"You rode on your nerve," said Casey. "Tell us all about it. Tell us
about your father and Sandy. You were going to say something when you
keeled over."

The girl's keen face clouded. "Oh, heavens! Casey, my head can't be
right yet. I'd clean forgotten my own people. There's been nothing but
trouble in bunches all day. The drivers ran away this morning, smashed
the rig, threw father out, and broke his leg. This afternoon this man
Glass, whom we all took for a harmless nuisance, arrested Sandy."

"What?" Casey exclaimed.

"Yes, he did. Glass is a railway detective. He worked quietly, nosing
around the ranches talking to everybody, while the other detective
attracted all the attention. Nobody suspected Glass. Who would? Anyway,
he and another man arrested Sandy for blowing up the dam."

Casey whistled softly, casting a side glance at Wade.

"Where's Sandy now? Where did they take him?"

Sheila laughed, but there was little mirth in it.

"They didn't take him anywhere, but I don't know where he is. I saw him
with the two men down by the stable. I thought they were talking about
land. Half an hour afterward he came to the house with his parfleches,
and asked me to put him up a couple of weeks' grubstake. He had the men
locked up in the harness room, but he didn't tell me how he had done
it. He took his pack horse and his blankets and hunting outfit, and
pulled out. I didn't know what to do. I didn't tell the folks. The
ranch hands know, but they won't let the men out. And then it must have
been after ten o'clock when one of our men told me of the shooting. He
had heard it from somebody on the road. He said that Cross' friends
were talking of lynching McHale, and perhaps you. I didn't believe it
at first, but after a while I got nervous. Everybody was asleep, and
anyway there was nobody I could ask to go; so I came myself."

"And Tom and I will never forget it, Sheila," said Casey. "I don't know
another girl who could have made it after a fall like that in this
storm."

"It was perfectly splendid of you!" cried Kitty Wade, with hearty
admiration.

Clyde, obeying a sudden impulse, leaned forward and kissed the bruised
forehead. Sheila was unused to such endearments. She had no intimates
of her own sex; with the women she was courteously distant, repelling
and rather despising them. She had felt Clyde's instinctive hostility,
and had returned it. Surprised and touched by her action, the tears
started to her eyes. Clyde put her arms around the slender, pliant
waist.

"Come with me, dear, and get some sleep. You're badly shaken up. We'll
sleep in, in the morning."

"But I have to go back," Sheila objected. "Nobody knows I've gone. I
have to be back by morning. And then there's Beaver Boy! My heavens! I
left him standing outside. Oh, I've got to----"

Casey gently pressed her back as she would have risen.

"I'll stable the horse, old girl; and I'll be at Talapus by daylight to
tell them where you are. Don't you worry, now, about anything--not even
Sandy. If he's gone back to the hills I'll bet he finds Tom. They'll be
all right."

"Do you think so, Casey? And will you do that much for me? I'm awfully
sore and tired. Every bone and muscle of me aches."

"You poor little girl." He raised her in his arms. "Come on, girls, and
put her to bed. I'll carry her in."

CHAPTER XXV

With the first streaks of dawn Casey and Simon mounted and rode for
Talapus. But before they had ridden five hundred yards Casey discovered
an extraordinary thing. In his ears sounded a sustained, musical
murmur, nothing less than the happy laugh of running water.

"By the Lord Harry!" he ejaculated. "There's water in the ditches."

Simon nodded. "Ya-as. _Hiyu chuck_ stop, all same _skookum chuck_," he
observed, signifying that there was a full head of it, like a rapid.

The ditches were running to the brim. After the soaking rain of the
night the water was not immediately needed, but it showed that the
irrigation company's works no longer controlled the supply. When they
reached the river they found a swirling, yellow torrent running
yeasty-topped, speckled with débris.

"S'pose cloud _kokshut_!" Simon observed.

"Cloudburst, eh!" said Casey. "Looks like it. Then either the company's
dam has gone, or it can't take care of the head."

The former supposition seemed the more likely. Somewhere up in the
heart of the hills the black storm cloud had broken, and its contents,
collected by nameless creeks and gulches, had swooped down on the
Coldstream, raising it bank high, booming down to the lower reaches,
practically a wall of water, against which only the strongest
structures might stand. Temporary ones would go out before it, washed
away like a child's sand castle in a Fundy tide.

Ignoring trails, they struck straight across country. The land had been
washed clean. Beneath the brown grasses the earth lay dark and moist. A
hundred fresh, elusive odours struck the nostrils, called forth from
the soil by the rare moisture, a silent token of its latent fertility.
On the way there were no houses, no fences, no cleared fields. The land
lay in the dawn as empty as when the keels of restless white men first
split the Western ocean; and more lifeless, for the great buffalo herds
that of old gave the men of the plains and foothills food and raiment
were gone forever.

The sun was up when they reached Talapus. Mrs. McCrae had just
discovered her daughter's absence; and her husband was cursing the leg
that held him helpless. Casey told them the events of the night, and
Donald McCrae was proud of his daughter, and but little worried about
his son.

"Show me another girl would have ridden in that storm!" he exclaimed.
"She's the old stock--the old frontier stock! And Sandy, locking the
detective in the harness room!" He chuckled. "Go down and let them out,
Casey, and give them breakfast. A fine pair of children we've got,
mother."

"Sandy can take care of himself," said Mrs. McCrae practically. "He
always did, since he could walk, and he took his own ways, asking
nobody. And Sheila, for a girl, is the same. They take after you,
Donald, not me. But now, Casey, Mrs. Wade is at Chakchak, isn't she?"

"Mrs. Wade and Miss Burnaby," Casey replied. "It's all right, Mrs.
McCrae."

"Sheila needs no chaperon," said her father.

"Not with Casey," said her mother. "But there's the gossip, Donald, and
the dirty tongues. It's not like the old days."

"True enough, maybe," McCrae admitted. And he added, when his wife had
left the room: "What have they got hold of to arrest the boy, Casey?"

"I don't know," Casey replied. "But we'll face the music, Donald."

When Casey entered the harness room Glass and another man, a stranger,
lay in one corner on a heap of sacks. Sandy had done a most workmanlike
job, and he had put a neat finish to it by strapping each man to a
stanchion with a pair of driving reins.

"Good morning, gentlemen," said Casey.

"Is it?" said Glass, sourly. His old hesitating manner had quite
vanished.

"Beautiful," Casey replied. "Sun shining, birds singing, crops growing.
'God's in His heaven; all's well with the world.' Like to take a look
at it? Or are you too much attached to your present surroundings?"

"You can cut out the funny stuff," said Glass. "I don't ever laugh
before breakfast."

"Quite right, too," Casey replied. "Just roll over a little till I get
at those knots. There you are, Mr. Glass. Now your friend here. Don't
think I know him."

"Jack Pugh, sheriff's officer," said Glass, rising stiffly, with
considerable difficulty.

"I'll have him in shape to shake hands in a minute," said Casey, as he
worried at the knots. "And so, Mr. Glass, instead of an innocent
landlooker you are a real live, mysterious detective. You don't look
the part. Or perhaps you are still disguised."

"I can stand a josh better now," said Glass. "Maybe I'm not such a live
proposition as I might be. When two grown men let a kid hogtie them it
sort of starts them thinking."

"It sure does," Pugh agreed. He was a saturnine gentleman, with a
humorous eye. "I been wantin' to scratch my nose for eight solid
hours," he affirmed irrelevantly, rubbing that organ violently with his
free hand.

"He's some kid," said Glass. "Where is he?"

"I haven't seen him. He left word where to find you."

"Beat it somewhere, I suppose," Glass commented. "He fooled us up in
great style, I'll say that much. At first he acted about the way you'd
expect a country kid to act--scared to death. He wanted to change his
overalls for pants before we took him anywhere. Said they were hanging
up in here. We fell for it. We came in, and there was a pair of pants
hanging on a nail. He walked over to them, and the next thing we knew
he had a gun on us. I hope I know when a man means business--and he
did. He had half a notion to shoot anyway."

"That's right," Pugh confirmed. "He's one of them kids that makes
gunmen. No bluff. I know the kind."

"So when he told me to tie Pugh I did it," Glass continued. "Then he
dropped a loop over me, and that's all there is to tell. The joke's on
us just now."

"So it is," said Casey. "Whatever made you think that kid had anything
to do with blowing up the dam?"

"Hadn't he?"

Casey smiled genially. "Why, how should I know, Mr. Glass? I was just
asking what you were going on."

"I'm not showing my hand. I don't say the kid did it alone."

"And so you thought you'd round him up and sweat some information out
of him. That was it, wasn't it?"

"You're quite a guesser and you show a whole lot of interest in the
answer," retorted Glass. "Keep on guessing."

"I don't need to. Come up to the house and have breakfast. And for
Heaven's sake don't say anything to frighten the kid's mother."

"What do you take us for?" said Glass. "We'll treat the whole thing as
a joke--to her."

Casey breakfasted with them, and after they had gone sought Simon. The
old Indian, full to repletion, was squatting on the kitchen steps,
smoking and blinking sleepily.

"No see um Sandy," he observed. "Where him stop?"

"No more Sandy stop this _illahee_," Casey replied. "Sandy _klatawa
kopa_ stone _illahee_, all same Tom." Meaning that Sandy had gone in
the direction of the hills, as had McHale.

"Why him _klatawa_?" Simon asked.

Casey explained, and Simon listened gravely. His receptiveness was
enormous. Information dropped into him as into a bottomless pit,
vanishing without splash.

"Sandy _hyas_ young fool," he commented. "Me tell him _mamook huyhuy_
moccasin. S'pose moccasin stop, _ikt_ man findum, then heltopay.
Polisman _mamook_ catchum, put um in _skookum_ house, maybeso hang um
_kopa_ neck."

"What are you talking about, anyway?" Casey demanded. And Simon told
him of the track of the patched moccasin and of his warning to Sandy.

Casey immediately fitted things together. He knew that Sandy's right
moccasin was almost invariably worn through at the toe. Before they
left he had seen him patching them, and because they wore through at
the same place the patches were of nearly the same shape. So that if
Glass had found a patched moccasin it was not necessarily the one which
had made the track. But that would make little difference. Either
Farwell or his assistant must have told Glass about this track. If he
had found a pair of Sandy's moccasins to correspond with the footprint
he had come very near getting Sandy with the goods. But Farwell or
somebody must have directed Glass's suspicions to Sandy.

However that was, Sandy had made a clean get-away into a region where
he would be hard to catch. He was familiar with the trails, the passes,
the little basins and pockets nestling in the hills. He was well
provisioned and well armed. And the last caused Casey some uneasiness,
for having once resisted arrest Sandy would be very apt to do so again.

"Simon," he said, "I want you to take papah letter to Tom."

"Where Tom stop?" Simon asked naturally enough.

"Maybe at Sunk Springs," Casey replied. "Maybe not. You try Sunk
Springs. S'pose no Tom stop there, you _nanitch_ around till you find
him."

"All right," said Simon. "Me _nanitch_, me find Tom." He considered a
moment. "_Halo_ grub stop me?"

"I'll tell them to grubstake you here," Casey reassured him. "I'll pay
you, too, of course."

"You my _tillikum_," said Simon, with great dignity. "Tom my _tillikum_.
Good! Me like you. How much you pay?"

"Two dollars a day," said Casey promptly.

Simon looked grieved and pained. "You my tillikum," he repeated.
"S'pose my _tillikum_ work for me, me pay him five dolla'."

But Casey was unmoved by this touching appeal to friendship. "I'll
remember that if I ever work for you," he replied. "Two dollars and
grub is plenty. You Siwashes are spoiled by people who don't know any
better than to pay what you ask. That's all you'll get from me. Your
time's worth nothing, and your cayuses rustle for themselves."

And Simon accepted this ultimatum with resignation.

"All right," said he. "You my _tillikum_; Tom my _tillikum_. S'pose you
catch _hiyu_ grubstake."

Having arranged for a message to McHale, it occurred to Casey that he
should see whether the sudden rise of the river had swept the company's
temporary dam. Accordingly he rode thither.

The storm had entirely passed, and the sun shone brightly. Great,
white, billowy, fair-weather clouds rolled up in open order before the
fresh west wind, and the shadows of them trailed across the face of the
earth, moving swiftly, sharply defined, sweeping patches of shade
against the green and gold of a clean-washed, sunny summer world. Off
to the westward, where the ranges thrust gaunt, gray peaks against the
sky line, the light shimmered against patches of white, the remnants of
the last winter's snows. Far away, just to be discerned through a notch
in the first range, was a vivid point of emerald or jade, the living
green of a glacier.

It was a day when it was good to be alive, and Casey Dunne, hard,
clean, in the full power of his manhood, the fresh west wind in his
face, and a strong, willing horse beneath him, rejoiced in it.

As he rode his thoughts reverted to Clyde Burnaby. Indeed, she had
never, since the preceding night, been entirely absent from them; but
because his training had been to do one thing at a time, and think of
what he was doing to the exclusion of all else, he had unconsciously
pigeonholed her in the back of his mind. Now she emerged.

"Shiner, m'son," he apostrophized his horse, "if things break right
you're going to have a missus. What d'ye think of that, hey, you
yellow-hided old scoundrel? And, by the Great Tyee! you'll eat apples
and sugar out of her hand, and if you so much as lay back your ears at
her I'll frale your sinful heart out with a neck yoke. D'ye get that,
you buzzard-head?"

Shiner in full stride made a swift grab for his rider's left leg, and
his rider with equal swiftness kicked him joyously in the nose.

"You would, hey? Nice congratulations, you old man-eater. I'll make a
lady's horse of you if you don't behave; I sure will. And we'll build a
decent house and break two thousand acres, and keep every foot of it as
fine and clean as a seed bed, and have it all under ditch, the show
place of the whole dry belt. You bet we will. We won't sell an acre.
Fancy prices won't tempt us. We'll keep the whole shootin' match till
we cash in." His mood changed.

"Cash in! It's funny to think of that, old horse, isn't it? And yet ten
years from now you'll be no good, and thirty years from now I'll be
near the end of the deal. And Clyde! Why, Shiner, we can't think of her
as an old lady, can we? With her smooth cheeks a little withered and
the suppleness gone from her body, and her eyes dim and her glorious
hair white. Lord, horse, we mustn't think of it! She'll always be the
same dear Clyde to us, won't she? 'Sufficient unto the day,' my equine
trial and friend. Others will come after us, and there will be
evil-tempered buckskins loping this foothill country and maybe a Casey
Dunne cursing them when you and I are ranging the happy hunting
grounds!"

