small detail that, in all this hurland rush of excitement, they had fired but five shots, and those atclose range. It is difficult to refrain from banging away for generalresults when so many marks so loudly present themselves. It is equallyfatal to do so. A few misses are a great encouragement to a savage, andseem to breed their like in subsequent shooting. They destroy your owncoolness and confidence, and they excite the enemy an inch nearer tothat dead-line of the lust of fighting, beyond which prudence givesplace to the fury of killing. An Indian is the most cautious and wilyof fighters before he goes mad: and the most terribly reckless after. Ina few moments four of their number had passed to the happyhunting-grounds, and they were left, no nearer their prey, tocontemplate the fact. 

The tornado moved. It swept at the top jump of ponies used to the chaseof the buffalo, as sudden and terrible and imminent as the loom of ablack cloud on the wings of storm, and, like it, seeming to gather speedand awfulness as it rushed nearer. Each rider bent low over his pony'sneck and shot--a hail of bullets, which, while most passed too high, nevertheless shrieked and spun through the volume of coarser sound. Theponies stretched their necks and opened their red mouths and made theirlittle feet go with a rapidity that twinkled as bewilderingly as apicket-fence passing a train. And the light snow swirled and eddiedbehind them. 

The two men behind the dead horse were not deceived by this excitementinto rising to their knees. They realised that this was the criticalpoint in the fight, and they shot hard and fast, concentrating all theenergy of their souls into the steady glare of their eyes over thesights of the smoking rifles. In a moment the foremost warrior wastrying to leap his pony at the barrier before him, but the little animalrefused the strange jump and shied to the left, cannoning and plunginginto the stream of braves rushing in on that side. Into the confusionAlfred emptied the last two shots of his Winchester, and was fortunateenough merely to cripple a pony with one of them. The kicking, screaming, little beast interposed a momentary but effective barrierbetween the sheriff and his foes. A rattling fire from one of hissix-shooters into the brown of the hesitating charge broke it. Theself-induced excitement ebbed, and the Indians swerved and swept on by. 

On the other side, the outlaw had also managed to kill a pony within afew feet of the impromptu breastwork, and, direct riding-down being thusprevented in front, he was lying stretched on his side, coolly lettingoff first one revolver then the other in the face of imminent ruin. Alfred's attentions, however, and the defection of the right wing, drovethese savages, too, into flight. Miraculously, neither man was more thanscratched, though their clothes and the ground about them showed themarks of bullets. Strangely enough, too, the outlaw's other pony stoodunhurt at a little distance whither the rush of the charge had carriedhim. Alfred arose and drove him back. Then both men made a triangularbreastwork of the two dead horses and their saddles. 

"Cyan't do that more'n once, " observed the outlaw, taking a long breath. 

"They don't want her more'n once, " replied Alfred, sagely. 

The men tried to take score. This was not easy. Out of the hundred andtwelve cartridges with which they had started the fight, there remainedsixty-eight. That meant they had expended thirty-nine in the last chargealone. As near as they could make out, they had accounted for eight ofthe enemy, four in the mêlée just finished. Besides, there were a numberof ponies down. At first glance this might seem like poor shooting. Itwas not. A rapidly moving figure is a difficult rifle-mark with the bestof conditions. In this case the conditions would have rendered anEasterner incapable of hitting a feather pillow at three yards. 

And now began the most terrible part of this terrible day. A dozen ofthe warriors dismounted, made a short circle to the left, anddisappeared in a thin growth of dried grasses, old mulliens, andstunted, scattered brush barely six inches high. There seemed hardlycover enough to hide a man, and yet the dozen were as completelyswallowed up as though they had plunged beneath the waters of the sea. Only occasionally the top of a grass tuft or a greasewood shivered. Itbecame the duty of Alfred and his companion to shoot suddenly andaccurately at these motions. This was necessary in order to discouragethe steady concealed advance of the dozen, who, when they had approachedto within as few yards as their god of war would permit, purposed torush in and finish their opponents out of hand. And that rush couldnever be stopped. The white men knew it perfectly well, so they setconscientiously to work with their handful of cartridges to convince thereds that it is not healthy to crawl along ridge-tops on an autumn day. Sundry outlying Indians, with ammunition to waste, took belly and kneerests and strengthened the thesis to the contrary. 

The brisk fighting had warmed the contestants' blood. Now a cold windpenetrated through their woollens to the goose-flesh. It was impossibleto judge of the effect of the shots, but both knew that the accuracy oftheir shooting was falling off. Clench his teeth as he would, hold hisbreath as steadfastly as he might, Alfred could not accomplish thatsteady, purposeful, unblinking pressure on the trigger so necessary toaccuracy. In spite of himself, the rifle jerked ever so little to theright during the fall of the hammer. Soon he adopted the expedient ofpulling it suddenly which is brilliant but uncertain. The ground wasvery cold. Before long both men would have felt inclined to riskeverything for the sake of a little blood-stimulating tramp back andforth. The danger did not deter them. Only the plainsman's ingrainedhorror of throwing away a chance held them, shivering pitiably, to theirplaces. 

Still they managed to keep the dozen at a wary distance, and even, theysuspected, to hit some. This was the Indians' game--to watch; to wait;to lie with infinite patience; to hitch nearer a yard, a foot, an incheven; and then to seize with the swiftness of the eagle's swoop anopportunity which the smallest imprudence, fruit of weariness, mightoffer. One by one the precious cartridges spit, and fell from thebreech-blocks empty and useless. And still the tufts of grass wavered alittle nearer. 

"I wish t' hell, stranger, you-all hadn't edged off south, " chatteredAlfred. "We'd be nearer th' Pierre trail. "

"I'm puttin' in my spare wishin' on them Injins, " shivered the other; "Isure hopes they aims to make a break pretty quick; I'm near froze. "

About two o'clock the sun came out and the wind died. Though its rayswere feeble at that time of year, their contrast with the bleakness thathad prevailed during the morning threw a perceptible warmth into thecrouching men. Alfred succeeded, too, in wriggling a morsel of raw baconfrom the pack, which the two men shared. But the cartridges were runningvery low. 

"We establishes a dead-line, " suggested Alfred. "S' long as they slinksbeyond yonder greasewood, they lurks in safety. Plug 'em this side ofher. "

"C'rrect, " agreed the stranger. 

This brought them a season of comparative quiet. They even made out tosmoke, and so were happy. Over near the hill the body of Indians hadgone into camp and were taking it easy. The job of wiping out thesetroublesome whites had been sublet, and they wasted no further anxietyover the affair. This indifference irritated the outlaw exceedingly. 

"Damn siwashes!" he grumbled. 

"Look out!" warned Alfred. 

The dead-line was overpassed. Swaying tufts of vegetation marked therapid passage of eel-like bodies. The Indians had decided on an advance, being encouraged probably by the latter inaccuracy of the plainsmen'sfire. Besides, the day was waning. It was no cat-and-mouse game now; buta rush, like the other except that all but the last twenty or thirtyyards would be made under cover. The besieged turned their attention toit. Over on the hill the bucks had arisen from their little fires ofbuffalo chips, and were watching. On the summit of the farther ridgerode silhouetted sentinels. 

Alfred selected a tuft and fired just ahead of it. A _crack_ at his sideindicated that the stranger, too, had gone to work. It was adiscouraging and nervous business. The shooter could never tell whetheror not he had hit. The only thing he was sure of was that the line waswriggling nearer and nearer. He felt something as though he wereshooting at a man with blank cartridges. This test of nerve was probablythe most severe of the fight. 

But it was successfully withstood. Alfred felt a degree of steadinessreturn to him with the excitement and the change of weather. TheWinchester spat as carefully as before. Suddenly it could no longer bedoubted that the line was beginning to hesitate. The outlaw saw it, too. 

"Give it to 'em good!" he cried. 

Both men shot, and then again. 

The line wavered. 

"Two more shots will stop 'em!" cried the road-agent, and pulled thetrigger. The hammer clicked against an empty chamber. 

"I'm done!" he cried, hopelessly. His cartridges were gone. 

Alfred laid his own Winchester on the ground, turned over on his back, and puffed a cloud of smoke straight up toward the sky. 

"Me, too, " said he. 

The cessation of the shooting had put an end to the Indians'uncertainty. Another moment would bring them knowledge of the state ofaffairs. 

"Don't get much outen my scalp, anyway, " said Alfred, uncovering hisbald head. 

The sentinel on the distant ridge was riding his pony in short-loopedcircles and waving a blanket in a peculiar way above his head. From thegrass nine Indians arose, stooped, and scuttled off like a covey ofrunning quail. Over by the fires warriors were leaping on their ponies, and some were leading other ponies in the direction of the nine. An airof furtive but urgent haste characterised all these movements. Alfredlent an attentive ear. 

"Seems a whole lot like a rescue, " he remarked, quietly. "I reckon th'boys been followin' of my trail. "

The stranger paused in the act of unhobbling the one remaining pony. Inthe distance, faintly, could be heard cheers and shots intended asencouragement. 

"They's comin' on th' jump, " said Alfred. 

By this time the stranger had unfastened the horse. 

"I reckon we quits, " said he, mounting; "I jest nat'rally takes thisbronc, because I needs him more'n you do. So long. I may 's well confidethat I'm feelin' some glad jest now that them Injins comes along. "

And then his pony fell in a heap, and began to kick up dirt and to snortblood. 

"I got another, so you just subside a lot, " commanded Alfred, recockinghis six-shooter. 

The stranger lay staring at him in astonishment. 

"Thought you was busted on catridges!" he cried. 

"You-all may as well know, " snapped Alfred, "that's long as I'm anofficer of this yere district, I'm a sheriff first and an Injin-fighterafterward. "

"What the hell!" wondered the road-agent, still in a daze. 

"Them's th' two catridges that would have stopped 'em, " said Alfred. 

IV

THE RACE

This story is most blood-and-thundery, but, then, it is true. It is oneof the stories of Alfred; but Alfred is not the hero of it at all--quiteanother man, not nearly so interesting in himself as Alfred. 

At the time, Alfred and this other man, whose name was Tom, wereconvoying a band of Mexican vaqueros over to the Circle-X outfit. TheCircle-X was in the heat of a big round-up, and had run short of men. SoTom and Alfred had gone over to Tucson and picked up the best they couldfind, which best was enough to bring tears to the eyes of anold-fashioned, straight-riding, swift-roping Texas cowman. The gang wasan ugly one: it was sullen, black-browed, sinister. But it, one and all, could throw a rope and cut out stock, which was not only the mainthing--it was the whole thing. 

Still, the game was not pleasant. Either Alfred or Tom usually rodenight-herd on the ponies--merely as a matter of precaution--and theyfelt just a trifle more shut off by themselves and alone than if theyhad ridden solitary over the limitless alkali of the Arizona plains. This feeling struck in the deeper because Tom had just entered one ofhis brooding spells. Tom and Alfred had been chums now for close on twoyears, so Alfred knew enough to leave him entirely alone until he shouldrecover. 

The primary cause of Tom's abstraction was an open-air preacher, and thesecondary cause was, of course, a love affair. These two things did notconnect themselves consciously in Tom's mind, but they blended subtly toproduce a ruminative dissatisfaction. 

When Tom was quite young he had fallen in love with a girl back in theDakota country. Shortly after a military-post had been established nearby, and Anne Bingham had ceased to be spoken of by mayors' daughters andofficers' wives. Tom, being young, had never quite gotten over it. Itwas still part of his nature, and went with a certain sort of sunset, orthat kind of star-lit evening in which an imperceptible haze dims thebrightness of the heavens. 

