Cow observed as Lance mounted.

"Maybe," Lance assented non-committally and rode away.

There were no horse tracks in the trail, yet Lance followed it
doggedly, the new-risen sun burning his back through two thin shirts.
He seemed in no doubt this morning as to the course he should take. He
scarcely gave a glance at the trail. His eyes were staring straight
before him at a sullen row of blue-black "thunder heads" that showed
above the gray skyline. Yet he did not see them, did not give a
thought to their meaning.

He was thinking poignantly of Mary Hope, fighting the vivid impression
which a dream last night had left with him. In his dream Mary Hope had
stood at her door, with her hands held out to him beseechingly, and
called and called: "Lance! Oh, Lance! I dinna hate you because you're
a Lorrigan--Oh, _Lance!_"

It had been a curious dream from start to finish. Curious because, in
various forms, this was the third time he had seen her stand with
hands outstretched, calling to him. He did not believe in dreams. He
had neither patience for presentiments nor faith in anything that
bordered on the occult.

It had been against much inner protest that he had ridden to the
schoolhouse in obedience to the persistent idea that she needed him.
That he had not found her there seemed to him conclusive proof that
there was nothing in telepathy. The dreams, he felt sure, were merely
a continuation of that persistent idea--and the persistent idea, he
was beginning to believe, was but a perverse twist given to his own
longing for her.

"--And I can't go to her--not yet. Not while the Lorrigan name--" What
came before, what came after those incomplete phrases he would not
permit his mind to formulate in words. But he could not shake off the
effect of the dream, could not stifle altogether the impulse that
plucked at his resolve.

For more than an hour he rode and tried to fix his mind upon the thing
he had set out to do. He knew perfectly well where he was going--and
it was _not_ to see Mary Hope. Neither was his destination Lava Creek
nor the drying range on either side. His first two days of hard riding
had been not altogether fruitless, and he had enough to think of
without thinking of Mary Hope. Certain cold facts stared at him, and
gibbered their sinister meaning, and dared him to ride on and discover
other facts, blood-brothers of these that haunted him o' nights.

Coaley, feeling his rider's mood, sensing also the portent of the
heavy, heat-saturated atmosphere and the rolling thunder heads, slowed
his springy trot to a walk and tossed his head uneasily from side to
side. Then, quite without warning, Lance wheeled the horse short
around and touched the reeking flanks with his heels.

"I'm seventeen kinds of a damn fool--but I can't stand any more of
this!" he muttered savagely, and rode at a sharp trot with his back to
the slow-gathering storm.

He found Mary Hope half a mile from the Douglas house, at the edge of
the meadow round which Hugh was driving a mower, the steady, metallic
clicking of the shuttle-like sickle sounding distinct from the farther
side of the motionless green expanse. Mary Hope was standing leaning
against one lone little poplar tree, her hat in her hand, and her eyes
staring dully into the world of sorrowful thoughts. Relief and a
great, hungry tenderness flooded the soul of Lance when he saw her. He
pulled up and swung off beside her.

"Girl--thank the good God you're all right," he said, and took her in
his arms, the veins on his temples beating full with his hot blood. "I
had to come. I had to see you. You've haunted me. Your voice has
called me--I was afraid--I had to come--and now I'm not going to let
you go. Oh, girl, you're mine! By all the powers of heaven and earth,
you're mine! The Lorrigan name--what does it matter? You're mine--I
love you. You'll love me. I'll _make_ you love me. You'll love me till
you won't care who I am or who you are, or whether there are any other
people in the world--you'll love me so! And I'll love you always,
always,--to death and beyond, and beyond what lies after that. Girl,
girl--you do need me! You need my love. You need it because it's the
biggest thing in the world--and your love is going to match it. We'll
get married--we'll make a world of our own, just you and I. We won't
care where we make it--it will be our world, the world of our love.
Are you game? Are you game to love Lance the way Lance loves you? Oh,
girl, tell me!"

A chill breath swept them like the memory of her father's hate. A
deep, basso rumble drowned whatever reply she stammered. He sheltered
her in his arms, kissed her lips, her eyes, her hair, went back to her
lips again.

"Oh, girl--when a Lorrigan loves--!" He cried softly, exultantly. "I
tried not to--but I had to love you. It's Fate. Are you afraid to love
me back? Are you afraid?"

"No Lorrigan can cry coward to a Douglas," Mary Hope panted. "But--but
my mother will be that--"

"My mother will be that--all of that, and more," Lance stopped her,
still exulting in her love. "All the Lorrigans--what does it matter?
Life's for you and me to live, you girl with the bluest eyes in the
world. When will you marry me? To-day? Tell me to-day!"

"Oh!" gasped Mary Hope, breathless still from the suddenness of it
all. "Oh, not to-day--oh, but the headlong way you have! I--I canna
think. I--"

"I don't want you to think. I didn't ask you to think. Just love
me--that's all. And marry me soon, Girl-with-the-blue-eyes. Soon. It
must be soon--sooner than to-morrow--"

Splittingly the thunder crashed close behind them, a vivid white line
cleaving sharply the snarling clouds. Like a sleeper Lance opened the
eyes he had closed against her hair and lifted his head. "I must take
you home," he said more calmly. "It's going to storm--hard. But let me
tell you, sweetheart,--it can't storm as hard as I can love. I'll take
you home, and then you'll marry me."

Mary Hope's face was pale and radiant. She did not say that she would
marry him--nor did she say that she would not. Her eyes were misty
with tears until she winked hard, when they shone softly. Lance had
never seen them so blue. She stood still, her hands clasped together
tightly while he gathered up the reins and mounted. He pulled his foot
from the left stirrup, reached down to her and smiled. Never had she
seen him smile like that. Never had she seen that look in his eyes.
She breathed deep, reached up and caught the saddle horn, put her foot
in the stirrup and let him lift her beside him.

Against Coaley's nervous pull at the bit Lance held a steadying hand
and laughed. "It's Fate, girl. Let the storm come. We'll beat it--it
can't hurt us. Nothing can hurt us now." He had to shout above the
crashing thunder. "Do you love me, sweetheart?" His eyes, close to her
own, flamed softly, making Mary Hope think dizzily of altar fires.

"I do--I do!" She gasped. "Oh, I cannot think how I love you--it
scares me to think!" Her arm was around his neck, her face was turned
to his.

He saw her lips form the words, guessed what it was she was saying.
The crash on crash of thunder beat the sound of her voice to
nothingness. The white glare of the lightning flashes blinded them.
Coaley, quivering, his nostrils belling until they showed all red
within, his big eyes staring, forged ahead, fighting the bit.

"He's rinning away wi' us!" shouted Lance, his lips close to her ear,
and laughed boyishly.

"Mother--" he heard her say, and pulled her higher in his arms, so
that he could be sure that she heard him.

"I'll just pick your little old mother up in my arms and make her love
me, too!" he cried. "Nothing can spoil our love--_nothing!_"

As though the gods themselves chided his temerity, the very heavens
split and shattered all sound with rending uproar. Coaley squatted,
stopped and stood shaking, his heart pounding so that Lance felt its
tremulous tattoo against his thigh. The rumbling after-note of the
thunder seemed like silence.

"It struck close. That shed--look!" Lance's voice was no longer the
voice of the young male whose love would override Fate itself. It was
the voice of the man who will meet emergencies quietly, unflinchingly,
and soothe the woman's fear. "Don't be afraid--it's all right,
sweetheart."

