"Oh, God, has it come?"

Then, stolidly, with set mouth, she went on with her work, movements a
little slower, perhaps, a bit lethargic, surely, bungling now and then.
Something had gone from her ... a hope, a sustaining spark, a leaven
that had lightened the drudgery.

Upstairs in her room Ann Lytton lay face down on her bed, hands gripping
the coarse coverlet, eyes pressed shut, breath swift and irregular,
heart racing. What had gone from the girl below--the hope, the spark,
the leaven which makes life itself palatable--had come to her after
those years of nightmare, and Ann was resisting, driving it back,
telling herself that it must not be, that it could not be, not in the
face of all that had happened; not now, when ethical, moral, legal ties
bound her to another! Oh, she was bound, no mistaking that; but it was
not Ann's heart that wrenched at the bonds. It was her conscience, her
trained sense of right and wrong, the traditions that had moulded her.
No, her heart was gone, utterly, to the man who crossed the hard, beaten
street of Yavapai, head down, dejection in the swing of his shoulders,
for her heart knew no right, no wrong ... only beauty and ugliness.

Bayard, too, fought his bitter fight. The urge in him was to take her,
to bear her away, to defy the laws that men had made to hurt her and to
devil him; but something behind, something deep in him, forbade. He must
go on, nursing back to strength that mockery of manhood who could lift
his fuddled, obscene head and, with the blessing of society, claim Ann
Lytton as his--her body, her soul! He must go on, though he wanted to
strangle all life from the drunken ruin, because in him was the same
rigid adherence to things that have been which held the woman there on
her bed, face down, even though her limbs twitched to race after him and
her arms yearned to twine about his neck, to pull herself close to his
good chest, within which the great heart pumped.

And Nora? Was she conscienceless? Indeed, not. She had promised to
befriend this strange woman because Bruce Bayard had asked it. It was
not for Ann's sake she dully planned diversion; it was because of her
love for the owner of the Circle A that she stifled her sorrow, her
natural jealousy. She knew that to refuse him, to follow her first
impulses, would hurt him; and that would react, would hurt her, for her
devotion was that sort which would go to any length to make the man of
her heart happier.

To Ann's ears came Bruce's sharp little whistle, and she could no longer
lie still. She rose, half staggered to the window and stood holding the
curtains the least bit apart, watching him stand motionless in the
middle of the thoroughfare. Again, his whistle sounded and from a
distance she heard the high call of the sorrel horse who had moved along
the strip of grass that grew close beside the buildings, nibbling here
and there. The animal approached his master at a swinging trot, holding
his head far to the right, nose high in the air, that the trailing reins
might not dangle under his feet. All the time he nickered his
reassurance and, when he drew to a halt beside his master, Abe's voice
retreated down into his long throat until it was only a guttural murmur
of affection.

"Old Timer, if I was as good a man as you are horse, I'd find a way,"
Bruce said half aloud as he gathered the reins.

He mounted with a rhythmical swing of shoulder and limb, and gave the
stallion his head, trotting out of town with never a look about.

CHAPTER IX

LYTTON'S NEMESIS

That which followed was a hard night for both Bayard and Lytton. The
wounded arm was doing nicely, but the shattered nervous system could not
be repaired so simply. Since the incident of the ransacked house and the
pilfered whiskey, Lytton had not had so much as one drink of stimulant
and, because of that indulgence of his appetite, his suffering was made
manifold. Denial of further liquor was the penalty Ned was forced to pay
for the abuse of Bayard's trust. Much of the time the sick man kept
himself well in hand, was able to cover up outward evidence of the
torture which he underwent, and in that fact rested some indication of
the determination that had once been in him. But this night the effects
of his excesses were tearing at his will persistently and sleep would
not come.

He walked the floor of the room into which his bed had been moved from
the kitchen after the first few days at the ranch; his strength gave out
and for a time he lay on the bed, muttering wildly,--then walked again
with trembling stride.

Bayard heard. He, too, was suffering; sleep would not come to ease him.
He did not talk, did not yearn for action; just lay very quiet and
thought and thought until his mind refused to function further with
coherence. After that, he forced himself to give heed to other matters
for the sake of distraction and became conscious of the sounds from the
next room. When they increased with the hours rather than subsiding, he
got up, partly dressed, made a light and went to Lytton.

Quarrelling followed. The sick man raved and cursed. He blamed Bayard
for all his suffering, denounced him as a meddler, whining and storming
in turn. He declared that to fight against his weakness was futile; the
next moment vowed that he would return to town, and face temptation
there and beat it; and within a breath was explaining that he could
easily cure himself, if he could only be allowed to taper off, to take
one less drink each day. Before it all, Bayard remained quietly firm and
the incident ended by Lytton screaming that at daylight he would leave
the ranch and die on the Yavapai road before he would submit to another
day of life there.

But when dawn came he was sleeping and the rancher, after covering him
carefully, retired to his room for two hours' rest before rousing for a
morning's ride through the hills.

He was back at noon and found Lytton white faced, contrite. Together
they prepared a meal.

"I was pretty much of an ass last night," Lytton said after they had
eaten a few moments in silence. It was one of those rare intervals in
which a bearing of normal civility struggled through his despicability
and Bayard looked up quickly to meet his indecisive gaze, feeling
somehow that with every flash of this strength he was rewarded for all
the work he had done, the unpleasantness he had undergone. Rewarded,
though it only made Lytton a stronger, more enduring obstacle between
him and a consummation of his love.

"I'm sorry," the man confessed. "It wasn't I. It was the booze that's
still in me."

"I understand," the cowman said, with a nod. A moment of silence
followed.

"There's something else, I'm sorry about," Lytton continued. "The other
day I tried to get nasty about a girl, the girl Nora at the Manzanita
House, didn't I?"

"Oh, you didn't know what you said."

"Well, if I didn't, that's no excuse." He was growing clearer, obtaining
a better poise, assuming a more decided personality. "I apologize to you
for what I said, and, if you think best, I'll go see her and apologize
for the advances I made to her."

"No, no,"--with a quick gesture. "That wouldn't do any good; she'll
never know."

"As you say, then. I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry; that's all. I
know how a fellow feels when his girl's name is dragged into a brawl
that way. I've noticed you sort of dolling up lately when you've started
for town,"--with a faint twinkle in his eyes and a smile that
approximated good nature. "I know how it is with you fellows who still
have the woman bug,"--a hint of bitterness. "I know how touchy you'll
all get. You ... you seem to be rather interested in that Nora girl."

Bayard made no answer. He was uneasy, apprehensive.

"I've heard 'em talk about it in town. Funny that she's the only woman
you've fallen for, Bayard. They tell me you won't look at another, that
you brought her to Yavapai yourself several years ago. You're so
particular that you have to import one; is that it?"

He laughed aloud and a hint of nastiness was again in the tone. The
other man did not answer with more than a quickly passing smile.

"Well, you fellows have all got to have your whirl at it, I suppose,"
Lytton went on, the good nature entirely gone. "You'll never learn
except from your own experience. Rush around with the girls, have a gay
time; then, it's some one girl, next, it's marriage and she's got
you,"--holding up his gripped fist for emphasis. "She's got you hard and
fast!"

He stirred in his chair and broke another biscuit in half.

"Believe me, I know, Bayard! I've been there. I.... Hell, I married a
girl with a conscience,"--drawling the words, "That's the kind that
hangs on when they get you ... that _good_ kind! She's too damn fine for
human use, she and her kind. You know," ... laughing bitterly--"she
started out to reform me. One of that kind; get me? A damned
straight-laced Puritan! She snivelled and prayed and, instead of helping
me, she just drove me on and on. She's got me. See? I can't get away
from her and the only good thing about being here is that there are
miles between us and I don't hear her cant and prating!"

"Seems to me that a woman who sticks by a man when he goes clean to hell
must amount to something," observed Bayard, gazing at him pointedly.

Lytton shrugged his shoulders.

"Maybe ... in some ways, but who the devil wants that kind hanging
around his neck?" He pushed his plate away and stared surlily out
through the door. Bayard tilted back in his chair and looked the
Easterner in the face critically.

"Suppose somebody was to come along an' tell you they was goin' to take
her off your hands. What'd you say then?"

"What do you mean?" disgruntled at the challenge in Bayard's query.

"Just what I say. You've been tellin' me what a bad mess mixin' with
women is. I'm askin' you what you'd do if somebody tried to take your
woman. You say it's bad, bein' tied up. How about it, if somebody was to
step in an' relieve you?"

The other moved in his chair.

"That's different," he said. "To want to be away from a woman until she
got some common sense, and to have another man _take_ your wife are two
different things. To have a man take your wife would make anybody want
to kill, no matter what trouble you might have had with her. Breaking up
marriages, taking something that belongs to another man, has nothing to
do with what I was talking about."

"You don't want her yourself. You don't want anybody else to have her.
Is that it?"

"Didn't I say that those were two different--"

"You want to look out, Neighbor!" Bayard said, with a smile, dropping
the forelegs of his chair to the floor and leaning his elbows on the
table. "You're talking one thing and meaning another. You want to keep
your head, if you want to keep your wife. Don't make out you want to let
go when you really want to hang on. Women are funny things. They'll
stick to men like a burr, they'll take abuse an' suffer and give no sign
of quittin', because they want love, gentleness, and they hate to give
up thinkin' they'll get it from the man they'd planned would give it to
'em.

"But some day, while they're stickin' to a man who don't appreciate 'em,
they'll see happiness goin' by ... then, they're likely to get it. And
sometime that's goin' to happen to your wife; she'll see happiness
somewhere else an' she'll go after it; then, she won't be around your
neck, but somebody else'll have her!

"Oh, they're queer things ... funny things! You can't tell where th'
man's comin' from that'll meet 'em an' take their heart an' their head.
He may be right near 'em all th' time an' they never wake up to it for
years; he may come along casual-like, not lookin' for anything, an' see
'em just by chance an' open his heart an' take 'em....

"Once I was in th' Club in Prescott an' I heard a mining engineer from
th' East sing a song about some man who lived on th' desert.

    "'From th' desert I come to thee,'

"it went,

    "'On a stallion shod with fire....'

"An' then he goes on with th' finest love song you ever heard, endin'
up:

    "... 'a love that shall not die
    Till th' sun grows cold,
    An' th' stars are old,
    An' th' leaves of th' Judgment Book unfold!'

"... That's the sort of guy that upsets a woman who's hungry for
happiness. It's that kind of love they want. They'll stand most anything
a long, long time; seems like some of 'em loved abuse. But if a real
_hombre_ ever comes along ... Look out!

"You can't tell, Lytton. This thing love comes like a storm sometimes. A
man's interest in a woman may be easy an' not amount to much at first.
It's like this breeze comin' in here now; warm an' soft an' gentle, th'
mildest, meekest little breeze you've ever felt, ain't it? Well, you
can't tell what it'll be by night!

"I've seen it just like this, without a dust devil on th' valley or a
cloud in th' sky. Then she'd get puffy an' dust would commence to rise
up, an' th' sky off there south an' west would begin to look dirty,
rusty. Then, away off, you'd hear a whisper, a kind of mutter, growin'
louder every minute, an' you'd see trees bend down to one another like
they was hidin' their faces from somethin' that scared 'em. Dust would
come before it like a wall an' then th' grass would flatten out an' look
a funny white under that black and then ... Zwoop! She'd be on you,
blowin' an' howlin' an' thunderin' and lightnin' like hell itself....
When an hour before it'd been a breeze just like this."

He paused an instant.

"So you want to look out ... if you want to keep her. Some man on a
'stallion shod with fire' may ride past an' look into your house an' see
her an' crawl down an' commence to sing a love song that'll make her
forget all about tryin' to straighten you up.... Some feller who's never
counted with her may wake up and go after her as strong as a summer
storm.

"She's young; she's sweet; she's beau ..."

"Say, who told you about my wife?" Lytton demanded, drawing himself up.

Bayard stopped with a show of surprise. His earnestness had swept his
caution, his sense of the necessity for deception, quite away, but he
rallied himself as he answered:

"Why, I judge she is. She's stickin' by you like a sweet woman would."

"Well, what if she is?" Lytton countered, the surprise in his face
giving way to sullenness. "We've discussed me and my wife enough for one
day. You're inexperienced. You don't know her kind. You don't know
women, Bayard. Why, damn their dirty skins, they--"

"You drop that!" Bruce cried, rising and leaning across the table. "You
keep your lying, dirty mouth shut or I'll..."

He drew his great fists upward slowly as though they lifted their limit
in weight. Then suddenly went limp and smiled down at the face of the
other man. He turned away slowly and Lytton drawled.

"Well, what's got into you?"

"Excuse me," said the rancher, with a short laugh. "I'm ... I'm only
worked up about a woman myself," reaching out a hand for the casing of
the doorway to steady himself. "I'm only wondering what th' best thing
to do is.... You said yourself that ... experience was th' only way to
learn...."

That afternoon Lytton slept deeply. Of this fact Bayard made sure when,
from his work in the little blacksmith shop, he saw a horseman riding
toward the ranch from a wash that gouged down into Manzanita Valley.
When he saw the man slumbering heavily on his bed, worn from the
struggle and the sleeplessness of last night, he closed the door softly
and returned to resume the shoeing of the pinto horse that stood dozing
in the sunlight.

"Oh, you is it, Benny Lynch?" Bayard called, as the horseman leaned low
to open the gate and rode in.

"Right again, Bruce. How's things?"

"Fine, Benny. Ain't saw you in a long time. Get down. Feed your horse?"

"No, thanks, we've both et."