The open-air preacher had chosen as his text the words, "passing thelove of woman, " and Tom, wandering idly by, had caught the text. Somehowever since the words had run in his mind. They did not mean anything tohim, but merely repeated themselves over and over, just as so manydelicious syllables which tickled the ear and rolled succulently underthe tongue. For, you see, Tom was only an ordinary battered Arizonacow-puncher, and so, of course, according to the fireside moralists, quite incapable of the higher feelings. But the words reacted to arousememories of black-eyed Anne, and the memories in turn brought one of hismoods. 

Tom, and Alfred, and the ponies, and the cook-wagon, and the cook, andthe Mexican vaqueros had done the alkali for three days. Underfoot hadbeen an exceedingly irregular plain; overhead an exceedingly bright andtrying polished sky; around about an exceedingly monotonous horizon-lineand dense clouds of white dust. At the end of the third day everybodywas feeling just a bit choked up and tired, and, to crown a series ofpetty misfortunes, the fire failed to respond to Black Sam's endeavours. This made supper late. 

Now at one time in this particular locality Arizona had not been dry andfull of alkali. A mighty river, so mighty that in its rolling flood noanimal that lives to-day would have had the slightest chance, surgeddown from the sharp-pointed mountains on the north, pushed fiercely itsway through the southern plains, and finally seethed and boiled ineddies of foam out into a southern sea which has long since disappeared. On its banks grew strange, bulbous plants. Across its waters swamuncouth monsters with snake-like necks. Over it alternated storms sosavage that they seemed to rend the world, and sunshine so hot that itseemed that were it not for the bulbous plants all living things wouldperish as in an oven. 

In the course of time conditions changed, and the change brought theArizona of to-day. There are now no turbid waters, no bulbous plants, nouncouth beasts, and, above all, no storms. Only the sun and one otherthing remain: that other thing is the bed of the ancient stream. 

On one side--the concave of the curve--is a long easy slope, so gradualthat one hardly realises where it shades into the river-bottom itself. On the other--the convex of the curve--where the swift waters wereturned aside to a new direction, is a high, perpendicular cliff runningin an almost unbroken breastwork for a great many miles, and baked ashard as iron in this sunny and almost rainless climate. Occasionalshowers have here and there started to eat out little transversegullies, but with a few exceptions have only gone so far as slightly tonick the crest. The exceptions, reaching to the plain, afford steep andperilous ascents to the level above. Anyone who wishes to pass thebarrier made by the primeval river must hunt out for himself one ofthese narrow passages. 

On the evening in question the cowmen had made camp in the hollow beyondthe easy slope. On the rise, sharply silhouetted against the west, Alfred rode wrangler to the little herd of ponies. Still fartherwestward across the plain was the clay-cliff barrier, looking under thesunset like a narrow black ribbon. In the hollow itself was the camp, giving impression in the background of a scattering of ghostly mules, ahalf-circle of wagons, ill-defined forms of recumbent vaqueros, and thenin the foreground of Sam with his gleaming semicircle of utensils, andhis pathetic little pile of fuel which would not be induced to gleam atall. 

For, as has been said, Black Sam was having great trouble with his fire. It went out at least six times, and yet each time it hung on in aflickering fashion so long that he had felt encouraged to arrange hisutensils and distribute his provisions. Then it had expired, and poorSam had to begin all over again. The Mexicans smoked yellow-papercigarettes and watched his off-and-on movements with sullen distrust;they were firmly convinced that he was indulging in some sort of apractical joke. So they hated him fervently and wrapped themselves intheir serapes. Tom sat on a wagon-tongue swinging a foot and repeatingvaguely to himself in a singsong inner voice, "passing the love ofwoman, passing the love of woman, " over and over again. His mind was adull blank of grayness. From time to time he glanced at Sam, but with noimpatience: he was used to going without. Sam was to him a matter ofutter indifference. 

As to the cook himself, he had a perplexed droop in every curve of hisrounded shoulders. His kinky gray wool was tousled from perpetualundecided scratching, and his eyes had something of the dumb sadness ofthe dog as he rolled them up in despair. Life was not a matter ofindifference to him. Quite the contrary. The problem of _damp wood_ +_matches_ = _cooking-fire_ was the whole tangle of existence. There wassomething pitiable in it. Perhaps this was because there is somethingmore pathetic in a comical face grown solemn than in the most melancholycountenance in the world. 

At last the moon rose and the fire decided to burn. With the seventhattempt it flared energetically; then settled to a steady glow ofpossible flap-jacks. 

But its smoke was bitter, and the evening wind fitful. Bitter smoke onan empty stomach might be appropriately substituted for the last strawof the proverb--when the proverb has to do with hungry Mexicans. Most ofthe recumbent vaqueros merely cursed a little deeper and drew theirserapes closer, but José Guiterrez grunted, threw off his blanket, andapproached the fire. 

Sam rolled the whites of his eyes up at him for a moment, grinned in ahalf-perplexed fashion, and turned again to his pots and pans. José, being sulky and childish, wanted to do something to somebody, so heinsolently flicked the end of his long quirt through a mess of choicebut still chaotic flap-jacks. The quirt left a narrow streak across thebatter. Sam looked up quickly. 

"Doan you done do dat!" he said, with indignation. 

He looked upon the turkey-like José for a heavy moment, and then turnedback to the cooking. In rescuing an unstable coffee-pot a moment later, he accidentally jostled against José's leg. José promptly and fiercelykicked the whole outfit into space. The frying-pan crowned a sage-brush;the coffee-pot rolled into a hollow, where it spouted coffee-grounds andwater in a diminishing stream; the kettle rolled gently on its side;flap-jacks distributed themselves impartially and moistly; and, worst ofall, the fire was drowned out altogether. 

Black Sam began stiffly to arise. The next instant he sank back with agurgle in his throat and a knife thrust in his side. 

The murderer stood looking down at his victim. The other Mexicansstared. The cowboy jumped up from the tongue of the wagon, drew hisweapon from the holster at his side, took deliberate aim, and firedtwice. Then he turned and began to run toward Alfred on the hill. 

A cowboy cannot run so very rapidly. He carries such a quantity ofdunnage below in the shape of high boots, spurs, chaps, andcartridge-belts that his gait is a waddling single-foot. Still, Tommanaged to get across the little stony ravine before the Mexicansrecovered from their surprise and became disentangled from theirponchos. Then he glanced over his shoulder. He saw that some of thevaqueros were running toward the arroya, that some were busilyunhobbling the mules, and that one or two had kneeled and were preparingto shoot. At the sight of these last, he began to jump from side to sideas he ran. This decreased his speed. Half-way up the hill he was met byAlfred on his way to get in the game, whatever it might prove to be. Thelittle man reached over and grasped Tom's hand. Tom braced his footagainst the stirrup, and in an instant was astride behind the saddle. Alfred turned up the hill again, and without a word began applying hisquirt vigorously to the wiry shoulders of his horse. At the top of thehill, as they passed the grazing ponies, Tom turned and emptied theremaining four chambers of his revolver into the herd. Two ponies fellkicking; the rest scattered in every direction. Alfred gruntedapprovingly, for this made pursuit more difficult, and so gained them alittle more time. 

Now both Alfred and Tom knew well enough that a horse carrying two mencannot run away from a horse carrying one man, but they also knew thecountry, and this knowledge taught them that if they could reach thenarrow passage through the old clay bluff, they might be able to escapeto Peterson's, which was situated a number of miles beyond. This wouldbe possible, because men climb faster when danger is behind them thanwhen it is in front. Besides, a brisk defence could render even an angryMexican a little doubtful as to just when he should begin to climb. Accordingly, Alfred urged the pony across the flat plain of the ancientriverbed toward the nearest and only break in the cliff. Fifteen milesbelow was the regular passage. Otherwise the upper mesa was asimpregnable as an ancient fortress. The Mexicans had by this timesucceeded in roping some of the scattered animals, and were streamingover the brow of the hill, shouting wildly. Alfred looked back andgrinned. Tom waved his wide sombrero mockingly. 

When they approached the ravine, they found the sides almostperpendicular and nearly bare. Its bed was V-shaped, and so cut up withminiature gullies, fantastic turrets and spires, and so undermined byformer rains as to be almost impassable. It sloped gently at first, butafterward more rapidly, and near the top was straight up and down fortwo feet or more. As the men reached it, they threw themselves from thehorse and commenced to scramble up, leading the animal by thebridle-rein. From riding against the sunset their eyes were dazzled, sothis was not easy. The horse followed gingerly, his nose close to theground. 

It is well known that quick, short rains followed by a burning sun tendto undermine the clay surface of the ground and to leave it with a hardupper shell, beneath which are cavities of various depths. Alfred andTom, as experienced men, should have foreseen this, but they did not. Soon after entering the ravine the horse broke through into one of theunderground cavities and fell heavily on his side. When he had scrambledsomehow to his feet, he stood feebly panting, his nostrils expanded. 

"How is it, Tom?" called Alfred, who was ahead. 

"Shoulder out, " said Tom, briefly. 

Alfred turned back without another word, and putting the muzzle of hispistol against the pony's forehead just above the line of the eyes hepulled the trigger. With the body the two men improvised a breastworkacross a little hummock. Just as they dropped behind it the Mexicansclattered up, riding bareback. Tom coolly reloaded his pistol. 

The Mexicans, too, were dazzled from riding against the glow in thewest, and halted a moment in a confused mass at the mouth of the ravine. The two cowboys within rose and shot rapidly. Three Mexicans and twoponies fell. The rest in wild confusion slipped rapidly to the right andleft beyond the Americans' line of sight. Three armed with Winchestersmade a long detour and dropped quietly into the sage-brush just beyondaccurate pistol-range. There they lay concealed, watching. Then uttersilence fell. 

The rising moon shone full and square into the ravine, illuminatingevery inch of the ascent. A very poor shot could hardly miss in such alight and with such a background. The two cowmen realised this andsettled down more comfortably behind their breastwork. Tom cautiouslyraised the pony's head with a little chunk of rock, thus making aloophole through which to keep tab on the enemy, after which he rolledon his belly and began whittling in the hard clay, for Tom had thecarving habit--like many a younger boy. Alfred carefully extracted ashort pipe from beneath his chaparajos, pushed down with his bluntforefinger the charge with which it was already loaded, and struck amatch. He poised this for a moment above the bowl of the pipe. 

"What's the row anyway?" he inquired, with pardonable curiosity. 

"Now, it's jest fifteen mile to th' cut, " said Tom, disregardingAlfred's question entirely, "an' of co'se they's goin' to send a possedown thar on th' keen jump. That'll take clost onto three hours in thislight. Then they'll jest pot us a lot from on top. "

Alfred puffed three times toward the moonlight, and looked as though thething were sufficiently obvious without wasting so much breath over it. 

"We've jest _got_ to git out!" concluded Tom, earnestly. 

Alfred grunted. 

"An' how are we goin' to do it?"

Alfred paused in the act of blowing a cloud. 

"Because, if we makes a break, those Greasers jest nat'rally plugs usfrom behind th' minute we begins to climb. "

Alfred condescended to nod. Tom suspended his whittling for a reply. 

"Well, " said Alfred, taking his pipe from his mouth--Tom contentedlytook up whittling again--"there's only one way to do it, and that's tokeep them so damn busy in front that they _can't_ plug us. "

Tom looked perplexed. 