He forced Coaley to go on. He smiled at Mary Hope's pallor, he
reassured her as they neared her home. A shed, sufficiently detached
to keep its fire to itself, was blazing. The wind puffed suddenly from
nowhere and waved the high, yellow flames like torn ribbons. Great
globules of water splashed upon them from the pent torrent above.
Coaley galloped through the gate, passed the house, shied at something
lying on the ground, stopped abruptly when Lance pulled sharply on the
bit.

"Girl--sweetheart--_be game!_" Lance said sternly when Mary Hope
screamed.

He let her to the ground, swung off and passed her, running to the
pitifully still little figure of Mother Douglas lying in the pathway,
her checked apron flapping, its starchy stiffness showing limp dark
spots where the raindrops splashed.

"She's only shocked. She's all right--_stop that screaming!_ Good God,
girl, where's your nerve?"

His severity steadied her. Mary Hope stopped screaming, both hands
held tightly over her mouth. Lance was already on his way to the
house, carrying Mother Douglas like a sleeping child in his arms. And
the rain came, a white curtain of water that drenched them to the skin
in the first ten seconds.

On the bed where Aleck Douglas had stared at the ceiling, and raved,
and died, Lance laid her carefully as though he feared to waken her.
He tore open the faded calico dress at the throat, laid his ear upon
her heart.

"She's alive, sweetheart," he said hearteningly. "It's only a shock.
Bring a basin of water. We'll have her all right in no time."

He worked over the old woman, using all the means he could remember or
invent, while the house shook with the fury of the wind, and the
lightning dazzled them and the rain drummed incessantly on the roof.
Mary Hope watched him, her eyes wide, her lips refusing to form any
words. For her own sake he sent her on many little errands, kept her
busy at useless little tasks. After what seemed an interminable time
he stood looking down at the gently heaving breast.

"How game is my girl?" he asked, taking Mary Hope in his arms. "Is she
game enough to stay here while Lance goes for a doctor? It won't be
long--" He paused while he made a rapid mental calculation of the
distance, and of what a horse may endure. "Three hours. Will my girl
be brave enough to stay here three hours? I'll call the man who was
mowing--if I can find him. But that will take minutes. Three
hours--and you won't weaken, will you, dear?"

Mary Hope leaned against him, clutched him, shivered at the crashing
thunder. "It's awful," she moaned. "I'm afraid you might be hit--"

"Afraid? A Douglas not as game as a Lorrigan?" He shook her, lifted
his eyebrows at her, pursed his lips at her, shook her again and
kissed her. "I can't love a girl who's afraid of thunder. Your
mother's all right, you know. We saw where that bolt struck--fifty
yards, almost, from where she was. She got a shock, that's all. But
we'll have a doctor here and make him take the responsibility. And
I'll be back in three hours, and you're going to be game--just as game
as you've always been."

He pulled his hat down over his eyes, buttoned his wet coat to the
chin, laid his hand for a minute over the faintly pulsating heart of
Mother Douglas, swept Mary Hope up in his arms and kissed her again,
pulled open the door and was gone.

Through a rain-blurred window Mary Hope saw him run to the stable,
lead out Coaley who had taken refuge there, vault into the saddle
without troubling about the stirrup, and come thundering back past the
house and out of the gate, his head bent to the storm.

She looked at the clock. Three hours? He could never do it in three
hours! She went back and knelt beside the bed, and prayed as her
mother had taught her to pray. And not all of her petition was for her
mother. Every lightning flash, every crack, every distant boom of the
thunder made her cringe. Lance--Lance was out in the storm, at the
mercy of its terrible sword-thrusts that seemed to smite even the
innocent. Her mother--even her own mother, who had held unswervingly
to her faith--even she had been struck down!

A mile down the road Lance was leaning forward, encouraging Coaley to
more speed, because there the trail ran level and fairly free from
rocks. Later, he pulled the horse down to a walk, breathing him up a
hill; let him trot down the slope beyond, picked him into a swift
gallop when they again struck the level. He gauged, with coldblooded
attention to certain rough miles in the journey, just how swiftly
Coaley could cover ground and live. He knew horses. He knew Coaley,
and he knew that never yet had Coaley been pushed to the actual limit
of his endurance. But the girl Lance loved--ah, it was a Lorrigan who
loved!--was back there alone, and she would be counting the minutes.
It might be that he might return to find her weeping over her dead. So
Lance counted miles and a horse's strength, and bent to the storm and
rode.

Ten minutes past the hour, and he was snapping orders to the telegraph
operator. The storm, happily, had swept on down the canyon and had
given Jumpoff little more than a wetting and a few lightning flashes.

"And order out a special engine and coach,--what do I care what it
will cost? I'll pay. Wire your Lava chief that the money is here. Send
the doctor on ahead of the regular train--can't wait for that."

He had the Lorrigan habit of carrying a good deal of money on his
person, and he counted out banknotes until the operator lifted his
hand and said it was enough. He slammed out, then, mounted and rode to
a livery stable and gave orders there.

"--And I'll _buy_ the damn team, so kill 'em if you have to. Only get
the doctor out there." He was in the saddle and gone again before the
stableman had recovered from his sag-jawed astonishment.

"Guess there's something in that talk of him and the Douglas girl,"
the stableman gossiped to a friend while he harnessed his swiftest
team.

In ten minutes under the three hours Lance stopped at the house, went
in and saw that Mary Hope was still being game, and was very glad to
be in his arms, and that Mother Douglas was alive and staring up at
the ceiling, her face set in a deadly kind of calm.

"She moves her eyes to me, sometimes--she's been awake for almost an
hour. But she hasn't moved--" Her voice broke.

"It's all right--the doctor is on his way. And I'm here, sweetheart--you
won't be alone again. Where's that man of yours? I'll send him over
with a note to Belle. She'll come--she's a wonder with sick folks."

"Mother--I'm afraid mother wouldn't let her--she's that _set!_"

Lance looked at the corpse-like figure with the wide-open eyes and a
flicker of the lids now and then to show that she was alive, and
swallowed a lump in his throat. Mother Douglas would probably not know
who was with her, he thought.

Coaley, the proud-spirited, shambled slowly to the stable, his head
drooping, his eyes dulled with exhaustion. He had done his part. Lance
rubbed him down, blanketed him, working swiftly, his thoughts with
Mary Hope and her love and her fresh grief. He found Hugh, scribbled a
note to Belle and got him started on Jamie.

Mother Douglas moved her eyes, stared at him sharply when he went to
her. But she did not speak, did not move a muscle of her face. The
heart of Lance went heavy, but he could smile still at Mary Hope and
tell her that it was all right, and that the doctor ought to be there
in an hour or so, and that Belle would come, and that he loved her,
loved her, loved her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

BELLE LORRIGAN WINS

In the second-best suit of Aleck Douglas, with his wrists showing
strong and shapely below the coat sleeves, and wrinkles across his
back, Lance turned his own steaming apparel before the kitchen fire
and waited to hear what the doctor had to say.