The newcomer dismounted and, undoing his tie rope, made his pony fast to
a post. He was a short, thick set young chap, dressed in rough clothing,
wearing hobnailed shoes. His clothes, his saddle, the horse itself
belied the impression of a stock man and his shoes gave conclusive
evidence that he was a miner. He turned to face Bayard and pushed his
hat far back on his head, letting the sun beat down on his honest,
bronzed face, peculiarly boyish, yet lined as that of a man who has
known the rough edges of life.

"Mind if I talk to you a while, Bruce?" he asked, serious, preoccupied
in his manner.

"Tickled to death, Benny; your conversation generally is enlightenin'
an' interestin'."

This provoked only a faint flash of a smile from the other. Bayard
kicked a wooden box along beside the building and both seated themselves
on it. An interval of silence, which the miner broke by saying abruptly:

"I've done somethin', Bruce, that I don't like to keep to myself. I'm
planning on doin' somethin' more that I want somebody to know so that if
anything happens, folks'll understand.

"I come to you,"--marking the ground with the edge of his shoe sole,
"because you're th' only man I know in this country--an' I know most of
'em--I'd trust."

"Them bouquets are elegant, Benny." Bayard laughed, trying to relieve
the tension of the other. "Go ahead, I love 'em!"

"You know what I mean, Bruce. You've always played square with everybody
'round here, not mindin' a great deal about what other folks done so
long as they was open an' honest about it. You've never stole calves,
you've never been in trouble with your neighbors--"

"Hold on, Benny! You don't know how many calves I've stole."

The other smiled and put aside Bayard's attempt at levity with a gesture
of one hand.

"You understand how it is, when a fellar's just got to talk?"

"I understand," said Bayard. "I've been in that fix myself, recent."

"I knew you would; that's why I come."

He shifted on the box and pulled his hat down over his eyes and said:

"I tried to kill a feller th' other night. I didn't make good. I'm
likely to make another try some time, an' go through with it."

Bayard waited for more, with a queer thrill of realization.

"You know this pup Lytton, don't you, Bruce? Yes, everybody does,
th' ----! I tried to get him th' other night in Yavapai. I thought I'd
done it an' lit out, but I heard later I only nicked his arm. That means
I've got to do it later."

"It's that necessary to kill him, is it, Benny?" Bayard asked. "I know
he was hit.... Fact is, I found him an' took him into th' Hotel an'
fixed him up."

Their gazes met. Benny Lynch's was peculiarly devoid of anger, steady
and frank.

"That was like you, Bruce. You'd take care of a sick wolf, I guess. Next
time, though, I'll give somebody a job as a gravedigger, 'stead of a
good Samaritan....

"But what I stopped in to-day for was to tell you th' whole story, so
you'd know it all."

"Let her fly, Benny!"

"Prob'ly you know, Bruce, that I come out here from Tennessee, when I
was only a spindly kid, with th' old man an' my mammy. We was th' last
of our family. They'd feuded our folks down to 'n old man 'n old woman
and a kid--me. We come 'cause th' old man got religion and moved west so
he wouldn't have to kill nobody. I s'pose some back there claims to have
druv him out, but they either didn't know him or they're lyin'. He'd
never be druv out by fear, Bruce; he wasn't that kind.

"Well, we drifted through Colorado an' New Mex an' finally over here. We
landed out yonder on th' Sunset group which th' old man located an'
commenced to work. I growed up there, Bruce. I helped my mammy an' my
pap cut down trees an' pick up stone to make our house. I built my
mammy's coffin myself when I was seventeen. Me an' pap buried her; me
shovelin' in dirt an' rocks, him prayin' an' readin' out of th' Bible."

He paused to overcome the shaking of his voice.

"We hung on there an' was doin' right well with th' mine, workin' out a
spell now an' then, goin' back an' developin' as long as our grub an'
powder lasted. We got her right to where we thought she was ready to
boom, when hard times come along, an' made us slow up. I started out,
leavin' th' old man home, 'cause he was gettin' so old he wasn't much
use anywhere an' it ain't right that old folks should work that way
anyhow.

"I landed over in California and was in an' 'round th' Funeral Range for
over two years, writin' to pap occasional an' hearin' from him every few
months. I didn't make it very well an' our mine just had to wait on my
luck, let alone th' hard times. We wouldn't sell out, then, 'cause we'd
had to take little or nothin' for th' property. It worried me; my old
man was gettin' old fast, he'd never had nothin' but hard knocks, if he
was ever goin' to have any rest an' any fun it'd have to come out of
that mine....

"Well, while I was away along come this here Eastern outfit, promised to
do all sorts of things, formed a corporation, roped th' old man in with
their slick lies, an' give him 'bout a quarter value for what we had.
They beat him out of all he'd ever earnt, when he was past workin' for
more! Now, Bruce, a gang of skunks that'd do that to as fine an old man
as my dad was, ought to be burnt, hadn't they?"

"They had. Everybody sure loved your daddy, Ben."

"Well, the' was nothin' we could do. Them Eastern pups just set down an'
waited for us to get tired an' let 'em have a clear field. So we moved
out, left our house an' all, went to Prescott an' went to work, both of
us, keepin' an eye on th' mine to see they didn't commence to operate on
th' sly. After a while I got what looked like a good thing down on th'
desert in a new town an' I went there.

"While I was gone, along comes this here Lytton an' finishes th' job.
His dad had owned most of th' stock, an' he'd come here to start
somethin'. He begun with my pappy. He lied to him, took advantage of an
old man who was trustful an' an easy mark. He crooked it every way he
could, he got everythin' we had; all th' work of my hands,"--holding
their honest, calloused palms out--"all th' hopes of a good old man. It
done him no good; he couldn't get enough backin' to do business.... But
it killed my dad."

He stared vacantly ahead before saying:

"You know th' rest. Dad died. That killed him, Bruce, an' Lytton was to
blame. Ain't that murder? Ain't it?"

"It's murder, Benny, but they won't call it that."

"No, but what they call it don't make no difference in th' right or th'
wrong of it, does it? An' it don't matter to me. I've got a law all my
own, Bruce, an' it's a damn sight more just 'n theirs!" He had become
suddenly alert, intent. "Th' last thing that my old man said was that
th' wickedest of th' world had killed him. He wouldn't blame no one man
but I will ... I do!"

He moved quickly on the box, bringing himself to face Bayard.

"I come back to this country an' waited. I've been thinkin' it over most
two years, Bruce, an' I don't see no way out but to fix my old man's
case myself. Maybe if things was different, I'd feel some other way
about it, but this here Lytton is worse 'n scum, Bruce. You know an'
everybody knows what he is. He's a drunken, lyin' ----! That's what he
is!

"I've been watchin' him close for weeks, seein' him drink every cent of
my dad's money, seein' him get to be less 'n less of a man.

"One day I was in town. I'd been drinkin' myself to keep from goin'
crazy thinkin' 'bout this thing. Just at dusk, just when th' train come
in an' everybody was down to th' station, I walked down th' street
toward Nate's corral to get my horse. I seen him comin' towards me,
Bruce. He was drunk, he could just about make it. He didn't know me,
never has knowed who I was, but he looks up at me an' commences to cuss,
an' I ... Well, I draws an' fires."

He leaned back against the building.

"He dropped an' I thought things was squared, so I lit out. But I found
out I shot too quick ... or maybe I was drunker 'n I thought.

"Where was he hit, Bruce?"

"Left forearm, Benny ... right there."

"Hum ... I thought so. I had a notion that gun was shootin' to th'
right."

They sat silent a moment, then he resumed:

"When I got to thinkin' it over I was glad I hadn't killed him. I made
up my mind that wasn't the best way. That's a little too much like
killin' just 'cause you're mad, so I made up my mind I'd go on about my
business until I was meddled with.

"I'm livin' at my home, now, Bruce. I'm back at th' Sunset, livin' in
th' cabin me an' my folks built with our hands, workin' alone in our
mine, waitin' for good times to come again. I'm goin' to stay there ...
right along. It's goin' to be my mine 'cause it rightfully belongs to
me, no matter what Lytton's damn corporation papers may say.

"Some day, when he sobers up, he'll start back there, Bruce. I'll be
waitin' for him. I won't harm a hair, I won't say a word until he steps
on to them claims. Then, by God, I'll shoot him down like he was a
coyote tryin' to get my chickens!"

Bayard got up and thoughtfully stroked the hip of the pinto horse.

"I guess I understand, Benny," he said, after a moment. "I'm pretty sure
I do."

"He's ... He's as low as a snake's belly, ain't he, Bruce?"--as if for
reassurance.

"Yes, an' he'd be lower, Benny, if there was anythin' lower," he
remarked, grimly.

"He can shoot though; watch him, Benny! I've seen him beat th' best of
us at a turkey shootin'."

"That's what makes me feel easy about it. I wouldn't want to kill a man
that couldn't shoot as good as I can, anyhow."

Benny Lynch departed, still unsmiling, very serious, and, as Bayard
watched him ride away, he shook his head in perplexity.

"I wish I was as free to act as you are," he thought. "But I ain't; an'
your tellin' me has dug my hole just that much deeper!"

He looked out over the valley a long moment. It was bright under the
afternoon sun but somehow it seemed, for him, to be queerly shadowed.

CHAPTER X

WHOM GOD HATH JOINED

The next day the puzzled cowman rode the trail to Yavapai to find that
Ann was out. He was told that Nora had taken her riding, so he waited
for their return, restless, finding no solace in the companionship that
the saloon, the town's one gathering place for men, afforded.

He stood leaning against the front of the general store, deep in
thought, when a distant rattle attracted his attention. He glanced down
the street to his right and beyond the limits of the town saw a rapidly
moving dust cloud approach. As it drew near, the rattling increased,
became more distinct, gave evidence that it was a combination of many
sounds, and Bayard smiled broadly, stirring himself in anticipation.

A moment more and the dust cloud dissolved itself into a speeding mantle
for a team of ponies and a buckboard, on the seat of which sat the Rev.
Judson A. Weyl. The horses came down the hard street, ears back,
straining away from one another until they ran far outside the wheel
tracks. The harnesses, too large for the beasts, dangled and flopped and
jingled, the clatter and clank of the vehicle's progress became
manifold as every bolt, every brace, every bar and slat and spoke
vibrated, seeming to shake in protest at that which held it to the rest,
and, above it all, came the regular grating slap of the tire of a dished
hindwheel, as in the course of its revolutions it met the metal brake
shoe, as if to beat time for the ensemble.

The man on the seat sat very still, the reins lax in his hands. The
spring under him sagged with his weight and his long legs were doubled
oddly between the seat and broken dash. He appeared to give no heed to
his team's progress; just sat and thought while they raced along, the
off horse breaking into a gallop at intervals to keep pace with its long
stepping mate.

Across from where Bayard stood, the team swung sharply to the right,
shot under a pinyon tree, just grazing the trunk with both hubs of the
wheels, and rounded the corner of a low little house, stopping abruptly
when out of sight; and the rancher laughed aloud in the sudden silence
that followed.

He went across the thoroughfare, followed the tracks of the buckboard
and came upon the tall, thin, dust covered driver, who had descended,
unfastened the tugs and was turning his wild-eyed, malevolent-nosed team
of half broken horses into a corral which was shaded by a tall pine
tree. He looked up as Bayard approached.

"Hel-_lo_, Bruce!" he cried, flinging the harness up on a post, and
extending a hearty hand. "I haven't seen you in an age!"

"How are you, Parson?" the other responded, gripping the offered hand
and smiling good-naturedly into the alert gaze from the black eyes. "I
ain't saw you for a long time, either, but every now and then, when I'm
ridin' along after my old cows, I hear a most awful noise comin' from
miles away, an' I say to myself, 'There goes th' parson tryin' to beat
th' devil to another soul!'"

The other laughed and cast a half shameful look at his buckboard, which
Bayard was inspecting critically. It was held together with rope and
wire; bolts hung loosely in their sockets; not a tight spoke remained in
the wheels; the pole was warped and cracked and the hair stuffing of the
seat cushion was held there only by its tendency to mat and become
compact, for the cover was three-quarters gone.

"It's deplorable, ain't it," Bayard chuckled, "how th' Lord outfits his
servants in this here country?"

The clergyman laughed.

"That's a chariot of fire, Bruce!" he cried. "Don't you understand?"

"It'd be on fire, if I had it, all right! It ain't fit for nothin' else.
Why, Parson, I should think th' devil'd get you sure some of these
nights when you're riskin' your neck in this here contraption an'
trustin' to your Employer to restrainin' th' wickedness in that pair of
unlovely males you call horses!"

"Well, maybe I should get a new rig," the other admitted, still
laughing. "But somehow, I'm so busy looking after His strays in this
country that I don't get time to think about my own comfort. Maybe
that's the best way. If I took time to worry about material discomforts,
I suppose I'd feel dirty and worn and hot now, for I've had a long, long
drive."

"A drink'd do you a lot of good, Parson," said Bruce, with a twinkle in
his eye. "I don't mind drinkin' with you, even if you are a preacher."

"And _because_ I'm a member of the clergy I have to drink with you
whether I like it or not, Bruce!"--with a crack of his big hand on
Bayard's shoulder. "A bottle of pop would taste fine about now, son!"

"Well, you wait here an' I'll get that brand of sham liquor," said
Bruce, turning to start for the saloon.

"Hold on, Bruce. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I don't feel
that I want to let you buy anything for me out of that place. Get me
some at the drug store."

The younger man hesitated.

"Well, I got a few convictions myself, Parson. Maybe there ain't much to
be said for s'loon men, but your friend who runs that pill foundry sells
booze to Indians, I suspect, which ain't right an' which no
self-respectin' s'loon man would do."

"Son, all life is a compromise," laughed Weyl. "You go buy what you like
to drink; I'll buy mine. How's that?"

"That's about as fair as a proposition can be, I guess."