Out of the sunlit distances a horse and rider appeared, rapidly
approaching. It was Farwell, and, recognizing Dunne, he pulled up.

"In case you don't know it," he said, without preliminary or greeting,
"I'll tell you that our dam went out with the flood. You didn't need to
use dynamite this time."

"Providence!" Casey suggested.

Farwell's comment consisted of but one word, which, unless by contrast,
is not usually associated with providential happenings.

"Call it that if you like," he growled. "We'll get the men responsible
for it one of these days."

"You made a beginning with young McCrae," Casey reminded him.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you know that Glass tried to arrest him?"

"What?" cried Farwell.

His surprise was too genuine to be feigned. Thereupon Casey told him
what had occurred in the last few hours both at Talapus and Chakchak.

Farwell listened, biting his lips and frowning. And his first words
were an inquiry as to Sheila.

"Miss McCrae rode through that storm last night!" he exclaimed. "Good
Lord! Is she badly hurt?"

"Only shaken up, I think."

"Thank God for that," said Farwell, with evident sincerity. He
hesitated for a moment. "See here, Dunne, do you mind if I ask you an
impertinent question?"

"Fire away."

"Are you going to marry her?"

"Certainly not. What put that notion in your head?"

"It got there. You were pretty thick. And if she rode there in that
storm--unless she thought a lot of you----"

"I'm mighty proud of it. We're good friends--like brother and sister.
No more. She has the best brand of clean-strain pluck of any girl I
know."

"So she has," Farwell agreed. "She's a girl in a million. She's----" He
stopped, reddening.

"By George, Farwell," said Casey, "is it that way with you?"

"She doesn't care a tinker's dam for me," said Farwell bluntly. "That's
not saying what I think of her. I'm no ladies' man--don't pretend to
be. Let that go. I suppose I'll be blamed for young McCrae's arrest.
Well, I didn't know a thing about it. I've tried to give the family a
good deal--better than the rest of you, anyway. I don't like the boy,
and he doesn't like me. Pulled a gun on me once--well, never mind that.
Here, you've been straight with me, and I'll tell you: When the dam was
blown up we found the track of a patched moccasin in soft earth. Keeler
took an impression of it, or made a cast or something--I don't know
just what, but I do know that he photographed it. Since then I've
noticed young McCrae's foot, and I believe he made the track, though it
didn't strike me at the time. That was about the only clew we found.
Mind you, Dunne, I believe you were in it yourself, but I haven't a
thing to go on. If Glass has found a patched moccasin of McCrae's he's
pretty near got him to rights. I don't know what he's got, though.
About Cross and McHale, I don't care a curse which shot the other.
These men--Cross, Dade, Lewis, and some more--were protecting our
property. And that's all."

"Not quite all. They blew up our dams."

"Just as man to man," said Farwell, "let me ask you if you expected to
run a dynamite monopoly?"

"I'm not kicking," said Casey. "I'm merely stating facts. I can take my
medicine."

"You're a good deal of a man," Farwell acknowledged grudgingly. "I hate
a squealer. Anyway, it was no part of their job to break into your
house. See here, Dunne, the last five minutes has got us better
acquainted than the last two months. I'll fire these fellows to-morrow
if you'll promise me that our ditches won't be interfered with again."

"As long as we have water there will be no trouble," said Casey. "I'll
promise nothing more."

"That's good for some weeks, anyway," Farwell predicted. "I guess we'll
have to fight it out in the end. Still, I'm glad to have had this talk.
I like you better than I did. And I can tell you there was lots of room
for it--is yet, for that matter. Good-bye."

Without waiting for a reply, he dug a heel into his horse and swept on.
Casey watched him go, with a thoughtful smile.

"Odd devil!" he muttered. "Queer combination. I don't like him,
but--well, he's a fighter, and I believe he's straight. To think of him
being fond of Sheila! I wonder if he has a chance there? She never
mentions him now. H'm!" Finding no answer to the question, he wheeled
Shiner and headed for home.

CHAPTER XXVI

Just before utter blackness shut down on the land, Sandy McCrae
dismounted and stripped saddle and pack from his horses. He looked up
at the sky, shook his head, and, taking a light axe, cut two picket
pins; after which he staked the horses out in the abundant pasture at
the bottom of the draw, driving the pins in solidly beyond the
possibility of pulling. Then he set about making a hasty camp.

Beside him a little spring bubbled out of the bottom of the draw and
seeped away under tangled roots and fallen brush. A thirst-parched
stranger might have ridden past twenty times on the bench above without
suspecting its presence. The faint cattle trail leading to it entered
the draw a quarter of a mile away, and led along under low but almost
perpendicular banks.

Sandy's camp preparations were simple, but much more elaborate than if
the night had been clear. Then he would have made his fire, boiled
coffee, spread his bed, and gone to sleep beneath the stars; but
because of the ominous storm cloud he constructed a lean-to by driving
two forked stakes and joining them with a crosspiece. From these he
slanted two poles to the ground, and on the poles laid a tarp, lashing
it in place. The mouth of the lean-to faced away from the cloud bank.
In addition it had the partial shelter of cottonwoods in full leaf. In
this lean-to he collected his outfit. Next he made a fire and cooked
supper. Afterward he smoked, squatting in the mouth of his shelter,
staring silently at the dying embers, listening to the rising wind
sighing above him sweeping across the bare grasslands, but scarcely
fanning the coals in his protected camp.

He felt no loneliness whatever. Solitary camps and the love of them
were his by right of inheritance. He neither required nor desired
companionship. Fire, food, tobacco, and solitude satisfied his inmost
soul. This was the life he loved. The fact that he was a fugitive from
the law did not trouble him at all; it merely gave an added zest to the
situation. Just once he chuckled grimly as he recalled the faces of
Glass and Pugh when he had whirled on them, gun in hand. Glass had
interpreted his intentions very correctly; he would have shot either or
both on the slightest provocation. He was of the breed of the wolf,
accustomed from childhood to deadly weapons, brought up in tradition of
their use, and, like many outlaws who have bulked large in the history
of the West, young enough to act on impulse without counting the
ultimate cost.

As his little fire burned down he stepped out and regarded the darkened
heavens. A heavy drop of rain struck his face and a flash of lightning
ripped the black curtain, outlining bare banks, trees, and grazing
horses for a brief instant. Sandy shrugged his shoulders
philosophically. His shelter was good enough. He unrolled his bed, and,
by the simple process of removing moccasins and gun belt, was ready to
retire. He got into his blankets, taking his gun with him, and rolled
them around him, leaving his face exposed until the last.

"Now, darn you rain!" he muttered. With which "now-I-lay-me" he drew
the blanket completely over his head as a protection against
mosquitoes, and, heedless of the smothering effect of it, which would
have been unsupportable to a city youth, was asleep in ten seconds.

He slept for, perhaps, an hour. At the end of that time he suddenly
became wide awake. He could not have told what had aroused him, but he
was sure something had. He threw back the smothering blanket from his
head and lay listening.

Overhead the wind threshed the tops of the trees, and roared hollowly
as it rebounded from the farther side of the gulch. Rain, driven by the
wind, slashed through the foliage and pattered against his primitive
shelter. Thunder rolled in an endless fusillade, punctuated by flashes
of lightning. But Sandy, without considering the matter, was quite sure
that none of these things had awakened him. In a momentary lull of the
storm, as he lay with his ear close to the ground, he thought he could
hear the sound of hoofs coming up the draw, along the hard-beaten
cattle trail.

It was barely possible that some wandering stock, drifting with the
storm, were seeking the shelter of it; but it was more likely that
range stock would have found cover to suit them before dark, and would
stay in it till morning. Now, there is a difference between the tread
of ridden and riderless animals, and Sandy thought that he had heard
the former. Also, they were coming as he had come.

His route led from the settlements back to the hills where there was
nobody and nothing. There was no road, no trail. Few people went there,
not even Indians, and they not until the fall hunt, after the first
snow. Therefore, it was suspicious that, on such a night, a rider or
riders should be in his vicinity. His mind leaped to the conclusion
that Glass had been released, had secured the services of somebody who
knew the country, and had somehow made a good guess at the location of
his first night's camp, for which they were now searching in the
darkness, hoping that the remains of his fire would betray him.

As he reached this conclusion, Sandy rolled out of his blankets,
buckled his belt around his lean waist, slipped on his moccasins, and
stepped out into the darkness.

Not a red spark showed where his fire had been, and Sandy smiled
grimly. He would do all the surprising himself. He did not intend to be
taken. Once more he heard the sound of hoofs, nearer. They seemed to
approach a few yards, then to stop. He heard the sound of a breath
blown from a horse's nostrils.

The storm, which had lulled momentarily, began again. The wind hit
the draw viciously, with spatters of rain. Other sounds were
indistinguishable. Sandy, crouching low to get any advancing object
against what sky line there was, made out the shape of a mounted man.
Horse and man stood like an equestrian statue, barely distinguishable,
though but a few yards away.

The rider disappeared from the saddle. Sandy heard his feet crashing in
the low bushes, heard him stumble and swear.

"Ought to be about here," words came faintly to Sandy's ears. "If ever
I try to find ... on a night like this...."

"Looking for me, sure," thought Sandy. "Maybe it's Glass; maybe it
isn't. Wonder how many there are. Anyway, I'll fix this one."

Soft-footed as a great cat, he crept toward the voice. The man loomed
in front of him; his back was turned. Sandy rose soundlessly behind
him. With a sudden vicious sweep his left arm shot across the
stranger's left shoulder and around his throat. His right hand shoved
the muzzle of his gun beneath the man's right ear.

"Don't move or let one yip out of you!" he hissed tensely.

After one convulsive start the stranger stood motionless. "Nary move
nor yip," he whispered confidentially into the night. "And if that
gun's a light pull, be mighty careful of the trigger!"

"Talk and talk quiet," said Sandy. "How many are there of you?"

"Be mighty careful of that gun if you're seein' double that way!" the
stranger admonished again nervously. "Was you expectin' twins or
somethin'?"

"You alone?"

"Yep."

"What's your name?"

"Smith."

"What you doing here?"

"Lookin' for the spring to camp by."

"Where you heading for?"

"Into the hills, prospectin'."

"Where's Glass?" Sandy asked suddenly.

"Search me. I got nothin' to do with that durn fool."

The tone and the words gave Sandy the surprise of his life. His arm
dropped away from the stranger's throat, and his gun ceased to threaten
the base of his skull.

"Tom McHale!" he cried.

"You sound some like a _cultus_ young devil named McCrae," said McHale,
peering at him in the dark. "Say, what in the flarin' blazes you doin'
here?"

"Take some yourself," Sandy responded. "Are they after you, too?"

McHale shook his head sadly. "Sonny," said he, "you're too young to be
havin' them cute little visions of things bein' after you. I reckon
maybe we're pullin' two ways on one rope. Also, we ain't gettin' no
drier standin' here chewin' about it. Maybe you got a camp somewheres.
S'pose you find the latchstring. Then we'll have a talk."

Thus admonished, Sandy led the way to his lean-to, rekindled the fire,
helped picket McHale's horses, and set the coffee-pot to boil. They
drank coffee and smoked, going into details of their experiences of the
preceding day. McHale was amazed to hear of Sandy's arrest by Glass,
whom he had held in contempt. Sandy was jubilant over the shooting of
Cross, regretful that he had not had a hand in it.

"You won't be so durn stuck on a gun fight after you've been in one or
two," said McHale grimly. "Now let's see how she stacks up. I'm goin'
to hide out for a spell, but if I was you I'd go back and stand the
racket."

"I guess _not_," said Sandy positively. "I don't want to do time if
they've got me with the goods. And then some darn lawyer might make me
give somebody else away by accident. You can't tell. I'll stay out with
you. Where are you heading for?"

"I was aimin' to hit Bull's Pass, drop over the summit into the valley
of the Klimminchuck, and camp somewheres. There was two trappers in
there winter before last, and they told me they built them a right good
cabin."

"That suits me."

"This will fix us up with water for the next two weeks," said McHale as
he listened to the rain. "I'll bet Casey's got a grin on him a yard
wide." He yawned. "Well, kid, we've got all that's comin' to us out of
this one day. Let's hit them blankets. We better make an early start."

They were up in the early dawn, breakfasted, saddled, and packed, and
headed for the hills. At noon they reached the foot of the pass. A
narrow trail, often choked by fallen timber and small landslides, led
them upward, winding in and out, sometimes near the bottom of an always
ascending gorge, sometimes forsaking it for broad, flat benches
parklike with stately trees, sometimes clinging precariously to
shoulders of bare rock where a slip would have been fatal.

They camped that night near the summit, and next day dropped down into
a valley, narrow, wooded, picturesque, where the Klimminchuck raced
southward; and, following its course, camped at the edge of a beaver
meadow, feasting on trout fresh caught from a deep pool beneath a short
fall. And in the morning, still following the stream, they came to the
trappers' cabin, set in a grove of young spruce.

It was built of small logs chinked with moss and clay, and most of the
chinking had fallen out. Its roof was of poles covered with earth. A
two-man bunk occupied much of the interior. The remainder was taken up
by a rough table, a bench, and a rusty wreck of a little sheet-iron
stove. There was room to get in and stay in, and that was all. And yet
two men had lived in that pen all winter, and emerged healthy and
fairly good-tempered in the spring.

The companions peered through the door at the uninviting interior. The
floor was a litter of rubbish, old clothes in a state of decomposition,
leaves, bones, and rusty cans and pans. Young McCrae wrinkled an
outraged nose.

"Pfaugh!" he snorted. "The shack's filthy. We can't use it."

"The smell _is_ some obvious," McHale agreed. "Which bein' so, I reckon
we build us a wickiup several nose lengths off."

They found a suitable spot, and there they built an elaborate lean-to.
Having established themselves, they rested, smoked, and slept. In the
evening they caught trout for supper and breakfast. There was
absolutely nothing to do unless they created employment for themselves.

At the end of another day Sandy became restless; his capacity for
loafing was exhausted.

"Let's go get a bear," he proposed.

"Deer's better meat," said McHale; "also easier to get. I won't climb
after no bear."

Nevertheless, he accompanied Sandy down the valley. They saw no bear;
but they shot a young buck, and returned to camp with the carcass
lashed behind Sandy's saddle. Although it was closed season, they
needed the meat, and game wardens were not likely to intrude.

But when they came in sight of their camp they saw old Simon reclining
in grandeur on their blankets, smoking.

"The nerve of that buck!" snorted McHale. "Get off of that bed, you old
copperskin. Think I want to wash them blankets?"