"We just _got_ to take our chances on the climbing. Of course, there'sbound to be th' risk of accident. But when I give th' word, _you mosey_, and if one of them pots you, it'll be because my six-shooter's empty. "

"But you can't expec' t' shoot _an'_ climb!" objected Tom. 

"Course not, " replied Alfred, calmly. "Division of labour: you climb; Ishoot. "

A light dawned in Tom's eyes, and he shut his jaws with a snap. 

"I guess not!" said he, quietly. 

"Yo' laigs is longer, " Alfred urged, in his gentle voice, "and yo'll getto Peterson's quicker;" and then he looked in Tom's eyes and changed histone. "All right!" he said, in a business-like manner. "I'll toss youfor it. "

For reply, Tom fished out an old pack of cards. 

"I tell you, " he proposed, triumphantly, "I'll turn you fer it. Firstman that gits a jack in th' hand-out stays. "

He began to manipulate the cards, lying cramped on his side, and indoing so dropped two or three. Alfred turned to pick them up. Tom deftlyslipped the jack of diamonds to the bottom of the pack. He inserted inthe centre those Alfred handed him, and began at once to deal. 

"Thar's yore's, " he said, laying out the four of clubs, "an' yere'smine, " he concluded, producing the jack of diamonds. "Luck's ag'in meearly in th' game, " was his cheerful comment. 

For a minute Alfred was silent, and a decided objection appeared in hiseyes. Then his instinct of fair play in the game took the ascendant. Hekicked off his chaps in the most business-like manner, unbuckled hissix-shooter and gave it to Tom, and perched his hat on the end of hisquirt, which he then raised slowly above the pony's side for the purposeof drawing the enemy's fire. He did these things quickly and withoutheroics, because he was a plainsman. Hardly had the bullets from threeWinchesters spatted against the clay before he was up and climbing fordear life. 

The Mexicans rushed to the opening from either side, fully expecting tobe able either to take wing-shots at close range, or to climb so fast asto close in before the cowboys would have time to make a stand at thetop. In this they shut off their most effective fire--that of the threemen with the Winchesters--and, instead of getting wing-shots themselves, they received an enthusiastic battering from Tom at the range of sixyards. Even a tenderfoot cannot over-shoot at six yards. What was leftof the Mexicans disappeared quicker than they had come, and the three ofthe Winchesters scuttled back to cover like a spent covey of quail. 

Tom then lit Alfred's pipe, and continued his excellent sculpture in thebed of hard clay. He knew nothing more would happen until the possecame. The game had passed out of his hands. It had become a race betweena short-legged man on foot and a band of hard riders on the backs ofvery good horses. Viewing the matter dispassionately, Tom would not havecared to bet on the chances. 

As has been stated, Alfred was a small man and his legs were short--andnot only short, but unused to exertion of any kind, for Alfred'sdaylight hours were spent on a horse. At the end of said legs were tightboots with high French heels, which most Easterners would haveconsidered a silly affectation, but which all Westerners knew to bepurposeful in the extreme--they kept his feet from slipping forwardthrough the wide stirrups. In other respects, too, Alfred washandicapped. His shoulders were narrow and sloping and his chest wasflat. Indoors and back East he would probably have been a consumptive;out here, he was merely short-winded. 

So it happened that Alfred lost the race. 

The wonder was not that he lost, but that he succeeded in finishing atPeterson's at all. He did it somehow, and even made a good effort toride back with the rescuing party, but fell like a log when he tried topick up his hat. So someone took off his boots, also, and put him tobed. 

As to the rescuing party, it disbanded less than an hour later. Immediately afterward it reorganized into a hunting party--and its gamewas men. The hunt was a long one, and the game was bagged even unto thelast, but that is neither here nor there. 

Poor Tom was found stripped to the hide, and hacked to pieces. Mexicansare impulsive, especially after a few of them have been killed. Hisequipment had been stolen. The naked horse and the naked man, bathed inthe light of a gray dawn, that was all--except that here and therefluttered bits of paper that had once been a pack of cards. The clayslab was carved deeply--a man can do much of that sort of thing with twohours to waste. Most of the decorative effects were arrows, or hearts, or brands, but in one corner were the words, "passing the love ofwoman, " which was a little impressive after all, even though Tom hadnot meant them, being, as I said, only an ordinary battered Arizonacow-puncher incapable of the higher feelings. 

How do I know he played the jack of diamonds on purpose? Why, I knewTom, and that's enough. 

V

THE SAVING GRACE

Once upon a time there was an editor of a magazine who had certain ideasconcerning short stories. This is not wonderful, for editors have suchideas; and when they find a short story which corresponds, they acceptit with joy and pay good sums for it. This particular editor believedthat a short story should be realistic. "Let us have things as they_are_!" he was accustomed to cry to his best friend, or the printer'sdevil, or the office cat, whichever happened to be the handiest. "Lifeis great enough to say things for itself, without having to be helpedout by the mawkish sentimentality of an idiot! Permit us to see actualpeople, living actual lives, in actual houses, and I should hope we havecommon-sense enough to draw our own morals!" He usually made thesechaotic exclamations after reading through several pages of very neatmanuscript in which the sentences were long and involved, and in whichwere employed polysyllabic adjectives of a poetic connotation. Thiseditor liked short, crisp sentences. He wanted his adjectives servedhot. He despised poetic connotation. Being only an editor, his name wasBrown. If he had been a writer, he would have had three names, beginningwith successive letters of the alphabet. 

Now, one day, it happened that there appeared before this editor, Brown, a young man bearing a roll of manuscript. How he had gotten by theoffice boy Brown could not conceive, and rolled manuscript usually gavehim spasms. The youth, however, presented a letter of introduction fromBrown's best friend. He said he had a story to submit, and he said itwith a certain appearance of breathlessness at the end of the sentence, which showed Brown that it was his first story. Brown frowned inwardly, and smiled outwardly. He begged the youth to take a seat. As all theseats were filled with unopened papers and unbound books, the youth saidhe preferred to stand. 

Brown asked the youth questions, in a perfunctory manner, not because hecared to know anything about him, but because he liked the man who hadwritten the letter. The youth's name proved to be Severne, and he wasthe most serious-minded youth who had ever stepped from college intowriting. He spoke of ideals. Brown concluded that the youth's storyprobably dealt with the time of the Chaldæan astronomers, and containeda deep symbolical truth, couched in language of the school of BulwerLytton or Marie Corelli. So, after the youth had gone, he seized theroll of manuscript, for the purpose of glancing through it. If he hadimagined the story of any merit, he would not have been in such haste;but as his best friend had introduced the writer, he thought he wouldlike to get a disagreeable task over at once. 

He glanced the story through. Then he read it carefully. Then he slammedit down hard on his desk--to the vast confusion of some hundreds ofloose memoranda, which didn't matter much, anyway--and uttered a big, bad word. The sentences in the story were short and crisp. Theadjectives were served very hot indeed. There was not a single bit ofpoetic connotation. It described life as it really was. 

Brown, the editor, published the story, and paid a good price for it. Severne, the author, wrote more stories, and sold them to Brown. The twomen got to be very good friends, and Severne heard exactly how Brownliked short stories and why, and how his, Severne's, stories were justthat kind. 

All this would have been quite an ideal condition of affairs, and anobject-lesson to a harsh world and other editors, were it not thatSeverne was serious-minded. He had absolutely no sense of humour. Perspectives there were none for him, and due proportions did not exist. He took life hard. He looked upon himself gravely as a seriousproposition, like the Nebular Hypothesis or Phonetic Reform. Theimmediate consequence was that, having achieved his success throughrealism, he placed realism on a pedestal and worshipped it as the onlytrue (literary) god. Severne became a realist of realists. He ran itinto the ground. He would not describe a single incident that he had notviewed from start to finish with his own eyes. He did not have much todo with feelings _direct_, but such as were necessary to his story heinsisted on experiencing in his own person; otherwise the story remainedunwritten. And as for emotions--such as anger, or religion, or fear--hewould attempt none whose savour he had not tasted for himself. Unkindand envious rivals--not realists--insisted that once Severne haddeliberately gotten very drunk on Bowery whiskey in order that he mightdescribe the sensations of one of his minor characters in such acondition. Certain it is, he soon gained the reputation among theunintelligent of being a crazy individual, who paid people remarkablywell to do strange and meaningless things for him. He was alwaysexperimenting on himself and others. 

This was ridiculous enough, but it would hardly have affected anyone butcrusty old cranks who delight in talking about "young fools, " were itnot for the fact that Severne was in love. And that brings us to thepoint of our story. 

Of course he was in love in a most serious-minded fashion. He did notget much fun out of it. He brooded most of the time over lovers' dutiesto each other and mankind. He had likewise an exalted conception of thesacred, holy, and lofty character of love itself. This is commendable, but handicaps a man seriously. Girls do not care for that kind of loveas a steady thing. Far be it from me to insinuate that those quiteangelic creatures ever actually want to be kissed; but if, by any purely_accidental_ chance, circumstances bring it about that, without theirconsent or suspicion, a brute of a man _might_ surprise themawfully--well, said brute does not gain much by not springing thesurprise. Being adored on a pedestal is nice--in public. So you must seethat Severne's status in ordinary circumstances would be precarious. Conceive his fearful despair at finding his heart irrevocably committedto a young lady as serious-minded as himself, equally lacking in humour, and devoted mind and soul to the romantic or idealistic school offiction! They often discussed the point seriously and heatedly. Eachtried conscientiously to convert the other. As usual, the attempt, aftera dozen protracted interviews, ended in the girl's losing her temper. This made Severne angry. Girls are so unreasonable!

"What do you suppose I care how your foolish imaginary people brushtheir teeth and button their suspenders and black their boots? I knowhow old man Smith opposite does, and that is more than enough for me!"she cried. 

"The insight into human nature expresses itself thus, " he argued, gloomily. 

"Rubbish!" she rejoined. "The idea of a man's wasting the talents heavenhas given him in describing as minutely and accurately as he can all thenasty, little, petty occurrences of everyday life! It is sordid!"

"The beautiful shines through the dreariness, as it does in the reallife people live, " he objected, stubbornly. 

"The beautiful is in the imagination, " she cried, with some heat; "andthe imagination is God-given; it is the only direct manifestation of thedivine on earth. Without imagination no writing can have life. "

As this bordered on sentiment, abhorred of realism, Severne mutteredsomething that sounded like "fiddlesticks. " They discussed the relationof imagination to literature on this latter basis. At the conclusion ofthe discussion, Miss Melville, for that was her name, delivered thefollowing ultimatum:

"Well, I tell you right now, Robert Severne, that I'll never marry a manwho has not more soul in him than that. I am very much disappointed inyou. I had thought you possessed of more nobility of character!"

"Don't say that, Lucy, " he begged, in genuine alarm. Serious-mindedyouths never know enough not to believe what a girl says. 

"I will say that, and I mean it! I never want to see you again!"

"Does that mean that our engagement is broken?" he stammered, not daringto believe his ears. 

"I should think, sir, that a stronger hint would be unnecessary. "

He bowed his head miserably. "Isn't there anything I can do, Lucy? Idon't want to be sent off like this. I _do_ love you!"

She considered. "Yes, there is, " she said, after a moment. "You canwrite a romantic story and publish it in a magazine. Then, and not untilthen, will I forgive you. "

She turned coldly, and began to examine a photograph on the mantelpiece. After an apparently interminable period, receiving no reply, she turnedsharply. 

"Well!" she demanded. 