Ten minutes later they were seated in the shade of the pine tree, backs
against the corral where the sweat-crusted horses munched alfalfa.
Bayard drank from a foaming bottle of beer, Weyl from a pop container.
Both had removed their hats, and their physical comfort approached the
absolute.

The cowman, though, was not wholly at ease. He listened attentively to
the rector's discourse on the condition of his parish, but all the while
he seemed to be bothered by some idea that lurked deep in his mind.
During a pause, in which the brown pop gurgled its way through Weyl's
thin lips, Bruce squinted through the beer that remained in his bottle
and said,

"Somethin's been botherin' me th' last day or so, Parson, an' I sure was
glad when I seen you comin' up in this here ... chariot of fire."

"What is it, Bruce?"

"Well, here's th' case. If a jasper comes to you an' tells you somethin'
in confidence, are you bound to keep your mouth shut even if somebody's
likely to get hurt by this here first party's plan? I know your outfit
don't have no confession--'tain't confession I want.... It's advice ...
what'd you do if you was in that fix?"

The other straightened his long limbs and smiled gravely.

"I can tell you what I would do, Bruce; but, if it's a matter of
consequence, I can't advise you what to do.

"That's one of the hardest things I have to meet--honest men, such as
you, coming to me with honest questions. I'm only a man like you are; I
have the same problems, the same perplexities; it's necessary for me to
meet them in the way you do. Because I button my collar behind is of no
significance. Because I'm trying to help men to know their own souls
gives me no superiority over them. That's as far as I can go--helping
men to know themselves. Once that is accomplished, I can't guide their
actions or influence their decisions. So far as I can determine, that's
all God wants of us. He wants us to see ourselves in the light of truth;
then, be honest with ourselves.

"In your particular matter, I couldn't stand by and see a man walk into
danger unaware and yet it would mean a lot for me to betray another
man's confidence. I suppose I'd do as I do in so many matters, and that
is to compromise. I would consider it my duty to keep a confidence, if
it was made in the spirit of honesty and, just as surely, it is my duty
to save men from harm. My word of honor means much ... yes. But my
brother's safety, if I am his keeper, is of as much consequence, surely.
If I couldn't compromise--if taking a middle course wouldn't be
practical--then I think I would choose the cause which I considered most
just and throw all my influence and energy into it.

"That's what I would do, my friend. Perhaps, it is not what you would
do, but so long as you are honest in your perplexity then, basically,
whatever action you decide on, must be right."

Bayard drank again, slowly.

"I've never been inside your church," he said at length. "I'm like a lot
of men. I don't care much about churches. Do you preach like that on
Sunday?"--turning his face to Weyl.

The other laughed heartily.

"I don't preach, Bruce! I just talk and try to think out loud and make
my people think. Yes ... I try to be before my people just as I am
before you, or any other friend."

"Some day, then, I'm likely to come along and ask to throw in with your
outfit ... your church. I'll bet that after I've let a little more hell
out of my system, I could get to be a top deacon in no time ... in your
church!"

The clergyman smiled and rested his hand affectionately on Bayard's
knee.

"We're always glad to have stoppers come along," he replied. "Every now
and then one drops in to see what we're like. Some have stayed and gone
to work with us and turned out to be good hands."

Bruce made no response and the other was not the sort to urge. So they
sat a time in companionable silence until the younger man asked,

"Had you come far to-day?"

"Wolf Basin. I went over there yesterday and married old Tom Nelson's
girl to a newcomer over there."

Bayard looked at him keenly. He had wanted to bring up another
question, but had been unable to decide upon a device for the
manipulation of the conversation. This was a fortunate opening.

"Did you hear the yarn they was tellin' 'bout old Newt Hagadorn, when
they 'lected him justice of th' peace in Bumble Bee? At his first
weddin' Newt got tangled up in his rope an' says,

"'Who me 'nd God has j'ined together let no man put apart!'"

Weyl threw back his head and laughed heartily. Bruce shook with mirth
but watched his friend's face, and, when the clergyman had sobered
again, he asked,

"How about this who-God-hath-joined-together idea anyhow, Parson? Does
it always work out?"

"Not always, Bruce,"--with a shake of his head--"You should know that."

"Well, when it don't, what've you parsons got to say about it? You've
hogtied 'em in th' name of all that's holy; what if it don't turn out
right? They're married in th' name of God, ain't they?"

Weyl drained the last of his pop and tossed the bottle away.

"I used to think they were ... they all were, Bruce. That was when I was
as young in years, as I try to be young in heart now. But the more
couples I marry, the stronger is my conviction that God isn't a party to
all those transactions, not by a long sight!

"If my bishop were to hear me say that, he'd have me up for a lecture,
because he is bothered with a lot of traditions and precedent, but many
men are calling on Him to bless the unions of young men and women when
He only refuses to answer. Men don't know; somehow they can't see that
God turns his face from marriage at times; they keep on thinking that
all that is necessary is to have some ordained minister warn society to
keep hands off, that it is the Father's business ... when it is not,
when love, when God, isn't there."

"How are young goin' to tell when He's missin' from those present?"

Weyl shrugged his shoulders.

"The individuals, the parties concerned, are the only ones who know
that."

"When they do know, when they don't give up even then? What are you
goin' to do 'bout that?"

The other man shook his head sadly.

"There are many things that you and I--that society--must do, Bruce, my
son. It's up to us to change our attitude, to change our way of looking
at human relations, to pull off the bandages that are blinding our eyes
and see the true God. Other things besides marriage demand that unerring
sight, too....'

"But what I'm gettin' at," broke in the other, pulling him back to the
question of matrimony, "is, what are you goin' to do, when you know God
ain't ridin' with a couple, when it's a sin for 'em to be together, but
when th' man holds to his wife like I'd hold to a cow with my brand on
her, an' when th' woman--maybe--hangs to him 'cause she thinks th' Lord
_has_ had somethin' to do with it."

"In that case, if she thinks of the Father's connection as an affair of
the past, she must know it is no longer holy; someone should open her
eyes, someone who is unselfish, who has a perspective, who is willing to
be patient and help her, to suffer with her, if need be."

"You wouldn't recommend that a party who sort of hankered to wring th'
husband's neck an' who thought the wife was 'bout th' finest thing God
ever put breath into, start out to tackle th' job, would you?"

Weyl rubbed his chin in thoughtful consideration; then replied slowly:

"No, it is our duty to give the blind sight; we can only do that by
knowing that our motives are holy when we undertake the job. That is the
first and only matter to consider. Beyond motives, we cannot judge men
and women....

"My bishop would drop dead before me, Bruce, if he heard that."

The other was silent a moment; then he said, slowly, "I wish some of us
miser'ble sinners could be so open minded as some of you God fearin',
hell-preachin' church goers!"

After a long interval, in which their discussion rambled over a score of
topics, Bayard left.

"If you ever get near th' Circle A in that chariot of fire, I hope she
goes up in smoke, so you'll have to stay a while!" he said. "An' I hope
M's. Weyl's with you when it happens."

"Your wishes for bad luck are only offset by the hope that sometime we
can come and spend some days with you, my friend!" laughed the minister
as they shook hands.

Ann and Nora had returned when Bruce reached the Manzanita House and in
the former's room a few moments later, after he had reported on Lytton's
slow gaining of strength, Bayard said to her,

"Do you believe what I tell you, ma'am?"

She looked at him as though she did not get his meaning, but saw he was
in earnest and replied,

"I've never doubted a thing you've told me."

"Then I want you to believe one more thing I'm goin' to tell you, an' I
don't want you to ask me any questions about it, cause I'm so
hogtied--that is, situated, ma'am--that I can't answer any. I just want
to tell you never to let your husband go back to th' Sunset mine."

"Never to _let_ him? Why, when he's himself again that's where his work
will be--"

"I can't help that, ma'am. All I can say is, not to let him. It means
more to you than anybody can think who don't know th' ways of men in a
country like this. Just remember that, an' believe that, will you?"

"You want him to give up everything?"

"All I want, ma'am, is for you to say you'll never let him go there."

Finally, she unwillingly, uncomprehendingly, agreed to do all she could
to prevent Ned's return to the mining camp.

"Then, that's all, for now," Bayard announced, dryly, and went from the
room.

Their hands had not touched; there had been no word, no glance
suggestive of the emotional outburst which characterized their last
meeting, and, when he was gone, the woman, with all her conscience, felt
a keen disappointment.

CHAPTER XI

THE STORY OF ABE

True to her promise to Bruce, Nora had taken Ann in hand. She proposed
that they ride together the day after the man had suggested such a
kindness and the step was met most enthusiastically by the eastern
woman, for it promised her relief from the anxiety provoked by mere
waiting.

"I know nothing about this, so you'll have to tell me everything, Nora,"
she said as, in a new riding skirt, she settled herself in the saddle
and felt her horse move under her.

"I don't know much either," the girl replied, fussing with her blouse
front. "I was learnt to ride by a fine teacher, but I was so busy
learnin' 'bout him that I didn't pay much attention to what he said."

She looked up shyly, yet her mouth was set in determination and she
forced herself to meet Ann Lytton's gaze, to will to be kind to her ...
because Bruce had asked it. Her thinly veiled declaration of interest in
Bayard was not made without guile. It was a timid expression of her
claim to a free field. Perhaps, beneath all her sense of having failed
in the big ambition of her life, was a hope. This eastern woman was
married. Nora knew Bruce, knew his close adherence to his own code of
morals, and she believed that something possibly might come to pass,
some circumstance might arise which would take Ann out of their lives
before the control that Bayard had built about his natural impulses
could be broken down. That would leave her alone with the rancher, to
worship him from a distance, to find a great solace in the fact that
though he refused to be her lover no other woman was more intimately in
his life. That hope prompted her mild insinuation of a right of
priority.

Ann caught something of the subtle enmity which Nora could not wholly
cover by her outward kindness. She had heard Nora's and Bruce's names
associated about the hotel, and when, on speaking of Bayard, she saw her
companion become more shy, felt her unconscious hostility increase
perceptibly, she deduced the reason. With her conclusion came a feeling
of resentment and with a decided shock Ann realized that she was
prompted to be somewhat jealous of this daughter of the west. Indignant
at herself for what she believed was a mean weakness she resolved to
refrain from talking of Bruce to Nora for the sake of the girl's peace
of mind, although she could not help wondering just how far the affair
between the waitress and her own extraordinary lover had gone.

Keeping off the subject was difficult, for the two were so far apart,
their viewpoints so widely removed, that they had little or no matter on
which to converse, aside from Yavapai and its people; and of the
community Bayard was the outstanding feature for them both.

"How long have you been here, Nora?" Ann asked.

"Three years; ever since Bruce got me my job."

There you were!

"Do you like it here?"

"Well, folks have showed me a good time; Bruce especially."

Again the talk was stalled.

"Were you born out here?"

"Yes; that's why I ain't got much education ... except what Bruce gave
me."

Once more; everything on which they could converse went directly back to
Bayard and, finally, Ann abandoned the attempt to avoid the embarrassing
subject and plunged resolutely into it, hoping to dissipate the
intangible barrier that was between them.

"Tell me about Bruce," she said. "He brought you here, he educated you;
he must have been very kind to you. He must be unusual,"--looking at the
other girl to detect, if she could, any misgiving sign.

Nora stared straight ahead.

"He's been good to me," she said slowly. "He's good to everybody, as I
guess you know. The' ain't much to know about him. His name ain't
Bayard; nobody knows what it is. He was picked up out of a railroad
wreck a long time ago an' old Tim Bayard took him an' raised him. They
never got track of his folks; th' wreck burnt.

"Tim died four years ago an' Bruce's runnin' th' outfit. He's got a fine
ranch!"--voice rising in unconscious enthusiasm. "He ain't rich, but
he'll be well fixed some day. He don't care much about gettin' rich;
says it takes too much time. He'd rather read an' fuss with horses an'
things."

"Isn't it unusual to find a man out here or anywhere who feels like
that? Are there more like him in this country, Nora?"

"God, no!"--with a roughness that startled her companion. "None of 'em
are like him. He was born different; you can tell that by lookin' at
him. He ain't their kind, but they all like him, you bet! _He's_
smarter'n they are. Feller from th' East, a perfesser, come out here
with th' consumption once when Tim was alive an' stayed there; he taught
Bruce lots. My!"--with a sigh of mingled pride and hopelessness--"he
sure knows a lot. Just as if he was raised an' educated in th' East,
only with none of th' frills you folks get."

Then she was silent and refused to respond readily to Ann's advances,
but rode looking at her pony's ears, her lips in a straight line.

That was the beginning. Each day the two women rode together, Nora
teaching Ann all she knew of horses and showing her, in her own way, the
mighty beauty of that country.

After the first time, they said little about Bruce; with a better
acquaintance, more matters could be talked about and for that each was
thankful.

Removed as they were from one another by birth and training, each of
these two women, strangers until within a few days, found that a great
part of her life was identical with that of the other. Yet, at the very
point where they came closest to one another, divergence began again.
Their common interest was their feeling for Bruce Bayard, and their
greatest difference was the manner in which each reacted to the emotion.
The waitress, more elemental, more direct and child-like, wanted the man
with an unequivocal desire. She would have gone through any ordeal,
subjected herself to any ignominious circumstances, for his pleasure.
But she did not want him as a possession, as something which belonged to
her; she wanted him for a master, longed with every fiber of her sensory
system to belong to him. She would have slaved for him, drudged for him,
received any brutal outburst he might have turned on her, gratefully,
just so long as she knew she was his.

