[Illustration: "There's no use to run away from me, " he said][_Page 166_]

 THE DUKE OF CHIMNEY BUTTE

 BY

 G. W. OGDEN

 AUTHOR OF THE LAND OF LAST CHANCE

 FRONTISPIECE BY P. V. E. IVORY

 [Illustration]

 GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

 Made in the United States of America

 Copyright A. C. McClurg & Co. 1920

 Published April, 1920

 _Copyrighted in Great Britain_

CONTENTS

 CHAPTER PAGE

 I The All-in-One 1

 II Whetstone, the Outlaw 18

 III An Empty Saddle 39

 IV "And Speak in Passing" 47

 V Feet upon the Road 69

 VI Allurements of Glendora 81

 VII The Homeliest Man 95

 VIII The House on the Mesa 108

 IX A Knight-Errant 114

 X Guests of the Boss Lady 130

 XI Alarms and Excursions 146

 XII The Fury of Doves 166

 XIII "No Honor in Her Blood" 185

 XIV Notice Is Served 198

 XV Wolves of the Range 218

 XVI Whetstone Comes Home 238

 XVII How Thick Is Blood? 255

 XVIII The Rivalry of Cooks 270

 XIX The Sentinel 276

 XX Business, and More 289

 XXI A Test of Loyalty 302

 XXII The Will-o'-the-Wisp 320

 XXIII Unmasked 329

 XXIV Use for an Old Paper 333

 XXV "When She Wakes Up" 345

 XXVI Oysters and Ambitions 361

 XXVII Emoluments and Rewards 374

The Duke of Chimney Butte

CHAPTER I

THE ALL-IN-ONE

Down through the Bad Lands the Little Missouri comes in long windings, white, from a distance, as a frozen river between the ash-gray hills. Atits margin there are willows; on the small forelands, which flood inJune when the mountain waters are released, cottonwoods grow, leaningtoward the southwest like captives straining in their bonds, yearning intheir way for the sun and winds of kinder latitudes. 

Rain comes to that land but seldom in the summer days; in winter thewind sweeps the snow into rocky caņons; buttes, with tops leveled by thedrift of the old, earth-making days, break the weary repetition of hillbeyond hill. 

But to people who dwell in a land a long time and go about the businessof getting a living out of what it has to offer, its wonders are nolonger notable, its hardships no longer peculiar. So it was with thepeople who lived in the Bad Lands at the time that we come among them onthe vehicle of this tale. To them it was only an ordinary country oftoil and disappointment, or of opportunity and profit, according totheir station and success. 

To Jeremiah Lambert it seemed the land of hopelessness, the lastboundary of utter defeat as he labored over the uneven road at the endof a blistering summer day, trundling his bicycle at his side. There wasa suit-case strapped to the handlebar of the bicycle, and in thatreceptacle were the wares which this guileless peddler had come intothat land to sell. He had set out from Omaha full of enthusiasm andyouthful vigor, incited to the utmost degree of vending fervor by therepresentations of the general agent for the little instrument which hadbeen the stepping-stone to greater things for many an ambitious youngman. 

According to the agent, Lambert reflected, as he pushed his punctured, lop-wheeled, disordered, and dejected bicycle along; there had beennone of the ambitious business climbers at hand to add his testimony tothe general agent's word. 

Anyway, he had taken the agency, and the agent had taken his essentialtwenty-two dollars and turned over to him one hundred of those notableladders to future greatness and affluence. Lambert had them there in hisimitation-leather suit-case--from which the rain had taken the lastdeceptive gloss--minus seven which he had sold in the course of fifteendays. 

In those fifteen days Lambert had traveled five hundred miles, by thepower of his own sturdy legs, by the grace of his bicycle, which hadheld up until this day without protest over the long, sandy, rocky, dismal roads, and he had lived on less than a gopher, day taken by day. 

Housekeepers were not pining for the combination potato-parer, apple-corer, can-opener, tack-puller, known as the "All-in-One" in anyreasonable proportion. 

It did not go. Indisputably it was a good thing, and well built, andfinished like two dollars' worth of cutlery. The selling price, retail, was one dollar, and it looked to an unsophisticated young graduate ofan agricultural college to be a better opening toward independence andthe foundation of a farm than a job in the hay fields. A man must makehis start somewhere, and the farther away from competition the betterhis chance. 

This country to which the general agent had sent him was becoming moreand more sparsely settled. The chances were stretching out against himwith every mile. The farther into that country he should go the smallerwould become the need for that marvelous labor-saving invention. 

Lambert had passed the last house before noon, when his sixty-five-poundbicycle had suffered a punctured tire, and there had bargained with aScotch woman at the greasy kitchen door with the smell of curingsheepskins in it for his dinner. It took a good while to convince thewoman that the All-in-One was worth it, but she yielded out of pity forhis hungry state. From that house he estimated that he had made fifteenmiles before the tire gave out; since then he had added ten or twelvemore to the score. Nothing that looked like a house was in sight, andit was coming on dusk. 

He labored on, bent in spirit, sore of foot. From the rise of a hill, when it had fallen so dark that he was in doubt of the road, he heard avoice singing. And this was the manner of the song:

 _Oh, I bet my money on a bob-tailed hoss, An' a hoo-dah, an' a hoo-dah; I bet my money on a bob-tailed hoss, An' a hoo-dah bet on the bay. _

The singer was a man, his voice an aggravated tenor with a shake to itlike an accordion, and he sang that stanza over and over as Lambertleaned on his bicycle and listened. 

Lambert went down the hill. Presently the shape of trees began to formout of the valley. Behind that barrier the man was doing his singing, his voice now rising clear, now falling to distance as if he passed toand from, in and out of a door, or behind some object which broke theflow of sound. A whiff of coffee, presently, and the noise of the manbreaking dry sticks, as with his foot, jarring his voice to a deepertremolo. Now the light, with the legs of the man in it, showing acow-camp, the chuck wagon in the foreground, the hope of hospitality bigin its magnified proportions. 

Beyond the fire where the singing cook worked, men were unsaddling theirhorses and turning them into the corral. Lambert trundled his bicycleinto the firelight, hailing the cook with a cheerful word. 

The cook had a tin plate in his hands, which he was wiping on a floursack. At sight of this singular combination of man and wheels he leanedforward in astonishment, his song bitten off between two words, the tinplate before his chest, the drying operations suspended. Amazement wason him, if not fright. Lambert put his hand into his hip-pocket and drewforth a shining All-in-One, which he always had ready there to produceas he approached a door. 

He stood there with it in his hand, the firelight over him, smiling inhis most ingratiating fashion. That had been one of the strong texts ofthe general agent. Always meet them with a smile, he said, and leavethem with a smile, no matter whether they deserved it or not. It proveda man's unfaltering confidence in himself and the article which hepresented to the world. 

Lambert was beginning to doubt even this paragraph of his generalinstructions. He had been smiling until he believed his eye-teeth werewearing thin from exposure, but it seemed the one thing that had a grainin it among all the buncombe and bluff. And he stood there smiling atthe camp cook, who seemed to be afraid of him, the tin plate held beforehis gizzard like a shield. 

There was nothing about Lambert's appearance to scare anybody, and leastof all a bow-legged man beside a fire in the open air of the Bad Lands, where things are not just as they are in any other part of this world atall. His manner was rather boyish and diffident, and wholly apologetic, and the All-in-One glistened in his hand like a razor, or a revolver, oranything terrible and destructive that a startled camp cook might makeit out to be. 

A rather long-legged young man, in canvas puttees, a buoyant andirrepressible light in his face which the fatigues and disappointmentsof the long road had not dimmed; a light-haired man, with his hat pushedback from his forehead, and a speckled shirt on him, and trousers rathertight--that was what the camp cook saw, standing exactly as he hadturned and posed at Lambert's first word. 

Lambert drew a step nearer, and began negotiations for supper on thebasis of an even exchange. 

"Oh, agent, are you?" said the cook, letting out a breath of relief. 

"No; peddler. "

"I don't know how to tell 'em apart. Well, put it away, son, put itaway, whatever it is. No hungry man don't have to dig up his money toeat in this camp. "

This was the kindest reception that Lambert had received since taking tothe road to found his fortunes on the All-in-One. He was quick with hisexpression of appreciation, which the cook ignored while he went aboutthe business of lighting two lanterns which he hung on the wagon end. 

Men came stringing into the light from the noise of unsaddling at thecorral with loud and jocund greetings to the cook, and respectful, evendistant and reserved, "evenin's" for the stranger. All of them but thecook wore cartridge-belts and revolvers, which they unstrapped and hungabout the wagon as they arrived. All of them, that is, but oneblack-haired, tall young man. He kept his weapon on, and sat down to eatwith it close under his hand. 

Nine or ten of them sat in at the meal, with a considerable clashing ofcutlery on tin plates and cups. It was evident to Lambert that hispresence exercised a restraint over their customary exchange of banter. In spite of the liberality of the cook, and the solicitation on part ofhis numerous hosts to "eat hearty, " Lambert could not help the feelingthat he was away off on the edge, and that his arrival had put a rein onthe spirits of these men. 

Mainly they were young men like himself, two or three of them onlybetrayed by gray in beards and hair; brown, sinewy, lean-jawed men, nodissipation showing in their eyes. 

Lambert felt himself drawn to them by a sense of kinship. He never hadbeen in a cow-camp before in his life, but there was something in theair of it, in the dignified ignoring of the evident hardships of such alife that told him he was among his kind. 

The cook was a different type of man from the others, and seemed to havebeen pitched into the game like the last pawn of a desperate player. Hewas a short man, thick in the body, heavy in the shoulders, sobow-legged that he weaved from side to side like a sailor as he wentswinging about his work. It seemed, indeed, that he must have taken to ahorse very early in life, while his legs were yet plastic, for they hadset to the curve of the animal's barrel like the bark on a tree. 

His black hair was cut short, all except a forelock like a horse, leaving his big ears naked and unframed. These turned away from his headas if they had been frosted and wilted, and if ears ever stood as anindex to generosity in this world the camp cook's at once pronounced himthe most liberal man to be met between the mountains and the sea. Hisfeatures were small, his mustache and eyebrows large, his nose sharpand thin, his eyes blue, and as bright and merry as a June day. 

He wore a blue wool shirt, new and clean, with a bright scarlet necktieas big as a hand of tobacco; and a green velvet vest, a galloping horseon his heavy gold watch-chain, and great, loose, baggy corduroytrousers, like a pirate of the Spanish Main. These were folded intoexpensive, high-heeled, quilted-topped boots, and, in spite of histrade, there was not a spot of grease or flour on him anywhere to beseen. 

Lambert noted the humorous glances which passed from eye to eye, and thesly winks that went round the circle of cross-legged men with tin platesbetween their knees as they looked now and then at his bicycle leaningclose by against a tree. But the exactions of hospitality appeared tokeep down both curiosity and comment during the meal. Nobody asked himwhere he came from, what his business was, or whither he was bound, until the last plate was pitched into the box, the last cup drained ofits black, scalding coffee. 

It was one of the elders who took it up then, after he had his pipegoing and Lambert had rolled a cigarette from the proffered pouch. 

"What kind of a horse is that you're ridin', son?" he inquired. 

"Have a look at it, " Lambert invited, knowing that the machine was newto most, if not all, of them. He led the way to the bicycle, theyunlimbering from their squatting beside the wagon and following. 

He took the case containing his unprofitable wares from the handlebarsand turned the bicycle over to them, offering no explanations on itspeculiarities or parts, speaking only when they asked him, in horseparlance, with humor that broadened as they put off their reserve. Oninvitation to show its gait he mounted it, after explaining that it hadstepped on a nail and traveled lamely. He circled the fire and came backto them, offering it to anybody who might want to try his skill. 

Hard as they were to shake out of the saddle, not a man of them, old oryoung, could mount the rubber-shod steed of the city streets. All ofthem gave it up after a tumultuous hour of hilarity but the bow-leggedcook, whom they called Taterleg. He said he never had laid much claimto being a horseman, but if he couldn't ride a long-horned Texas steerthat went on wheels he'd resign his job. 

He took it out into the open, away from the immediate danger of acollision with a tree, and squared himself to break it in. He got itgoing at last, cheered by loud whoops of admiration and encouragement, and rode it straight into the fire. He scattered sticks and coals andbore a wabbling course ahead, his friends after him, shouting and wavinghats. Somewhere in the dark beyond the lanterns he ran into a tree. 

But he came back pushing the machine, his nose skinned, sweating andtriumphant, offering to pay for any damage he had done. Lambert assuredhim there was no damage. They sat down to smoke again, all of themfeeling better, the barrier against the stranger quite down, everythingcomfortable and serene. 

Lambert told them, in reply to kindly, polite questioning from the elderof the bunch, a man designated by the name Siwash, how he was latelygraduated from the Kansas Agricultural College at Manhattan, and how hehad taken the road with a grip full of hardware to get enough ballastin his jeans to keep the winter wind from blowing him away. 

"Yes, I thought that was a college hat you had on, " said Siwash. 

Lambert acknowledged its weakness. 

"And that shirt looked to me from the first snort I got at it like acollege shirt. I used to be where they was at one time. "

Lambert explained that an aggie wasn't the same as a regular collegefellow, such as they turn loose from the big factories in the East, where they thicken their tongues to the broad a and call it aneducation; nothing like that, at all. He went into the details of thegreat farms manned by the students, the bone-making, as well as thebrain-making work of such an institution as the one whose shadows he hadlately left. 

"I ain't a-findin' any fault with them farmer colleges, " Siwash said. "Iworked for a man in Montanny that sent his boy off to one of 'em, andthat feller come back and got to be state vet'nary. I ain't got nothingag'in' a college hat, as far as that goes, neither, but I know 'em whenI see 'em--I can spot 'em every time. Will you let us see themDo-it-Alls?"

Lambert produced one of the little implements, explained its points, andit passed from hand to hand, with comments which would have been worthgold to the general agent. 

"It's a toothpick and a tater-peeler put together, " said Siwash, when itcame back to his hand. The young fellow with the black, sleek hair, whokept his gun on, reached for it, bent over it in the light, examining itwith interest. 

"You can trim your toenails with it and half-sole your boots, " he said. "You can shave with it and saw wood, pull teeth and brand mavericks; youcan open a bottle or a bank with it, and you can open the hired gal'seyes with it in the mornin'. It's good for the old and the young, forthe crippled and the in-sane; it'll heat your house and hoe your garden, and put the children to bed at night. And it's made and sold anddistributed by Mr. --Mr. --by the Duke----"

Here he bent over it a little closer, turning it in the light to seewhat was stamped in the metal beneath the words "The Duke, " that beingthe name denoting excellence which the manufacturer had given the tool. 

"By the Duke of--the Duke of--is them three links of saursage, Siwash?"

Siwash looked at the triangle under the name. 

"No, that's Indian writin'; it means a mountain, " he said. 

"Sure, of course, I might 'a' knowed, " the young man said with deepself-scorn. "That's a butte, that's old Chimney Butte, as plain assmoke. Made and sold and distributed in the Bad Lands by the Duke ofChimney Butte. Duke, " said he solemnly, rising and offering his hand, "I'm proud to know you. "

There was no laughter at this; it was not time to laugh yet. They satlooking at the young man, primed and ready for the big laugh, indeed, but holding it in for its moment. As gravely as the cowboy had risen, assolemnly as he held his countenance in mock seriousness, Lambert roseand shook hands with him. 

"The pleasure is mostly mine, " said he, not a flush of embarrassment orresentment in his face, not a quiver of the eyelid as he looked theother in the face, as if this were some high and mighty occasion, intruth. 

"And you're all right, Duke, you're sure all right, " the cowboy said, anote of admiration in his voice. 

"I'd bet you money he's all right, " Siwash said, and the others echoedit in nods and grins. 

The cowboy sat down and rolled a cigarette, passed his tobacco across toLambert, and they smoked. And no matter if his college hat had been onlyhalf as big as it was, or his shirt ring-streaked and spotted, theywould have known the stranger for one of their kind, and accepted him assuch. 

CHAPTER II

WHETSTONE, THE OUTLAW

When Taterleg roused the camp before the east was light, Lambert notedthat another man had ridden in. This was a wiry young fellow with ashort nose and fiery face, against which his scant eyebrows and lasheswere as white as chalk. 

His presence in the camp seemed to put a restraint on the spirits of theothers, some of whom greeted him by the name Jim, others ignoring himentirely. Among these latter was the black-haired man who had givenLambert his title and elevated him to the nobility of the Bad Lands. Onthe face of it there was a crow to be picked between them. 

Jim was belted with a pistol and heeled with a pair of thoselong-roweled Mexican spurs, such as had gone out of fashion on thewestern range long before his day. He leaned on his elbow near the fire, his legs stretched out in a way that obliged Taterleg to walk round thespurred boots as he went between his cooking and the supplies in thewagon, the tailboard of which was his kitchen table. 

If Taterleg resented this lordly obstruction, he did not discover it byword or feature. He went on humming a tune without words as he worked, handing out biscuits and ham to the hungry crew. Jim had eaten hisbreakfast already, and was smoking a cigarette at his ease. Now and thenhe addressed somebody in obscene jocularity. 

Lambert saw that Jim turned his eyes on him now and then with sneeringcontempt, but said nothing. When the men had made a hasty end of theirbreakfast three of them started to the corral. The young man who hadhumorously enumerated the virtues of the All-in-One, whom the otherscalled Spence, was of this number. He turned back, offering Lambert hishand with a smile. 

"I'm glad I met you, Duke, and I hope you'll do well wherever youtravel, " he said, with such evident sincerity and good feeling thatLambert felt like he was parting from a friend. 

"Thanks, old feller, and the same to you. "

Spence went on to saddle his horse, whistling as he scuffed through thelow sage. Jim sat up. 

"I'll make you whistle through your ribs, " he snarled after him. 

It was Sunday. These men who remained in camp were enjoying theinfrequent luxury of a day off. With the first gleam of morning they gotout their razors and shaved, and Siwash, who seemed to be the handy manand chief counselor of the outfit, cut everybody's hair, with theexception of Jim, who had just returned from somewhere on the train, andstill had the scent of the barber-shop on him, and Taterleg, who hadmastered the art of shingling himself, and kept his hand in by constantpractice. 

Lambert mended his tire, using an old rubber boot that Taterleg foundkicking around camp to plug the big holes in his outer tube. He was forgoing on then, but Siwash and the others pressed him to stay over theday, to which invitation he yielded without great argument. 

There was nothing ahead of him but desolation, said Taterleg, a countryso rough that it tried a horse to travel it. Ranchhouses were fartherapart as a man proceeded, and beyond that, mountains. It looked toTaterleg as if he'd better give it up. 

That was so, according to the opinion of Siwash. To his undoubtedknowledge, covering the history of twenty-four years, no agent ever hadpenetrated that far before. Having broken this record on a bicycle, Lambert ought to be satisfied. If he was bound to travel, said Siwash, his advice would be to travel back. 

It seemed to Lambert that the bottom was all out of his plans, indeed. It would be far better to chuck the whole scheme overboard and go towork as a cowboy if they would give him a job. That was nearer thesphere of his intended future activities; that was getting down to theroot and foundation of a business which had a ladder in it whose rungswere not made of any general agent's hot air. 

After his hot and heady way of quick decisions and planning tocompletion before he even had begun, Lambert was galloping the Bad Landsas superintendent of somebody's ranch, having made the leap over allthe trifling years, with their trifling details of hardship, low wages, loneliness, and isolation in a wink. From superintendent he gallopedswiftly on his fancy to a white ranchhouse by some calm riverside, hisherds around him, his big hat on his head, market quotations coming tohim by telegraph every day, packers appealing to him to ship fivetrainloads at once to save their government contracts. 

What is the good of an imagination if a man cannot ride it, and feel thewind in his face as he flies over the world? Even though it is a liarand a trickster, and a rifler of time which a drudge of success would bestamping into gold, it is better for a man than wine. He can return fromhis wide excursions with no deeper injury than a sigh. 

Lambert came back to the reality, broaching the subject of a job. HereJim took notice and cut into the conversation, it being his first wordto the stranger. 

"Sure you can git a job, bud, " he said, coming over to where Lambert satwith Siwash and Taterleg, the latter peeling potatoes for a stew, somebody having killed a calf. "The old man needs a couple of hands; hetold me to keep my eye open for anybody that wanted a job. "

"I'm glad to hear of it, " said Lambert, warming up at the news, feelingthat he must have been a bit severe in his judgment of Jim, which hadnot been altogether favorable. 

"He'll be over in the morning; you'd better hang around. "

Seeing the foundation of a new fortune taking shape, Lambert said hewould "hang around. " They all applauded his resolution, for they allappeared to like him in spite of his appearance, which was distinctive, indeed, among the somber colors of that sage-gray land. 

Jim inquired if he had a horse, the growing interest of a friend in hismanner. Hearing the facts of the case from Lambert--before dawn he hadheard them from Taterleg--he appeared concerned almost to the point ofbeing troubled. 

"You'll have to git you a horse, Duke; you'll have to ride up to theboss when you hit him for a job. He never was known to hire a man offthe ground, and I guess if you was to head at him on that bicycle, he'dblow a hole through you as big as a can of salmon. Any of you fellersgot a horse you want to trade the Duke for his bicycle?"

The inquiry brought out a round of somewhat cloudy witticism, withproposals to Lambert for an exchange on terms rather embarrassing tomeet, seeing that even the least preposterous was not sincere. Taterlegwinked to assure him that it was all banter, without a bit of harm atthe bottom of it, which Lambert understood very well without theservices of a commentator. 

Jim brightened up presently, as if he saw a gleam that might leadLambert out of the difficulty. He had an extra horse himself, not muchof a horse to look at, but as good-hearted a horse as a man ever throweda leg over, and that wasn't no lie, if you took him the right side on. But you had to take him the right side on, and humor him, and handle himlike eggs till he got used to you. Then you had as purty a little horseas a man ever throwed a leg over, anywhere. 

Jim said he'd offer that horse, only he was a little bashful in thepresence of strangers--meaning the horse--and didn't show up in a styleto make his owner proud of him. The trouble with that horse was he usedto belong to a one-legged man, and got so accustomed to the feel of aone-legged man on him that he was plumb foolish between two legs. 

That horse didn't have much style to him, and no gait to speak of; buthe was as good a cow-horse as ever chawed a bit. If the Duke thoughthe'd be able to ride him, he was welcome to him. Taterleg winked whatLambert interpreted as a warning at that point, and in the faces of theothers there were little gleams of humor, which they turned their heads, or bent to study the ground, as Siwash did, to hide. 

"Well, I'm not much on a horse, " Lambert confessed. 

"You look like a man that'd been on a horse a time or two, " said Jim, with a knowing inflection, a shrewd flattery. 

"I used to ride around a little, but that's been a good while ago. "

"A feller never forgits how to ride, " Siwash put in; "and if a man wantsto work on the range, he's got to ride 'less'n he goes and gits a jobrunnin' sheep, and that's below any man that is a man. "

Jim sat pondering the question, hands hooked in front of his knees, amatch in his mouth beside his unlighted cigarette. 

"I been thinkin' I'd sell that horse, " said he reflectively. "Ain't gotno use for him much; but I don't know. "

He looked off over the chuck wagon, through the tops of the scrub pinesin which the camp was set, drawing his thin, white eyebrows, consideringthe case. 

"Winter comin' on and hay to buy, " said Siwash. 

"That's what I've been thinkin' and studyin' over. Shucks! I don't needthat horse. I tell you what I'll do, Duke"--turning to Lambert, brisk aswith a gush of sudden generosity--"if you can ride that old pelter, I'llgive him to you for a present. And I bet you'll not git as cheap anoffer of a horse as that ever in your life ag'in. "

"I think it's too generous--I wouldn't want to take advantage of it, "Lambert told him, trying to show a modesty in the matter that he didnot feel. 

"I ain't a-favorin' you, Duke; not a dollar. If I needed that horse, I'dhang onto him, and you wouldn't git him a cent under thirty-five bucks;but when a man don't need a horse, and it's a expense on him, he canafford to give it away--he can give it away and make money. That's whatI'm a-doin', if you want to take me up. "

"I'll take a look at him, Jim. "

Jim got up with eagerness, and went to fetch a saddle and bridle fromunder the wagon. The others came into the transaction with livelyinterest. Only Taterleg edged round to Lambert, and whispered with hishead turned away to look like innocence:

"Watch out for him--he's a bal'-faced hyeeny!"

They trooped off to the corral, which was a temporary enclosure made ofwire run among the little pines. Jim brought the horse out. It stoodtamely enough to be saddled, with head drooping indifferently, andshowed no deeper interest and no resentment over the operation ofbridling, Jim talking all the time he worked, like the faker that hewas, to draw off a too-close inspection of his wares. 

"Old Whetstone ain't much to look at, " he said, "and as I told you, Mister, he ain't got no fancy gait; but he can bust the middle out ofthe breeze when he lays out a straight-ahead run. Ain't a horse on thisrange can touch his tail when old Whetstone throws a ham into it andlets out his stren'th. "

"He looks like he might go some, " Lambert commented in the vacuous wayof a man who felt that he must say something, even though he didn't knowanything about it. 

Whetstone was rather above the stature of the general run of rangehorses, with clean legs and a good chest. But he was a hammer-headed, white-eyed, short-maned beast, of a pale water-color yellow, like an olddish. He had a beaten-down, bedraggled, and dispirited look about him, as if he had carried men's burdens beyond his strength for a good while, and had no heart in him to take the road again. He had a scoundrelly wayof rolling his eyes to watch all that went on about him without turninghis head. 

Jim girthed him and cinched him, soundly and securely, for no matter whowas pitched off and smashed up in that ride, he didn't want the saddleto turn and be ruined. 

"Well, there he stands, Duke, and saddle and bridle goes with him ifyou're able to ride him. I'll be generous; I won't go half-way with you;I'll be whole hog or none. Saddle and bridle goes with Whetstone, all afree gift, if you can ride him, Duke. I want to start you up right. "

It was a safe offer, taking all precedent into account, for no man everhad ridden Whetstone, not even his owner. The beast was an outlaw of themost pronounced type, with a repertory of tricks, calculated to get aman off his back, so extensive that he never seemed to repeat. He stoodalways as docilely as a camel to be saddled and bridled, with whatmethod in this apparent docility no man versed in horse philosophy everhad been able to reason out. Perhaps it was that he had been born with aspite against man, and this was his scheme for luring him on to hisdiscomfiture and disgrace. 

It was an expectant little group that stood by to witness thisgreenhorn's rise and fall. According to his established methods, Whetstone would allow him to mount, still standing with that indifferentdroop to his head. But one who was sharp would observe that he wasrolling his old white eyes back to see, tipping his sharp ear like awildcat to hear every scrape and creak of the leather. Then, with theman in the saddle, nobody knew what he would do. 

That uncertainty was what made Whetstone valuable and interesting beyondany outlaw in the world. Men grew accustomed to the tricks of ordinarypitching broncos, in time, and the novelty and charm were gone. Besides, there nearly always was somebody who could ride the worst of them. Notso Whetstone. He had won a good deal of money for Jim, and everybody incamp knew that thirty-five dollars wasn't more than a third of the valuethat his owner put upon him. 

There was boundless wonder among them, then, and no little admiration, when this stranger who had come into that unlikely place on a bicycleleaped into the saddle so quickly that old Whetstone was takencompletely by surprise, and held him with such a strong hand and stiffrein that his initiative was taken from him. 

The greenhorn's next maneuver was to swing the animal round till he losthis head, then clap heels to him and send him off as if he had businessfor the day laid out ahead of him. 

It was the most amazing start that anybody ever had been known to makeon Whetstone, and the most startling and enjoyable thing about it wasthat this strange, overgrown boy, with his open face and guilelessspeech, had played them all for a bunch of suckers, and knew more aboutriding in a minute than they ever had learned in their lives. 

Jim Wilder stood by, swearing by all his obscene deities that if thatman hurt Whetstone, he'd kill him for his hide. But he began to feelbetter in a little while. Hope, even certainty, picked up again. Whetstone was coming to himself. Perhaps the old rascal had only beenelaborating his scheme a little at the start, and was now about to showthem that their faith in him was not misplaced. 

The horse had come to a sudden stop, legs stretched so wide that itseemed as if he surely must break in the middle. But he gathered hisfeet together so quickly that the next view presented him with his backarched like a fighting cat's. And there on top of him rode the Duke, hissmall brown hat in place, his gay shirt ruffling in the wind. 

After that there came, so quickly that it made the mind and eye hastento follow, all the tricks that Whetstone ever had tried in his pasttriumphs over men; and through all of them, sharp, shrewd, unexpected, startling as some of them were, that little brown hat rode untroubled ontop. Old Whetstone was as wet at the end of ten minutes as if he hadswum a river. He grunted with anger as he heaved and lashed, he squealedin his resentful passion as he swerved, lunged, pitched, and clawed theair. 

The little band of spectators cheered the Duke, calling loudly to informhim that he was the only man who ever had stuck that long. The Dukewaved his hat in acknowledgement, and put it back on with deliberationand exactness, while old Whetstone, as mad as a wet hen, tried to rolldown suddenly and crush his legs. 

Nothing to be accomplished by that old trick. The Duke pulled him upwith a wrench that made him squeal, and Whetstone, lifted off hisforelegs, attempted to complete the backward turn and catch histormentor under the saddle. But that was another trick so old that thesimplest horseman knew how to meet it. The next thing he knew, Whetstonewas galloping along like a gentleman, just wind enough in him to carryhim, not an ounce to spare. 

Jim Wilder was swearing himself blue. It was a trick, an imposition, hedeclared. No circus-rider could come there and abuse old Whetstone thatway and live to eat his dinner. Nobody appeared to share his view of it. They were a unit in declaring that the Duke beat any man handling ahorse they ever saw. If Whetstone didn't get him off pretty soon, hewould be whipped and conquered, his belly on the ground. 

"If he hurts that horse I'll blow a hole in him as big as a can ofsalmon!" Jim declared. 

"Take your medicine like a man, Jim, " Siwash advised. "You might knowsomebody'd come along that'd ride him, in time. "

"Yes, _come_ along!" said Jim with a sneer. 

Whetstone had begun to collect himself out on the flat among thesagebrush a quarter of a mile away. The frenzy of desperation was inhim. He was resorting to the raw, low, common tricks of the ordinaryoutlaw, even to biting at his rider's legs. That ungentlemanly behaviorwas costly, as he quickly learned, at the expense of a badly cut mouth. He never had met a rider before who had energy to spare from his effortsto stick in the saddle to slam him a big kick in the mouth when hedoubled himself to make that vicious snap. The sound of that kickcarried to the corral. 

"I'll fix you for that!" Jim swore. 

He was breathing as hard as his horse, sweat of anxiety running down hisface. The Duke was bringing the horse back, his spirit pretty wellbroken, it appeared. 

"What do you care what he does to him? It ain't your horse no more. "

It was Taterleg who said that, standing near Jim, a little way behindhim, as gorgeous as a bridegroom in the bright sun. 

"You fellers can't ring me in on no game like that and beat me out of myhorse!" said Jim, redder than ever in his passion. 

"Who do you mean, rung you in, you little, flannel-faced fiste?"[1]Siwash demanded, whirling round on him with blood in his eye. 

Jim was standing with his legs apart, bent a little at the knees, as ifhe intended to make a jump. His right hand was near the butt of his gun, his fingers were clasping and unclasping, as if he limbered them foraction. Taterleg slipped up behind him on his toes, and jerked the gunfrom Jim's scabbard with quick and sure hand. He backed away with it, presenting it with determined mien as Jim turned on him and cursed himby all his lurid gods. 

"If you fight anybody in this camp today, Jim, you'll fight like a man, "said Taterleg, "or you'll hobble out of it on three legs, like a wolf. "

The Duke was riding old Whetstone like a feather, letting him have hisspurts of kicking and stiff-legged bouncing without any effort torestrain him at all. There wasn't much steam in the outlaw's antics now;any common man could have ridden him without losing his hat. 

Jim had drawn apart from the others, resentful of the distrust thatTaterleg had shown, but more than half of his courage and bluster takenaway from him with his gun. He was swearing more volubly than ever tocover his other deficiencies; but he was a man to be feared only when hehad his weapon under his hand. 

The Duke had brought the horse almost back to camp when the animal wastaken with an extraordinarily vicious spasm of pitching, broken bysudden efforts to fling himself down and roll over on his persistentrider. The Duke let him have it his way, all but the rolling, for awhile; then he appeared to lose patience with the stubborn beast. Heheaded him into the open, laid the quirt to him, and galloped toward thehills. 

"That's the move--run the devil out of him, " said one. 

The Duke kept him going, and going for all there was in him. Horse andrider were dim in the dust of the heated race against the evil passion, the untamed demon, in the savage creature's heart. It began to look asif Lambert never intended to come back. Jim saw it that way. He cameover to Taterleg as hot as a hornet. 

"Give me that gun--I'm goin' after him!"

"You'll have to go without it, Jim. "

Jim blasted him to sulphurous perdition, and split him with forkedlightning from his blasphemous tongue. 

"He'll come back; he's just runnin' the vinegar out of him, " said one. 

"Come back--hell!" said Jim. 

"If he don't come back, that's his business. A man can go wherever hewants to go on his own horse, I guess. "

That was the observation of Siwash, standing there rather glum and outof tune over Jim's charge that they had rung the Duke in on him to beathim out of his animal. 

"It was a put-up job! I'll split that feller like a hog!"

Jim left them with that declaration of his benevolent intention, hurrying to the corral where his horse was, his saddle on the ground bythe gate. They watched him saddle, and saw him mount and ride after theDuke, with no comment on his actions at all. 

The Duke was out of sight in the scrub timber at the foot of the hills, but his dust still floated like the wake of a swift boat, showing theway he had gone. 

"Yes, you will!" said Taterleg. 

Meaningless, irrelevant, as that fragmentary ejaculation seemed, theothers understood. They grinned, and twisted wise heads, spat out theirtobacco, and went back to dinner. 

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 1: Fice--dog. ]

CHAPTER III

AN EMPTY SADDLE

The Duke was seen coming back before the meal was over, across thelittle plain between camp and hills. A quarter of a mile behind him JimWilder rode, whether seen or unseen by the man in the lead they did notknow. 

Jim had fallen behind somewhat by the time the Duke reached camp. Theadmiration of all hands over this triumph against horseflesh and thedevil within it was so great that they got up to welcome the Duke, andshake hands with him as he left the saddle. He was as fresh and nimble, unshaken and serene, as when he mounted old Whetstone more than an hourbefore. 

Whetstone was a conquered beast, beyond any man's doubt. He stood withflaring nostrils, scooping in his breath, not a dry hair on him, not adash of vinegar in his veins. 

"Where's Jim?" the Duke inquired. 

"Comin', " Taterleg replied, waving his hand afield. 

"What's he doin' out there--where's he been?" the Duke inquired, apuzzled look in his face, searching their sober countenances for hisanswer. 

"He thought you----"

"Let him do his own talkin', kid, " said Siwash, cutting off the cowboy'sexplanation. 

Siwash looked at the Duke shrewdly, his head cocked to one side like arobin listening for a worm. 

"What outfit was you with before you started out sellin' themtooth-puller-can-opener machines, son?" he inquired. 

"Outfit? What kind of an outfit?"

"Ranch, innercence; what range was you ridin' on?"

"I never rode any range, I'm sorry to say. "

"Well, where in the name of mustard did you learn to ride?"

"I used to break range horses for five dollars a head at the Kansas CityStockyards. That was a good while ago; I'm all out of practice now. "

"Yes, and I bet you can throw a rope, too. "

"Nothing to speak of. "

"Nothing to speak of! Yes, I'll _bet_ you nothing to speak of!"

Jim didn't stop at the corral to turn in his horse, but came clatteringinto camp, madder for the race that the Duke had led him in ignorance ofhis pursuit, as every man could see. He flung himself out of the saddlewith a flip like a bird taking to the wing, his spurs cutting the groundas he came over to where Lambert stood. 

"Maybe you can ride my horse, you damn granger, but you can't ride me!"he said. 

He threw off his vest as he spoke, that being his only superfluousgarment, and bowed his back for a fight. Lambert looked at him with aflush of indignant contempt spreading in his face. 

"You don't need to get sore about it; I only took you up at your owngame, " he said. 

"No circus-ringer's goin' to come in here and beat me out of my horse. You'll either put him back in that corral or you'll chaw leather withme!"

"I'll put him back in the corral when I'm ready, but I'll put him backas mine. I won him on your own bet, and it'll take a whole lot betterman than you to take him away from me. "

In the manner of youth and independence, Lambert got hotter with everyword, and after that there wasn't much room for anything else to be saidon either side. They mixed it, and they mixed it briskly, for Jim'scontempt for a man who wore a hat like that supplied the courage thathad been drained from him when he was disarmed. 

There was nothing epic in that fight, nothing heroic at all. It was awildcat struggle in the dust, no more science on either side than natureput into their hands at the beginning. But they surely did kick up a lotof dust. It would have been a peaceful enough little fight, with ahandshake at the end and all over in an hour, very likely, if Jim hadn'tmanaged to get out his knife when he felt himself in for a trimming. 

It was a mean-looking knife, with a buck-horn handle and a four-inchblade that leaped open on pressure of a spring. Its type was widelypopular all over the West in those days, but one of them would be almosta curiosity now. But Jim had it out, anyhow, lying on his back with theDuke's knee on his ribs, and was whittling away before any man couldraise a hand to stop him. 

The first slash split the Duke's cheek for two inches just below hiseye; the next tore his shirt sleeve from shoulder to elbow, grazing theskin as it passed. And there somebody kicked Jim's elbow and knocked theknife out of his hand. 

"Let him up, Duke, " he said. 

Lambert released the strangle hold that he had taken on Jim's throat andlooked up. It was Spence, standing there with his horse behind him. Helaid his hand on Lambert's shoulder. 

"Let him up, Duke, " he said again. 

Lambert got up, bleeding a cataract. Jim bounced to his feet like aspring, his hand to his empty holster, a look of dismay in his blanchingface. 

"That's your size, you nigger!" Spence said, kicking the knife beyondJim's reach. "That's the kind of a low-down cuss you always was. Thisman's our guest, and when you pull a knife on him you pull it on me!"

"You know I ain't got a gun on me, you----"

"Git it, you sneakin' houn'!"

Jim looked round for Taterleg. 

"Where's my gun? you greasy potslinger!"

"Give it to him, whoever's got it. "

Taterleg produced it. Jim began backing off as soon as he had it in hishand, watching Spence alertly. Lambert leaped between them. 

"Gentlemen, don't go to shootin' over a little thing like this!" hebegged. 

Taterleg came between them, also, and Siwash, quite blocking up thefairway. 

"Now, boys, put up your guns; this is Sunday, you know, " Siwash said. 

"Give me room, men!" Spence commanded, in voice that trembled withpassion, with the memory of old quarrels, old wrongs, which this lastinsult to the camp's guest gave the excuse for wiping out. There wassomething in his tone not to be denied; they fell out of his path as ifthe wind had blown them. Jim fired, his elbow against his ribs. 

Too confident of his own speed, or forgetting that Wilder already hadhis weapon out, Spence crumpled at the knees, toppled backward, fell. His pistol, half-drawn, dropped from the holster and lay at his side. Wilder came a step nearer and fired another shot into the fallen man'sbody, dead as he must have known him to be. He ran on to his horse, mounted, and rode away. 

Some of the others hurried to the wagon after their guns. Lambert, for amoment shocked to the heart by the sudden horror of the tragedy, bentover the body of the man who had taken up his quarrel without evenknowing the merits of it, or whose fault lay at the beginning. A lookinto his face was enough to tell that there was nothing within thecompass of this earth that could bring back life to that strong, youngbody, struck down in a breath like a broken vase. He looked up. JimWilder was bending in the saddle as he rode swiftly away, as if heexpected them to shoot. A great fire of resentment for this man'sdestructive deed swept over him, hotter than the hot blood wasting fromhis wounded cheek. The passion of vengeance wrenched his joints, hishand shook and grew cold, as he stooped again to unfasten the belt abouthis friend's dead body. 

Armed with the weapon that had been drawn a fraction of a second toolate, drawn in the chivalrous defense of hospitality, the high courtesyof an obligation to a stranger, Lambert mounted the horse that had cometo be his at the price of this tragedy, and galloped in pursuit of thefleeing man. 

Some of the young men were hurrying to the corral, belting on their gunsas they ran to fetch their horses and join the pursuit. Siwash calledthem back. 

"Leave it to him, boys; it's his by rights, " he said. 

Taterleg stood looking after the two riders, the hindmost drawingsteadily upon the leader, and stood looking so until they disappeared inthe timber at the base of the hills. 

"My God!" said he. And again, after a little while: "My God!"

It was dusk when Lambert came back, leading Jim Wilder's horse. Therewas blood on the empty saddle. 

CHAPTER IV

"AND SPEAK IN PASSING"

The events of that Sunday introduced Lambert into the Bad Lands andestablished his name and fame. Within three months after going to workfor the Syndicate ranch he was known for a hundred miles around as theman who had broken Jim Wilder's outlaw and won the horse by thatunparalleled feat. 