Now, in the interval, Severne had been engaged in building a hasty butinteresting mental pose. He had recalled to mind numerous historical andfictitious instances in which the man has been tempted by the woman todepart from his heaven-born principles. In some of these instances, whenthe woman had tempted successfully, the man had dwelt thenceforth inmisery and died in torment, amid the execrations of mankind. In others, having resisted the siren, he had glowed with a high and exaltedhappiness, and finally had ascended to upper regions between applaudingranks of angels--which was not realism in the least. Art, said Severneto himself, is an enduring truth. Human passions are misleading. Self-sacrifice is noble. He resolved on the spot to become a martyr tohis art. 

"I will never do it!" he answered, and stalked majestically from theroom. 

Severne took his trouble henceforward in a becomingly serious-mindedmanner. For many years he was about to live shrouded in gloom--a gloomin whose twilight could be dimly discerned the shattered wreck of hislife. After a long period, from the _débris_ of said wreck, he wouldbuild the structure of a great literary work of art, which all mankindwould look upon with awe, but which he, standing apart, would eye withindifference, all joy being stricken dead by his memories of the past. But that was in the future. Just now he was in the gloom business. So, being a wealthy youth, he decided to go far, far away. This wasnecessary in order that he might bury his grief. 

He rather fancied battle-fields and carnage, but there were no wars. Itwould add to the picture if he could return bronzed and battle-scarred, but as that was impossible, he resolved to return bronzed, at any rate. So he bought a ticket to a small town in Wyoming. There he and hissteamer-trunk boarded Thompson's stage, and journeyed to Placer Creek, where the two of them, he and the trunk, took up their quarters in alittle board-ceiled room in the Prairie Dog Hotel. 

The place was admirably adapted for glooming. It was a ramshackle affairof four streets and sixteen saloons. Some of the houses, and all of thesaloons, had once been painted. In front were hitching-rails. To thehitching-rails, at all times of the day, were tied ponies patientlyturning their tails to the Wyoming breezes. Wyoming breezes are alwaysgoing somewhere at the rate of from thirty to sixty miles an hour. Beyond the town, in one direction, were some low mountains, wellsupplied with dark gorges, narrow canons, murmuring water-falls, dashingbrooks, and precipitous descents. Beyond the town, in the otherdirection, lay a broad, rolling country, on which cattle and cowboysdwelt amid profanity and dust. Severne arose in a cold room, washed hisface in hard water, and descended to breakfast. The breakfast could nothave been better adapted to beginning a day of gloom. It started outwith sticky oatmeal, and ended with clammy cakes, between which wasmuch horror. After breakfast, he wandered in the dark gorges, narrowcanons, _et cetera_, and contemplated with melancholy but approvinginterest his noble sacrifice and the wreck of his life. Thence hereturned to town. 

In town, various incomprehensible individuals with a misguided sense ofhumour did things to him, the reason of which he could not understand inthe least, mainly because he had himself no sense of humour, misguidedor otherwise. The things they did frightened and bewildered him. But heexamined them gravely through his shortsighted spectacles, noting justhow they were done, just how their perpetrators looked and acted, andjust how he felt. 

After some days his literary instincts perforce awoke. In spite of hisgloom, he caught himself sifting and assorting and placing things intheir relative values. In fine, he began to conceive a Western story. Shortly after, he cleaned his fountain pen, by inserting a thin cardbetween the gold and the rubber feeder, and sat down to write. As hewrote he grew more and more pleased with the result. The sentencesbecame crisper and crisper. The adjectives fairly sizzled. Poeticconnotation faded as a mountain mist. And he remembered and describedjust how Alkali Ike spit through his mustache--which was disgusting, but real. It was his masterpiece. He wrote on excitedly. Never was sucha short story!

But then there came a pause. He had successfully mounted his hero, andstarted him in full flight down the dark gorge or narrow cañon--I forgetwhich--pursued by the avenging band. There interposed here a frightfuldifficulty. He did not know how a man felt when pursued by an avengingband. He had never been pursued by an avenging band himself. What was heto do? To be sure, he could imagine with tolerable distinctness thesensations to be experienced in such a crisis. He could have put them onpaper with every appearance of realism. But he had no touchstone bywhich to test their truth. He might be unconsciously false to his art, to which he had vowed allegiance at such cost! It would never do. 

So, naturally, he did the obvious thing--that is to say, the obviousthing to a serious-minded writer with no sense of humour. He went forthand sought an acquaintance named Colorado Jim, and made to him aproposition. It took Severne just two hours and six drinks to persuadeColorado Jim. At the end of that time Colorado Jim, in his turn, wentforth, shaking his head doubtfully, and emitting from time to timecavernous chuckles which bubbled up from his interior after thewell-known manner of the "Old Faithful" geyser. He hunted out sixpartners of his own--"pards, " he called them--to whom he spoke atlength. The six pards stared at Colorado Jim in gasping silence for sometime. Then the seven went into a committee of the whole. The decision ofthe committee was that the tenderfoot was undoubtedly crazy, harmless, and to be humoured--at a price. Besides, the humouring would be fun. After a number of drinks, Colorado Jim and the pards concluded that itwould be _lots_ of fun!

Early the next morning, they rode out of town in the direction of thehills. At the entrance to the dark gorge--or deep cañon--they metSeverne, also mounted. After greetings, the latter distributed certainsmall articles. 

"Now, " said he, most gravely, "I will ride ahead about as far as thatrock there, and when I get ready to start, I will wave my hand. You'reto chase me just as you'd chase a real horse-thief, and I'll try to keepahead of you. You keep shooting with the blank cartridges as fast as youcan. Understand?"

They said they did. They did not. But it was fun. 

Severne rode to the bowlder in the dark gorge--I am sure it was the darkgorge--and turned. The pards were lined up in eagerness for the start. They had made side bets as to who would get there first. He waved hishand, and struck spurs to his horse. The pursuit began. 

The horse on which Severne was mounted was a good one. The way heclimbed up through that dark gorge was a caution to thoroughbreds. Behind whooped the joyous seven, and the cracking of pistols was adelight to the ear. The outfit swept up the gulch like a whirlwind. 

Severne became quite excited. The swift motion was exhilarating. Hementally noted at least a hundred and ten most realistic minor details. He felt that his money had not been wasted. And then he noticed that hewas gradually drawing ahead of his pursuit. Better and better! He wouldnot only experience pursuit, but he would achieve in his own person agenuine escape, for he knew that, whatever the mythical character of thebullets, the Westerners had a real enough intention of racing each otherand him to the top of the ridge. He plied his quirt, and looked back. The pursuers were actually dropping behind. Even to his inexperiencedeye their animals showed signs of distress. 

At this place the narrow gulch divided. Severne turned to the left, asbeing more nearly level. Down from the right-hand bisection came theboys of the Triangle X outfit. 

To the boys of the Triangle X outfit but one course was open. Here wereColorado Jim and the pards on foundered horses, pursuing a rapidindividual who was escaping only too easily. Never desert a comrade. TheTriangle X boys uttered whoops, and joined the game at speed. Notgaining as rapidly as they wished, they produced long revolvers--andbegan to shoot. It is a little difficult to hit anything from a runninghorse. Severne heard the reports, and congratulated himself on therealistic qualities of his little drama. Then suddenly his hat wentspinning from his head. At the same instant a bullet ploughed throughthe leather on his pommel. Zip! zip! went other bullets past his ears. The boys of Triangle X outfit were beginning to get the range. 

He looked back. To his horror he discovered that Colorado Jim and thepards had disappeared, and that their places had been taken by a numberof maniacs on jumping little ponies. The maniacs were yelling "Yip!Yip! Yip!" and shooting at him. He could not understand it in the least;but the bullets were mighty convincing. He used his quirt and spurs. 

If Severne really wished to experience the feelings of a man pursued, heattained his desire. It is not pleasant to be shot at. Severneentertained sensations of varied coherence, but one and all of avividness which was of the greatest literary value. Only he was not in amood to appreciate literary values. He attended strictly to business, which was to lift the excellent animal on which he was mounted asrapidly as possible over the ground. In this he attained a moderatesuccess. Venturing a backward glance, after a few moments, he noted withpleasure that the distance between himself and the maniacs had sensiblyincreased. Then one of those zipping bullets passed between his body andhis arm, cut off three heavy locks of the horse's mane, and entered thebase of the poor animal's skull. Severne suddenly found himself in theroad. The maniacs swept up at speed, reining in suddenly at the distanceof three feet, in such a manner as to scatter much gravel over him. Severne sat up. 

The maniacs, with commendable promptness, jerked Severne to his feet. Several more bent over his horse. 

"Jess's I thought!" shouted one of these. "Jess's I thought! He's stolethis cayuse. This is Hank Smith's bronc. I'd know him any-whar!"

"That's right! Bar O brand!" cried several. 

Then men who held him yanked Severne here and there. "End of yore ropethis trip! Steal hosses, will ye!" said they. 

"I didn't steal the horse!" cried poor Severne; "I hired him fromSmith. "

A roar of laughter greeted this statement. 

"Hired Colorado and the boys to chase you, too, didn't ye!" suggestedone, with heavy sarcasm. 

"Yes, I did, " answered Severne, sincerely. 

They laughed again. "Nerve!" said they. 

Near the fallen horse several began discussing the affair. "I tell you I_know_ I done it!" argued one. "I ketched him between the sights, jest'sfair as could be. "

"G'wan, he flummuxed jest's _I_ cut loose!"

"Well, boys, " called the leader, impatiently, "get along!"

A man came forward, and silently threw a loop about Severne's neck. InWyoming they hang horse-thieves. Severne realised this, and told themall about everything. They listened to him, and laughed delightedly. Never had they hanged such a funny horse-thief. They appreciated hisefforts to amuse them, and assured him often that he was a peach. Whenhe paused, they encouraged him to say some more. At every new disclosurethey chuckled with admiration, as though at a tremendous but splendidlie. Severne was getting more realistic experience in ten minutes thanhe had had in all his previous life; but realistic experience does notdo one much good at the end of a rope on top of a Wyoming mountain. Then, after a little, they deftly threw the coil of rope over the limbof a tree, and hung him up, and left him. They did not shoot him full ofholes, as is the usual custom. He had been a funny horse-thief, so inreturn they were lenient. Severne kicked. "Dancin' good, " they observed, as they turned the corner. 

Around the corner they met the frantic James. They cut Severne down, andworked over him for some time. Then they carried him down to PlacerCreek, and worked over him a lot more. The Triangle X boys weredistinctly aggrieved. They had applauded those splendid lies, and nowthey turned out not to be lies at all, but merely an extremely crazysort of truth. They relieved their feelings by getting very drunk andshooting out the lights. 

It took Severne a week to get over it. Ten days after that he returnedEast. He had finished a masterpiece. The flight down the cañon waspictured so vividly that you could almost hear the crack of the pistols, and the hero's sentiments were so well described that in reading aboutthem you became excited yourself. Severne read it three times, and hethought it as good the third time as the first. Then he copied it allout on the typewriter. This is the severest test a writer can give hiswork. The most sparkling tale loses its freshness when run through themachine, especially if the unfortunate author cannot make the thing govery fast. It seemed as good even after this ordeal. 

"Behold, " said he, congratulating himself, "this is the best story Iever wrote! Blamed if it isn't one of the best stories I ever _read_!Your romanticists claim that the realistic story has no charm, norexcitement, nor psychical thrill. This'll show them!"