Ann Lytton, complicated in her manner of thought by the life she had
lived, hampered by conventions, by preconceived standards of conduct,
would not let herself be whiffed about so wholly by emotion. It was as
though she braced backward and moved reluctantly before a high wind,
urged to flight, resisting the tugging by all the strength of her limbs,
yet losing control with every reluctant step. For her, also, Bruce
Bayard was the most wonderful human being that she had ever experienced.
His roughness, his little uncouth touches, did not jar on her highly
sensitized appreciation of proprieties. With another individual of a
weaker or less cleanly type, the slips in grammar, even, would have been
annoying; but his virility and his unsmirched manner of thought, his
robust, clean body, overbalanced those shortcomings and, deep in her
heart, she idolized him. And yet she would not go further, would not
willingly let that emotion come into the light where it could thrive and
grow with the days; she tried to repress it, keeping it from its natural
sources of nourishment and thereby its growth--for it would grow in
spite of her--became a disrupting progress. One part of her, the real,
natural, unhampered Ann, told her that for his embraces, for his
companionship, she would sell her chances of eternity; she had no desire
to own him, no urge to subject herself to him; the status she wanted was
equal footing, a shoulder-to-shoulder relationship that would be a
joyous thing. And yet that other part, that Puritanical Ann, resisted,
fought down this urge, told her that she must not, could not want Bayard
because, at the Circle A ranch, waited another man who, in the eyes of
the law, of other people, of her God, even, was the one who owned her
loyalty and devotion even though he could not claim her love. Strange
the ways of women who will guard so zealously their bodies but who will
struggle against every natural, holy influence to give so recklessly, so
uselessly, so hopelessly, of their souls!

Nora was the quicker to analyze her companion-rival. Her subjection to
Bayard's every whim was so complete that, when he told her to be kind to
this other woman, she obeyed with all the heart she could muster, in
spite of what she read in his face and in Ann's blue eyes when that
latter-day part of the eastern woman dreamed through them. She went
about her task doggedly, methodically, forcing herself to nurse the bond
between these two, thinking not of the future, of what it meant to her
own relationships with the cattleman, of nothing but the fact that
Bayard, the lover of her dreams, had willed it. The girl was a religious
fanatic; her religion was that of service to Bayard and she tortured
herself in the name of that belief.

And in that she was only reflecting the spirit of the man she loved.
Back at the ranch, Bayard underwent the same ordeal of repressing his
natural desires, only, in his case, he could not at all times control
his revulsion for Lytton, while Nora kept her jealousy well in hand. As
at first, he centered his whole activity about bringing Lytton back to
some semblance of manhood. He nursed him, humored him as much as he
could, watched him constantly to see that the man did not slip away, go
to Yavapai and there, in an hour, undo all that Bruce had accomplished.

Lytton regained strength slowly. His nervous system, racked and torn by
his relentless dissipation, would not allow his body to mend rapidly. He
had been on the verge of acute alcoholism; another day or two of
continued debauchery would have left him a bundle of uncontrollable
nerves, and remedying the condition was no one day task. A fortnight
passed before Lytton was able to sit up through the entire day and, even
then, a walk of a hundred yards would bring him back pale and panting.

Meager as his daily improvement was, nevertheless it was progress, and
the rehabilitation of his strength meant only one thing for Bruce
Bayard. It meant that Lytton, within a short time, must know of Ann's
presence, must go to her, and that, thereafter, Bayard would be excluded
from the woman's presence, for he still felt that to see them together
would strip him of self-restraint, would make him a primitive man,
battling blindly for the woman he desired.

As the days passed and Bruce saw Lytton steadying, gaining physical and
mental force, his composure, already disturbed, was badly shaken. He
tried to tell himself that what must be, must be; that brooding would
help matters not at all, that he must keep up his courage and surrender
gracefully for the sake of the woman he loved, keeping her peace of mind
sacred. At other times, he went over the doctrine of unimpeachable
motive, of individual duty that the clergyman had expounded, but some
inherent reluctance to adopt the new, some latent conservatism in him
rebelled at thought of man's crossing man where a woman was at stake. He
did not know, but he formed the third being who was held to a rigid
course by conscience! Of the four entangled by this situation, Ned
Lytton alone was without scruples, without a code of ethics.

Between the two men was the same attitude that had prevailed from the
first. Bayard kept Lytton in restraint by his physical and mental
dominance. He gave up attempting to persuade, attempting to appeal to
the spark of manhood left in his patient, after that day when Lytton
stole and drank the whiskey. He relied entirely on his superiority and
frankly kept his charge in subjection. When strength came back to the
debauched body, Bayard told himself, he could begin to plead, to argue
for his results; not before.

For the greater portion of the time Lytton was morose, quarrelsome. Now
and again came flashes of a better nature, but invariably they were
followed by spiteful, reasonless outbursts and remonstrances. To these
Bayard listened with tolerance, accepting the other man's curses and
insults as he would the reasonless pet of a child, and each time that
Ned showed a desire to act as a normal human being, to interest himself
in life or the things about him, the big rancher was on the alert to
give information, to encourage thought that would take the sick man's
mind from his own difficulties.

One factor of the life at the ranch evidently worried Lytton, but of it
he did not speak. This was the manner with which Bayard kept one room,
the room in which he slept, to himself. The door through which he
entered never stood open, Lytton was never asked to cross the sill.
Bayard never referred to it in conversation. A secret chamber, it was,
rendered mysterious by the fact that its occupant took pains that it
should never be mentioned. Lytton instinctively respected this attitude
and never asked a question touching on it, though at times his annoyance
at being so completely excluded from a portion of the house was evident.

Once Lytton, sitting in the shade of the ash tree, watched Bayard riding
in from the valley on his sorrel horse. The animal nickered as his
master let him head for the well beside the house.

"He likes to drink here," Bruce laughed, dropping off and wiping the
dust from his face. "He thinks that because this well's beside the
house, it's better than drinkin' out yonder in th' corral. Kind of a
stuck up old pup, ain't you, Abe?" slapping the horse's belly until he
lifted one hind foot high in a meaningless threat of destruction. "Put
down that foot you four-flusher!" setting his boot over the hoof and
forcing it back to earth.

He pulled off the saddle, dropped it, drew the bridle over the sleek,
finely proportioned ears and let the big beast shake himself mightily,
roll in the dooryard dust and drink again.

"Where'd he come from?" Lytton asked, after staring at the splendid
lines of the animal for several minutes.

"Oh, Abe run hog-wild out on th' valley," Bayard answered, with a
laugh, waving his hand out toward the expanse of country, now a fine
lilac tinted with green under the brilliant sunlight, purple and
uncertain away out where the heat waves distorted the horizon. "He was a
hell bender of a horse for a while....

"You see, he come from some stock that wasn't intended to get out.
Probably, an army stallion got away from some officer at Whipple
Barracks and fell in with a range mare. That kind of a sire accounts for
his weight and that head and neck, an' his mammy must have been a
leather-lunged, steel-legged little cuss--'cause he's that, too. He's
got the lines of a fine bred horse, with the insides of a first class
bronc."

"He attracted attention when he was a two year old and some of th' boys
tried to get him, but couldn't. They kept after him until he was four
and then sort of give up. He was a good horse gone bad. He drove off
gentle mares and caused all kind of trouble and would 'a been shot, if
he hadn't been so well put up. He was no use at all that way; he was a
peace disturber an' he was fast an' wise. That's a bad combination to
beat in a country like ours,"--with another gesture toward the valley.

"But his fifth summer was th' dry year--no rain--creeks dryin' up--hell
on horses; Tim and I went to get him.

"There was just three waterin' places left on that range. One on Lynch
Creek, one under Bald Mountain, other way over by Sugar Block. We fenced
the first two in tight so nothin' but birds could get to 'em, built a
corral around th' third, that was clean across th' valley
there,"--indicating as he talked-"an' left th' gate open."

"Well, first day all th' horses on th' valley collected over other side
by those fenced holes, wonderin' what was up,"--he scratched his head
and grinned at the memory, "an' Tim and I set out by Sugar Block in th'
sun waitin'.... Lord, it was hot, an' there wasn't no shade to be had.
That night, some of the old mares come trailin' across th' valley
leadin' their colts, whinnerin' when they smelled water. We was sleepin'
nearby and could kind 'a' see 'em by th' starlight. They nosed around
th' corral and finally went in and drunk. Next day, th' others was
hangin' in sight, suspicious, an' too thirsty to graze. All of 'em stood
head toward th' water, lookin' an' lookin' hours at a time. 'Long toward
night in they come, one at a time, finally, with a rush; unbranded
mares, a few big young colts, all drove to it by thirst.

"Old Abe, though, he stood up on th' far rim of a wash an' watched an'
hollered an' trotted back an' forth. He wouldn't come; not much! We had
a glass an' could see him switch his tail an' run back a little ways
with his ears flat down. Then, he'd stop an' turn his head an' stick up
his ears stiff as starch; then he'd turn 'round an' walk towards us,
slow for a few steps. Never got within pistol shot, though. All next day
he hung there alone, watchin' us, dryin' up to his bones under that
sun. Antelope come up, a dozen in a bunch, an' hung near him all
afternoon. Next mornin' come th' sun an' there was Mr. Abe, standin'
with his neck straight in th' air, ears peekin' at our camp to see if we
was there yet. Gosh, how hot it got that day!" He rose, drew a bucket of
water from the well and lifting it in his big hands, drank deeply from
the rim at the memory.

"I thought it was goin' to burn th' valley up.

"'This'll bring him,' says Tim.

"'Not him,' I says! 'He'll die first.'

"'He's too damn good a sport to die,' Tim said. 'He'll quit when he's
licked.'

"An' he did."

The man walked to the sorrel, who stood still idly switching at flies.
He threw his arm about the great head and the horse, swaying forward,
pushed against his body with playful affection until Bayard was shoved
from his footing.

"You did, didn't you, Abe? He didn't wait for dark. It was still light
an' after waitin' all that time on us, you'd thought he'd stuck it out
until we couldn't see so well. But it seemed as if Tim was right, as if
he quit when he saw he was licked, like a good sport. He just
disappeared into that wash an' come up on th' near side an' walked slow
toward us, stoppin' now an' then, sidesteppin' like he was goin' to turn
back, but always comin' on an' on. He made a big circle toward the
corral an', when he got close, 'bout fifty yards off, he started to
trot an' he went through that gate on a high lope, comin' to stop plumb
in th' middle of that hole, spatterin' water an' mud all over himself
an' half th' country.

"'Twasn't much then. We made it to th' gate on our horses. He could see
us, but we knew after bein' dried out that long he'd just naturally have
to fill up. When I reached for th' gate, he made one move like he tried
to get away but 'twas too late. We had him trapped. He was licked. He
looked us over an' then went to lay down in th' water."

He stroked the long, fine neck slowly.

"After that 'twas easy. I knew he was more or less man even if he was
horse. We put th' first rope on him he'd ever felt next mornin'. Of
course, 'twas kind of a tournament for a while, but, finally we both
tied on an' started home with him between us. He played around some, but
finally let up; not licked, not discouraged, understand, but just as if
he admitted we had one on him an' he was goin' to see our game through
for curiosity.

"We put him in th' round corral an' left him there for a straight month,
foolin' with him every day, of course. Then I got up an' rode him.
That's all there is to it.

"He was my best friend th' minute I tied on to him; he is yet. We never
had no trouble. I treat him square an' white. He's never tried to pitch
with me, never has quit runnin' until I told him to, an', for my part,
I've never abused him or asked him to go th' limit."

He walked out to the corral then, horse following at his heels like a
dog, nosing the big brown hand that swung against Bayard's thigh.

"That's always been a lesson to me," Bruce said, on his return as he
prepared to wash in the tin basin beside the wall. "Runnin' hog-wild
never got him nothin' but enemies, never did him no good. He found out
that it didn't pay, that men was too much for him, an' he's a lot
happier, lot better off, lot more comfortable than he was when he was
hellin' round with no restraint on him. He knows that. I can tell.

"So,"--as he lathered his hands with soap--"I've always figured that
when us men got runnin' too loose we was makin' mistakes, losin' a lot.
It may seem a little hard on us to stop doin' what we've had a good time
doin' for a while, but, when you stop to consider all sides, I guess
there's about as much pleasure for us when we think of others as there
is when we're so selfish that we don't see nothin' but our own desires."

Lytton stirred uneasily in his chair and tossed his chin scornfully.

"Don't you ever get tired playing the hero?" he taunted. "That's what
you are, you know. You're the hero; I'm the villain. You're the one
who's always saying the things heroes say in books. You're the one who's
always right, while I'm always wrong.

"You know, Bayard, when a man gets to be so damn heroic it's time he
watched himself. I've never seen one yet whose foot didn't slip sooner
or later. The higher you fly, understand, the harder you fall. You're
pretty high; mighty superior to most of us. Look out!"

The other regarded him a moment, cheeks flushing slowly under the taunt.

"Lytton, if I was to ask a favor of you, would you consider it?"

"Fire away! The devil alone knows what I could do for anybody."

"Just this. Be careful of me, please. I might, sometime, sort of choke
you or something!"

He turned back to the wash basin at that and soused his face and head in
the cold water.

A moment before he had looked through that red film which makes killers
of gentle men. He had mastered himself at the cost of a mighty effort,
but in the wake of his rage came a fresh loathing for that other man ...
the man he was grooming, rehabilitating, only to blot out the
possibility of having a bit of Ann's life for himself. He was putting
his best heart, his best mind, his best strength into that discouraging
task, hoping against hope that he might lift Lytton to a level where Ann
would find something to attract and hold her, something to safeguard her
against the true lover who might ride past on his fire-shod stallion.
And it was bitter work.