That was the prop to his fame--that he had broken Jim Wilder's outlaw. Certainly he was admired and commended for the unhesitating action hehad taken in avenging the death of his friend, but in that he had doneonly what was expected of any man worthy the name. Breaking the outlawwas a different matter entirely. In doing that he had accomplished whatwas believed to be beyond the power of any living man. 

According to his own belief, his own conscience, Lambert had made a badstart. A career that had its beginning in contentions and violence, enough of it crowded into one day to make more than the allotment of anordinary life, could not terminate with any degree of felicity andhonor. They thought little of killing a man in that country, it seemed;no more than a perfunctory inquiry, to fulfill the letter of the law, had been made by the authorities into Jim Wilder's death. 

While it relieved him to know that the law held his justification to beample, there was a shadow following him which he could not evade in anyof the hilarious diversions common to those wild souls of the range. 

It troubled him that he had killed a man, even in a fair fight in theopen field with the justification of society at his back. In his sleepit harried him with visions; awake, it oppressed him like a sorrow, orthe memory of a shame. He became solemn and silent as a chastened man, seldom smiling, laughing never. 

When he drank with his companions in the little saloon at Misery, theloading station on the railroad, he took his liquor as gravely as thesacrament; when he raced them he rode with face grim as an Indian, never whooping in victory, never swearing in defeat. 

He had left even his own lawful and proper name behind him with hispast. Far and near he was known as the Duke of Chimney Butte, shortenedin cases of direct address to "Duke. " He didn't resent it, rather took asort of grim pride in it, although he felt at times that it was one moremark of his surrender to circumstances whose current he might haveavoided at the beginning by the exercise of a proper man's sense. 

A man was expected to drink a good deal of the overardent spirits whichwere sold at Misery. If he could drink without becoming noisy, so muchthe more to his credit, so much higher he stood in the estimation of hisfellows as a copper-bottomed sport of the true blood. The Duke could putmore of that notorious whisky under cover, and still contain himself, than any man they ever had seen in Misery. The more he drank the glummerhe became, but he never had been known either to weep or curse. 

Older men spoke to him with respect, younger ones approached him withadmiration, unable to understand what kind of a safety-valve a man hadon his mouth that would keep his steam in when that Misery booze beganto sizzle in his pipes. His horse was a subject of interest almost equalto himself. 

Under his hand old Whetstone--although not more than seven--haddeveloped unexpected qualities. When the animal's persecution ceased, his perversity fled. He grew into a well-conditioned creature, sleek ofcoat, beautiful of tail as an Arab barb, bright of eye, handsome tobehold. His speed and endurance were matters of as much note as hisoutlawry had been but a little while before, and his intelligence wassomething almost beyond belief. 

Lambert had grown exceedingly fond of him, holding him more in theestimation of a companion than the valuation of a dumb creature ofburden. When they rode the long watches at night he talked to him, andWhetstone would put back his sensitive ear and listen, and toss his headin joyful appreciation of his master's confidence and praise. 

Few horses had beaten Whetstone in a race since he became the Duke'sproperty. It was believed that none on that range could do it if theDuke wanted to put him to his limit. It was said that the Duke lost onlysuch races as he felt necessary to the continuance of his prosperity. 

Racing was one of the main diversions when the cowboys from thesurrounding ranches met at Misery on a Sunday afternoon, or when loadingcattle there. Few trains stopped at Misery, a circumstance resented bythe cowboys, who believed the place should be as important to all theworld as it was to them. To show their contempt for this aloof behaviorthey usually raced the trains, frequently outrunning those westwardbound as they labored up the long grade. 

Freight trains especially they took delight in beating, seeing how itnettled the train crews. There was nothing more delightful in anyprogram of amusement that a cowboy could conceive than riding abreast ofa laboring freight engine, the sulky engineer crowding every pound ofpower into the cylinders, the sooty fireman humping his back throwing incoal. Only one triumph would have been sweeter--to outrun the bigpassenger train from Chicago with the brass-fenced car at the end. 

No man ever had done that yet, although many had tried. The engineersall knew what to expect on a Sunday afternoon when they approachedMisery, where the cowboys came through the fence and raced the trains onthe right-of-way. A long, level stretch of soft gray earth, set withbunches of grass here and there, began a mile beyond the station, unmarred by steam-shovel or grader's scraper. A man could ride it withhis eyes shut; a horse could cover it at its best. 

That was the racing ground over which they had contended with theChicago-Puget Sound flier for many years, and a place which engineersand firemen prepared to pass quickly while yet a considerable distanceaway. It was a sight to see the big engine round the curve below, itsplume of smoke rising straight for twenty feet, streaming back like arunning girl's hair, the cowboys all set in their saddles, waiting togo. 

Engineers on the flier were not so sulky about it, knowing that the racewas theirs before it was run. Usually they leaned out of the window andurged the riders on with beckoning, derisive hand, while the firemanstood by grinning, confident of the head of steam he had begun storingfor this emergency far down the road. 

Porters told passengers about these wild horsemen in advance, and eagerfaces lined the windows on that side of the cars as they approachedMisery, and all who could pack on the end of the observation carassembled there. In spite of its name, Misery was quite a comfortablebreak in the day's monotony for travelers on a Sunday afternoon. 

Amid the hardships and scant diversions of this life, Lambert spent hisfirst winter in the Bad Lands, drinking in the noisy revels at Misery, riding the long, bitter miles back to the ranch, despising himself forbeing so mean and low. It was a life in which a man's soul would eithershrink to nothing or expand until it became too large to findcontentment within the horizon of such an existence. 

Some of them expanded up to the size for ranch owners, superintendents, bosses; stopped there, set in their mold. Lambert never had heard ofone stretching so wide that he was drawn out of himself entirely, hiseyes fixed on the far light of a nobler life. He liked to imagine a manso inspired out of the lonely watches, the stormy rides, the battleagainst blizzard and night. 

This train of thought had carried him away that gentle spring day as herode to Misery. He resented the thought that he might have to spend hisyouth as a hired servant in this rough occupation, unremunerative belowthe hope of ever gaining enough to make a start in business for himself. There was no romance in it, for all that had been written, no beautifuldaughter of the ranch owner to be married, and a fortune gained withher. 

Daughters there must be, indeed, among the many stockholders in that bigbusiness, but they were not available in the Bad Lands. Thesuperintendent of the ranch had three or four, born to that estate, fullof loud laughter, ordinary as baled hay. A man would be a loser inmarrying such as they, even with a fortune ready made. 

What better could that rough country offer? People are no gentler thantheir pursuits, no finer than the requirements of their lives. Daughtersof the Bad Lands, such as he had seen of them in the wives to whom heonce had tried to sell the All-in-One, and the superintendent's girlswere not intended for any other life. As for him, if he had to live itout there, with the shadow of a dead man at his heels, he would live italone. So he thought, going on his way to Misery, where there was to beracing that afternoon, and a grand effort to keep up with the Chicagoflier. 

Lambert never had taken part in that longstanding competition. Itappeared to him a senseless expenditure of horseflesh, a childishpursuit of the wind. Yet, foolish as it was, he liked to watch them. There was a thrill in the sweeping start of twenty or thirty horsementhat warmed a man, making him feel as if he must whoop and wave his hat. There was a belief alive among them that some day a man would come whowould run the train neck and neck to the depot platform. 

Not much distinction in it, even so, said he. But it set him musing andconsidering as he rode, his face quickening out of its somber cloud. Alittle while after his arrival at Misery the news went round that theDuke was willing at last to enter the race against the flier. 

True to his peculiarities, the Duke had made conditions. He was willingto race, but only if everybody else would keep out of it and give him aclear and open field. Taterleg Wilson, the bow-legged camp cook of theSyndicate, circulated himself like a petition to gain consent to thisunusual proposal. 

It was asking a great deal of those men to give up their establisheddiversion, no matter how distinguished the man in whose favor they wererequested to stand aside. That Sunday afternoon race had become as mucha fixed institution in the Bad Lands as the railroad itself. With someargument, some bucking and snorting, a considerable cost to Taterleg forliquor and cigars, they agreed to it. Taterleg said he could state, authoritatively, that this would be the Duke's first, last, and onlyride against the flier. It would be worth money to stand off and watchit, he said, and worth putting money on the result. When, where, woulda man ever have a chance to see such a race again? Perhaps never in hislife. 

On time, to a dot, the station agent told the committee headed byTaterleg, which had gone to inquire in the grave and important manner ofmen conducting a ceremony. The committee went back to the saloon, andpressed the Duke to have a drink. He refused, as he had refused politelyand consistently all day. A man could fight on booze, he said, but itwas a mighty poor foundation for business. 

There was a larger crowd in Misery that day than usual for the time ofyear, it being the first general holiday after the winter's hardexactions. In addition to visitors, all Misery turned out to see therace, lining up at the right-of-way fence as far as they would go, whichwas not a great distance along. The saloon-keeper could see the finishfrom his door. On the start of it he was not concerned, but he had moneyup on the end. 

Lambert hadn't as much flesh, by a good many pounds, as he had carriedinto the Bad Lands on his bicycle. One who had known him previouslywould have thought that seven years had passed him, making him overcompletely, indeed, since then. His face was thin, browned andweathered, his body sinewy, its leanness aggravated by its length. Hewas as light in the saddle as a leaf on the wind. 

He was quite a barbaric figure as he waited to mount and ride againstthe train, which could be heard whistling far down the road. Coatless, in flannel shirt, a bright silk handkerchief round his neck; calfskinvest, tanned with the hair on, its color red and white; dressed leatherchaps, a pair of boots that had cost him two-thirds of a month's pay. His hat was like forty others in the crowd, doe-colored, worn with thehigh crown full-standing, a leather thong at the back of the head, thebrim drooping a bit from the weather, so broad that his face lookednarrower and sharper in its shadow. 

Nothing like the full-blooded young aggie who had come into the BadLands to found his fortune a little less than a year before, and aboutas different from him in thought and outlook upon life as in physicalappearance. The psychology of environment is a powerful force. 

A score or more of horsemen were strung out along the course, where theyhad stationed themselves to watch the race at its successive stages, andcheer their champion on his way. At the starting-point the Duke waitedalone; at the station a crowd of cowboys lolled in their saddles, notcaring to make a run to see the finish. 

It was customary for the horsemen who raced the flier to wait on theground until the engine rounded the curve, then mount and settle to therace. It was counted fair, also, owing to the headway the train alreadyhad, to start a hundred yards or so before the engine came abreast, inorder to limber up to the horses' best speed. 

For two miles or more the track ran straight after that curve, Miseryabout the middle of the stretch. In that long, straight reach thebuilders of the road had begun the easement of the stiff grade throughthe hills beyond. It was the beginning of a hard climb, a stretch inwhich west-bound trains gathered headway to carry them over the top. Engines came panting round that curve, laboring with the strain oftheir load, speed reduced half, and dropping a bit lower as theyproceeded up the grade. 

This Sunday, as usual, train crew and passengers were on the lookout forthe game sportsmen of Misery. Already the engineer was leaning out ofhis window, arm extended, ready to give the derisive challenge to comeon as he swept by. 

The Duke was in the saddle, holding in Whetstone with stiff rein, forthe animal was trembling with eagerness to spring away, knowing verywell from the preparations which had been going forward that some bigevent in the lives of his master and himself was pending. The Duke heldhim, looking back over his shoulder, measuring the distance as the traincame sweeping grandly round the curve. He waited until the engine waswithin a hundred feet of him before he loosed rein and let old Whetstonego. 

A yell ran up the line of spectators as the pale yellow horse reachedout his long neck, chin level against the wind like a swimmer, and ranas no horse ever had run on that race-course before. Every horsemanthere knew that the Duke was still holding him in, allowing the trainto creep up on him as if he scorned to take advantage of the handicap. 

The engineer saw that this was going to be a different kind of race fromthe yelling, chattering troop of wild riders which he had beenoutrunning with unbroken regularity. In that yellow streak of horse, that low-bending, bony rider, he saw a possibility of defeat anddisgrace. His head disappeared out of the window, his derisive handvanished. He was turning valves and pulling levers, trying to coax alittle more power into his piston strokes. 

The Duke held Whetstone back until his wind had set to the labor, hismuscles flexed, his sinews stretched to the race. A third of the racewas covered when the engine came neck and neck with the horse, and theengineer, confident now, leaned far out, swinging his hand like the oarof a boat, and shouted:

"Come on! Come on!"

Just a moment too soon this confidence, a moment too soon this defiance. It was the Duke's program to run this thing neck and neck, force toforce, with no advantage asked or taken. Then if he could gather speedand beat the engine on the home stretch no man, on the train or off, could say that he had done it with the advantage of a handicap. 

There was a great whooping, a great thumping of hoofs, a monstrous swirlof dust, as the riders at the side of the race-course saw the Duke'smaneuver and read his intention. Away they swept, a noisy troop, like aflight of blackbirds, hats off, guns popping, in a scramble to get up asclose to the finishing line as possible. 

Never before in the long history of that unique contest had there beenso much excitement. Porters opened the vestibule doors, allowingpassengers to crowd the steps; windows were opened, heads thrust out, every tongue urging the horseman on with cheers. 

The Duke was riding beside the engineer, not ten feet between them. Morethan half the course was run, and there the Duke hung, the engine notgaining an inch. The engineer was on his feet now, hand on the throttlelever, although it was open as wide as it could be pulled. The firemanwas throwing coal into the furnace, looking round over his shoulder nowand then at the persistent horseman who would not be outrun, his eyeswhite in his grimy face. 

On the observation car women hung over the rail at the side, wavinghandkerchiefs at the rider's back; along the fence the inhabitants ofMisery broke away like leaves before a wind and went running toward thedepot; ahead of the racing horse and engine the mounted men who hadtaken a big start rode on toward the station in a wild, deliriouscharge. 

Neck and neck with the engine old Whetstone ran, throwing his long legslike a wolf-hound, his long neck stretched, his ears flat, not leaving ahair that he could control outstanding to catch the wind. The engineerwas peering ahead with fixed eyes now, as if he feared to look again onthis puny combination of horse and man that was holding its own in thisunequal trial of strength. 

Within three hundred yards of the station platform, which sloped down atthe end like a continuation of the course, the Duke touched oldWhetstone's neck with the tips of his fingers. As if he had given asignal upon which they had agreed, the horse gathered power, grunting ashe used to grunt in the days of his outlawry, and bounded away from thecab window, where the greasy engineer stood with white face and set jaw. 

Yard by yard the horse gained, his long mane flying, his long tailastream, foam on his lips, forging past the great driving wheels whichground against the rails; past the swinging piston; past the powerfulblack cylinders; past the stubby pilot, advancing like a shadow over thetrack. When Whetstone's hoofs struck the planks of the platform, markingthe end of the course, he was more than the length of the engine in thelead. 

The Duke sat there waving his hand solemnly to those who cheered him asthe train swept past, the punchers around him lifting up a joyful chorusof shots and shouts, showing off on their own account to a considerableextent, but sincere over all because of the victory that the Duke hadwon. 

Old Whetstone was standing where he had stopped, within a few feet ofthe track, front hoofs on the boards of the platform, not more thannicely warmed up for another race, it appeared. As the observation carpassed, a young woman leaned over the rail, handkerchief reached out tothe Duke as if trying to give it to him. 

He saw her only a second before she passed, too late to make even afutile attempt to possess the favor of her appreciation. She laughed, waving it to him, holding it out as if in challenge for him to come andtake it. Without wasting a precious fragment of a second in hesitationthe Duke sent Whetstone thundering along the platform in pursuit of thetrain. 

It seemed a foolish thing to do, and a risky venture, for the platformwas old, its planks were weak in places. It was not above a hundred feetlong, and beyond it only a short stretch of right-of-way until thepublic road crossed the track, the fence running down to the cattleguard, blocking his hope of overtaking the train. 

More than that, the train was picking up speed, as if the engineerwanted to get out of sight and hearing of that demonstrative crowd, andput his humiliation behind him as quickly as possible. No man's horsecould make a start with planks under his feet, run two hundred yardsand overtake that train, no matter what the inducement. That was thethought of every man who sat a saddle there and stretched his neck towitness this unparalleled streak of folly. 

If Whetstone had run swiftly in the first race, he fairly whistledthrough the air like a wild duck in the second. Before he had run thelength of the platform he had gained on the train, his nose almost evenwith the brass railing over which the girl leaned, the handkerchief inher hand. Midway between the platform and the cattle guard they saw theDuke lean in his saddle and snatch the white favor from her hand. 

The people on the train end cheered this feat of quick resolution, quicker action. But the girl whose handkerchief the Duke had won onlyleaned on the railing, holding fast with both hands, as if she offeredher lips to be kissed, and looked at him with a pleasure in her facethat he could read as the train bore her onward into the West. 

The Duke sat there with his hat in his hand, gazing after her, only herstraining face in his vision, centered out of the dust and wideningdistance like a star that a man gazes on to fix his course before it isoverwhelmed by clouds. 

The Duke sat watching after her, the train reducing the distance like avision that melts out of the heart with a sigh. She raised her hand asthe dust closed in the wake of the train. He thought she beckoned him. 

So she came, and went, crossing his way in the Bad Lands in that hour ofhis small triumph, and left her perfumed token of appreciation in hishand. The Duke put it away in the pocket of his shirt beneath thecalfskin vest, the faint delicacy of its perfume rising to his nostrilslike the elusive scent of a violet for which one searches the woodlandand cannot find. 

The dusty hills had gulped the train that carried her before the Dukerode round the station and joined his noisy comrades. Everybody shookhands with him, everybody invited him to have a drink. He put themoff--friend, acquaintance, stranger, on their pressing invitation todrink--with the declaration that his horse came first in hisconsideration. After he had put Whetstone in the livery barn and fedhim, he would join them for a round, he said. 

They trooped into the saloon to square their bets, the Duke going hisway to the barn. There they drank and grew noisier than before, to comeout from time to time, mount their horses, gallop up and down the roadthat answered Misery for a street, and shoot good ammunition into theharmless air. 

Somebody remarked after a while that the Duke was a long time feedingthat horse. Taterleg and others went to investigate. He had not beenthere, the keeper of the livery barn said. A further look aroundexhausted all the possible hiding-places of Misery. The Duke was notthere. 

"Well, " said Taterleg, puzzled, "I guess he's went. "

CHAPTER V

FEET UPON THE ROAD

"I always thought I'd go out West, but somehow I never got around toit, " Taterleg said. "How far do you aim to go, Duke?"

"As far as the notion takes me, I guess. "

It was about a month after the race that this talk between Taterleg andthe Duke took place, on a calm afternoon in a camp far from the site ofthat one into which the peddler of cutlery had trundled his disabledbicycle a year before. The Duke had put off his calfskin vest, theweather being too hot for it. Even Taterleg had made sacrifices toappearance in favor of comfort, his piratical corduroys being replacedby overalls. 

The Duke had quit his job, moved by the desire to travel on and see theworld, he said. He said no word to any man about the motive behind thatdesire, very naturally, for he was not the kind of a man who opened thedoor of his heart. But to himself he confessed the hunger for anunknown face, for the lure of an onward-beckoning hand which he was nolonger able to ignore. 

Since that day she had strained over the brass railing of the car tohold him in her sight until the curtain of dust intervened, he had felther call urging him into the West, the strength of her beckoning handdrawing him the way she had gone, to search the world for her and findher on some full and glorious day. 

"Was you aimin' to sell Whetstone and go on the train, Duke?"

"No, I'm not goin' to sell him yet a while. "

The Duke was not a talkative man on any occasion, and now he sat insilence watching the cook kneading out a batch of bread, his thoughts athousand miles away. 

Where, indeed, would the journey that he was shaping in his intentionthat minute carry him? Somewhere along the railroad between there andPuget Sound the beckoning lady had left the train; somewhere on thatlong road between mountain and sea she was waiting for him to come. 

Taterleg stood his loaves in the sun to rise for the oven, making aconsiderable rattling about the stove as he put in the fire. A silencefell. 

Lambert was waiting for his horse to rest a few hours, and, waiting, hesent his dreams ahead of him where his feet could not follow save byweary roads and slow. 

Between Misery and the end of that railroad at the western sea therewere many villages, a few cities. A passenger might alight from theChicago flier at any of them, and be absorbed in the vastness like adrop of water in the desert plain. How was he to know where she had leftthe train, or whither she had turned afterward, or journeyed, or whereshe lodged now? It seemed beyond finding out. Assuredly it was a tasktoo great for the life of youth, so evanescent in the score of time, even though so long and heavy to those impatient dreamers who drawthemselves onward by its golden chain to the cold, harsh facts of age. 

It was a foolish quest, a hopeless one. So reason said. Romance andyouth, and the longing that he could not define, rose to confute thissober argument, flushed and eager, violet scent blowing before. 

Who could tell? and perhaps; rash speculations, faint promises. Theworld was not so broad that two might never meet in it whose ways hadtouched for one heart-throb and sundered again in a sigh. All his lifehe had been hearing that it was a small place, after all was said. Perhaps, and who can tell? And so, galloping onward in the free leash ofhis ardent dreams. 

"When was you aimin' to start, Duke?" Taterleg inquired, after a silenceso long that Lambert had forgotten he was there. 

"In about another hour. "

"I wasn't tryin' to hurry you off, Duke. My reason for askin' you wasbecause I thought maybe I might be able to go along with you a piece ofthe way, if you don't object to my kind of company. "

"Why, you're not goin' to jump the job, are you?"

"Yes, I've been thinkin' it over, and I've made up my mind to draw mytime tonight. If you'll put off goin' till mornin', I'll start withyou. We can travel together till our roads branch, anyhow. "

"I'll be glad to wait for you, old feller. I didn't know--which way----"

"Wyoming, " said Taterleg, sighing. "It's come back on me ag'in. "

"Well, a feller has to rove and ramble, I guess. "

Taterleg sighed, looking off westward with dreamy eyes. "Yes, if he'sgot a girl pullin' on his heart, " said he. 

The Duke started as if he had been accused, his secret read, his soullaid bare; he felt the blood burn in his face, and mount to his eyeslike a drift of smoke. But Taterleg was unconscious of this suddenembarrassment, this flash of panic for the thing which the Duke believedlay so deep in his heart no man could ever find it out and laugh at itor make gay over the scented romance. Taterleg was still looking off ina general direction that was westward, a little south of west. 

"She's in Wyoming, " said Taterleg; "a lady I used to rush out in GreatBend, Kansas, a long time ago. "

"Oh, " said the Duke, relieved and interested. "How long ago was that?"

"Over four years, " sighed Taterleg, as if it might have been a quarterof a century. 

"Not so very long, Taterleg. "

"Yes, but a lot of fellers can court a girl in four years, Duke. "

The Duke thought it over a spell. "Yes, I reckon they can, " he allowed. "Don't she ever write to you?"

"I guess I'm more to blame than she is on that, Duke. She _did_ write, but I was kind of sour and dropped her. It's hard to git away from, though; it's a-comin' over me ag'in. I might 'a' been married andsettled down with that girl now, me and her a-runnin' a oyster parlor insome good little railroad town, if it hadn't 'a' been for a Welshmanname of Elwood. He was a stonecutter, that Elwood feller was, Duke, workin' on bridge 'butments on the Santa Fé. That feller told her I wasmarried and had four children; he come between us and bust us up. "

"Wasn't he onery!" said the Duke, feelingly. 

"I was chef in the hotel where that girl worked waitin' table, drawin'down good money, and savin' it, too. But that derned Welshman got aroundher and she growed cold. When she left Great Bend she went to Wyoming totake a job--Lander was the town she wrote from, I can put my finger onit in the map with my eyes shut. I met her when she was leavin' for thedepot, draggin' along with her grip and no Welshman in a mile of her togive her a hand. I went up and tipped my hat, but I never smiled, Duke, for I was sour over the way that girl she'd treated me. I just took holdof that grip and carried it to the depot for her and tipped my hat toher once more. 'You're a gentleman, whatever they say of you, Mr. Wilson, ' she said. "

"_She_ did?"

"She did, Duke. 'You're a gentleman, Mr. Wilson, whatever they say ofyou, ' she said. Them was her words, Duke. 'Farewell to _you_, ' I said, distant and high-mighty, for I was hurt, Duke--I was hurt right down tothe bone. "

"I bet you was, old feller. "

"'Farewell to _you_, ' I says, and the tears come in her eyes, and shesays to me--wipin' 'em on a han'kerchief I give her, nothing anyWelshman ever done for her, and you can bank on that Duke--she says tome: 'I'll always think of you as a gentleman, Mr. Wilson. ' I wasn't ontowhat that Welshman told her then; I didn't know the straight of it tillshe wrote and told me after she got to Wyoming. "

"It was too bad, old feller. "

"Wasn't it hell? I was so sore when she wrote, the way she'd believedthat little sawed-off snorter with rock dust in his hair, I neveranswered that letter for a long time. Well, I got another letter fromher about a year after that. She was still in the same place, doin'well. Her name was Nettie Morrison. "

"Maybe it is yet, Taterleg. "

"Maybe. I've been a-thinkin' I'd go out there and look her up, and ifshe ain't married, me and her we might let bygones _be_ bygones andhitch. I could open a oyster parlor out there on the dough I've savedup; I'd dish 'em up and she'd wait on the table and take in the money. We'd do well, Duke. "

"I _bet_ you would. "

"I got the last letter she wrote--I'll let you see it, Duke. "

Taterleg made a rummaging in the chuck wagon, coming out presently withthe letter. He stood contemplating it with tender eye. 

"Some writer, ain't she, Duke?"

"She sure is a fine writer, Taterleg--writes like a schoolma'am. "

"She can talk like one, too. See--'Lander, Wyo. ' It's a little townabout as big as my hat, from the looks of it on the map, standin' awayoff up there alone. I could go to it with my eyes shut, straight as abee. "

"Why don't you write to her, Taterleg?" The Duke could scarcely keepback a smile, so diverting he found this affair of the Welshman, thewaitress, and the cook. More comedy than romance, he thought, Taterlegon one side of the fence, that girl on the other. 

"I've been a-squarin' off to write, " Taterleg replied, "but I don't seemto git the time. " He opened his vest to put the letter away close to hisheart, it seemed, that it might remind him of his intention and squarehim quite around to the task. But there was no pocket on the sidecovering his heart. Taterleg put the letter next his lung as thenearest approach to that sentimental portion of his anatomy, and sighedlong and loud as he buttoned his garment. 

"You said you'd put off goin' till mornin', Duke?"

"Sure I will. "

"I'll throw my things in a sack and be ready to hit the breeze with youafter breakfast. I can write back to the boss for my time. "

 * * * * *

Morning found them on the road together, the sun at their backs. Taterleg was as brilliant as a humming-bird, even to his belt andscabbard, which had a great many silver tacks driven into them, repeating the letters LW in great characters and small. He said theletters were the initials of his name. 

"Lawrence?" the Duke ventured to inquire. 

Taterleg looked round him with great caution before answering, althoughthey were at least fifteen miles from camp, and farther than that fromthe next human habitation. He lowered his voice, rubbing his handreflectively along the glittering ornaments of his belt. 

"Lovelace, " he said. 

"Not a bad name. "

"It ain't no name for a cook, " Taterleg said, almost vindictively. "You're the first man I ever told it to, and I'll ask you not to pass iton. I used to go by the name of Larry before they called me Taterleg. Igot that name out here in the Bad Lands; it suits _me_, all right. "

"It's a queer kind of a name to call a man by. How did they come to giveit to you?"

"Well, sir, I give myself that name, you might say, when you come tofigger it down to cases. I was breakin' a horse when I first come outhere four years ago, headin' at that time for Wyoming. He throwed me. When I didn't hop him ag'in, the boys come over to see if I was busted. When they asked me if I was hurt, I says, 'He snapped my dern old leglike a 'tater. ' And from that day on they called me Taterleg. Yes, and Iguess I'd 'a' been in Wyoming now, maybe with a oyster parlor and awife, if it hadn't been for that blame horse. " He paused reminiscently;then he said:

"Where was you aimin' to camp tonight, Duke?"

"Where does the flier stop after it passes Misery, going west?"

"It stops for water at Glendora, about fifty or fifty-five miles west, sometimes. I've heard 'em say if a feller buys a ticket for there inChicago, it'll let him off. But I don't guess it stops there regular. Why, Duke? Was you aimin' to take the flier there?"

"No. We'll stop there tonight, then, if your horse can make it. "

"Make it! If he can't I'll eat him raw. He's made seventy-five many atime before today. "

So they fared on that first day, in friendly converse. At sunset theydrew up on a mesa, high above the treeless, broken country through whichthey had been riding all day, and saw Glendora in the valley below them. 

"There she is, " said Taterleg. "I wonder what we're goin' to run intodown, there?"

CHAPTER VI

ALLUREMENTS OF GLENDORA

In a bend of the Little Missouri, where it broadened out and took on theappearance of a consequential stream, Glendora lay, a lonely littlevillage with a gray hill behind it. 

There was but half a street in Glendora, like a setting for a stage, therailroad in the foreground, the little sun-baked station crouching byit, lonely as the winds which sung by night in the telegraph wirescrossing its roof. Here the trains went by with a roar, leaving behindthem a cloud of gray dust like a curtain to hide from the eyes of thosewho strained from their windows to see the little that remained ofGlendora, once a place of more consequence than today. 

Only enough remained of the town to live by its trade. There was enoughflour in the store, enough whisky in the saloon; enough stamps in thepost office, enough beds in the hotel, to satisfy with comfort thedemands of the far-stretching population of the country contiguousthereto. But if there had risen an extraordinary occasion bringing ademand without notice for a thousand pounds more of flour, a barrel moreof whisky, a hundred more stamps or five extra beds, Glendora would havefallen under the burden and collapsed in disgrace. 

Close by the station there were cattle pens for loading stock, with twolong tracks for holding the cars. In autumn fat cattle were driven downout of the hidden valleys to entrain there for market. In those daysthere was merriment after nightfall in Glendora. At other times it wasmainly a quiet place, the shooting that was done on its one-sided streetbeing of a peaceful nature in the way of expressing a feeling for whichsome plain-witted, drunken cowherder had no words. 

A good many years before the day that the Duke and Taterleg came ridinginto Glendora, the town had supported more than one store and saloon. The shells of these dead enterprises stood there still, windows anddoors boarded up, as if their owners had stopped their mouths when theywent away to prevent a whisper of the secrets they might tell of the oldriotous nights, or of fallen hopes, or dishonest transactions. So theystood now in their melancholy, backs against the gray hill, giving toGlendora the appearance of a town that was more than half dead, and soonmust fail and pass utterly away in the gray-blowing clouds of dust. 

The hotel seemed the brightest and soundest living spot in the place, for it was painted in green, like a watermelon, with a cottonwood treegrowing beside the pump at the porch corner. In yellow letters upon thewindowpane of the office there appeared the proprietor's name, doubtlessthe work of some wandering artist who had paid the price of his lodgingor his dinner so. 

 ORSON WOOD, PROP. 

said the sign, bedded in curlicues and twisted ornaments, as if acarpenter had planed the letters out of a board, leaving the shavingswhere they fell. A green rustic bench stood across one end of the longporch, such as is seen in boarding-houses frequented by railroad men, and chairs with whittled and notched arms before the office door, nearthe pump. 

Into this atmosphere there had come, many years before, one of thoseinnocents among men whose misfortune it is to fall before thebeguilements of the dishonest; that sort of man whom the promoters ofschemes go out to catch in the manner of an old maid trapping flies in acup of suds. Milton Philbrook was this man. Somebody had sold him fortythousand acres of land in a body for three dollars an acre. It began atthe river and ran back to the hills for a matter of twenty miles. 

Philbrook bought the land on the showing that it was rich in coaldeposits. Which was true enough. But he was not geologist enough to knowthat it was only lignite, and not a coal of commercial value in thosetimes. This truth he came to later, together with the knowledge that hisland was worth, at the most extravagant valuation, not more than fiftycents an acre. 

Finding no market for his brown coal, Philbrook decided to adopt thecustoms of the country and turn cattleman. A little inquiry into thatbusiness convinced him that the expenses of growing the cattle and thelong distance from market absorbed a great bulk of the profitsneedlessly. He set about with the original plan, therefore, of fencinghis forty thousand acres with wire, thus erasing at one bold stroke thecost of hiring men to guard his herds. 

A fence in the Bad Lands was unknown outside a corral in those days. When carloads of barbed wire and posts began to arrive at Glendora mencame riding in for miles to satisfy themselves that the rumors werefounded; when Philbrook hired men to build the fence, and operationswere begun, murmurs and threats against the unwelcome innovation wereheard. Philbrook pushed the work to conclusion, unmindful of thethreats, moved now by the intention of founding a great, baronial estatein that bleak land. His further plan of profit and consequence was toestablish a packing-house at Glendora, where his herds could beslaughtered and dressed and shipped neat to market, at once assuring hima double profit and reduced expense. But that was one phase of his dreamthat never hardened into the reality of machinery and bricks. 

While the long lines of fence were going up, carpenters were at workbuilding a fit seat for Philbrook's baronial aims. The point he chosefor his home site was the top of a bare plateau overlooking the river, the face of it gray, crumbling shale, rising three hundred feet inabrupt slope from the water's edge. At great labor and expense Philbrookbuilt a road between Glendora and this place, and carried water in pipesfrom the river to irrigate the grass, trees, shrubs and blooming plantsalien to that country which he planted to break the bleakness of it andmake a setting for his costly home. 

Here on this jutting shoulder of the cold, unfriendly upland, a houserose which was the wonder of all who beheld it as they rode the wilddistances and viewed it from afar. It seemed a mansion to them, itswalls gleaming white, its roof green as the hope in its builder'sbreast. It was a large house, and seemed larger for its prominenceagainst the sky, built in the shape of a T, with wide porches in theangles. And to this place, upon which he had lavished what remained ofhis fortune, Philbrook brought his wife and little daughter, as strangeto their surroundings as the delicate flowers which pined and drooped inthat unfriendly soil. 

Immediately upon completion of his fences he had imported well-bredcattle and set them grazing within his confines. He set men to riding bynight and day a patrol of his long lines of wire, rifles under theirthighs, with orders to shoot anybody found cutting the fences inaccordance with the many threats to serve them so. Contentions and feudsbegan, and battles and bloody encounters, which did not cease throughmany a turbulent year. Philbrook lived in the saddle, for he was a manof high courage and unbending determination, leaving his wife and childin the suspense and solitude of their grand home in which they found nopleasure. 

The trees and shrubs which Philbrook had planted with such care andattended with such hope, withered on the bleak plateau and died, inspite of the water from the river; the delicate grass with which hesought to beautify and clothe the harsh gray soil sickened and pinedaway; the shrubs made a short battle against the bleakness of winter, putting out pale, strange flowers like the wan smile of a woman whostands on the threshold of death, then failed away, and died. Mrs. Philbrook broke under the long strain of never-ending battles, and diedthe spring that her daughter came eighteen years of age. 

This girl had grown up in the saddle, a true daughter of her fightingsire. Time and again she had led a patrol of two fence-riders along oneside of that sixty square miles of ranch while her father guarded theother. She could handle firearms with speed and accuracy equal to anyman on the range, where she had been bearing a man's burden since herearly girlhood. 

All this information pertaining to the history of Milton Philbrook andhis adventures in the Bad Lands, Orson Wood, the one-armed landlord atthe hotel in Glendora told Lambert on the evening of the travelers'arrival there. The story had come as the result of questions concerningthe great white house on the mesa, the two men sitting on the porch inplain view of it, Taterleg entertaining the daughter of the hotelacross the show case in the office. 

Lambert found the story more interesting than anything he ever hadimagined of the Bad Lands. Here was romance looking down on him from thelonely walls of that white house, and heroism of a finer kind than thesepeople appreciated, he was sure. 

"Is the girl still here?" he inquired. 

"Yes, she's back now. She's been away to school in Boston for three orfour years, comin' back in summer for a little while. "

"When did she come back?"

Lambert felt that his voice was thick as he inquired, disturbed by theeager beating of his heart. Who knows? and perhaps, and all the rest ofit came galloping to him with a roar of blood in his ears like the soundof a thousand hoofs. The landlord called over his shoulder to hisdaughter:

"Alta, when did Vesta Philbrook come back?"

"Four or five weeks ago, " said Alta, with the sound of chewing gum. 

"Four or five weeks ago, " the landlord repeated, as though Alta spoke aforeign tongue and must be translated. 

"I see, " said Lambert, vaguely, shaking to the tips of his fingers witha kind of buck ague that he never had suffered from before. He wasafraid the landlord would notice it, and slewed his chair, getting outhis tobacco to cover the fool spell. 

For that was she, Vesta Philbrook was she, and she was Vesta Philbrook. He knew it as well as he knew that he could count ten. Something had ledhim there that day; the force that was shaping the course of their twolives to cross again had held him back when he had considered sellinghis horse and going West a long distance on the train. He grew calmerwhen he had his cigarette alight. The landlord was talking again. 

"Funny thing about Vesta comin' home, too, " he said, and stopped alittle, as if to consider the humor of it. Lambert looked at him with asudden wrench of the neck. 

"Which?"

"Philbrook's luck held out, it looked like, till she got through hereducation. All through the fights he had and the scrapes he run intothe last ten years he never got a scratch. Bullets used to hum aroundthat man like bees, and he'd ride through 'em like they _was_ bees, butnone of 'em ever notched him. Curious, wasn't it?"

"Did somebody get him at last?"

"No, he took typhoid fever. He took down about a week or ten days afterVesta got home. He died about a couple of week ago. Vesta had him laidbeside her mother up there on the hill. He said they'd never run him outof this country, livin' or dead. "

Lambert swallowed a dry lump. 

"Is she running the ranch?"

"Like an old soldier, sir. I tell you, I've got a whole lot ofadmiration for that girl. "

"She must have her hands full. "

"Night and day. She's short on fence-riders, and I guess if you boys arelookin' for a job you can land up there with Vesta, all right. "

Taterleg and the girl came out and sat on the green rustic bench at thefarther end of the porch. It complained under them; there was talk andlow giggling. 

"We didn't expect to strike anything this soon, " Lambert said, hisactive mind leaping ahead to shape new romance like a magician. 

"You don't look like the kind of boys that'd shy from a job if it jumpedout in the road ahead of you. "

"I'd hate for folks to think we would. "

"Ain't you the feller they call; the Duke of Chimney Butte?"

"They call me that in this country. "

"Yes; I knew that horse the minute you rode up, though he's changed forthe better wonderful since I saw him last, and I knew you from thedescriptions I've heard of you. Vesta'd give you a job in a minute, andshe'd pay you good money, too. I wouldn't wonder if she didn't put youin as foreman right on the jump, account of the name you've got up herein the Bad Lands. "

"Not much to my credit in the name, I'm afraid, " said Lambert, almostsadly. "Do they still cut her fences and run off her stock?"

"Yes; rustlin's got to be stylish around here ag'in, after we thought wehad all them gangs rounded up and sent to the pen. I guess some of theirtime must be up and they're comin' home. "

"It's pretty tough for a single-handed girl. "

"Yes, it is tough. Them fellers are more than likely some of the oldcrowd Philbrook used to fight and round up and send over the road. Hekilled off four or five of them, and the rest of them swore they'd salthim when they'd done their time. Well, he's gone. But they're not abovefightin' a girl. "

"It's a tough job for a woman, " said Lambert, looking thoughtfullytoward the white house on the mesa. 

"Ain't it, though?"

Lambert thought about it a while, or appeared to be thinking about it, sitting with bent head, smoking silently, looking now and then towardthe ranchhouse, the lights of which could be seen. Alta came across theporch presently, Taterleg attending her like a courtier. She dismissedhim at the door with an excuse of deferred duties within. He joined histhoughtful partner. 

"Better go up and see her in the morning, " suggested Wood, the landlord. 

"I think I will, thank you. "

Wood went in to sell a cowboy a cigar; the partners started out to havea look at Glendora by moonlight. A little way they walked in silence, the light of the barber-shop falling across the road ahead of them. 

"See who in the morning, Duke?" Taterleg inquired. 

"Lady in the white house on the mesa. Her father died a few weeks ago, and left her alone with a big ranch on her hands. Rustlers are runnin'her cattle off, cuttin' her fences----"

"Fences?"

"Yes, forty thousand acres all fenced in, like Texas. "

"You don't tell me?"

"Needs men, Wood says. I thought maybe----"

The Duke didn't finish it; just left it swinging that way, expectingTaterleg to read the rest. 

"Sure, " said Taterleg, taking it right along. "I wouldn't mind stayin'around here a while. Glendora's a nice little place; nicer place than Ithought it was. "

The Duke said nothing. But as they went on toward the barber-shop hegrinned. 

CHAPTER VII

THE HOMELIEST MAN

That brilliant beam falling through the barber's open door anduncurtained window came from a new lighting device, procured from aChicago mail-order house. It was a gasoline lamp that burned with a gasmantle, swinging from the ceiling, flooding the little shop with agreenish light. 

It gave a ghastly hue of death to the human face, but it would light upthe creases and wrinkles of the most weathered neck that came under thebarber's blade. That was the main consideration, for most of thebarber's work was done by night, that trade--or profession, as those whopursue it unfailingly hold it to be--being a side line in connectionwith his duties as station agent. He was a progressive citizen, and nograss grew under his feet, no hair under his hand. 