In his mind was a great wonder at the inscrutable operations of Fate,
that had twice brought tragedy into the Douglas house while he himself
was permitted to bring all his love, which without the tragedies might
have been rejected; which had sent him hurrying to Mary Hope on this
day of all the days when he had longed to come. He could not believe
that blind Chance had irresponsibly twisted the threads of Mary Hope's
life so that these things had come upon her. He was abashed, humbled,
filled with awe of the tremendous forces that rule our destinies. For
perhaps the first time in his life he stood face to face with
something beyond his understanding, something against which his
arrogant young strength was powerless.

The doctor presently came to him, beckoned him to the doorway and
preceded him into the rain-washed yard, where the late afternoon sun
shone with dazzling brightness after the storm.

"I think she'll live through this," the doctor began abruptly. "It was
not the lightning, altogether, though she undoubtedly did receive a
severe shock. There has been a predisposition to paralysis, which is
the true nature of this attack. Her right side is completely
paralyzed, and so far as I can determine after a more-or-less
superficial examination, her vocal chords are also affected, making
speech impossible. Her left arm is not affected, and her mind seems
fairly normal. Too much work, too much worry, too much monotony--and
she has reached the time of life when these things are most apt to
occur. Her husband's death was undoubtedly a contributary cause. With
proper medical attention she may recover from this attack--partially,
at least. She should be removed to a good hospital, or a trained nurse
placed in charge of the case here. That will be expensive. Do you know
whether the family can afford--"

"The family can afford anything she needs, anything that will give her
a chance," Lance told him brusquely.

"She will probably be an invalid as long as she lives," the doctor
went on. "She will be a great care. Are there any relatives, other
than the girl? It's a tremendous burden to fall on her shoulders, Mr.
Lorrigan."

"The burden," said Lance, "will not fall on her shoulders. I don't
mind telling you that Miss Douglas and I will be married very soon. As
soon as possible."

The doctor brightened visibly. "Congratulations, Mr. Lorrigan! I
should strongly advise you, then, to have the old lady removed to a
nice, quiet hospital. You will not want the care of her--young people
should not be handicapped in that way. I can make the necessary
arrangements. She should not be subjected to the discomforts of the
journey just at present--it's a long way by team, and a long way by
train. I should like to have her as quiet as possible for a few days,
at least."

"We'll look after that," said Lance, and hurried in to tell Mary Hope
that her mother was not going to die, and that Belle was coming--he
could hear the rattle of the buckboard.

"I don't know what mother will say," Mary Hope began, and stopped and
hid her eyes behind her hands. Her mother, poor soul, could not say
anything. It seemed terrible to Mary Hope that her mother must lie
there and endure the presence of the painted Jezebel in her home, and
be unable to utter one word of denunciation, one bitter reproach. It
was like a judgment; and she could not bear the thought that her
mother must suffer it. A judgment, or treachery on her part,--the
terrible treason of a child betraying her mother.

"It's all right, girl; you don't _know_ our Belle. We'll just leave it
to her. She'll find a way. And I'll go out now and tell her all about
it, and leave her to manage."

"I'll go," Mary Hope decided unexpectedly. "I have things to say--you
shall not go, Lance Lorrigan. You will please let me see her
alone--first. I'm that afraid of Belle Lorrigan I could creep under
the table and hide! And so I shall go alone to her."

Lance surrendered, and rolled a cigarette and smoked it in the
kitchen, and wondered if a cigarette had ever been smoked in that
house before, and whether the ghost of Aleck Douglas was somewhere
near, struggling vainly against the inevitable. It certainly was
unbelievable that a Lorrigan should be there, master--in effect, at
least--of the Douglas household, wearing the shoddy garments of Aleck
Douglas, and finding them at least three sizes too small.

They were an unconscionably long time out there,--those two women who
meant so much to him. He glanced in at Mother Douglas, in bed now and
looking terribly shrunken and old. The doctor was with her, sitting
close to the bed and leaning forward a little, watching her eyes while
he talked soothingly. Lance was not wanted there, either. He returned
to the kitchen and put more wood in the stove, and felt tentatively
his drying clothes.

Belle came in, holding Mary Hope by the hand. The eyes of both were
moist, shining, blue as the sky outside.

"Lance, honey, I'm glad," she whispered, kissing him on the cheek.
"Hope told me. And don't you two kids worry about me. I'll win my way
somehow. I always have--and I guess maybe you've got it in you, too,
Lance. It sure took something more than Lorrigan nerve to win Mary
Hope--though I'll admit Lorrigan nerve won me. No, I won't go in there
now. Don't tell her I'm here, we'll wait awhile."

It was dusk, and the lamp had not yet been lighted. Through the
unshaded window Mother Douglas could look out at the first pale stars.
The doctor had gone. The house was very quiet, the snapping of the
kitchen fire, the steady _tick_-tock, _tick_-tock of the old-fashioned
clock blending with, rather than breaking, the silence.

Mother Douglas closed her eyes. Her groping left hand ceased its
aimless plucking at a yarn knot in the patchwork comforter. Her breath
came evenly--Mary Hope wondered if she slept. A hand fell on Mary
Hope's shoulder, though she had not heard a footfall. She seemed
prepared, seemed to know what she must do. She slipped out of the
chair, and Belle slipped into it. Mother Douglas opened her eyes,
turned them that way; infinite weariness marked the glance. Her left
hand resumed again its vague groping, the work-worn fingers plucking
at the coverlet.

Sitting there in the dusk, her fingers faintly outlined in the old
wooden armchair in which Aleck Douglas had been wont to sit and brood
somberly over his work and his wrongs, Belle began softly to sing:

    "Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
    How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?"

The withered hand lay still, the fingers clutching tightly a fold of
cotton cloth. Mother Douglas looked and closed her eyes. Leaning
close, when the song was finished, Belle saw that the grim lips were
trembling, that tears were slipping down the too calm face. With her
handkerchief she wiped away the tears, and sang again. The "Girl with
a Thousand Songs" had many Scottish melodies in her repertoire, and
the years had not made her forget.

At the last, the groping left hand reached painfully across, found
Belle's hand waiting, and closed on it tightly. Whenever Belle stopped
singing the hand would clutch hers. When she began again the fingers
would relax a little. It was not much, but it was enough.

In the kitchen Mary Hope moved quietly about, cooking supper,
straining and putting away the milk Hugh brought in. In the kitchen
Lance sat and watched her, and made love to her with his big eyes,
with his voice that made of the most commonplace remark a caress.

But that night, when Mary Hope was asleep and Belle was dozing beside
the stricken woman, Lance saddled Jamie and led Coaley home. And while
he rode, black Trouble rode with him and Love could not smile and beat
back the spectre with his fists, but hid his face and whimpered, and
was afraid.

For Lance was face to face again with that sinister, unnamed Something
that hung over the Devil's Tooth ranch. He might forget it for a few
hours, engrossed with his love and in easing this new trouble that had
come to Mary Hope; he might forget, but that did not make his own
trouble any the less menacing, any the less real.

He could not tell her so, now while she had this fresh worry over her
mother, but Lance knew--and while he rode slowly he faced the
knowledge--that he could not marry Mary Hope while the cloud hung over
the Devil's Tooth. And that there was a cloud, a black, ominous cloud
from which the lightning might be expected to strike and blast the
Lorrigans, he could not deny. It was there. He knew it, knew just how
loud were its mutterings, knew that it was gathering swiftly, pushing
up over the horizon faster than did the storm of the morning.