So he hurried to deliver it to Brown. Then he posed industriously tohimself, and tried hard to do some more glooming, but it was difficultwork. Someway he felt his cause not hopeless. This masterpiece would gofar to convince her that he was right after all. 

Three days later he received a note from Brown asking him to call. Hedid so. The editor handed him back his story, more in sorrow than inanger, and spoke reprovingly about deserting one's principles. Brown wasconscientious. He believed that the past counted nothing in face of thepresent. Severne pressed for an explanation. Then said Brown:

"Severne, I have used much of your stuff, and I have liked it. Thesentences have been crisp. The adjectives have been served hot. You haveeschewed poetic connotation. And, above all, you have shown men and lifeas they are. I am sorry to see that you have departed from that nobleideal. "

"But, " cried Severne, in expostulation, "do not these qualities appearin my story?"

"At first they do, " responded Brown, "but later--ah!" He sighed. 

"What do you mean?"

"The ride down the cañon, " he explained. "The sentences are crisp andthe adjectives hot. But, alas! there is much poetic connotation, and, sofar from representing real life, it seems to me only the perperoidlucubrations of a disordered imagination. "

"Why, that part is the most realistic in the whole thing!" cried theunhappy author, in distress. 

"No, " replied the editor, firmly, "it is not. It is not realism at all. Even if there were nothing objectionable about the incident, the man'sfeelings are frightfully overdrawn. No man ever was such an everlastingcoward as you make out your hero! I should be glad to see something elseof yours--but that, no!"

Somewhat damped, Severne took his manuscript home with him. There here-read it. All his old enthusiasm returned. It was exactly true. Realism could have had no more accurate exposition of its principles. Hecursed Brown, and inclosed stamps to the _Decade_. After a time hereceived a check and a flattering letter. Realism stood vindicated!

In due course the story appeared. During the interim Severne had foundthat his glooming was becoming altogether too realistic for his peace ofmind. As time went on and he saw nothing of Lucy Melville, he began torealise that perhaps, after all, he was making a mistake somewhere. Atcertain recklessly immoral moments he even thought a very little ofproving false to art. To such depths can the human soul descend!

The evening after the appearance of his story in the _Decade_, he wassitting in front of his open fire in very much that mood. The lamps hadnot been lighted. To him came Mortimer, his man. "A leddy to see you, sir; no name, " he announced, solemnly. 

Severne arose in some surprise. "Light the lamp, and show her up, " hecommanded, wondering who she could be. 

At the sound of his voice, the visitor pushed into the room pastMortimer. 

"Never mind the lamp, " cried Lucy Melville. The faithful Mortimer leftthe room, and--officially--heard no more. 

"Why, Lucy!" cried Severne. 

In the dim light he could see that her cheeks were glowing withexcitement. She crossed the room swiftly, and put her hands on hisshoulders. "Bob, " she said, gravely, with tears in her eyes, "I know Iought not to be here, but I just couldn't help it! After you were sonoble! And it won't matter, for I'm going in just a minute. "

Severne cast his mind back in review of his noble acts. "What is it, Lucy?" he inquired. 

"As if you could ask!" she cried. "I never knew of a man's doing sotactful and graceful and _beautiful_ a thing in my life! And I don'tcare a bit, and I believe you were right, after all. "

"Right about what?" he begged, getting more and more bewildered. 

"About the realism, of course. "

She looked up at him again, pointing out her chin in the most adorablefashion. Even serious-minded men have moments of lucidity. Severne hadone now. 

"Oh, no, you mustn't, Bob--dear!" she cried, blushing. 

"But really, Bob, " she went on, after a moment, "even if realism is allright, you must admit that your last story is the best thing you everwrote. "

"Why, yes, I do think so, " he agreed, wondering what that had to do withit. 

"I'm so glad you do. Do you know, Bob, " she continued, happily, "I readit all through before I noticed whose it was. And I kept saying tomyself, 'I _do_ wish Bob could see this story. I'm sure it wouldconvince him that imagination is better than realism'; for really, Bob, "she cried, with enthusiasm, "it is the best imaginative story I everread. And when I got to the end, and saw the signature, and realisedthat you had deserted your literary principles just for my sake, andhad actually gone to work and written such a _splendid_ imaginativestory after all you had said; and then, too, when I realised what adelicate way you had taken to let me know--because, of course, I neverread that magazine of Brown's--oh, Bob!" she concluded, quite out ofbreath. 

Severne hesitated for almost a minute. He saw his duty plainly; he wasserious-minded; he had no sense of humour. Then she looked up at him asbefore, pointing her chin out in the most adorable fashion. 

"Oh, Bob! Again! I really don't think you ought to!"

And Art; oh, where was it?

VI

THE PROSPECTOR

In the old mining days out West the law of the survival of the fittestheld good, and he who survived had to be very fit indeed. There were anumber of ways of not surviving. One of them was to die. And there werea number of ways of being very fit; such as holding an accurate gun oran even temper, being blessed with industry or a vital-tearing ambition, knowing the game thoroughly or understanding the great Americanexpedient of bluff. In any case the man who survived must see his endclearly through that end's means. Whether it were gold, poker, or life, he must cling to his purpose with a bulldog tenacity that no amount ofdistraction could loosen. Otherwise, as has been said, he died, orbegged, or robbed, or became a tramp, or committed the suicide ofhorse-stealing, or just plain drifted back East broken--a shamefulthing. 

Why Peter lived on was patent enough to anyone. He was harmless, good-natured, and, in the estimation of hard-hewn men, just "queer"enough to be a little pathetic. Anyone who had once caught a fair lookat his narrow, hatchet face with the surprised blue eyes and theloose-falling, sparse light hair; or had enjoyed his sweet, rare smileas he deprecatingly answered a remark before effacing himself; or hadchanced on the fortune of asking him for some trifling favour to meethis eager and pleased rendering of it: none of these hypotheticalindividuals, and that meant about everyone who came in contact withPeter at all, could have imagined anybody, let alone themselves, harminga hair of his head. But how he continued to be a prospector remained apuzzle. The life is hard, full of privations, sown with difficulties, clamant for technical knowledge, exacting of physical strength, dependent on shrewdness and knowledge of the world. Peter had none ofthese, not even in the smallest degree. There was also, of course, theinstinct. This Peter did possess. He could follow his leads of crumblingbrown rock with that marvellous intuitive knowledge which is soimportant an element in the equipment of your true prospector. But it isonly an element. By all the rules of the game Peter should have failedlong since, should have "cashed in and quit" some five years back; andstill he grubbed away cheerfully at divers mountains and many ranges. Hehad not succeeded; still, he had not failed. 

Three times had he made his "strike. " On the first of these threeoccasions he had gone in with two San Francisco men to develop theproperty. The San Francisco men had persuaded him to form a stockcompany of certain capitalisation. In two deals they had "frozen out"Peter completely, and reorganised on a basis which is paying them gooddividends. Returning overwhelmed with sophistries and "explanations"from his expostulatory interview, Peter decided he knew more aboutquartz leads than about business and the disgorging of gains, so he wentover into Idaho to try again. There he found the famous Antelope Gaplode. This time he determined to sell outright and have nothing more todo with the matter after the transfer of the property. He drew up thedeeds, received a small amount down, and took notes for the balance. When the notes came due he could not collect them. The mine had beenresold to third parties. Peter had no money to contest the affair; andprobably would not have done so if he had. He knew too little--or toomuch--of law; but the instinct was his, so he moved one State farthereast to Montana for his third trial. This resulted in the Eagle Ridge. And for the third time he was swindled by a persuasive man and a lyingone-sided contract. 

A sordid, silly enough little tale, is it not? but that is why menwondered at Peter's survival, marvelled at the recuperative force thatmade possible his fourth attempt, speculated with a certain awe overthat cheerful disposition which had earned him, even in his adversity, the sobriquet of Happy Peter. 

All of these phenomena, had they but known it, resulted from one simplecause. Peter's mental retrospect for a considerable space would haveconjured up nothing but a succession of grand sweeps of mountains, singing pines, rare western skies, and the simplicity of afrontiersman's log-cabin; and yet to his inner vision over the border ofthat space lay a very different scene. It was the scene he saw theoftenest. Oftenest? he saw it always; across the mountains, through thepines, beyond the skies. As time went on, the vision simplified itselfto Peter, as visions will. It came to have two phases, two elements, which visited him always together. 

One of these was a house; the other a girl. The house was low, white-painted, with green blinds and a broad stoop. Its front yard wasfragrant with lilacs, noisy with crickets, fluttering with butterfliesof sulphur yellow. About it lay a stony, barren farm, but lovely withthe glamour of home. The girl was not pretty, as we know girls; but shehad straight steady eyes, a wide brow, smooth matronly bands of hair, and a wholesome, homely New England character, sweet, yet with a tang togive it a flavour, like the apples on the tree near the old-fashioned, long-armed well. Peter could gain no competence from the stony farm, noconsent from the girl. It was to win both that he had come West. 

In those days, around the western curve of the earth, every outlookborrowed the tints of sunset. Nothing but the length of the journeystood between a man and his fortune. 

"I love you dearly, Peter, " she had said, both hands on his shoulders, "and I do not care for the money. But I have seen too much of ithere--too much of the unhappiness that comes from debt, from poverty. Misery does not love the company of those it loves. Go make yourfortune, Peter, bravely, and come back to me. "

"I will, " replied Peter, soberly. "I will, God help me. But it may belong. I don't know; I have not the knack; I am stupid about people, about men. "

She smiled, and leaned over to kiss his eyes. "People love you, Peter, "she said, simply. "I love you, and I will wait. If it were fifty years, you will find me here ready when you come. "

Peter knew this to be true. And so to the unpeopled rooms of the littleold Vermont farmhouse Peter's gentle thoughts ever swarmed, like homingbees. In his vision of it the lilac-bush outside the window alwayssmelled of spring; she always sat there beside the open sash, waiting--for him. What wonder that he survived when so many others wentdown? What wonder that he persevered? What wonder that his patient soul, comparing the eternity of love's happiness with the paltry years oflove's waiting, saw nothing in the condition of affairs to ruffle itspeaceful serenity? And yet to most the time would have seemed very, verylong. Men may blunder against rich pockets or leads and wealthy sayfarewell to a day which they greeted as the poorest of the poor. So maymen win fortunes on a turn of the wheat market. But the one is no moreprospecting than the other is business. True prospecting has only thenormal percentage of uncertainties, the usual alloy of luck to brightenits toil with the hope of the unexpected. A man must know his businessto succeed. A bit of rock, a twist of ledge, a dip of country, anabundance or an absence of dikes--these and many others are the symbolswith which the prospector builds the formula that spells gold. And afterthe formula is made, it must be proved. It is the proving that bends theback, tries the patience, strains to the utmost the man's inbornInstinct of the Metal. For that is the work of the steel and the fire, the water and the power of explosion. Until the proof is done to theQ. E. D. , the man must draw for inspiration on his stock of faith. In themorning he sharpens his drills at a forge. In the afternoon he may, bythe grace of labour, his Master, have accomplished a little round holein the rock, which, being filled with powder and fired, will tear looseinto a larger hole with débris. The débris must be removed by pick andshovel. After the hole has been sufficiently deepened, the débris mustbe loaded into a bucket, which must then be hauled to the surface of theground and emptied. How long do you calculate the man will require todig in this manner, fifty, a hundred feet? How long to sink one or twosuch shafts on each and every claim he has staked? How long to excavatethe numerous lateral tunnels which the Proof demands?