At the moment that the Duke and Taterleg entered the barber'sfar-reaching beam, some buck of the range was stretched in the chair. The customer was a man of considerable length and many angles, a shornappearance about his face, especially his big, bony nose, that seemed totell of a mustache sacrificed in the operation just then drawing to aclose. 

Taterleg stopped short at sight of the long legs drawn up like a sharpgable to get all of them into the chair, the immense nose raking theceiling like a double-barreled cannon, the morgue-tinted light givinghim the complexion of a man ready for his shroud. He touched Lambert'sarm to check him and call his attention. 

"Look in there--look at that feller, Duke! There he is; there's the manI've been lookin' for ever since I was old enough to vote. I didn'tbelieve there was any such a feller; but there he is!"

"What feller? Who is he?"

"The feller that's uglier than me. Dang his melts, there he is! I'mgoing to ask him for his picture, so I'll have the proof to show. "

Taterleg was at an unaccountable pitch of spirits. Adventure had takenhold of him like liquor. He made a start for the door as if to carry outhis expressed intention in all earnestness. Lambert stopped him. 

"He might not see the joke, Taterleg. "

"He couldn't refuse a man a friendly turn like that, Duke. Look at him!What's that feller rubbin' on him, do you reckon?"

"Ointment of some kind, I guess. "

Taterleg stood with his bow legs so wide apart that a barrel could havebeen pitched between them, watching the operation within the shop withthe greatest enjoyment. 

"Goose grease, with _pre_-fume in it that cuts your breath. Look at thatfeller shut his eyes and stretch his derned old neck! Just like a calfwhen you rub him under the chin. Look at him--did you ever see anythingto match it?"

"Come on--let the man alone. "

"Wrinkle remover, beauty restorer, " said Taterleg, not moving forward aninch upon his way. While he seemed to be struck with admiration for theprocess of renovation, there was an unmistakable jeer in his tone whichthe barber resented by a fierce look. 

"You're goin' to get into trouble if you don't shut up, " Lambertcautioned. 

"Look at him shut his old eyes and stretch his neck! Ain't it thesweetest----"

The man in the chair lifted himself in sudden grimness, sat up frombetween the barber's massaging hands, which still held their pose likesome sort of brace, turned a threatening look into the road. If half hisface was sufficient to raise the declaration from Taterleg that the manwas uglier than he, all of it surely proclaimed him the homeliest man inthe nation. His eyes were red, as from some long carousal, their lidsheavy and slow, his neck was long, and inflamed like an old gobbler'swhen he inflates himself with his impotent rage. 

He looked hard at the two men, so sour in his wrath, so comical in hisunmatched ugliness, that Lambert could not restrain a most unusual andgenerous grin. Taterleg bared his head, bowing low, not a smile, not aripple of a smile, on his face. 

"Mister, I take off my hat to you, " he said. 

"Yes, and I'll take your fool head off the first time I meet you!" theman returned. He let himself back into the barber's waiting hands, agrowl deep in him, surly as an old dog that has been roused out of hisplace in the middle of the road. 

"General, I wouldn't hurt you for a purty, I wouldn't change your looksfor a dollar bill, " said Taterleg. 

"Wait till I git out of this chair!" the customer threatened, voicesmothered in the barber's hands. 

"I guess he's not a dangerous man--lucky for you, " said Lambert. He drewTaterleg away; they went on. 

The allurements of Glendora were no more dazzling by night than by day. There was not much business in the saloon, there being few visitors intown, no roistering, no sounds of uncurbed gaiety. Formerly there hadbeen a dance-hall in connection with the saloon, but that branch of thebusiness had failed through lack of patronage long ago. The bar stood inthe front of the long, cheerless room, a patch of light over and aroundit, the melancholy furniture of its prosperous days dim in the gloombeyond. 

Lambert and Taterleg had a few drinks to show their respect for theinstitutions of the country, and went back to the hotel. Somebody hadtaken Taterleg's place beside Alta on the green bench. It was a man whospoke with rumbling voice like the sound of an empty wagon on a rockyroad. Lambert recognized the intonation at once. 

"It looks to me like there's trouble ahead for you, Mr. Wilson, " hesaid. 

"I'll take that feller by the handle on his face and bust him ag'in' atree like a gourd, " Taterleg said, not in boasting manner, but in theeven and untroubled way of a man stating a fact. 

"If there was any tree. "

"I'll slam him ag'in' a rock; I'll bust him like a oyster. "

"I think we'd better go to bed without a fight, if we can. "

"I'm willin'; but I'm not goin' around by the back door to miss thatfeller. "

They came up the porch into the light that fell weakly from the officedown the steps. There was a movement of feet beside the green bench, anexclamation, a swift advance on the part of the big-nosed man who hadafforded amusement for Taterleg in the barber's chair. 

"You little bench-leggid fiste, if you've got gall enough to say oneword to a man's face, say it!" he challenged. 

Alta came after him, quickly, with pacific intent. She was a tall girl, not very well filled out, like an immature bean pod. Her heavy blackhair was cut in a waterfall of bangs which came down to her eyebrows, the rest of it done up behind in loops like sausages, and fastened witha large, red ribbon. She had put off her apron, and stood forth inwhite, her sleeves much shorter than the arms which reached out of them, rings on her fingers which looked as if they would leave their shadowsbehind. 

"Now, Mr. Jedlick, I don't want you to go raisin' no fuss around herewith the guests, " she said. 

"Jedlick!" repeated Taterleg, turning to Lambert with a pained, depressed look on his face. "It sounds like something you blow in tomake a noise. "

The barber's customer was a taller man standing than he was long lying. There wasn't much clearance between his head and the ceiling of theporch. He stood before Taterleg glowing, his hat off, his short-cut hairglistening with pomatum, showing his teeth like a vicious horse. 

"You look like you was cut out with a can-opener, " he sneered. 

"Maybe I was, and I've got rough edges on me, " Taterleg returned, looking up at him with calculative eye. 

"Now, Mr. Jedlick"--a hand on his arm, but confident of the force of it, like a lady animal trainer in a cage of lions--"you come on over hereand set down and leave that gentleman alone. "

"If anybody but you'd 'a' said it, Alta, I'd 'a' told him he was aliar, " Jedlick growled. He moved his foot to go with her, stopped, snarled at Taterleg again. "I used to roll 'em in flour and swaller 'emwith the feathers on, " said he. 

"You're a terrible rough feller, ain't you?" Taterleg inquired withcutting sarcasm. 

Alta led Jedlick off to his corner; Taterleg and Lambert entered thehotel office. 

"Gee, but this is a windy night!" said the Duke, holding his hat on withboth hands. 

"I'll let some of the wind out of him if he monkeys with me!"

"Looks to me like I know another feller that an operation wouldn'thurt, " the Duke remarked, turning a sly eye on his friend. 

The landlord appeared with a lamp to light them to their beds, puttingan end to these exchanges of threat and banter. As he was leaving themto their double-barreled apartment, Lambert remarked:

"That man Jedlick's an interesting-lookin' feller. "

"Ben Jedlick? Yes, Ben's a case; he's quite a case. "

"What business does he foller?"

"Ben? Ben's cook on Pat Sullivan's ranch up the river; one of the bestcamp cooks in the Bad Lands, and I guess the best known, without anydoubt. "

Taterleg sat down on the side of his bed as if he had been punctured, indeed, lopping forward in mock attitude of utter collapse as thelandlord closed the door. 

"Cook! That settles it for me; I've turned the last flapjack I'll everturn for any man but myself. "

"How will you manage the oyster parlor?"

"Well, I've just about give up that notion, Duke. I've been thinkin'I'll stick to the range and go in the sheep business. "

"I expect it would be a good move, old feller. "

"They're goin' into it around here, they tell me. "

"Alta tells you. "

"Oh, you git out! But I'm a cowman right now, and I'm goin' to stay onefor some little time to come. It don't take much intelligence in a manto ride fence. "

"No; I guess we could both pass on that. "

The Duke blew the lamp out with his hat. There was silence, all but thescuffing sound of disrobing. Taterleg spoke out of bed. 

"That girl's got purty eyes, ain't she?"

"Lovely eyes, Taterleg. "

"And purty hair, too. Makes a feller want to lean over and pat thatlittle row of bangs. "

"I expect there's a feller down there doin' it now. "

The spring complained under Taterleg's sudden movement; there was asound of swishing legs under the sheet. Lambert saw him dimly againstthe window, sitting with his feet on the floor. 

"You mean Jedlick?"

"Why not Jedlick? He's got the field to himself. "

Taterleg sat a little while thinking about it. Presently he resumed hisrepose, chuckling a choppy little laugh. 

"Jedlick! Jedlick ain't got no more show than a cow. When a lady stepsin and takes a man's part there's only one answer, Duke. And she calledme a gentleman, too. Didn't you hear her call me a gentleman, Duke?"

"I seem to remember that somebody else called you that one time. "

Taterleg hadn't any reply at once. Lambert lay there grinning in thedark. No matter how sincere Taterleg might have been in this or anyother affair, to the Duke it was only a joke. That is the attitude ofmost men toward the tender vagaries of others. No romance ever isserious but one's own. 

"Well, that happened a good while ago, " said Taterleg defensively. 

But memories didn't trouble him much that night. Very soon he wassleeping, snoring on the _G_ string with unsparing pressure. For Lambertthere was no sleep. He lay in a fever of anticipation. Tomorrow heshould see her, his quest ended almost as soon as begun. 

There was not one stick of fuel for the flame of this conjecture, notone reasonable justification for his more than hope. Only something hadflashed to him that the girl in the house on the mesa was she whom hissoul sought, whose handkerchief was folded in his pocketbook and carriedwith his money. He would take no counsel from reason, no denial fromfate. 

He lay awake seeing visions when he should have been asleep in the midstof legitimate dreams. A score of plans for serving her came up forexamination, a hundred hopes for a happy culmination of this greenromance budded, bloomed, and fell. But above the race of his hotthoughts the certainty persisted that this girl was the lady of thebeckoning hand. 

He had no desire to escape from these fevered fancies in sleep, as hiscompanion had put down his homely ambitions. Long he lay awake turningthem to view from every hopeful, alluring angle, hearing the smallnoises of the town's small activities die away to silence and peace. 

In the morning he should ride to see her, his quest happily ended, indeed, even on the threshold of its beginning. 

CHAPTER VIII

THE HOUSE ON THE MESA

Even more bleak than from a distance the house on the mesa appeared asthe riders approached it up the winding road. It stood solitary on itsdesert promontory, the bright sky behind it, not a shrub to ease itslines, not a barn or shed to make a rude background for its amazingproportions. Native grass grew sparsely on the great table where itstood; rains had guttered the soil near its door. There was about it theair of an abandoned place, its long, gaunt porches open to wind andstorm. 

As they drew nearer the house the scene opened in a more domesticappearance. Beyond it in a little cup of the mesa the stable, cattlesheds, and quarters for the men were located, so hidden in their shelterthat they could not be seen from any point in the valley below. To theworld that never scaled these crumbling heights, Philbrook's mansionappeared as if it endured independent of those vulgar appendagesindeed. 

"Looks like they've got the barn where the house ought to be, " saidTaterleg. "I'll bet the wind takes the hide off of a feller up here inthe wintertime. "

"It's about as bleak a place for a house as a man could pick, " Lambertagreed. He checked his horse a moment to look round on the vast sweep ofcountry presented to view from the height, the river lying as bright asquicksilver in the dun land. 

"Not even a wire fence to break it!" Taterleg drew his shoulders up andshivered in the hot morning sun as he contemplated the untrammeledroadway of the northern winds. "Well, sir, it looks to me like a cyclonecarried that house from somewheres and slammed it down. No man in hisright senses ever built it there. "

"People take queer freaks sometimes, even in their senses. I guess wecan ride right around to the door. "

But for the wide, weathered porch they could have ridden up to it andknocked on its panels from the saddle. Taterleg was for going to thekitchen door, a suggestion which the Duke scorned. He didn't want tomeet that girl at a kitchen door, even her own kitchen door. For that hewas about to meet her, there was no doubt in him that moment. 

He was not in a state of trembling eagerness, but of calm expectation, as a man might be justified in who had made his preparations and feltthe outcome sure. He even smiled as he pictured her surprise, like a manreturning home unexpectedly, but to a welcome of which he held no doubt. 

Taterleg remained mounted while Lambert went to the door. It was arather inhospitable appearing door of solid oak, heavy and dark. Therewas a narrow pane of beveled glass set into it near the top, beneath ita knocker that must have been hammered by a hand in some far landcenturies before the house on the mesa was planned. 

A negro woman, rheumatic, old, came to the door. Miss Philbrook was atthe barn, she said. What did they want of her? Were they looking forwork? To these questions Lambert made no reply. As he turned back tohis horse the old serving woman came to the porch, leaving the doorswinging wide, giving a view into the hall, which was furnished with aprofusion and luxuriance that Taterleg never had seen before. 

The old woman watched the Duke keenly as he swung into the saddle in thesuppleness of his youthful grace. She shaded her eyes against the sun, looking after him still as he rode with his companion toward the barn. 

Chickens were making the barnyard lots comfortable with their noise, some dairy cows of a breed alien to that range waited in a lot to beturned out to the day's grazing; a burro put its big-eared head roundthe corner of a shed, eying the strangers with the alert curiosity of aniņo of his native land. But the lady of the ranch was not in sight norsound. 

Lambert drew up at the gate cutting the employees' quarters from thebarnyard, and sat looking things over. Here was a peace and security, anatmosphere of contentment and comfort, entirely lacking in thesurroundings of the house. The buildings were all of far better classthan were to be found on the ranches of that country; even the bunkhousea house, in fact, and not a shed-roofed shack. 

"I wonder where she's at?" said Taterleg, leaning and peering. "I don'tsee her around here nowheres. "

"I'll go down to the bunkhouse and see if there's anybody around, "Lambert said, for he had a notion, somehow, that he ought to meet her onfoot. 

Taterleg remained at the gate, because he looked better on a horse thanoff, and he was not wanting in that vain streak which any man with abackbone and marrow in him possesses. He wanted to appear at his bestwhen the boss of that high-class outfit laid her eyes on him for thefirst time; and if he had hopes that she might succumb to his charms, they were no more extravagant than most men's are under similarconditions. 

Off to one side of a long barn Lambert saw her as he opened the gate. She was trying to coax a young calf to drink out of a bucket that an oldnegro held under its nose. Perhaps his heart climbed a little, and hiseyes grew hot with a sudden surge of blood, after the way of youth, ashe went forward. 

He could not see her face fully, for she was bending over the calf, andthe broad brim of her hat interposed. She looked up at the sound of hisapproach, a startled expression in her frank, gray eyes. Handsome, intruth, she was, in her riding habit of brown duck, her heavy sombrero, her strong, high boots. Her hair was the color of old honeycomb, herface browned by sun and wind. 

She was a maid to gladden a man's heart, with the morning sun upon her, the strength of her great courage in her clear eyes; a girl of breeding, as one could see by her proud carriage. 

But she was _not_ the girl whose handkerchief he had won in his recklessrace with the train!

CHAPTER IX

A KNIGHT-ERRANT

The Duke took off his hat, standing before her foolishly dumb betweenhis disappointment and embarrassment. He had counted so fully on findingthe girl of his romance that he was reluctant to accept the testimony ofhis eyes. Here was one charming enough to compensate a man for a hundredfasts and fevers, but she was not the lodestone that had drawn upon hisheart with that impelling force which could not be denied. 

What a stupid blunder his impetuous conclusion had led him into; what anawkward situation! Pretty as she was, he didn't want to serve thiswoman, no matter for her embarrassments and distress. He could notremain there a week in the ferment of his longing to be on his way, searching the world for her whom his soul desired. This ran over himlike an electric shock as he stood before her, hat in hand, head bent alittle, like a culprit, looking rather stupid in his confusion. 

"Were you looking for somebody?" she asked, her handsome face sunningover with a smile that invited his confidence and dismissed his qualms. 

"I was looking for the boss, ma'am. "

"I'm the boss. " She spoke encouragingly, as to some timid creature, bending to brush off the milk that the stubborn calf had shaken from itsmuzzle over her skirt. 

"My partner and I are strangers here--he's over there at thegate--passing through the country, and wanted your permission to lookaround the place a little. They told us about it down at Glendora. "

The animation of her face was clouded instantly as by a shadow ofdisappointment. She turned her head as if to hide this from his eyes, answering carelessly, a little pettishly:

"Go ahead; look around till you're tired. "

Lambert hesitated, knowing very well that he had raised expectationswhich he was in no present mind to fill. She must be sorely in need ofhelp when she would brighten up that way at the mere sight of a commoncreature like a cow-puncher. He hated to take away what he had seemed tocome there offering, what he had, in all earnestness, come to offer. 

But she was not the girl. He had followed a false lure that his ownunbridled imagination had lit. The only thing to do was back out of itas gracefully as he could, and the poor excuse of "looking around" wasthe best one he could lay his hand to in a hurry. 

"Thank you, " said he, rather emptily. 

She did not reply, but bent again to her task of teaching the littleblack calf to take its breakfast out of the pail instead of the fashionin which nature intended it to refresh itself. Lambert backed off alittle, for the way of the range had indeed become his way in that yearof his apprenticeship, and its crudities were over him painfully. Whenoff what he considered a respectful distance he put on his hat, turninga look at her as if to further assure her that his invasion of herpremises was not a trespass. 

She gave him no further notice, engrossed as she appeared to be with thecalf, but when he reached the gate and looked back, he saw her standingstraight, the bucket at her feet, looking after him as if she resentedthe fact that two free-footed men should come there and flaunt theirleisure before her in the hour of her need. 

Taterleg was looking over the gate, trying to bring himself into therange of her eyes. He swept off his hat when she looked that way, to berewarded by an immediate presentation of her back. Such cow-punchers asthese were altogether too fine and grand in their independent airs, herattitude seemed to say. 

"Did you take the job?" Taterleg inquired. 

"I didn't ask her about it. "

"You didn't ask her? Well, what in the name of snakes did you come uphere for?"

The Duke led his horse away from the gate, back where she could not seehim, and stood fiddling with his cinch a bit, although it required noattention at all. 

"I got to thinkin' maybe I'd better go on west a piece. If you want tostay, don't let me lead you off. Go on over and strike her for a job;she needs men, I know, by the way she looked. "

"No, I guess I'll go on with you till our roads fork. But I was kind ofthinkin' I'd like to stay around Glendora a while. " Taterleg sighed ashe seemed to relinquish the thought of it, tried the gate to see that itwas latched, turned his horse about. "Well, where're we headin' fornow?"

"I want to ride up there on that bench in front of the house and lookaround a little at the view; then I guess we'll go back to town. "

They rode to the top of the bench the Duke indicated, where the viewbroadened in every direction, that being the last barrier between theriver and the distant hills. The ranchhouse appeared big even in thatsetting of immensities, and perilously near the edge of the crumblingbluff which presented a face almost sheer on the river more than threehundred feet below. 

"It must 'a' been a job to haul the lumber for that house up here. "

That was Taterleg's only comment. The rugged grandeur of naturepresented to him only its obstacles; its beauties did not move him anymore than they would have affected a cow. 

The Duke did not seem to hear him. He was stretching his gaze into thedim south up the river, where leaden hills rolled billow upon billow, engarnitured with their sad gray sage. Whatever his thoughts were, theybound him in a spell which the creaking of Taterleg's saddle, as heshifted in it impatiently, did not disturb. 

"Couple of fellers just rode up to the gate in the cross-fence back ofthe bunkhouse, " Taterleg reported. 

The Duke grunted, to let it be known that he heard, but was notinterested. He was a thousand miles away from the Bad Lands in hisfast-running dreams. 

"That old nigger seems to be havin' some trouble with them fellers, "came Taterleg's further report. "There goes that girl on her horse up tothe gate--say, look at 'em, Duke! Them fellers is tryin' to make her let'em through. "

Lambert turned, indifferently, to see. There appeared to be acontroversy under way at the gate, to be sure. But rows betweenemployees and employer were common; that wasn't his fuss. Perhaps itwasn't an argument, as it seemed to be from that distance, anyhow. 

"Did you see that?" Taterleg started his horse forward in a jump as hespoke, reining up stiffly at Lambert's side. "One of them fellers pulledhis gun on that old nigger--did you see him, Duke?"

"Ye-es, I saw him, " said the Duke speculatively, watching the squabbleat the distant gate keenly, turning his horse to head that way by apressure of his knee. 

"Knocked him flat!" Taterleg set off in a gallop as he spoke, the Dukeright after him, soon ahead of him, old Whetstone a yellow streak acrossthe mesa. 

It wasn't his quarrel, but nobody could come flashing a gun in the faceof a lady when he was around. That was the argument that rose in theDuke's thoughts as he rode down the slope and up the fenced passagebetween the barns. 

The gate at which the two horsemen were disputing the way with the girland her old black helper was a hundred yards or more beyond the one atwhich Taterleg and the Duke had stopped a little while before. It was ina cross-fence which appeared to cut the house and other buildings fromthe range beyond. 

As the Duke bent to open this first gate he saw that the girl haddismounted and was bending over the old negro, who was lying stretchedon the ground. He had fallen against the gate, on which one of theruffians was now pushing, trying to open it against the weight of hisbody. The girl spoke sharply to the fellow, bracing her shoulder againstthe gate. Lambert heard the scoundrel laugh as he swung to the groundand set his shoulder against the other side. 

The man who remained mounted leaned over and added his strength to thestruggle, together forcing the gate open, pushing the resisting girlwith it, dragging the old negro, who clutched the bottom plank and washauled brutally along. All concerned in the struggle were so deeplyengrossed in their own affair that none noted the approach of the Dukeand Taterleg. The fellow on the ground was leading his horse through asLambert galloped up. 

At the sound of Lambert's approach the dismounted man leaped into hissaddle. The two trespassers sat scowling inside the gate, watching himclosely for the first hostile sign. Vesta Philbrook was trying to helpthe old negro to his feet. Blood was streaming down his face from a cuton his forehead; he sank down again when she let go of him to welcomethis unexpected help. 

"These men cut my fence; they're trespassing on me, trying to defy andhumiliate me because they know I'm alone!" she said. She stretched outher hand toward Lambert as if in appeal to a judge, her face flushedfrom the struggle and sense of outrage, her hat pushed back on her amberhair, the fire of righteous anger in her eyes. The realization of herbeauty seemed to sweep Lambert like a flood of sudden music, lifting hisheart in a great surge, making him recklessly glad. 

"Where do you fellers think you're goin'?" he asked, following thespeech of the range. 

"We're goin' where we started to go, " the man who had just remountedreplied, glaring at Lambert with insulting sneer. 

This was a stocky man with bushy red-gray eyebrows, a stubble of roanbeard over his blunt, common face. One foot was short in his boot, as ifhe had lost his toes in a blizzard, a mark not uncommonly set byunfriendly nature on the men who defied its force in that country. Hewore a duck shooting-jacket, the pockets of it bulging as if with game. 

His companion was a much younger man, slender, graceful in the saddle, rather handsome in a swarthy, defiant way. He ranged up beside thespokesman as if to take full share in whatever was to come. Both of themwere armed with revolvers, the elder of the two with a rifle inaddition, which he carried in a leather scabbard black and slick withage, slung on his saddle under his thigh. 

"You'll have to get permission from this lady before you go throughhere, " Lambert told him calmly. 

Vesta Philbrook had stepped back, as if she had presented her case andwaited adjudication. She stood by the old negro where he sat in thedust, her hand on his head, not a word more to add to her case, seemingto have passed it on to this slim, confident, soft-spoken stranger withhis clear eyes and steady hand, who took hold of it so competently. 

"I've been cuttin' this purty little fence for ten years, and I'll keepon cuttin' it and goin' through whenever I feel like it. I don't have togit no woman's permission, and no man's, neither, to go where I want togo, kid. "

The man dropped his hand to his revolver as he spoke the last word witha twisting of the lip, a showing of his scorbutic teeth, a sneer thatwas at once an insult and a goad. The next moment he was straining hisarms above his head as if trying to pull them out of their sockets, andhis companion was displaying himself in like manner, Lambert's gun downon them, Taterleg coming in deliberately a second or two behind. 

"Keep them right there, " was the Duke's caution, jerking his head toTaterleg in the manner of a signal understood. 

Taterleg rode up to the fence-cutters and disarmed them, holding his guncomfortably in their ribs as he worked with swift hand. The rifle hehanded down to the old negro, who was now on his feet, and who took itwith a bow and a grave face across which a gleam of satisfactionflashed. The holsters with the revolvers in them he passed to the Duke, who hung them on his saddle-horn. 

"Pile off, " Taterleg ordered. 

They obeyed, wrathful but impotent. Taterleg sat by, chewing gum, calmand steady as if the thing had been rehearsed a hundred times. The Dukepointed to the old negro's hat. 

"Pick it up, " he ordered the younger man; "dust it off and give it tohim. "

The fellow did as directed, with evil face, for it hurt his high pride, just as the Duke intended that it should hurt. Lambert nodded to the manwho had knocked the old fellow down with a blow of his heavy revolver. 

"Dust off his clothes, " he said. 

Vesta Philbrook smiled as she witnessed this swift humbling of herancient enemy. The old negro turned himself arrogantly, presenting therear of his broad and dusty pantaloons; but the bristling, red-facedrancher balked. He looked up at Lambert, half choked on the bone of hisrage. 

"I'll die before I'll do it!" he declared with a curse. 

Lambert beat down the defiant, red-balled glowering eyes with one brief, straight look. The fence-cutter broke a tip of sage and set to work, theold man lifting his arms like a strutting gobbler, his head held high, the pain of his hurt forgotten in the triumphant moment of his revenge. 

"Have you got some wire and tools around here handy, Miss Philbrook?"Lambert inquired. "These men are going to do a little fence fixin' thismorning for a change. "

The old negro pranced off to get the required tools, throwing a lookback at the two prisoners now and then, covering his mouth with his handto keep back the explosion of his mirth. Badly as he was hurt, hisenjoyment of this unprecedented situation seemed to cure him completely. His mistress went after him, doubtful of his strength, with nothing buta quick look into Lambert's eyes as she passed to tell him how deeplyshe felt. 

It was a remarkable procession for the Bad Lands that set out from thecross-line fence a few minutes later, the two free rangers startingunder escort to repair the damage done to a despised fence-man'sbarrier. One of them carried a wire-stretcher, the chain of it woundround his saddle-horn, the other a coil of barbed wire and such tools aswere required. After they had proceeded a little way, Taterleg thoughtof something. 

"Don't you reckon we might need a couple of posts, Duke?" he asked. 

The Duke thought perhaps they might come in handy. They turned back, accordingly, and each of the trespassers was compelled to shoulder anoak post, with much blasphemy and threatening of future adjustment. Inthat manner of marching, each free ranger carrying his cross as none ofhis kind ever had carried it before, they rode to the scene of theirlate depredations. 

Vesta Philbrook stood at the gate and watched them go, reproachingherself for her silence in the presence of this man who had come to herassistance with such sure and determined hand. She never had found itdifficult before to thank anybody who had done her a generous turn; buthere her tongue had lain as still as a hare in its covert, and her hearthad gone trembling in the gratitude which it could not voice. 

A strong man he was, and full of commanding courage, but neither sostrong nor so mighty that she had need to keep as quiet in his presenceas a kitchen maid before a king. But he would have to pass that waycoming back, and she could make amends. The old negro stood by, chuckling his pleasure at the sight drawing away into the distance ofthe pasture where his mistress' cattle fed. 

"Ananias, do you know who that man is, " she asked. 

"Laws, Miss Vesta, co'se I do. Didn't you hear his hoss-wrangler callhim Duke?"

"I heard him call him Duke. "

"He's that man they call Duke of Chimley Butte--I know that hoss he'sa-ridin'; that hoss used to be Jim Wilder's ole outlaw. That Duke mankilled Jim and took that hoss away from him; that's what he done. Thatwas while you was gone; you didn't hear 'bout it. "

"Killed him and took his horse? Surely, he must have had some goodreason, Ananias. "

"I don' know, and I ain't a-carin'. That's him, and that's what hedone. "

"Did you ever hear of him killing anybody else?"

"Oh, plenty, plenty, " said the old man with easy generosity. "I bethe's killed a hun'ed men--maybe mo'n a hun'ed. "

"But you don't know, " she said, smiling at the old man's extravagantrecommendation of his hero. 

"I don' know, but I bet he is, " said he. "Look at 'em!" he chuckled;"look at old Nick Ha'gus and his onery, low-down Injun-blood boy!"

CHAPTER X

GUESTS OF THE BOSS LADY

Vesta rode out to meet them as they were coming back, to make sure ofher thanks. She was radiant with gratitude, and at no loss any longerfor words to express it. Before they had ridden together on the returnjourney half a mile, Taterleg felt that he had known her all her life, and was ready to cast his fortunes with her, win or lose. 

Lambert was leaving the conversation between her and Taterleg, for thegreater part. He rode in gloomy isolation, like a man with something onhis mind, speaking only when spoken to, and then as shortly aspoliteness would permit. Taterleg, who had words enough for a book, appeared to feel the responsibility of holding them up to the level ofgentlemen and citizens of the world. Not if talk could prevent it wouldTaterleg allow them to be classed as a pair of boors who could not gobeyond the ordinary cow-puncher's range in word and thought. 

"It'll be some time, ma'am, before that feller Hargus and his boy'll tryto make a short cut to Glendora through your ranch ag'in, " said he. 

"It was the first time they were ever caught, after old man Hargus hadbeen cutting our fence for years, Mr. Wilson. I can't tell you how muchI owe you for humiliating them where they thought the humiliation wouldbe on my side. "

"Don't you mention it, ma'am; it's the greatest pleasure in the world. "

"He thought he'd come by the house and look in the window and defy mebecause I was alone. "

"He's got a mean eye; he's got a eye like a wolf. "

"He's got a wolf's habits, too, in more ways than one, Mr. Wilson. "

"Yes, that man'd steal calves, all right. "

"We've never been able to prove it on him, Mr. Wilson, but you've putyour finger on Mr. Hargus' weakness like a phrenologist. "

Taterleg felt his oats at this compliment. He sat up like a major, hischest out, his mustache as big on his thin face as a Mameluke's. Italways made Lambert think of the handlebars on that long-horn safetybicycle that he came riding into the Bad Lands. 

"The worst part of it is, Mr. Wilson, that he's not the only one. "

"Neighbors livin' off of you, are they? Yes, that's the way it was downin Texas when the big ranches begun to fence, they tell me--I never wasthere, ma'am, and I don't know of my own knowledge and belief, as thelawyers say. Fence-ridin' down there in them days was a job where a mantook his life in both hands and held it up to be shot at. "

"There's been an endless fight on this ranch, too. It's been a strainand a struggle from the first day, not worth it, not worth half of it. But father put the best years of his life into it, and established itwhere men boasted it couldn't be done. I'm not going to let them whip menow. "

Lambert looked at her with a quick gleam of admiration in his eyes. Shewas riding between him and Taterleg, as easy in their company, and asnatural as if she had known them for years. There had been no heights offalse pride or consequence for her to descend to the comradeship ofthese men, for she was as unaffected and ingenuous as they. Lambertseemed to wake to a sudden realization of this. His interest in herbegan to grow, his reserve to fall away. 

"They told us at Glendora that rustlers were running your cattle off, "said he. "Are they taking the stragglers that get through where thefence is cut, or coming after them?"

"They're coming in and running them off almost under our eyes. I've onlygot one man on the ranch beside Ananias; nobody riding fence at all butmyself. It takes me a good while to ride nearly seventy miles of fence. "

"Yes, that's so, " Lambert seemed to reflect. "How many head have you gotin this pasture?"

"I ought to have about four thousand, but they're melting away likesnow, Mr. Lambert. "

"We saw a bunch of 'em up there where them fellers cut the fence, "Taterleg put in, not to be left out of the game which he had startedand kept going single-handed so long; "white-faced cattle, like they'vegot in Kansas. "

"Ours--mine are all white-faced. They stand this climate better than anyother. "

"It must have been a bunch of strays we saw--none of them was branded, "Lambert said. 

"Father never would brand his calves, for various reasons, the humaneabove all others. I never blamed him after seeing it done once, and I'mnot going to take up the barbarous practice now. All otherconsiderations aside, it ruins a hide, you know, Mr. Lambert. "

"It seems to me you'd better lose the hide than the calf, MissPhilbrook. "

"It does make it easy for thieves, and that's the only argument in favorof branding. While we've--I've got the only white-faced herd in thiscountry, I can't go into court and prove my property without a brand, once the cattle are run outside of this fence. So they come in and takethem, knowing they're safe unless they're caught. "

Lambert fell silent again. The ranchhouse was in sight, high on itspeninsula of prairie, like a lighthouse seen from sea. 

"It's a shame to let that fine herd waste away like that, " he said, ruminatively, as if speaking to himself. 

"It's always been hard to get help here; cowboys seem to think it's adisgrace to ride fence. Such as we've been able to get nearly alwaysturned out thieves on their own account in the end. The one out with thecattle now is a farm boy from Iowa, afraid of his shadow. "

"They didn't want no fence in here in the first place--that's what settheir teeth ag'in' you, " Taterleg said. 

"If I could only get some real men once, " she sighed; "men who couldhandle them like you boys did this morning. Even father never seemed tounderstand where to take hold of them to hurt them, the way you do. "

They were near the house now. Lambert rode on a little way in silence. Then:

"It's a shame to let that herd go to pieces, " he said. 

"It's a sin!" Taterleg declared. 

She dropped her reins, looking from one to the other, an eager appealin her hopeful face. 

"Why can't you boys stop here a while and help me out?" she asked, saying at last in a burst of hopeful eagerness what had been in herheart to say from the first. She held out her hand to each of them in apretty way of appeal, turning from one to the other, her gray eyespleading. 

"I hate to see a herd like that broken up by thieves, and all of yourinvestment wasted, " said the Duke, thoughtfully, as if considering itdeeply. 

"It's a sin _and_ a shame!" said Taterleg. 

"I guess we'll stay and give you a hand, " said the Duke. 

She pulled her horse up short, and gave him, not a figurative hand, buta warm, a soft and material one, from which she pulled her buckskinglove as if to level all thought or suggestion of a barrier betweenthem. She turned then and shook hands with Taterleg, warming him so withher glowing eyes that he patted her hand a little before he let it go, in manner truly patriarchal. 

"You're all right, you're _all_ right, " he said. 

Once pledged to it, the Duke was anxious to set his hand to the workthat he saw cut out for him on that big ranch. He was like a physicianwho had entered reluctantly into a case after other practitioners hadleft the patient in desperate condition. Every moment must be employedif disaster to that valuable herd was to be averted. 

Vesta would hear of nothing but that they come first to the house fordinner. So the guests did the best they could at improving theirappearance at the bunkhouse after turning their horses over to theobsequious Ananias, who appeared with a large bandage, and a strongsmell of turpentine, on his bruised head. 

Beyond brushing off the dust of the morning's ride there was little tobe done. Taterleg brought out his brightest necktie from the portablepossessions rolled up in his slicker; the Duke produced his calfskinvest. There was not a coat between them to save the dignity of theirprofession at the boss lady's board. Taterleg's green-velvet waistcoathad suffered damage during the winter when a spark from his pipe burneda hole in it as big as a dollar. He held it up and looked at it, concluding in the end that it would not serve. 

With his hairy chaps off, Taterleg did not appear so bow-legged, but hewaddled like a crab as they went toward the house to join the companionof their ride. The Duke stopped on the high ground near the house, turned, looked off over the great pasture that had been Philbrook'sbattle ground for so many years. 

"One farmer from Iowa out there to watch four thousand cattle, andthieves all around him! Eatin' looks like burnin' daylight to me. "

"She'd 'a' felt hurt if we'd 'a' shied off from her dinner, Duke. Youknow a man's got to eat when he ain't hungry and drink when he ain't drysometimes in this world to keep up appearances. "

"Appearances!" The Duke looked him over with humorous eye, from hissomewhat clean sombrero to his capacious corduroy trousers gathered intohis boot tops. "Oh, well, I guess it's all right. "

Vesta was in excellent spirits, due to the broadening of her prospects, which had appeared so narrow and unpromising but a few hours before. One of this pair, she believed, was worth three ordinary men. She askedthem about their adventures, and the Duke solemnly assured her that theynever had experienced any. 

Taterleg, loquacious as he might be on occasion, knew when to hold histongue. Lambert led her away from that ground into a discussion of herown affairs, and conditions as they stood between her neighbors andherself. 

"Nick Hargus is one of the most persistent offenders, and we might aswell dispose of him first, since you've met the old wretch and know whathe's like on the outside, " she explained. "Hargus was in the cattlebusiness in a hand-to-mouth way when we came here, and he raised abigger noise than anybody else about our fences, claiming we'd cut himoff from water, which wasn't true. We didn't cut anybody off from theriver. 

"Hargus is married to an Indian squaw, a little old squat, black-facedthing as mean as a snake. They've got a big brood of children, that boyyou saw this morning is the senior of the gang. Old Hargus usuallyharbors two or three cattle thieves, horse thieves or other crooks ofthat kind, some of them just out of the pen, some preparing their way toit. He does a sort of general rustling business, with this ranch as hismain source of supply. We've had a standing fight on with him ever sincewe came here, but today was the first time, as I told you, that he everwas caught. 

"You heard what he said about cutting the fence this morning. That's theattitude of the country all around. You couldn't convict a man forcutting a fence in this country. So all a person can do is shoot them ifyou catch them at it. I don't know what Hargus will do to get even withthis morning's humiliation. "

"I think he'll leave that fence alone like it was charged withlightnin', " Taterleg said. 

"He'll try to turn something; he's wily and vindictive. "

"He needs a chunk of lead about the middle of his appetite, " Taterlegdeclared. 

"Who comes next?" Lambert inquired. 

"There's a man they call Walleye Bostian--his regular name is Jesse--onthe farther end of this place that's troubled with a case of incurableresentment against a barbed-wire fence. He's a sheepman, one of thelast that would do a lawless deed, you'd think, from the look of him, but he's mean to the roots of his hair. "

"All sheepmen's onery, ma'am, they tell me, " said Taterleg, a cowman nowfrom core to rind, and loyal to his calling accordingly. 

"I don't know about the rest of them, but Walleye Bostian is a mightymean sheepman. Well, I know I got a shot at him once that he'llremember. "

"_You_ did?" Taterleg's face was as bright as a dishpan with admiration. He chuckled in his throat, eying the Duke slantingly to see how he tookthat piece of news. 

The Duke sat up a little stiffer, his face grew a shade more serious, and that was all the change in him that Taterleg could see. 

"I hope we can take that kind of work off your hands in the future, MissPhilbrook, " he said, his voice slow and grave. 

She lifted her grateful eyes with a look of appreciation that seemed tohim overpayment for a service proposed, rather than done. She went on, then, with a description of her interesting neighbors. 

"This ranch is a long, narrow strip, only about three miles wide bytwenty deep, the river at this end of it, Walleye Bostian at the other. Along the sides there are various kinds of reptiles in human skin, noneof them living within four or five miles of our fences, the averagebeing much farther than that, for people are not very plentiful rightaround here. 

"On the north of us Hargus is the worst, on the south a man named Kerr. Kerr is the biggest single-handed cattleman around here. His onegrievance against us is that we shut a creek that he formerly used alonginside our fences that forced him to range down to the river for water. As the creek begins and ends on our land--it empties into the riverabout a mile above here--it's hard for an unbiased mind to grasp Kerr'spoint of objection. "

"Have you ever taken a shot at him?" the Duke asked, smiling a littledry smile. 

"No-o, " said she reflectively, "not at Kerr himself. Kerr is what isusually termed a gentleman; that is, he's a man of education and wearshis beard cut like a banker's, but his methods of carrying on a feud areextremely low. Fighting is beneath his dignity, I guess; he hires itdone. "

"You've seen some fightin' in your time, ma'am, " Taterleg said. 

"Too much of it, " she sighed wearily. "I've had a shot at his men morethan once, but there are one or two in that Kerr family I'd like tosling a gun down on!"

It was strange to hear that gentle-mannered, refined girl talk offighting as if it were the commonest of everyday business. There was nonote of boasting, no color of exaggeration in her manner. She was asnatural and sincere as the calm breeze, coming in through the openwindow, and as wholesome and pure. There was not a doubt of that in themind of either of the men at the table with her. Their admiration spokeout of their eyes. 

"When you've had to fight all your life, " she said, looking up earnestlyinto Lambert's face, "it makes you old before your time, andquick-tempered and savage, I suppose, even when you fight inself-defense. I used to ride fence when I was fourteen, with a rifleacross my saddle, and I wouldn't have thought any more of shooting aman I saw cutting our fence or running off our cattle than I would arabbit. "

She did not say what her state of mind on that question was at present, but it was so plainly expressed in her flushed cheeks and defiant eyesthat it needed no words. 

"If you'd 'a' had your gun on you this morning when them fellers knockedthat old coon down I bet there'd 'a' been a funeral due over at oldHargus' ranch, " said Taterleg. 

"I'd saddled up to go to the post office; I never carry a gun with mewhen I go to Glendora, " she said. 