Simon obeyed, but he drew a letter from his pocket.

"Papah," said he. "Casey."

McHale read Casey's warning as to Dade, and whistled softly, passing
the letter to Sandy.

"So this here Dade makes it a feud, does he?" he said meditatively.
"All right, he can have it that way. Same time, I'm goin' to keep out
of trouble long as I can. I'll stay cached mighty close, and I'll run
like blazes before I'll fight. Simon, how'd you find this camp?"

"Find um easy," said Simon scornfully. He pointed to the carcass of the
deer. "S'pose you _mamook_ cook um."

CHAPTER XXVII

In the morning Sheila awoke stiff and sore, but rested. Her strong
young body, hard and well conditioned by a life in the open and much
healthy exercise, refused to indulge in the luxury of after effects of
shock. Looking around, she found that her clothes were gone. But spread
ready for her was a dainty morning costume, which she knew for Clyde
Burnaby's. Dressing quickly, she entered the breakfast room.

Clyde, sitting by the window, rose, smiling, as she entered.

"I hope they fit," she said. "How do you feel, Miss McCrae?"

"They fit very well, and I feel first rate," said Sheila. "I'm sore in
spots, but I'll limber up when I get moving. Where is Mrs. Wade? I
suppose Casey has gone to Talapus."

"Kitty's busy cleaning your riding clothes," Clyde replied. "Casey has
gone; I haven't seen him."

It was the first time she had used his given name to a third person. It
slipped out naturally, and she coloured a trifle, but Sheila did not
appear to notice. They breakfasted together, and later sat on the
veranda enjoying the perfect morning after the storm. Naturally, they
spoke of the events of the preceding day and night. Sheila took a
practical view.

"It was lucky Tom McHale wasn't here," she said. "Somebody would have
been hurt. That's what I was afraid of."

"It was very brave of you," said Clyde. "I admire you more than I can
say. I want you to know it, Miss McCrae."

"Oh, that"--Sheila dismissed the warm praise with a wave of her brown
hand--"why, it wasn't anything; only a wet ride in the dark. If my
horse had kept his feet it would have been all right. I simply had to
come. Don't try to make me think myself a heroine. You'd do the same
thing yourself for a friend."

"I'm afraid I couldn't. I'm not much of a rider, and I couldn't have
found my way in the dark."

"Well, that's no credit to me. I've been riding all my life, and I know
every foot of this country. Of course, I'd do anything for Casey or
Tom."

"Yes," said Clyde, "they both think a great deal of you, I know."

"No more than I think of them--especially Casey. Some day I suppose
he'll get married, and then I'll have to call him 'Mr. Dunne.'"

"That won't be necessary."

"Oh, yes, it will. His wife wouldn't stand for 'Casey.'"

"Yes, she will," said Clyde. Sheila turned and looked at her keenly.
"We are going to be married," Clyde added.

"You don't mean it!" Sheila exclaimed. "Well, you are a lucky girl, if
you don't mind my saying so. Casey's _white_. I congratulate you with
all my heart. And he's lucky, too; yes, he is."

"You--you don't mind?" Clyde ventured. She thought it quite possible
that Sheila might care for Casey, although convinced that he did not
love her.

"Mind? Why should I mind?"

"You know I thought once"--Clyde hesitated--"you see you were such
great friends----"

"You thought I might be fond of him? Why, so I am. Not in that way,
though. I might have been if he had tried to make love to me, but he
never did. You see, Miss Burnaby----"

"I wish you'd call me Clyde."

"If you'll call me Sheila. You see, Clyde, Casey and I are too much two
of a kind. We'd never get on. You'll idealize him; I'd call him down.
He'll talk out of his heart to you; he'd talk irrigation, and crops,
and horses to me. You'll accept his judgment in most things as final;
I'd want him to take my opinion instead of his own. Oh, we'd make an
awful mess of it! And so, my dear, don't you think that I'd want his
love, even if I could get it. But at that he's the whitest man I know,
and the best friend I ever had. You're lucky. I don't wonder that he
fell in love with you, either. I wish to goodness _I_ were as pretty."

"I'm glad," said Clyde, "that you haven't said anything about money.
Thank you."

"It's not because I didn't think of it," Sheila admitted frankly. "But
I know it makes no difference to Casey. Fact is, I wonder, knowing him
as I do, that he hadn't some absurd scruples on that point."

"He had. He says we can't be married if he loses this ranch and the
other lands."

"Nonsense," said Sheila practically. "He won't stay with that if you
coax him; he couldn't."

Clyde laughed happily. "That's the nicest compliment I ever had. You're
absolutely the first person I've told."

"Well, I'm much flattered," said Sheila. "When did it happen?"

"Last night."

"Everything happened last night. Was he--er--convincing in the part?"

But Clyde, laughing and blushing, refused details. Sheila wished to go
home at once, but Clyde prevailed on her to wait for Casey. It was his
wish.

"And that settles it from your point of view, of course," said Sheila.
"Well, I'll wait."

Casey returned at noon. Clyde met him halfway between the stable and
the house, bareheaded, the fresh wind fluttering her skirts and
spinning little tendrils of coppery gold across her forehead. He would
have taken both her hands, but she put them behind her, laughing.

"Not here, sir!"

"It's my ranch and my girl."

"In order of merit?"

"My girl and my ranch, then. But tell me: How is Sheila?"

"Quite well, except for her bruises. What a plucky girl she is, Casey!"

"I should say she is," he agreed heartily. "You must be friends.
Somehow you never seemed to like her."

"I understand her better now. I've told her about--us."

"Fine! And Kitty Wade?"

"Yes. Come in and face the music yourself."

But Casey got off lightly. They lunched without Wade, who had gone to
town for mail; but as they were finishing the meal he entered.

"Casey," he cried, "I hope to Heaven I haven't foundered your horse,
but I have all kinds of news for you!"

Casey's mouth tightened a little. "Let it go, Wade. Maybe it's all for
the best."

"Part of this is, anyway. Don't look so glum; it's all right, I tell
you. Now, this was the way of it: When I got my papers at the post
office I saw that Western Air stock, which had been playing antics
before, had gone clean crazy. It's been boosted sky high. All sorts of
rumours, the chief being that the Hess System people were responsible.
So I wired for the latest. Got a reply that it was impossible to
confirm rumours. Then, just as I was leaving, in comes a wire for Clyde
which I herewith produce and put in as Exhibit A, and which, I strongly
suspect, throws light on the situation. Open it, Clyde, for Heaven's
sake, and put us out of our misery!"

Clyde tore the envelope with fingers which trembled slightly. She read
the message and handed it to Casey.

"Aloud?" he asked, and she nodded. He read:

    Sending you power of attorney and proxy to vote shares recently
    purchased by your brokers. We now control corporation. Advise
    friends to drop lawsuit. They will get a square deal.

    JIM.

Casey looked up. He did not understand. Wade struck him a violent blow
on the back.

"Hooray!" he shouted. "It's blamed unprofessional, but I was never so
glad to discontinue an action in my life. Clyde, you're a darling!" He
caught her in his arms and whirled her around the room.

"Harrison!" Kitty cried, "have you gone crazy?"

Wade released Clyde, breathless, and sank into a chair.

"Bring me an expensive drink!" he commanded. "This needs celebrating."

"Will somebody tell me what's the matter with him?" Casey asked.

"What!" exclaimed the lawyer. "Don't you see it?"

"Not yet," Casey admitted.

"Why, you old dub," cried Wade, "the wire is from Jim Hess, Clyde's
uncle. His interests control Western Air. He promises you a square
deal."

"Eh!" Casey ejaculated, staring at him.

"You blamed idiot!" snapped the lawyer, "why don't you thank Clyde? She
started the old chief on the warpath after York's scalp."

Casey turned to her. "Tell me he isn't raving mad! Is it so?"

"It's so," she said, "but I----" He interrupted by catching her in his
arms.

"Here, hold on, old man!" Wade protested. "Gratitude's a fine thing,
but you're too----"

His wife took him by the arm. "Come on, Harrison, you stupid! You're
worse than he is. Can't you understand anything?" Sheila's skirts were
already fluttering through the door.

"Great Scott!" Wade exclaimed, "you don't mean----"

"You--you _bonehead_!" she cried, exasperated, and hustled him outside.

Careless of them, Casey held Clyde, looking down into her eyes.
"Sweetheart," he said, "you never told me!"

"I was afraid."

"Of raising false hopes?"

"Not that, so much. But you wouldn't let me help you with money. And I
was afraid that if you knew, you'd consider yourself under an
obligation and wouldn't--wouldn't----"

"Wouldn't what?"

"Wouldn't be sensible and tell me you loved me," she said softly.
"You're so funny about such things, Casey. You aren't angry now, are
you?"

"Angry?" he said. "Dear, I'd put the savings of years into this
land--years when I'd worked like a very slave to get enough cash
together to swing some good deal when I should see it. That was my
stake. And the others! Why, girl, you've saved Talapus to the McCraes,
and their ranches for the men who made them. We can't repay you; we
won't try."

CHAPTER XXVIII

"Excuse _me_," said Wade, who had anticipated his entrance by many
preliminary noises, "excuse me, my dear young friends, and,
incidentally, accept my sincerest congratulations, felicitations,
and--er--jubilations. Kindly listen to the following observations.
Ahem! Far be it from me to horn in where I am as welcome as a wet dog.
Nothing is farther from my desire than to short circuit two hearts----"

"Come right in, old man," said Casey. "What's the trouble?"

"I want my dinner," said Wade plaintively. "I Paul Revered on a
shoestring. I Sheridaned without a commissariat. I brought the good
news to Ghent on an empty tummy. Is thy servant a dog, that he should
eat with a Chinaman? And I'd do that willingly; but, Casey, you know as
well as I do that the only thing fit to drink Clyde's health in is in
this room, and I warn you that if there is much more delay in doing so
nothing which may occur hereafter will be either lucky or legal. While
it is possibly true that a dinner of herbs where love is has a
porterhouse, rare, and hashed brown spuds backed clean off the board, I
submit, not being in love myself----"

"What's that?" cried Kitty Wade from the door.

"Why, it's a shame!" said Clyde. "He must be starving. It's all Casey's
fault, too."

"Wouldn't he break away?" asked Wade. "I remember----?"

"Harrison!" cried Kitty, warningly.

"Well, then, do I eat?" he demanded.

"Yes. Anything to keep you quiet. I'll get your dinner myself."

Half an hour later Wade pushed back his chair with a sigh of
satisfaction, lit a cigar, and joined the others.

"I feel better," he announced. "A child could play with me in
comparative safety. Now let me tell you what else I discovered. In the
first place, Cross is dead. I was talking to Shiller. He says that Tom
wasn't to blame--corroborates his story, in fact, in every material
particular. So Tom's all right on that score. My advice to him would be
to come in and have his trial over."

"That isn't what's bothering him so much. It's these friends of
Cross's. I don't blame him. Some sheriffs are mighty weak-kneed about
such things."

"Well, I'm told that officers will be after him. Now as to your
brother, Miss McCrae: Glass and Pugh are starting out to find him as
soon as they get an outfit. Likely they've got started now."

"But they don't know where he is. That Glass--I should think he'd get
lost if he left a trail."

"Pugh is different. They may get another man or two."

"I hope they don't find him," said Sheila gravely.

"So do I," Wade concurred. "I don't suppose a prosecution would be
pushed now; but he resisted an officer, and anyway I wouldn't like to
see him under arrest."

"You don't understand. Sandy wouldn't submit quietly."

"You think he'd try to bluff them again?"

"He isn't a bluff," said Casey. "The kid is serious-minded. That's the
trouble. However, I've sent Tom word about Dade. Sandy may be with him;
and Tom is cool. When Simon comes in we'll know more, and send him out
again if he knows where the boy is."

Sheila declared that she must be going home. She refused Casey's offer
to drive her over. She wanted to take the edge off Beaver Boy. His
actions rankled in her mind. He needed a lesson, and she was going to
give him one. And she refused absolutely to allow Casey to ride with
her.

He had her horse saddled, and was giving a final pull at the latigos
when she came out in her riding clothes.

"Cinch him up tight," she commanded. "Take a good pull at it; he's
getting too foxy."

Beaver Boy grunted as Casey put his strength on the strap and the broad
cinch bit into his glossy skin.

"And that's loose a-plenty," said his mistress. "He blows himself up
like a turkey gobbler. I need a block and tackle to cinch him right."
She shaded her eyes with her hand. "Somebody coming. I'll wait and see
who it is."

Much to their surprise, it was none other than Farwell. He rode
briskly, head up, shoulders back, with the air of a man whose mind is
made up. But he refused to get off his horse, asking Sheila's
permission to ride with her.

"I wanted to tell you," he said, "that you'll have water for the summer
anyway. I've just had a wire from headquarters to shut down, and to
turn the normal flow of the river back into its old channel." He smiled
grimly. "They didn't know that the elements had attended to that.
Thought you'd like to know. Might save you worry. Don't know the
company's reason, and it's none of my business. I'm paying off the
whole outfit to-night, including the men we were speaking of. To-morrow
I'll pull out myself. Glad to do it."

"Sorry to have you go," said Casey.

"You say it all right, but I know better," said Farwell bluntly. "I
don't want to keep Miss McCrae waiting. Will you shake hands?"

Casey put out his hand. It was caught, thumb crotch to thumb crotch, in
a grip of steel. He laughed as he threw every ounce of strength into
his own fingers.

"Good man," said Farwell. "I like a man with a handgrip, and you've got
it. Any time you're ready, Miss McCrae?"

Sheila went up as lightly as a boy. Beaver Boy was off as she touched
the saddle. Farwell followed. They melted into the distance, galloping
side by side, the dust, in spite of the night's rain, puffing up from
the flying hoofs.

At the end of a mile Beaver Boy's exuberance had not subsided. He
thrashed out with his heels, and gave a tentative pitch. Farwell, who
had been riding slightly behind, ranged up alongside.

"I should think you'd get a quiet horse," he said.

"I'll make this one quiet!" snapped Sheila, for she was still sore, and
the hard pace had told on her temper through her bruises. "He's
actually beginning to think he can do as he likes with _me_." Beaver
Boy shied to show his independence, and she slashed him mercilessly
with the quirt, setting her teeth as he plunged. "You would, would you,
you brute? I'll show you!"

Farwell, riding in, grabbed for the headstall.

"Get away!" she flamed. "I'll fight this out with him now."