CHAPTER XII

THE RUNAWAY

During these days Bayard saw Ann regularly. He would be up before dawn
that he might do the necessary riding after his cattle and reach Yavapai
before sunset, because, somehow, he felt that to see another man's wife
by daylight was less of a transgression than though he went under cover
of darkness. Perhaps it was also because he feared that in spite of his
caution to keep Ann's identity secret, in spite of the community's
accepted first conclusion, Yavapai might learn that she was wife and not
sister, and wished to fortify her against the sting of comment that
might be passed should the revelation occur and his affection for her be
guessed.

He was punctilious about his appearance. Invariably he changed shirts
and overalls before riding to the town, and he had reserved one gorgeous
green silk scarf for those occasions. He never appeared before the woman
unshaven and, since his one confessional outburst, he was as careful of
his speech, his manner, as he was of his person.

Ann had taken to Arizona whole heartedly and dressed suitably for the
new life she was leading--divided skirts, simple blouses, a brimmed hat
that would shade her eyes. Her cheeks bronzed from sun and wind, the
blood pumped closer to her skin from the outdoor life and her eyes,
above the latent pain in their depths, took on the brilliance of health.
Her new manner of dress, the better color that came to her face and
accentuated her beauty, the growing indications of vitality about her,
served only to fan the flame in Bayard's heart, for as it made her more
attractive to him, it also made her more understandable, brought her
nearer to his virile kind.

[Illustration: Ann had taken to Arizona whole-heartedly and dressed
suitably for the new life she was leading.]

"I've come to tell you about him, ma'am," he always said, by way of
opening their conversations.

Not once again did he call her by her given name, but, though he was
always formal, stiffly polite, never allowing an intimation of personal
regard to pass his lips, he could not hide the adoration in his eyes. It
came through his dogged resolution to hold it back, for he could not
keep his gaze from following her every move, every bend of her neck,
change of her lips, lift of her arms and shoulders or free, rhythmic
movement as she walked.

Ann saw and read that light and, though something in her kept demanding
that she blind herself to its significance, that, if necessary to
accomplish this, she refuse to give Bayard gaze for gaze, she could no
more have hidden the fact of that evidence of his love from her
understanding than she could have stopped the quickening of her pulse
when he approached.

Nora saw that light, too. She saw the trouble with it in his face;
and the realization of what it all meant was like a stab in the breast.
He had ceased entirely to laugh and banter with her as he had done
before Ann Lytton came to Yavapai; in other days he had always eaten at
the Manzanita House when in town, and his humorous chiding had been one
of the things in which the girl found simple delight. Now, he came and
went without eating; his words to her were few, almost without exception
they were of the other woman and, always, his speech was sober.

Mrs. Weyl returned to Yavapai and with her coming Ann found another
outlet for the trouble that she fought vainly to repress. To Bayard she
had given the fullest detail of her confidence; through Nora she had
found a method of forgetting for short successions of hours. But Bayard
was a man, and between them was the peculiar barrier which his love had
erected; Nora was not the type to which Ann would go for comfort and
there, anyhow, was again a dividing circumstance which could not wholly
be overcome. It was the emotional receptiveness of an understanding
woman that Ann Lytton needed; she wanted to be mothered, to be pitied,
to be assured in the terms of her kind and all that she found in the
clergyman's wife.

"Why, the poor child!" that good woman had cried when, on her arrival
home, her husband had told her of Ann's presence. "And you say her
brother has disappeared?"

"From Yavapai, yes; I suspect, though, that Bruce Bayard knows
something of where he is and I guess the girl could find him. Something
peculiar about it, though. Bruce is worried. And I think he's quite
desperately in love."

Forthwith, his wife dropped all other duties and went to Ann. In fifteen
minutes the novelty of acquaintance had worn off and in an hour Ann was
crying in the motherly arms, while she poured her whole wretched story
into the sympathetic ears; that is, all of the story up to the day when
Bruce Bayard told her why she must not help him nurse Ned Lytton back to
physical and moral health.

To the accompaniment of many there-there's and dear-child's and caresses
Ann's outburst of grief spent itself and the distress that had reflected
on the countenance of the older woman gave way to an expression of sweet
understanding.

"And because of everything, we--Mr. Bayard and I--had thought it best to
let people go on thinking that I am ... Ned's sister.... You see, it
might be embarrassing to have them talk."

Her look wavered and the face of Mrs. Weyl showed a sudden
comprehension. For a breath she sat gazing at the profile of the girl
beside her. Then she leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek and said,

"I know, daughter, I know."

That meeting led to daily visits and soon Bruce and Ann were invited to
eat their evening meal at the Weyls'. It was a peculiar event, with the
self-consciousness of Ann and the rancher putting an effective damper on
the conversation. Afterward, when the men sat outside in the twilight,
Bruce smoking a cigarette and the minister drawing temperately on an
aged cob pipe, the cowman broke a lengthy silence with:

"I'm glad she told your wife ... about bein' his wife.... It relieves
me. A thing like that is considerable of a secret to pack around."

The other blew ashes gently from the bowl of his pipe, exposing the ruby
coal before he spoke.

"If you ever think there's anything any man can do to help--from
listening on up--just let me try, will you, my boy?"

"If any man could help, you'd be the one," was the answer. "But th'
other day we sifted this thing down; it's up to th' man himself to be
sure that he's ridin' th' open trail an' ain't got anything to cover up.

"But lately so much has happened that I don't feel free, even when I'm
out on the valley. I feel, somehow, like I was under fence ... fenced
in."

Nora and Ann continued their rides together and one afternoon they had
gone to the westward in the direction of Bayard's ranch. It was at
Nora's suggestion, after they had agreed that Bruce might be on his way
to Yavapai that day. In the distance, they had sighted a rider and after
watching him a time saw him wave his hat.

"That's him," the waitress said. "Here's some fine grass; let's give th'
horses a bite an' let 'em cool till he comes up."

They waited there then, slouched in their saddles. Ann wanted to talk
about something other than Bruce, because, at the mention of his name,
that old chill was bound to assert itself in Nora.

"This is a better horse than the one I've had," she commented, stroking
the pony's withers and hoping to start talk that would make the interval
of waiting one of ease between them.

"Yes," agreed Nora, "but he's got a bad eye. I was afraid of him when we
first started out, but he seems to be all right. Bruce had one that
looked like him once an' he tried to pitch me off."

"Hold up your head, pony," Ann said, "You'll get us into trouble--"

Her horse, searching grass, had thrust his head under the pony Nora rode
and, as Ann pulled on the reins, he responded with the alacrity of a
nervous animal, striking the stirrup as he threw up his head. He
crouched, backed, half turned and Nora's spur caught under the headstall
of his bridle. It was a bridle without a throat-latch, and, at the first
jerk, it slipped over his ears, the bit slid from his mouth and
clattered on the rocks. Ann's first laugh changed to a cry of fright.
Nora, with a jab of her spurs, started to send her pony close against
the other, reaching out at the same time with her arms to encircle his
head. But she was too late, too slow. The freed horse trotted off a few
steps, throwing his nose to one side in curiosity, felt no restraint,
broke into a lope, struck back along the road toward town and,
surprised, frightened by his unexpected liberty, increased his pace to a
panicky run.

Behind, Nora pulled her horse up sharply, knowing that to pursue would
only set the runaway at a greater speed.

"Hang on!" she shouted, in a voice shrill with excitement. "Hang on!"

Ann was hanging on with all her strength. She was riding, too, with all
the skill at her command; for greater safety she clung to the horn with
both hands. She tried to speak to the horse under her, thinking that she
might quiet him by words, but the rush of wind whipped the feeble sounds
from her lips and their remnants were drowned in the staccatoed drumming
of hoofs as the crazed beast, breathing in excited gulps, breasted the
hill that led them back toward town, gathering speed with every leap
that carried them forward.

Nora, seeing that a runaway was inevitable, cried to her mount and the
pony, keyed to flight, sped along behind the other, losing with every
length traveled. Tears of fright spilled from the girl's eyes, chilling
her cheeks. What might happen was incalculable, she knew.

Then new sounds, above the beat of her horse's hoofs, above the wind in
her ears; the sweeping, measured, rolling batter of other hoofs, and
Nora turned her head to see Bruce Bayard, mouth set, eyes glowing, brim
of his hat plastered back against the crown by his rush, urge his big
sorrel horse toward her. He hung low over the fork of his saddle, clear
of his seat, tense, yet lithe, and responding to every undulation of the
beast that carried him.

From a distance Bayard had seen. He thought at first that Ann had
started her pony purposely, but when the animal raced away toward town
at such frantic speed, when Ann's hat was whipped from her head, when he
heard a distant, faint scream, he knew that no prompting of the woman's
had been behind the break. He stretched himself low over Abe's neck and
cried aloud, hung in his spurs and fanned the great beast's flanks with
his quirt. Never before had the sorrel been called upon so sharply;
never before had he felt such a prodding of rowels or lashing of
rawhide. Ears back, nose out, limbs flexing and straightening, spurning
the roadway with his drumming hoofs, the great animal started in
pursuit.

For a mile the road held up hill, following closely the rim of a rise
that hung high above the valley to the right. As it rose, the wagon
track bent to the left, with the trend of the rim. At the crest of the
hill Yavapai would be visible; from there the road, too, could be seen,
swinging in a big arc toward the town, which might be reached by travel
over a straight line; but that way would lead down an abrupt drop and
over footing that was atrocious, strewn with _malpais_ boulders and
rutted by many washes.

It was to overtake Ann's runaway before he topped this rise that Bayard
whipped his sorrel. He knew what might happen there. The animal that
bore the woman was crazed beyond control, beyond his own horse judgment.
He was running, and his sole objective was home. Now, he was taking the
quickest possible route and the moment he struck the higher country he
might leave the road and go straight for Yavapai, plunging down the
sharp point that stood three hundred feet above the valley, and making
over the rocks with the abandon of a beast that is bred and reared among
them. Well enough to run over rough ground at most times, but in this
insane going the horse would be heedless of his instinctive caution,
sacrificing everything for speed. He might fall before he reached the
valley floor, he might lose his footing at any yard between there and
town, and a fall in that ragged, volcanic rock, would be a terrible
thing for a woman.

Abe responded superbly to the urging. He passed Nora's pony in a shower
of gravel. His belly seemed to hang unbelievably close to the ground,
his stride lengthened, his tail stood rippling behind him, his feet
smote the road as though spitefully and he stretched his white patched
nose far out as if he would force his tendons to a performance beyond
their actual power. But he could not make it; the task of overcoming
that handicap in that distance was beyond the ability of blood and
bone.

As he went on, leap by leap, and saw that his gaining was not bringing
him beside Ann in time, Bayard commenced to call aloud to the horse
under him, and his eyes grew wide with dread.

His fears were well grounded. As though he had planned it long before,
as if the whole route of his flight had been preconceived, the black
pony swung to the right as he came up on level ground. He cut across the
intervening flat and, ears back, hindquarters scrooching far under his
body as he changed his gait for the steep drop, he disappeared over the
rim.

Bayard cried aloud, the sorrel swung unbidden on the trail of the
runaway and twenty yards behind stuck his fore feet stiffly out for the
first leap down the rock-littered point. Unspeakable footing, that.
_Malpais_ lumps, ranging from the size of an egg to some that weighed
tons, were everywhere. Between them sparse grass grew, but in no place
was there bare ground the size of a horse's hoof, and for every four
lengths they traveled forward, they dropped toward the valley by one!

Ears up now, the sorrel watched his footing anxiously, but the black
pony, eyes rolling, put his whole vigor into the running, urged on to
even greater efforts by the nearness of the pursuing animal. The fortune
that goes with flying bronchos alone kept his feet beneath his body.

Bayard's mouth was open and each time the shock of being thrown forward
and down racked his body, the breath was beaten from him. He looked
ahead, watching the footing at the bottom, leaving that over which they
then passed to his horse, for the most critical moment in a run such as
they took is when the horses strike level ground. Then they are apt to
go end over end, tripped by the impetus that their rush downhill gives
them. He knew that he could not overtake and turn Ann's pony with safety
before they reached the bottom. He feared that to come abreast of him
might drive the frantic beast to that last effort which would result in
an immediate fall. Every instant was precious; every leap filled with
potential disaster.

The stallion left off pretense at clean running. He slipped and
floundered and scrambled down the point; at times almost sitting on his
haunches to keep the rush of his descent within safety and retain
control of his balance. Slowly he drew closer to the other animal,
crowding a bit to the left to be nearer, grunting with his straining,
dividing his attention between preserving caution and making progress.

Ann's hair came down, tumbling about her shoulders, then down her back,
and finally brushed the sweated coat of her runaway with its ends. The
horrible sensation of falling, of pitching forward helplessly, swept
through her vitals each time the animal under her leaped outward and
down. It grew to an acute physical pain by its constant repetition. Her
face was very white, but almost expressionless. Only her eyes betrayed
the fear in her by their darkness, by their strained lids. Her mouth was
fixed in determination to play the game to its end. She heard the other
horse coming; Bayard's voice had called out to her. That was all she
knew. This flight was horrible, tragic; with each move of her horse she
feared that it must be the last, that she would be flung into those
rocks, yet, somehow, she felt that it would end well. For Bayard was
near her.

Not so with the man. As they slid down halfway to the valley, he cried
aloud to his horse again, for he saw that along the base of the drop,
right at the place toward which they were floundering, a recent storm
had gouged a fresh wash. Deep and narrow and rock filled, and, if her
horse, unable to stop, unable to turn with any degree of safety whatever
went into that ...

Behind them, loosened rocks clattered along, the dust rose, their trail
was marked by black blotches where the scant red soil had been turned
up. The sorrel's nose reached the black's reeling rump; it stretched to
his flank, to the saddle, to his shoulder.... And Ann turned her head
quickly, appealingly.

"Careful ... Abe! Once more ... easy ..."