"A country where a lady has to carry a gun at all ain't no country tospeak of. It needs cleanin' up, ma'am, that's what it needs. "

"It surely does, Mr. Wilson: you've got it sized up just right. "

"Well, Taterleg, I guess we'd better be hittin' the breeze, " the Dukesuggested, plainly uneasy between the duty of courtesy and the longlines of unguarded fence. 

Taterleg could not accustom himself to that extraordinary bunkhouse whenthey returned to it, on such short time. He walked about in it, necktiein his hand, looking into its wonders, marveling over its conveniences. 

"It's just like a regular human house, " said he. 

There was a bureau with a glass to it in every room, and there wererooms for several men. The Duke and Taterleg stowed away their slenderbelongings in the drawers and soon were ready for the saddle. As he putthe calfskin vest away, the Duke took out the little handkerchief, fromwhich the perfume of faint violet had faded long ago, and pressed ittenderly against his cheek. 

"You'll wait on me a little while longer, won't you?" he asked. 

Then he laid it away between the folds of his remarkable garment verycarefully, and went out, his slicker across his arm, to take up his lifein that strip of contention and strife between Vesta Philbrook'sfar-reaching wire fences. 

CHAPTER XI

ALARMS AND EXCURSIONS

The news quickly ran over the country that Vesta Philbrook had hired thenotorious Duke of Chimney Butte and his gun-slinging side partner toride fence. What had happened to Nick Hargus and his boy, Tom, seemed toprove that they were men of the old school, quite a different type fromany who had been employed on that ranch previously. 

Lambert was troubled to learn that his notoriety had run ahead of him, increasing as it spread. It was said that his encounter with Jim Wilderwas only one of his milder exploits; that he was a grim and bloody manfrom Oklahoma who had marked his miles with tombstones as he traveled. 

His first business on taking charge of the Philbrook ranch had been todo a piece of fence-cutting on his own account opposite Nick Hargus'ranch, through which he had ridden and driven home thirty head ofcattle lately stolen by that enterprising citizen from Vesta Philbrook'sherd. This act of open-handed restoration, carried out in broad daylightalone, and in the face of Hargus, his large family of sons, and theskulking refugees from the law who chanced to be hiding there at thetime, added greatly to the Duke's fame. 

It did not serve as a recommendation among the neighbors who had preyedso long and notoriously on the Philbrook herd, and no doubt nothingwould have been said about it by Hargus to even the most intimate of hisruffianly associates. But Taterleg and old Ananias took great pains tospread the story in Glendora, where it passed along, with additions asit moved. Hargus explained that the cattle were strays which had brokenout. 

While this reputation of the Duke was highly gratifying to Taterleg, whofound his own glory increased thereby, it was extremely distasteful toLambert, who had no means of preventing its spread or opportunity ofcorrecting its falsity. He knew himself to be an inoffensive, ratherbackward and timid man, or at least this was his own measure ofhimself. That fight with Jim Wilder always had been a cloud over hisspirits, although his conscience was clear. It had sobered him and madehim feel old, as Vesta Philbrook had said fighting made a person feel. He could understand her better, perhaps, than one whom violence hadpassed undisturbed. 

There was nothing farther from his desire than strife and turmoil, gun-slinging and a fearful notoriety. But there he was, set up againsthis will, against his record, as a man to whom it was wise to give theroad. That was a dangerous distinction, as he well understood, for atime would come, even opportunities would be created, when he would becalled upon to defend it. That was the discomfort of a fighting name. Itwas a continual liability, bound sooner or later to draw upon a man tothe full extent of his resources. 

This reputation lost nothing in the result of his first meeting withBerry Kerr, the rancher who wore his beard like a banker and passed fora gentleman in that country, where a gentleman was defined, at thattime, as a man who didn't swear. This meeting took place on the southline of the fence on a day when Lambert had been on the ranch a littlemore than a week. 

Kerr was out looking for strays, he said, although he seemed to overlookthe joke that he made in neglecting to state from whose herd. Lambertgave him the benefit of the doubt and construed him to mean his own. Herode up to the fence, affable as a man who never had an evil intentionin his life, and made inquiry concerning Lambert's connection with theranch, making a pretense of not having heard that Vesta had hired newmen. 

"Well, she needs a couple of good men that will stand by her steady, " hesaid, with all the generosity of one who had her interests close to hisheart. "She's a good girl, and she's been havin' a hard time of it. Butif you want to do her the biggest favor that a man ever did do undercircumstances of similar nature, persuade her to tear this fence out, all around, and throw the range open like it used to be. Then all thisfool quarreling and shooting will stop, and everybody in here will be ongood terms again. That's the best way out of it for her, and it will bethe best way out of it for you if you intend to stay here and run thisranch. "

While Kerr's manner seemed to be patriarchal and kindly advisory, therewas a certain hardness beneath his words, a certain coldness in his eyeswhich made his proposal nothing short of a threat. It made all theresentful indignation which Lambert had mastered and chained down inhimself rise up and bristle. He took it as a personal affront, as athreat against his own safety, and the answer that he gave to it wasquick and to the point. 

"There'll never be a yard of this fence torn down on my advice, Mr. Kerr, " he said. "You people around here will have to learn to give it agood deal more respect from now on than you have in the past. I'm goingto teach this crowd around here to take off their hats when they come toa fence. "

Kerr was a slender, dry man, the native meanness of his crafty facelargely masked by his beard, which was beginning to show streaks of grayin its brown. He was wearing a coat that day, although it was hot, andhad no weapon in sight. He sat looking Lambert straight in the eyes fora moment upon the delivery of this bill of intentions, his brows drawn abit, a cast of concentrated hardness in his gray-blue eyes. 

"I'm afraid you've bit off more than you can chew, much less swallow, young man, " he said. With that he rode away, knowing that he had failedin what he probably had some hope of accomplishing in his sly andunworthy way. 

Things went along quietly after that for a few weeks. Hargus did notattempt any retaliatory move; on the side of Kerr's ranch all was quiet. The Iowa boy, under Taterleg's tutelage, was developing into atrustworthy and capable hand, the cattle were fattening in the grassyvalleys. All counted, it was the most peaceful spell that Philbrook'sranch ever had known, and the tranquility was reflected in the owner, and her house, and all within its walls. 

Lambert did not see much of Vesta in those first weeks of hisemployment, for he lived afield, close beside the fences which heguarded as his own honor. Taterleg had a great pride in the matter also. He cruised up and down his section with a long-range rifle across hissaddle, putting in more hours sometimes, he said, than there were in aday. Taterleg knew very well that slinking eyes were watching him fromthe covert of the sage-gray hills. Unceasing vigilance was the price ofreputation in that place, and Taterleg was jealous of his. 

Lambert was beginning to grow restless under the urge of his spirit tocontinue his journey westward in quest of the girl who had left herfavor in his hand. The romance of it, the improbability of ever findingher along the thousand miles between him and the sea, among themultitudes of women in the cities and hamlets along the way, appealed tohim with a compelling lure. 

He had considered many schemes for getting trace of her, among the mostfavored being that of finding the brakeman who stood on the end of thetrain that day among those who watched him ride and overtake it, andlearning from him to what point her ticket read. That was the simplestplan. But he knew that conductors and brakemen changed every few hundredmiles, and that this plan might not lead to anything in the end. But itwas too simple to put by without trying; when he set out again thiswould be his first care. 

He smiled sometimes as he rode his lonely beat inside the fence andrecalled the thrill that had animated him with the certainty that VestaPhilbrook would turn out to be _the_ girl, _his_ girl. Thedisappointment had been so keen that he had almost disliked Vesta thatfirst day. She was a fine girl, modest and unaffected, honest as themiddle of the day, but there was no appeal but the appeal of the weak tothe strong from her to him. They were drawn into a common sympathy ofdetermination; he had paused there to help her because she wasoutmatched, fighting a brave battle against unscrupulous forces. He wastaking pay from her, and there could not be admitted any thought ofromance under such conditions. 

But the girl whose challenge he had accepted at Misery that day was tobe considered in a different light. There was a pledge between them, abond. He believed that she was expecting him out there somewhere, waiting for him to come. Often he would halt on a hilltop and look awayinto the west, playing with a thousand fancies as to whom she might be, and where. 

He was riding in one of these dreams one mid-afternoon of a hot dayabout six weeks after taking charge of affairs on the ranch, thinkingthat he would tell Vesta in a day or two that he must go. Taterleg mightstay with her, other men could be hired if she would look about her. Hewanted to get out of the business anyway; there was no offering for aman in it without capital. So he was thinking, his head bent, as he rodeup a long slope of grassy hill. At the top he stopped to blow oldWhetstone a little, turning in the saddle, running his eyes casuallyalong the fence. 

He started, his dreams gone from him like a covey of frightened quail. The fence was cut. For a hundred yards or more along the hilltop it wascut at every post, making it impossible to piece. 

Lambert could not have felt his resentment burn any hotter if it hadbeen his own fence. It was a fence under his charge; the defiance wasdirected at him. He rode along to see if any cattle had escaped, anddrew his breath again with relief when he found that none had passed. 

There was the track of but one horse; the fence-cutter had been alone, probably not more than an hour ahead of him. The job finished, he hadgone boldly in the direction of Kerr's ranch, on whose side thedepredation had been committed. Lambert followed the trail somedistance. It led on toward Kerr's ranch, defiance in its very boldness. Kerr himself must have done that job. 

One man had little chance of stopping such assaults, now they had begun, on a front of twenty miles. But Lambert vowed that if he ever did havethe good fortune to come up on one of these sneaks while he was at work, he'd fill his hide so full of lead they'd have to get a derrick to loadhim into a wagon. 

It didn't matter so much about the fence, so long as they didn't get anyof the stock. But stragglers from the main herd would find a big gaplike that in a few hours, and the rustlers lying in wait would hurrythem away. One such loss as that and he would be a disgraced man in theeyes of Vesta Philbrook, and the laughing-stock of the rascals who putit through. He rode in search of the Iowa boy who was with the cattle, his job being to ride among them continually to keep them accustomed toa man on horseback. Luckily he found him before sundown and sent him forwire. Then he stood guard at the cut until the damage was repaired. 

After that fence-cutting became a regular prank on Kerr's side of theranch. Watch as he might, Lambert could not prevent the stealthyexcursions, the vindictive destruction of the hated barrier. All thesebreaches were made within a mile on either side of the first cut, sometimes in a single place, again along a stretch, as if the personusing the nippers knew when to deliberate and when to hasten. 

Always there was the trace of but one rider, who never dismounted to cuteven the bottom wire. That it was the work of the same person each timeLambert was convinced, for he always rode the same horse, as betrayed bya broken hind hoof. 

Lambert tried various expedients for trapping this skulker during aperiod of two weeks. He lay in wait by day and made stealthy excursionsby night, all to no avail. Whoever was doing it had some way of keepinginformed on his movements with exasperating closeness. 

The matter of discovering and punishing the culprit devolved on Lambertalone. He could not withdraw Taterleg to help him; the other man couldnot be spared from the cattle. And now came the crowning insult of all. 

It was early morning, after an all-night watch along the three miles offence where the wire-cutter always worked, when Lambert rode to the topof the ridge where the first breach in his line had been made. Belowthat point, not more than half a mile, he had stopped to boil hisbreakfast coffee. His first discovery on mounting the ridge was a panelof fence cut, his next a piece of white paper twisted to the end of oneof the curling wires. 

This he disengaged and unfolded. It was a page torn from a medicinememorandum book such as cow-punchers usually carry their time in, andthe addresses of friends. 

 _Why don't you come and get me, Mr. Duke?_

This was the message it bore. 

The writing was better, the spelling more exact than the output of theordinary cow-puncher. Kerr himself, Lambert thought again. He stood withthe taunting message in his fingers, looking toward the Kerr ranchhouse, some seven or eight miles to the south, and stood so quite a while, hiseyes drawn small as if he looked into the wind. 

"All right; I'll take you up on that, " he said. 

He rode slowly out through the gap, following the fresh trail. Asbefore, it was made by the horse with the notch in its left hind hoof. It led to a hill three-quarters of a mile beyond the fence. From thispoint it struck a line for the distant ranchhouse. 

Lambert did not go beyond the hill. Dismounting, he stood surveying thecountry about him, struck for the first time by the view that thisvantage-point afforded of the domain under his care. Especially the lineof fence was plainly marked for a long distance on either side of thelittle ridge where the last cut had been made. Evidently the skulkerconcealed himself at this very point and watched his opening, playingentirely safe. That accounted for all the cutting having been done bydaylight, as he was sure had been the case. 

He looked about for trace of where the fellow had lain behind the fringeof sage, but the ground was so hard that it would not take a humanfootprint. As he looked he formulated a plan of his own. Half a mile ormore beyond this hill, in the direction of the Kerr place, a small buttestood, its steep sides grassless, its flat top bare. That would be hiswatchtower from that day forward until he had his hand on this defiantrascal who had time, in his security, to stop and write a note. 

That night he scaled the little butte after mending the fence behindhim, leaving his horse concealed among the huge blocks of rock at itsfoot. Next day, and the one following, he passed in the blazing sun, butnobody came to cut the fence. At night he went down, rode his horse towater, turned him to graze, and went back to his perch among the antsand lizards on top of the butte. 

The third day was cloudy and uneventful; on the fourth, a little beforenine, just when the sun was squaring off to shrivel him in his skin, Lambert saw somebody coming from the direction of Kerr's ranch. 

The rider made straight for the hill below Lambert's butte, where hereined up before reaching the top, dismounted and went crawling to thefringe of sage at the farther rim of the bare summit. Lambert waiteduntil the fellow mounted and rode toward the fence, then he slid downthe shale, starting Whetstone from his doze. 

Lambert calculated that he was more than a mile from the fence. Hewanted to get over there near enough to catch the fellow at work, sothere would be full justification for what he intended to do. 

Whetstone stretched himself to the task, coming out of the broken groundand up the hill from which the fence-cutter had ridden but a few minutesbefore while the marauder was still a considerable distance from hisobjective. The man was riding slowly, as if saving his horse for achance surprise. 

Lambert cut down the distance between them rapidly, and was not morethan three hundred yards behind when the fellow began snipping the wirewith a pair of nippers that glittered in the sun. 

Lambert held his horse back, approaching with little noise. Thefence-cutter was rising back to the saddle after cutting the bottom wireof the second panel when he saw that he was trapped. 

Plainly unnerved by this _coup_ of the despised fence-guard, he satclutching his reins as if calculating his chance of dashing past the manwho blocked his retreat. Lambert slowed down, not more than fifty yardsbetween them, waiting for the first move toward a gun. He wanted as muchof the law on his side, even though there was no witness to it, as hecould have, for the sake of his conscience and his peace. 

Just a moment the fence-cutter hesitated, making no movement to pull agun, then he seemed to decide in a flash that he could not escape theway that he had come. He leaned low over his horse's neck, as if heexpected Lambert to begin shooting, rode through the gap that he had cutin the fence, and galloped swiftly into the pasture. 

Lambert followed, sensing the scheme at a glance. The rascal intended toeither ride across the pasture, hoping to outrun his pursuer in thethree miles of up-and-down country, or turn when he had a safe lead andgo back. As the chase led away, it became plain that the plan was tomake a run for the farther fence, cut it and get away before Lambertcould come up. That arrangement suited Lambert admirably; it would seemto give him all the law on his side that any man could ask. 

There was a scrubby growth of brush on the hillsides, and tall redwillows along the streams, making a covert here and there for a horse. The fleeing man took advantage of every offering of this nature, as ifhe rode in constant fear of the bullet that he knew was his due. Addedto this cunning, he was well mounted, his horse being almost equal inspeed to Whetstone, it seemed, at the beginning of the race. 

Lambert pushed him as hard as he thought wise, conserving his horse forthe advantage that he knew he would have while the fence-cutter stoppedto make himself an outlet. The fellow rode hard, unsparing of hisquirt, jumping his long-legged horse over rocks and across ravines. 

It was in one of these leaps that Lambert saw something fall from thesaddle holster. He found it to be the nippers with which the fence hadbeen cut, lying in the bottom of the deep arroyo. He rode down andrecovered the tool, in no hurry now, for he was quite certain that thefence-cutter would not have another. He would discover his loss when hecame to the fence, and then, if he was not entirely the coward and sneakthat his actions seemed to brand him, he would have recourse to anothertool. 

It did not take them long to finish the three-mile race across thepasture, and it turned out in the end exactly as Lambert thought itwould. When the fugitive came within a few rods of the fence he put hishand down to the holster for his nippers, discovering his loss. Then helooked back to see how closely he was pressed, which was very closeindeed. 

Lambert felt that he did not want to be the aggressor, even on his ownland, in spite of the determination he had reached for such acontingency as this. He recalled what Vesta had said about theimpossibility of securing a conviction for cutting a fence. Surely if aman could not be held responsible for this act in the courts of thecountry, it would fare hard with one who might kill him in thecommission of the outrage. Let him draw first, and then----

The fellow rode at the fence as if he intended to try to jump it. Hishorse balked at the barrier, turned, raced along it, Lambert in closepursuit, coming alongside him as he was reaching to draw his pistol fromthe holster at his saddle bow. And in that instant, as the fleeing riderbent tugging at the gun which seemed to be strapped in the holster, Lambert saw that it was not a man. 

A strand of dark hair had fallen from under the white sombrero; it wasdropping lower and lower as it uncoiled from its anchorage. Lambertpressed his horse forward a few feet, leaned far over and snatched awaythe hand that struggled to unbuckle the weapon. 

She turned on him, her face scarlet in its fury, their horses racingside by side, their stirrups clashing. Distorted as her features wereby anger and scorn at the touch of one so despised, Lambert felt hisheart leap and fall, and seem to stand still in his bosom. It was notonly a girl; it was _his_ girl, the girl of the beckoning hand. 

CHAPTER XII

THE FURY OF DOVES

Lambert released her the moment that he made his double discovery, foolishly shaken, foolishly hurt, to realize that she had been afraid tohave him know it was a woman he pursued. He caught her rein and checkedher horse along with his own. 

"There's no use to run away from me, " he said, meaning to quiet herfear. She faced him scornfully, seemingly to understand it as a boast. 

"You wouldn't say that to a man, you coward!"

Again he felt a pang, like a blow from an ungrateful hand. She wasbreathing fast, her dark eyes spiteful, defiant, her face eloquent ofthe scorn that her words had only feebly expressed. He turned his head, as if considering her case and revolving in his mind what punishment toapply. 

She was dressed in riding breeches, with Mexican goatskin chaps, a heavygray shirt such as was common to cowboys, a costly white sombrero, itscrown pinched to a peak in the Mexican fashion. With the bighandkerchief on her neck flying as she rode, and the crouching posturethat she had assumed in the saddle every time her pursuer began to closeup on her in the race just ended, Lambert's failure to identify her sexwas not so inexcusable as might appear. And he was thinking that she hadbeen afraid to have him know she was a girl. 

His discovery had left him dumb, his mind confused by a cross-current ofemotions. He was unable to relate her with the present situation, although she was unmistakably before his eyes, her disguise ineffectualto change one line of her body as he recalled her leaning over therailing of the car, her anger unable to efface one feature as picturedin his memory. 

"What are you going to do about it?" she asked him defiantly, not a hintin her bearing of shame for her discovery, or contrition for her crime. 

"I guess you'd better go home. "

He spoke in gentle reproof, as to a child caught in some trespasswell-nigh unforgivable, but to whose offense he had closed his eyes outof considerations which only the forgiving understand. He looked herfull in the eyes as he spoke, the disappointment and pain of hisdiscovery in his face. The color blanched out of her cheeks, she staredat him a moment in waking astonishment, her eyes just as he rememberedthem when they drew him on in his perilous race after the train. 

Such a flame rose in him that he felt it must make him transparent, andlay his deepest sentiments bare before her gaze. So she looked at him amoment, eye to eye, the anger gone out of her face, the flash of scornno longer glinting in the dark well of her eye. But if she recognizedhim she did not speak of it. Almost at once she turned away, as from theface of a stranger, looking back over the way that she had ridden insuch headlong flight. 

He believed she was ashamed to have him know she recognized him. It wasnot for him to speak of the straining little act that romance had castthem for at their first meeting. Perhaps under happier circumstancesshe would have recalled it, and smiled, and given him her hand. Embarrassment must attend her here, no matter how well she believedherself to be justified in her destructive raids against the fence. 

"I'll have to go back the way I came, " she said. 

"There is no other way. "

They started back in silence, riding side by side. Wonder filled thedoor of his mind; he had only disconnected, fragmentary thoughts, uponthe current of which there rose continually the realization, only halfunderstood, that he started out to search the world for this woman, andhe had found her. 

That he had discovered her in the part of a petty, spiteful lawbreaker, dressed in an outlandish and unbecoming garb, did not trouble him. If hewas conscious of it at all, indeed, the hurrying turmoil of his thoughtspushed it aside like drifted leaves by the way. The wonderful thing wasthat he had found her, and at the end of a pursuit so hot it might havebeen a continuation of his first race for the trophy of white linen inher hand. 

Presently this fog cleared; he came back to the starting-point of it, tothe coldness of his disappointment. More than once in that chase acrossthe pasture his hand had dropped to his pistol in the sober intention ofshooting the fugitive, despised as one lower than a thief. She seemed tosound his troubled thoughts, riding there by his side like a friend. 

"It was our range, and they fenced it!" she said, with all the feelingof a feudist. 

"I understand that Philbrook bought the land; he had a right to fenceit. "

"He didn't have any right to buy it; they didn't have any right to sellit to him! This was our range; it was the best range in the country. Look at the grass here, and look at it outside of that fence. "

"I think it's better here because it's been fenced and grazed lightly solong. "

"Well, they didn't have any right to fence it. "

"Cutting it won't make it any better now. "

"I don't care, I'll cut it again! If I had my way about it I'd drive ourcattle in here where they've got a right to be. "

"I don't understand the feeling of you people in this country againstfences; I came from a place where everybody's got them. But I supposeit's natural, if you could get down to the bottom of it. "

"If there's one thing unnatural, it's a fence, " she said. 

They rode on a little way, saying nothing more. Then she:

"I thought the man they call the Duke of Chimney Butte was working onthis side of the ranch?"

"That's a nickname they gave me over at the Syndicate when I firststruck this country. It doesn't mean anything at all. "

"I thought you were his partner, " she said. 

"No, I'm the monster himself. "

She looked at him quickly, very close to smiling. 

"Well, you don't look so terrible, after all. I think a man like youwould be ashamed to have a woman boss over him. "

"I hadn't noticed it, Miss Kerr. "

"She told you about me, " she charged, with resentful stress. 

"No. "

So they rode on, their thoughts between them, a word, a silence, nothingworth while said on either side, coming presently to the gap she hadmade in the wire. 

"I thought you'd hand me over to the sheriff, " she told him, betweenbanter and defiance. 

"They say you couldn't get a conviction on anything short of cattlestealing in this part of the country, and doubtful on that. But Iwouldn't give you over to the sheriff, Miss Kerr, even if I caught youdriving off a cow. "

"What would you do?" she asked, her head bent, her voice low. 

"I'd try to argue you out of the cow first, and then teach you better, "he said, with such evident seriousness that she turned her face away, hethought to hide a smile. 

She stopped her horse between the dangling ends of wire. Her long braidof black hair was swinging down her back to her cantle, her hard ridehaving disarranged its cunning deceit beneath her hat until it droopedover her ears and blew in loose strands over her dark, wildly piquantface, out of which the hard lines of defiance had not quite melted. 

She was not as handsome as Vesta Philbrook, he admitted, but there wassomething about her that moved emotions in him which slept in theother's presence. Perhaps it was the romance of their first meeting;perhaps it was the power of her dark, expressive eyes. Certainly Lamberthad seen many prettier women in his short experience, but none that evermade his soul vibrate with such exquisite, sweet pain. 

"If you owned this ranch, Mr. ----"

"Lambert is my name, Miss Kerr. "

"If you owned it, Mr. Lambert, I believe we could live in peace, even ifyou kept the fence. But with that girl--it can't be done. "

"Here are your nippers, Miss Kerr; you lost them when you jumped thatarroyo. Won't you please leave the fence-cutting to the men of thefamily, if it has to be done, after this?"

"We have to use them on the range since Philbrook cut us off fromwater, " she explained, "and hired men don't take much interest in aperson's family quarrels. They're afraid of Vesta Philbrook, anyhow. She can pick a man off a mile with her rifle, they believe, but shecan't. I'm not afraid of her; I never was afraid of old Philbrook, theold devil. "

Even though she concluded with that spiteful little stab, she gave theexplanation as if she believed it due Lambert's generous leniency andcourteous behavior. 

"And there being no men of the family who will undertake it, and nohired men who can be interested, you have to cut the fence yourself, " hesaid. 

"I know you think I ought to be ashamed of cutting her fence, " she said, her head bent, her eyes veiled, "but I'm not. "

"I expect I'd feel it that way if it was my quarrel, too. "

"Any man like you would. I've been where they have fences, too, andsigns to keep off the grass. It's different here. "

"Can't we patch up a truce between us for the time I'm here?"

He put out his hand in entreaty, his lean face earnest, his clear eyespleading. She colored quickly at the suggestion, and framed a hotreply. He could see it forming, and went on hurriedly to forestall it. 

"I don't expect to be here always! I didn't come here looking for a job. I was going West with a friend; we stopped off on the way through. "

"Riding fence for a woman boss is a low-down job. "

"There's not much to it for a man that likes to change around. MaybeI'll not stay very long. We'd just as well have peace while I'm here. "

"You haven't got anything to do with it--you're only a fence-rider! Thefight's between me and that girl, and I'll cut her fence--I'll cut herheart out if she gets in my road!"

"Well, I'm going to hook up this panel, " he said, leaning and takinghold of the wire end, "so you can come here and let it down any time youfeel like you have to cut the fence. That will do us about the samedamage, and you every bit as much good. "

She was moved out of her sullen humor by this proposal for giving ventto her passion against Vesta Philbrook. It seemed as if he regarded heras a child, and her part in this fence-feud a piece of irresponsiblefolly. It was so absurd in her eyes that she laughed. 

"I suppose you're in earnest, but if you knew how foolish it sounds!"

"That's what I'm going to do, anyway. You know I'll just keep on fixingthe fence when you cut it, and this arrangement will save both of ustrouble. I'll put a can or something on one of the posts to mark thespot for you. "

"This fence isn't any joke with us, Mr. Lambert, funny as you seem tothink it. It's more than a fence, it's a symbol of all that standsbetween us, all the wrongs we've suffered, and the losses, on account ofit. I know it makes her rave to cut it, and I expect you'll have a gooddeal of fixing to do right along. "

She started away, stopped a few rods beyond the fence, came back. 

"There's always a place for a good man over at our ranch, " she said. 

He watched her braid of hair swinging from side to side as she gallopedaway, with no regret for his rejected truce of the fence. She would comeback to cut it again, and again he would see her. Disloyal as it mightbe to his employer, he hoped she would not delay the next excursionlong. 

He had found her. No matter for the conditions under which the discoveryhad been made, his quest was at an end, his long flights of fancy weredone. It was a marvelous thing for him, more wonderful than therealization of his first expectations would have been. This wild spiritof the girl was well in accord with the character he had given her inhis imagination. When he watched her away that day at Misery he knew shewas the kind of woman who would exact much of a man; as he looked afterher anew he realized that she would require more. 

The man who found his way to her heart would have to take up herhatreds, champion her feuds, ride in her forays, follow her wild willagainst her enemies. He would have to sink the refinements of hiscivilization, in a measure, discard all preconceived ideas of justiceand honor. He would have to hate a fence. 

The thought made him smile. He was so happy that he had found her thathe could have absolved her of a deeper blame than this. He felt, indeed, as if he had come to the end of vast wanderings, a peace as ofthe cessation of turmoils in his heart. Perhaps this was because of theimmensity of the undertaking which so lately had lain before him, itsresumption put off from day to day, its proportions increasing with eachdeferment. 

He made no movement to dismount and hook up the cut wires, but satlooking after her as she grew smaller between him and the hill. He wasso wrapped in his new and pleasant fancies that he did not hear theapproach of a horse on the slope of the rise until its quickened pace asit reached the top brought Vesta Philbrook suddenly into his view. 

"Who is that?" she asked, ignoring his salutation in her excitement. 

"I think it must be Miss Kerr; she belongs to that family, at least. "

"You caught her cutting the fence?"

"Yes, I caught her at it. "

"And you let her get away?"

"There wasn't much else that I could do, " he returned, with thoughtfulgravity. 

Vesta sat in her saddle as rigid and erect as a statue, looking afterthe disappearing rider. Lambert contrasted the two women in mentalcomparison, struck by the difference in which rage manifested itself intheir bearing. This one seemed as cold as marble; the other had flashedand glowed like hot iron. The cold rigidity before his eyes must be theslow wrath against which men are warned. 

The distant rider had reached the top of the hill from which she hadspied out the land. Here she pulled up and looked back, turning herhorse to face them when she saw that Lambert's employer had joined him. A little while she gazed back at them, then waved her hat as in exultantchallenge, whirled her horse, and galloped over the hill. 

That was the one taunt needed to set off the slow magazine of VestaPhilbrook's wrath. She cut her horse a sharp blow with her quirt andtook up the pursuit so quickly that Lambert could not interpose eitherobjection or entreaty. 

Lambert felt like an intruder who had witnessed something not intendedfor his eyes. He had no thought at that moment of following andattempting to prevent what might turn out a regretful tragedy, but satthere reviling the land that nursed women on such a rough breast as toinspire these savage passions of reprisal and revenge. 

Vesta was riding a big brown gelding, long-necked, deep-chested, slim ofhindquarters as a hound. Unless rough ground came between them she wouldoverhaul that Kerr girl inside of four miles, for her horse lacked thewind for a long race, as the chase across the pasture had shown. In casethat Vesta overtook her, what would she do? The answer to that was inVesta's eyes when she saw the cut wire, the raider riding free acrossthe range. It was such an answer that it shot through Lambert like alightning-stroke. 

Yet, it was not his quarrel; he could not interfere on one side or theother without drawing down the displeasure of somebody, nor as a neutralwithout incurring the wrath of both. This view of it did not relieve himof anxiety to know how the matter was going to terminate. 

He gave Whetstone the reins and galloped after Vesta, who was alreadyover the hill. As he rode he began to realize as never before thesmallness of this fence-cutting feud, the really worthless bone at thebottom of the contention. Here Philbrook had fenced in certain landswhich all men agreed he had been cheated in buying, and here uprosethose who scorned him for his gullibility, and lay in wait to murder himfor shutting them out of his admittedly worthless domain. It was aquarrel beyond reason to a thinking man. 

Nobody could blame Philbrook for defending his rights, but they seemedsuch worthless possessions to stake one's life against day by day, yearafter year. The feud of the fence was like a cancerous infection. Itspread to and poisoned all that the wind blew on around the borders ofthat melancholy ranch. 

Here were these two women riding break-neck and bloody-eyed to pull gunsand fight after the code of the roughest. Both of them were primed bythe accumulated hatred of their young lives to deeds of violence with nothought of consequences. It was a hard and bitter land that could fosterand feed such passions in bosoms of so much native excellence; a roughand boisterous land, unworthy the labor that men lavished on it to maketherein their refuge and their home. 

The pursued was out of sight when Lambert gained the hilltop, thepursuer just disappearing behind a growth of stunted brushwood in thewinding dry valley beyond. He pushed after them, his anxiety increasing, hoping that he might overtake Vesta before she came within range of herenemy. Even should he succeed in this, he was at fault for some way ofstopping her in her passionate design. 

He could not disarm her without bringing her wrath down on himself, orattempt to persuade her without rousing her suspicion that he wasleagued with her destructive neighbors. On the other hand, thefence-cutting girl would believe that he had wittingly joined in anunequal and unmanly pursuit. A man's dilemma between the devil and thedeep water would be simple compared to his. 

All this he considered as he galloped along, leaving the matter ofkeeping the trail mainly to his horse. He emerged from the hemmingbrushwood, entering a stretch of hard tableland where the parched grasswas red, the earth so hard that a horse made no hoofprint in passing. Across this he hurried in a ferment of fear that he would come too late, and down a long slope where sage grew again, the earth dry and yieldingabout its unlovely clumps. 

Here he discovered that he had left too much to his horse. The creaturehad laid a course to suit himself, carrying him off the trail of thosewhom he sought in such breathless state. He stopped, looking round himto fix his direction, discovering to his deep vexation that Whetstonehad veered from the course that he had laid for him into the south, andwas heading toward the river. 

On again in the right direction, swerving sharply in the hope that hewould cut the trail. So for a mile or more, in dusty, headlong race, coming then to the rim of a bowl-like valley and the sound of runningshots. 

Lambert's heart contracted in a paroxysm of fear for the lives of boththose flaming combatants as he rode precipitately into the littlevalley. The shooting had ceased when he came into the clear and pulledup to look for Vesta. 

The next second the two girls swept into sight. Vesta had not onlyovertaken her enemy, but had ridden round her and cut off her retreat. She was driving her back toward the spot where Lambert stood, shootingat her as she fled, with what seemed to him a cruel and deliberatehand. 

CHAPTER XIII

"NO HONOR IN HER BLOOD"

Vesta was too far behind the other girl for anything like accurateshooting with a pistol, but Lambert feared that a chance shot might hit, with the most melancholy consequences for both parties concerned. Noother plan presenting, he rode down with the intention of placinghimself between them. 

Now the Kerr girl had her gun out, and had turned, offering battle. Shewas still a considerable distance beyond him, with what appeared fromhis situation to be some three or four hundred yards between thecombatants, a safe distance for both of them if they would keep it. ButVesta had no intention of making it a long-range duel. She pulled herhorse up and reloaded her gun, then spurred ahead, holding her fire. 

Lambert saw all this as he swept down between them like an eagle, oldWhetstone hardly touching the ground. He cut the line between them notfifty feet from the Kerr girl's position, as Vesta galloped up. 

He held up his hand in an appeal for peace between them. Vesta chargedup to him as he shifted to keep in the line of their fire, coming as ifshe would ride him down and go on to make an end of that chapter of thelong-growing feud. The Kerr girl waited, her pistol hand crossed on theother, with the deliberate coolness of one who had no fear of theoutcome. 

Vesta waved him aside, her face white as ash, and attempted to dash by. He caught her rein and whirled her horse sharply, bringing her face toface with him, her revolver lifted not a yard from his breast. 

For a moment Lambert read in her eyes an intention that made his heartcontract. He held his breath, waiting for the shot. A moment; the filmof deadly passion that obscured her eyes like a smoke cleared, thethreatening gun faltered, drooped, was lowered. He twisted in his saddleand commanded the Kerr girl with a swing of the arm to go. 

She started her horse in a bound, and again the soul-obscuring curtainof murderous hate fell over Vesta's eyes. She lifted her gun as Lambert, with a quick movement, clasped her wrist. 

"For God's sake, Vesta, keep your soul clean!" he said. 

His voice was vibrant with a deep earnestness that made him as solemn asa priest. She stared at him with widening eyes, something in his mannerand voice that struck to reason through the insulation of her anger. Herfingers relaxed on the weapon; she surrendered it into his hand. 

A little while she sat staring after the fleeing girl, held by whatthoughts he could not guess. Presently the rider whisked behind a pointof sage-dotted hill and was gone. Vesta lifted her hands slowly andpressed them to her eyes, shivering as if struck by a chill. Twice orthrice this convulsive shudder shook her. She bowed her head a little, the sound of a sob behind her pressing hands. 

Lambert put her pistol back into the holster which dangled on her thighfrom the cartridge-studded belt round her pliant, slender waist. 

"Let me take you home, Vesta, " he said. 

She withdrew her hands, discovering tears on her cheeks. Saying nothing, she started to retrace the way of that mad, murderous race. She did notresent his familiar address, if conscious of it at all, for he spokewith the sympathetic tenderness one employs toward a suffering child. 

They rode back to the fence without a word between them. When they cameto the cut wires he rode through as if he intended to continue on withher to the ranchhouse, six or seven miles away. 

"I can go on alone, Mr. Lambert, " she said. 

"My tools are down here a mile or so. I'll have to get them to fix thishole. "

A little way again in silence. Although he rode slowly she made noeffort to separate from his company and go her way alone. She seemedvery weary and depressed, her sensitive face reflecting the strain ofthe past hour. It had borne on her with the wearing intensity ofsleepless nights. 

"I'm tired of this fighting and contending for evermore!" she said. 

Lambert offered no comment. There was little, indeed, that he couldframe on his tongue to fit the occasion, it seemed to him, still underthe shadow of the dreadful thing that he had averted but a little whilebefore. There was a feeling over him that he had seen this warm, breathing woman, with the best of her life before her, standing on thebrink of a terrifying chasm into which one little movement would haveprecipitated her beyond the help of any friendly hand. 

She did not realize what it meant to take the life of another, even withfull justification at her hand; she never had felt that weight of ashesabove the heart, or the presence of the shadow that tinctured all lifewith its somber gloom. It was one thing for the law to absolve a slayer;another to find absolution in his own conscience. It was a strain thattried a man's mind. A woman like Vesta Philbrook might go mad under theunceasing pressure and chafing of that load. 

When they came to where his tools and wire lay beside the fence, shestopped. Lambert dismounted in silence, tied a coil of wire to hissaddle, strung the chain of the wire-stretcher on his arm. 

"Did you know her before you came here?" she asked, with suchabruptness, such lack of preparation for the question, that it seemed afragment of what had been running through her mind. 

"You mean----?"

"That woman, Grace Kerr. "

"No, I never knew her. "

"I thought maybe you'd met her, she's been away at schoolsomewhere--Omaha, I think. Were you talking to her long?"

"Only a little while. "

"What did you think of her?"

"I thought, " said he, slowly, his face turned from her, his eyes onsomething miles away, "that she was a girl something could be made outof if she was taken hold of the right way. I mean, " facing herearnestly, "that she might be reasoned out of this senseless barbarity, this raiding and running away. "

Vesta shook her head. "The devil's in her; she was born to maketrouble. "

"I got her to half agree to a truce, " said he reluctantly, his eyesstudying the ground, "but I guess it's all off now. "

"She wouldn't keep her word with you, " she declared with greatearnestness, a sad, rather than scornful earnestness, putting out herhand as if to touch his shoulder. Half way her intention seemed tofalter; her hand fell in eloquent expression of her heavy thoughts. 

"Of course, I don't know. "

"There's no honor in the Kerr blood. Kerr was given many a chance byfather to come up and be a man, and square things between them, but hedidn't have it in him. Neither has she. Her only brother was killed atGlendora after he'd shot a man in the back. "

"It ought to have been settled, long ago, without all this fighting. Butif people refuse to live by their neighbors and be decent, a good manamong them has a hard time. I don't blame you, Vesta, for the way youfeel. "

"I'd have been willing to let this feud die, but she wouldn't drop it. She began cutting the fence every summer as soon as I came home. She'sgoaded me out of my senses, she's put murder in my heart!"

"They've tried you almost past endurance, I know. But you've neverkilled anybody, Vesta. All there is here isn't worth that price. "

"I know it now, " she said, wearily. 

"Go home and hang your gun up, and let it stay there. As long as I'mhere I'll do the fighting when there's any to be done. "

"You didn't help me a little while ago. All you did was for her. "

"It was for both of you, " he said, rather indignant that she should takesuch an unjust view of his interference. 

"You didn't ride in front of her and stop her from shooting me!"

"I came to you first--you saw that. "

Lambert mounted, turned his horse to go back and mend the fence. Sherode after him, impulsively. 

"I'm going to stop fighting, I'm going to take my gun off and put itaway, " she said. 

He thought she never had appeared so handsome as at that moment, a softlight in her eyes, the harshness of strain and anger gone out of herface. He offered her his hand, the only expression of his appreciationfor her generous decision that came to him in the gratefulness of themoment. She took it as if to seal a compact between them. 

"You've come back to be a woman again, " he said, hardly realizing howstrange his words might seem to her, expressing the one thought thatcame to the front. 

"I suppose I didn't act much like a woman out there a while ago, " sheadmitted, her old expression of sadness darkening in her eyes. 

"You were a couple of wildcats, " he told her. "Maybe we can get on herenow without fighting, but if they come crowding it on let us men-folkstake care of it for you; it's no job for a girl. "

"I'm going to put the thought of it out of my mind, feud, fences, everything--and turn it all over to you. It's asking a lot of you toassume, but I'm tired to the heart. "

"I'll do the best by you I can as long as I'm here, " he promised, simply. He started on; she rode forward with him. 

"If she comes back again, what will you do?"

"I'll try to show her where she's wrong, and maybe I can get her to hangup her gun, too. You ought to be friends, it seems to me--a couple ofneighbor girls like you. "

"We couldn't be that, " she said, loftily, her old coldness coming overher momentarily, "but if we can live apart in peace it will besomething. Don't trust her, Mr. Lambert, don't take her word foranything. There's no honor in the Kerr blood; you'll find that out foryourself. It isn't in one of them to be even a disinterested friend. "

There was nothing for him to say to this, spoken so seriously that itseemed almost a prophecy. He felt as if she had looked into the windowof his heart and read his secret and, in her old enmity for this slimgirl of the dangling braid of hair, was working subtly to raise abarrier of suspicion and distrust between them. 

"I'll go on home and quit bothering you, " she said. 

"You're no bother to me, Vesta; I like to have you along. "

She stopped, looked toward the place where she had lately ridden throughthe fence in vengeful pursuit of her enemy, her eyes inscrutable, herface sad. 