And besides this, from time to time the shaft must be elaboratelytimbered in order to prevent its caving in and burying work and workmantogether--a tedious job, requiring the skill alike of a woodsman, acarpenter, a sailor, and a joiner. The man must make his trips to townfor supplies. He must cook his meals. He must meet his fellowsoccasionally, or lose the power of speech. The years slip by rapidly. Henumbers his days by what he has accomplished; and it is little. Hemeasures time by his trips to camp; and they are few. It is no smallthing to make three discoveries--and lose them. It is a greater thing tofind courage for a fourth attempt. 

After the Eagle Ridge fiasco, Peter, as cheerful as ever, journeyed overinto Wyoming to try his luck once more. He moved up into the hills, spent a month in looking about him, narrowed his localities to onegulch, and built himself a log cabin in which to live. Then he made hisgeneral survey. He went on foot up every gulch, even every littletransverse wrinkle that lay tributary to his valley, to the shallow topof it filled with loose stones; he followed the sky-line of every ridgewhich bordered and limited these gulches; he seized frequentopportunities of making long diagonals down the slopes. Nothing escapedhim. In time he knew the general appearance of every bit of drift oroutcrop in his district. Then he sat down in his cabin and carefullyconsidered the probabilities. If they had not happened to please him, hewould have repeated the whole wearisome process in another valley; butas in this case they did, he proceeded to take the next step. In otherwords, he went over the same ground again with a sampling-pick and abundle of canvas bags. Where his theories or experience advised, hebroke off quantities of rock from the ledges, which he crushed and mixedin the half of an old blanket; dividing, and recrushing again and again, until an "average" was obtained in small compass. The "average" he tookhome, where he dumped it into a heavy iron mortar, over which he hadsuspended a pestle from a springy sapling. By alternately pulling downand letting up on the sapling he crushed the quartz fragments with thepestle into fine red and white sand. The sand he "panned out" forindications of free gold. 

The ledges whose averages thus showed the colour, he marked on his mapwith a cross. Some leads which did not so exhibit gold, but whose otherindications he considered promising, he exploited still further, penetrating to a layer below the surface by means of a charge or so ofpowder. Or perhaps he even spent several weeks in making an irregularhole like a well, from which he carried the broken rock in bags, climbing up a notched tree. Then he selected more samples. This is hardwork. 

Thus Peter came to know his country, and when he knew it thoroughly, when he had made all his numerous speculations as to horses, blowouts, and slips--then, and not until then, did he stake out his claims; then, and not until then, did he consider himself ready to _begin_ work. 

He might be quite wrong in his calculations. In that case, it was all todo over again somewhere else. He had had this happen. Every prospectorhas. The claims which Peter selected were four in number. He started inwithout delay on the proof. Foot by foot the shafts descended throughthe red, the white, vein matter. One by one the spider arms of thetunnels felt out into the innermost crevices of the lode. Little bylittle Peter's table of statistics filled; here a pocket, there astreak, yon a clear ten feet of low-grade ore. The days, the months, even the years slipped by. Summers came and went with a flurry ofthunder-showers that gathered about Harney, spread abroad in long bandsof blackness, broke in a deluge of rain and hail and passed out todissipate in the hot air of the prairies. Autumns, clear-eyed andsweet-breathed, faded wanly in the smoke of their forest fires. Winterssidled by with constant threat of arctic weather which somehow nevercame; powdering the hills with their snow; making bitter cold theshadows, and warm the silver-like sun. Another spring was at hand. Likeall the rest, it coquetted with the season as a young girl with herlover; smiling with the brightness of a western sun; frowning with thefierceness of a sudden snow-squall, strangely out of place in contrastto the greenery of the mountain "parks"; creeping slowly up the gulliesfrom the prairie in staccato notes of bursting buds; at last lifting itsmany voices in the old swelling song of delight over the birth of newloves and new desires among its creatures. 

Like all the rest, did I say? No, not quite. To Peter this particularspring was a rare thing of beauty. Its gilding was a little brighter, its colours a little fresher, its skies a little deeper, its songs ranga little truer than ever the gilding or colours or skies or songs of anyspring he had ever known. For he was satisfied. Steadily the value ofthe property had proved itself. One clear, cold day he collected all hisdrills and picks and sledges and brought them back to camp, where hestacked them behind the door. It was his way of signing Q. E. D. To theproof. 

The doubtful spot on the _Jim Crow_ was not a blow-out, but a "horse. "He had penetrated below it. The mines were rich beyond his dreams. Yethe sat there at his noon meal as cheerful, as unexcited, as content asever. When one has waited so long, impatience sleeps soundly, arouseswith the sluggishness of unbelief itself. Outside he saw the sun, forthe first time in weeks, and heard the pines singing their endless song. Inside, his fire sparkled and crackled; his kettle purred like afireside cat. Peter was tired; tired, but content. The dream was verynear to him. 

When he had finished his meal he got up and examined himself in hislittle square mirror. Then he did so again. Then he walked heavily backto his table and sat down and buried his face in his hands. When he hadlooked the first time he had seen a gray hair. When he had looked thesecond time he had discovered that there were many. With a sudden pangPeter realised that he was getting to be an old man. He took a picturefrom a pocket-case and looked at that. Was she getting to be an oldwoman?

It was fearful what a difference that little thought suddenly made. Amoment ago he had had the eternities before him. Now there was not aninstant to be wasted. Every minute, every second even, that he sat theregazing at the faded old picture in his hand was so much lost to him andto its original. Not God himself could bring it and its possibilitiesback to him. Until now he had looked about him upon Youth; he musthenceforth look back to it--back to the things which might have been, but could never be--and each pulse-beat carried him inevitably fartherfrom even the retrospective simulacrum of their joys. He and she couldnever begin young now. They must take up life cold in the moulds, readyfashioned. The delight of influencing each other's development wasdenied such as they; instead, they must find each other out, must throwa thousand strands of loving-kindness to span the gap which the patientyears had sundered between them, a gap which should never have widenedat all. Again that remorseless hurry of the moments! Each one of themmade the cast across longer, increased the need for loving-kindness, demanded anew, for the mere pitiful commonplace task of understandingeach other--which any mother and her child find so trivially easy--thepower of affection which each would have liked to shower on the otherundictated except by the desires of their hearts. Peter called up theimage of himself as he had been when he had left the East, and set itremorselessly by the side of that present image in the mirror. Then helooked at the portrait. Could the years have changed her as much? If so, he would hardly know her!

Those miserable years of waiting! He had not minded them before, but nowthey were horrible. In the retrospect the ceaseless drudgery of rock andpick and drill loomed larger than the truth of it; his patience, at thetime so spontaneous a result of his disposition, seemed that of a manclinging desperately to a rope, able to hang on only by theconcentration of every ounce of his will. Peter felt himself clutchingthe rope so hard that he could think of nothing, absolutely nothing, else. He proved a great necessity of letting go. 

And for her, these years? What had they meant? By the internalcombustion which had so suddenly lighted up the dark corners of hisbeing, he saw with almost clairvoyant distinctness how it must havebeen. He saw her growing older, as he had grown older, but in the dullapathy of monotony. She had none of this great filling Labour wherewithto drug herself into day-dreams of a future. The seasons as they passedshowed her the same faces, growing ever a little more jaded, as dancersin the light of dawn. Perhaps she had ceased counting them? No, he knewbetter than that. But the pity of it! washing, scrubbing, mending;mending, scrubbing, washing to the time of an invalid's complaints. To-day she was doing as she had done yesterday; to-morrow she would dothe same. To-morrow?

"No, by God!" cried Peter, starting to his feet. "There shall be no moreto-morrow!"

He took from the shelf over the window a number of pieces of quartz, which he stuffed into the pockets of a pair of saddle-bags lying nearthe door. In the corral was Jenny, a sleek, fat mare. He saddled Jennyand departed with the saddle-bags, leaving the door of his cabin open tothe first comer, as is the hospitable Western way. 

At Beaver Dam he spread the chunks of rock out on the bar of theprincipal saloon and invited inspection. He did not think to find apurchaser among the inhabitants of Beaver Dam, but he knew that thetidings of his discoveries would arouse interest and attract otherprospectors to the locality of his claims. In this manner his propertywould come prominently on the market. 

The discoveries certainly were accorded attention enough. Peter was wellknown. Men were perfectly sure of his veracity and his mining instinct. If Peter said there existed a good lode of the stuff he exhibited tothem, that settled it. 

"Hum, " said a man named Squint-eye Dobs, after examining a bit of thetransparent crystal through which small kernels of yellow metal shone. Then he laid down the specimen, and walked quietly out the door withoutfurther comment. He had gone to get his outfit ready. 

To others, not so prompt of action, Peter explained at length, always inthat hesitating, diffident voice of his. 

"I have my claims all staked, " said he; "you boys can come up and hookonto what's left. There's plenty left. I ain't saying it's as good asmine; still, it's pretty good. I think it'll make a camp. "

"Make a camp!" shouted Cheyenne Harry. "I should think it would! Ifthere's any more like that up country you can sell a 'tater-patch if itlays anywheres near the district!"

"Well, I must be goin', boys, " said Peter, sidling toward the door; "andI 'spect I'll see some of you boys up there?"

The boys did not care to commit themselves as to that before each other, but they were all mentally locating the ingredients of their prospectingoutfits. 

"Have a drink, Happy, on me, " hospitably suggested the proprietor. 

Peter slowly returned to the bar. 

"Here's luck to the new claim, Happy, " said the proprietor; "and here'shoping the sharps doesn't make all there is on her. "

The men laughed, but not ill-naturedly. They all knew Peter, as has beensaid. 

Peter turned again to the door. 

"You'll have a reg'lar cyclone up thar by to-morrow!" called a jokerafter him; "look out fer us! There'll be an unholy mob on hand, andthey'll try to do you, sure!"

Peter stopped short, looked at the speaker, and went out hurriedly. 

The next morning the men came into his gulch. He heard them even beforehe had left his bunk--the _clink_, creak, creak! of their wagons. By thetime he had finished breakfast the side-hills were covered with them. From his window he could catch glimpses of them through the straightpines as patches of red, or flashes of light reflected from polishedmetal. In the cañon was the gleam of fires; in the air the smell ofwood-smoke and of bacon broiling; among the still bare bushes andsaplings the shine of white lean-tops; horses fed eagerly on the younggrasses and the browse of trees, raising their heads as the creak ofwheels farther down the draw told of yet new-comers. The boom was underway. 

Peter knew that the tidings of the discovery would spread. To-morrow anew town would deserve a place on the map. Men would come to the town, men with money, men anxious to invest. With them Peter would treat. There was to be no chance of a careless bargain this time. He would takeno chances. And yet he had thought that before. 

Peter began to forestall difficulties in his mind. The former experiencesuggested many, but he drew from the same source their remedies. It wasthe great unknown that terrified him. In spite of his years, in spiteof his gray hairs, in spite of his memories of those former failures, hehad to confess to himself that he knew nothing, absolutely nothing ofsharpers and their methods. They could not fleece him again in preciselythe way they had done so before; but how could he guess at the tricksthey had in reserve? Eight years out of a man's life ought surely toteach him caution as thoroughly as twelve. Yet he walked into the EagleRidge trap as confidently as he had into the Antelope Gap. He had madeit twelve years. What was to prevent his making it sixteen? There is nofear like that of the absolutely unknown. You cannot forestall that; youmust depend upon your own self-confidence. Self-confidence was just whatPeter did not possess. 