The question of supremacy took five minutes to settle. At the end of
that time Beaver Boy relapsed ignominiously into servitude, smarting
from the quirt and dripping sweat. Sheila put all her strength into a
final cut. The big bay took it meekly with what was almost a sigh and a
trembling quiver.

Farwell had watched the struggle with anxiety. "You won't have any more
trouble with him for a while. He's afraid of you now."

"He'd better be. He's been obstinate for months, getting worse all the
time. He had some notion in his head that he was merely _allowing_ me
to ride him. He did what he liked for a while last night when I was
shaken up, and he had to have his lesson. No use letting any one else
give it to him. He had to be shown that _I_ was able to do it."

"That's so," said Farwell, "that's sense. The idea of you going out in
the storm last night on that brute. No other girl would have done it.
It was fine, but it was foolish."

"Nonsense! I'm not afraid of rain or a horse. Could I do anything else?
It was up to me."

"Maybe. Well, you heard what I told Dunne about the water. That ought
to be satisfactory to all you people."

"Naturally I'm glad."

"I'm going away," he continued. "Also, I'm chucking up my job. I'm
sorry I ever took it. It was sheer waste of time. I'm going to work for
myself now. I hoped I would catch you at Dunne's place. I wanted to say
good-bye."

"I am sorry you are going."

"That's what Dunne said--and he didn't mean it. Do you?"

"I usually mean what I say."

"Well, I didn't know. I wouldn't blame you if you were glad. I behaved
like a--well, like a blackguard once."

"We needn't talk about that," said Sheila quietly. "That's over; I
don't think of it."

"But I do. I'm rough, but I'm not that kind--usually. You let me down
easy. If I could undo it I would; but I can't."

"No, it can't be undone. Why talk about it?"

"Because I keep thinking about it. I've kept away, as you wanted me
to--and because I was ashamed of myself. Honestly, I've tried to do the
best I could for your people--for your father. I tried my best to be a
friend. And the end of it was that I started gossip, and you told me to
keep away. That was pretty hard lines. It made me angry. And then I was
jealous of Dunne."

"He is going to marry Miss Burnaby."

"Lucky devil!" growled Farwell dejectedly. "Things run smooth for
_him_. I'll bet he doesn't think half as much of her as I do of you."

Sheila smiled for the first time. "You wouldn't tell her that."

"I'd tell it to anybody. It's a fact. Why, look here: I'm a practical
man; I've no more imagination than a stump. And yet I've lain awake
nights pretending to myself that you had let me kiss you willingly.
How's that?"

Sheila laughed softly. "That's certainly going some, Mr. Farwell!"

"Well, it's what I do, anyway. It's about all the consolation I've
got."

"Is it? Couldn't you get something better than that?"

"I could if you'd give me half a chance," he declared. "You turned me
down hard and cold. There's a fine show for consolation, isn't there?"

"Perhaps some other girl----?" she suggested demurely.

"No!" Farwell rapped out bluntly. "I don't want any other girl. I don't
like other girls. They make me tired. I'd rather work than fuss with
them. It's easier. If I can't have you I don't want anybody."

Sheila laughed again. The colour was high in her cheeks, and a strange
light was shining in her clear eyes. She shot a glance at him, half
amused, half serious.

"And if you had me you'd be tired of me in no time. I'm just plain
girl."

"Plain girl nothing! You're the prettiest----"

"I'm not; I'm not even average."

"And the best and the most sensible and the pluckiest one I ever saw,"
he pursued, unheeding. "Don't tell me; I know. I've seen whole rafts of
women. Dolls! Flirts! Gigglers! Fainters! Talking slush and thinking
slop! Soft, too, like dough. Eating filthy coloured and flavoured
glucose by the pound. Yah! Not a sane idea, or a sound digestion, or a
healthy body in the bunch. And as for dress, the average woman piles a
lot of truck on her like a _klootch_ at a potlatch, and cinches
herself up in a----"

"Hush!" said Sheila.

"Huh!" said Farwell. "Why shouldn't I call things by their names? I
never could see----"

"You aren't supposed to see. That's plenty. I won't be lectured on the
follies of my sex."

"You're different from the others," said Farwell. "That's just it.
You've got ideas apart from dress and gossip, the same as a man has.
You're in good hard condition physically. You don't giggle, and titter,
and make eyes, and expect a man to talk like a da--er--ah--that is, you
don't expect a lot of silly compliments. I've never seen anybody like
you. Talk of another girl! Bah! I couldn't stand one in the same house.
It's you or no one."

"I don't think I'd wear well, Mr. Farwell. You'd get tired of me."

"No, I wouldn't; no, I wouldn't. I know what I'm talking about. I tell
you, I love you, Sheila. Do you think it's easy to say good-bye and
leave you? It's the hardest job I ever had. It's--it's--oh, it's hell,
that's what it is. I used to love work just for the work's sake. But
now, to think of grubbing away year after year, to get money that I
can't use, that I don't want--that can't get me what I want! Oh, Lord!
the hopeless years ahead! What's the good of them? What's the use? I
wish I'd never seen this place--or you."

His deep voice rose, and fell, and rumbled uncertainly, shaken by
feeling. He slouched dejectedly in his saddle, looking straight ahead
as if his eyes beheld the emptiness of the years to come.

"Then why do you say good-bye?" said Sheila.

Farwell started, half turning in the saddle. "Why? Because it's best.
What's the use of hanging around? I have to take my medicine, don't I?
I can take it easier away from here."

"I'm not so sure," she said hesitatingly, "that there will be any
medicine to take."

Farwell's eyes opened wide as he stared at her.

"What do you mean by that? Don't fool with me, Sheila, for Heaven's
sake. It's too serious a matter."

"Yes, it's serious," she agreed. She faced him frankly, the rich blood
mounting beneath the tan of her cheeks. "What's the use of beating
around the bush? When you kissed me I hated you. I struck you. But when
Sandy came--and afterward--you seemed a good deal of a man. And so--I
don't know--but it need not be good-bye for good."

CHAPTER XXIX

In the evening a stranger drove up to Chakchak. He was long and lean,
and his hair was flecked with gray. His eyes were blue and clear, set
rather wide apart, holding a calm, disconcerting stare. His clothes
were much worn, frayed, and dusty. His movements were quiet and
deliberate, and so was his speech.

"I am lookin'," he said, "for Mr. Dunne."

"That's my name," said Casey.

"Then I'd like a little private talk with you. My name is Dove; I'm
actin' sheriff of this county while Fuller's sick." Evidently Acting
Sheriff Dove was a man of direct speech.

"Glad to meet you, sheriff," said Casey. "Come right into my quarters.
I've guests at the house, and I'm bunking here. Have a cigar, and tell
me what I can do for you."

The sheriff lit a cigar very deliberately, and carefully pinched out
the flame of the match with his fingers, surest of signs of one
accustomed to the plains and woods. He removed the cigar, eyed it with
approval, replaced it, and turned to his host.

"That's a right good smoke. I come to see you about this killin'. This
here McHale worked for you, I'm told."

"He's my foreman."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know."

"He come back here after the killin', collected up his outfit, got a
pack horse, and made his get-away?"

"Yes."

"Told you about it, maybe?"

"Yes."

"But not where he was goin'?"

"No."

"Still, you can make a tol'able guess."

"I'm not guessing," Casey replied. "That killing was square, sheriff."

"I don't say it wasn't," Dove admitted. "I got nothing to do with that.
My rule is, when there's a killin', to bring in the man who done it,
and let the law 'tend to his case."

"Good rule, theoretically."

"And so," Sheriff Dove continued, with calm finality, "I'm out to bring
in this here McHale."

Casey thereupon gave Tom's reasons for leaving, and expressed his
opinion that he would come in and give himself up within a short time.
The sheriff listened, smoking impassively.

"I dunno but what McHale acted pretty sensible," he commented. "He
needn't worry about my not protectin' him. I've give a prisoner a gun
and let him help stand off a mob before now. Likewise, I've got lead in
my system doin' it. However, that ain't the point. I can't wait 'round
for him to come in. I got to get him. There's been quite a bunch of
things happenin' down in this country, far as I can hear, that ain't
none too law-abidin'."

Casey merely smiled genially.

"Mind you, I ain't no busybody," said the sheriff. "I get trouble
enough in a regular way without huntin' for it. I've been hearin'
things, but there bein' no complaint I've sat tight. Up to this Cross
killin' nobody's been hurt. But that's serious and brings me in to take
a hand. One of my deputies, Jack Pugh, is after a young feller named
McCrae. There's lots of things don't speak well for respect for the law
down here. I represent the law, and what hits it hits me."

"I understand. You've been straight with me, sheriff, and I appreciate
it. I don't know exactly where McHale is, but I think if you found him
and gave him a straight, decent talk he'd come in without any trouble.
He doesn't want any. And I think you'll find him somewhere in the
hills. That's all I can tell you now."

"Him and this young McCrae is tillikums, they tell me," the sheriff
suggested. "You think maybe they've met up?"

"They may. There's a chance of it."

The sheriff considered. "This McCrae is a leetle mite headstrong, I'm
told. Sorter apt to act rash."

"I'm afraid so."

The sheriff shook his head regretfully. "I'd ruther deal with a sure
'nough bad man than with a young feller like that," he observed, "They
lack judgment, as a rule. I'm told he savvies a gun right well?"

"He's a centre shot and quick," said Casey. "And, remember this,
sheriff, if you run across him: he doesn't bluff. When he goes after a
gun he goes after it to shoot with. I tell you this because I don't
want to see anybody hurt. There's no harm in him, handled right, but
he's a kid, and you want to make allowances."

"I'm obliged to you, and I'll do it. Jack Pugh and Glass have started
out after him already. They allow to prospect 'round in the hills till
they find him. That's what I'll do with McHale."

Casey considered, and suddenly came to a decision.

"Anybody going with you?"

"No."

"Don't you want a deputy?"

"Any time I got to pack a deputy 'round with me to bring in one man
there'll be a job open," the sheriff returned grimly. "I don't keep no
corral full of deputies. I got Pugh and another, and they're both busy.
I allow not to get lost. I've been out by myself before now."

"The reason I ask," said Casey, "is that I'd like to go with you
myself. The boys might listen to me, and not to you. Mind, I'm not
offering to guide you to them. You find your own trail. But I'll make
all the peace talk I can if you do find them. Besides, there's this
Dade. If he goes after Tom, there will be trouble. It's a feud. I
declare myself in on it."

"I hate trouble and I love peace," said the sheriff. "No feuds is goin'
to flourish around where I am. But you come along. You're actin' right.
I'm glad to have you. Can you start in the mornin'?"

"Make it afternoon; I've things to see to first. How are you fixed for
a horse?"

"I've got my own hoss back yander in town. I hated to use him till I
had to. That's why I hired a team."

"I have a pack horse. That's all we'll need. Bring your own outfit.
I've plenty of grub here."

"That's mighty kind," said the sheriff. "The county will pay for your
hoss and the grub."

"I don't want pay. This is my shout. I'm doing it for my friends."

"Well, your friends ought to be right obliged. I'll remember it. You
won't find me makin' things harder. And now I'll pike along back to
town."

They shook hands and the sheriff climbed back into the sagging
buckboard and departed. Casey returned to his quarters and began to
gather an outfit by the only practical method; that is to say, by
piling everything he wanted in a heap. He was engaged in this
occupation when Clyde knocked and entered.

"Why, Casey, whatever are you doing?"

He told her, and she approved his plan. She began to examine the heap
he had thrown together on the table--knife, cartridges, fishhooks and
line, compass, matches, sweater, poncho--with a girl's interest in such
masculine possessions. But she exclaimed at the lack of toilet
articles. Where were his razors, his hairbrushes?

"I'll get along without them."

"My goodness, boy, you'll be scrubby. Aren't you going to take even
a--a toothbrush?"

"Yes, I'll do that," he laughed. "There, that's enough for to-night.
Feng will put up grub in the morning. What have you done with Kitty
Wade and her husband? Hadn't we better look them up? They may be making
love on the sly."

"Do you need a chaperon so badly?" She slipped her arm in his. "Come
on, then. They've gone for a walk up the ditch. We'll meet them and
come back together. Only I want to impress upon you, Casey, that they
must walk ahead of us--unless it gets very dark, indeed."

"I think I get you," he laughed. "We'll arrange that detail. Kitty Wade
is a most sympathetic young matron."

They found the Wades, and their evening stroll became an inspection of
the ranch. The effects of the rain were already visible in the colour
of the grain. It was darker, more vigorous, sending forth new shoots.
The grass lands, where the network of roots had retained the earlier
moisture, were lush and knee deep. Soon it would be ready to cut.

The beauty of the evening held them out of doors. It was good to idle
in the twilight with the scent of clover in the nostrils, to walk among
the growing things. It was sweet to exchange confidences, to plan for
the future as man and woman have from the beginning, painting it
brightly, draping it in rose and gold, a perfect picture wherein all
the colours harmonized.

It was the time of dreams. They gazed into the future as children might
look across an unknown sea, seeing in fancy its stately galleons, its
tall treasure ships, its white-winged pleasure craft, its wondrous,
palm-fringed islands, where summer abode always; but they had no eyes
for leaden skies and sullen shouldering swells spouting on hidden
reefs, the great, gray bergs fog-hidden in the ship track, the drifting
derelicts whose hopes were once as fair as their own. For God has
mercifully arranged that these things shall be hidden from our eyes
until the proper time.

Even when they reached the house they were not inclined to go indoors.
They sat in the darkness, in pairs, apart, conversing in low tones, and
so another hour slipped away. Back of them the house was dark; not a
lamp was lighted. Only from Feng's kitchen a path of light streamed
from the door. But as they were about to leave the veranda they heard
the sound of hoofs approaching.

"Who on earth is coming at this time of night?" Wade asked.

"Sit quiet and we'll see," said Casey. His hand closed on the butt of a
gun in his pocket, which he now carried constantly.

The hoofs slowed to a walk, and a shadowy horse and rider halted a few
yards away. In the darkness of the veranda, with the deeper background
of the building, they were invisible.

"Be th' mortal! but they've all gone to bed," muttered a disgusted
voice. "An' what do yez know about that? 'Airly to bed an' airly to
rise,' as the kids' dope books has it. Maybe ut makes a man healthy,
but all the wealthy wise guys iver I knowed wint on th' well-known
principle that home was the last place to close up. Faix, a man'll go
home whin he's in no state f'r anny other place. Whoa! Howld still,
there's a good harrse, till I see what's best to do. Don't be so
onaisy. Whoa, darlin'! Bad cess to ye, ye roachbacked Prodestan' baste,
kape off iv thim flower beds! Have yez no manners at all, at all? Be
all th' saints in glory I'll larrup th' head off iv yez--or I w'u'd if
I wasn't afraid ye'd buck me onto the roof. Yez have me crippled
intirely as ut is."