"I never felt it so lonesome out here as it is today, " she said, andturned her horse, and left him. 

He looked back more than once as he rode slowly along the fence, a mistbefore his perception that he could not pierce. What had come over Vestato change her so completely in this little while? He believed she wasentering the shadow of some slow-growing illness, which bore down herspirits in an uninterpreted foreboding of evil days to come. 

What a pretty figure she made in the saddle, riding away from him inthat slow canter; how well she sat, how she swayed at the waist as hernimble animal cut in and out among the clumps of sage. A mighty prettygirl, and as good as they grew them anywhere. It would be a calamity tohave her sick. From the shoulder of the slope he looked back again. Pretty as any woman a man ever pictured in his dreams. 

She passed out of sight without looking back, and there rose a picturein his thoughts to take her place, a picture of dark, defiant eyes, oftelltale hair falling in betrayal of her disguise, as if discoveringher secret to him who had a right to know. 

The fancy pleased him; as he worked to repair the damage she hadwrought, he smiled. How well his memory retained her, in her transitionfrom anger to scorn, scorn to uneasy amazement, amazement to relief. Then she had smiled, and the recognition not owned in words but spokenin her eyes, had come. 

Yes, she knew him; she recalled her challenge, his acceptance andvictory. Even as she rode swiftly to obey him out of that mad encounterin the valley over there, she had owned in her quick act that she knewhim, and trusted him as she sped away. 

When he came to the place where she had ridden through, he pieced thewire and hooked the ends together, as he had told her he would do. Hehandled even the stubborn wire tenderly, as a man might theappurtenances to a rite. Perhaps he was linking their destinies in thatsimple act, he thought, sentimentally unreasonable; it might be thatthis spot would mark the second altar of his romance, even as the littlestation of Misery was lifted up in his heart as the shrine of itsbeginning. 

There was blood on his knuckles where the vicious wire had torn him. Hedashed it to the ground as a libation, smiling like one moonstruck, aflood of soft fancies making that bleak spot dear. 

CHAPTER XIV

NOTICE IS SERVED

Taterleg was finding things easier on his side of the ranch. Nick Harguswas lying still, no hostile acts had been committed. This may have beendue to the fierce and bristling appearance of Taterleg, as he humorouslydeclared, or because Hargus was waiting reenforcements from the penalinstitutions of his own and surrounding states. 

Taterleg had a good many nights to himself, as a consequence of thesecurity which his grisly exterior had brought. These he spent atGlendora, mainly on the porch of the hotel in company of Alta Wood, chewing gum together as if they wove a fabric to bind their lives inadhesive amity to the end. 

Lambert had a feeling of security for his line of fence, also, as herode home on the evening of his adventurous day. He had left a note onthe pieced wire reminding Grace Kerr of his request that she ease herspite by unhooking it there instead of cutting it in a new place. Healso added the information that he would be there on a certain date tosee how well she carried out his wish. 

He wondered whether she would read his hope that she would be there atthe same hour, or whether she might be afraid to risk Vesta Philbrook'sfury again. There was an eagerness in him for the hastening of theintervening time, a joyous lightness which tuned him to such harmonywith the world that he sang as he rode. 

Taterleg was going to Glendora that night. He pressed Lambert to joinhim. 

"A man's got to take a day off sometimes to rest his face and hands, " heargued. "Them fellers can't run off any stock tonight, and if they dothey can't git very far away with 'em before we'd be on their necks. They know that; they're as safe as if we had 'em where they belong. "

"I guess you're right on that, Taterleg. I've got to go to town to buyme a pair of clothes, anyhow, so I'll go you. "

Taterleg was as happy as a cricket, humming a tune as he went along. Hehad made liberal application of perfume to his handkerchief andmustache, and of barber's pomatum to his hair. He had fixed his hat oncarefully, for the protection of the cowlick that came down over hisleft eyebrow, and he could not be stirred beyond a trot all the way toGlendora for fear of damage that might result. 

"I had a run-in with that feller the other night, " he said. 

"What feller do you mean?"

"Jedlick, dern him. "

"You did? I didn't notice any of your ears bit off. "

"No, we didn't come to licks. He tried to horn in while me and Alta wasout on the porch. "

"What did you do?"

"I didn't have a show to do anything but hand him a few words. Alta shegot me by the arm and drug me in the parlor and slammed the door. No usetryin' to break away from that girl; she could pull a elephant away fromhis hay if she took a notion. "

"Didn't Jedlick try to hang on?"

"No, he stood out in the office rumblin' to the old man, but that didn'tbother me no more than the north wind when you're in bed under fourblankets. Alta she played me some tunes on her git-tar and sung me somesongs. I tell you, Duke, I just laid back and shut my eyes. I felt aseasy as if I owned the railroad from here to Omaha. "

"How long are you going to keep it up?"

"Which up, Duke?"

"Courtin' Alta. You'll have to show off your tricks pretty regular, Ithink, if you want to hold your own in that ranch. "

Taterleg rode along considering it. 

"Ye-es, I guess a feller'll have to act if he wants to hold Alta. She'syoung, and the young like change. 'Specially the girls. A man to keepAlta on the line'll have to marry her and set her to raisin' children. You know, Duke, there's something new to a girl in every man she sees. She likes to have him around till she leans ag'in' him and rubs thepaint off, then she's out shootin' eyes at another one. "

"Are there others besides Jedlick?"

"That bartender boards there at the _ho_-tel. He's got four gold teeth, and he picks 'em with a quill. Sounds like somebody slappin' the crickwith a fishin'-pole. But them teeth give him a standin' in society; theylook like money in the bank. Nothing to his business, though, Duke; nosentiment or romance or anything. "

"Not much. Who else is there sitting in this Alta game?"

"Young feller with a neck like a bottle, off of a ranch somewhere backin the hills. "

Taterleg mentioned him as with consideration. Lambert concluded that hewas a rival to be reckoned with, but gave Taterleg his own way of comingto that. 

"That feller's got a watch with a music box in the back of it, Duke. Ever see one of 'em?"

"No, I never did. "

"Well, he's got one of 'em, all right. He starts that thing up about thetime he hits the steps, and comes in playin' 'Sweet Vilelets' like hejust couldn't help bustin' out in music the minute he comes in sight ofAlta. That feller gives me a pain!"

The Duke smiled. To every man his own affair is romance; every otherman's a folly or a diverting comedy, indeed. 

"She's a little too keen on that feller to suit me, Duke. She sets outthere with him, and winds that fool watch and plays them two tunes overtill you begin to sag, leanin' her elbow on his shoulder like she hadhim paid for and didn't care whether he broke or not. "

"What is the other tune?"

"It's that one that goes:

 _A heel an' a toe and a po'ky-o_, _A heel an' a toe and a po'ky-o_

--you know that one. "

"I've heard it. She'll get tired of that watch after a while, Taterleg. "

"Maybe. If she don't, I guess I'll have to figger some way to beat it. "

"What are Jedlick's attractions? Surely not good looks. "

"Money, Duke; that's the answer to him--money. He's got a salt barrelfull of it; the old man favors him for that money. "

"That's harder to beat than a music box in a watch. "

"You _can't_ beat it, Duke. What's good looks by the side of money? Orbrains? Well, they don't amount to cheese!"

"Are you goin' to sidestep in favor of Jedlick? A man with all yourexperience and good clothes!"

"Me? I'm a-goin' to lay that feller out on a board!"

They hitched at the hotel rack, that looking more respectable, asTaterleg said, than to leave their horses in front of the saloon. Altawas heard singing in the interior; there were two railroad men belongingto a traveling paint gang on the porch smoking their evening pipes. 

Lambert felt that it was his duty to buy cigars in consideration of theuse of the hitching-rack. Wood appeared in the office door as they cameup the steps, and put his head beyond the jamb, looking this way andthat, like a man considering a sortie with enemies lying in wait. 

Taterleg went into the parlor to offer the incense of his cigar in thepresence of Alta, who was cooing a sentimental ballad to her guitar. Itseemed to be of parting, and the hope of reunion, involving one namedIrene. There was a run in the chorus accompaniment which Alta had downvery neatly. 

The tinkling guitar, the simple, plaintive melody, sounded to Lambert asrefreshing as the plash of a brook in the heat of the day. He stoodlistening, his elbow on the show case, thinking vaguely that Alta had agood voice for singing babies to sleep. 

Wood stood in the door again, his stump of arm lifted a little with analertness about it that made Lambert think of a listening ear. He lookedup and down the street in that uneasy, inquiring way that Lambert hadremarked on his arrival, then came back and got himself a cigar. Hestood across the counter from Lambert a little while, smoking, his browsdrawn in trouble, his eyes shifting constantly to the door. 

"Duke, " said he, as if with an effort, "there's a man in town lookin'for you. I thought I'd tell you. "

"Lookin' for me? Who is he?"

"Sim Hargus. "

"You don't mean Nick?"

"No; he's Nick's brother. I don't suppose you ever met him. "

"I never heard of him. "

"He's only been back from Wyoming a week or two. He was over there sometime--several years, I believe. "

"In the pen over there?"

Wood took a careful survey of the door before replying, working hiscigar over to the other side of his mouth in the way that a one-armedman acquires the trick. 

"I--they say he got mixed up in a cattle deal down there. "

Lambert smoked in silence a little while, his head bent, his facethoughtful. Wood shifted a little nearer, standing straight and alertbehind his counter as if prepared to act in some sudden emergency. 

"Does he live around here?" Lambert asked. 

"He's workin' for Berry Kerr, foreman over there. That's the job he usedto have before he--left. "

Lambert grunted, expressing that he understood the situation. He stoodin his leaning, careless posture, arm on the show case, thumb hooked inhis belt near his gun. 

"I thought I'd tell you, " said Wood uneasily. 

"Thanks. "

Wood came a step nearer along the counter, leaned his good arm on it, watching the door without a break. 

"He's one of the old gang that used to give Philbrook so muchtrouble--he's carryin' lead that Philbrook shot into him now. So he'sgot it in for that ranch, and everybody on it. I thought I'd tell you. "

"I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Wood, " said Lambert heartily. 

"He's one of these kind of men you want to watch out for when yourback's turned, Duke. "

"Thanks, old feller; I'll keep in mind what you say. "

"I don't want it to look like I was on one side or the other, youunderstand, Duke; but I thought I'd tell you. Sim Hargus is one of themkind of men that a woman don't dare to show her face around where he iswithout the risk of bein' insulted. He's a foul-mouthed, foul-mindedman, the kind of a feller that ought to be treated like a rattlesnake inthe road. "

Lambert thanked him again for his friendly information, understanding atonce his watchful uneasiness and the absence of Alta from the front ofthe house. He was familiar with that type of man such as Wood haddescribed Hargus as being; he had met some of them in the Bad Lands. There was nothing holy to them in the heavens or the earth. They did notbelieve there was any such thing as a virtuous woman, and honor was aword they never had heard defined. 

"I'll go out and look him up, " Lambert said. "If he happens to come inhere askin' about me, I'll be in either the store or the saloon. "

"There's where he is, Duke--in the saloon. "

"I supposed he was. "

"You'll kind of run into him natural, won't you, Duke, and not let himthink I tipped you off?"

"Just as natural as the wind. "

Lambert went out. From the hitching-rack he saw Wood at his post ofvigil in the door, watching the road with anxious mien. It was aSaturday night; the town was full of visitors. Lambert went on to thesaloon, hitching at the long rack in front where twenty or thirty horsesstood. 

The custom of the country made it almost an obligatory courtesy to go inand spend money when one hitched in front of a saloon, an excuse forentering that Lambert accepted with a grim feeling of satisfaction. While he didn't want it to appear that he was crowding a quarrel withany man, the best way to meet a fellow who had gone spreading it abroadthat he was out looking for one was to go where he was to be found. Itwouldn't look right to leave town without giving Hargus a chance tostate his business; it would be a move subject to misinterpretation, anddamaging to a man's good name. 

There was a crowd in the saloon, which had a smoky, blurred look throughthe open door. Some of the old gambling gear had been uncovered andpushed out from the wall. A faro game was running, with a dozen or moreplayers, at the end of the bar; several poker tables stretched acrossthe gloomy front of what had been the ballroom of more hilarious days. These players were a noisy outfit. Little money was being risked, butit was going with enough profanity to melt it. 

Lambert stood at the end of the bar near the door, his liquor in hishand, lounging in his careless attitude of abstraction. But there wasnot a lax fiber in his body; every faculty was alert, every nerve setfor any sudden development. The scene before him was disgusting, ratherthan diverting, in its squalid imitation of the rough-and-ready timeswhich had passed before many of these men were old enough to carry theweight of a gun. It was just a sporadic outburst, a pustule come to asudden head that would burst before morning and clear away. 

Lambert ran his eye among the twenty-five or thirty men in the place. All appeared to be strangers to him. He began to assort their faces, asone searches for something in a heap, trying to fix on one that lookedmean enough to belong to a Hargus. A mechanical banjo suddenly added itsmetallic noise to the din, fit music, it seemed, for such obscenecompany. Some started to dance lumberingly, with high-lifted legs andludicrous turkey struts. 

Among these Lambert recognized Tom Hargus, the young man who had madethe ungallant attempt to pass Vesta Philbrook's gate with his father. Hehad more whisky under his dark skin than he could take care of. As hejigged on limber legs he threw his hat down with a whoop, his long blackhair falling around his ears and down to his eyes, bringing out theIndian that slept in him sharper than the liquor had done it. 

His face was flushed, his eyes were heavy, as if he had been underheadway a good while. Lambert watched him as he pranced about, choppinghis steps with feet jerked up straight like a string-halt horse. TheIndian was working, trying to express itself in him through thisexaggerated imitation of his ancestral dances. His companions fell backin admiration, giving him the floor. 

A cowboy was feeding money into the music box to keep it going, givingit a coin, together with certain grave, drunken advice, whenever itshowed symptom of a pause. Young Hargus circled about in the middle ofthe room, barking in little short yelps. Every time he passed his hat hekicked at it, sometimes hitting, oftener missing it, at last driving itover against Lambert's foot, where it lodged. 

Lambert pushed it away. A man beside him gave it a kick that sent itspinning back into the trodden circle. Tom was at that moment roundinghis beat at the farther end. He came face about just as the hat skimmedacross the floor, stopped, jerked himself up stiffly, looked at Lambertwith a leap of anger across his drunken face. 

Immediately there was silence in the crowd that had been assisting onthe side lines of his performance. They saw that Tom resented thistreatment of his hat by any foot save his own. The man who had kicked ithad fallen back with shoulders to the bar, where he stood presenting theface of innocence. Tom walked out to the hat, kicked it back within afew feet of Lambert, his hand on his gun. 

He was all Indian now; the streak of smoky white man was engulfed. Hishandsome face was black with the surge of his lawless blood as hestopped a little way in front of Lambert. 

"Pick up that hat!" he commanded, smothering his words in an avalancheof profanity. 

Lambert scarcely changed his position, save to draw himself erect andstand clear of the bar. To those in front of him he seemed to becarelessly lounging, like a man with time on his hands, peace beforehim. 

"Who was your nigger last year, young feller?" he asked, with good-humorin his words. He was reading Tom's eyes as a prize fighter reads hisopponent's, watching every change of feature, every strain of facialmuscle. Before young Hargus had put tension on his sinews to draw hisweapon, Lambert had read his intention. 

The muzzle of the pistol was scarcely free of the scabbard when Lambertcleared the two yards between them in one stride. A grip of the wrist, atwist of the arm, and the gun was flung across the room. Tom struggleddesperately, not a word out of him, striking with his free hand. Sinewyas he was, he was only a toy in Lambert's hands. 

"I don't want to have any trouble with you, kid, " said Lambert, capturing Tom's other hand and holding him as he would have held a boy. "Put on your hat and go home. "

Lambert released him, and turned as if he considered the matter ended. At his elbow a man stood, staring at him with insolent, threateningeyes. He was somewhat lower of stature than Lambert, thick in theshoulders, firmly set on the feet, with small mustache, almost colorlessand harsh as hog bristles. His thin eyebrows were white, his hair but ashade darker, his skin light for an outdoors man. This, taken with hispale eyes, gave him an appearance of bloodless cruelty which the sneeron his lip seemed to deepen and express. 

Behind Lambert men were holding Tom Hargus, who had made a lunge torecover his gun. He heard them trying to quiet him, while he growled andwhined like a wolf in a trap. Lambert returned the stranger's stare, withholding anything from his eyes that the other could read, as somemen born with a certain cold courage are able to do. He went back to thebar, the man going with him shoulder to shoulder, turning his malevolenteyes to continue his unbroken stare. 

"Put up that gun!" the fellow said, turning sharply to Tom Hargus, whohad wrenched free and recovered his weapon. Tom obeyed him in silence, picked up his hat, beat it against his leg, put it on. 

"You're the Duke of Chimney Butte, are you?" the stranger inquired, turning again with his sneer and cold, insulting eyes to Lambert, whoknew him now for Sim Hargus, foreman for Berry Kerr. 

"If you know me, there's no need for us to be introduced, " Lambertreturned. 

"Duke of Chimney Butte!" said Hargus with immeasurable scorn. He gruntedhis words with such an intonation of insult that it would have beenpardonable to shoot him on the spot. Lambert was slow to kindle. He puta curb now on even his naturally deliberate vehicle of wrath, lookingthe man through his shallow eyes down to the roots of his mean soul. 

"You're the feller that's come here to teach us fellers to take off ourhats when we see a fence, " Hargus said, looking meaner with everybreath. 

"You've got it right, pardner, " Lambert calmly replied. 

"Duke of Chimney Butte! Well, pardner, I'm the King of Hotfoot Valley, and I've got travelin' papers for you right here!"

"You seem to be a little sudden about it, " Lambert said, a lazy drawl tohis words that inflamed Hargus like a blow. 

"Not half as sudden as you'll be, kid. This country ain't no place foryou, young feller; you're too fresh to keep in this hot climate, and thelonger you stay the hotter it gits. I'll give you just two days to makeyour gitaway in. "

"Consider the two days up, " said Lambert with such calm and suchcoolness of head that men who heard him felt a thrill of admiration. 

"This ain't no joke!" Hargus corrected him. 

"I believe you, Hargus. As far as it concerns me, I'm just as far fromthis country right now as I'll be in two days, or maybe two years. Consider your limit up. "

It was so still in the barroom that one could have heard a match burn. Lambert had drawn himself up stiff and straight before Hargus, and stoodfacing him with defiance in every line of his stern, strong face. 

"I've give you your rope, " Hargus said, feeling that he had been calledto show his hand in an open manner that was not his style, and playingfor a footing to save his face. "If you ain't gone in two days you'llsettle with me. "

"That goes with me, Hargus. It's your move. "

Lambert turned, contempt in his courageous bearing, and walked out ofthe place, scorning to throw a glance behind to see whether Hargus cameafter him, or whether he laid hand to his weapon in the treachery thatLambert had read in his eyes. 

CHAPTER XV

WOLVES OF THE RANGE

Lambert left his horse at the saloon hitching-rack while he went to thestore. Business was brisk in that place, also, requiring a wait of halfan hour before his turn came. In a short time thereafter he completedhis purchases, tied his package to his saddle, and was ready to go home. 

The sound of revelry was going forward again in the saloon, themechanical banjo plugging away on its tiresome tune. There was a gaphere and there at the rack where horses had been taken away, but most ofthem seemed to be anchored there for the night, standing dejectedly withdrooping heads. 

The tinkle of Alta's guitar sounded through the open window of the hotelparlor as he passed, indicating that Taterleg was still in that harbor. It would be selfish to call him, making the most as he was of a clearfield. Lambert smiled as he recalled the three-cornered rivalry forAlta's bony hand. 

There was a lemon-rind slice of new moon low in the southwest, giving adusky light, the huddling sage clumps at the roadside blotches ofdeepest shadow. Lambert ruminated on the trouble that had been laid outfor him that night as he rode away from town, going slowly, in no hurryto put walls between him and the soft, pleasant night. 

He was confronted by the disadvantage of an unsought notoriety, orreputation, or whatever his local fame might be called. A man with afighting name must live up to it, however distasteful the strife andturmoil, or move beyond the circle of his fame. Move he would not, couldnot, although it seemed a foolish thing, on reflection, to hang on therein the lure of Grace Kerr's dark eyes. 

What could a man reasonably expect of a girl with such people as SimHargus as her daily associates? Surely she had been schooled in theirwarped view of justice, as her act that day proved. No matter for Omahaand its refinements, she must be a savage under the skin. But gentle orsavage, he had a tender regard for her, a feeling of romantic sympathythat had been groping out to find her as a plant in a pit strains towardthe light. Now, in the sunshine of her presence, would it flourish andgrow green, or wither in its mistaken worship and die?

Vesta had warned him, not knowing anything of the peculiar circumstanceswhich brought him to that place, or of his discovery, which seemed arevelation of fate, the conjunction of events shaped before his entryupon the stage, indeed. She had warned him, but in the face of things asthey had taken place, what would it avail a man to turn his back on thearrangements of destiny? As it was written, so it must be lived. It wasnot in his hand or his heart to change it. 

Turning these things in his mind, flavoring the bitter in the prospectwith the sweet of romance, he was drawn out of his wanderings by thesudden starting of his horse. It was not a shying start, but astiffening of attitude, a leap out of laxity into alertness, with alifting of the head, a fixing of the ears as if on some object ahead, of which it was at once curious and afraid. 

Lambert was all tension in a breath. Ahead a little way the roadbranched at the point of the hill leading to the Philbrook house. Hisroad lay to the right of the jutting plowshare of hill which seemedshaped for the mere purpose of splitting the highway. The other branchled to Kerr's ranch, and beyond. The horse was plainly scentingsomething in this latter branch of the road, still hidden by the busheswhich grew as tall there as the head of a man on horseback. 

As the horse trotted on, Lambert made out something lying in the roadwhich looked, at that distance, like the body of a man. Closer approachproved this to be the case, indeed. Whether the man was alive or dead, it was impossible to determine from the saddle, but he lay in a huddledheap as if he had been thrown from a horse, his hat in the road somefeet beyond. 

Whetstone would not approach nearer than ten or twelve feet. There hestood, swelling his sides with long-drawn breaths, snorting hiswarning, it seemed, expressing his suspicion in the best manner that hecould command. Lambert spoke to him, but could not quiet his fear. Hecould feel the sensitive creature tremble under him, and took it ascertain that the man must be dead. 

Dismounting, he led the horse and bent over the man in the road. Hecould see the fellow's shoulder move as he breathed, and straightened upwith a creeping of apprehension that this might be a trap to draw himinto just such a situation as he found himself that moment. Thenervousness of his horse rather increased than quieted, also, addingcolor to his fear. 

His foot was in the stirrup when a quick rush sounded behind him. He sawthe man on the ground spring to his feet, and quick on the consciousnessof that fact there came a blow that stretched him as stiff as a deadman. 

Lambert came to himself with a half-drowned sense of suffocation. Waterwas falling on his head, pouring over his face, and there was theconfused sound of human voices around him. As he cleared he realizedthat somebody was standing over him, pouring water on his head. Hestruggled to get from under the drowning stream. A man laughed, shookhim, cursed him vilely close to his ear. 

"Wake up, little feller, somebody's a-cuttin' your fence!" said another, taking hold of him from the other side. 

"Don't hurt him, boys, " admonished a third voice, which he knew forBerry Kerr's--"this is the young man who has come to the Bad Lands witha mission. He's going to teach people to take off their hats tobarbed-wire fences. I wouldn't have him hurt for a keg of nails. "

He came near Lambert now, put a hand on his shoulder, and asked him witha gentle kindness how he felt. 

Lambert did not answer him, for he had no words adequate to describe hisfeelings at that moment to a friend, much less an enemy whose intentionswere unknown. He sat, fallen forward, in a limp and miserable heap, drenched with water, clusters of fire gathering and breaking likeshowers of a rocket before his eyes. His head throbbed and ached inmaddening pain. This was so great that it seemed to submerge everyfaculty save that of hearing, to paralyze him so entirely that he couldnot lift a hand. That blow had all but killed him. 

"Let him alone--he'll be all right in a minute, " said Kerr's voice, sounding close to his ear as if he stooped to examine him. 

One was standing behind Lambert, knees against his back to prevent hisentire collapse. The others drew off a little way. There followed thesound of horses, as if they prepared to ride. It seemed as if the greatpain in Lambert's head attended the return of consciousness, as itattends the return of circulation. It soon began to grow easier, settling down to a throb with each heartbeat, as if all his life forcesrushed to that spot and clamored against his skull to be released. Hestiffened, and sat straight. 

"I guess you can stick on your horse now, " said the man behind him. 

The fellow left him at that. Lambert could see the heads and shouldersof men, the heads of horses, against the sky, as if they were below theriver bank. He felt for his gun. No surprise was in store for him there;it was gone. 

He was unable to mount when they brought his horse. He attempted it, inconfusion of senses that made it seem the struggle of somebody whom hewatched and wanted to help, but could not. They lifted him, tied hisfeet under the horse, his hands to the saddle-horn. In this fashion theystarted away with him, one riding ahead, one on either hand. He believedthat one or more came following, but of this he was not sure. 

He knew it would be useless to make inquiry of their intentions. Thatwould bring down on him derision, after their savage way. Stolidly as anIndian he rode among them to what end he could not imagine; but at theworst, he believed they would not go beyond some further torture of himto give him an initiation into what he must expect unless he acceptedtheir decree that he quit the country forthwith. 

As his senses cleared Lambert recognized the men beside him as SimHargus and the half-Indian, Tom. Behind him he believed Nick Hargusrode, making it a family party. In such hands, with such preliminaryusage, it began to look very grave for him. 

When they saw there was no danger of his collapse, they began toincrease their pace. Bound as he was, every step of the horse wasincreased torture to Lambert. He appealed to Sim Hargus to release hishands. 

"You can tie them behind me if you're afraid, " he suggested. 

Hargus cursed him, refusing to ease his situation. Kerr turned onhearing this outburst and inquired what it meant. Hargus repeated theprisoner's request with obscene embellishment. They made no secret ofeach other's identity, speaking familiarly, as if in the presence of onewho would make no future charges. Kerr found the request reasonable, andordered Hargus to tie Lambert's hands at his back. 

"I guess you might as well take your last ride comfortable, kid, " Harguscommented, as he shifted the bonds. 

They proceeded at a trot, keeping it up for two hours or more. Lambertknew it was about ten o'clock when he stopped to investigate the man inthe road. There was a feel in the air now that told him it was far pastthe turn of night. He knew about where they were in relation to theranch by this time, for a man who lives in the open places develops hissense of direction until it serves him as a mole's in its undergroundtunneling. 

There was no talking among his conductors, no sound but the tramp of thehorses in unceasing trot, the scraping of the bushes on the stirrups asthey passed. Lambert's legs were drawn close to his horse's belly, hisfeet not in the stirrups, and tied so tightly that he rode in painfulrigidity. The brush caught the loose stirrups and flung them againstWhetstone's sides, treatment that he resented with all the indignationof a genuine range horse. The twisting and jumping made Lambert'ssituation doubly uncomfortable. He longed for the end of the journey, nomatter what awaited him at its conclusion. 

For some time Lambert had noticed a glow as of a fire directly ahead ofthem. It grew and sank as if being fed irregularly, or as if smoke blewbefore it from time to time. Presently they rounded the base of a hilland came suddenly upon the fire, burning in a gulch, as it seemed, covering a large area, sending up a vast volume of smoke. 

Lambert had seen smoke in this direction many times while riding fence, but could not account for it then any more than he could now for alittle while as he stood facing its origin. Then he understood that thiswas a burning vein of lignite, such as he had seen traces of in thegorgeously colored soil in other parts of the Bad Lands where the fireshad died out and cooled long ago. 

These fires are peculiar to the Bad Lands, and not uncommon there, owingtheir origin to forest or prairie blazes which spread to the exposedveins of coal. As these broad, deep deposits of lignite lie near thesurface, the fire can be seen through crevasses and fallen sections ofcrust. Sometimes they burn for years. 

At the foot of the steep bank on which Lambert and his captors stood thecrust had caved, giving the fire air to hasten its ravages. The mass ofslow-moving fire glowed red and intense, covered in places by its ownashes, now sending up sudden clouds of smoke as an indraft of airlivened the combustion, now smoldering in sullen dullness, throwing offa heat that made the horses draw back. 

Kerr drew aside on arriving at the fire, and sat his horse looking atit, the light on his face. Sim Hargus pointed to the glowing pit. 

"That's our little private hell. What do you think of it, kid?" he said, with his grunting, insulting sneer. 

The fire was visible only in front of them, in a jagged, irregular stripmarking the cave-in of the crust. It ranged from a yard to ten yardsacross, and appeared to extend on either hand a long distance. The bankon which Lambert's horse stood formed one shore of this fiery stream, which he estimated to be four yards or more across at that point. On theother side a recent settling of earth had exposed the coal, which wasburning brightly in a fringe of red flame. Whether the fire underlay theground beyond that point Lambert could not tell. 

"Quite a sight by night, isn't it?" said Kerr. "It covers severalacres, " he explained, as if answering the speculation that rose, irrelevantly in the face of his pain, humiliation and anxiety, inLambert's mind. What did it matter to him how much ground it covered, orwhen it began, or when it would die, when his own life was as uncertainthat minute as a match-flame in the wind. 

Why had they brought him there to show him that burning coal-pit? Notout of any desire to display the natural wonders of the land. The answerwas in the fact itself. Only the diabolism of a savage mind couldcontrive or countenance such barbarity as they had come to submit himto. 

"I lost several head of stock down below here a little way last winter, "said Kerr. "They crowded out over the fire in a blizzard and brokethrough. If a man was to ride in there through ignorance I doubt if he'dever be able to get out. "

Kerr sat looking speculatively into the glowing pit below, the firelightred over him in strong contrast of gleam and shadow. Sim Hargus leanedto look Lambert in the face. 

"You said I was to consider the two days I give you was up, " said he. 

"You understood it right, " Lambert told him. 

Hargus drew back his fist. Kerr interposed, speaking sharply. 

"You'll not hit a man with his arms tied while I'm around, Sim, " hesaid. 

"Let him loose, then--put him down before me on his feet!"

"Leave the kid alone, " said Kerr, in his even, provoking voice. "I thinkhe's the kind of a boy that will take friendly advice if you come up onthe right side of him. "

"Don't be all night about it, " said Nick Hargus from his place behindLambert, breaking silence in sullen voice. 

Kerr rode up to Lambert and took hold of his reins, stroking oldWhetstone's neck as if he didn't harbor an unkind thought for either manor beast. 

"It's this way, Duke, " he said. "You're a stranger here; the customs ofthis country are not the customs you're familiar with, and it's foolish, very foolish, and maybe dangerous, for you to try to change thingsaround single-handed and alone. We've used you a little rougher than Iintended the boys to handle you, but you'll get over it in a littlewhile, and we're going to let you go this time. 

"But we're going to turn you loose with the warning once more to clearout of this country in as straight a line as you can draw, startingright now, and keeping on till you're out of the state. You'll excuse usif we keep your gun; you can send me your address when you land, andI'll ship it to you. We'll have to start you off tied up, too, much as Ihate to do it. You'll find some way to get loose in a little while, Iguess, a man that's as resourceful and original as you. "

Tom Hargus had not said a word since they left the river. Now he leanedover and peered into Lambert's face with an expression of excitedmalevolence, his eyes glittering in the firelight, his nostrils flaringas if he drew exhilaration with every breath. He betrayed more of theirintentions than Kerr had discovered in his words; so much, indeed, thatLambert's heart seemed to gush its blood and fall empty and cold. 

Lambert forgot his throbbing head and tortured feet, and hands gorgedwith blood to the strain of bursting below his tight-drawn bonds. Therealization of his hopeless situation rushed on him; he looked round himto seize even the most doubtful opening that might lead him out oftheir hands. 

There was no chance. He could not wheel his horse without hand on rein, no matter how well the willing beast obeyed the pressure of his kneeswhile galloping in the open field. 

He believed they intended to kill him and throw his body in the fire. Old Nick Hargus and his son had it in their power at last to takesatisfaction for the humiliation to which he had bent them. A thousandregrets for his simplicity in falling into their trap came prickling himwith their momentary torture, succeeded by wild gropings, franticseekings, for some plan to get away. 

He had no thought of making an appeal to them, no consideration of asurrender of his manhood by giving his promise to leave the country ifthey would set him free. He was afraid, as any healthy human is afraidwhen he stands before a danger that he can neither defend against norassail. Sweat burst out on him; his heart labored and heaved in heavystrokes. 

Whatever was passing in his mind, no trace of it was betrayed in hisbearing. He sat stiff and erect, the red glow of the intense fire on hisface. His hat-brim was pressed back as the wind had held it in his ride, the scar of Jim Wilder's knife a shadow adding to the grim strength ofhis lean face. His bound arms drew his shoulders back, giving him adefiant pose. 

"Take him out there and head him the right way, boys, " Kerr directed. 

Tom Hargus rode ahead, leading Whetstone by the reins. Kerr was notfollowing. At Lambert's last sight of him he was still looking into thefire, as if fascinated by the sight of it. 

A hundred yards or less from the fire they stopped. Tom Hargus turnedWhetstone to face back the way they had come, threw the reins over thesaddle-horn, rode up so close Lambert could feel his breath in his face. 

"You made me brush off a nigger's hat when you had the drop on me, andcarry a post five miles. That's the shoulder I carried it on!"

He drove his knife into Lambert's right shoulder with the words. Thesteel grated on bone. 

"I brushed a nigger off under your gun one time, " said old Nick Hargus, spurring up on the other side. "Now I'll brush you a little!"

Lambert felt the hot streak of a knife-blade in the thick muscle of hisback. Almost at the same moment his horse leaped forward so suddenlythat it wrenched every joint in his bound, stiff body, squealing inpain. He knew that one of them had plunged a knife in the animal'shaunch. There was loud laughter, the sudden rushing of hooves, yells, and curses as they came after him. 

But no shots. For a moment Lambert hoped that they were to contentthemselves with the tortures already inflicted and let him go, to findhis way out to help or perish in his bonds, as it might fall. For amoment only, this hope. They came pressing after him, heading his horsedirectly toward the fire. He struggled to bring pressure to oldWhetstone's ribs in the signal that he had answered a thousand times, but he was bound so rigidly that his muscles only twitched on the bone. 

Whetstone galloped on, mad in the pain of his wound, heading straighttoward the fire. 

Lambert believed, as those who urged him on toward it believed, that nohorseman ever rode could jump that fiery gorge. On the brink of it hispursuers would stop, while he, powerless to check or turn his horse, would plunge over to perish in his bonds, smothered under his strugglingbeast, pierced by the transcendent agonies of fire. 

This was the last thought that rose coherently out of the turmoil of hissenses as the firepit opened before his eyes. He heard his horse squealagain in the pain of another knife thrust to madden it to itsdestructive leap. Then a swirl of the confused senses as of releasedwaters, the lift of his horse as it sprang, the heat of the fire in hisface. 

The healthy human mind recoils from death, and there is no agency amongthe destructive forces of nature which threatens with so much terror asfire. The senses disband in panic before it, reason flees, the voiceappeals in its distress with a note that vibrates horror. In the threatof death by fire, man descends to his primal levels; his tongue speaksagain the universal language, its note lending its horrified thrill tothe lowest thing that moves by the divine force of life. 

As Lambert hung over the fire in that mighty leap, his soul recoiled. His strength rushed into one great cry, which still tore at his throatas his horse struck, racking him with a force that seemed to tear himjoint from joint. 

The shock of this landing gathered his dispersed faculties. There wasfire around him, there was smoke in his nostrils, but he was alive. Hishorse was on its feet, struggling to scramble up the bank on which ithad landed, the earth breaking under its hinder hoofs, threatening toprecipitate it back into the fire that its tremendous leap had cleared. 

CHAPTER XVI

WHETSTONE COMES HOME

Lambert saw the fire leaping around him, but felt no sting of its touch, keyed as he was in that swift moment of adjustment. From a man as deadhe was transformed in a breath back to a living, panting, hoping, struggling being, strong in the tenacious purpose of life. He leanedover his horse's neck, shouting encouragement, speaking endearments toit as to a woman in travail. 

There was silence on the bank behind him. Amazement over the leap thathad carried Whetstone across the place which they had designed for thegrave of both man and horse, held the four scoundrels breathless for aspell. Fascinated by the heroic animal's fight to draw himself clear ofthe fire which wrapped his hinder quarters, they forgot to shoot. 

A heave, a lurching struggle, a groan as if his heart burst in theterrific strain, and Whetstone lunged up the bank, staggered from hisknees, snorted the smoke out of his nostrils, gathered his feet underhim, and was away like a bullet. The sound of shots broke from the bankacross the fiery crevasse; bullets came so close to Lambert that he layflat against his horse's neck. 

As the gallant creature ran, sensible of his responsibilities for hismaster's life, it seemed, Lambert spoke to him encouragingly, proud ofthe tremendous thing that he had done. There was no sound of pursuit, but the shooting had stopped. Lambert knew they would follow as quicklyas they could ride round the field of fire. 

After going to this length, they could not allow him to escape. Therewould have been nothing to explain to any living man with him and alltrace of him obliterated in the fire, but with him alive and fleeing, saved by the winged leap of his splendid horse, they would be called toanswer, man by man. 

Whetstone did not appear to be badly hurt. He was stretching away like ahare, shaping his course toward the ranch as true as a pigeon. If theyovertook him they would have to ride harder than they ever rode intheir profitless lives before. 

Lambert estimated the distance between the place where they had trappedhim and the fire as fifteen miles. It must be nine or ten miles acrossto the Philbrook ranch, in the straightest line that a horse couldfollow, and from that point many miles more to the ranchhouse andrelease from his stifling ropes. The fence would be no security againsthis pursuing enemies, but it would look like the boundary of hope. 

Whether they lost so much time in getting around the fire that theymissed him, or whether they gave it up after a trial of speed againstWhetstone, Lambert never knew. He supposed that their belief was thatneither man nor horse would live to come into the sight of men again. However it fell, they did not approach within hearing if they followed, and were not in sight as dawn broke and broadened into day. 

Whetstone made the fence without slackening his speed. There Lambertchecked him with a word and looked back for his enemies. Finding thatthey were not near, he proceeded along the fence at easier gait, holdingthe animal's strength for the final heat, if they should make a suddenappearance. Somewhere along that miserable ride, after daylight hadbroken and the pieced wire that Grace Kerr had cut had been passed, Lambert fell unconscious across the horn of his saddle from the drain ofblood from his wounds and the unendurable pain of his bonds. 

In this manner the horse came bearing him home at sunrise. Taterleg wasaway on his beat, not uneasy over Lambert's absence. It was theexception for him to spend a night in the bunkhouse in that summerweather. So old Whetstone, jaded, scorched, bloody from his own and hismaster's wounds, was obliged to stand at the gate and whinny for helpwhen he arrived. 

It was hours afterward that the fence rider opened his eyes and sawVesta Philbrook, and closed them again, believing it was a delirium ofhis pain. Then Taterleg spoke on the other side of the bed, and he knewthat he had come through his perils into gentle hands. 

"How're you feelin', old sport?" Taterleg inquired with anxioustenderness. 

Lambert turned his head toward the voice and grinned a little, in theteeth-baring, hard-pulling way of a man who has withstood a great dealmore than the human body and mind ever were designed to undergo. Hethought he spoke to Taterleg; the words shaped on his tongue, his throatmoved. But there was such a roaring in his ears, like the sound of atrain crossing a trestle, that he could not hear his own voice. 

"Sure, " said Taterleg, hopefully, "you're all right, ain't you, oldsport?"

"Fine, " said Lambert, hearing his voice small and dry, strange as thevoice of a man to him unknown. 

Vesta put her arm under his head, lifted him a little, gave him aswallow of water. It helped, or something helped. Perhaps it was thesympathetic tenderness of her good, honest eyes. He paid her withanother little grin, which hurt her more to see than him to give, wrenched even though it was from the bottom of his soul. 

"How's old Whetstone?" he asked, his voice coming clearer. 

"He's all right, " she told him. 

"His tail's burnt off of him, mostly, and he's cut in the hams in acouple of places, but he ain't hurt any, as I can see, " Taterleg said, with more truth than diplomacy. 

Lambert struggled to his elbow, the consciousness of what seemed hisingratitude to this dumb savior of his life smiting him with shame. 

"I must go and attend to him, " he said. 

Vesta and Taterleg laid hands on him at once. 

"You'll bust them stitches I took in your back if you don't keep still, young feller, " Taterleg warned. "Whetstone ain't as bad off as you, norhalf as bad. "

Lambert noticed then that his hands were wrapped in wet towels. 

"Burned?" he inquired, lifting his eyes to Vesta's face. 

"No, just swollen and inflamed. They'll be all right in a little while. "

"I blundered into their hands like a blind kitten, " said he, reproachfully. 

"They'll eat lead for it!" said Taterleg. 

"It was Kerr and that gang, " Lambert explained, not wanting to leave anydoubt behind if he should have to go. 

"You can tell us after a while, " she said, with compassionatetenderness. 