He would not put Coaley down the Slide trail, but took him around by
the wagon road. They plodded along at a walk, Coaley's stiffened
muscles giving him the gait of an old horse. There had been no urgent
need to take Coaley home at once, but it was an excuse, and Lance used
it. He could not think,--he could not face his own trouble when he was
near Mary Hope. She drove everything else from his mind, and Lance
knew that some things must not be driven from his mind. He had set
himself to do certain things. Now, with Mary Hope loving him, there
was all the more reason why he should do them.

The ranch seemed deserted, though of course it was late and he knew
that every one would be in bed. He found a lantern, put Coaley into
the box stall again, and spent a long time rubbing him down and
carrying him fresh hay and water. He went up then and roused Sam
Pretty Cow, who was sleeping in the small cabin he had elected to make
his own private habitation on the ranch. Sam Pretty Cow told him that
no one had come home as yet.

"Two, three days, I dunno. Mebby Tom comes then," he hazarded,
blinking at Lance. "This too quick. Nobody comes back same day, you
bet."

Lance stood looking down at him, scowling thoughtfully. "Sam, you've
been a long time with the outfit. You've been a good man. You aren't
crippled up--and you're the best rider of the bunch of us. Why don't
_you_ go out any more?"

Sam lighted a cigarette, blew out the blazing match and laid the burnt
stub carefully on a box. He smoked stolidly, gazing at the dingy wall
before him.

"Bust them bronks in the corral," he said at last, grinning briefly.
"You stay long, you see me ride. Uh-huh--yo' bet."

"Well, yes. That's all right. But why don't you go with the outfit?"
Lance leaned against the wall, arms folded, studying him. It was
almost hopeless, trying to get anything out of Sam Pretty Cow; still,
Lance tried it.

Sam Pretty Cow looked up at him, looked down at his bare feet that he
had swung out of bed when Lance wakened him.

"Uh-huh. That's why. That all right, I'm go. That ain't all right, I'm
don' go. You bet."

Lance tap-tapped his right arm with the fingers of his left hand,
chewed his lip and looked at Sam Pretty Cow.

"Still, dad lets you stick around the outfit," he drawled meaningly.

Sam Pretty Cow shot a quick glance toward him, looked at the door,
relaxed again and studied his toes which he wriggled on the dirty
floor.

"I'm good man, you bet. I'm mind my business." He drew a long breath,
glanced again from the door to Lance's face. "Tom's damn smart
man--me, I'm mebby smarter. I dunno."

Lance looked down at him, smiling strangely. "Sam, I'm minding my
business, too. I'm doing it by--not minding my own business. Tom
Lorrigan's a smart man--but I'm Tom Lorrigan's son."

Sam turned his foot over, looked critically at the calloused sole of
it, turned it back again and blew a mouthful of smoke. "Yeah--uh-huh.
You damn smart--you don't like them damn jail. I'm don't. We both
smart, you bet."

Lance lifted an eyebrow. "What's the Piegan word for _accomplice_,
Sam?" he asked softly.

Sam Pretty Cow considered. "Me, I'm don' know them damn word," he
decided.

"It's a word that sends smart men to jail, Sam. It means the man that
stays at home and--_knows_."

Sam Pretty Cow tucked his feet under the thin blanket, laid his
half-smoked cigarette on the box, with the burning end out over the
edge.

"Uh-huh. Yeah. You bet." He looked up at Lance, for the first time
meeting his eyes squarely. "I'm know them damn word you call. Nh-hn.
Long time I'm got that what it mean on my heart. You're damn right."
He waited a minute, saw the Lorrigan look on Lance's face, on his lips
that smiled enigmatically. "Them Californy got bronks to bust?"

"Surest thing you know, Sam. But that's all right. You stay."

Sam Pretty Cow looked doubtful as an Indian may ever be expected to
look.

"You stay, Sam. There'll be bronks to bust on the Devil's Tooth for a
long while yet." He moved to the door, pulled it open and stood
looking out. Only a few miles away Mary Hope lay asleep, loving him in
her dreams, please God. Here, the Shadow hung black over the Devil's
Tooth. He turned to Sam Pretty Cow whose hand was stretched toward the
smoky lamp.

"You forget that word, Sam. It doesn't mean anything at all--to a
Piegan. And Sam, if I'm not around to-morrow morning, you ride over to
the Douglas ranch, and take back the horse I borrowed. Belle may want
to send you to town. She's there."

Sam Pretty Cow's eyes widened appreciably. "Uh-huh--all right. I'm
go," he promised, and blew out the light.

Lance went slowly up to the house and lay face downward on his bed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THE DOPE

Traveling lightly, Lance had covered a hundred and fifty miles in four
days, through country where trails were few and rough. He had made
wide detours, had slept on the ground in his slicker, had eaten bacon
and bannocks cooked in the small frying pan which he carried in the
sack with his meager rations. He had missed altogether the Devil's
Tooth outfit, and was swinging back now by way of the Lava Beds, where
Tom had said that they were going. It was because Tom had named that
as his destination that Lance had ridden elsewhere to find him; good
reasoning, but so far unproductive of results.

Four days, and he had not heard from Mary Hope, had learned nothing
conclusive, either for or against the Devil's Tooth. Some clues he had
gleaned, some evidence that strengthened his suspicions, but nothing
to make him feel that the trip had been worth the hardship.

Without knowing just why, he had ridden out expecting to learn the
best or the worst and have done with nagging suspicion. It had seemed
to him that Fate meant to be kind, that his destiny and Mary Hope's
pointed the way to happiness. Now he was beginning to doubt. How was
happiness possible, if the outlaw blood of the Lorrigans ran at high
pressure through the veins of his family? He did not know to a
certainty that it did, but until he knew that it did not he could
never marry Mary Hope. He had to know. It had been pure madness, going
to her as he had gone. While his horse plodded up the hill to where
the lava outcroppings began, Lance meditated gloomily on the madness
that had driven him to her. He had felt so sure of himself and his
future, so much the master of his destiny and hers! Yet, even while he
wooed her tempestuously he had known that it was madness, that Trouble
was reaching even then to pluck him by the sleeve. Mary Hope and her
stern, Scotch integrity linked to the blackened Lorrigan name that
might soon stand on the roster of the State's prison? It was
impossible, inconceivable. He had been a hound to say to her what he
had said.

True, when her mother was stricken he had been there to help her, to
comfort her. But it would be small comfort to Mary Hope when the storm
broke over the Devil's Tooth.

"And I said Fate was with us--I said nothing could hurt her! And it
will hurt her all her life."

His sweaty horse paused to breathe, heaving a great sigh, looking
discouragedly at the climb yet before him. Lance came to himself and
swung off, giving the horse an apologetic slap on the shoulder. "You
ought to kick me cold, Sorry, for making you pack my hulking carcase
up this hill. Why didn't you stop at the bottom?"

Sorry looked at him, waited for Lance to take the lead, and climbed
after him more briskly. He was a big-boned, well-muscled animal, but
two hundred pounds had been a heavy load to carry up hill, and he was
glad to be rid of it.

At the top Lance did not remount. The thickly strewn flat rocks made
treacherous footing, and more than one man had taken a nasty fall
because he had chosen to ride that mile of lava when he should have
walked. It was somewhere along this stretch of rock outcropping that
Shorty had broken his knee so that he would never ride again to the
round-up.