"Not a word, for your life!" Wade whispered. "That's a star monologue!"

Feng, attracted by the voice, came to the door.

"Hallo! What wanchee?" he demanded.

"The country's overrun wid them yelly divils!" Mr. Quilty muttered.
"What wanchee? Th' nerve iv him! Ye weathered-ivory monkey face, I've
business wid yer betters!"

"You keepee hossee off flowah bed," commanded Feng. "What foh you lidee
him all oveh?"

"Ask th' harrse!" Quilty retorted. "The sight iv yez onsettles him,
lowgrade baste as he is. Dom a Chinaman dead or alive, annyway!"

"You no good!" retorted Feng. "Me savvy you. You Ilishman, all same
mick, all same flannel mout', all same bogtlotteh! You bum lailway man!
You get dlunk, fo'get switch, thlain lun off tlack; you swingee
lante'n, yellee 'All aboa'd!' you say, 'Jim Kli! what keepee Numbeh
Eight?' You sellee ticket, knockee down change. No good, lailway man!
Me savvy you, all light."

"Ye cross iv a limon peel and a case iv jandhers!" cried Mr. Quilty in
wrath at these aspersions on an honourable calling, "I'm a notion to
get down an' slug the head off iv yez! Faix, ut's no murder to kill a
Chinaman, but a bright jewel in me starry crown, ye long-nailed,
rat-eatin', harrse-haired, pipe-hittin' slave iv th' black pill! I'll
make yez think I'm a Hip Sing Tong or a runaway freight on th' big
hill. I'll slaughter yez, mind, if I get off. Do yez know where yez
will go whin yez die at my hands?"

"Me go to heaven," said Feng, with comfortable conviction.

"Th' ---- ye say!" ejaculated Mr. Quilty, in shocked amazement. "I
think I see ye there!"

"You no see me," said Feng. "No Ilish lailway man stop in heaven. Me
catchee heaven all light. Missionally say so."

"Is ut mish-naries they send to waste time on the loikes iv yez?"
snorted Mr. Quilty. "Hivin! Fine comp'ny ye'd be f'r the holy men and
blessid saints an' martyrs an' pure, snow-white angels! Why, ye
idolatrous, stick-burnin', kow-towin', joss-worshippin' pagan son iv a
mat-sailed junk and a chopstick, they'd slam the pearly gates forninst
yer face and stick their holy fingers to their blessid noses at yez.
Hivin! Ye'll never smell ut, nor scuffle yer filthy shoes on th'
goolden streets. Purgathry! Faix, yer ticket reads straight through,
wid no stop-off priv'leges whatever. Th' cindher pit f'r yours! Be th'
Rock iv Cashel, I'll l'arn yez to insult th' heav'nly throng!"

So saying, he dropped ungracefully from his horse and made a rush for
Feng, who retreated, slammed the screen door, and, from inside,
threatened the storming party with a formidable butcher knife.

"Whurroo!" shouted Mr. Quilty, dancing on the steps. "Come out, ye
yelly plague, knife and all, an' l'ave me knock the stuffin' out iv
yez! Annyways, I'll tell ye what ye are. Ye're a----"

But Casey, fearful of Mr. Quilty's descriptive powers, saw fit to
interrupt.

"Hello! What's all the row? That you, Corney?"

"Yer owner has saved yer life," Mr. Quilty informed Feng. "Sure ut's
me, Casey. I'm after l'arnin' this Oriental curse iv the wurruld how to
talk to his betters." He mounted the steps, peering suspiciously at the
occupants of the veranda. "Who's these?" he demanded. "I can't see in
the dark. Miss Burnaby, is ut, an' Misther Wade an' his leddy? I
believe yez were here all the time!"

"We just came in from the other side," Casey lied manfully.

"Yes, ye did! I can see yez laughin', and I don't blame yez. 'Twas
funny how scared the Chink was. Well, ut does thim lower races good to
be bawled out wanst in a while by their superiors."

Casey led the way indoors, and lighted the lamps. He established Mr.
Quilty in a comfortable chair, with a cigar and a cold drink.

"Th' health and inclinations iv all here," said Mr. Quilty, waving his
glass gracefully. "I'm glad to see yez all lookin' so well, more
partic'larly the leddies."

"Thank you, Mr. Quilty," said Clyde.

"It's very nice of you, Mr. Quilty," said Kitty Wade.

"It's not often I have the good forchune to be in leddies' society,"
Mr. Quilty continued. "Me tongue has lost th' right twist for
compliments; but, sure, if ut hadn't ut wouldn't begin to do th' pair
iv yez justice. Oh, divil th' bit iv soodher am I givin' yez. It's two
pretty women yez are. Well, well, I'm an old felly who's had his day.
Ye won't mind me. Annyways, wan iv yez has a man, an' th' other is
spoken for, belike. Now whatever makes Casey, there, blush? I didn't
think he knowed how. An' Miss Burnaby, too! What'll yez do whin they's
rice lodged in yer clothes and yer hats, an' white ribbons on yer
trunks, an' th' waiters grin whin ye go into the diner? Let me tell ye,
now----"

"Please, please, Mr. Quilty!" Clyde pleaded.

"Have I rung th' bell?" he demanded.

"Bull's-eye," said Wade. "Own up to it, you two. It's obvious."

"Oh, is it?" said Clyde. "Well, if we're half as bad as you and Kitty
were----"

"Don't mind him; he was in love with me once," said Kitty.

"He is yet," said Clyde.

"Faix, I don't wonder at ut," said Mr. Quilty gallantly.

"Very skilful shift of topic," said Wade. "I admit everything. I guess
we were bad enough; but you and Casey are the limit."

"But look at th' fine excuse both iv thim has," said Mr. Quilty,
beaming. "Here's long life an' happiness, an' may yer only troubles
be--well, well, niver mind th' troubles. There's time enough to think
iv them whin they come. Which puts me in mind that I do be forgettin'
what _I_ come for. Ut's about Tom. D'ye know where he's at?"

"Not exactly. Why?"

"Mebbe ye heard that th' water comp'ny is payin' off its men an'
shuttin' down. Well, then, there's all iv thim hard-faced _tillikums_
iv Cross, deceased, paid off; an' instid iv gittin' dhrunk like dacint
Christians, what do they do but outfit thimselves an' start back fer
th' hills, six iv thim--an' a divil iv a harrd-bunch, savin' th'
leddies' presence. Wan iv thim made a brag that they'd get Tom. So I
come out to tell yez, in case ye had word from him. An' they's officers
out afther that young divil iv a brother iv Miss Sheila's. Somebody
ought to tell the boys to skin their eyes, if so be they're hangin'
around."

CHAPTER XXX

Casey and Sheriff Dove did not start the next afternoon. A telegram had
detained the sheriff, and he did not reach Chakchak till night. He
spent the evening with them, taking a great fancy to Clyde. He even
blossomed out as a story teller, spinning yarns without embellishment
and with great clearness. He told of cattle wars, of outlaws, of Indian
fighters, of strange occurrences, of strange men, primitive of mind and
of action, who had played their parts in the history of the West. It
was information at first-hand, rare nowadays, and the listeners found
the evening too short.

"Blanket time," said the sheriff, looking at his watch. "I ain't a
young nighthawk no more. If we're to git a good start----"

"We'd like to hear more, sheriff," said Clyde.

"Sho!" said Sheriff Dove, well pleased. "I could keep yarnin' half the
night to a pretty girl. I ain't too old for that. Maybe when we get
back we'll have another session."

Outside on the veranda she slipped her arm in his. "Take good care of
Casey for me, sheriff, please."

"I sure will, little girl," he replied. "Don't you go to worryin', now.
There's no call to. If it was easier travellin' you might come along,
for all the trouble there'll be." He smiled down at her in fatherly
fashion, his great, sinewy arm pressing hers, and the pressure
reassured her.

"Thank you, sheriff. You--you're a _dear_!"

"Do I git a bid to the weddin'?"

"Of course you do." Clyde blushed and laughed. "Only I don't know just
when it will be."

"Make it soon," he advised. "Life's short, little girl. Take all the
happiness you can git. Good night."

They rode westward in the morning before the sun had risen, and camped
that night in the foothills, having seen nobody. They entered the pass,
and immediately came upon the trail of horses.

"Looks like there's been some travel," said the sheriff. "This here
pass used much?"

"Not at this time of year. The Indians use it in the fall. They hunt
across the range."

"These horses is shod," the sheriff remarked. "I sh'd say there's been
half a dozen of 'em. Not less. Maybe more. I've knowed men that could
tell exact."

"Not many of them left now."

"That's so. There ain't much need for trailin' these days. Too many
telegraph wires."

They held to the pass, as did the hoofprints, eventually dropping down
into the valley of the Klimminchuck, where they camped for the night
beside the ford, cooked supper, unrolled their blankets, and lay by the
fire, smoking.

"This bunch of hosses," the sheriff observed, "seems to have split up
here. Two or three of 'em crossed over, but the most went down the
valley. What's down there?"

"Just valley. It's partly open and part heavy timber. There was a pack
trail cut through once, but it's mostly grown up."

"Nobody lives down there?"

"Not a soul. Now and then somebody traps in winter."

"Um." The sheriff was thoughtful for some moments. "Does McHale know
the country hereabouts?"

"Fairly well. Better than I do. And McCrae knows it better than he
does."

"Um." The sheriff became silent again. "When a man goes to hidin' out,"
he observed after a long pause, "he 'most always hits for the country
he knows. Seems like it's human nature. I'd do it myself, and so'd you.
Seems like a man that's wanted is suspicious of strange ground. He
don't know what's in it, and he's afraid of gettin' cornered. He don't
know what he's goin' to run up against any mile. It's a mean feelin',
that. It keeps a man on edge every minute. So he naturally makes for
the district he's at home in. It's a mistake, but they all make it.
They figure they can dodge around where they know the trails and
cut-offs. Consequently it's just a matter of time till they're caught.
It's like an old buck that won't leave his range. Any man can git him
that wants to spend a week at it."

"That's so," Casey agreed.

"So when I want a man and don't know where he's gone, I find out what
place he thinks he knows best," the sheriff continued. "The system wins
nine times out of ten. Now you say McHale's only out temporary. He's
got a clear self-defence case, or thinks he has, and he's merely
side-steppin' trouble. In that case he won't go as far as another man
might. My _tumtum_ is that he's somewheres down along this valley."

"Good reasoning," Casey admitted.

"The way to see a man down in a hole is to look over the edge," said
the sheriff; "and the way to find a man in a valley is to get up on a
hill. They ain't no such thing as a smokeless campfire invented yet,
though, if a man rustles dry sticks and does his cookin' at noon of a
bright day, he don't make much smoke. A feller fooled me once that way.
He didn't take a chance on noon, but done his cookin' at night, down in
a hole. Only way I got him, the fire burned in under a rock into some
old roots, and sorter smudged along one mornin' when he was asleep."

Casey glanced up at the bulk of the ranges outlined in blackness
against the sky. "If you say so, sheriff, we'll climb."

"I hate to," the sheriff admitted. "Couldn't you make a good guess?"

"No. I don't know any more than you do."

"Well," said the sheriff thoughtfully, "we'll try the valley first. We
may come on some sign. It's bound to take time, anyway. There's a whole
heap of country here if it was smoothed out and stretched level."

He knocked out his pipe and pulled his blanket around him, for down in
that deep, watered valley the nights were cold. Casey followed his
example. In two minutes both men were asleep, with the rush of the
water and the crunch-crunch of the horses' teeth cropping the grasses
in their ears.

They breakfasted in the dawn, saddled, and took a course downstream,
The trail petered out; the hoof marks vanished. They rode with care
through thick brush, and more easily in open, parklike glades. Grouse
rose almost under their horses' hoofs, to sit bright-eyed on adjacent
limbs, watching the travellers. Occasionally deer by twos and threes
bounded springily away, white flags waving. Once the horses snorted and
showed a disinclination to proceed, sniffing the air nervously.

"Bear," said Casey.

"Down among them berry bushes, I reckon," said the sheriff.

As he spoke, a black, furry head, short ears, and sharp muzzle rose
above the tangled bushes. A narrow, red tongue licked out. Cunning
little eyes regarded them with indignant suspicion.

"Woof!" said the bear. The sound was something between the snort of a
hog and the first interrogative note of a watchdog, which hears a noise
that requires explanation.

"Well, sport," said the sheriff, "berryin' good this mornin'?"

But at the sound of the human voice the black head disappeared beneath
the surface of foliage. There was a momentary swaying of bushes in one
spot, like the swirl of disturbed water after a fish; but there was
nothing to mark the line of the beast's flight. For all his bulk he
melted through the tangle as soundlessly as a spirit.

"Bears is learnin' manners nowadays," the sheriff commented. "Course,
these here black ones never was much different from pigs. But take
grizzlies. When I come West with my old people, a little shaver just
able to set a pony, they was plumb sassy. I never did see such
biggotty-actin' critters. Britch-loaders hadn't been in so durn long,
and men didn't go huntin' grizzlies with the little old pea rifle just
for fun. They was range bosses, and they knowed it. Now it's only once
in a while you'll find one that wants all the trail."

In the afternoon they came to an abandoned cabin, and dismounted to
investigate. Casey shook his head at the filthy litter. "Nobody's been
here," said he.

The sheriff peered narrowly about. "No?" he said. "Well, how about
that?" He pointed to the ground. "Moccasin track, or part of one. Who
wears moccasins?"

"McCrae does, most of the time."

"Then he's been here. He couldn't pass without lookin' in."

"Why not?"

"Because four men out of five can't go by an old shack without takin' a
peep inside. I can't, myself. I judge you can't, either. Do you
remember ever doin' it?"

"Why, no," Casey admitted, "now you speak of it, I don't. And I do
remember rubbering into dozens of old wikiups one place and another."

"Sure," said the sheriff. "Human nature again. Anything that's made by
a man and left behind will draw another man like molasses will a fly. I
never knew a man yet that wouldn't nose around an old camping spot. Not
that he expects to find anything, or wants to. He just can't help it.
McCrae didn't stop here. Where did he go? We might as well look around
a little."

In the process of looking around, they came on an abandoned camp. By
the quantity of ashes a number of fires had been burned. There were the
poles of a lean-to and a bough bed beneath it, and at a little distance
were other beds of boughs. The ground was trampled, and the grass
beaten down in the vicinity.