"Sure, " said Taterleg, cheerfully, "you lay back there and take it easy. I'll keep my eye on things. "

That evening, when the pain had eased out of his head, Lambert toldVesta what he had gone through, sparing nothing of the curiosity thathad led him, like a calf, into their hands. He passed briefly over theirattempt to herd him into the fire, except to give Whetstone the hero'spart, as he so well deserved. 

Vesta sat beside him, hearing him to the end of the brief recital thathe made of it in silence, her face white, her figure erect. When hefinished she laid her hand on his forehead, as if in tribute to themanhood that had borne him through such inhuman torture, and the loyaltythat had been the cause of its visitation. Then she went to the window, where she stood a long time looking over the sad sweep of brokencountry, the fringe of twilight on it in somber shadow. 

It was not so dark when she returned to her place at his bedside, but hecould see that she had been weeping in the silent pain that rises likea poison distillation from the heart. 

"It draws the best into it and breaks them, " she said in greatbitterness, speaking as to herself. "It isn't worth the price!"

"Never mind it, Vesta, " he soothed, putting out his hand. She took itbetween her own, and held it, and a great comfort came to him in hertouch. 

"I'm going to sell the cattle as fast as I can move them, and give itup, Duke, " she said, calling him by that name with the easyunconsciousness of a familiar habit, although she never had addressedhim so before. 

"You're not going away from here whipped, Vesta, " he said with afirmness that gave new hope and courage to her sad heart. "I'll be outof this in a day or two, then we'll see about it--about several things. You're not going to leave this country whipped; neither am I. "

She sat in meditation, her face to the window, presenting the soft turnof her cheek and chin to Lambert's view. She was too fine and good forthat country, he thought, too good for the best that it ever could offeror give, no matter how generously the future might atone for thehardships of the past. It would be better for her to leave it, he wantedher to leave it, but not with her handsome head bowed in defeat. 

"I think if you were to sift the earth and screen out its meanest, theywouldn't be a match for the people around here, " she said. "Therewouldn't be a bit of use taking this outrage up with the authorities;Kerr and his gang would say it was a joke, and get away with it, too. "

"I wouldn't go squealing to the county authorities, Vesta, even if Iknew I'd get results. This is something a man has to square for himself. Maybe they intended it for a joke, too, but it was a little rougher thanI'm used to. "

"There's no doubt what their intention was. You can understand myfeelings toward them now, Duke; maybe I'll not seem such a savage. "

"I've got a case with you against them all, Vesta. "

He made no mental reservation as he spoke; there was no pleading forexception in Grace Kerr's dark eyes that he could grant. Long as he hadnestled the romance between them in his breast, long as he had lookedinto the West and sent his dream out after her, he could not, in thissore hour, forgive her the taint of her blood. 

He felt that all tenderness in him toward any of her name was dead. Ithad been a pretty fancy to hold, that thought of finding her, but shewas only swamp-fire that had lured him to the door of hell. Still themarvel of his meeting her, the violet scent of his old dream, lingeredsweetly with him like the perfume that remains after a beautiful womanwhose presence has illuminated a room. So hard does romance die. 

"I think I'll have to break my word to you and buckle on my gun againfor a little while, " she said. "Mr. Wilson can't ride the fence alone, capable and willing as he is, and ready to go day and night. "

"Leave it to him till I'm out again, Vesta; that will only be a day ortwo----"

"A day or two! Three or four weeks, if you do well. "

"No, not that long, not anything like that long, " he denied withcertainty. "They didn't hurt me very much. "

"Well, if they didn't hurt you much they damaged you considerably. "

He grinned over the serious distinction that she made between the words. Then he thought, pleasantly, that Vesta's voice seemed fitted to herlips like the tone of some beautiful instrument. It was even and soft, slow and soothing, as her manner was deliberate and well calculated, herpresence a comfort to the eye and the mind alike. 

An exceptional combination of a girl, he reflected, speculating on whatsort of man would marry her. Whoever he was, whatever he might be, hewould be only secondary to her all through the compact. That chap wouldcome walking a little way behind her all the time, with a contented eyeand a certain pride in his situation. It was a diverting fancy as he laythere in the darkening room, Vesta coming down the years a strong, handsome, proud figure in the foreground, that man just far enoughbehind her to give the impression as he passed that he belonged to her_entourage_, but never quite overtaking her. 

Even so, the world might well envy the man his position. Still, if aman should happen along who could take the lead--but Vesta wouldn't havehim; she wouldn't surrender. It might cost her pain to go her way withher pretty head up, her eyes on the road far beyond, but she would goalone and hide her pain rather than surrender. That would be VestaPhilbrook's way. 

Myrtle, the negro woman, came in with chicken broth. Vesta made a lightfor him to sup by, protesting when he would sit up to help himself, thespoon impalpable in his numb fingers, still swollen and purple from thelong constriction of his bonds. 

Next morning Vesta came in arrayed in her riding habit, her sombrero on, as she had appeared the first time he saw her. Only she was so muchlovelier now, with the light of friendship and tender concern in herface, that he was gladdened by her presence in the door. It was as of asudden burst of music, or the voice of someone for whom the heart issick. 

He was perfectly fine, he told her, although he was as sore as a burn. In about two days he would be in the saddle again; she didn't need tobother about riding fence, it would be all right, he knew. Hisdeclaration didn't carry assurance. He could see that by the changingcast of her face, as sensitive as still water to a breathing wind. 

She was wearing her pistol, and appeared very competent with it on herhip, and very high-bred and above that station of contention and strife. He was troubled not a little at sight of her thus prepared to take upthe battles which she had renounced and surrendered into his hands onlyyesterday. She must have read it in his eyes. 

"I'm only going to watch the fence and repair it to keep the cattle inif they cut it, " she said. "I'll not take the offensive, even if I seeher--them cutting it; I'll only act on the defensive, in any case. Ipromise you that, Duke. "

She left him with that promise, before he could commend her on thewisdom of her resolution, or set her right on the matter of Grace Kerr. From the way Vesta spoke, a man would think she believed he had sometender feeling for that wild girl, and the idea of it was sopreposterous that he felt his face grow hot. 

He was uneasy for Vesta that day, in spite of her promise to avoidtrouble, and fretted a good deal over his incapacitated state. Hisshoulder burned where Tom Hargus' knife had scraped the bone, hiswounded back was stiff. 

Without this bodily suffering he would have been miserable, for he hadthe sweat of his humiliation to wallow in, the black cloud of hiscontemplated vengeance across his mind in ever-deepening shadow. On hisday of reckoning he cogitated long, planning how he was to bring itabout. The law would not justify him in going out to seek these men andshooting them down where overtaken. Time and circumstance must be readyto his hand before he could strike and wipe out that disgraceful score. 

It was not to be believed that they would allow the matter to standwhere it was; that was a comforting thought. They would seek occasion torenew the trouble, and push it to their desired conclusion. That was theday to which he looked forward in hot eagerness. Never again would he betaken like a rabbit in a trap. He felt that, to stand clear before thelaw, he would have to wait for them to push their fight on him, but hevowed they never would find him unprepared, asleep or awake, under roofor under sky. 

He would get Taterleg to oil up a pair of pistols from among the numberaround the bunkhouse and leave them with him that night. There wassatisfaction in the anticipation of these preparations. Dwelling on themhe fell asleep. He woke late in the afternoon, when the sun was yellowon the wall, the shadow of the cottonwood leaves quivering likedragonflies' wings. 

On the little table beside his bed, near his glass, a bit of white paperlay. He looked at it curiously. It bore writing in ink and marks as of apin. 

 _Just to say hello, Duke. _

That was the message, unsigned, folded as it had been pinned to thewire. Vesta had brought it and left it there while he slept. 

He drew himself up with stiff carefulness and read it again, holding itin his fingers then and gazing in abstraction out of the window, through which he could pick up the landscape across the river, missingthe brink of the mesa entirely. 

A softness, as of the rebirth of his old romance, swept him, submergingthe bitter thoughts and vengeful plans which had been his but a fewhours before, the lees of which were still heavy in him. This littlepiece of writing proved that Grace was innocent of anything that hadbefallen him. In the friendly good-will of her heart she thought him, asshe doubtless wished him, unharmed and well. 

There was something in that girl better than her connections would seemto guarantee; she was not intractable, she was not beyond the influenceof generosity, nor deaf to the argument of honor. It would be unfair tohold her birth and relationship against her. Nobility had sprung out ofbaseness many times in the painful history of human progress. If she wasvengeful and vindictive, it was what the country had made her. Sheshould not be judged for this in measure harsher than Vesta Philbrookshould be judged. The acts of both were controlled by what theybelieved to be the right. 

Perhaps, and who knows, and why not? So, a train of dreams starting andblowing from him, like smoke from a censer, perfumed smoke, purging theplace of demons which confuse the lines of men's and women's lives andset them counter where they should go in amity, warm hand in warm hand, side by side. 

CHAPTER XVII

HOW THICK IS BLOOD?

No sterner figure ever rode the Bad Lands than Jeremiah Lambert appearedeight days after his escape out of his enemies' hands. The last fivedays of his internment he had spent in his own quarters, protesting toVesta that he was no longer an invalid, and that further receipt of hertender ministrations would amount to obtaining a valuable considerationby false pretense. 

This morning as he rode about his duty the scar left by Jim Wilder'sknife in his cheek never had appeared so prominent. It cast over all hisface a shadow of grimness, and imparted to it an aged and seasonedappearance not warranted by either his experience or his years. Althoughhe had not carried any superfluous flesh before his night of torture, hewas lighter now by many pounds. 

Not a handsome man that day, not much about him to recall thered-faced, full-blooded agent of the All-in-One who had pushed hisbicycle into the Syndicate camp that night, guided by Taterleg's song. But there was a look of confidence in his eyes that had not been his inthose days, which he considered now as far distant and embryonic; therewas a certainty in his hand that made him a man in a man's placeanywhere in the extreme exactions of that land. 

Vesta was firm in her intention of giving up the ranch and leaving theBad Lands as soon as she could sell the cattle. With that program aheadof him, Lambert was going this morning to look over the herd andestimate the number of cattle ready for market, that he might place hisorder for cars. 

He didn't question the wisdom of reducing the herd, for that was goodbusiness; but it hurt him to have Vesta leave there with droopingfeathers, acknowledging to the brutal forces which had opposed the ranchso long that she was beaten. He would have her go after victory overthem, for it was no place for Vesta. But he would like for her to stayuntil he had broken their opposition, and compelled them to take offtheir hats to her fence. 

He swore as he rode this morning that he would do it. Vesta should notclean out the cattle, lock the lonesome ranchhouse, abandon the barnsand that vast investment of money to the skulking wolves who waited onlysuch a retreat to sneak in and despoil the place. He had fixed in hismind the intention, firm as a rock in the desert that defied storm anddisintegration, to bring every man of that gang up to the wire fence inhis turn and bend him before it, or break him if he would not bend. 

This accomplished, the right of the fence established on such terms thatit would be respected evermore, Vesta might go, if she desired. Surelyit would be better for her, a pearl in those dark waters where herbeauty would corrode and her soul would suffer in the isolation too hardfor one of her fine harmony to bear. Perhaps she would turn the ranchover to him to run, with a band of sheep which he could handle andincrease on shares, after the custom of that business, to the profit ofboth. 

He had speculated on this eventuality not a little during the days ofhis enforced idleness. This morning the thought was so strong in himthat it amounted almost to a plan. Maybe there was a face in thesecalculations, a face illumined by clear, dark eyes, which seemed tostrain over the brink of the future and beckon him on. Blood might standbetween them, and differences almost irreconcilable, but the facewithdrew never. 

It was evening before he worked through the herd and made it round tothe place where Grace Kerr had cut the fence. There was no message forhim. Without foundation for his disappointment, he was disappointed. Hewondered if she had been there, and bent in his saddle to examine theground across the fence. 

There were tracks of a horse, but whether old or new he was not educatedenough yet in range-craft to tell. He looked toward the hill from whichhe had watched her ride to cut the fence, hoping she might appear. Heknew that this hope was traitorous to his employer, he felt that hisdesire toward this girl was unworthy, but he wanted to see her and hearher speak. 

Foolish, also, to yield to that desire to let down the fence where hehad hooked the wire and ride out to see if he could find her. Still, there was so little probability of seeing her that he was not ashamed, only for the twinge of a disloyal act, as he rode toward the hill, hislong shadow ambling beside him, a giant horseman on a mammoth steed. 

He returned from this little sentimental excursion feeling somewhat likea sneak. The country was empty of Grace Kerr. In going out to seek herin the folly of a romance too trivial for a man of his serious mien, hewas guilty of an indiscretion deserving Vesta Philbrook's deepest scorn. He burned with his own shame as he dismounted to adjust the wire, likeone caught in a reprehensible deed, and rode home feeling foolishlysmall. Kerr! He should hate the name. 

But when he came to shaving by lamplight that night, and lifted out hispied calfskin vest to find his strop, the little handkerchief broughtall the old remembrances, the old tenderness, back in a sentimentalflood. He fancied there was still a fragrance of violet perfume about itas he held it tenderly and pressed it to his cheek after a furtiveglance around. He folded it small, put it in a pocket of the garment, which he hung on the foot of his bed. 

An inspiration directed the act. Tomorrow he would ride forth clothed inthe calfskin vest, with the bright handkerchief that he had worn on theSunday at Misery when he won Grace Kerr's scented trophy. Forsentimental reasons only; purely sentimental reasons. 

No, he was not a handsome man any longer, he confessed, grinning at theadmission, rather pleased to have it as it was. That scar gave him acast of ferocity which his heart did not warrant, for, inwardly, hesaid, he knew he was as gentle as a dove. But if there was any doubt inher mind, granted that he had changed a good deal since she first sawhim, the calfskin vest and the handkerchief would settle it. By thosesigns she would know him, if she had doubted before. 

Not that she had doubted. As her anger and fear of him had passed thatmorning, recognition had come, and with recognition, confidence. Hewould take a look out that way in the morning. Surely a man had a rightto go into the enemy's country and get a line on what was going onagainst him. So as he shaved he planned, arguing loudly for himself todrown the cry of treason that his conscience raised. 

Tomorrow he would take a further look through the herd and conclude hisestimate. Then he'd have to go to Glendora and order cars for the firstshipment. Vesta wouldn't be able to get all of them off for many weeks. It would mean several trips to Chicago for him, with a crew of men totake care of the cattle along the road. It might be well along into theearly fall before he had them thinned down to calves and cows not readyfor market. 

He shaved and smoothed his weathered face, turning his eyes now andagain to his hairy vest with a feeling of affection in him for thegarment that neither its worth nor its beauty warranted. Sentimentalreasons always outweigh sensible ones as long as a man is young. 

He rode along the fence next morning on his way to the herd, debatingwhether he should leave a note on the wire. He was not in such a softand sentimental mood this morning, for sense had rallied to him andpointed out the impossibility of harmony between himself and one sonearly related to a man who had attempted to burn him alive. It seemedto him now that the recollection of those poignant moments would rise tostand between them, no matter how gentle or far removed from the sourceof her being she might appear. 

These gloomy speculations rose and left him like a flock of somber birdsas he lifted the slope. Grace Kerr herself was riding homeward, justmounting the hill over which she must pass in a moment and disappear. Heunhooked the wire and rode after her. At the hilltop she stopped, unaware of his coming, and looked back. He waved his hat; she waited. 

"Have you been sick, Duke?" she inquired, after greetings, looking himover with concern. 

"My horse bit me, " said he, passing it off with that old stockpleasantry of the range, which covered anything and everything that aman didn't want to explain. 

"I missed you along here, " she said. She swept him again with that slow, puzzled look of inquiry, her eyes coming back to his face in a frank, unembarrassed stare. "Oh, I know what it is now! You're dressed like youwere that day at Misery. I couldn't make it out for a minute. "

She was not wearing her mannish garb this morning, but divided skirts ofcorduroy and a white waist with a bit of bright color at the neck. Herwhite sombrero was the only masculine touch about her, and that ratheradded to her quick, dark prettiness. 

"You were wearing a white waist the first time I saw you, " he said. 

"This one, " she replied, touching it with simple motion of fullidentification. 

Neither of them mentioned the mutual recognition on the day she had beencaught cutting the fence. They talked of commonplace things, as youth isconstrained to do when its heart and mind are centered on something elsewhich burns within it, the flame of which it cannot cover from any eyesbut its own. Life on the range, its social disadvantages, its roughdiversions, these they spoke of, Lambert's lips dry with his eagernessto tell her more. 

How quickly it had laid hold of him again at sight of her, thisunreasonable longing! The perfume of his romance suffused her, purgingaway all that was unworthy. 

"I trembled every second that day for fear your horse would breakthrough the platform and throw you, " she said, suddenly coming back tothe subject that he wanted most to discuss. 

"I didn't think of it till a good while afterward, " he said in slowreflection. 

"I didn't suppose I'd ever see you again, and, of course, I never oncethought you were the famous Duke of Chimney Butte I heard so much aboutwhen I got home. "

"More notorious than famous, I'm afraid, Miss Kerr. "

"Jim Wilder used to work for us; I knew him well. "

Lambert bent his head, a shadow of deepest gravity falling like a cloudover the animation which had brightened his features but a momentbefore. He sat in contemplative silence a little while, his voice lowwhen he spoke. 

"Even though he deserved it, I've always been sorry it happened. "

"Well, if you're sorry, I guess you're the only one. Jim was a bad kid. Where's that horse you raced the train on?"

"I'm resting him up a little. "

"You had him out here the other day. "

"Yes. I crippled him up a little since then. "

"I'd like to have that horse. Do you want to sell him, Duke?"

"There's not money enough made to buy him!" Lambert returned, liftinghis head quickly, looking her in the eyes so directly that she colored, and turned her head to cover her confusion. 

"You must think a lot of him when you talk like that. "

"He's done me more than one good turn, Miss Kerr, " he explained, feelingthat she must have read his harsh thoughts. "He saved my life only aweek ago. But that's likely to happen to any man, " he added quickly, making light of it. 

"Saved your life?" said she, turning her clear, inquiring eyes on himagain in that expression of wonder that was so vast in them. "How did hesave your life, Duke?"

"I guess I was just talking, " said he, wishing he had kept a betterhold on his tongue. "You know we have a fool way of saying a man's lifewas saved in very trivial things. I've known people to declare that adrink of whisky did that for them. "

She lifted her brows as she studied his face openly and with such adirectness that he flushed in confusion, then turned her eyes awayslowly. 

"I liked him that day he outran the flier; I've often thought of himsince then. "

Lambert looked off over the wild landscape, the distant buttes softenedin the haze that seemed to presage the advance of autumn, consideringmuch. When he looked into her face again it was with the harshness goneout of his eyes. 

"I wouldn't sell that horse to any man, but I'd give him to you, Grace. "

She started a little when he pronounced her name, wondering, perhaps, how he knew it, her eyes growing great in the pleasure of his generousdeclaration. She urged her horse nearer with an impetuous movement andgave him her hand. 

"I didn't mean for you to take it that way, Duke, but I appreciate itmore than I can tell you. "

Her eyes were earnest and soft with a mist of gratitude that seemed torise out of her heart. He held her hand a moment, feeling that he wasbeing drawn nearer to her lips, as if he must touch them, and riserefreshed to face the labors of his life. 

"I started out on him to look for you, expecting to ride him to thePacific, and maybe double back. I didn't know where I'd have to go, butI intended to go on till I found you. "

"It seemed almost a joke, " she said, "that we were so near each otherand you didn't know it. "

She laughed, not seeming to feel the seriousness of it as he felt it. Itis the woman who laughs always in these little life-comedies of ours. 

"I'll give him to you, Grace, when he picks up again. Any other horsewill do me now. He carried me to the end of my road; he brought me toyou. "

She turned her head, and he hadn't the courage in him to look and seewhether it was to hide a smile. 

"You don't know me, Duke; maybe you wouldn't--maybe you'll regret youever started out to find me at all. "

His courage came up again; he leaned a little nearer, laying his hand onhers where it rested on her saddle-horn. 

"You wanted me to come, didn't you, Grace?"

"I hoped you might come sometime, Duke. "

He rode with her when she set out to return home to the little valleywhere he had interposed to prevent a tragedy between her and VestaPhilbrook. Neither of them spoke of that encounter. It was avoided insilence as a thing of which both were ashamed. 

"Will you be over this way again, Grace?" he asked when he stopped topart. 

"I expect I will, Duke. "

"Tomorrow, do you think?"

"Not tomorrow, " shaking her head in the pretty way she had of doing itwhen she spoke in negation, like an earnest child. 

"Maybe the next day?"

"I expect I may come then, Duke--or what is your real name?"

"Jeremiah. Jerry, if you like it better. "

She pursed her lips in comical seriousness, frowning a little as ifconsidering it weightily. Then she looked at him in frank comradeship, her dark eyes serious, nodding her head. 

"I'll just call you Duke. "

He left her with the feeling that he had known her many years. Bloodbetween them? What was blood? Thicker than water? Nay, impalpable assmoke. 

CHAPTER XVIII

THE RIVALRY OF COOKS

Taterleg said that he would go to Glendora that night with Lambert, whenthe latter announced he was going down to order cars for the firstshipment of cattle. 

"I've been layin' off to go quite a while, " Taterleg said, "but thatscrape you run into kind of held me around nights. You know, that fellerhe put a letter in the post office for me, servin' notice I was to keepaway from that girl. I guess he thinks he's got me buffaloed and on therun. "

"Which one of them sent you a letter?"

"Jedlick, dern him. I'm goin' down there from now on every chance I getand set up to that girl like a Dutch uncle. "

"What do you suppose Jedlick intends to do to you?"

"I don't care what he aims to do. If he makes a break at me, I'll layhim on a board, if they can find one in the Bad Lands long enough tohold him. "

"He's got a bad eye, a regular mule eye. You'd better step easy aroundhim and not stir him up too quick. "

Lambert had no faith in the valor of Jedlick at all, but Taterleg wouldfight, as he very well knew. But he doubted whether there was any greatchance of the two coming together with Alta Wood on the watch betweenthem. She'd pat one and she'd rub the other, soothing them and drawingthem off until they forgot their wrath. Still, he did not want Taterlegto be running any chance at all of making trouble. 

"You'd better let me take your gun, " he suggested as they approached thehotel. 

"I can take care of it, " Taterleg returned, a bit hurt by thesuggestion, lofty and distant in his declaration. 

"No harm intended, old feller. I just didn't want you to go pepperin'old Jedlick over a girl that's as fickle as you say Alta Wood is. "

"I ain't a-goin' to pull a gun on no man till he gives me a good reason, Duke, but if he _gives_ me the reason, I want to be heeled. I guess Iwas a little hard on Alta that time, because I was a little sore. She'snot so foolish fickle as some. "

"When she's trying to hold three men in line at once it looks to me shemust be playin' two of 'em for suckers. But go to it, go to it, oldfeller; don't let me scare you off. "

"I never had but one little fallin' out with Alta, and that was the timeI was sore. She wanted me to cut off my mustache, and I told her Iwouldn't do that for no girl that ever punched a piller. "

"What did she want you to do that for, do you reckon?"

"Curiosity, Duke, plain curiosity. She worked old Jedlick that way, butshe couldn't throw me. Wanted to see how it'd change me, she said. Well, I know, without no experimentin'. "

"I don't know that it'd hurt you much to lose it, Taterleg. "

"Hurt me? I'd look like one of them flat Christmas toys they make out oftin without that mustache, Duke. I'd be so sharp in the face I'd whistlein the wind every time my horse went out of a walk. I'm a-goin' to wearthat mustache to my grave, and no woman that ever hung her stockin's outof the winder to dry's goin' to fool me into cuttin' it off. "

"You know when you're comfortable, old feller. Stick to it, if that'sthe way you feel about it. "

They hitched at the hotel rack. Taterleg said he'd go on to the depotwith Lambert. 

"I'm lookin' for a package of express goods I sent away to Chicago for, "he explained. 

The package was on hand, according to expectation. It proved to be afive-pound box of chewing gum, "All kinds and all flavors, " Taterlegsaid. 

"You've got enough there to stick you to her so tight that even deathcan't part you, " Lambert told him. 

Taterleg winked as he worked undoing the cords. 

"Only thing can beat it, Duke--money. Money can beat it, but a man's gotto have a lick or two of common sense to go with it, and some good lookson the side, if he picks off a girl as wise as Alta. When Jedlick wasweak enough to cut off his mustache, he killed his chance. "

"Is he in town tonight, do you reckon?"

"I seen his horse in front of the saloon. Well, no girl can say I everwent and set down by her smellin' like a bunghole on a hot day. I don'ttravel that road. I'll go over there smellin' like a fruit-store, andI'll put that box in her hand and tell her to chaw till she goes tosleep, an then I'll pull her head over on my shoulder and pat thembangs. Hursh, oh, hursh!"

It seemed that the effervescent fellow could not be wholly serious aboutanything. Lambert was not certain that he was serious in his attitudetoward Jedlick as he went away with his sweet-scented box under his arm. 

By the time Lambert had finished his arrangements for a special train tocarry the first heavy shipment of the Philbrook herd to market it waslong after dark. He was in the post office when he heard the shot that, he feared, opened hostilities between Taterleg and Jedlick. He hurriedout with the rest of the customers and went toward the hotel. 

There was some commotion on the hotel porch, which it was too dark tofollow, but he heard Alta scream, after which there came another shot. The bullet struck the side of the store, high above Lambert's head. 

CHAPTER XIX

THE SENTINEL

There appeared in the light of the hotel door for a moment the figuresof struggling men, followed by the sound of feet in flight down thesteps, and somebody mounting a horse in haste at the hotelhitching-rack. Whoever this was rode away at a hard gallop. 

Lambert knew that the battle was over, and as he came to thehitching-rack he saw that Taterleg's horse was still there. So he hadnot fled. Several voices sounded from the porch in excited talk, amongthem Taterleg's, proving that he was sound and untouched. 

His uneasiness gone, Lambert stood a little while in front, well out inthe dark, trying to pick up what was being said, but with little result, for people were arriving with noise of heavy boots to learn the cause ofthe disturbance. 

Taterleg held the floor for a little while, his voice severe as if helaid down the law. Alta replied in what appeared to be indignantprotest, then fell to crying. There was a picture of her in the door amoment being led inside by her mother, blubbering into her hands. Thedoor slammed after them, and Taterleg was heard to say in loud, firmvoice:

"Don't approach me, I tell you! I'd hit a blind woman as quick as Iwould a one-armed man!"

Lambert felt that this was the place to interfere. He called Taterleg. 

"All right, Duke; I'm a-comin', " Taterleg answered. 

The door opened, revealing the one-armed proprietor entering the house;revealing a group of men and women, bare-headed, as they had rushed tothe hotel at the sound of the shooting; revealing Taterleg coming downthe steps, his box of chewing gum under his arm. 

Wood fastened the door back in its accustomed anchorage. His neighborsclosed round where he stood explaining the affair, his stump of armlifting and pointing in the expressionless gestures common to a man thusmaimed. 

"Are you hurt?" Lambert inquired. 

"No, I ain't hurt none, Duke. "

Taterleg got aboard of his horse with nothing more asked of him orvolunteered on his part. They had not proceeded far when his indignationbroke bounds. 

"I ain't hurt, but I'm swinged like a fool miller moth in a lampchimley, " he complained. 

"Who was that shootin' around so darned careless?"

"Jedlick, dern him!"

"It's a wonder he didn't kill somebody upstairs somewhere. "

"First shot he hit a box of t'backer back of Wood's counter. I don'tknow what he hit the second time, but it wasn't me. "

"He hit the side of the store. "

Taterleg rode along in silence a little way. "Well, that was purty goodfor him, " he said. 

"Who was that hopped a horse like he was goin' for the doctor, and toreoff?"

"Jedlick, dern him!"

Lambert allowed the matter to rest at that, knowing that neither of themhad been hurt. Taterleg would come to the telling of it before long, not being built so that he could hold a piece of news like that withoutsuffering great discomfort. 

"I'm through with that bunch down there, " he said in the tone of deep, disgustful renunciation. "I never was led on and soaked that way beforein my life. No, I ain't hurt, Duke, but it ain't no fault of that girl Iain't. She done all she could to kill me off. "

"Who started it?"

"Well, I'll give it to you straight, Duke, from the first word, and youcan judge for yourself what kind of a woman that girl's goin' to turnout to be. I never would 'a' believed she'd 'a' throwed a man that way, but you can't read 'em, Duke; no man can read 'em. "

"I guess that's right, " Lambert allowed, wondering how far he had readin certain dark eyes which seemed as innocent as a child's. 

"It's past the power of any man to do it. Well, you know, I went overthere with my fresh box of gum, all of the fruit flavors you can name, and me and her we set out on the porch gabbin' and samplin' that gum. She never was so leanin' and lovin' before, settin' up so clost to meyou couldn't 'a' put a sheet of writin' paper between us. Shucks!"

"Rubbin' the paint off, Taterleg. You ought 'a' took the tip that shewas about done with you. "

"You're right; I would 'a' if I'd 'a' had as much brains as a ant. Well, she told me Jedlick was layin' for me, and begged me not to hurt him, for she didn't want to see me go to jail on account of a feller likehim. She talked to me like a Dutch uncle, and put her head so clost Icould feel them bangs a ticklin' my ear. But that's done with; she cantickle all the ears she wants to tickle, but she'll never tickle mine nomore. And all the time she was talkin' to me like that, where do youreckon that Jedlick feller was at?"

"In the saloon, I guess, firin' up. "

"No, he wasn't, Duke. He was settin' right in that _ho_-tel, with hisold flat feet under the table, shovelin' in pie. He come out pickin' histeeth purty soon, standin' there by the door, dern him, like he ownedthe dump. Well, he may, for all I know. Alta she inched away from me, and she says to him: 'Mr. Jedlick, come over here and shake hands withMr. Wilson. '

"'Yes, ' he says, 'I'll shake insect powder on his grave!'

"'I see you doin' it, ' I says, 'you long-hungry and half-full! If youever make a pass at me you'll swaller wind so fast you'll bust. ' Well, he begun to shuffle and prance and cut up like a boy makin' faces, andthere's where Alta she ducked in through the parlor winder. 'Don't hurthim, Mr. Jedlick, ' she says; 'please don't hurt him!'

"'I'll chaw him up as fine as cat hair and blow him out through myteeth, ' Jedlick told her. And there's where I started after that feller. He was standin' in front of the door all the time, where he could duckinside if he saw me comin', and I guess he would 'a' ducked if Woodhadn't 'a' been there. When he saw Wood, old Jedlick pulled his gun. 

"I slung down on him time enough to blow him in two, and pulled on mytrigger, not aimin' to hurt the old sooner, only to snap a bulletbetween his toes, but she wouldn't work. Old Jedlick he was so rattledat the sight of that gun in my hand he banged loose, slap through thewinder into that box of plug back of the counter. I pulled on her andpulled on her, but she wouldn't snap, and I was yankin' at the hammer tocock her when he tore loose with that second shot. That's when I foundout what the matter was with that old gun of mine. "

Taterleg was so moved at this passage that he seemed to run out ofwords. He rode along in silence until they reached the top of the hill, and the house on the mesa stood before them, dark and lonesome. Then hepulled out his gun and handed it across to the Duke. 

"Run your thumb over the hammer of that gun, Duke, " he said. 

"Well! What in the world--it feels like chewin' gum, Taterleg. "

"It is chewin' gum, Duke. A wad of it as big as my fist gluin' down thehammer of that gun. That girl put it on there, Duke. She knew Jedlickwouldn't have no more show before me, man to man, than a rabbit. Shedone me that trick, Duke; she wanted to kill me off. "

"There wasn't no joke about that, old feller, " the Duke said seriously, grateful that the girl's trick had not resulted in any greater damageto his friend than the shock to his dignity and simple heart. 

"Yes, and it was my own gum. That's the worst part of it, Duke; shewasn't even usin' his gum, dang her melts!"

"She must have favored Jedlick pretty strong to go that far. "

"Well, if she wants him after what she's saw of him, she can take him. Iclinched him before he could waste any more ammunition, and twisted hisgun away from him. I jolted him a couple of jolts with my fist, and hebroke and run. You seen him hop his horse. "

"What did you do with his gun?"

"I walked over to the winder where that girl was lookin' out to seeJedlick wipe up the porch with me, and I handed her the gun, and I says:'Give this to Mr. Jedlick with my regards, ' I says, 'and tell him if hewants any more to send me word. ' Well, she come out, and I called her onwhat she done to my gun. She swore she didn't mean it for nothin' but ajoke. I said if that was her idear of a joke, the quicker we parted thesooner. She began to bawl, and the old man and old woman put in, andI'd 'a' slapped that feller, Duke, if he'd 'a' had two arms on him. Butyou can't slap a half of a man. "

"I guess that's right. "

"I walked up to that girl, and I said: 'You've chawed the last wad of mygum you'll ever plaster up ag'in' your old lean jawbone. You may be somefigger in Glendora, ' I says, 'but anywheres else you wouldn't cut nomore ice than a cracker. ' Wood he took it up ag'in. That's when I comeaway. "

"It looks like it's all off between you and Alta now. "

"Broke off, short up to the handle. Serves a feller right for bein' afool. I might 'a' knowed when she wanted me to shave my mustache off shedidn't have no more heart in her than a fish. "

"That was askin' a lot of a man, sure as the world. "

"No man can look two ways at once without somebody puttin' somethingdown his back, Duke. "

"Referrin' to the lady in Wyoming. Sure. "

"She was white. She says: 'Mr. Wilson, I'll always think of you as agentleman. ' Them was her last words, Duke. "

They were walking their horses past the house, which was dark, carefulnot to wake Vesta. But their care went for nothing; she was not in bed. Around the turn of the long porch they saw her standing in themoonlight, looking across the river into the lonely night. It seemed asif she stood in communion with distant places, to which she sent herlonging out of a bondage that she could not flee. 

"She looks lonesome, " Taterleg said. "Well, I ain't a-goin' to go andpet and console her. I'm done takin' chances. "

Lambert understood as never before how melancholy that life must be forher. She turned as they passed, her face clear in the bright moonlight. Taterleg swept off his hat with the grand air that took him so far withthe ladies, Lambert saluting with less extravagance. 

Vesta waved her hand in acknowledgment, turning again to her watchingover the vast, empty land, as if she waited the coming of somebody whowould quicken her life with the cheer that it wanted so sadly that calmsummer night. 

Lambert felt an unusual restlessness that night--no mood over him forhis bed. It seemed, in truth, that a man would be wasting valuable hoursof life by locking his senses up in sleep. He put his horse away, satedwith the comedy of Taterleg's adventure, and not caring to pursue itfurther. To get away from the discussion of it that he knew Taterlegwould keep going as long as there was an ear open to hear him, he walkedto the near-by hilltop to view the land under this translating spell. 

This was the hilltop from which he had ridden down to interfere betweenVesta and Nick Hargus. With that adventure he had opened his account oftrouble in the Bad Lands, an account that was growing day by day, thefinal balancing of which he could not foresee. 

From where he stood, the house was dark and lonely as an abandonedhabitation. It seemed, indeed, that bright and full of youthful light asVesta Philbrook was, she was only one warm candle in the gloom of thisgreat and melancholy monument of her father's misspent hopes. Beforeshe could warm it into life and cheerfulness, it would encroach upon herwith its chilling gloom, like an insidious cold drift of sand, smothering her beauty, burying her quick heart away from the world forwhich it longed, for evermore. 

It would need the noise of little feet across those broad, empty, lonesome porches to wake the old house; the shouting and laughter andgleam of merry eyes that childhood brings into this world's gloom, todrive away the shadows that draped it like a mist. Perhaps Vesta stoodthere tonight sending her soul out in a call to someone for whom shelonged, these comfortable, natural, womanly hopes in her own good heart. 

He sighed, wishing her well of such hope if she had it, and forgot herin a moment as his eyes picked up a light far across the hills. Now ittwinkled brightly, now it wavered and died, as if its beam was all tooweak to hold to the continued effort of projecting itself so far. Thatmust be the Kerr ranch; no other habitation lay in that direction. Perhaps in the light of that lamp somebody was sitting, bending a darkhead in pensive tenderness with a thought of him. 

He stood with his pleasant fancy, his dream around him like a cloak. Allthe trouble that was in the world for him that hour was near the earth, like the precipitation of settling waters. Over it he gazed, superior toits ugly murk, careless of whether it might rise to befoul the clearcurrent of his hopes, or sink and settle to obscure his dreams no more. 

There was a sound of falling shale on the slope, following thedisturbance of a quick foot. Vesta was coming. Unseen and unheardthrough the insulation of his thoughts, she had approached within tenrods of him before he saw her, the moonlight on her fair face, gloriousin her uncovered hair. 

CHAPTER XX

BUSINESS, AND MORE

"You stand out like an Indian water monument up here, " she saidreprovingly, as she came scrambling up, taking the hand that he hastenedforward to offer and boost her over the last sharp face of crumblingshale. 

"I expect Hargus could pick me off from below there anywhere, but Ididn't think of that, " he said. 

"It wouldn't be above him, " seriously, discounting the light way inwhich he spoke of it; "he's done things just as cowardly, and so haveothers you've met. "

"I haven't got much opinion of the valor of men who hunt in packs, Vesta. Some of them might be skulking around, glad to take a shot at us. Don't you think we'd better go down?"

"We can sit over there and be off the sky-line. It's always the safething to do around here. "

She indicated a point where an inequality in the hill would be abovetheir heads sitting, and there they composed themselves--the shelteringswell of hilltop at their backs. 

"It's not a very complimentary reflection on a civilized community thatone has to take such a precaution, but it's necessary, Duke. "

"It's enough to make you want to leave it, Vesta. It's bad enough tohave to dodge danger in a city, but out here, with all this lonesomenessaround you, it's worse. "

"Do you feel it lonesome here?" She asked it with a curious softslowness, a speculative detachment, as if she only half thought of whatshe said. 

"I'm never lonesome where I can see the sun rise and set. There's a lotof company in cattle, more than in any amount of people you don't know. "

"I find it the same way, Duke. I never was so lonesome as when I wasaway from here at school. "

"Everybody feels that way about home, I guess. But I thought maybe you'dlike it better away among people like yourself. "

"No. If it wasn't for this endless straining and watching, quarrelingand contending, I wouldn't change this for any place in the world. Onnights like this, when it whispers in a thousand inaudible voices, andbeckons and holds one close, I feel that I never can go away. There's acall in it that is so subtle and tender, so full of sympathy, that Ianswer it with tears. "

"I wish things could be cleared up so you could live here in peace andenjoy it, but I don't know how it's going to come out. It looks to melike I've made it worse. "

"It was wrong of me to draw you into it, Duke; I should have let you goyour way. "

"There's no regrets on my side, Vesta. I guess it was planned for me tocome this far and stop. "

"They'll never rest till they've drawn you into a quarrel that will givethem an excuse for killing you, Duke. They're doubly sure to do it sinceyou got away from them that night. I shouldn't have stopped you; Ishould have let you go on that day. "

"I had to stop somewhere, Vesta, " he laughed. "Anyway, I've found herewhat I started out to find. This was the end of my road. "

"What you started to find, Duke?"

"A man-sized job, I guess. " He laughed again, but with a colorlessartificiality, sweating over the habit of solitude that leads a man intothinking aloud. 

"You've found it, all right, Duke, and you're filling it. That's somesatisfaction to you, I know. But it's a man-using job, a life-wastingjob, " she said sadly. 

"I've only got myself to blame for anything that's happened to me here, Vesta. It's not the fault of the job. "

"Well, if you'll stay with me till I sell the cattle, Duke, I'll thinkof you as the next best friend I ever had. "

"I've got no intention of leaving you, Vesta. "

"Thank you, Duke. "

Lambert sat turning over in his mind something that he wanted to say toher, but which he could not yet shape to his tongue. She was looking inthe direction of the light that he had been watching, a gleam of whichshowed faintly now and then, as if between moving boughs. 

"I don't like the notion of your leaving this country whipped, Vesta, "he said, coming to it at last. 

"I don't like to leave it whipped, Duke. "

"That's the way they'll look at it if you go. "

Silence again, both watching the far-distant, twinkling light. 

"I laid out the job for myself of bringing these outlaws around here upto your fence with their hats in their hands, and I hate to give it upbefore I've made good on my word. "

"Let it go, Duke; it isn't worth the fight. "

"A man's word is either good for all he intends it to be, or worth nomore than the lowest scoundrel's, Vesta. If I don't put up works toequal what I've promised, I'll have to sneak out of this country betweentwo suns. "

"I threw off too much on the shoulders of a willing and gallantstranger, " she sighed. "Let it go, Duke; I've made up my mind to sellout and leave. "

He made no immediate return to this declaration, but after a while hesaid:

"This will be a mighty bleak spot with the house abandoned and dark onwinter nights and no stock around the barns. "

"Yes, Duke. "

"There's no place so lonesome as one where somebody's lived, and put hishopes and ambitions into it, and gone away and left it empty. I can hearthe winter wind cuttin' around the house down yonder, mournin' like awidow woman in the night. "

A sob broke from her, a sudden, sharp, struggling expression of hersorrow for the desolation that he pictured in his simple words. She benther head into her hands and cried. Lambert was sorry for the pain thathe had unwittingly stirred in her breast, but glad in a glowingtenderness to see that she had this human strain so near the surfacethat it could be touched by a sentiment so common, and yet so precious, as the love of home. He laid his hand on her head, stroking her soft, wavy hair. 