Bayard dropped his reins; he leaned to the left. He scratched with his
spurs. His horse leaped powerfully twice, thrice, caution abandoned,
risking everything now. The man swung down, his arm encircled Ann's
waist, he brought the pressure of his right knee to bear against the
saddle, and lifted her clear, a warm, limp weight against his body.

Staggering under the added burden, the stallion gathered himself for a
try at the wash which he must either clear or in which he and those he
carried were to fall in a tangle. Bayard, lifting the woman high,
balanced in his saddle and gathered her closer.

The black floundered in uncertain jumps, throwing his head down in an
effort to check his progress, was overcome by his own momentum and
leaped recklessly. He misjudged, fell short and with a grunt and a thud
and a threshing went down into the bald rocks that floods had piled in
the gully.

Abe did not try to stop, to overcome the added impetus that this new
weight gave him. He lowered his head in a show of determination, took
the last three strides with a swift scramble and leaped.

Bayard thought that they were in the air for seconds. They seemed to
float over that wash. Seemed to hang suspended a deliberate instant.
Then they came down with a sob wrenched from the horse as his forefeet
clawed the far footing for a retaining hold and his hindquarters, the
bank crumbling under them, slipped down into the gully. He strained an
instant against sliding further back, gathering himself in an agony of
effort and floundered safely up!

Bruce became conscious that Ann's arms were about his neck, that her
body was close against his. He knew that his limbs quivered, partly from
the recent fright, partly from contact with the woman.

Abe staggered forward a few steps, halted and turned to look at his
unfortunate brother galloping lamely toward Yavapai.

Except for the animal's breathing, the world was very quiet. For a
moment Ann lay in Bayard's embrace; his one arm was about her shoulders,
the other hooked behind her knees; then, convulsively, her arms
tightened about his neck; she pressed her cheek against his and clung so
while their hearts throbbed, one against the other. He had not moved, he
refrained from crushing her, from taking her lips with his. It cost him
dearly and the effort to resist shot another tremor through his frame.
On that she roused.

"I wasn't afraid ... after I knew it was you," she said, raising her
head.

"I was, ma'am," he said, soberly, lifting and seating her on Abe's
withers.

"I was mighty scared. See what happened to your horse? That ... You'd
have been with him in those rocks."

He dismounted, still supporting her in her position.

"You sit in th' saddle, ma'am; I'll walk an' lead Abe. You're ... you're
not scared now?"

"A little,"--breathing deeply as he helped her, and, laughing in a
strained tone. "I'll ... I'll be frightened later I expect, but I'm not
now ... much ... It's you, you keep me from it," she said. "I'm not
frightened with you."

"I tried to keep things so you won't have to be, ma'am."

Probably because she was weak, perhaps wholly because of the hot
yearning that contact with him had roused in her, Ann swayed down toward
him. It was as though she would fall into his arms, as though she
herself would stir his repressed desire for her until it overcame his
own judgment, and yield to his will there in the brilliant afternoon; as
though she were going to him, then, for all time, regardless of
everything, caring only for the instant that her lips should be on his.
He started forward, flung up one arm as though to catch her; then drew
back.

"Don't, ma'am," he begged. "Don't! For the sake ... for your sake,
don't."

The woman swallowed and straightened her back as though just coming to
the complete realization of what had happened.

"Forgive me," she whispered.

They had not heard Nora riding down to them, so great was their
absorption in one another, but at that moment when Ann's head drooped
and Bayard's shoulders flexed as from a great fatigue the waitress
halted her horse beside them.

"God! I didn't think...."

She had looked at them with the fear that had struck her as she watched
the last phase of their descent still gripping her. But in their faces
she read that which they both struggled to hide from one another and the
light that had been in her eyes went out. She turned her face away from
them, looking out at the long afternoon shadows.

"I'll have to be gettin' back," she said, dully, as though unconscious
of the words.

"We'll go with you, Nora," the man said, very quietly. "Mrs. Lytton," he
pronounced the words distinctly as if to impress himself with their
significance--"is the first person who has ever been on Abe but me....
He seems to like it."

Leading the horse by the reins, he began to climb the point back toward
the road. In the east the runaway had dwindled to a bobbing fleck.

CHAPTER XIII

THE SCOURGING

In the last moments of twilight Ann sat alone in her room, cheeks still
flushed, limbs still trembling at intervals, pulses retaining their
swift measure. She was unstrung, aquiver with strange emotions.

It was not wholly the fright of the afternoon that had provoked her
nerves to this state; it was not alone the emotional surging loosed by
her moment in Bayard's arms, her cheek against his cheek; nor was it
entirely inspired by the fact, growing in portent with each passing
hour, that Bruce had told her his work with Ned Lytton was all but
ended, that within a day or two he was sending her husband to her. It
was a combination of all this, with possibly her husband's impending
return forming a background.

Again and again she saw Bruce as he delivered his message, heard his
even, dogged voice uttering the words. He had waited until they reached
the hotel, he had let Nora leave them and, then, in the sunset quiet,
standing on the steps where she had first seen him, he had refused to
hear her thanks for saving her from bodily hurt, and had broken in:

"It ain't likely I'll be in again for a while, ma'am. Your husband's
about ready to move. I've done all I can; it'd only hurt him to stay on
against his will. Sometime this week, ma'am, he'll be comin'."

And that was Wednesday! She had been struck stupid by his words. She had
heard him no further, though he did say other things; she had watched
him go, unable to call him back.

It relieved Ann not at all to tell herself that it was this for which
she had waited, had worried, had restrained herself throughout these
weeks; that she had come West to find her husband and that she was about
to join him, knowing that he was strengthened, that he had been lifted
up to a physical and mental level where she might guide him, aid him in
the fight which must continue.

That knowledge was no solace. It was that for which she had outwardly
waited, but it was that against which she inwardly recoiled. She
realized this truth now, and conscience cried back that it must not be
so, that she must stifle that feeling of revulsion, that she must
welcome her husband, eagerly, gladly. And it went on to accuse ... that
conscience; it shamed her because she had been held to the breast of
another man; it scorned her because she had drawn herself closer to him
with her own arms; it taunted her bitterly because she could not readily
agree with her older self that in the doing she had sinned, because to
her slowly opening eyes that moment had seemed the most beautiful
interval of her life!

A peculiar difference in the vivacity of her impressions had been
asserting itself. The memory of the runaway had faded. Her picture of
the moment when she strained her body against Bayard's was not so clear
as it had been an hour before, though the thrill, the great joy of it,
still remained to mingle with those other thoughts and emotions which
confused her. The last great impression of the day, though--Bayard's
solemn announcement of his completed task--grew more sharply defined,
more outstanding, more important as the moments passed, because its
eventuality was a thing before which she felt powerless in the face of
her conscience, before which all this other must be forgotten, before
which this new rebellious Ann must give way to the old long-suffering,
submissive wife. She felt as though she had known her moment of beauty
and that it had gone, leaving her not even a sweet memory; for her
grimmer self whispered that that brief span of time had been vile,
unchaste. And yet, in the next moment, her strength had rallied and she
was fighting against the influence of tradition, against blind
precedents.

A knock came on her door and Ann, wondering with a thrill if it could be
Bayard, both troubled and pleased at the possibility, stepped across the
floor to answer it.

"Oh, Nora!" she said in surprise. "Come in,"--when the girl stood still
in the hall, neither offering to speak nor to enter. "Do come in," she
insisted after a pause and the other crossed the threshold, still
without speaking.

"I've been sitting here in the dark thinking about what happened this
afternoon," Ann said, drawing a chair to face hers that was by the
window. "It was all very exciting, wasn't it?"

Nora had followed across the room slowly and Ann felt that the girl's
gaze held on her with unusual steadfastness.

"I guess it's a fortunate thing that Bruce Bayard came along when he
did. I ... I tremble every time I think of the way my horse went down!"
She broke off and laughed nervously.

Nora stood before her, still silent, still eyeing her pointedly.

"Well ... Won't you sit down, Nora?"--confused by the portentous silence
and the staring of the other. "Won't you sit down here?"

Mechanically the girl took her seat and Ann, wondering what this strange
bearing might mean, resumed her own chair. They sat so, facing one
another in the last sunset glow, the one staring stolidly, Ann covering
her embarrassment, her wonder with a forced smile. Gradually, that smile
faded, an uncertainty appeared in Ann's eyes and she broke out:

"Why, what is the matter with you, Nora?"

At that question the girl averted her face and let her hands drop down
over the chair arms with careless laxity.

"Don't you know what it is?" she asked, in her deep, throaty voice,
meeting Ann's inquiring gaze, shifting her eyes quickly, moving her
shoulders with a slight suggestion of defiance.

"Why, no, Nora! You're so queer. Is something troubling you? Can't you
tell me?"

Ann leaned forward solicitously.

The waitress laughed sharply, and lifted a hand to her brow, and shook
her head.

"Don't you know what it is?" she asked again, voice hardening. "Can't
you see? Are you blind? Or are you afraid?

"What'd you come out here for anyhow?" she cried, abruptly accusing, one
hand out in a gesture of challenge, and Ann could see an angry flush
come into her face and her lower lids puff with the emotion.

"Why, Nora...."

"Don't tell me! I know what you come for! You come to look after your
worthless whelp of a man; that's why; an' you stayed to try to take
mine!"--voice weakening as she again turned her face toward the window.

"Why, Nora Brewster ..."

The sharp shake of the girl's arm threw off Ann's hand that had gone out
to grasp it and the rasp in Nora's voice checked the eastern woman's
protest.

"Don't try to tell me anything different! I know! Can't I see? Am I as
blind as you try to make me think you are?"--with another swagger of the
shoulders as she moved in her chair. "Can't I see what's goin' on? Can't
I see you makin' up to him an' eyein' him an' leadin' him on?--You, a
married woman!"

"Nora, stop it!"

With set mouth Ann straightened, her breathing audible.

"I _won't_ stop. You're goin' to hear me through, understand? You're
goin' to know all about it; you're goin' to know what I am an' what he
is an' what's been between us ... what you've been breakin' up. Then, I
guess you won't come in here with your swell eastern ways an' try to
take him.... I guess not!"

She laughed bitterly and Ann could see the baleful glow in her eyes.

"I told you that he brung me here an' put me to work, I guess. Well,
that was so; he did. I'll tell you where he got me." She hitched
forward. "He brung me from th' Fork. You come through there; all you
know 'bout it is that there's a swell hotel there an' it's a junction
point. Well, the's a lot more to know about th' Fork ... or was."

She paused a moment and rubbed her palms together triumphantly, as if
she had long anticipated this moment.

"When I was there, the' wasn't no hotel; the' wasn't nothin' but a
junction an' ... hell itself. 'Twasn't a place with much noise about it,
not so many killin's as some places maybe, but 'twas bad, low down.

"The' was a place there ... Charley Ling's.... 'Twas a Chinese place,
with white women. I was one of 'em."

Ann gasped slightly and drew back, and Nora laughed.

"I thought that'd hurt," she mocked. "I thought you couldn't stand it!

"Charley's was a fine place. Sheep herders come there an' Mexicans an'
sometimes somebody of darker color. We wasn't particular, see? We wasn't
particular, I guess not! Men was white or black or red or yellow or
brown, but their money was all one color....

"The' was dope an' booze an' ... hell.... Charley's was a reg'lar boil
on th' face of God's earth, that's what it was.... He--Bruce Bayard--got
me out of there."

The girl breathed hard and swiftly. Her upper lip was drawn back and her
white teeth gleamed in the semi-darkness as she sat forward in her
chair, flushed, her accusing face thrust forward toward the bewildered,
horrified Ann Lytton.

"He got me there, so you know what I was, what I am. He brung me here,
got me this job, has kept me here ever since,"--with a suggestion of
faltering purpose in her voice. "It's been him ever since; just him.
I'll say that for myself. I've been on th' level with Bruce an' ain't
had nothin' to do with others.

"You see he's mine!"--her voice, which had dropped to a monotone, rose
bitingly again. "He's mine; he's all I got. If 'twasn't for him, I
wouldn't be here. If he quits me, I'll go back to that other. I don't
want to go back; so long as he sticks by me I won't go back. If I leave,
it'll be because I'm drove back....

"That's what you're doin'. You're drivin' me back to Charley's ... or
some place like it...."

She moved from side to side, defiantly, and leaned further forward,
resting her elbows on her knees, staring out into the darkened street
below them.

"You come here, a married woman; you got one man now, an' he don't suit.
So you think you're goin' to take mine. That's big business for a ... a
respectable lady, like yourself, ain't it? Stealin' a man off a woman
like me!"

She laughed shortly, and did not so much as look up as Ann tried to
reply and could not make words frame coherent sentences.

"I've kept still until now, 'cause I ain't proud of my past, 'cause I
thought you, havin' one man, had enough without meddlin' with mine. But
I'm through keepin' my mouth shut now,"--menacingly. "I'm through, I
tell you,"--wiping her hands along her thighs and straightening her
body slowly as she turned a malevolent gaze on the silent Ann. "You're
tryin' to take what belongs to me an' I won't set by an' let you walk
off with him. I'll--

"Why, what'd this town say, if I was to tell 'em you're Ned Lytton's
wife instead of his sister? They all know you've been havin' Bruce come
here to your room; they all think he's your lover. First thing, they'd
fire you out of th' hotel; then, they'd laugh at you as you walked along
th' street! It'd ruin him, too; what with keepin' your man out at his
ranch so's he can see you without trouble!"

Her voice had mounted steadily and, at the last, she rose to her feet,
bending over the bewildered Ann and gesturing heavily with her right arm
while the other was pressed tightly across her chest.

"That's what I come here to tell you to-night!" she cried. "That's what
you know, now. But I want you to know that while I've been bad, as bad
as women get, that I've been open about it; I ain't been no hypocrite; I
ain't passed as a good woman an' ... been bad--"

"Nora, stop this!"