The sheriff nosed among the signs, lifting the boughs of the beds,
trying the ashes with his finger for heat, making an examination of the
ground, and wandering off in a circle around the camp, where horses had
been picketed. Finally he came back to the fireplace, filled his pipe,
and lay down. Casey, meanwhile, had been forming his own conclusions.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well," said the sheriff, "I reckon you been usin' your eyes, too.
Let's hear about it."

"It's your hunt."

"So it is. McCrae's met up with McHale. This here is their camp."

"How do you know?"

"You askin' because you don't know yourself, or because you want me to
tell you?"

"I think you're right, but I'd like to know how you get at it."

"Well, I ain't no Old Sleuth nor Sherlock Holmes," said the sheriff,
"but I've lived some years out of doors. I ain't workin' out no chain
of reasonin'; I'm just usin' my eyes and a bit of savvy. This is how
she works out:

"McHale and McCrae is both foot-loose, and both know this part of the
country. They leave about the same time, and chances is they make for
it. Then they meet. That's easy. Then we find the moccasin track. That
fits McCrae. Next we find a lean-to with a two-man bough bed. There's
the hollows where two men lay. That helps prove our first guess. It
shows that some one was with McCrae, and the only other man hidin' out
is McHale."

"But there are other bough beds. How do you know they weren't all made
by one outfit?"

"There's only one lean-to."

"Two men may have been more particular than the others."

"The boughs of them other beds were cut later than this lean-to one."

"But the boughs are all green."

"The ends where they were cut are different. There's more gum on these
than the others. That shows they were cut before. Then there's more
needles broken off and sifted through to the ground beneath this bed.
That shows it's been slept on more. Where would a man get his boughs?
The nearest trees, of course. Well, there's more gum where the limbs
were cut on the nearest trees than on them farther away. Then there's
been a bunch of horses staked out. Why didn't they bell 'em and let 'em
range? Either because they didn't have no bells, or didn't want to use
'em. McHale and McCrae would keep their hosses on a rope so's they
could make a quick get-away if they had to. They wouldn't take a chance
on their strayin'. Now the grass that's been eaten down by the hosses
is beginnin' to sprout again in some places, and not in others. Maybe
that's because the pickets were shifted, but it's more likely that some
hosses was here before the rest. That's about all. She works out all
right, don't she?"

"Down to the hock card," Casey admitted. "I saw some of the signs, but
not all. You filled in the gaps."

"It's a pity if I wouldn't savvy a few things about my own business,"
said the sheriff. "Some of it's guesswork, but the main features ain't.
Now, when we go farther, we got to do straight guessin'. Who was this
bunch that come in here where the two men was already camped? My guess
is that it was this here Dade and his outfit. But they don't find the
two here when they come, or there'd sure be sign of it. It looks to me
like them two boys got to know that somebody was on their back trail,
and moved camp sudden. But not so durn sudden they had to leave
anything behind. Question is, where have they went to--the whole
b'ilin' of 'em?"

"Down the valley. Otherwise we'd have seen some sign."

"I reckon that's so. If Dade works out things the way I have, he knows
he's close on to McHale. Say he's got four or five men with him. He can
comb the valley pretty clean. But here's another thing: How long will
them two boys let themselves be chased?"

"Not very long. It's not safe to crowd either of them."

"If it was me," said the sheriff reflectively, "and a feud party was
out on my trail, I'd be apt as not to bushwhack 'em some. You bet I
wouldn't stand on ceremony with such hostiles. If I knowed the country
I'd cache myself alongside some good open spot, wait till they got into
the middle of it, and then slam loose. With two men that savvy their
guns any one that got away would sure have a pull with Providence and
be workin' it awful hard."

"Sandy would do that in a minute; but I think Tom doesn't want any more
trouble if he can help it."

"He may get it shoved onto him. Well, seein' we're here, we may as well
eat. Then we'll move on."

When their meal was over they followed the valley. Sunset found them at
the edge of thick timber.

"How far does this run?" asked the sheriff.

"I don't know. I was never here before."

"Then we'll camp," said Dove, "and tackle her by daylight."

It was almost dark when Casey, sitting by the fire, suddenly held up
his hand. "Somebody coming."

The sheriff listened for a moment. "Two horses," he announced. "May be
Jack Pugh." Nevertheless, the old frontiersman shifted his position so
that his gun lay ready to his hand.

A moment later two shadowy horsemen appeared, resolving themselves, as
they approached, into Farwell and old Simon.

"Hello, the camp!" cried the former. "That you, Dunne?"

"Yes. What on earth are you doing here?"

"Same thing as yourself. This old Siwash missed you somehow. He found
McHale and young McCrae, and, on the way out, he ran into Dade, Lewis,
and the rest--six in all. When he got to the ranch you were gone, and
nobody could tell him where. He came over to Talapus to tell them he'd
seen Sandy. That's where I ran into him. And so, knowing that Sandy was
with McHale, I got the old man to come back with me. I wanted to be in
it if help was needed. We picked up your trail--or he did--and here we
are."

"Well, it's blamed decent of you, Farwell," said Casey. "I didn't know
that you and Sandy were such friends."

"We're not. The kid doesn't like me. I told you he pulled a gun on me
once. All the same, it was up to me this time. I'm going to marry
Sheila."

"The devil you are!" Casey exclaimed.

"You're blamed flattering," said Farwell. "You bet I'm going to marry
her."

"You're getting one of the finest girls on earth."

"I know that as well as you do," said Farwell. "Then you see how it was
up to me----"

He broke off suddenly. Rolling softly along the hills, flung back and
forth across the valley from rock wall to rock wall, repeated and
magnified a hundred times, came an echo. So distant was it that the
original sound itself was not heard; merely the reverberations of it
struck the ear. But unmistakably it was made by a far-off gun. Before
the echoes had died away others followed, until their resonance
resembled continuous thunder.

"_Hiyu_ shootum!" said Simon.

"You bet," the sheriff agreed. "I reckon the boys has got tired bein'
moved on. Or else they been jumped sudden. That shootin's all of six
miles off. Maybe more. It'll be plumb dark in no time. If there's no
more shootin' it's settled by now. If there is it's a stand-off. Either
way we have to wait till it gets light."

CHAPTER XXXI

"I been thinkin' we might as well move on a ways," said McHale. "Here's
old Simon drops in on us. Somebody else might. I don't feel right about
it. I want to git some place, like up in one o' them basins, where
strangers won't be passin' by every day."

"Well, I'll go you," Sandy agreed; "but there's an old bear that I want
first. He's got a foot as big as a fiddle; I'll bet he weighs as much
as a steer."

"What'll you do with a bear? We don't want to go packin' a green hide
about with us. The horses hate the smell of it."

"Let 'em get used to it, then," Sandy returned. "I'm starting after
that bear now. Better come along. If I don't get him I'll go
to-morrow."

But McHale refused to accompany him. He hated climbing. If he could go
on a horse that would be different. Therefore Sandy set out alone.

He ascended a shoulder of the mountain, working his way upward to where
he had located the range of the big bear. It was steady climbing, and
rough as well, but Sandy was in hard, lean condition, with the
limitless wind and springy muscles of youth. He arrived at his
objective point, a spot which gave him a clear view of the mountain
side for a mile on either hand. Somewhere in that area, he had already
decided, the bear would be feeding. He settled down for a long, careful
inspection; first with the naked eye, which yielded nothing, and next
with a pair of binoculars. Sandy, when hunting, possessed unlimited
patience. He settled himself comfortably, and kept the glasses at work.
Finally his patience was rewarded. A mile or more up the hillside a
huge, brown shape shambled into view.

"Lord! he's a big brute," Sandy muttered. "That's a hide worth getting.
I'll wait till he settles down for keeps."

Apparently the bear had found food to his liking. He was busy with paw
and tongue beside a rotten log. Sandy mapped out a route in his mind,
and decided to make a start. It was then noon. As he rose he happened
to look up the valley.

It lay below him, ashimmer in the summer sun, a panorama of green,
light and dark of shade, with the silver ribbon of the Klimminchuck
appearing and disappearing down its length. It was, perhaps, as
beautiful a mountain valley scene as eye ever beheld; but Sandy McCrae
would not have looked at it twice save for a thin, gray thread which
appeared above the treetops some miles away. It became a column,
ballooned, and then was invisible. But he knew that somebody had just
started a fire.

He picked out the spot with the glasses. Smoke was plainly visible
through the powerful lenses. It was close to the river--beside the
bank, in fact--and he could catch glimpses of one or two horses. But,
because of the trees, he could see little more.

"Darn the luck," said Sandy. "There's the biggest hide in the whole
range waiting for me, and somebody has to come butting in. Well,
there's only one thing to do."

That thing being to get back to camp as fast as possible, Sandy
proceeded to do it. He went downhill at a pace that would have shaken
an older and heavier man to pieces; for going downhill is, contrary to
the popular idea, much harder on the human frame than going up. He
broke into camp and roused McHale from a state of somnolence and
tobacco.

"I could 'a' tanned your young hide when you bulled off after that
bear," said the latter. "Now I seem to see what them salvation scouts
calls 'the finger of Providence' in the play. In other words, it's
plumb safe to keep one eye skinned. Do I look like I was scared,
Sandy?"

"Nah!" said Sandy contemptuously.

"Well, you're going to see me act like I was." He rose swiftly, his
laziness falling from him now that there was work to do. "Go and fetch
in them cayuses. I'll break camp."

The horses being on picket caused no delay. When Sandy brought them in,
McHale had their entire outfit in two heaps, ready to pack. With the
skill and swiftness of experience they made the packs, threw the
hitches, drew the lash ropes tight. The result was two compact bundles
which could not work loose.

"I dunno who our friends are," said McHale, as they rode out of camp,
"but if it's this here Dade bunch, say, what a surprise they'd have
give me all by myself. I can just see me gettin' up in time to fall
down."

"They've got no license to chase us all over," said Sandy. "We don't
have to stand for it, do we? How'd it be if we held up their camp? Or
else we could lay for them as they came along, and settle it right
there."

"Bushwhack 'em?" said McHale. "No, I reckon not. We want to keep out of
trouble. If we held 'em up what'd we do with them? We couldn't tie 'em
and leave 'em; and we couldn't pack 'em around. Nothing for it but to
run like men. The country's big enough for both of us."

Sandy grunted disapproval, but said no more. Personally he would have
welcomed a fight. He was a marvellously quick and accurate shot with
either rifle or revolver, and he was ready to make a friend's quarrel
his own. However, he deferred to McHale's views.

Farther down the Klimminchuck they turned up a nameless tributary
creek, following its course with difficulty, for the way was choked
with down timber and slides, until they reached a beautiful little
basin high up above the valley. There the creek had its source or
sources; for the drainings of the basin were collected in a little lake
lying beneath bare cliffs. The water was swarming with trout, so that
one supply of food was assured.

Beside the lake and the cliffs they made camp. They could not see the
valley, neither could they be seen thence; but by walking half a mile
they could look down into it. Sandy, mindful of his disappointment,
began to prospect for bear.

McHale relapsed once more into a morass of sleep and tobacco. But while
Sandy was ranging afield he lay on the edge of the basin drowsing and
watching the valley, for he did not intend to be taken by surprise.

But that was exactly what happened. He had withdrawn from his post of
observation earlier than usual, and he and Sandy were smoking after
supper in the fading light, when a little cavalcade rode into the
basin, preceded by one who walked slowly, studying the ground.

McHale saw them at the same moment that they perceived the camp. He
leaped to his feet with an oath, snatching up his rifle and a gunny
sack, which, among other things, contained their cartridges. His belt
gun he never laid aside.

Sandy also jumped for his gun, slamming the lever down and up as the
weapon came to his shoulder. He stood fairly in the open, covering the
foremost man. But McHale caught his arm.

"Come on and get back among them rocks," he cried. "We can't stand 'em
off here."

Behind them as they ran a sudden yell went up, and a single bullet
buzzed past like a mad bee. But they reached the shelter of the rocks
fallen from the cliff at some remote period, and dropped to cover.
Before them the great slabs formed a natural breastwork; behind them
rose the sheer cliff, gray and weather-stained. Their backs were amply
protected; in front they must take care of themselves.

The newcomers dismounted in the concealment of trees. Five minutes
afterward a man walked leisurely forward. McHale recognized Dade. At
fifty paces he halted him.

"I wouldn't come no nearer, Dade, if I was you."

"I'm coming a heap closer pretty soon."

"All right; you're expected," McHale retorted. "You call a feud on me,
do you? Now you listen here: You call it off and call your bunch off,
or there'll be doin's."

"I'm talkin' to your partner," said Dade. "I s'pose it's young McCrae.
We got nothing against you, McCrae. You come out o' there, take your
horse and your dunnage, and git. Nobody'll hurt you."

"Is that so?" sneered Sandy. "Go plumb to blazes, will you?"

"I'll think about it," said Dade coolly.

"You'll do more than think about it if you crowd in here," Sandy
retorted.

"Nobody wants to crowd you," said Dade. "We're after McHale, and we're
goin' to get him. Don't you mix up in it. If you do you may get hurt."

"That ain't such bad advice, kid," interrupted McHale. "I'm able for
'em, I reckon. Better pull your freight like he tells you. This ain't
your show, nohow, and you've got your folks to think of."

"Do you think I'm a yellow dog, or what?" Sandy snapped back, glaring
at him. "Quit? I think I see myself. I'll smash this Dade's belt buckle
right now." He lifted his rifle.

"Hold on," said McHale. "This kid is some obstinate," he called to
Dade. "His _tumtum_ is that he'll stick. _I_ don't want him in it."

"He's got his chance," said Dade. "It's up to him."

Young McCrae launched a string of epithets at him, the cream of the
vocabularies of certain mule skinners of his acquaintance. Meanwhile
his finger itched on the trigger.

"You're a durn poor persuader," said McHale. "The kid will stick. Far's
I'm concerned, if you want me, come and get me. Don't show your hide no
more. I'm surely done talkin' to you."

Dade turned and walked away. Sandy covered him.

"Not in the back," said McHale.

Immediately afterward a thirty-thirty struck a rock in front of them,
glancing off at an angle, wailing away into the distance. Sandy McCrae,
lying at full length peering along the slim barrel of his weapon,
pressed the trigger and swore in disappointment.

"Centred a stump," he said. "There it is yet. It looked like somebody."

All was quiet for five minutes. Then a sleet of lead pelted their
position, patting against the cliff behind them, and splashing upon the
rocks in front. Splinters and particles of stone, lead, and nickel flew
everywhere.