Lance was walking along with his head down, brooding over his trouble,
when he fancied he heard a faint halloo. Sorry stopped and craned his
head. But Lance could see nothing save the barren stretch of lava and
the monotonous wilderness beyond, with mountains in the far background
and the Black Rim stretching grim on the left of him. He started on,
thinking that perhaps some animal or bird was responsible for the
sound. But he had gone but a short distance when it came again, more
distinctly because he was half listening for it.

He waited, made a guess at the location of the person who shouted, and
turned that way, changing the reins from his right hand to his left
and pulling his holstered six-shooter within easy reach of his hand.
This was not the country, his was not the errand, for carelessness,
and Lance was taking no risk.

As he walked his eyes roved continually over the brown expanse of
rocks and stunted juniper that formed the Lava Beds. Behind him came
Sorry, his worn shoes slipping now and then on a smooth rock, his head
bobbing patiently, close to Lance's shoulder. As so often happens, it
was the horse that first discovered the object of their search. He
pulled away from the direct line, looking and looking at what Lance,
keen-eyed though he was, mistook for a black rock with a juniper bush
growing beside it.

Lance turned that way, focussed his glasses upon the object and saw
what had happened. A horse had fallen with its rider, the two lying
together, the man pinned under the horse. A black horse which he
recognized, and a big, red-faced cowpuncher with gray eyes that did
not twinkle. While Lance looked, the man lifted his head, seemed to be
staring straight into Lance's face, opened his mouth and contorted his
pain-racked face in a shout. It was strange to have the sound reach
Lance's ears thinned and weakened by distance, while the glasses
brought the injured man so close that he could see the wild look of
entreaty in his eyes. Lance put up the glasses and began running, with
Sorry stumbling and slipping behind him.

"I been here since morning," the big cowpuncher chattered feverishly
when Lance came up to him. "I'm fixed, all right! I was dozing and I
didn't jump and he caught me when he fell. I guess his leg is broke,
but so is mine, fur's that goes. I come down hard on a rock and I
guess I broke some ribs or something. Hurt like hell for a few
hours--it ain't so bad now. Look out when you go to make him git
up--if he rolls on me it's all off. I guess it's all off, anyway, but
I don't want to be squashed to death."

Lance bit his lip. It was hard to hear the man talking, talking, in
that rapid, headlong fashion, while his leg lay under the full weight
of the black horse and the sun blazed on his uncovered head. It was
hard to see his shirt all blood-soaked on the left side where he had
fallen across an uptilted, thin-edged rock.

The horse, too, was in sorry state. A weed-grown crevice had cheated
him with its semblance to sound footing, and he lay with front leg
broken, groaning a little now and then while the man talked and
talked. And while he examined the two it seemed to Lance that Fate was
pointing, and saying that here, too, was one of the inscrutable
instruments by which he worked out the destinies of men. A slippery
rock, a man riding that way half asleep--

"I'll have to shoot this horse, I'm afraid," Lance said pityingly.
"His leg is broken--it's the most merciful thing I can do. And if I
try to lift him off you while he's alive he may struggle--"

"Sure thing! Go on and shoot him! I woulda done it myself if you
hadn't come along purty soon. I knowed it would be all off with us
both if we had to lay out all night, so I was going to finish us both
off, when I seen you. Thought I'd take a gambling chance till
dark--but the sun has been baking me to a crisp--"

"It's all right--I'll get you to a ranch. We'll fix you up, so don't
think about the finish." A little of the color had left Lance's face.
Shooting a horse was to him next thing to shooting a human. He had to
do it, though. There was no other way.

He took the horse by the cheek-piece of the bridle, spoke to him
gently, turned the head a little away from him so that the horse could
not look him in the eyes. "Poor old fellow, it's all I can do for
you," he muttered when he pulled his gun from the holster.

"Maybe you better do the same for me," said the man, still speaking in
the rapid tone which told of fever. "You ain't able to heave him off
me, are you?"

"Sure, I'm able to. Lie still, now, and grit your teeth, old man. It
may hurt, when I lift him off your leg. I'll raise him up and put a
rock under, and pull you out. Can you stand that?"

"Me? Hell, yes. Ain't I been standing pain since before daylight? Me,
I can stand anything if I have to!"

Yet he fainted when Lance took him by the shoulders and pulled him
free, and Lance used half the water in the canteen on the saddle in
bringing him back to consciousness. When the fellow opened his eyes,
Lance remembered that he had half a pint of whisky in his coat pocket,
and offered it to the injured one.

"Golly, that's a life-saver!" he ejaculated when he had taken two
swallows. He reached down and felt his crushed leg, grimacing at the
pain of returning circulation.

"She's busted all right. Busted _right_, if I'm any judge. And my
side--things are all busted up in there. I know it. Say, oldtimer, how
do you figure you're going to get me outa here? Do you know it's all
of ten miles to the nearest ranch? I've got a map of the whole country
in my coat pocket. I'll show yuh if you don't know. You're a stranger,
I guess. I don't recollect seeing yore horse before. I always know
horses. What's his brand?"

Lance did not say. He himself was wondering how he was going to get
the man out of there. If the fellow thought he was a stranger, all
the better. Still, it did not matter much. Already the whisky was
whipping the man's brain to quicker action, loosening his tongue that
had already been set wagging by fever.

"Think you can stand it to ride?" he asked solicitously. "I can heave
you into the saddle, if you can stand being moved. I'd ride to the
next ranch and bring a wagon--but the country's too rough. A rig
couldn't get within five miles of here."

"You're right. Not even Belle Lorrigan's buckboard could make it
across that canyon on beyond. Say, speaking of the Lorrigans--" he
hesitated, then plunged recklessly on. "I'm going to pass you some
dope I've got on that outfit. The chances are I'm done for. The way my
insides feel--and you do something for me, will you? If I cash in, you
turn in this dope. We may as well 'tend to this business right now,
before I tackle the job of riding."

Lance stood looking down at him while he fumbled in his pocket, pulled
out a small leather notebook and some papers.

"I'm a stock detective, see. My name's Burt Brownlee. I was just about
ready to turn in the dope and have the whole outfit pulled. Well, it's
all here. They been rustling right and left, see. But they're
cute--they're _damn_ cute. We been trying to work up the case on the
outside, and it seemed like somebody in the Black Rim was sending
stock out, and so I've been working on this end. Now here's the data.
I followed 'em, and I've got the dope. I know now how they work it,
and my evidence and this dope here, that can be verified later on when
the time comes, will put the whole bunch over the road, see. They're
outlaws--always have been--but they won't be by the time they get outa
the pen."

"You better keep that," Lance cut in gruffly. "Man, that's nothing you
want to be gabbling to a stranger. Shut up, and let me put you on my
horse."

"No, I want to tell yuh," Burt insisted with all the obstinacy of a
man half crazy with pain and whisky. "I want to tell yuh, and I'm
going to tell yuh! Get down here and listen. Here's a map, and here's
the brands they worked, and here's how they worked 'em. And here's the
dates."

On one knee Lance kneeled and listened, his jaws set hard together.
Fast as the man talked the thoughts of Lance flew ahead, snatched at
the significance of every detail, every bit of evidence. Some things
puzzled Burt Brownlee, but Lance knew the answer to the puzzle while
Burt talked and talked. Finally he laid his hand over the finely
traced maps that showed secret trails, unguessed, hidden little draws
where stolen stock had been concealed, all the fine threads that would
weave the net close around the Lorrigans.