"Never mind, Vesta, " he petted, as if comforting a child. "Maybe we canfix things up here so there'll be somebody to take care of it. Nevermind--don't you grieve and cry. "

"It's home--the only home I ever knew. There's no place in the worldthat can be to me what it has been, and is. "

"That's so, that's so. I remember, I know. The wind don't blow as soft, the sun don't shine as bright, anywhere else as it does at home. It'sbeen a good while since I had one, and it wasn't much to see, but I'vegot the recollection of it by me always--I can see every log in thewalls. "

He felt her shiver with the sobs she struggled to repress as his handrested on her hair. His heart went out to her in a surge of tendernesswhen he thought of all she had staked in that land--her youth and thepromise of life--of all she had seen planned in hope, built inexpectation, and all that lay buried now on the bleak mesa marked by twowhite stones. 

And he caressed her with gentle hand, looking away the while at thespark of light that came and went, came and went, as if through blowingleaves. So it flashed and fell, flashed and fell, like a slow, slowpulse, and died out, as a spark in tinder dies, leaving the far nightblank. 

Vesta sat up, pushed her hair back from her forehead, her white handlingering there. He touched it, pressed it comfortingly. 

"But I'll have to go, " she said, calm in voice, "to end this trouble andstrife. "

"I've been wondering, since I'm kind of pledged to clean things up here, whether you'd consider a business proposal from me in regard to takingcharge of the ranch for you while you're gone, Vesta. "

She looked up with a quick start of eagerness. 

"You mean I oughtn't sell the cattle, Duke?"

"Yes, I think you ought to clean them out. The bulk of them are in ashigh condition as they'll ever be, and the market's better right nowthat it's been in years. "

"Well, what sort of a proposal were you going to make, Duke?"

"Sheep. "

"Father used to consider turning around to sheep. The country would cometo it, he said. "

"Coming to it more and more every day. The sheep business is the bigfuture thing in here. Inside of five years everybody will be in thesheep business, and that will mean the end of these rustler camps thatgo under the name of cattle ranches. "

"I'm willing to consider sheep, Duke. Go ahead with the plan. "

"There's twice the money in them, and not half the expense. One man cantake care of two or three thousand, and you can get sheepherders anyday. There can't be any possible objection to them inside your ownfence, and you've got range for ten or fifteen thousand. I'd suggestabout a thousand to begin with, though. "

"I'd do it in a minute, Duke--I'll do it whenever you say the word. ThenI could leave Ananias and Myrtle here, and I could come back in thesummer for a little while, maybe. "

She spoke with such eagerness, such appeal of loneliness, that he knewit would break her heart ever to go at all. So there on the hilltop theyplanned and agreed on the change from cattle to sheep, Lambert to havehalf the increase, according to the custom, with herder's wages for twoyears. She would have been more generous in the matter of pay, but thatwas the basis upon which he had made his plans, and he would admit nochange. 

Vesta was as enthusiastic over it as a child, all eagerness to begin, seeing in the change a promise of the peace for which she had soardently longed. She appeared to have come suddenly from under a cloudof oppression and to sparkle in the sun of this new hope. It was onlywhen they came to parting at the porch that the ghost of her old troublecame to take its place at her side again. 

"Has she cut the fence lately over there, Duke?" she asked. 

"Not since I caught her at it. I don't think she'll do it again. "

"Did she promise you she wouldn't cut it, Duke?"

She did not look at him as she spoke, but stood with her face averted, as if she would avoid prying into his secret too directly. Her voice waslow, a note of weary sadness in it that seemed a confession of theuselessness of turning her back upon the strife that she would forget. 

"No, she didn't promise. "

"If she doesn't cut the fence she'll plan to hurt me in some other way. It isn't in her to be honest; she couldn't be honest if she tried. "

"I don't like to condemn anybody without a trial, Vesta. Maybe she'schanged. "

"You can't change a rattlesnake. You seem to forget that she's a Kerr. "

"Even at that, she might be different from the rest. "

"She never has been. You've had a taste of the Kerr methods, but you'renot satisfied yet that they're absolutely base and dishonorable in everythought and deed. You'll find it out to your cost, Duke, if you let thatgirl lead you. She's a will-o'-the-wisp sent to lure you from thetrail. "

Lambert laughed a bit foolishly, as a man does when the intuition of awoman uncovers the thing that he prided himself was so skilfullyconcealed that mortal eyes could not find it. Vesta was reading throughhim like a piece of greased parchment before a lamp. 

"I guess it will all come out right, " he said weakly. 

"You'll meet Kerr one of these days with your old score between you, and he'll kill you or you'll kill him. She knows it as well as I do. Doyou suppose she can be sincere with you and keep this thing covered upin her heart? You seem to have forgotten what she remembers and plots onevery minute of her life. "

"I don't think she knows anything about what happened to me that night, Vesta. "

"She knows all about it, " said Vesta coldly. 

"I don't know her very well, of course; I've only passed a few wordswith her, " he excused. 

"And a few notes hung on the fence!" she said, not able to hide herscorn. "She's gone away laughing at you every time. "

"I thought maybe peace and quiet could be established through her if shecould be made to see things in a civilized way. "

Vesta made no rejoinder at once. She put her foot on the step as if toleave him, withdrew it, faced him gravely. 

"It's nothing to me, Duke, only I don't want to see her lead you intoanother fire. Keep your eyes open and your hand close to your gun whenyou're visiting with her. "

She left him with that advice, given so gravely and honestly that itamounted to more than a warning. He felt that there was something morefor him to say to make his position clear, but could not marshal hiswords. Vesta entered the house without looking back to where he stood, hat in hand, the moonlight in his fair hair. 

CHAPTER XXI

A TEST OF LOYALTY

Lambert rode to his rendezvous with Grace Kerr on the appointed day, believing that she would keep it, although her promise had beeninconclusive. She had only "expected" she would be there, but he morethan expected she would come. 

He was in a pleasant mood that morning, sentimentally softened to suchextent that he believed he might even call accounts off with Sim Hargusand the rest of them if Grace could arrange a peace. Vesta was a littlerough on her, he believed. Grace was showing a spirit that seemed toprove she wanted only gentle guiding to abandon the practices ofviolence to which she had been bred. 

Certainly, compared to Vesta, she seemed of coarser ware, even thoughshe was as handsome as heart could desire. This he admitted withoutprejudice, not being yet wholly blind. But there was no bond of romancebetween Vesta and him. There was no place for romance between a man andhis boss. Romance bound him to Grace Kerr; sentiment enchained him. Itwas a sweet enslavement, and one to be prolonged in his desire. 

Grace was not in sight when he reached their meeting-place. He let downthe wire and rode to meet her, troubled as before by that feeling ofdisloyalty to the Philbrook interests which caused him to stop more thanonce and debate whether he should turn back and wait inside the fence. 

The desire to hasten the meeting with Grace was stronger than thisquestion of his loyalty. He went on, over the hill from which she usedto spy on his passing, into the valley where he had interfered betweenthe two girls on the day that he found Grace hidden away in thisunexpected place. There he met her coming down the farther slope. 

Grace was quite a different figure that day from any she had presentedbefore, wearing a perky little highland bonnet with an eagle feather init, and a skirt and blouse of the same plaid. His eyes announced hisapproval as they met, leaning to shake hands from the saddle. 

Immediately he brought himself to task for his late admission that shewas inferior in the eyes to Vesta. That misappraisement was due to thedisadvantage under which he had seen Grace heretofore. This morning shewas as dainty as a fresh-blown pink, and as delicately sweet. He swungfrom the saddle and stood off admiring her with so much speaking fromhis eyes that she grew rosy in their fire. 

"Will you get down, Grace? I've never had a chance to see how tall youare--I couldn't tell that day on the train. "

The eagle feather came even with his ear when she stood beside him, slender and strong, health in her eyes, her womanhood ripening in herlips. Not as tall as Vesta, not as full of figure, he began in mentalmeasurement, burning with self-reproof when he caught himself at it. Whyshould he always be drawing comparisons between her and Vesta, to herdisadvantage in all things? It was unwarranted, it was absurd!

They sat on the hillside, their horses nipping each other inintroductory preliminaries, then settling down to immediate friendship. They were far beyond sight of the fence. Lambert hoped, with an uneasyreturn of that feeling of disloyalty and guilt, that Vesta would notcome riding up that way and find the open strands of wire. 

This thought passed away and troubled him no more as they sat talking ofthe strange way of their "meeting on the run, " as she said. 

"There isn't a horse in a thousand that could have caught up with methat day. "

"Not one in thousands, " he amended, with due gratitude to Whetstone. 

"I expected you'd be riding him today, Duke. "

"He backed into a fire, " said he uneasily, "and burned off most of histail. He's no sight for a lady in his present shape. "

She laughed, looking at him shrewdly, as if she believed it to be a joketo cover something that he didn't want her to know. 

"But you promised to give him to me, Duke, when he rested up a little. "

"I will, " he declared earnestly, getting hold of her hand where it layin the grass between them. "I'll give you anything I've got, Grace, fromthe breath in my body to the blood in my heart!"

She bent her head, her face rosy with her mounting blood. 

"Would you, Duke?" said she, so softly that it was not much more thanthe flutter of the wings of words. 

He leaned a little nearer, his heart climbing, as if it meant to smotherhim and cut him short in that crowning moment of his dream. 

"I'd have gone to the end of the world to find you, Grace, " he said, hisvoice shaking as if he had a chill, his hands cold, his face hot, atingling in his body, a sound in his ears like bells. "I want to tellyou how----"

"Wait, Duke--I want to hear it all--but wait a minute. There's somethingI want to ask you to do for me. Will you do me a favor, Duke, a simplefavor, but one that means the world and all to me?"

"Try me, " said he, with boundless confidence. 

"It's more than giving me your horse, Duke; a whole lot more than that, but it'll not hurt you--you can do it, if you will. "

"I know you wouldn't ask me to do anything that would reflect on myhonesty or honor, " he said, beginning to do a little thinking as hisnervous chill passed. 

"A man doesn't--when a man _cares_--" She stopped, looking away, alittle constriction in her throat. 

"What is it, Grace?" pressing her hand encouragingly, master of thesituation now, as he believed. 

"Duke"--she turned to him suddenly, her eyes wide and luminous, herheart going so he could see the tremor of its vibrations in the lace ather throat--"I want you to lend me tomorrow morning, for one day, justone day, Duke--five hundred head of Vesta Philbrook's cattle. "

"That's a funny thing to ask, Grace, " said he uneasily. 

"I want you to meet me over there where I cut the fence before sunup inthe morning, and have everybody out of the way, so we can cut them outand drive them over here. You can manage it, if you want to, Duke. Youwill, if you--if you _care_. "

"If they were my cattle, Grace, I wouldn't hesitate a second. "

"You'll do it, anyhow, won't you, Duke, for me?"

"What in the world do you want them for, just for one day?"

"I can't explain that to you now, Duke, but I pledge you my honor, Ipledge you everything, that they'll be returned to you before night, nota head missing, nothing wrong. "

"Does your father know--does he----"

"It's for myself that I'm asking this of you, Duke; nobody else. Itmeans--it means--_everything_ to me. "

"If they were my cattle, Grace, if they were my cattle, " said heaimlessly, amazed by the request, groping for the answer that lay behindit. What could a girl want to borrow five hundred head of cattle for?What in the world would she get out of holding them in her possessionone day and then turning them back into the pasture? There was somethingback of it; she was the innocent emissary of a crafty hand that had atrick to play. 

"We could run them over here, just you and I, and nobody would knowanything about it, " she tempted, the color back in her cheeks, her eyesbright as in the pleasure of a request already granted. 

"I don't like to refuse you even that, Grace. "

"You'll do it, you'll do it, Duke?" Her hand was on his arm in beguilingcaress, her eyes were pleading into his. 

"I'm afraid not, Grace. "

Perhaps she felt a shading of coldness in his denial, for distrust andsuspicion were rising in his cautious mind. It did not seem to him athing that could be asked with any honest purpose, but for whatdishonest one he had no conjecture to fit. 

"Are you going to turn me down on the first request I ever made of you, Duke?" She watched him keenly as she spoke, making her eyes small, aninflection of sorrowful injury in her tone. 

"If there's anything of my own you want, if there's anything you canname for me to do, personally, all you've got to do is hint at itonce. "

"It's easy to say that when there's nothing else I want!" she said, snapping it at him as sharp as the crack of a little whip. 

"If there _was_ anything----"

"There'll never be anything!"

She got up, flashing him an indignant look. He stood beside her, despising the poverty of his condition which would not allow him todeliver over to her, out of hand, the small matter of five hundredbeeves. 

She went to her horse, mightily put out and impatient with him, as hecould see, threw the reins over her pommel, as if she intended to leavehim at once. She delayed mounting, suddenly putting out her hands insupplication, tears springing in her eyes. 

"Oh, Duke! If you knew how much it means to me, " she said. 

"Why don't you tell me, Grace?"

"Even if you stayed back there on the hills somewhere and watched themyou wouldn't do it, Duke?" she appealed, evading his request. 

He shook his head slowly, while the thoughts within it ran likewildfire, seeking the thing that she covered. 

"It can't be done. "

"I give you my word, Duke, that if you'll do it nobody will ever lift ahand against this ranch again. "

"It's almost worth it, " said he. 

She quickened at this, enlarging her guarantee. 

"We'll drop all of the old feud and let Vesta alone. I give you my wordfor all of them, and I'll see that they carry it out. You can do Vestaas big a favor as you'll be doing me, Duke. "

"It couldn't be done without her consent, Grace. If you want to go toher with this same proposal, putting it plainly like you have to me, Ithink she'll let you have the cattle, if you can show her any goodreason for it. "

"Just as if I'd be fool enough to ask her!"

"That's the only way. "

"Duke, " said she coaxingly, "wouldn't it be worth something to you, personally, to have your troubles settled without a fight? I'll promiseyou nobody will ever lift a hand against you again if you'll do this forme. "

He started, looked at her sternly, approaching her a step. 

"What do you know about anything that's happened to me?" he demanded. 

"I don't know anything about what's happened, but I know what's due tohappen if it isn't headed off. "

Lambert did some hard thinking for a little while, so hard that itwrenched him to the marrow. If he had had suspicion of her entireinnocence in the solicitation of this unusual favor before, it hadsprung in a moment into distrust. Such a quick reversion cannot takeplace in the sentiment without a shock. It seemed to Lambert thatsomething valuable had been snatched away from him, and that he stood inbewilderment, unable to reach out and retrieve his loss. 

"Then there's no use in discussing it any more, " he said, groping back, trying to answer her. 

"You'd do it for her!"

"Not for her any quicker than for you. "

"I know it looks crooked to you, Duke--I don't blame you for yoursuspicions, " she said with a frankness that seemed more like herself, he thought. She even seemed to be coming back to him in that approach. It made him glad. 

"Tell me all about it, Grace, " he urged. 

She came close to him, put her arm about his neck, drew his head down asif to whisper her confidence in his ear. Her breath was on his cheek, his heart was afire in one foolish leap. She put up her lips as if tokiss him, and he, reeling in the ecstasy of his proximity to her radiantbody, bent nearer to take what she seemed to offer. 

She drew back, her hand interposed before his eager lips, shaking herhead, denying him prettily. 

"In the morning, I'll tell you all in the morning when I meet you todrive the cattle over, " she said. "Don't say a word--I'll not take nofor my answer. " She turned quickly to her horse and swung lightly intothe saddle. From this perch she leaned toward him, her hand on hisshoulder, her lips drawing him in their fiery lure again. "In themorning--in the morning--you can kiss me, Duke!"

With that word, that promise, she turned and galloped away. 

It was late afternoon, and Lambert had faced back toward the ranchhouse, troubled by all that he could not understand in that morning's meeting, thrilled and fired by all that was sweet to remember, when he met a manwho came riding in the haste of one who had business ahead of him thatcould not wait. He was riding one of Vesta Philbrook's horses, acircumstance that sharpened Lambert's interest in him at once. 

As they closed the distance between them, Lambert keeping his hand inthe easy neighborhood of his gun, the man raised his hand, palm forward, in the Indian sign of peace. Lambert saw that he wore a shoulder holsterwhich supported two heavy revolvers. He was a solemn-looking man with anarrow face, a mustache that crowded Taterleg's for the championship, abuckskin vest with pearl buttons. His coat was tied on the saddle at hisback. 

"I didn't steal this horse, " he explained with a sorrowful grin as hedrew up within arm's length of Lambert, "I requisitioned it. I'm thesheriff. "

"Yes, sir?" said Lambert, not quite taking him for granted, nointention of letting him pass on with that explanation. 

"Miss Philbrook said I'd run across you up this way. "

The officer produced his badge, his commission, his card, hisletterhead, his credentials of undoubted strength. On the proof thussupplied, Lambert shook hands with him. 

"I guess everybody else in the county knows me--this is my second term, and I never was taken for a horse thief before, " the sheriff said, solemn as a crow, as he put his papers away. 

"I'm a stranger in this country, I don't know anybody, nobody knows me, so you'll not take it as a slight that I didn't recognize you, Mr. Sheriff. "

"No harm done, Duke, no harm done. Well, I guess you're a little widerknown than you make out. I didn't bring a man along with me because Iknew you were up here at Philbrook's. Hold up your hand and be sworn. "

"What's the occasion?" Lambert inquired, making no move to comply withthe order. 

"I've got a warrant for this man Kerr over south of here, and I want youto go with me. Kerr's a bad egg, in a nest of bad eggs. There's likelyto be too much trouble for one man to handle alone. You do solemnlyswear to support the constitution of the----"

"Wait a minute, Mr. Sheriff, " Lambert demurred; "I don't know that Iwant to mix up in----"

"It's not for you to say what you want to do--that's my business, " thesheriff said sharply. He forthwith deputized Lambert, and gave him aduplicate of the warrant. "You don't need it, but it'll clear your mindof all doubt of your power, " he explained. "Can we get through thisfence?"

"Up here six or seven miles, about opposite Kerr's place. But I'd liketo go on to the house and change horses; I've rode this one over fortymiles today already. "

The sheriff agreed. "Where's that outlaw you won from Jim Wilder?" heinquired, turning his eyes on Lambert in friendly appreciation. 

"I'll ride him, " Lambert returned briefly. "What's Kerr been up to?"

"Mortgaged a bunch of cattle he's got over there to three differentbanks. He was down a couple of days ago tryin' to put through anotherloan. The investigation that banker started laid him bare. He promisedKerr to come up tomorrow and look over his security, and passed the wordon to the county attorney. Kerr said he'd just bought five hundred headof stock. He wanted to raise the loan on them. "

"Five hundred, " said Lambert, mechanically repeating the sheriff'swords, doing some calculating of his own. 

"He ain't got any that ain't blanketed with mortgage paper so thickalready they'd go through a blizzard and never know it. His scheme wasto raise five or six thousand dollars more on that outfit and skip thecountry. "

And Grace Kerr had relied on his infatuation for her to work on him forthe loan of the necessary cattle. Lambert could not believe that it wasall her scheme, but it seemed incredible that a man as shrewdlydishonest as Kerr would entertain a plan that promised so little outlookof success. They must have believed over at Kerr's that they had himpretty well on the line. 

But Kerr had figured too surely on having his neighbor's cattle to showthe banker to stake all on the chance of Grace being able to wheedle himinto the scheme. If he couldn't get them by seduction, he meant to takethem in a raid. Grace never intended to come to meet him in the morningalone. 

One crime more would amount to little in addition to what Kerr had donealready, and it would be a trick on which he would pride himself andlaugh over all the rest of his life. It seemed certain now that Grace'sfriendliness all along had been laid on a false pretense, with the oneintention of beguiling him to his disgrace, his destruction, if disgracecould not be accomplished without it. 

As he rode Whetstone--now quite recovered from his scorching, save forthe hair of his once fine tail--beside the sheriff, Lambert had someuneasy cogitations on his sentimental blindness of the past; on thegood, honest advice that Vesta Philbrook had given him. Blood was blood, after all. If the source of it was base, it was too much to hope that alittle removal, a little dilution, would ennoble it. She had lived thereall her life the associate of thieves and rascals; her way of lookingon men and property must naturally be that of the depredator, thepillager, and thief. 

"And yet, " thought he, thumb in the pocket of his hairy vest where thelittle handkerchief lay, "and yet----"

CHAPTER XXII

THE WILL-O'-THE-WISP

The Kerr ranch buildings were more than a mile away from the point whereLambert and the sheriff halted to look down on them. The ranchhouse wasa structure of logs from which the bark had been stripped, and which hadweathered white as bones. It was long and low, suggesting spaciousnessand comfort, and enclosed about by a white picket fence. 

A winding trace of trees and brushwood marked the course of the streamthat ran behind it. On the brink of this little water, where it flashedfree of the tangled willows, there was a corral and stables, but no signof either animal or human life about the place. 

"He may be out with the cattle, " Lambert suggested. 

"We'll wait for him to come back, if he is. He's sure to be home betweennow and tomorrow. "

So that was her home, that was the roof that had sheltered her while shegrew in her loveliness. The soft call of his romance came whispering tohim again. Surely there was no attainder of blood to rise up against herand make her unclean; he would have sworn that moment, if put to thetest, that she was innocent of any knowing attempt to involve him to hisdisgrace. The gate of the world stood open to them to go away from thatharsh land and forget all that had gone before, as the gate of his heartwas open for all the love that it contained to rush out and embrace her, and purge her of the unfortunate accident of her birth. 

After this, poor child, she would need a friend, as never before, withonly her step-mother, as she had told him, in the world to befriend her. A man's hand, a man's heart----

"I'll take the front door, " said the sheriff. "You watch the back. "

Lambert came out of his softening dream, down to the hard facts in thecase before him with a jolt. They were within half a mile of the house, approaching it from the front. He saw that it was built in the shape ofan L, the base of the letter to the left of them, shutting off a viewof the angle. 

"He may see us in time to duck, " the sheriff said, "and you can bank onit he's got a horse saddled around there at the back door. If he comesyour way, don't fool with him; let him have it where he lives. "

They had not closed up half the distance between them and the house whentwo horsemen rode suddenly round the corner of the L and through thewide gate in the picket fence. Outside the fence they separated with thesuddenness of a preconcerted plan, darting away in opposite directions. Each wore a white hat, and from that distance they appeared as muchalike in size and bearing as a man and his reflection. 

The sheriff swore a surprised oath at sight of them, and their cunningplan to confuse and divide the pursuing force. 

"Which one of 'em's Kerr?" he shouted as he leaned in his saddle, urginghis horse on for all that it could do. 

"I don't know, " Lambert returned. 

"I'll chance this one, " said the sheriff, pointing. "Take the otherfeller. "

Lambert knew that one of them was Grace Kerr. That he could not tellwhich, he upbraided himself, not willing that she should be subjected tothe indignity of pursuit. It was a clever trick, but the preparation forit and the readiness with which it was put into play seemed to reflect adoubt of her entire innocence in her father's dishonest transactions. Still, it was no more than natural that she should bend every faculty tothe assistance of her father in escaping the penalty of his crimes. Hewould do it himself under like conditions; the unnatural would be theother course. 

These things he thought as he rode into the setting sun in pursuit ofthe fugitive designated by the sheriff. Whetstone was fresh and eagerafter his long rest, in spite of the twelve or fifteen miles which hehad covered already between the two ranches. Lambert held him in, doubtful whether he would be able to overtake the fleeing rider beforedark with the advantage of distance and a fresh horse that he or shehad. 

If Kerr rode ahead of him, then he must be overtaken before night gavehim sanctuary; if Grace, it was only necessary to come close enough toher to make sure, then let her go her way untroubled. He held thedistance pretty well between them till sundown, when he felt the timehad come to close in and settle the doubt. Whetstone was still mainly inreserve, tireless, deep-winded creature that he was. 

Lambert leaned over his neck, caressed him, spoke into the ear thattipped watchfully back. They were in fairly smooth country, stretches ofthin grasslands and broken barrens, but beyond them, a few miles, thehills rose, treeless and dun, offering refuge for the one who fled. Pursuit there would be difficult by day, impossible by night. 

Whetstone quickened at his master's encouragement, pushing the race hardfor the one who led, cutting down the distance so rapidly that it seemedthe other must be purposely delaying. Half an hour more of daylight andit would be over. 

The rider in the lead had driven his or her horse too hard in thebeginning, leaving no recovery of wind. Lambert remarked its wearinessas it took the next hill, laboring on in short, stiff jumps. At the topthe rider held in, as if to let the animal blow. It stood with noseclose to the ground, weariness in every line. 

The sky was bright beyond horse and rider, cut sharply by the line ofthe hill. Against it the picture stood, black as a shadow, but with anunmistakable pose in the rider that made Lambert's heart jump and growglad. 

It was Grace; chance had been kind to him again, leading him in the wayhis heart would have gone if it had been given the choice. She lookedback, turning with a hand on the cantle of her saddle. He waved hishand, to assure her, but she did not seem to read the friendly signal, for she rode on again, disappearing over the hill before he reached thecrest. 

He plunged down after her, not sparing his horse where he should havespared him, urging him on when they struck the level again. There was nothought in him of Whetstone now--only of Grace. 

He must overtake her in the quickest possible time, and convince her ofhis friendly sympathy; he must console and comfort her in this hour ofher need. Brave little thing, to draw him off that way, to keep onrunning into the very edge of night, that wild country ahead of her, for fear he would come close enough to recognize her and turn back tohelp the sheriff on the true trail. That's what was in her mind; shethought he hadn't recognized her, and was still fleeing to draw him asfar away as possible by dark. When he could come within shoutingdistance of her, he could make his intention plain. To that end hepushed on. Her horse had shown a fresh impulse of speed, carrying her alittle farther ahead. They were drawing close to the hills now, with agrowth of harsh and thorny brushwood in the low places along the runletsof dry streams. 

Poor little bird, fleeing from him, luring him on like a trembling quailthat flutters before one's feet in the wheat to draw him away from hernest. She didn't know the compassion of his heart, the tenderness inwhich it strained to her over the intervening space. He forgot all, heforgave all, in the soft pleading of romance which came back to him likea well-loved melody. 

He fretted that dusk was falling so fast. In the little strips ofvalley, growing narrower as he proceeded between the abrupt hills, itwas so nearly dark already that she appeared only dimly ahead of him, urging her horse on with unsparing hand. It seemed that she must havesome objective ahead of her, some refuge which she strained to make, some help that she hoped to summon. 

He wondered if it might be the cow-camp, and felt a cold indraft on thehot tenderness of his heart for a moment. But, no; it could not be thecow-camp. There was no sign that grazing herds had been there lately. She was running because she was afraid to have him overtake her in thedusk, running to prolong the race until she could elude him in the dark, afraid of him, who loved her so!

They were entering the desolation of the hills. On the sides of the thinstrip of valley, down which he pursued her, there were great, darkrocks, as big as cottages along a village street. He shouted, callingher name, fearful that he should lose her in this broken country in thefast-deepening night. Although she was not more than two hundred yardsahead of him now, she did not seem to hear. In a moment she turned thebase of a great rock, and there he lost her. 

The valley split a few rods beyond that point, broadening a little, still set with its fantastic black monuments of splintered rock. It wasimpossible to see among them in either direction as far as Grace hadbeen in the lead when she passed out of his sight. He pulled up andshouted again, an appeal of tender concern in her name. There was noreply, no sound of her fleeing horse. 

He leaned to look at the ground for tracks. No trace of her passing onthe hard earth with its mangy growth of grass. On a little way, stoppingto call her once more. His voice went echoing in that quiet place, butthere was no reply. 

He turned back, thinking she must have gone down the other branch of thevalley. Whetstone came to a sudden stop, lifted his head with a jerk, his ears set forward, snorting an alarm. Quick on his action there camea shot, close at hand. Whetstone started with a quivering bound, stumbled to his knees, struggled to rise, then floundered with piteousgroans. 

CHAPTER XXIII

UNMASKED

Lambert was out of the saddle at the sound of the shot. He sprang to theshelter of the nearest rock, gun in hand, thinking with a sweep ofbitterness that Grace Kerr had led him into a trap. Whetstone was lyingstill, his chin on the ground, one foreleg bent and gathered under him, not in the posture of a dead horse, although Lambert knew that he wasdead. It was as if the brave beast struggled even after life to picturethe quality of his unconquerable will, and would not lie in death asother horses lay, cold and inexpressive of anything but death, withstiff limbs straight. 

Lambert was incautious of his own safety in his great concern for hishorse. He stepped clear of his shelter to look at him, hoping againsthis conviction that he would rise. Somebody laughed behind the rock onhis right, a laugh that plucked his heart up and cast it down, as adrunken hand shatters a goblet upon the floor. 

"I guess you'll never race me on _that_ horse again, fence-rider!"

There was the sound of movement behind the rock; in a moment Grace Kerrrode out from her concealment, not more than four rods beyond the placewhere his horse lay. She rode out boldly and indifferently before hiseyes, turned and looked back at him, her face white as an eveningprimrose in the dusk, as if to tell him that she knew she was safe, evenwithin the distance of his arm, much as she despised his calling and hiskind. 

Lambert put his gun back in its sheath, and she rode on, disappearingagain from his sight around the rock where the blasted valley of stonesbranched upon its arid way. He took the saddle from his dead horse andhid it behind a rock, not caring much whether he ever found it again, his heart so heavy that it seemed to bow him to the ground. 

So at last he knew her for what Vesta Philbrook had told him shewas--bad to the core of her heart. Kindness could not regenerate her, love could not purge away the vicious strain of blood. She might havescorned him, and he would have bent his head and loved her more; struckhim, and he would have chided her with a look of love. But when she senther bullet into poor old Whetstone's brain, she placed herself beyondany absolution that even his soft heart could yield. 

He bent over Whetstone, caressing his head, speaking to him in his oldterms of endearment, thinking of the many fruitless races he had run, believing that his own race in the Bad Lands had come to an end. 

If he had but turned back from the foot of the hill where he recognizedher, as duty demanded of him that he turn, and not pressed on with hissimple intention of friendliness which she was too shallow to appreciateor understand, this heavy loss would have been spared him. For this deadanimal was more to him than comrade and friend; more than any man whohas not shared the good and evil times with his horse in the silentplaces can comprehend. 

He could not fight a woman; there was no measure of revenge that hecould take against her, but he prayed that she might suffer for thisdeed of treachery to him with a pang intensified a thousand timesgreater than his that hour. Will-o'-the-wisp she had been to him, indeed, leading him a fool's race since she first came twinkling intohis life. 

Bitter were his reflections, somber was his heart, as he turned to walkthe thirty miles or more that lay between him and the ranch, leaving oldWhetstone to the wolves. 

 * * * * *

Lambert was loading cattle nearly a week later when the sheriff returnedVesta's horse, with apologies for its footsore and beaten state. He hadfollowed Kerr far beyond his jurisdiction, pushing him a hard racethrough the hills, but the wily cattleman had evaded him in the end. 

The sheriff advised Lambert to put in a bill against the county for theloss of his horse, a proposal which Lambert considered with grave faceand in silence. 

"No, " he said at last, "I'll not put in a bill. I'll collect in my ownway from the one that owes me the debt. "

CHAPTER XXIV

USE FOR AN OLD PAPER

Lambert was a busy man for several weeks after his last race with thewill-o'-the-wisp, traveling between Glendora and Chicago, disposing ofthe Philbrook herd. On this day he was jolting along with the last ofthe cattle that were of marketable condition and age, twenty cars ofthem, glad that the wind-up of it was in sight. 

Taterleg had not come this time on account of the Iowa boy having quithis job. There remained several hundred calves and thin cows in thePhilbrook pasture, too much of a temptation to old Nick Hargus and hisprecious brother Sim to be left unguarded. 

Sitting there on top of a car, his prod-pole between his knees, in hishigh-heeled boots and old dusty hat, the Duke was a typical figure ofthe old-time cow-puncher such as one never meets in these times aroundthe stockyards of the Middle West. There are still cow-punchers, butthey are mainly mail-order ones who would shy from a gun such as pulleddown on Lambert's belt that day. 

He sat there with the wind slamming the brim of his old hat up againstthe side of his head, a sober, serious man, such as one would choose fora business like this intrusted to him by Vesta Philbrook and never makea mistake. Already he had sold more than eighty thousand dollars' worthof cattle for her, and carried home to her the drafts. This time he wasto take back the money, so they would have the cash to buy out Walleye, the sheepman, who was making a failure of the business and was anxiousto quit. 

The Duke wondered, with a lonesome sort of pleasure, how things weregoing on the ranch that afternoon, and whether Taterleg was riding thesouth fence now and then, as he had suggested, or sticking with thecattle. That was a pleasant country which he was traveling through, green fields and rich pastures as far as the eye could reach, a landsuch as he had spent the greater part of his life in, such as somepeople who are provincial and untraveled call "God's country, " and arefully satisfied with in their way. 

But there seemed something lacking out of it to Lambert as he lookedacross the verdant flatness with pensive eyes, that great, graysomething that took hold of a man and drew him into its larger life, smoothed the wrinkles out of him, and stood him upright on his feet withthe breath deeper in him than it ever had gone before. He felt that henever would be content to remain amongst the visible plentitude of thatfat, complacent, finished land again. 

Give him some place that called for a fight, a place where the wind blewwith a different flavor than these domestic scents of hay andfresh-turned furrows in the wheatlands by the road. In his vision hepictured the place that he liked best--a rough, untrammeled countryleading back to the purple hills, a long line of fence diminishing inits distance to a thread. He sighed, thinking of it. Dog-gone his melts, he was lonesome--lonesome for a fence!

He rolled a cigarette and felt about himself abstractedly for a match, in this pocket, where Grace Kerr's little handkerchief still lay, withno explanation or defense for its presence contrived or attempted; inthat pocket, where his thumb encountered a folded paper. 

Still abstracted, his head turned to save his cigarette from the wind, he drew out this paper, wondering curiously when he had put it there andforgotten it. It was the warrant for the arrest of Berry Kerr. Heremembered now having folded the paper and put it there the day thesheriff gave it to him, never having read a word of it from that day tothis. Now he repaired that omission. It gave him quite a feeling ofimportance to have a paper about him with that severe legal phraseologyin it. He folded it and put it back in his pocket, wondering what hadbecome of Berry Kerr, and from him transferring his thoughts to Grace. 

She was still there on the ranch, he knew, although Kerr's creditors hadcleaned out the cattle, and doubtless were at law among themselves overthe proceeds by now. How she would live, what she would do, he wondered. Perhaps Kerr had left some of the money he had made out of hismultimortgage transactions, or perhaps he would send for Grace and hiswife when he had struck a gait in some other place. 

It didn't matter one way or another. His interest in her was finished, his last gentle thought of her was dead. Only he hoped that she mightlive to be as hungry for a friendly word as his heart had been hungry oflonging after her in its day; that she might moan in contrition and burnin shame for the cruelty in which she broke the vessel of his friendshipand threw the fragments in his face. Poor old Whetstone! his bones allscattered by the wolves by now over in that lonely gorge. 

Vesta Philbrook would not have been capable of a vengeance so mean. Strange how she had grown so gentle and so good under the constantpersecution of this thieving gang! Her conscience was as clear as awindowpane; a man could look through her soul and see the worldundisturbed by a flaw beyond it. A good girl; she sure was a good girl. And as pretty a figure on a horse as man's eye ever followed. 

She had said once that she felt it lonesome out there by the fence. Nothalf as lonesome, he'd gamble, as he was that minute to be back thereriding her miles and miles of wire. Not lonesome on account of Vesta;sure not. Just lonesome for that dang old fence. 

Simple he was, sitting there on top of that hammering old cattle carthat sunny afternoon, the dust of the road in his three-day-old beard, his barked willow prod-pole between his knees; simple as a ballad thatchildren sing, simple as a homely tune. 

Well, of course he had kept Grace Kerr's little handkerchief, forreasons that he could not quite define. Maybe because it seemed torepresent her as he would have had her; maybe because it was the poorlittle trophy of his first tenderness, his first yearning for a woman'slove. But he had kept it with the dim intention of giving it back toher, opportunity presenting. 

"Yes, I'll give it back to her, " he nodded; "when the time comes I'llhand it to her. She can wipe her eyes on it when she opens them andrepents. "

Then he fell to thinking of business, and what was best for Vesta'sinterests, and of how he probably would take up Pat Sullivan's offer forthe calves, thus cleaning up her troubles and making an end of herexpenses. Pat Sullivan, the rancher for whom Ben Jedlick was cook; hewas the man. The Duke smiled through his grime and dust when heremembered Jedlick lying back in the barber's chair. 

And old Taterleg, as good as gold and honest as a horse, was itching tobe hitting the breeze for Wyoming. Selling the calves would give him theexcuse that he had been casting about after for a month. He was writingletters to Nettie; she had sent her picture. A large-breasted, calf-faced girl with a crooked mouth. Taterleg might wait a year, oreven four years more, with perfect safety. Nettie would not move veryfast on the market, even in Wyoming, where ladies were said to bescarce. 

And so, pounding along, mile after mile through the vast green landwhere the bread of a nation grew, arriving at midnight among squeals andmoans, trembling bleat of sheep, pitiful, hungry crying of calves, high, lonesome tenor notes of bewildered steers. That was the end of thejourney for him, the beginning of the great adventure for the creaturesunder his care. 

By eleven o'clock next morning, Lambert had a check for the cattle inhis pocket, and bay rum on his face where the dust, the cinders and thebeard had been but a little while before. He bought a little handsatchel in a second-hand store to carry the money home in, cashed hischeck and took a turn looking around, his big gun on his leg, hishigh-heeled boots making him toddle along in a rather ridiculous gaitfor an able-bodied cow-puncher from the Bad Lands. 

There was a train for home at six, that same flier he once had raced. There would be time enough for a man to look into the progress of thefine arts as represented in the pawn-shop windows of the stockyardsneighborhood, before striking a line for the Union Station to nail downa seat in the flier. It was while engaged in this elevating pursuit thatLambert glimpsed for an instant in the passing stream of people a figurethat made him start with the prickling alertness of recognition. 

He had caught but a flash of the hurrying figure but, with that eye forsingling a certain object from a moving mass that experience with cattlesharpens, he recognized the carriage of the head, the set of theshoulders. He hurried after, overtaking the man as he was entering ahotel. 

"Mr. Kerr, I've got a warrant for you, " he said, detaining the fugitivewith a hand laid on his shoulder. 

Kerr was taken so unexpectedly that he had no chance to sling a gun, even if he carried one. He was completely changed in appearance, even tothe sacrifice of his prized beard, so long his aristocratic distinctionin the Bad Lands. He was dressed in the city fashion, with a littlestraw hat in place of the eighteen-inch sombrero that he had worn foryears. Confident of this disguise, he affected astonished indignation. 

"I guess you've made a mistake in your man, " said he. 

Lambert told him with polite firmness that there was no mistake. 

"I'd know your voice in the dark--I've got reason to remember it, " hesaid. 

He got the warrant out with one hand, keeping the other comfortably nearhis gun, the little hand bag with its riches between his feet. Kerr wasso vehemently indignant that attention was drawn to them, whichprobably was the fugitive cattleman's design, seeing in numbers a chanceto make a dash. 

Lambert had not forgotten the experience of his years at the Kansas CityStockyards, where he had seen confidence men and card sharpers play thesame scheme on policemen, clamoring their innocence until a crowd hadbeen attracted in which the officer would not dare risk a shot. He keptKerr within reaching distance, flashed the warrant before his eyes, passed it up and down in front of his nose, and put it away again. 

"There's no mistake, not by a thousand miles. You'll come along back toGlendora with me. "

A policeman appeared by this time, and Kerr appealed to him, protestingmistaken identity. The officer was a heavy-headed man of theslaughter-house school, and Lambert thought for a while that Kerr'sargument was going to prevail with him. To forestall the policeman'sdecision, which he could see forming behind his clouded countenance, Lambert said:

"There's a reward of nine hundred dollars standing for this man. Ifyou've got any doubt of who he is, or my right to arrest him, take usboth to headquarters. "

That seemed to be a worthy suggestion to the officer. He acted on itwithout more drain on his intellectual reserve. There, after a littlecourse of sprouts by the chief of detectives, Kerr admitted hisidentity, but refused to leave the state without requisition. Theylocked him up, and Lambert telegraphed the sheriff for the necessarypapers. 

Going home was off for perhaps several days. Lambert gave his littlesatchel to the police to lock in the safe. The sheriff's reply came backlike a pitched ball. Hold Kerr, he requested the police; requisitionwould be made for him. He instructed Lambert to wait till the paperscame, and bring the fugitive home. 

Kerr got in telegraphic touch with a lawyer in the home county. Morningshowed a considerable change of temperature in the frontier financier. He announced that, acting on legal advice, he would waive extradition. Lambert telegraphed the sheriff the news, requesting that he meet him atGlendora and relieve him of his charge. 

Lambert prepared for the home-going by buying another revolver, and apair of handcuffs for attaching his prisoner comfortably and securely tothe arm of the seat. The little black bag gave him no worry. It wasn'thalf the trouble to watch money, when you didn't look as if you had any, as a man who had swindled people out of it and wanted to hide his face. 