Ann leaped to her feet and confronted the girl, for the moment furious,
combative. They faced one another in the faint light that came through
the windows and before her roused intensity Nora stepped backward,
yielding suddenly, frightened by this show of vigorous indignation, for
she had believed that her accusation would grind the spirit, the pride,
from Ann.

"Why, you-u-u- ..."

Ann's hands clenched and opened convulsively at her sides as she groped
fruitlessly for words.

"You go now, Nora; go away from me! What you have said has been too
contemptible, too base for me even to answer!"

She walked quickly to the door, opened it and faced about with a gesture
of command. Nora hesitated a moment, then, without a word, walked from
the room. In the hall she paused, back still toward Ann as though she
had more that she would say, as if, possibly, she considered the
advisability of going further; but, if that was true, she had no
opportunity then, for the door closed firmly and the lock clicked.

It was the most confused moment in Ann's life. The identification of her
husband, her several trying scenes with Bayard, would not compare with
it. She heard Nora's slow, receding footsteps with infinite relief and,
when they were quite gone, she realized that as she stood, back to the
door, she was shaking violently. She was weakened, frightened by what
had passed, and, as she strove through those minutes to control her
thoughts, to marshal the elements of the ordeal through which she had
come, she became possessed by the terrifying conviction that she had no
defence to offer! That she could not answer the other woman's
accusations, that by telling Nora she was above replying to those
charges she was only hiding behind a front of false superiority, a
veneer of assurance that was as artificial as it was thin.

She moved to her bed with lagging, uncertain steps and sat down with a
long sigh; then, drew a wrist across her eyes, propping herself erect
with the other arm.

"She ... he belongs to her ..." she said aloud, trying to bring
coherence to her thinking by the uttered words. "He belongs ... to
her...."

A slow warmth went through her body, into her cheeks to make them flame
fiercely. That was a sense of guilt coming over her, shaming her,
torturing her, and behind it, inspiring, urging it along, giving it
strength, was that conscience of hers.

At other times she had defied that older self; only that evening she had
regained some of the ground from which it had driven her by its last
assault, lifting herself above the judgments she had been trained to
respect because, in transgressing them, she had experienced a free, holy
joy that had never been hers so long as she had remained within their
bounds. But now! That cry for escape was gone.

She had been stealing another woman's man ... and such a woman!

Never before had she faced such ugly truths as the girl had poured upon
her. Of the cancerous places in the social structure she had known, of
course; at times she had even gone so far as to judge herself a
wide-awake, keen-seeing woman, but now ... she shuddered as the woman's
words came back to her, "White or black or red or brown; but their money
was all th' same color." That was too horrible, too revolting; she could
not accept it with a detached point of view. Its very truth--she did not
doubt it--smirched her, for she had been stealing the man of such a
woman!

Oh, that conscience was finding its revenge! That day it had been
outraged, had been all but unseated; but now it came back with a
vengeance. She, the lawful wife of Ned Lytton, had plotted to win Bruce
Bayard. No, she had not! one part of her protested, as she weakened and
sought for any escape that meant relief. You did, you did! thundered
that older self. By passively accepting, as a fact, her want of him, she
had sinned. By finding joy in his touch, at sight of him, she had
grievously wronged not only Ned and herself but all people. She was a
contaminated thing! She was as bad, worse than Nora Brewster, because,
while Nora had sinned, she admitted it, had done it openly, and frankly
while she, Ann Lytton, had covered it with a cloak of hypocrisy, had
refused to admit her transgressions even to herself and lied and
distorted happenings, even her thoughts, until they were made to appease
her craven heart!

"She said it; she said it!" Ann muttered aloud. "She said that I was a
hypocrite. She said ... she did not hide!" Then, for a moment, she was
firm, drawing her body, even, to firmness to contend more effectively
against these suggestive accusations. What matter if she were married?
What if Bayard did love an abandoned woman? What mattered anything but
that she loved him?

And, as though it had waited for her to go that far to show her hand,
that other self cried out: "To your God you have given your word to love
this man, your husband! To your God you have promised to love no other!
To your God you have pledged him your body, your soul, your life, come
what may!"

She cowered before the thought, tearless, silent, and sat there, going
through and through the same emotional experiences, always coming
against the stone wall formed by her concepts of honor and morality.

In another room of the Manzanita House another woman fought with herself
that night. Nora, too, stood backed against her locked door a long time
after she had gained its refuge, bewildered, trying to think her way to
a clear understanding of all that had happened. Its entire consequence
came to her sooner than it had come to Ann. She groped along the wall to
her matchsafe, scratched a light, removed the chimney from her lamp and
set the wick burning. She waved out the match absently, put the charred
remains in the oilcloth cover of the washstand and said to herself,

"Well, I've done it."

It was as though she spoke of the accomplishment of an end the
advisability of which had been debatable in her mind, and as if there
were now no remedy. What was done, was done; events of the past could
not be altered, their consequences could not be changed.

She undressed listlessly, put on her nightgown and moved to the crinkled
mirror to take down her hair.

"I guess that'll fix her," she muttered. "She'll get out, now...."

She looked at herself in the mirror as she began to speak, but, when her
sight met its own reflection, her voice faltered, the words trailed off.
She stood motionless, scrutinizing herself closely, critically; then saw
a slow flush come up from her neck, flooding her cheeks. Uneasily her
eyes dropped from their reflection, then shot back with a rallying of
the dark defiance that had been in them; only for an instant, for the
fire disappeared, they became unsteady.

Her movements grew rapid. She drew hairpins from the coils and dropped
them heedlessly. She shook out her hair and brushed it with nervous
vigor; then braided it feverishly, as if some inner emotion might find
vent in that simple task.

Time after time she shot glances into the mirror, but in each instance
she felt her cheeks burn more fiercely, saw the confused humility
increasing in her expression and, finally, her rapid breathing lost its
regularity, her lips quivered and her shoulders lifted in a sob. She
covered her face with her hands, pressing finger tips tightly against
her eyes, struggling to master herself, to bring again that defiant
spirit. But she could not; it had gone and she was fighting doggedly
against the reaction, knowing that it must come, knowing what it would
be, almost terror stricken at the realization.

She paced the floor, stopping now and then, and finally cried aloud:

"She _was_ stealin' him; he _is_ mine!"--as though some presence had
accused her of a lie. Again, she repeated the words, but in a whisper;
and conviction was not with her.

She sat down on the edge of her bed, but could not remain quiet, and
commenced walking, moving automatically, almost dreamlike, distressed,
flinging her arms about like a guilt-maddened Lady Macbeth. Each time
she passed the mirror she experienced a terrible desire to meet her own
gaze again, but she would not, for her own eyes accused her, bored
relentlessly into her heart.

"An' I called her a hypocrite," she burst out suddenly, halted, turned
and rushed back toward the dresser, straining forward, forcing her gaze
to read the soul that was bared before her, there in the mirror.

"You lied to her!" she muttered. "You told her dirty lies; you're
throwin' him down. You're killin' her... You ...

"Oh, Bruce, Bruce!"

She turned away and let the tears come again.

"You'd hate me, Bruce, you'd hate me!"

She threw herself full length on the bed. Jealousy had had its inning.
All the bitterness that it could create had been flung forth on to the
woman who had roused it and then the emotion had died. Strong as it was
in Nora, the elemental, the childish, it was not so strong as her
loyalty to Bayard's influence and the same thing in her that would have
welcomed physical abuse from him now called on her to undo her work of
the evening, to strive to prevent his love for Ann from wasting itself,
though every effort that she might make toward that end would cause her
suffering.

It was midnight when Ann Lytton, still motionless, still chilling and
flushing as thought followed thought through her confused mind, found
herself in the center of her dark room. The knock that had roused her to
things outside sounded again on her door, low and cautious.

"Who is it?" she asked, unsteadily.

"It's me, Nora."

The tone was husky, weak, contrite.

"Well, what do you want, Nora?"--summoning a sternness for the query.

"I ... I want to come in; I want to tell you somethin' ... if you'll let
me."

Ann calculated a moment, but the quality of the other woman's voice,
supplicating, uncertain, swung the balance and she unlocked the door,
opening it wide. Nora stood in her long white gown, head hung, fingers
nervously intertwining before her.

A pitiable humility was about the girl, and on sight of it Ann's manner
changed.

"What is it, Nora? Won't you come in?"

She stepped forward, took her by the hand and gently urged her into the
room, closing the door.

"Sit on the bed, Nora, while I light the lamp."

"Oh, M's. Lytton, please don't ..."--with an uneasy movement. "I'd
rather ... not have to look at you...."

A pause.

"Why, if you want it that way, of course, Nora. Sit down here. Aren't
you cold?"

She took a shawl from its hook, threw it across the other's shoulders
and sat down on the bed, drawing Nora to her side. An awkward silence
followed, then came the sound of Nora's crying, lifted to a pitch just
above a sigh.

"Don't, Nora! Please, don't! What is it, now? Tell me ... do tell me,"
Ann pleaded, growing stronger, of better balance, feeling some of her
genuine assurance returning.

"I ... I lied to you. I ..." Nora began and stopped.

Ann uttered no word; just inhaled very slowly and squared her shoulders
with relief.

"I ... was jealous of you. When I saw him with his arms around you this
afternoon, I ... couldn't stand it. I had to do somethin'. I was drove
to it."

She brushed the damp hair back from her forehead and cleared her throat.
She clutched Ann's one hand in both hers and turned to talk closely into
her face.

"I ... it wasn't all lies. That part about me, about Charley Ling's, was
true. It was true that Bruce took me out of there, too, but not for what
you think. I ... I was pretty bad for a young girl, but I never knew
much different until I knew Bruce ... I didn't know much.

"I was at Ling's. I didn't lie about that," she repeated stoically,
baring her shame in an attempt to atone for her former behavior. "I'd
been there quite a while, when one night when the' was whiskey an' men
an' hell, he come....

"I'll never forget it. I can't. He was so big that he filled th' door,
he was so ... different, so clean an' disgusted-like, that it stopped
th' noise for a minute. He stood lookin' us over; then he saw me an'
looked an' looked, an' I couldn't do nothin' but hang my head when 'twas
my business to laugh at him.

"He didn't say a word at first, but he come across to to me an' set down
beside me, an' when th' piano started again an' folks quit givin' us
attention he said,

"'You're only a kid.'

"Just that; but it made me cry. He was so kind of accusin' an' so
gentle. Nobody'd ever been gentle with me before that I could remember
of. They'd been accusin' all right, all right ... but not gentle. He
went away that night an' I cried until it was light. In th' mornin' he
come back an' asked for me an' took me outdoors an' talked to me. He
talked.... He didn't do no preachin'; he didn't say nothin' about bein'
good or bein' bad. He just said that that place wasn't fit for coyotes
to live in, that I'd never see th' mountains or th' stars or th'
sunshine livin' there. He said that.... An' he said he'd get me a job
here in Yavapai....

"He did. Got me this job, in this hotel. He stuck by me when folks
started to talk; he stopped it. He taught me to ride an' like horses an'
dogs an' th' valley an' things like that. He give me things to read an'
talked to me about 'em an' ... was good to me.

"I've always been like his sister. That's straight, M's. Lytton; that's
no lie. He's been my brother; that's all. More 'n that, I'm about th'
only woman he's looked at in three years until ... you come. He ain't a
saint but he's ... an awful fine man."

She was silent a moment and stroked the hand she had taken in hers.

"That's all. That's all the' is to say. I've tried to get him, tried to
make him care for me ... a lot; but I ain't his kind,"--with a slow
shake of the head as she withdrew one hand. "I can never be his kind ...
in that way. I've known it all along, but I've never let myself believe
th' truth. He didn't know, didn't even guess. That's how hopeless it
was. He ain't never seen that I'd do ... anythin' for him.

"When you come, I saw th' difference in him ... right off. He ... You're
his kind, M's. Lytton. You're what he's waited for, what he's lookin'
for. I was jealous. I hated you from th' first. I was nice to you
'cause he wanted it, 'cause that would make him happier. I fought
against showin' what I felt for his sake ... for him. Then, to-day, when
I seen how he looked after he'd had you in his arms where I've wanted to
be always, as I've wanted to make him look, I....

"It made me kind of crazy. I felt like tellin' you what I was, lyin'
about what I was to Bruce, thinkin' it might drive you away an' I might
sometime make him love me. But, after I'd done it, after I got it into
words, I knew it was against everything he'd ever taught me, against
everything he'd ever been, an' that if you went 't would break his
heart. That's why I come back to tell you I lied, to tell you how it
is....

"You go to him now; you go before it's too late. I tried to come between
you ... an' didn't. You go to him before somethin' does...."

She felt Ann's arm go about her and stifling her sobs she yielded to the
pull until her head rested on the other woman's shoulder.

"Oh, Nora, I can't tell you how this makes me feel; I can't. I'll never
be able to. There's nothing I can say at all, nothing I can do, even!"

The waitress lifted her face to peer closely at her.

"Just one thing you can do," she said, lowly. "Go to him now. That's
what I come back here for--to tell you I lied, so you would go."

Ann straightened and shook her head sharply.

"That's impossible," she said, emphatically. "Impossible."

"Impossible, M's. Lytton?"--wiping her eyes.

"Yes, Nora."

"But why? He loves you!"

"When you were here before you gave the reason--I'm a married woman."

"But that ain't.... Why, do you _love_ your husband?"

She grasped Ann's arm and shook it gently as she put that question in a
voice that the tears had made hoarse, and leaned forward to catch the
answer. For an interval Ann did not reply, gave no sign that she had
heard, and Nora repeated her query with impressive slowness.

"It isn't a question of loving, Nora," she finally said. "I'm his wife;
I have a wife's duty to perform."