"Here, put that stuff up. This is not getting you to a doctor, and
this can wait. Put it up."

"No, you take it. And if I don't pull through, you turn it in. You
keep it. I don't want to be found dead with that dope on _me_--you
can't tell who might get hold of it." He thrust the papers and the
book eagerly into Lance's unwilling hand.

"No-o, you can't tell who might get hold of it," Lance admitted,
biting his lip. "Well, let me take your riding outfit off this horse
and then we'll go."

While he pulled saddle and bridle off the dead horse, Burt Brownlee
talked and talked and talked. He wanted more whisky, which Lance
promised him he should have when he was ready to get on the horse. He
told further evidence against the Devil's Tooth, told how he had
followed Tom for two days only to see him later at the ranch where he
had returned while Burt had for a time lost the trail. On that trip,
he said, he would have gotten the full details of one "job" had he not
turned off to follow Tom Lorrigan.

While he worked Lance listened stoically. When he was ready to start
he led Sorry close, lifted the fellow as tenderly as he could, saw him
faint again with the pain, and somehow got him on the horse while he
was still unconscious. Burt Brownlee was a big man, but he was not of
great weight. Lance bound him to the saddle with his own riata,
revived him with a little more whisky, and started for Conley's, who
lived nearest.

It was ten miles to Conleys, as riders guessed the distance. Lance
walked and led Sorry, and tried to hold Burt Brownlee in the saddle,
and listened to his rambling talk, and gave him more whisky when he
seemed ready to die. During certain intervals when Burt seemed lucid
enough to realize his desperate condition, Lance heartened him with
assurance that they were almost there.

On the way into the canyon Burt Brownlee suffered greatly on the steep
trail, down which the horse must go with forward joltings that racked
terribly the man's crushed side. The whisky was gone; he had finished
the scanty supply at the canyon's crest, because he begged for it so
hard that Lance could not steel himself to refuse. At the bottom Lance
stopped Sorry, and put an arm around Burt. Lance's face was set
masklike in its forced calm, but his voice was very tender, with the
deep, vibrant note Mary Hope loved so ardently.

"Lean against me, old man, and rest a minute. It's pretty tough going,
but you're game. You're dead game. You'll make it. Wait. I'll stand on
this rock--now lean hard, and rest. Ho, there's no whisky--water will
have to do you, now. I've a little in my canteen, and when you've
rested--"

"I'm going," said Burt, lurching against Lance's steady strength.
"You're a white man. That Lorrigan dope--don't forget what I told
you--turn it in--"

Lance's mouth twisted with sudden bitterness. "I won't--forget," he
said. "I'll turn it--in."

"I'm--a goner. Just--stand and let me--lean--"

Lance stood, and let him lean, and with his handkerchief he very
gently dried Burt's cold, perspiring face. It seemed an endless time
that he stood there. Now and then Burt clutched him with fingers that
gripped his shoulders painfully, but Lance never moved. Once, when
Sorry turned his head and looked back inquiringly, wondering why they
did not go on, Lance spoke to the horse and his voice was calm and
soothing. But when it was all over, Lance's underlip was bleeding at
the corner where he had bitten into it.

He walked into Conley's yard an hour after that, his face drearily
impassive, a dead man lashed to the saddle. He asked for paper and a
pen, and in a firm, even handwriting he described tersely the manner
of Burt Brownlee's death, told where the dead horse and the saddle
would be found, and as an afterthought, lest there be trouble in
locating the spot, he drew a sketch of that particular part of the
Lava Beds. He signed the statement, and had the excited Conleys,
shaking man and half hysterical wife, sign also as witnesses. His
matter-of-fact treatment of the affair impressed them to the point of
receiving his instructions as though they were commands which must on
no account be disobeyed in any particular.

"I'll be back and tell the coroner. He'll want to see the horse and
saddle, perhaps. Mr. Conley, you can find them without any trouble. If
he wants an inquest, tell him I'll be on hand. Thank you, Mrs.
Conley,--no, I'll not wait for anything to eat. I'm not hungry. I must
get home. Good-by--sorry I can't do any more for you."

He mounted Sorry, pricked him into a gallop, and presently disappeared
around a bend of the trail that led in the direction of the Devil's
Tooth ranch.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

HOW ONE TRAIL ENDED

Darkness falls late on the Black Rim country in midsummer. It was just
deepening from dusk when Lance rode up to the corral gate, pulled the
saddle and bridle off Sorry with swift jerks that bespoke a haste born
of high nervous tension, and strode up to the house. From the bunk
house, when he passed, came the murmur of low-keyed voices. The
outfit, then, was at home once more. From the shaded window of Belle's
bedroom a thin silver of light shone, where the blind was curled back
at the edge, but the rest of the house was dark. He went in, moving
softly, but Belle must have heard his step on the porch, for she came
out with her bedroom lamp in her hand, the other raised to impress
quiet upon him.

"Lance, honey! Where on earth have you been?" She set the lamp down on
the table and came close, putting her arms around him, her eyes
searching the impenetrable calm of his face, the veiled purpose behind
his eyes. It was the Lorrigan fighting look; she had seen it once or
twice in Tom's face and it had frightened her. She was frightened
now, but her own intrepid soul pushed back her fear.

"_Sh-sh_, honey," she whispered, though Lance had neither moved nor
spoken since she touched him. "_Sh-sh_--Mary Hope and her mother are
here, and they're both asleep. I--honey, we were so worried, when you
didn't come back. That note you sent didn't say a _thing_, and I was
afraid--And I was between the devil and the deep sea, honey. I
couldn't stay away from here, when I didn't know--and I couldn't leave
Hope there, and the women that came flocking when they heard the news
were just _cows_ for brains. And the old lady won't have a nurse and
she _wouldn't_ let me out of her sight--she keeps me singing about all
the time she's awake, or reciting poetry--Bobbie Burns, mostly, and
Scott. Would you ever _think_ she'd stand for Bobbie Burns? But I can
do it as Scotch as she can, and she likes it.

"So she wouldn't let me leave, and I couldn't stay--and I had Hugh
make up a bed in the spring wagon, and brought her over here. If you
and Hope are going to be married right away, the old lady will need to
be here, anyway. The doctor tried to talk hospital--he just _tried_.
The old lady can write now with her left hand so we can make it out,
and when he said hospital to her she--she almost swore.

"So it's all right, Lance, honey--my God, Lance, _what is it_? Have
you heard from Duke?" She broke down suddenly, and clutched him in a
way that reminded him poignantly of that dying man in the canyon. Her
whisper became sibilant, terrified. "_What is it?_ What has happened?
Lance, _tell_ me! Tom is here, and Al; they were here when we came,
to-day--"

Lance took a deep breath. Very gently he leaned and kissed her on the
forehead, reached back and pulled her hands away from his shoulders.

"It's nothing, Belle. I'm--tired. And you--you surprised me. Will it
waken them if I--clean up a little before I go to bed? I'll--be
careful." He forced his eyes, his lips, to smile at her. "Good girl,
Belle. I'm--you're a trump. Now go back to bed. Lance is on the
job--Lance won't leave again like that--he'll--settle down."