Then in a flash he saw what he should have done. It was all soridiculously simple--a mere question of division of labour. He, Peter, knew prospecting, but did not understand business. Back in his oldVermont home were a dozen honest men who knew business, but understoodnothing of prospecting. Nothing would have been easier than to havecombined these qualities and lacks. If Peter had returned quietly to hispeople, concealing his discoveries from the men of Beaver Dam, he couldhave returned in three weeks' time equipped for his negotiations. Now itwas too late. The minute his back was turned they would jump his claims. Peter's mind worked slowly. If he had felt himself less driven by thesight of those gray hairs, he might have come in time to anotheridea--that of wiring or writing East for a partner, pending whosearrival he could merely hold possession of the claims. As it was, theterror and misgiving, having obtained entry, rapidly usurped thedominion of his thoughts. He could see nothing before him but theinevitable and dread bargaining with unknown powers of dishonesty, nothing behind him but the mistake of starting the "boom. "

As the morning wore away he went out into the hills to look about him. The men were all busily enough engaged in chipping out the shallowtroughs of their "discoveries, " piling supporting rocks about theircorner and side stakes, or tacking up laboriously composed mining"notices. " They paid scant attention to the man who passed them ahundred yards away. Peter visited his own four claims. On one he found asmall group anxiously examining the indications of the lead. He did notjoin it. The parting words flung after him at the saloon came to hismind. "Look out for us! There'll be an unholy mob on hand, and they'lltry to do you, sure. "

Peter cooked himself a noon meal, but he did not eat much of it. Instead, he sat quite still and stared with wide, blind eyes at thewavering mists of steam that arose from the various hot dishes. Fromtime to time he got up with apparent purpose, which, however, left himbefore he had taken two steps, so that his movement speedily becameaimless, and he sat down again. Late in the afternoon he went the roundsof his claims again, but saw nothing unusual. He did not take thetrouble to cook supper. During the evening some men looked in for amoment or so, but went away, because the cabin was empty. Peter was atthe moment of their visit walking back and forth, back and forth, awayup high there on the top of the ridge, in a little cleared flat spacenext the stars. When he came to the end, he whirled sharp on his heels. It was six paces one way and five the other. He counted the stepsconsciously, until the mental process became mechanical. Then the countwent on steadily behind his other thoughts--five, six; five, six; five, six; over and over again, like that. About ten o'clock he ceased openingand shutting his hands and began to scream, at first under his breath, then louder in the over tone, then with the full strength of his lungs. A mountain lion on another slope answered him. He stretched his arms upover his head, every muscle tense, and screamed. And then, withoutappreciable transition, he sank to the rock and hid his face. For themoment the nerve tension had relaxed. 

The clear western stars, like fine silver powder, seemed to glimmer insome light stronger than their own, as dust-motes in the sun. A breezefrom the prairie rested its light, invisible hands on the man's benthead. Certain homely night-sounds, such as the tree-toads and cricketsand the cries of the poor wills, stole here and there through thepine-aisles like living creatures on the wing. A faint, sweet odour ofthe woods came with them. Peter arose, and drew a deep breath, and wentto his cabin. The peace of nature had for the moment become his own. 

But then, in the darkness of his low bunk, the old doubts, the oldterrors returned. They perched there above him and compelled him to lookat them until his eyes were hot and red. "_Do, do, do!_" said they, until Peter arose, and there, in the chill of dawn, he walked the threemiles necessary for the inspection of his claims. Everything was as itshould be. The men in the gulch were not yet awake. From the _Jim Crow_a drowsy porcupine trundled away bristling. 

This could not go on. It would be weeks before he could hope even toopen his negotiations. Peter cooked himself an elaborate breakfast--anddrank half a cup of coffee. Then he sat, as he had the day before, staring straight in front of him, seeing nothing. After a time he placedthe girl's picture and the square mirror side by side on the table andlooked at them intently. 

He rose, kicking his chair over backward, and went out to his claimsonce more. 

The men in the gulch had awakened. Most of them had finished the moreimperative demands of location the day before, so now they were more atleisure to satisfy their curiosity and their love of comment byinspecting the original discovery to which all this stampede was due. Asa consequence Peter found a great gathering on the _Jim Crow_. Some ofthe men were examining chunks of ore, others were preparing to descendthe shafts, still others were engaged idly in reading thelocation-notice tacked against a stub pine. One of the latter, the sameindividual who had joked Peter in the saloon, caught sight of theprospector as he approached. 

"Hullo, Happy!" he called, pointing at the weather-beaten notice. "Whatdo you call this?" He winked at the rest. The history of Peter's losseswas well known. 

"What?" asked Peter, strangely. 

"You ain't got this readin' right. She says 'fifteen hundred feet'; thelaw says she ought t' read 'fifteen hundred _linear_ feet. ' Your claimis n. G. I'm goin' t' jump her on you. "

The statement was ridiculous; everybody knew it, and prepared to laugh, loud-mouthed. 

Peter, without a word, shot the speaker through the heart. Men said athis trial that it was the most brutal and unprovoked murder they hadever known. 

VII

THE GIRL IN RED

"It isn't _that_ I object to, " protested the Easterner, leaning forwardfrom the rough log wall to give emphasis to his words, "for I believe ineveryone having his fun his own way. If you're going in for orgies, why, have 'em _good_ orgies, and be done with it. But my kick's on lettingthese innocent young girls who are just out for the fun--it's awful!"

"It's hell!" assented the Westerner, cheerfully. 

"Now, look at that pretty creature over there----"

The young miner followed his companion's gaze through the garishly litcrowd. Then, as though in doubt as to whether he had seen correctly, hetried it again. 

"Which do you mean?" he asked, puzzled. 

"The one in red. Now, she----"

The Westerner snorted irrepressibly. 

"What's the matter with you?" inquired the Easterner, looking on himwith suspicious eyes. 

The other choked his laugh in the middle, and instantly assumed anexpression of intense solemnity. It was as though a candle had blown outin the wind. 

"Beg pardon. Nothing, " he asserted with brevity of enunciation. "Go on. "

The girl in red was standing tiptoe on a bench under one of the biglanterns. She was holding her little palm slantwise over the chimney, and by blowing against it was trying to put out the lamp. Her face wasvery serious and flushed. Occasionally the lamp would flare up a little, and she would snatch her hand away with a pretty gesture of dismay asthe uprising flame would threaten to scorch it. A group of interestedmen surrounded and applauded her. Two on the outside stood off theproprietor of the dance-hall. The proprietor was objecting. 

"Well, then, just look at that girl, I say, " the Easterner went on. "She's as pretty and fresh and innocent as a mountain flower. She'shaving the time of her young life, and she just thinks it means a goodtime and nothing else. Some day she'll find out it means a lot else. Itell you, it's awful!"

The Westerner surveyed his friend's flushed face with silent amusement. The girl finally succeeded in blowing the light out, and everybodyyelled. 

"Same old fellow you were in college, aren't you, Bert?" he said, affectionately; "succouring the distressed and borrowing other people'stroubles. What can you do?"

"Do, do! What can any man do? Take her out of this! appeal to her betternature!"

Bert started impulsively forward to where the girl--with assistance--waspreparing to jump from the bench. The miner caught his sleeve in alarm. 

"Hold on, don't make a row! Wait a minute!" he begged; "she isn't worthit! There, now listen, " as the other sank back expectantly to his formerposition. His bantering manner returned. "You and the windmills, " hebreathed, in relief. "I'll just shatter your ideals a few to pay forthat scare. You shall now hear a fact or so concerning that pretty, innocent girl--I forget your other adjective. In the first place, sheisn't in the mountain-flower business a little bit. Her name is AnneBingham, but she is more popularly known as Bismarck Anne, chieflybecause of all the camps of our beloved territory Bismarck is the onlyone she hasn't visited. Therefore, it is concluded she must have comefrom there. "

"Bismarck Anne!" repeated the Easterner, wonderingly. "She isn't theone----"

"The very same. She's about as bad as they make 'em, and I don't believeshe misses a pay-day dance a year. She's all right, now; but you want tocome back a little later. Anne will be drunk--gloriously drunk--and veryjoyful. I will say that for her. She has all the fun there is in itwhile it lasts. "

"Whew!" whistled the Easterner, in dazed repulsion, looking withinterest on the girl's animated face. 

"Oh, what do you care!" responded the miner, carelessly. "She has herfun. "

Bismarck Anne jumped into the nearest man's arms, was kissed, bestowed aslap, and flitted away down the room. She deftly stole the accordionfrom beneath the tall look-out stool on which a musician sat and ran, evolving strange noises from the instrument, and scampering in and outamong the benches, pursued by its owner. The men all laughed heartily, and tried to trip up the pursuer. The women laughed hollow laughs, toshow they were not jealous of the sensation she was creating. Finallyshe ran into the proprietor, just turning from relighting the big lamp. The proprietor, being angry, rescued the accordion roughly; whereuponAnne pouted and cast appealing glances on her friends. The friendsresponded to a man. The proprietor set up the drinks. 

The music started up again. Miners darted here and there toward thegaudily dressed women, and, seizing them about the waist, held themclose to their sides, as a claim of proprietorship before the wholeworld. Perspiring masters of ceremonies, self-constituted and drunk, rushed back and forth, trying to put a semblance of the quadrilateralinto the various sets. Everybody shuffled feet impatiently. 

The dance began with a swirl of noise and hilarious confusion. BismarckAnne added to the hilarity. She was having a high old time; whyshouldn't she? She had had three glasses of forty-rod, and was blessedby nature with a lively disposition and an insignificant bump ofreverence. Moreover, she was healthy of body, red of blood, and recklessof consequences. Pleasure appealed to her; the stir of action, thedelight of the flow of high spirits, thrilled through every fibre of herbeing. She had no beliefs, as far as she knew. If she could have toldof them, they would have proved simple in the extreme--that life comesto those who live out their possibilities, and not to those who denythem. And Anne had many possibilities, and was living them fast. Shefelt almost physically the beat of pleasure in the atmosphere about her, and from it she reacted to a still higher pitch. She had drunk threeglasses, and her head was not strong. Her feet moved easily, and she wasvery certain of her movements. She had become just hazy enough in hermental processes to have attained that happy indifference to what islikely to happen in the immediate future, and that equally happydisregard of consequences which the virtuous never experience. Impressions reduced themselves to their lowest terms--movement andnoise. The room was full of rapidly revolving figures. The racket wasincessant, and women's laughter rose shrill above it, like wind above astorm. Anne moved amid it all as the controller of its destinies, andwherever she went seemed to her to be the one stable point in thekaleidoscopic changes. Men danced with her, but they were meaninglessmen. One begged her to dance with him, but Anne stopped to watch a youthblowing brutishly from puffed cheeks, so the man cursed and left herfor another girl. Beyond the puffing youth lights were dancing, greenand red. Anne paused and looked at them gravely. 

The people, the room, the sounds seemed to her to come and go in greatbursts. Between these bursts Anne knew nothing except that she washappy; above all else she was happy. As incidents men kissed her and shedrank; but these things were not essentially different from the lightsand the bursts of consciousness. Anne began to take everything forgranted. 

After a time Anne paused again to look gravely at strange lights. Butthis time they seemed not to be red or green, but to be of orange, inlong, fiery flashes, like ribbons thrown suddenly out and as suddenlywithdrawn. The noise stopped, and was succeeded by a buzzing. For amoment the girl's blurred vision saw clearly the room, all still, exceptfor a man huddled in one corner, and on the floor a slowly gatheringpool of red. Someone thrust her out of the door with others, and shebegan to step aimlessly, uncertainly, along the broad street. 