"But do you love him?" the girl persisted.

"No, I don't any more ..."--sadly, yet without regret.

"An' you'd go back to him, M's. Lytton? You'd go back without lovin'
him?"

Incredulity was in her tone.

"Of course. It is my place. He is coming to me soon, stronger, wiser, I
hope, and there's a chance that we will find at least a little peace
together."

"But the' won't be love,"--in a whisper.

Ann gave a little shudder and braced her shoulders backward.

"No, Nora. That is past. Besides, I--"

"Don't be afraid to admit it!" the girl urged, speaking rapidly. "Don't
be afraid to tell me. I know what you're thinkin'. You love Bruce
Bayard! I know; you can't hide it from me, M's. Lytton."

Ann's fingers twisted the coverlet.

"And if I do?" she asked weakly. "What if I do?"

"What if you do? Ain't lovin' a man answer enough for any woman?" cried
the other. "Is the' anything else that holds folks together? Is the'
anything else that makes men an' women happy? Does your bein' a man's
wife mean happiness? Your promisin' to love him didn't make you love,
did it? Because a preacher told you you was one didn't make it so, did
it? Nobody can make you love him, not even yourself, 'cause you said it
was duty that takes you back; that you don't love him. But you can't
help lovin' Bruce Bayard!

"Oh, M's. Lytton, don't fool yourself about this duty! It's up to a man
an' a woman to take love, to take happiness, when it comes. You can't
set still an' watch it go by an' hope to have it come again; real
happiness don't happen but once in most of our lives. I know. I've been
down ... I've been happy, too ... I know!

"An' duty! Why, ma'am, duty like you think you ought to do, is waste!
You're young, you're healthy, you're pretty. You'll waste your best
years, you'll waste your health, you'll waste your looks on duty!
You'll waste all your love; you'll get old an' bitter an'....

"If the's anything under heaven that's a crime, it's wasted love! Oh,
M's. Lytton, I wasted my love when I was a kid, 'cause I didn't know
better. I sold mine for money. For God's sake, don't sell yours for
duty! If the's anything your God meant folks to do was to get what joy
they can out of life. He wouldn't want you to think of bein' Ned
Lytton's wife as ... as your duty. He ... God ain't that kind, M's.
Lytton; he ain't!"

"Nora, Nora, don't say these things!" Ann pleaded. "You're wrong, you
must be! Don't tempt me to ... these new ways ... don't...."

"New!" the girl broke in. "It ain't new, what I've been sayin'. It's as
old as men an' women. It's as old as th' world. Th' things you try to
make yourself believe are th' new ones. Love was old before folks first
thought about duty. It seems new, because you ain't ever let yourself
see straight ... you never had to until now."

"Nora, stop I You must stop! You can't be right ... you can't be!"

The waitress trembled against Ann and commenced to cry under the strain
of her earnestness.

"But I know I'm right, M's. Lytton, I know I am! I know what you're
doin'. Do--don't you see that you wouldn't be much different from what I
was, if you went back to your husband, hatin' him an' lovin' another?
Happiness comes just once; it's a sin to let it go by!"

Slowly Ann withdrew her embrace from the girl. She sat with hands limp
in her lap until Nora's sobbing had subsided to mere long-drawn breaths;
then she rose and walked to the window, looking out into the moonlit
night. And when Nora, drying her eyes, regaining control of her
emotions, started to speak again she saw that Ann was lost in thought,
that it was unnecessary to argue further, so she went quietly from the
room. The rattle of the knob, the sound of the closing door did not
rouse the woman she left behind. Ann only stared out at the far hills
which were a murky blot in the cold light; stared with eyes that did not
see, for out of the storm of that night a new creature was coming into
active life within her and the re-birth was so wonderful that it quite
deadened her physical senses.

CHAPTER XIV

THE WOMAN ON HORSEBACK

Lytton had gone for a ride in the hills, leaving Bayard alone at the
ranch, busying himself with accomplishing many odds and ends of tasks
which had been neglected in the weeks that his attention had been
divided between his cattle and the troubles of Ann. Ned was back to his
usual strength, now; also, his mending mental attitude had made him a
better companion, a less trying patient. He rode daily, he helped
somewhat with the ranch work, his sleeps were long and untroubled. The
first time a horse had carried him from sight Bayard had scarcely
expected to see him back again; he had firmly believed that Lytton would
ride directly to Yavapai and fill himself with whiskey. When he came
riding into the ranch, tired, glad to be home once more, Bruce knew that
the man was not wholly unappreciative, that his earlier remonstrances at
remaining at the Circle A had not always been genuine.

"Mighty white of you, old chap," he had said, after dismounting. "Mighty
white of you to treat me like this. Some day I'll pay you back."

"You'll pay me back by gettin' to be good an' strong an' goin' out an'
bein' a man," the rancher had answered, and Lytton had laughed at his
seriousness.

No intimation of his wife's nearness had been given to Lytton. Isolated
as they were, far off the beaten path of travel, few people ever stopped
at the ranch and, when stray visitors had dropped in, chance or Bayard's
diplomacy had prevented their discovering the other man's presence. Not
once after their argument over the rights of a man to his wife had Ned
referred to Ann and in that Bruce found both a conscious and an
unconscious comfort: the first sort because it hurt him brutally to be
reminded of the girl as this man's mate, and the other because the fact
that while Lytton had only bitterness for Ann Bayard could wholly
justify his own attention to her, his own love.

Day after day the progress continued uninterrupted, Bruce making it a
point to have his charge ride alone, unless Ned himself expressed a
desire to go in company. The rancher believed that if the other were
ever to be strong enough to resist the temptation to return to his old
haunts and ways, now was the time. Although Lytton's attitude was,
except at rare intervals, subtly resentful, his passive acceptance of
the conditions under which he lived was evidence that he saw the wisdom
in remaining at the ranch and those hours alone on horseback, out of
sight, away from any influencing contact, were the first tests. Bayard
was delighted to see that his work did not collapse the moment he
removed from it his watchful support. And yet, while he took pride in
this accomplishment, he went about his daily work with a sense of
depression constantly on him. It was as though some inevitable calamity
impended, as though, almost, hope had been removed from his future. He
tried not to allow himself to think of Ann Lytton. He knew that to let
his fancies and emotions go unrestrained for an hour would rouse in his
heart a hatred so intense, so compelling, that he would rise in all his
strength during some of Lytton's moods and do the man violence; or, if
not that, then, when talking to her, he would lose self-control and
break his word to her and to himself that not again so long as she loved
her husband would he speak of his regard for her.

But the end of that phase was approaching. Within a few days Lytton
would know that his wife was in the country, would go to her, and
Bayard's interval of protectorate over them both, which at least gave
him opportunity to see the woman he loved, would come to its conclusion.

Now, as he worked on a broken hinge of the corral gate his heart was
heavy and, finally, to force himself to stop brooding, he broke into
song:

    "From th' desert I come to thee
      On a stallion shod wi--

"No ... not that," he muttered. "I'll not be comin' ... on a stallion
shod with fire, or anythin' else." Then he began this cruder, livelier
strain:

    "Foot in th' stirrup an' hand on th' horn,
      Best damn cowboy ever was born,

    "Coma ti yi youpa ya, youpa ya,
      Coma ti yi--

"Dog-gone bolt's too short, Abe," he muttered to the sorrel who stood
within the enclosure. "Too short--

    "I herded an' I hollered an' I done very well,
      Till th' boss says, Boys, just let 'em go to hell!

    "Coma ti yi--

"What do you see, Boy?"

As he turned to go toward the blacksmith shop, he saw the horse standing
with head up and every line of his body rigid, gazing off on the valley.

"You see somebody?" he asked, and swung up on the corral for a better
view.

Far out beyond and below him a lazy wisp of dust rose lightly to be
trailed away by the breath of warm breeze, and, after his eyes had
studied it a moment, he discerned a moving dot that he knew was horse
and rider.

"Lytton didn't go that way," he muttered, as he dropped to the ground
again. "No use worryin' any more, though; it's time somebody knew he was
here; they will soon, an' it won't do any harm."

He swept the valley with his gaze again and shook his head. "Seems like
it's in shadow all the time now," he muttered, "an' not a cloud in the
sky!"

When he found a bolt of proper length and fitted it in place the horse
and rider were appreciably nearer and he watched them crawl toward him a
moment.

    "I went to th' wagon to get my roll,
      To come back to Texas, dad-burn my soul;
    I went to th' wagon to draw my roll,
      Th' boss said I was nine dollars in th' hole!

    "Coma ti yi, youpy, youpy ya, youpy ya,
      Coma ti--"

He turned again to look at the approaching rider before he went into the
stable. Then, for twenty minutes he was busy with hammer and saw,
humming to himself, thinking of things quite other than the work at
which his hands were busy.

"Is this the way you greet your visitors?"

It was Ann Lytton's voice coming from the stable doorway, and Bayard
straightened slowly, turning awkwardly to look at her over his shoulder.
She was flushed, flustered, uncertain for the moment just how to comport
herself, but he did not notice for he was far off balance himself.

"Good-mornin', ma'am," he said, taking off his hat and stepping out from
the stall in which he had been working. "What do you want here?"

His voice was pitched almost in a tone of rebuke.

"I came to see my husband," she answered, and for a moment they stared
hard at one another, Bayard, as though he did not believe her, and the
woman, as if conscious that he questioned the truth of her reply. Also,
as if she feared he might read in her the _whole_ truth.

"He ought to be back soon," the rancher said, replacing his hat. "He's
off for a ride. Won't you come into the house?"

They stepped outside. He saw that behind her saddle a bundle was tied.
He looked from it to her inquiringly.

"I have thought it all over," she said, as if he had challenged her with
words, "and I've made up my mind that my place, for the time, anyhow, is
with Ned. It's best for me to be here; it's best for Ned to know and
have it over with.... Have a complete understanding."

He looked away from her, failing to mark the significance of her last
words or to see the fresh determination in her face.

"It had to come sometime. I expect now's about as likely a day as any,"
he said, gloomily, and untied the roll from her saddle. "I'll show you
around th' house so you'll know where things are,"--and started across
toward the shade of the ash tree.

Ann walked beside him, wanting to speak, not knowing what to say. She
found no words at all, until they gained the kitchen and stood within.
Bayard placed her bundle on the table.

"Do you mean that you won't be here?" she faltered.

"Well, that's th' best way," he said, looking down and rubbing the back
of a chair thoughtfully.

"I can't...."

"Yes, you can,"--divining what was in her mind and interrupting. "I'll
be glad to have you meet him here, ma'am. 'Twould offend me if you went
away, but I think, considerin' everythin', how you've been apart so long
an' all, it'd be better for me to leave you two alone. I've got business
in town anyhow," he lied. "I'd have to go in either to-night or in th'
mornin'. It's th' best way all round."

He did not look at her during this, could not trust himself to. He felt
that to meet her gaze would mean that he would be tempted again to
declare his love for her, his hatred for her husband, because this hour
was another turning point for them all. For the safety of Ned Lytton to
hold himself in accord with his own sense of right, it was wise for him
to be away at the meeting of husband and wife; not fear for himself but
of himself drove him from his hearth. He knew that Ann's eyes were on
him, steady and inquiring, felt somehow that she had suddenly become
mistress of the situation. Heretofore, he had dominated all their
interviews. But now that eminence was gone. He was retreating from this
woman and not wholly in good order, for he could not remain with her nor
could he trust himself to give a true explanation of his departure.

To delay longer, to just stand there and discuss the very embarrassing
situation, would be no relief, might only lead to greater discomfiture,
he knew, so he said:

"All th' things to cook with are in that cupboard, ma'am,"--turning away
from her to indicate. "All th' pots an' pans an' dishes are below there,
on those shelves. He ... your husband knows, anyhow. He can show you
round.

"In here.... This is his room."

He paused when halfway across the floor, turned and looked at her. In
her eye he caught a troubled quality.

"He's been sleepin' here," he repeated, walking on and opening the door.

The woman followed and looked over his shoulder.

"But I've another room; my room, in here,"--moving to another door.
"This is mine, an' as I won't be here you can use it as you ... as you
want to."

Nothing in his tone or manner of speech suggested anything but the idea
contained in his words, but Ann's eyes rested on his profile with a
sudden gratitude, a warmth. Surprise came to her a moment later and she
exclaimed,

"Oh, how fine!"

He had thrown the door back and stood aside for her to enter. Light came
into the room from three windows and before the gentle breeze white
curtains billowed inward. Navajo blankets covered the floor. The bed,
in one corner, was spread with a gay serape and beside it was a bookcase
with shelves well filled. In the center of the room stood a table and on
it a reading lamp. About the walls were pictures, few in number but
interesting.

At Ann's exclamation Bruce smiled broadly, pleased.

"I'm glad you like it," he said. "I do. I thought maybe you would."

"Why, it's splendid!" she cried again. "It doesn't look like a room in
the house of a bachelor rancher. It doesn't look like...."

She stopped and looked up at him, puzzled, questioning so eloquently
with her gaze that it was unnecessary for him to await the spoken query.

"Yes, I did it myself," he said with a flushed laugh. Their
self-consciousness was relieved by the change of thought. "It's mine;
all mine. You ... You're the first person to come in here, ma'am, except
Tim.... He was my daddy, an' he's dead. I don't ask folks in here 'cause
it's so much trouble to explain to most of 'em. They'd think I'm stuck
up, with lace curtains an' all...."

He waved his hands to include the setting.

"I can live with th' roughest of 'em an' enjoy it; I can put up with
anything when it's necessary, but somehow I've always wanted something
different, something that'll fill a place that plenty of grub an' a hot
stove don't always satisfy.

"Them curtains,"--with a chuckle--"came from th' Manzanita House. They