He sat down on the nearest chair and pulled off his boots. He made an
imperative gesture toward her bedroom, and Belle, giving him a
strange, searching look, went in and closed the door after her. He
gave a sigh of relief when she was gone, never dreaming how little he
had imposed upon her.

In his stocking feet he went to the kitchen, found hot water in the
teakettle, carried it to his room and shaved, cleansing his body
as well as he could from the dust of the trip without making any
sound that might disturb the sleeping invalid and Mary Hope. He
dressed himself carefully as though he were going to meet guests.
The set look was still in his face when he stood before the dresser
mirror, knotting the blue tie that harmonized best with the shirt he
wore. He pulled the tan leather belt straight, so that the plain
silver buckle was in the middle, took something off the bed and pushed
it carefully inside the waistband of his trousers, on the left side,
taking great care that its position was right to the fraction of an
inch. He took his tan Oxford shoes in his hand, pulled open his door
as quietly as any burglar could have done, stepped down upon the
ground and put on the shoes, lacing them carefully, tucking in the bow
ends fastidiously.

Then, moving very softly, he went down the path to the bunk-house,
opened the door and walked in, never dreaming that Belle was no more
than a dozen steps behind him, or that, when he closed the door, she
was standing just outside, listening.

The blood of his actress mother carried him insouciantly over the
pregnant silence that received him. He leaned negligently against the
wall beside the closed door, his arms folded, his eyebrows tilted
upward at the inner ends, his lips smiling quizzically.

"I've another funny story to tell you fellows," he drawled, just
before the silence became awkward. "Glad you're all here--it's too
good to keep, too good to waste on part of the outfit. I want you all
to get the kick. You'll enjoy it--being cattlemen. It's a joke that
was pulled on an outfit down in Arizona."

Like a trained monologist, he had them listening, deceived by his
smiling ease, waiting to hear the joke on the Arizona outfit. Tom and
Al, at the table with some papers before them, papers that held
figures and scribbled names, he quite overlooked. But they, too,
listened to the story, were imposed upon by that quizzical smile, by
his mimicry, by the bold, swift strokes with which he painted word
pictures which their imaginations seized upon as fast as they were
made.

It was Tom who first felt a suspicion of Lance's purpose, and shifted
his position a little, so that his right hand would be free. As he did
so, without looking toward him Lance's left fingers began tapping,
tapping the muscles of his right arm; his right hand had sagged a
little. Tom's eyebrows pulled together. Quite well he knew that pose.
He waited, listened with closer attention to the story.

Lance paused, as your skillful _raconteur_ usually does pause before
the climax. His glance went impersonally over the faces of his
audience. Most of them were leaning forward, a few were breathing
hard. They were listening, straining unconsciously to get the meaning
he withheld from them. Lance's right hand sagged another half inch,
his lips pulled sidewise in the enigmatical smile of the Lorrigans.

"I lied, of course--about the outfit this joke is on. It's really the
Devil's Tooth I'm talking about. But the kick remains, so listen,
folks, just listen.

"I'm a Lorrigan. Two of you are Lorrigans, and you know what I mean
when I say that. The rest of you had better _guess_ what I mean, if
you don't know--and guess right!

"I'm talking to you with my back against the wall--in more ways than
one. Don't think I'm fool enough not to know it. But you're listening
with your backs against another wall; I believe it is of stone,
usually, and the windows have bars. I don't think you're such fools
you fail to grasp my meaning. I'm talking--and you're going to
listen.

"What I said--well, I have the dope, you know. I know where you took
that last bunch of stolen horses, and I know the date when you turned
them over. I have a map or two--I know those secret trails you made,
that lead into that hidden little basin that the Rim has not
discovered yet. I've dope enough to indict the whole outfit on five
separate counts--and any one of them will put every man of you in the
pen for a term of years--well, from five to ten up to fifteen or
twenty--a mere detail.

"I know why Duke didn't come back. There's a yellow streak in Duke,
and he lost his nerve and drifted to parts unknown. Where, I'm not
curious to discover. It doesn't matter, so long as his destination
_remains_ unknown.

"That's the story. And now, here's the point: Others, detectives
working at the other end of the business, have an inkling of some of
this dope. They haven't got what I've got, but they may possibly get
it. They may--possibly. And if they do--wel-ll--" He smiled at them,
his eyebrows pointing his meaning, his fingers tapping, tapping on his
arm.

"You've got to quit. Now, without turning the deal you're working on,
you've got to quit. Get that. Get it right into your souls. You men
that have been hired to steal, you've got to drift. Where, does not
concern me at all. Where Duke went is good--Parts Unknown. Or if it's
to hell--why, the going is good. Never better. You'll go quicker, but
there won't be any coming back, so I advise--Parts Unknown.

"You two Lorrigans--I'm not thinking of you now as my brother and my
father--the same advice applies to you. You're Lorrigans. You'd rather
fight it out than pull out, but you won't. You'd rather kill me than
go. That's all right; I understand perfectly. But--I'm Lorrigan, too.
You'll go, or I'll kill you. Tom Lorrigan, your hand is pret-ty close
to your gun! But so is mine. You'd kill me, because I stand in the
trail you've been traveling. But you wouldn't kill me a damn bit
quicker than I'd kill _you_! I do stand in the trail--and you're
going to take another, both you Lorrigans.

"You had a debt--a bill of damages against the Black Rim. Wel-ll," he
smiled, "you've collected. Now, to-night, you write 'paid' across that
bill. You tried to be honest, and the Black Rim wouldn't give you
credit for it; they tried to frame something on you, tried to send you
'over the road' on a damned, measly charge you weren't small enough to
be guilty of. I understand. The trail ends right here. You quit. You
sit there ready to kill. But I'm just as ready as you are. You'll
quit, or _I'll kill you_!"

He waited, watching Tom. Tom, watching Lance, got up and faced him
cold-eyed, unafraid, weighing not chances, but values rather.

"You'd kill me, would you!" he asked, his voice matching the drawl of
Lance.

"Sure, I'd kill you!" Lance smiled back.

Eyes on a level, the two stared at each other, smiling that deadly,
Lorrigan smile, the smile of old Tom Lorrigan the killer.

"You would, all right," Tom said. Then his stiffened muscles relaxed.
A twinkle came into his eyes. "If you're game enough to do that, kid,
by God, I'm game enough to quit!"

Lance unfolded his arms, reached out with his open right hand and met
Tom's hand in a close grip. "That's the stuff, dad! I knew you had it
in you--I knew it!"

Outside the door, Belle hugged her six-shooter to her breast and
leaned against the wall, her knees shaking under her. "Thank God! Oh,
thank God a Lorrigan can be bigger than all the Lorrigan blood that's
in him!" she whispered. "Oh, Lance, honey--oh, thank God!"

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

THE MAKING OF NEW TRAILS

At the corral, that time-honored conference ground of all true range
men, the three Lorrigans leaned their backs against the rails and
talked things over in true range style: laconic phrases that stated
their meaning without frills or mental reservations, and silences that
carried their thoughts forward to the next utterance.

"Al can take the outfit and drift," said Tom, as though he were
discussing some detail of the round-up. "He knows where--and they can
scatter, I'll give 'em a horse apiece as a--a kinda bonus. I'll have
to stay, looks like. Fall round-up's coming on."