"Git down low," McHale advised, hugging a bowlder.

"I am down," said Sandy.

"Then dig a hole." McHale laughed, and then swore as a sharp fragment
of rock ripped his cheek.

"Hit you?"

"Nope. Rock sliver. I'll bet their guns is gettin' hot. This won't
last."

The fusillade ceased. McHale shoved his rifle barrel through a crevice.

"Maybe some gent will stick out his head to see how many corpses there
is of us. This light's gettin' durn bad. I wish I had an ivory
foresight, 'stead o' this gold bead. I can't see----"

His rifle muzzle leaped in recoil as he spoke. Two hundred yards away a
man making a rush forward for a closer position winced and half halted.
Instantly Sandy's rifle lanced the dimming light with a twelve-foot
shaft of flame. The man straightened, staggered, and threw both arms
upward as if to shield his face. Sandy fired again as the lever clashed
back into place. The man fell forward.

"Got him!" cried Sandy exultantly. "Centred him twice, Tom!"

"I reckon you did. That's one out of it." He fired again without
result. Sandy shot three times rapidly, and swore at the light.

"You're overshootin'," said McHale. "You can't draw the foresight fine
enough in this light. Hold lower."

"Nothing to hold on," grumbled McCrae. "They're cached close. If one of
them would only come out to fetch in that dead one I wouldn't do a
thing to him."

McHale eyed him speculatively. "Seems like your young soul ain't
swamped by no wave of remorse at killin' a man. Don't make you feel
shaky nor nothin'?"

Young McCrae smiled grimly. "Not that I can notice. All that lead they
slung at us scared remorse clean out of my system. I'm lookin' for a
chance to repeat."

But darkness settled down without that chance, making accurate shooting
impossible. Objects at fifty yards became indistinct. Only the
smoky-red reflection of the sunset remained.

"Think they've got enough?" asked Sandy.

"Why, they ain't got started yet. Lucky we had our supper. We can stand
quite a racket on a full stomach. Might as well smoke, I reckon."

Sandy shivered slightly as the chill of the mountain night air struck
through his thin clothing. "Wish I'd grabbed a blanket or a coat."

"It'll be a heap worse before mornin'," said McHale.

"You're a cheerful devil!"

"Think of how good the sun'll feel. Maybe something will happen to warm
us up before then."

A forty-pound stone suddenly crashed down to one side of them, smashing
in the rocks and bushes with terrific impact. Sandy leaped to his feet,
his revolver streaming continuous fire at the top of the cliff.

"Git down, you durn fool!" cried McHale.

Sandy dropped just in time. A volley came from in front, and a leaden
storm howled overhead.

"Talk about luck!" said McHale. "Don't you take a chance like that
again." He rolled over on his back and put his rifle to his shoulder.
"If I could only git that cuss up there against the sky line----"

But the top of the cliff was fringed with bushes. Another stone bounded
down, struck a projection, leaped out, and hit ten feet in front of
them. McHale fired by guess; but, like most guesswork shooting, without
result. Another stone struck in front. He moved in closer to the cliff
and chuckled grimly.

"We're right under a ledge. Them rocks all bounced off it. Mighty lucky
for us. You feelin' any warmer now?"

"You bet. Summer done come again. I wish I could see to shoot." He
fired at the flash of a gun, and winced suddenly.

"Burned me that time!"

A glancing bullet had ripped the flesh of his left side along the ribs.
McHale made a bandage of the handkerchief he wore around his neck.

"You'll sure have a sore side, kid. Keep down tight. Don't take no more
chances." But a moment afterward he grunted and his rifle clattered
against the rocks.

"What is it?"

"My right arm. Busted above the elbow." He breathed deeply with the
first pain throbs following the shock, and gritted his teeth. "Ain't
this hell? I'm out of it for rifle shootin'. Here, come and cut off my
shirt sleeve and tie her up some. See how much blood she's pumpin'!
Take a turn above the hole and twist her up tight. Blamed if I want to
bleed to death. I got a lot of things to see to first."

Sandy examined the wound by the feeble light of matches, which McHale
held in his left hand, and declared that the arteries were uninjured.
He cut off a leg of his trousers below the knee, and, with McHale's
shirt sleeve, organized a bandage, binding it with the thongs of his
moccasins, swearing steadily below his breath.

McHale leaned back against the rock and demanded his pipe. Sandy filled
it, and held a match to the load. McHale puffed great smoke clouds into
the darkness.

"Tobacco's sure a fine anæsthetic. She beats chloroform and tooth
jerkers' gas. And now, kid, you git!"

"Do what?"

"Make a get-away. Hike. Leak out o' this. You can do it in the dark
just as easy as a weasel."

"Say," said Sandy, "you didn't get hit alongside the head, too, did
you?"

"Not yet. This is straight goods. I mean it. There's no use you
stickin'. There's too many accidents happenin'. Come mornin' maybe you
don't git a chance."

"Come mornin'," Sandy replied, "when I can see my sights, I'll clean
the whole bunch out."

"Other people can see sights then. Kid, they got me rounded up. I ain't
no good except on a horse. If I could make a get-away I would. But I
can't. You can. There's no sense in both of us bein' wiped out. Also,
there's your folks. I ain't got any. And, then, I've lived longer than
you, and I've had a heap more fun. I'm plumb satisfied with the deal.
If I quit the game now I break better'n even. Shake hands and git out
o' here while you can."

"Forget it!" snapped Sandy. "Would _you_ quit _me_? Not any. D'ye think
I could look Casey in the face, or Sheila, or my old dad? Would one of
_them_ quit _you_? You bet they wouldn't. I'll see this through. Here,
gimme what rifle cartridges you got, and shut up that line of talk. I
won't stand for it, and I won't go."

"'Most every family has one blame fool in it," said McHale. "All right,
durn you, stay. If I could chase you out I'd do it. Reach down and pull
my belt gun for me. I can shoot left-handed some."

They passed the night miserably, waiting for an attack which did not
come. The pain of their wounds was added to the discomfort of the cold.
Dawn found them shivering, numbed, weary-eyed, staring through the
lifting gloom, their weapons ready. As the light grew they could see
their own camp, but no one occupied it. Farther off a column of smoke
rose.

"Cookin' breakfast down in a hole," said McHale. "Playin' it plumb
safe. They ain't takin' a chance on your shootin'."

"They'd better not," said Sandy. His young face showed grimed and
pinched in the growing light, but his eyes were hard and clear. "Do you
s'pose I could sneak over and get a stand on them?"

"I wouldn't try. You bet somebody's keeping cases on these rocks."

Half an hour passed, an hour. The sun struck the basin, mottling its
green with gold, striking their chilled bodies with grateful warmth.

"Say," asked Sandy, "don't you want a drink of water?"

"Quit foolin'," McHale replied. "I been thinkin' of it for hours. I
could drink that there lake dry."

Still nothing happened. The waiting began to get on their nerves.

"What d'you s'pose they're framing up?" Sandy asked.

"Don't know. Durn it! I can't do nothin' unless they run in on us,"
McHale grumbled. "Wisht I could hold a rifle."

"Let 'em try to run in," said Sandy grimly. He had McHale's rifle in
addition to his own. "They've got to come two hundred yards without
cover. I'll stop every blamed one of them in one hundred."

Suddenly he lifted his rifle, hesitated, and lay with his cheek to the
stock, staring along the sights.

"See somethin'?" McHale asked.

"Over there past those jack pines. Man on a horse. He'll come out
again."

Far off among the trees they saw not one mounted man, but several. They
could catch glimpses merely. The horsemen appeared to be making for the
valley, but not by the way in which they had come.

"By thunder!" cried McHale, "it looks like they're pullin' out."

His further remarks were lost in a rolling fire as Sandy unhooked his
entire magazine at the retreating figures. He caught up McHale's rifle
and emptied that, too.

"Save some ca'tridges for seed," advised McHale. "What's the use of
snapshootin' at that range? You can't hit nothin'."

"You never know what luck you'll have," said Sandy. "I couldn't draw a
sight with them moving in the brush. How many did you count?"

"Five--near as I could make it."

"Say, how'd it be if I went after them?"

"It'd be one durn young fool the less," McHale replied. "You want to
know when you're well off. Don't stand up yet. There may be some play
to this that we don't savvy."

"Rats! They've got a bellyful, I tell you. Five's the bunch, ain't
it?--all but that one we got. I ain't going to stay cached here all
day. I want some grub."

But McHale persuaded him to wait ten minutes. Then, after exposing a
hat and a rolled-up coat as decoys without the least result, they
emerged from their fortress.

"Didn't rustle our hosses," said McHale. "That's luck. I wonder what
they done with that feller you downed. Let's look at their camp."

Down in the hollow where the besiegers had built their fire they found
what they sought. It lay covered by a blanket. Sandy stripped the
covering away.

"Dade, by thunder!" he exclaimed. McHale looked down thoughtfully at
the dead man.

"I'm sure glad it was him," he observed. "I reckon that settles this
feud business. That's why them fellers pulled out. It was his war, and
when he got downed they didn't see no sense carryin' it on."

"Well, they might have buried him, anyway," Sandy grumbled.

"Maybe they figured you'd want to peel off his scalp," said McHale,
with mild sarcasm. "I'm sure willing to take a little trouble like
buryin' Dade."

"So'm I," Sandy admitted, replacing the blanket. "I guess we're pretty
lucky. Come on while I rustle some grub. We want to pull out of here.
You've got to get to a doctor as soon as you can."

They were eating breakfast when Casey, Farwell, the sheriff, and Simon
rode into the basin, causing Sandy to snatch up his rifle under the
impression that their assailants were returning. The four had made the
best time they could, but had been at a loss to know the exact point
until Sandy's farewell fusillade.

"You sure missed a heap of fun, Casey," said McHale.

"Well, some of it didn't miss you," said Casey. "I'm blame sorry about
that arm, Tom. It'll be a tough ride for you."

"I'm able for it, I reckon. I wish you'd run into them fellers."

"Never saw hair nor hide of them. Just as well, maybe. Now, Tom, this
is Sheriff Dove. He wants you, and I think he wants Sandy. I told him
that you both had too much sense to make things hard for him."

"Far's I'm concerned I'm his meat," said McHale. "I'd have to come in,
anyway, now. Sandy was a durn fool ever to hide out. I shouldn't have
let him. Lucky for me I did, though."

"That's sense," said the sheriff. "You boys will find I'm all right to
get on with. I haven't heard you say anything, McCrae?"

"I guess I don't need to say anything," said Sandy. "Casey came along
with you, didn't he? That's good enough for me."

"I'm right obliged to him, too," said Dove. "He's sure saved me a lot
of trouble. Lemme see that arm of yours, McHale. I savvy a little about
them things. Anyway, I'll fix up some splints for it till you can get
hold of a regular medicine man."

CHAPTER XXXII

"And so you're going to marry this Casey Dunne," said old Jim Hess. He
and Clyde sat on the veranda at Chakchak, and they had been discussing
the ranch, its owner, and the events that had led up to his absence.

"Yes, Uncle Jim, I'm going to marry him."

"Well," said the big railway man, "making allowance for your natural
partiality, his stock seems to be worth about par. I'll know better
when I've had a look at him. I tell you one thing, I'm glad he isn't a
foreigner. I never liked those fellows who tagged about after you. This
country can produce as good men as you'll find. The others weren't my
sort. All right in their way, perhaps, but they seemed to go too much
on family and ancestry. That's good enough, too, but it seems to me
that the ancestors of some of them must have been a blamed sight better
men than they were. After all, a girl doesn't marry the ancestor. Dunne
seems to have hoed his own row. That's what I did. I'm prepared to like
him. Only I don't want you to make any mistake."

"There's no mistake, Uncle Jim," she said, patting his big hand.
"Casey's a _man_. You _will_ like him. Look away out there where the
dust is rising! Aren't those men on horseback? Yes, they are. It must
be Casey coming home." Her pleasure was apparent in her voice.

The dust cloud resolved itself into four mounted men and three pack
animals. They moved slowly, at a walk almost, the dust puffing up from
the hoofs drifting over and enveloping them.

"Which is your Casey Dunne?" asked Hess.

Clyde stared with troubled eyes.

"I--I don't see him. There's Tom McHale, and the sheriff, and Sandy
McCrae, and the old Indian. Why, Tom McHale has been hurt. His arm is
in a sling. How slowly they ride! It's--it's like a funeral. Surely
nothing can have happened. Oh, surely----" She caught her breath
sharply, her eyes dilating. "Look!" she cried. "The last pack horse!"

The load on the last horse was a shapeless thing, not compact and built
up like a pack, but hanging low on either side, shrouded by a canvas.
From under this cover a hand and arm dangled, swinging to and fro with
each motion of the animal.

Clyde felt a great fear, cold as the clutch of a dead hand itself,
close on her heart, driving the young blood from her cheeks. "It can't
be!" she said to herself. "Oh--it _can't_ be."

Hess swore beneath his breath. If it were Casey Dunne lying across that
pack horse----He put a huge protective arm around Clyde's shoulders, as
if to shield her from the evil they both feared.

But she slipped from beneath his arm and fled down the steps toward the
party who would have passed in the direction of the stables without
halting. The sheriff, seeing her, pulled up. She caught McHale's
hardened paw in both her hands, searching his eyes for the truth. But
McHale's face, though weary and lined with pain, and, moreover,
rendered decidedly unprepossessing by a growth of stubble, contained no
signs of disaster.

"Where's Casey, Tom?"

"Casey?" McHale replied. "Why, he hiked on ahead to git a medicine man
to fix up this arm of mine. Arm's done busted. He ought to be here most
any time now."

To Clyde it was as if the sun had shot through a lowering, ominous
cloud. She was faint with the joy of relief. "Thank God! Thank God!"
she murmured.

"You seem to be upset about something, ma'am," said the sheriff gently.
"Has anything went wrong?"

Hess answered for her. "What have you got on that last pack horse,
sheriff?"

Jim Dove looked around and muttered an oath. "If that ain't plumb
careless of me! I thought I had him all covered up. Rope must have
slipped. That's Jake Betts, holdup and bad man, that's been callin'
himself Dade around here. There's five hundred reward for him, and to
collect the money I had to pack him in. I sure didn't allow to scare
any women by lettin' an arm hang loose. And the little lady thought it
was Dunne? Dunne's all safe and rugged. We thought he'd be here ahead
of us."

Hess followed the sheriff to the stable and introduced himself, going
directly to the point, as was his custom.