The police joked Lambert about the size of his bag when they gave itback to him as he was starting with his prisoner for the train. 

"What have you got in that alligator, Sheriff, that you're so carefulnot to set it down and forget it?" the chief asked him. 

"Sixteen thousand dollars, " said Lambert, modestly, opening it andflashing its contents before their eyes. 

CHAPTER XXV

"WHEN SHE WAKES UP"

It was mid-afternoon of a bright autumn day when Lambert approachedGlendora with Kerr chained to the seat beside him. As the train rapidlycut down the last few miles, Lambert noted a change in his prisoner'sdemeanor. Up to that time his carriage had been melancholy and morose, as that of a man who saw no gleam of hope ahead of him. He had spokenbut seldom during the journey, asking no favors except that of beingallowed to send a telegram to Grace from Omaha. 

Lambert had granted that request readily, seeing nothing amiss in Kerr'sdesire to have his daughter meet him and lighten as much as she couldhis load of disgrace. Kerr said he wanted her to go with him to thecounty seat and arrange bond. 

"I'll never look through the bars of a jail in my home county, " he said. That was his one burst of rebellion, his one boast, his one approach toa discussion of his serious situation, all the way. 

Now as they drew almost within sight of Glendora, Kerr became fidgetyand nervous. His face was strained and anxious, as if he dreadedstepping off the train into sight of the people who had known him solong as a man of consequence in that community. 

Lambert began to have his own worries about this time. He regretted thekindness he had shown Kerr in permitting him to send that telegram toGrace. She might try to deliver him on bail of another kind. Kerr'snervous anxiety would seem to indicate that he expected something tohappen at Glendora. It hadn't occurred to Lambert before that this mightbe possible. It seemed a foolish oversight. 

His apprehension, as well as Kerr's evident expectation, seemedgroundless as he stepped off the train almost directly in front of thewaiting-room door, giving Kerr a hand down the steps. There was nobodyin sight but the postmaster with the mail sack, the station agent, andthe few citizens who always stood around the station for the thrill ofseeing the flier stop to take water. 

Few, if any, of these recognized Kerr as Lambert hurried him across theplatform and into the station, his hands manacled at his back. Kerr heldback for one quick look up and down the station platform, then stumbledhastily ahead under the force of Lambert's hand. The door of thetelegraph office stood open; Lambert pushed his prisoner within andclosed it. 

The station agent came in as the train pulled away, and Lambert madeinquiry of him concerning the sheriff. The agent had not seen him therethat day. He turned away with sullen countenance, looking with disfavoron this intrusion upon his sacred precincts. He stood in front of hischattering instruments in the bow window, looking up and down theplatform with anxious face out of which his natural human color hadgone, leaving even his lips white. 

"You don't have to keep him in here, I guess, do you?" he said, stillsweeping the platform up and down with his uneasy eyes. 

"No. I just stepped in to ask you to put this satchel in your safe andkeep it for me a while. "

Lambert's calm and confident manner seemed to assure the agent, andmollify him, and repair his injured dignity. He beckoned with a jerk ofhis head, not for one moment quitting his leaning, watchful pose, ortaking his eyes from their watch on the platform. Lambert crossed thelittle room in two strides and looked out. Not seeing anything morealarming than a knot of townsmen around the postmaster, who stood withthe lean mail sack across his shoulder, talking excitedly, he inquiredwhat was up. 

"They're layin' for you out there, " the agent whispered. 

"I kind of expected they would be, " Lambert told him. 

"They're liable to cut loose any minute, " said the agent, "and I tellyou, Duke, I've got a wife and children dependin' on me!"

"I'll take him outside. I didn't intend to stay here only a minute. Here, lock this up. It belongs to Vesta Philbrook. If I have to go withthe sheriff, or anything, send her word it's here. "

As Lambert appeared in the door with his prisoner the little bunch ofexcited gossips scattered hurriedly. He stood near the door a littlewhile, considering the situation. The station agent was not to blame forhis desire to preserve his valuable services for the railroad and hisfamily; Lambert had no wish to shelter himself and retain his hold onthe prisoner at the trembling fellow's peril. 

It was unaccountable that the sheriff was not there to relieve him ofthis responsibility; he must have received the telegram two days ago. Pending his arrival, or, if not his arrival, the coming of the localtrain that would carry himself and prisoner to the county seat, Lambertcast about him for some means of securing his man in such manner that hecould watch him and defend against any attempted rescue without beinghampered. 

A telegraph pole stood beside the platform some sixty or seventy feetfrom the depot, the wires slanting down from it into the building'sgable end. To this Lambert marched his prisoner, the eyes of the town onhim. He freed one of Kerr's hands, passed his arms round the pole so hestood embracing it, and locked him there. 

It was a pole of only medium thickness, allowing Kerr ample room toencircle it with his chained arms, even to sit on the edge of theplatform when he should weary of his standing embrace. Lambert stoodback a pace and looked at him, thus ignominiously anchored in publicview. 

"Let 'em come and take you, " he said. 

He laid out a little beat up and down the platform at Kerr's back, rolled a cigarette, settled down to wait for the sheriff, the train, therush of Kerr's friends, or whatever the day might have in store. 

Slowly, thoughtfully, he paced that beat of a rod behind his surlyprisoner's back, watching the town, watching the road leading into it. People stood in the doors, but none approached him to make inquiry, novoice was lifted in pitch that reached him where he stood. If anybodyelse in town besides the agent knew of the contemplated rescue, he keptit selfishly to himself. 

Lambert did not see any of Kerr's men about. Five horses were hitched infront of the saloon; now and then he could see the top of a hat abovethe latticed half-door, but nobody entered, nobody left. The stationagent still stood in his window, working the telegraph key as ifreporting the clearing of the flier, watching anxiously up and down theplatform. 

Lambert hoped that Sim Hargus and young Tom, and the old stub-footedscoundrel who was the meanest of them all who had lashed him into thefire that night, would swing the doors of the saloon and come out with adeclaration of their intentions. He knew that some of them, if not all, were there. He had tied Kerr out before their eyes like wolf bait. Letthem come and get him if they were men. 

This seemed the opportunity which he had been waiting for time to bringhim. If they flashed a gun on him now he could clean them down to theground with all legal justification, no questions asked. 

Two appeared far down the road, riding for Glendora in a swinginggallop. The sheriff, Lambert thought; missed the train, and had riddenthe forty and more miles across. No; one was Grace Kerr. Even at aquarter of a mile he never could mistake her again. The other was SimHargus. They had miscalculated in their intention of meeting the train, and were coming in a panic of anxiety. 

They dismounted at the hotel, and started across. Lambert stood near hisprisoner, waiting. Kerr had been sitting on the edge of the platform. Now he got up, moving around the pole to show them that he was not to becounted on to take a hand in whatever they expected to start. 

Lambert moved a little nearer his prisoner, where he stood waiting. Hehad not shaved during the two days between Chicago and Glendora; thedust of the road was on his face. His hat was tipped forward to shelterhis eyes against the afternoon glare, the leather thong at the backrumpling his close-cut hair. He stood lean and long-limbed, easy andindifferent in his pose, as it would seem to look at him as one mightglance in passing, the smoke of his cigarette rising straight from itsfresh-lit tip in the calm air of the somnolent day. 

As Hargus and Grace advanced, coming in the haste and heat ofindignation that Kerr's humiliating situation inflamed, two men left thesaloon. They stopped at the hitching-rack as if debating whether totake their horses, and so stood, watching the progress of the two whowere cutting the long diagonal across the road. When Grace, who came alittle ahead of her companion in her eagerness, was within thirty feetof him, Lambert lifted his hand in forbidding signal. 

"Stop there, " he said. 

She halted, her face flaming with fury. Hargus stopped beside her, hisarm crooked to bring his hand up to his belt, sawing back and forth asif in indecision between drawing his gun and waiting for the wordypreliminaries to pass. Kerr stood embracing the pole in a pose ofridiculous supplication, the bright chain of the new handcuffsglistening in the sun. 

"I want to talk to my father, " said Grace, lashing Lambert with a lookof scornful hate. 

"Say it from there, " Lambert returned, inflexible, cool; watching everymovement of Sim Hargus' sawing arm. 

"You've got no right to chain him up like a dog!" she said. 

"You ain't got no authority, that anybody ever heard of, to arrest himin the first place, " Hargus added, his swinging, indecisive arm for amoment still. 

Lambert made no reply. He seemed to be looking over their heads, backalong the road they had come, from the lift of his chin and the set ofhis close-gathered brows. He seemed carelessly indifferent to Hargus'legal opinion and presence, a little fresh plume of smoke going up fromhis cigarette as if he breathed into it gently. 

Grace started forward with impatient exclamation, tossing her head indisdainful defiance of this fence-rider's authority. 

"Go back!" Kerr commanded, his voice hoarse with the fear of somethingthat she, in her unreasoning anger, had not seen behind the calm frontof the man she faced. 

She stopped, turning back again to where Hargus waited. Along the streetmen were drawing away from their doors, in cautious curiosity, silentsuspense. Women put their heads out for a moment, plucked curtains asidefor one swift survey, vanished behind the safety of walls. At thehitching-rack the two men--one of them Tom Hargus, the otherunknown--stood beside their horses, as if in position according to aprevious plan. 

"We want that man, " said Hargus, his hand hovering over his gun. 

"Come and take him, " Lambert invited. 

Hargus spoke in a low voice to Grace; she turned and ran toward herhorse. The two at the hitching-rack swung into their saddles as Hargus, watching Grace over his shoulder as she sped away, began to back off, his hand stealing to his gun as if moved by some slow, precise machinerywhich was set to time it according to the fleeing girl's speed. 

Lambert stood without shifting a foot, his nostrils dilating in theslow, deep breath that he drew. Yard by yard Hargus drew away, hisintention not quite clear, as if he watched his chance to break awaylike a prisoner. Grace was in front of the hotel door when he snappedhis revolver from its sheath. 

Lambert had been waiting this. He fired before Hargus touched thetrigger, his elbow to his side as he had seen Jim Wilder shoot on theday when tragedy first came into his life. Hargus spun on his heel as ifhe had been roped, spread his arms, his gun falling from his hand;pitched to his face, lay still. The two on horses galloped out andopened fire. 

Lambert shifted to keep them guessing, but kept away from the pole whereKerr was chained, behind which he might have found shelter. They hadseparated to flank him, Tom Hargus over near the corner of the depot, the other ranging down toward the hotel, not more than fifty yardsbetween Lambert and either of them. 

Intent on drawing Tom Hargus from the shelter of the depot, Lambert ranalong the platform, stopping well beyond Kerr. Until that moment he hadnot returned their fire. Now he opened on Tom Hargus, bringing his horsedown at the third shot, swung about and emptied his first gunineffectually at the other man. 

This fellow charged down on him as Lambert drew his other gun, TomHargus, free of his fallen horse, shooting from the shelter of the rainbarrel at the corner of the depot. Lambert felt something strike hisleft arm, with no more apparent force, no more pain, than the flip of abranch when one rides through the woods. But it swung useless at hisside. 

Through the smoke of his own gun, and the dust raised by the man onhorseback, Lambert had a flash of Grace Kerr riding across the middlebackground between him and the saloon. He had no thought of herintention. It was not a moment for speculation with the bullets hittinghis hat. 

The man on horseback had come within ten yards of him. Lambert could seehis teeth as he drew back his lips when he fired. Lambert centered hisattention on this stranger, dark, meager-faced, marked by theunmistakable Mexican taint. His hat flew off at Lambert's first shot asif it had been jerked by a string; at his second, the fellow threwhimself back in the saddle with a jerk. He fell limply over the highcantle and lay thus a moment, his frantic horse running wildly away. Lambert saw him tumble into the road as a man came spurring past thehotel, slinging his gun as he rode. 

Nearer approach identified the belated sheriff. He shouted a warning toLambert as he jerked his gun down and fired. Tom Hargus rose frombehind the rain barrel, staggered into the road, going like a drunkenman, his hat in one hand, the other pressed to his side, his headhanging, his long black hair falling over his bloody face. 

In a second Lambert saw this, and the shouting, shooting officer bearingdown toward him. He had the peculiar impression that the sheriff wassubmerged in water, enlarging grotesquely as he approached. The slap ofanother bullet on his back, and he turned to see Grace Kerr firing athim with only the width of the platform between them. 

It was all smoke, dust, confusion around him, a sickness in his body, adimness in his mind, but he was conscious of her horse rearing, liftingits feet high--one of them a white-stockinged foot, as he marked withpainful precision--and falling backward in a clatter of shod hoofs onthe railroad. 

When it cleared a little, Lambert found the sheriff was on the groundbeside him, supporting him with his arm, looking into his face withconcern almost comical, speaking in anxious inquiry. 

"Lay down over there on the platform, Duke, you're shot all to pieces, "he said. 

Lambert sat on the edge of the platform, and the world receded. When hefelt himself sweep back to consciousness there were people about him, and he was stretched on his back, a feeling in his nostrils as if hebreathed fire. Somebody was lying across from him a little way; hestruggled with painful effort to lift himself and see. 

It was Grace Kerr. Her face was white in the midst of her dark hair, andshe was dead. 

It was not right for her to be lying there, with dead face to the sky, he thought. They should do something, they should carry her away fromthe stare of curious, shocked eyes, they should--He felt in the pocketof his vest and found the little handkerchief, and crept painfullyacross to her, heedless of the sheriff's protest, defiant of hisrestraining, kindly hand. 

With his numb left arm trailing by his side, a burning pain in hisbreast, as if a hot rod had been driven through him, the track of hertreacherous bullet, he knew, he fumbled to unfold the bit of soft whitelinen, refusing the help of many sympathetic hands that wereout-stretched. 

When he had it right, he spread it over her face, white again as anevening primrose, as he once had seen it through the dusk of anothernight. But out of this night that she had entered she would ride nomore. There was a thought in his heart as tender as his deed as he thusmasked her face from the white stare of day:

"_She can wipe her eyes on it when she wakes up and repents. _"

CHAPTER XXVI

OYSTERS AND AMBITIONS

"If you'd come on and go to Wyoming with me, Duke, I think it'd bebetter for you than California. That low country ain't good for a fellerwith a tender place in his lights. "

"Oh, I think I'm all right and as good as ever now, Taterleg. "

"Yes, it looks all right to you, but if you git dampness on that lungyou'll take the consumption and die. I knew a feller once that got shotthat way through the lights in a fight down on the Cimarron. Him andanother feller fell out over----"

"Have you heard from Nettie lately?" Lambert broke in, not caring tohear the story of the man who was shot on the Cimarron, or hissubsequent miscalculations on the state of his lights. 

Taterleg rolled his eyes to look at him, not turning his head, reproachin the glance, mild reproof. But he let it pass in his good-natured way, brightening to the subject nearest his heart. 

"Four or five days ago. "

"All right, is she?"

"Up and a-comin', fine as a fiddle. "

"You'll be holdin' hands with her before the preacher in a little whilenow. "

"Inside of a week, Duke. My troubles is nearly all over. "

"I don't know about that, but I hope it'll turn out that way. "

They were on their way home from delivering the calves and the clean-upof the herd to Pat Sullivan, some weeks after Lambert's fight atGlendora. Lambert still showed the effects of his long confinement anddrain of his wounds in the paleness of his face. But he sat his saddleas straight as ever, not much thinner, as far as the eye could weighhim, nothing missing from him but the brown of his skin and the bloodthey had drawn from him that day. 

There was frost on the grass that morning, a foretaste of winter in thesharp wind. The sky was gray with the threat of snow, the somber seasonof hardship on the range was at hand. Lambert thought, as he read thesesigns, that it would be a hard winter on livestock in that unshelteredcountry, and was comfortable in mind over the profitable outcome of hisdealings for his employer. 

As for himself, his great plans were at an end on the Bad Lands range. The fight at Glendora had changed all that. The doctor had warned himthat he must not attempt another winter in the saddle with that tenderspot in his lung, his blood thinned down that way, his flesh soft frombeing housebound for nearly six weeks. He advised a milder climate forseveral months of recuperation, and was very grave in his advice. 

So the sheep scheme was put aside. The cattle being sold, there wasnothing about the ranch that old Ananias could not do, and Lambert hadplanned to turn his face again toward the West. He could not lie aroundthere in the bunkhouse and grow strong at Vesta's expense, although thatwas what she expected him to do. 

He had said nothing to her of his determination to go, for he hadwavered in it from day to day, finding it hard to tear himself away fromthat bleak land that he had come to love, as he never had loved thecountry which claimed him by birth. He had been called on in this placeto fight for a man's station in it; he had trampled a refuge of safetyfor the defenseless among its thorns. 

Vesta had said nothing further of her own plans, but they took it forgranted that she would be leaving, now that the last of the cattle weresold. Ananias had told them that she was putting things away in thehouse, getting ready to close most of it up. 

"I don't blame you for leavin', " said Taterleg, returning to theoriginal thread of discussion, "it'll be as lonesome as sin up there atthe ranch with Vesta gone away. When she's there she fills that place uplike the music of a band. "

"She sure does, Taterleg. "

"Old Ananias'll have a soft time of it, eatin' chicken and rabbit allwinter, nothing to do but milk them couple of cows, no boss to keep hereye on him in a thousand miles. "

"He's one that'll never want to leave. "

"Well, it's a good place for a man, " Taterleg sighed, "if he ain't gotnothin' else to look ahead to. I kind o' hate to leave myself, but at myage, you know, Duke, a man's got to begin to think of marryin' andsettlin' down and fixin' him up a home, as I've said before. "

"Many a time before, old feller, so many times I've got it down byheart. "

Taterleg looked at him again with that queer turning of the eyes, whichhe could accomplish with the facility of a fish, and rode on in silencea little way after chiding him in that manner. 

"Well, it won't do you no harm, " he said. 

"No, " sighed the Duke, "not a bit of harm. "

Taterleg chuckled as he rode along, hummed a tune, laughed again in hisdry, clicking way, deep down in his throat. 

"I met Alta the other day when I was down in Glendora, " he said. 

"Did you make up?"

"Make up! That girl looks to me like a tin cup by the side of a silvershavin' mug now, Duke. Compare that girl to Nettie, and she wouldn'ttake the leather medal. She says: 'Good morning, Mr. Wilson, ' she says, and I turned my head quick, like I was lookin' around for him, and neverkep' a-lettin' on like I knew she meant me. "

"That was kind of rough treatment for a lady, Taterleg. "

"It would be for a lady, but for that girl it ain't. It's what's comin'to her, and what I'll hand her ag'in, if she ever's got the gall tospeak to me. "

The Duke had no further comment on Taterleg's rules of conduct. Theywent along in silence a little way, but that was a state that Taterlegcould not long endure. 

"Well, I'll soon be in the oyster parlor up to the bellyband, " he said, full of the cheer of his prospect. "Nettie's got the place picked outand nailed down--I sent her the money to pay the rent. I'll be handin'out stews with a slice of pickle on the side of the dish before anotherweek goes by, Duke. "

"What are you goin' to make oysters out of in Wyoming?" the Dukeinquired wonderingly. 

"Make 'em out of? Oysters, of course. What do you reckon?"

"There never was an oyster within a thousand miles of Wyoming, Taterleg. They wouldn't keep to ship that far, much less till you'd used 'em up. "

"Cove oysters, Duke, cove oysters, " corrected Taterleg gently. "Youcouldn't hire a cowman to eat any other kind, you couldn't put one ofthem slick fresh fellers down him with a pair of tongs. "

"Well, I guess you know, old feller. "

Taterleg fell into a reverie, from which he started presently with avehement exclamation of profanity. 

"If she's got bangs, I'll make her cut 'em off!" he said. 

"Who cut 'em off?" Lambert asked, viewing this outburst of feeling insurprise. 

"Nettie! I don't want no bangs around me to remind me of thatsnipe-legged Alta Wood. Bangs may be all right for fellers with musicboxes in their watches, but they don't go with me no more. "

"I didn't see Jedlick around the ranch up there; what do you supposebecome of him?"

"Well, from what the boys told me, if he's still a-goin' like he waswhen they seen him last, he must be up around Medicine Hat by now. "

"It was a sin the way you threw a scare into that man, Taterleg. "

"I'm sorry I didn't lay him out on a board, dern him!"

"Yes, but you might as well let him have Alta. "

"He can come back and take her any time he wants her, Duke. "

The Duke seemed to reflect this simple exposition of Jedlick's presentcase. 

"Yes, I guess that's so, " he said. 

For a mile or more there was no sound but the even swing of theirhorses' hoofs as they beat in the long, easy gallop which they couldhold for a day without a break. Then Lambert:

"Plannin' to leave tonight, are you Taterleg?"

"All set for leavin', Duke. "

On again, the frost-powdered grass brittle under the horses' feet. 

"I think I'll pull out tonight, too. "

"Why, I thought you was goin' to stay till Vesta left, Duke?"

"Changed my mind. "

"Don't you reckon Vesta she'll be a little put out if you leave theranch after she'd figgered on you to stay and pick up and gain and bestout and hearty to go in the sheep business next spring?"

"I hope not. "

"Yeh, but I bet she will. Do you reckon she'll ever come back to theranch any more when she goes away?"

"What?" said Lambert, starting as if he had been asleep. 

"Vesta; do you reckon she'll ever come back any more?"

"Well, " slowly, thoughtfully, "there's no tellin', Taterleg. "

"She's got a stockin' full of money now, and nobody dependin' on her. She's just as likely as not to marry some lawyer or some other sharkthat's after her dough. "

"Yes, she may. "

"No, I don't reckon much she'll ever come back. She ain't got nothing tolook back to here but hard times and shootin' scrapes--nobody to'sociate with and wear low-neckid dresses like women with money wantto. "

"Not much chance for it here--you're right. "

"You'd 'a' had it nice and quiet there with them sheep if you'd 'a' beenable to go pardners with Vesta like you planned, old Nick Hargus in thepen and the rest of them fellers cleaned out. "

"Yes, I guess there'll be peace around the ranch for some time to come. "

"Well, you made the peace around there, Duke; if it hadn't 'a' been foryou they'd 'a' broke Vesta up and run her out by now. "

"You had as much to do with bringin' them to time as I did, Taterleg. "

"Me? Look me over, Duke; feel of my hide. Do you see any knife scars inme, or feel any bullet holes anywhere? I never done nothing but ridealong that fence, hopin' for a somebody to start something. They neverdone it. "

"They knew you too well, old feller. "

"Knowed _me_!" said Taterleg. "Huh!"

On again in quiet, Glendora in sight when they topped a hill. Taterlegseemed to be thinking deeply; his face was sentimentally serious. 

"Purty girl, " he said in a pleasant vein of musing. 

"Which one?"

"Vesta. I like 'em with a little more of a figger, a little thicker insome places and wider in others, but she's trim and she's tasty, and herheart's pure gold. "

"You're right it is, Taterleg, " Lambert agreed, keeping his eyesstraight ahead as they rode on. 

"You're aimin' to come back in the spring and go pardners with her onthe sheep deal, ain't you, Duke?"

"I don't expect I'll ever come back, Taterleg. "

"Well, " said Taterleg abstractedly, "I don't know. "

They rode past the station, the bullet-scarred rain barrel behind whichTom Hargus took shelter in the great battle still standing in its place, and past the saloon, the hitching-rack empty before it, for this was theround-up season--nobody was in town. 

"There's that slab-sided, spider-legged Alta Wood standin' out on theporch, " said Taterleg disgustedly, falling behind Lambert, reiningaround on the other side to put him between the lady and himself. 

"You'd better stop and bid her good-bye, " Lambert suggested. 

Taterleg pulled his hat over his eyes to shut out the sight of her, turned his head, ignoring her greeting. When they were safely past hecast a cautious look behind. 

"I guess that settled _her_ hash!" he said. "Yes, and I'd like to wad ahandful of chewin' gum in them old bangs before I leave this man'stown!"

"You've broken her chance for a happy married life with Jedlick, Taterleg. Your heart's as hard as a bone. "

"The worst luck I can wish her is that Jedlick'll come back, " he said, turning to look at her as he spoke. Alta waved her hand. 

"She's a forgivin' little soul, anyway, " Lambert said. 

"Forgivin'! 'Don't hurt him, Mr. Jedlick, ' she says, 'don't hurt him!'Huh! I had to build a fire under that old gun of mine to melt thechawin' wax off of her. I wouldn't give that girl a job washin' dishesin the oyster parlor if she was to travel from here to Wyoming on herknees. "

So they arrived at the ranch from their last expedition together. Lambert gave Taterleg his horse to take to the barn, while he stopped into deliver Pat Sullivan's check to Vesta and straighten up the finalbusiness, and tell her good-bye. 

CHAPTER XXVII

EMOLUMENTS AND REWARDS

Lambert took off his hat at the door and smoothed his hair with hispalm, tightened up his necktie, looked himself over from chest to toes. He drew a deep breath then, like a man fortifying himself for a trialthat called for the best that was in him to come forward. He knocked onthe door. 

He was wearing a brown duck coat with a sheepskin collar, the wool ofwhich had been dyed a mottled saffron, and corduroy breeches as roomy ofleg as Taterleg's state pair. These were laced within the tall bootswhich he had bought in Chicago, and in which he took a singular pride onaccount of their novelty on the range. 

It was not a very handsome outfit, but there was a ruggedpicturesqueness in it that the pistol belt and chafed scabbard enhanced, and he carried it like a man who was not ashamed of it, and graced itby the worth that it contained. 

The Duke's hair had grown long; shears had not touched his head sincehis fight with Kerr's men. Jim Wilder's old scar was blue on his thincheek that day, for the wind had been cold to face. He was so solemn andsevere as he stood waiting at the door that it would seem to be atriumph to make him smile. 

Vesta came to the door herself, with such promptness that seemed to tellshe must have been near it from the moment his foot fell on the porch. 

"I've come to settle up with you on our last deal, Vesta, " he said. 

She took him to the room in which they always transacted business, whichwas a library in fact as well as name. It had been Philbrook's office inhis day. Lambert once had expressed his admiration for the room, a longand narrow chamber with antlers on the walls above the bookcases, abroad fireplace flanked by leaded casement windows. It was furnishedwith deep leather chairs and a great, dark oak table, which looked as ifit had stood in some English manor in the days of other kings. Thewindows looked out upon the river. 

A pleasant place on a winter night, Lambert thought, with a log fire onthe dogs, somebody sitting near enough that one could reach out and findher hand without turning his eyes from the book, the last warm touch tocrown the comfort of his happy hour. 

"You mean our latest deal, not our last, I hope, Duke, " she said, sitting at the table, with him at the head of it like a baron returnedto his fireside after a foray in the field. 

"I'm afraid it will be our last; there's nothing left to sell but thefence. "

She glanced at him with relief in her eyes, a quick smile coming happilyto her lips. He was busy with the account of calves and grown stockwhich he had drawn from his wallet, the check lying by his hand. Hisface taken as an index to it, there was not much lightness in his heart. Soon he had acquitted himself of his stewardship and given the checkinto her hand. Then he rose to leave her. For a moment he stood silent, as if turning his thoughts. 

"I'm going away, " he said, looking out of the window down upon the topsof the naked cottonwoods along the river. 

Just around the corner of the table she was standing, half facing him, looking at him with what seemed almost compassionate tenderness, sosympathetic were her eyes. She touched his hand where it lay withfingers on his hat-brim. 

"Is it so hard for you to forget her, Duke?"

He looked at her frankly, no deceit in his eyes, but a mild surprise tohear her chide him so. 

"If I could forget of her what no forgiving soul should remember, I'dfeel more like a man, " he said. 

"I thought--I thought--" she stammered, bending her head, her voice softand low, "you were grieving for her, Duke. Forgive me. "

"Taterleg is leaving tonight, " he said, overlooking her soft appeal. "Ithought I'd go at the same time. "

"It will be so lonesome here on the ranch without you, Duke--lonesome asit never was lonesome before. "

"Even if there was anything I could do around the ranch any longer, withthe cattle all gone and nobody left to cut the fence, I wouldn't be anyuse, dodging in for every blizzard that came along, as the doctor says Imust. "

"I've come to depend on you as I never depended on anybody in my life. "

"And I couldn't do that, you know, any more than I'd be content to liearound doing nothing. "

"You've been square with me on everything, from the biggest to theleast. I never knew before what it was to lie down in security and getup in peace. You've fought and suffered for me here in a measure far inexcess of anything that common loyalty demanded of you, and I've givenyou nothing in return. It will be like losing my right hand, Duke, tosee you go. "

"Taterleg's going to Wyoming to marry a girl he used to know back inKansas. We can travel together part of the way. "

"If it hadn't been for you they'd have robbed me of everything bynow--killed me, maybe--for I couldn't have fought them alone, and therewas no other help. "

"I thought maybe in California an old half-invalid might pick up and getsome blood put into him again. "

"You came out of the desert, as if God sent you, when my load washeavier than I could bear. It will be like losing my right eye, Duke, tosee you go. "

"A man that's a fool for only a little while, even, is bound to leavefalse impressions and misunderstandings of himself, no matter how widehis own eyes have been opened, or how long. So I've resigned my job onthe ranch here with you, Vesta, and I'm going away. "

"There's no misunderstanding, Duke--it's all clear to me now. When Ilook in your eyes and hear you speak I know you better than you knowyourself. It will be like losing the whole world to have you go!"

"A man couldn't sit around and eat out of a woman's hand in idleness andever respect himself any more. My work's finished----"

"All I've got is yours--you saved it to me, you brought it home. "

"The world expects a man that hasn't got anything to go out and make itbefore he turns around and looks--before he lets his tongue betray hisheart and maybe be misunderstood by those he holds most dear. "

"It's none of the world's business--there isn't any world but ours!"

"I thought with you gone away, Vesta, and the house dark nights, and menot hearing you around any more, it would be so lonesome and bleak herefor an old half-invalid----"

"I wasn't going, I couldn't have been driven away! I'd have stayed aslong as you stayed, till you found--till you knew! Oh, it willtear--tear--my heart--my heart out of--my breast--to see you go!"

 * * * * *

Taterleg was singing his old-time steamboat song when Lambert went downto the bunkhouse an hour before sunset. There was an aroma of coffeemingling with the strain:

 Oh, I bet my money on a bob-tailed hoss, An' a hoo-dah, an' a hoo-dah; I bet my money on a bob-tailed hoss, An' a hoo-dah bet on the bay. 

Lambert smiled, standing beside the door until Taterleg had finished. Taterleg came out with his few possessions in a bran sack, givingLambert a questioning look up and down. 

"It took you a long time to settle up, " he said. 

"Yes. There was considerable to dispose of and settle, " Lambert replied. 

"Well, we'll have to be hittin' the breeze for the depot in a littlewhile. Are you ready?"

"No. Changed my mind; I'm going to stay. "

"Goin' in pardners with Vesta?"

"Pardners. "

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May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 

=RICHARD CHATTERTON=

A fascinating story in which love and jealousy play strange tricks withwomen's souls. 

=A BACHELOR HUSBAND=

Can a woman love two men at the same time?

In its solving of this particular variety of triangle "A BachelorHusband" will particularly interest, and strangely enough, without oneshock to the most conventional minded. 

=THE SCAR=

With fine comprehension and insight the author shows a terrific contrastbetween the woman whose love was of the flesh and one whose love was ofthe spirit. 

=THE MARRIAGE OF BARRY WICKLOW=

Here is a man and woman who, marrying for love, yet try to build theirwedded life upon a gospel of hate for each other and yet win back to agreater love for each other in the end. 

=THE UPHILL ROAD=

The heroine of this story was a consort of thieves. The man was fine, clean, fresh from the West. It is a story of strength and passion. 

=WINDS OF THE WORLD=

Jill, a poor little typist, marries the great Henry Sturgess andinherits millions, but not happiness. Then at last--but we must leavethat to Ruby M. Ayres to tell you as only she can. 

=THE SECOND HONEYMOON=

In this story the author has produced a book which no one who has lovedor hopes to love can afford to miss. The story fairly leaps from climaxto climax. 

=THE PHANTOM LOVER=

Have you not often heard of someone being in love with love rather thanthe person they believed the object of their affections? That wasEsther! But she passes through the crisis into a deep and profoundlove. 

ETHEL M. DELL'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 

=CHARLES REX=

The struggle against a hidden secret and the love of a strong man and acourageous woman. 

=THE TOP OF THE WORLD=

Tells of the path which leads at last to the "top of the world, " whichit is given to few seekers to find. 

=THE LAMP IN THE DESERT=

Tells of the lamp of love that continues to shine through all sorts oftribulations to final happiness. 

=GREATHEART=

The story of a cripple whose deformed body conceals a noble soul. 

=THE HUNDREDTH CHANCE=

A hero who worked to win even when there was only "a hundredth chance. "

=THE SWINDLER=

The story of a "bad man's" soul revealed by a woman's faith. 

=THE TIDAL WAVE=

Tales of love and of women who learned to know the true from the false. 

=THE SAFETY CURTAIN=

A very vivid love story of India. The volume also contains four otherlong stories of equal interest. 

ELEANOR H. PORTER'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 

=JUST DAVID=

The tale of a loveable boy and the place he comes to fill in the heartsof the gruff farmer folk to whose care he is left. 

=THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDING=

A compelling romance of love and marriage. 

=OH, MONEY! MONEY!=

Stanley Fulton, a wealthy bachelor, to test the dispositions of hisrelatives, sends them each a check for $100, 000, and then as plain JohnSmith comes among them to watch the result of his experiment. 

=SIX STAR RANCH=

A wholesome story of a club of six girls and their summer on Six StarRanch. 

=DAWN=

The story of a blind boy whose courage leads him through the gulf ofdespair into a final victory gained by dedicating his life to theservice of blind soldiers. 

=ACROSS THE YEARS=

Short stories of our own kind and of our own people. Contains some ofthe best writing Mrs. Porter has done. 

=THE TANGLED THREADS=

In these stories we find the concentrated charm and tenderness of allher other books. 

=THE TIE THAT BINDS=

Intensely human stories told with Mrs. Porter's wonderful talent forwarm and vivid character drawing. 

FLORENCE L. BARCLAY'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 

=THE WHITE LADIES OF WORCESTER= THE WHITE LADIES OF WORCESTER

A novel of the 12th Century. The heroine, believing she had lost herlover, enters a convent. He returns, and interesting developmentsfollow. 

=THE UPAS TREE=

A love story of rare charm. It deals with a successful author and hiswife. 

=THROUGH THE POSTERN GATE=

The story of a seven day courtship, in which the discrepancy in agesvanished into insignificance before the convincing demonstration ofabiding love. 

=THE ROSARY=

The story of a young artist who is reputed to love beauty above all elsein the world, but who, when blinded through an accident, gains life'sgreatest happiness. A rare story of the great passion of two real peoplesuperbly capable of love, its sacrifices and its exceeding reward. 

=THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE=

The lovely young Lady Ingleby, recently widowed by the death of ahusband who never understood her, meets a fine, clean young chap who isignorant of her title and they fall deeply in love with each other. Whenhe learns her real identity a situation of singular power is developed. 

=THE BROKEN HALO=

The story of a young man whose religious belief was shattered inchildhood and restored to him by the little white lady, many years olderthan himself, to whom he is passionately devoted. 

=THE FOLLOWING OF THE STARM=

The story of a young missionary, who, about to start for Africa, marrieswealthy Diana Rivers, in order to help her fulfill the conditions of heruncle's will, and how they finally come to love each other and arereunited after experiences that soften and purify. 

BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 

=SEVENTEEN. = Illustrated by Arthur William Brown. 

No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal youngpeople of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of thetime when the reader was Seventeen. 

=PENROD. = Illustrated by Gordon Grant. 

This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous, tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is afinished, exquisite work. 

=PENROD AND SAM. = Illustrated by Worth Brehm. 

Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen, " this book contains some remarkable phasesof real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishnessthat have ever been written. 

=THE TURMOIL. = Illustrated by C. E. Chambers. 

Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against hisfather's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of afine girl turns Bibb's life from failure to success. 

=THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. = Frontispiece. 

A story of love and politics, --more especially a picture of a countryeditor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the loveinterest. 

=THE FLIRT. = Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood. 

The "Flirt, " the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement, drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads anotherto lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromisingsuitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister. 

_Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_

KATHLEEN NORRIS' STORIES

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list

=SISTERS. = Frontispiece by Frank Street. 

The California Redwoods furnish the background for this beautiful storyof sisterly devotion and sacrifice. 

=POOR, DEAR, MARGARET KIRBY. =

Frontispiece by George Gibbs. 

A collection of delightful stories, including "Bridging the Years" and"The Tide-Marsh. " This story is now shown in moving pictures. 

=JOSSELYN'S WIFE. = Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert. 

The story of a beautiful woman who fought a bitter fight for happinessand love. 

=MARTIE, THE UNCONQUERED. =

Illustrated by Charles E. Chambers. 

The triumph of a dauntless spirit over adverse conditions. 

=THE HEART OF RACHAEL. =

Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers. 

An interesting story of divorce and the problems that come with a secondmarriage. 

=THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE. = Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert. 

A sympathetic portrayal of the quest of a normal girl, obscure andlonely, for the happiness of life. 

=SATURDAY'S CHILD. = Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes. 

Can a girl, born in rather sordid conditions, lift herself through sheerdetermination to the better things for which her soul hungered?

=MOTHER. = Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. 

A story of the big mother heart that beats in the background of everygirl's life, and some dreams which came true. 

_Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_

STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 

=HER FATHER'S DAUGHTER. = Illustrated. 

This story is of California and tells of that charming girl, LindaStrong, otherwise known as "Her Father's Daughter. "

=A DAUGHTER OF THE LAND. = Illustrated. 

Kate Bates, the heroine of this story, is a true "Daughter of the Land, "and to read about her is truly inspiring. 

=MICHAEL O'HALLORAN. = Illustrated by Frances Rogers. 

Michael is a quick-witted little Irish newsboy, living in NorthernIndiana. He adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. He also aspires tolead the entire rural community upward and onward. 

=LADDIE. = Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. 

This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid In Indiana. The storyis told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but itis concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairsof older members of the family. 

=THE HARVESTER. = Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs. 

"The Harvester, " is a man of the woods and fields, and is well worthknowing, but when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods, " there begins aromance of the rarest idyllic quality. 

=FRECKLES. = Illustrated. 

Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which hetakes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms; and his love-storywith "The Angel" are full of real sentiment. 

=A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. = Illustrated. 

The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable type ofthe self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindnesstoward all things; her hope is never dimmed. 

=AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. = Illustrations in colors. 

The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. It isone of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love. 

=THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL. = Profusely Illustrated. 

A love ideal of the Cardinal bird and his mate, told with delicacy andhumor. 

ZANE GREY'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 

=TO THE LAST MAN==THE MYSTERIOUS RIDER==THE MAN OF THE FOREST==THE DESERT OF WHEAT==THE U. P. TRAIL==WILDFIRE==THE BORDER LEGION==THE RAINBOW TRAIL==THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT==RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE==THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS==THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN==THE LONE STAR RANGER==DESERT GOLD==BETTY ZANE=

 * * * * *

=LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS=

The life story of "Buffalo Bill" by his sister Helen Cody Wetmore, withForeword and conclusion by Zane Grey. 

ZANE GREY'S BOOKS FOR BOYS

=KEN WARD IN THE JUNGLE==THE YOUNG LION HUNTER==THE YOUNG FORESTER==THE YOUNG PITCHER==THE SHORT STOP==THE RED-HEADED OUTFIELD AND OTHER BASEBALL STORIES=

JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD'S STORIES OF ADVENTURE

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 

=THE RIVER'S END=

A story of the Royal Mounted Police. 

=THE GOLDEN SNARE=

Thrilling adventures in the Far Northland. 

=NOMADS OF THE NORTH=

The story of a bear-cub and a dog. 

=KAZAN=

The tale of a "quarter-strain wolf and three-quarters husky" tornbetween the call of the human and his wild mate. 

=BAREE, SON OF KAZAN=

The story of the son of the blind Grey Wolf and the gallant part heplayed in the lives of a man and a woman. 

=THE COURAGE OF CAPTAIN PLUM=

The story of the King of Beaver Island, a Mormon colony, and his battlewith Captain Plum. 

=THE DANGER TRAIL=

A tale of love, Indian vengeance, and a mystery of the North. 

=THE HUNTED WOMAN=

A tale of a great fight in the "valley of gold" for a woman. 

=THE FLOWER OF THE NORTH=

The story of Fort o' God, where the wild flavor of the wilderness isblended with the courtly atmosphere of France. 

=THE GRIZZLY KING=

The story of Thor, the big grizzly. 

=ISOBEL=

A love story of the Far North. 

=THE WOLF HUNTERS=

A thrilling tale of adventure in the Canadian wilderness. 

=THE GOLD HUNTERS=

The story of adventure in the Hudson Bay wilds. 

=THE COURAGE OF MARGE O'DOONE=

Filled with exciting incidents in the land of strong men and women. 

=BACK TO GOD'S COUNTRY=

A thrilling story of the Far North. The great Photoplay was made fromthis book. 

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

 +-----------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Typographical errors corrected in the text: | | | | Page 120 tight changed to right | | Page 177 new changed to anew | | Page 352 let changed to lit | | Page 385 wierdest changed to weirdest | +-----------------------------------------------+