She felt dimly the difference between the hot air of the dance-hall andthe warm air out of doors. The great hills and the stars and thesilhouetted houses came and went in visions, just as had the people andthe noise inside the hall. The idea of walking came to her, and occupiedher mind to the exclusion of everything else, and she set about it withgreat intentness. How far she went and in what direction did not seem tomatter. When she moved she was happy; when she stopped she wasmiserable. So she wandered on in the way she knew, and yet did not know, out of the broad streets of the town, through a wide cleft in the hills, up a long grassy valley that wound slowly and mounted gradually, following the brawl of the stream, until at last she found herself in alittle fern-grown dell at the entrance of Iron Creek Pass. She pushedher fingers through her fallen hair, and idly over the shimmering stuffof her gown. Far above her she saw waveringly the stars. Finally theidea of sleep came to her, just as the idea of walking had come to herbefore. She sank to her knees, hesitated a moment, and then, with thesigh of a tired child, she pillowed her head on her soft round arm andclosed her eyes. 

 * * * * *

The poor-wills ceased their plaintive cries. A few smaller birds chirpeddrowsily. Back of the eastern hills the stars became a little dimmer, and the soft night breeze, which had been steadily blowing through thedarkened hours, sank quietly to sleep. The subtle magic of nature beganto sketch in the picture of day, throwing objects forward from the dullbackground, taking them bodily out of the blackness, as though creatingthem anew. Fresh life stirred through everything. The vault of heavenseemed full of it, and all the ravines and by-ways caught up itsoverflow in a grand chorus of praise to the new-whitening morning. 

The woman stirred drowsily and arose, throwing back her heavy hair fromher face. The flush of sleep still dyed her cheek a rich crimson, whichcame and went slowly in the light of the young sun, vying in depth nowwith the silk of her gown, now with the still deeper tones of a mountainred-bird which splattered into rainbow tints the waters of the brook. She caught the sound of the stream, and went to it. The red-birdretreated circumspectly, silently. She knelt at the banks and splashedthe icy water over her face and throat, another red-bird, another wildthing pulsing and palpitating with life. Then she arose to the fullheight of her splendid body and looked abroad. 

The morning swept through her like a river and left her clean. In theeye of nature and before the presence of nature's innumerable creaturesshe stood as innocent as they. She had entered into noisome places, butso had the marsh-hawk poising grandly on motionless wing there above. She had scrambled in the mire, and she was ruffled and draggled andbesmirched; so likewise had been the silent flame-bird in the thicket, but he had washed clean his plumes and was now singing the universalhymn from the nearest bush-top. The woman drew her lungs full of themorning. She stretched slowly, lazily, her muscles one by one, and stoodtaller and freer for the act. The debauch of the last night, thedebauches of other and worse nights, the acid-like corrosion of thatvulgarity which is more subtle than sin even, all these things fadedinto a past that was dead and gone and buried forever. The present alonewas important, and the present brought her, innocent, before an innocentnature. As she stood there dewy-eyed, wistful, glowing, with loosenedhair, the grasses clinging to her, and the dew, she looked like awide-eyed child-angel newly come to earth. To her the morning was greatand broad, like a dream to be dreamed and awakened from, somethingunreal and evanescent which would go. Her heart unfolded to itsinfluence, and she felt within her that tenderness for the beautifulwhich is nearest akin to holy tears. 

As she stood thus, musing, it seemed natural that a human figure shouldenter and become part of the dream. It seemed natural that it should bea man, and young; that he should be handsome and bold. It seemed naturalthat he should rein in his horse at the sight of her. So inevitable wasit all, so much in keeping with the soft sky, the brooding shadow of themountain, the squirrel noises, and the day, that she stood theremotionless, making no sign, looking up at him with parted lips, sayingnothing. He was only a fraction, a small fraction, of all the rest. Hisfine brown eyes, the curl of his long hair, the bronze of his featuresmattered no more to her than the play of the sunlight on Harney. 

Then he spurred his horse forward, and something in her seemed to snap. From the dream-present the woman was thrust roughly back into her past. The sunlight faded away before her eyes, oozing from the air in dropafter drop of golden splendour, the songs of the birds died, themurmuring of the brook became an angry brawl that accused the world ofwickedness. The morning fled. From a distance, far away, farther thanHarney, farther than the sky, the stranger's brown eyes lookedpityingly. Her sin was no longer animal. It had touched her soul. Instead of an incident it had become a condition which hemmed her in, from which she could not escape. Suddenly she saw the difference. Shedwelt in darkness; he, with his clear soul, dwelt in light. She threwherself face downward on the earth, weeping and clutching the grass inthe agony of her sin. 

Then a new sound smote the air. She sat upright and listened. 

Around the bend she heard a high-pitched voice declaiming in measuredtones. 

"'Thy kingdom is an everlasting kingdom, and Thy dominion endureththroughout all generations, '" the voice chanted. 

"'The Lord upholdeth all that fall, and raiseth all that he boweddown. '"

The speaker strode in sight. He was one of the old-fashioned itinerantpreachers occasionally seen in the Hills, filled with fanaticenthusiasm, journeying from place to place on foot, exhorting by thefear of hell fire rather than by the hope of heaven's bliss, half-crazy, half-inspired, wholly in earnest. His form was gaunt. He was clad in ashiny black coat buttoned closely, and his shoes showed dusty and hugebeneath his carefully turned-up trousers. A beaver of ancient patternwas pushed far back from his narrow forehead, and from beneath itflashed vividly his fierce hawk-eyes. Over his shoulder, suspended froma cane, was a carpet-bag. He stepped eagerly forward with an immenseexcess of nervous force that carried him rapidly on. Nothing more out ofplace could be imagined than this comical figure against the simplicityof the hills. Yet for that very reason he was the more grateful to thewoman's perturbed soul. She listened eagerly for his next words. 

He strode fiercely across the stones of the little ford, declaiming withenergy, with triumph:

"'The eyes of all wait upon Thee, and Thou givest them their meat in dueseason. 

"'Thou openest Thine hand, and satisfieth the desire of every livingthing. 

"'The Lord is righteous in all His ways, and holy in all His works. 

"'The Lord is nigh unto all them that call upon Him, to all that call uponHim in truth. 

"'He will fulfil the desire of all that fear Him: He also will hear theircry and save them. '"

Anne saw but two things plainly in all the world--the clear-eyedstranger like a god; this fiery old man who spoke words containingstrange, though vague, intimations of comfort. From the agony of hersoul but one thought leaped forth--to make the comfort real, to find outhow to raise herself from her sin, to become worthy of the goodnesswhich she had that morning for the first time clearly seen. She sprangforward and seized the preacher's arm. Interrupted in his ecstasy, herolled his eyes down on her but half comprehending. 

"How? How?" she gasped. "Help me! What must I do?"

She held out her empty hands with a gesture of appeal. The old man'smind still burned with the fever of his fanatical inspiration. He hardlysaw her, and did not understand all the import of her words. He lookedat her vacantly, and caught sight of her outstretched hands. 

"'And to work with your hands as we command you, '" he quoted vaguely, then shook himself free of her detaining grasp and marched grandly on, rolling out the mighty syllables of the psalms. 

"To work with my hands; to work with my hands, " the woman repeatedlooking at her outspread palms. "Yes, that is it!" she said, slowly. 

 * * * * *

Anne Bingham washed dishes at the Prairie Dog Hotel for a week. Thefirst day was one of visions; the second one of irksomeness; the thirdone of wearisome monotony. The first was as long as it takes to passfrom one shore to the other of the great dream-sea; the second was anage; the third an eternity. The first was rose-hued; the second wasdull; the third was filled with the grayness that blurs activity turnedto mechanical action. 

And on the eighth day occurred the monthly pay-day dance of the LastChance mine. All the men were drunk, all the women were drunker, butdrunkest of all was the undoubted favourite of the company, BismarckAnne. Two men standing by the door saw nothing remarkable about that--ithad happened the last week. But in that time Bismarck Anne had had herchance, she had eaten of the fruit of the Tree, and so now was in mortalsin. 

THE END

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

THE McCLURE PRESS, NEW YORK

STANDARD FICTION

A selected list of the Standard Fiction published by McClure, Phillipsand Company, 44-60 East 23d St. , N. Y. 

Cloth, 12mo. Each $1. 50, unless otherwise indicated. 

ADE, GEORGE IN BABEL

BURGESS, GELETT [with WILL IRWIN] THE REIGN OF QUEEN ISYL THE PICAROONS

CONRAD, JOSEPH LORD JIM YOUTH FALK ROMANCE [with F. M. HUEFFER]. Illustrated. 

CROCKETT, S. R. THE FIREBRAND FLOWER O' THE CORN THE BANNER OF BLUE

CUTTING, MARY STEWART LITTLE STORIES OF MARRIED LIFE

DASKAM, JOSEPHINE THE MADNESS OF PHILIP. Illustrated. 

DOUGLAS, GEORGE THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS

DOYLE, A. CONAN THE GREEN FLAG THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES [$1. 25]. Illustrated. THE ADVENTURES OF GERARD. 

DUNCAN, NORMAN THE WAY OF THE SEA. Frontispiece. 

FINDLATER, MARY THE ROSE OF JOY

FRASER, W. A. THOROUGHBREDS. Illustrated. 

HARLAND, HENRY MY FRIEND PROSPERO. Frontispiece. 

HARRIS, JOEL CHANDLER GABRIEL TOLLIVER THE MAKING OF A STATESMAN [$1. 25]. A LITTLE UNION SCOUT [$1. 25]. 

HOPE, ANTHONY TRISTRAM OF BLENT

JEPSON, EDGAR THE ADMIRABLE TINKER. Illustrated. 

KEAYS, H. A. MITCHELL HE THAT EATETH BREAD WITH ME

LESSING, BRUNO CHILDREN OF MEN [$1. 25]. 

LONDON, JACK THE GOD OF HIS FATHERS

MARTIN, GEORGE MADDEN EMMY LOU: HER BOOK AND HEART. Illustrated. 

MERRIMAN, HENRY SETON BARLASCH OF THE GUARD

MEREDITH, ELLIS HEART OF MY HEART [$1. 25]. 

PHILLIPS, HENRY WALLACE RED SAUNDERS [1. 25] Illustrated. 

PHILLIPS, DAVID GRAHAM GOLDEN FLEECE. Illustrated. THE MASTER-ROGUE. "

ROSEBORO', VIOLA THE JOYOUS HEART

ROWLAND, HENRY C. SEA SCAMPS

SPEARMAN, FRANK H. HELD FOR ORDERS

TARKINGTON, BOOTH THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA THE TWO VANREVELS MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE [1. 25]. Illustrated. 

TOLSTOY, COUNT LEO ANNA KARENIN. 2 vols. , each, net, $2. 00 WAR AND PEACE. 3 vols. , each, net, $2. 00 IVAN ILYITCH. 1 vol. , $2. 00

WEYMAN, STANLEY THE LONG NIGHT

WHITE, WILLIAM ALLEN THE COURT OF BOYVILLE. Illustrated. 

WHITE, STEWART EDWARD THE BLAZED TRAIL. Illustrated. THE SILENT PLACES. "

WYATT, EDITH EVERY ONE HIS OWN WAY TRUE LOVE

YOUNG, ROSE E. SALLY OF MISSOURI

On net books add 7 per cent. To list price for postage.