"Sheriff," he said, "I've just come, and naturally I don't know all
that has happened, but there are two or three things I want you to
know. In the first place, my niece, Miss Burnaby, is going to marry
this man Dunne. And, in the second place, I'm now running this
irrigation company and the railway that owns it, and so far as any
prosecutions are concerned I won't have anything to do with them. Does
that make any difference to you?"

"Some," said the sheriff. "It lets young McCrae out, I reckon."

"How about McHale?"

"That's a killin'. You got nothin' to do with that. Anyway, he's got a
good defence."

"I'll sign his bail bond to any amount."

"I reckon there won't be no trouble about that," said the sheriff. "I
know a man when I see him. McHale's all right. You won't find me makin'
things hard for anybody around here, Mr. Hess."

In half an hour Casey rode up, bringing with him a man of medicine in
the person of Doctor Billy Swift. And Billy Swift, whose chronic
grievance was that Coldstream was altogether too healthy for a
physician to live in, greeted his patients with enthusiasm and got busy
at once.

Hess, strolling up from a confidential talk with Sheriff Dove, ran into
Clyde and Casey snugly ensconced in a corner of the veranda, where
thick hop vines shaded them from the public gaze.

"Excuse _me_!" said Hess, with little originality, but much
embarrassment.

"Not at all," Casey replied, under the impression that he was carrying
off matters very nonchalantly. Clyde laughed at both of them.

"We don't mind you, Uncle Jim, do we, Casey?"

"Look here," said Hess, "if this is the young man who has been raisin'
Cain around here, and destroying my property before I owned it, suppose
you introduce me?"

The two men shook hands, gripping hard, measuring each other with their
eyes. And Clyde was tactful enough to leave them to develop their
acquaintance alone.

"I want to thank you for your wire to Clyde," said Casey. "You can
guess what it meant to all of us here."

"I've a fair notion," said Hess. "Of course, I only know what Clyde has
told me, but I can see that you people have been up against a hard
proposition. After this I hope you won't have much to kick at. We won't
take advantage of that clause in the old railway charter--at least not
enough to interfere with men who are actually using water now. But I
want you to be satisfied with enough to irrigate, used economically."

"That's all we ever wanted."

"I'm glad to hear it. Now I've fixed up this matter of young McCrae's.
That's settled. No more trouble about it. As to your man, McHale, I'm
told that his trial will be a mere matter of form. Wade will look after
that. Now, about Clyde."

"Yes," said Casey.

"She's her own mistress--you understand that. You have a good property
here--not as much money as she has, but enough to get along on if she
hadn't anything. That's all right. I suppose her money's no drawback,
eh? Don't look mad about it, young man. You're fond of her, of course.
I understand you made what you've got yourself?"

"Every cent. I've been out for myself since I was about fifteen. This
is what I've got to show for it."

"And it's a good little stake," said Hess heartily. "I made my own
pile, too. That's what I like. Now, I'm going to ask you a personal
question: What sort of life have you behind you? You understand me.
There must be no comeback where Clyde is concerned. I want a straight
answer."

"You'll get it. I've always been too busy to be foolish. My habits are
about average--possibly better than average. I'm absolutely healthy.
I've not had a day's sickness--bar accidents--since I grew up. There's
absolutely no reason why I shouldn't marry Clyde."

"That's the boy!" said old Jim Hess, with satisfaction, gripping his
hand again. "Your stock's par with me, remember, and I want you to
consider me your friend, even if I am to be a relation by marriage."

Shortly afterward Sheila and Farwell arrived on hard-ridden horses.

"She hustled me right over here," said the latter. "Didn't even give me
time to shave. I told her McHale and Sandy were all right, but she had
to come to see for herself."

"Seeing that Sandy has eaten six fried eggs with bacon and bread buns
to match, I imagine he may be regarded as convalescent," laughed Casey.
"Tom has the tobacco trust half broken already."

Sandy McCrae squirmed uneasily in his sister's embrace, finding it
embarrassing.

"That's plenty, that's plenty!" he growled. "You'd think I was a sole
survivor or something. Say, what are you trying to do--choke me? There,
you've kissed me three times already. Ouch! Darn it, don't hug me. My
side's sore. Try that hold on Farwell. He looks as if he wouldn't
mind."

Casey laughed. Sheila and Farwell reddened. A smothered chuckle from
McHale showed that he was enjoying himself. He grinned over Sandy's
shoulder.

"Howdy, Miss Sheila? Brothers don't know their own luck. Wisht I had a
sister about your size."

"I'll adopt you right now!" she declared, and proceeded to give
practical proof of it, somewhat to his confusion.

"You're an awful bluff, Tom," she accused him. "Really, I believe
you're bashful with girls. I never suspected it before."

"It's just want of practice," grinned McHale. "Some day when I have
time I'm going out to get me a girl like you. There was one down
at----"

But Clyde's appearance interrupted McHale's reminiscences. She and
Sheila, arms about each other, strolled away to exchange confidences.
Casey and Farwell followed.

"We ain't in it," said McHale.

"Well, who wants to be?" said Sandy.

"A few weeks ago," McHale mused, "them two girls warmed up to each
other about as much as two wet sticks of wood; and them two sports
would have locked horns at the bat of an eye. Look at 'em now! What
done it?"

"Does your arm hurt you much?" Sandy asked.

"Sortin' out the hand done it," McHale continued, unheeding. "Each girl
finds out that the other ain't organizin' to be hostile. And the men
find out that they're playin' different systems; likewise, that each
has a good point or two."

"She sure must have been a hard trip for you down from the hills,"
Sandy commented, with much sarcasm.

"Love," said McHale sentimentally, "is a durn funny thing."

Sandy's disgusted comment consisted of but one word not usually
associated with the tender passion. "Well, may be--sometimes," McHale
admitted.

It was a merry party that sat down to the best supper Feng could
prepare on short notice. Wade was in great form. He outdid himself,
keeping up a rapid fire of jokes and conversation. The sheriff,
infected by his example, uncovered a vein of unsuspected humour.
McHale, who referred to himself as "a temp'rary southpaw," contributed
his quota. Sandy was silent and dour, as usual. Jim Hess said little,
but he beamed on everybody, enjoying their happiness.

When Sheila insisted that she must go, Casey saddled Dolly for Clyde
and Shiner for himself. He rode with Sheila, temporarily relinquishing
Clyde to Farwell. A couple of hundred yards behind the others, just
free of their dust, they jogged easily side by side.

"Our rides together are about over, Casey," she said, with a little
sigh.

"How is that?"

"You know as well as I do. The blessed proprieties are butting in here
nowadays; and, besides, we both belong to other people. Dick wants to
be married soon. Of course, I'll have to go where he goes. Thank
goodness, he hasn't got any people to be my people, and to pass
judgment on me."

"I'll be sorry to lose you, Sheila; and I think you'll be sorry to go."

"Yes. I'll miss the rolling country, and the hills to the west, and the
long days outdoors. Oh, heavens, how I'll miss them! And yet it's worth
while, Casey!"

"I'm awfully glad, for your sake, that you think so much of him, old
girl. He's a fine chap--when you get to know him. But I'll miss you.
How long is it since we had our first ride together?"

"Seven years--no, eight. I was riding a bad pinto. Dad traded him
afterward. You wouldn't let me go home alone. Remember?"

"Of course. Awful brute for a girl to ride!"

"He never set me afoot," she said proudly. "But you'll be leaving here,
too, Casey."

"I don't think so."

"Oh, yes, you will. Clyde's money----"

"Hang her money! Don't throw that up to me."

"Nonsense! Don't be so touchy. I wish _I_ had it. You'll go where
there are people and things happening. You'll keep the ranch, but Tom
will look after it."

"No, no."

"Yes, yes. You won't be idle--you're not that kind--but you'll find
other interests, and the money may be a stepping-stone. She's a dear
girl, Casey. Be good to her."

"I couldn't be anything else. You needn't tell me I'm not worthy of
her; I know it."

"You're worthy of any girl," she said firmly. "Not a bit of hot air,
either, old boy. I almost fell in love with you myself."

"By George!" he exclaimed, "there were times when I wondered how much I
thought of you."

She laughed, well pleased. "We know the difference now, don't we? What
a mistake it would have been! I'm glad we kept these thoughts to
ourselves--glad we never played at being in love. Now we can talk
without fear of misunderstanding. Somehow, now, the years here seem
like a dream to me. Yes, I know they've been busy years, crowded with
work for both of us; but just now they don't seem real. We seem--I
seem--to be standing at the boundary of a new life. All that is over
was just preparation for it--the long days in the sun and the wind, the
quiet nights beneath the stars, the big, lonely, brown land, and the
hazy blue of the hills. The girl that lived among them seems like a
little, dead sister. And yet I love these things. Wherever I go,
whatever happens to me, I shall think of them always."

"That's absolutely true. They are in your heart--a part of you. I
understand. The little boy that lay on a lake shore years ago and
watched the old stone hookers wallowing through the long swells doesn't
seem to be Casey Dunne. And yet I can smell the wet sand and the clean
lake breezes now. These are the things that keep our hearts young. You
were born in the West, Sheila, and I in the East; but the roots of our
beings fed on the clean things of the earth that mothered us some
thousands of miles apart, and the taste will never be forgotten. In the
years to come we will think of the years here as to-night we think of
our childhood."

She held out her hand. Gauntlet met gauntlet in the hard grip of
comradeship.

"Good-bye, Casey. It's not likely we'll ever talk of these things
again. I'm glad you've been a part of my life."

"Good luck to you always, Sheila."

"They've left us behind," she said. "Come on! One last good run,
Casey!"

Clyde and Farwell, riding decorously at an easy jog trot, heard the
thunder of hoofs behind them, and turned to see the bay and the
buckskin sweep past, encouraged by voice and heel.

"She'll kill herself some day," Farwell ejaculated, and he scolded her
roundly when they rode up to where she and Casey had finally halted
their blown steeds.

"Listen to him!" cried Sheila, in derision. "As if I didn't savvy a
horse! All right, my lord, I won't do it again till next time. And now,
Casey, you and Clyde must not come any farther. It will be dark before
you get back."

"If you want to be rid of us----" he suggested.

"You've been sorry for yourself for the last hour, and you needn't deny
it," she retorted.

Clyde and Casey rode slowly homeward through the falling dusk. For the
first time since his return they were really alone together. She made
him tell her all that had occurred, down to the minutest detail.

"But now there will be no more trouble of any kind," she predicted.

"Thanks to you."

"Thanks to Uncle Jim."

"Both of you. He's a big man--a nation builder--but if his niece hadn't
had the good taste to fall in love with me his interest would have been
less personal. He wouldn't have got around to a little matter like this
for months. Anyway, we bracket you together. Do you know that some of
the kids are being taught to pray for you?"

"Not really?"

"Fact. Doctor Swift told me. 'God bless pa, and ma, and Mister Jim
Hess, and Miss Burnaby.' That's the formula. Swift predicts that the
next batch of christenings will include a 'Yim Hess' Swanson and a
'Clyde Burnaby' Brulé. Such is fame! Think you can stand the dizzy
popularity?"

"Lovely!" cried Clyde. "I'll order silver mugs to-morrow, and start a
savings account for each baby."

"Go slow!" he laughed. "You'll have 'em all named after you at that
rate."

"I'll get the mugs and a spoon, anyway. I never was so flattered
before. I've just begun to _live_ since I came out here. Why, Casey, my
life was absolutely empty. You can't imagine how lonely and bored I
was."

"What a shame! We'll see that it doesn't occur again. Which opens an
interesting question: When are you going to marry me?"

"Why--I hadn't thought. I suppose we should think of it."

"Well, it's usual, under the circumstances."

"Next June? I think I should like to be a June bride."

"See here, young lady," said Casey severely, "what sort of a gold brick
is this? Are you aware that we are in the fag end of July?"

"It's really not a long engagement. A year soon passes."

"And the years soon pass. I'm not going to be defrauded of a year's
happiness. I'll stand for any time in September, but not a day later."

"September! But, my dearest boy, that's only a few weeks."

"That's why I said September."

She laughed happily. "Very well, September. But I'll have a thousand
things to do. I'll have to go back with Uncle Jim."

"What's the use? Stay here. Kitty Wade will stay, too. I'll coax her."

"But I've all sorts of things to buy?"

"Order 'em by mail."

"My trousseau _by mail_!" she exclaimed, in horror. "It would be
sacrilege."

"Oh, well, suit yourself," said Casey, with a sigh of resignation.
"Thank the Lord it only happens once."

She laughed. "And then there's our honeymoon to plan. Where shall we
spend it?"

"It's up to you. Wherever you say."

"You've never been to Europe?"

"No. But I'd rather do my honeymooning where I can ask for what I want
with some chance of getting it."

"But I speak French, German, and Italian--not fluently, but well enough
to get along on."

"And I talk United States, Chinook, and some Cree--we ought to get
along almost anywhere," he laughed. "Let's leave this Europe business
open. Now here's a really serious question: When our honeymoon is
over--what?"

"I don't understand."

"Where shall we live? I can sell out here, if you like."

"But you wouldn't like?"

"I'd hate to," he admitted.

"I know. So should I. We'll live here, at Chakchak. It shall be our
home."

"Would you be contented? It's lonely at times. The winters are long.
You'd miss your friends and your old life."

"I ran away from both. I love your country because it's yours. It shall
be mine, too. Look!" Away in the distance a tiny point of light
twinkled. "There are the lights of Chakchak--our home lights, dear!"

Her hand sought his in the darkness, met, and clasped it. A star shot
in a blazing trail across the velvet blackness of the sky. The first
breath of the night breeze, cold from the mountain passes, brushed
their cheeks. Save for the distant light the world was dark, the land
lonely, silent, devoid of life. The great spaces enfolded them, wrapped
them in silence as in a vast robe. But the old, sweet song was in their
hearts as they rode slowly forward--to the Light!

STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY

GENE STRATTON-PORTER

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list

LADDIE.

Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.

This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The
story is told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family,
but it is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love
affairs of older members of the family. Chief among them is that of
Laddie, the older brother whom Little Sister adores, and the Princess,
an English girl who has come to live in the neighborhood and about
whose family there hangs a mystery. There is a wedding midway in the
book and a double wedding at the close.

THE HARVESTER. Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs.

"The Harvester," David Langston, is a man of the woods and fields, who
draws his living from the prodigal hand of Mother Nature herself. If
the book had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would
be notable. But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods," and the
Harvester's whole being realizes that this is the highest point of life
which has come to him--there begins a romance of the rarest idyllic