"Wel-ll," said Lance, throwing an arm over a rail and drumming with
his fingers, "I was raised on round-ups. I don't suppose I've
forgotten all about it. You might turn the management over to me for a
year or so, and take a trip. Belle needs it, dad. I think I could keep
things riding along, all right."

"Sounds kinda like you had that idea for a joker up your sleeve," Al
observed meaningly. "Are you plumb sure of that dope, Lance?"

Lance removed his arm from the corral rail, and reached into his
pocket. "I didn't think you had it in you, Al, to be that big a fool.
But since you've said it, here's the dope. Take it, dad. I said I'd
turn it in, but I didn't say who'd receive it. The stock detective
that's been camping on your trail for the last few weeks was killed on
the Lava Beds to-day. I found him. He's at Conley's, now, waiting for
the coroner. You might ride over, Al, and see for yourself. And on the
way, you might ride up the Slide trail and take a look around the
Tooth. You'll see signs where he's watched the ranch from up there.
And you can go on down and find where he camped several times at
Cottonwood Spring.

"The coroner won't get on the job before to-morrow or next day, and it
will take a little time, I suppose, for Brownlee's employers to wake
up and wonder what became of the evidence he was sent to collect.
You'll have, perhaps, a week in which to make your getaway. They're
waiting outside the Rim for the evidence this Burt Brownlee was
collecting, so that they could make one big clean-up.

"I'm not setting myself up as a judge, or anything like that--but--well,
the going's good, right now. It may not be so good if you wait."

He lighted a match and held it up so that Tom could glance at the
maps and skim the contents of the memorandum book. By the blaze of the
match Lance's face still looked rather hard, determined to see the
thing through.

"You'd better burn that stuff, dad. And in the morning--how would
it be if we went to town and got the legal end of my new job
straightened out! I'll want a Power of Attorney. You may be gone
for some time. I suppose you know," he added, "that Mary Hope and
I are going to be married. So you and Belle can take a trip
somewhere. They say it's worth while going down to the big cattle
country in the Argentine--South America, you know."

Tom did not reply. He had lighted a second match and was studying
attentively the data in Burt Brownlee's book. The third match told him
enough to convince him. He gave a snort when darkness enveloped them
again.

"I sharpened my pencil pretty darn fine when I made out my bill
against the Black Rim a few years ago--and by the humpin' hyenas,
these figures here kinda go to show I overcharged 'em. Some. Not so
damn much, either, if you look at my side. Better get up the horses,
Al, and you'n the boys take the trail. The kid's right. The goin's
dern good, right now. Better'n what it will be."

In the scuffed sand before the corral gate Tom made a small fire, with
a few crumpled papers and one small book, which he tore apart and
fed, leaf by leaf, to the flames. The light showed him grimly smiling,
when he tilted his head and looked up at Lance who watched him.

"So you'n the Douglas kid is figuring on getting hitched! Well, don't
ever try to eye her down like you done to yore dad. She'll brain yuh,
likely--if you wait long enough for her to make up her mind."

Lance laughed. Up at the house Belle heard him and caught her breath.
She stared hard at the three forms silhouetted like Rembrandt figures
around the little fire, started toward them and stopped. She was a
wise woman, was Belle. Some things a woman may know--and hide the
knowledge deep in her heart, and in the hiding help her mate.

Black Rim folk, who always knew so much of their neighbors' affairs,
once more talked and chortled and surmised, and never came within a
mile of the truth. The young college rooster had come home to the
Devil's Tooth, they gossiped, and had a row with Al; so Al left home,
and Duke too. The Lorrigans always had been hard to get along with,
but that Lance--he sure must be a caution to cats, the way he'd
cleaned off the ranch.

Marrying the Douglas girl, and taking that paralyzed old lady right to
the ranch, had probably had a lot to do with it. Lance might be
willing to forget that old trouble with Scotty, but the rest of the
Lorrigans sure never would. And it was queer, too, how all that
rustling talk petered out. Mebby there hadn't been much in it, after
all.

Not even Mary Hope guessed why she and Lance were left so completely
in charge of the ranch. Sometimes, when the invalid was captious and
showed too plainly that she preferred Belle's playing and singing to
the musical efforts of her own daughter, and scrawled impatient
questions about Belle's return, Mary Hope would wonder if Tom Lorrigan
really hated her, and if her coming had practically driven him out of
his own home. She would cry a little, then,--unless Lance happened to
be somewhere near. If he were, there was no crying for Mary Hope.

"He's a good son," Mother Douglas once wrote, "I wish Aleck was alive,
to see how the Lord has changed the Lorrigans."

THE END

THE NOVELS OF MARY ROBERTS RINEHART

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

DANGEROUS DAYS.

A brilliant story of married life. A romance of fine purpose and
stirring appeal.

THE AMAZING INTERLUDE.

Illustrations by The Kinneys.

The story of a great love which cannot be pictured--an interlude--amazing,
romantic.

LOVE STORIES.

This book is exactly what its title indicates, a collection of love
affairs--sparkling with humor, tenderness and sweetness.

"K." Illustrated.

K. LeMoyne, famous surgeon, goes to live in a little town where
beautiful Sidney Page lives. She is in training to become a nurse. The
joys and troubles of their young love are told with keen and
sympathetic appreciation.

THE MAN IN LOWER TEN.

Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy.

An absorbing detective story woven around the mysterious death of the
"Man in Lower Ten."

WHEN A MAN MARRIES.

Illustrated by Harrison Fisher and Mayo Bunker.

A young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him, finds that his
aunt is soon to visit him. The aunt, who contributes to the family
income, knows nothing of the domestic upheaval. How the young man met
the situation is entertainingly told.

THE CIRCULAR STAIRCASE. Illustrated by Lester Ralph.

The occupants of "Sunnyside" find the dead body of Arnold Armstrong on
the circular staircase. Following the murder a bank failure is
announced. Around these two events is woven a plot of absorbing
interest.

THE STREET OF SEVEN STARS. (Photoplay Edition.)

Harmony Wells, studying in Vienna to be a great violinist, suddenly
realizes that her money is almost gone. She meets a young ambitious
doctor who offers her chivalry and sympathy, and together with
world-worn Dr. Anna and Jimmie, the waif, they share their love and
slender means.

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS

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

SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by Arthur William Brown.

No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal
young people of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent
of the time when the reader was Seventeen.

PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant.

This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous,
tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is a
finished, exquisite work.

PENROD AND SAM. Illustrated by Worth Brehm.

Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen," this book contains Borne remarkable
phases of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile
prankishness that have ever been written.

THE TURMOIL. Illustrated by C. E. Chambers.

Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against his
father's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of a
fine girl turns Bibb's life from failure to success.

THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. Frontispiece.

A story of love and politics,--more especially a picture of a country
editor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love
interest.

THE FLIRT. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood.

The "Flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement,
drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another
to lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromising
suitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister.

Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction

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KATHLEEN NORRIS' STORIES

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

SISTERS. Frontispiece by Frank Street.

The California Redwoods furnish the background for this beautiful
story of sisterly devotion and sacrifice.

POOR, DEAR, MARGARET KIRBY.

Frontispiece by George Gibbs.

A collection of delightful stories, including "Bridging the Years" and
"The Tide-Marsh." This story is now shown in moving pictures.

JOSSELYN'S WIFE. Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert.

The story of a beautiful woman who fought a bitter fight for happiness
and love.

MARTIE, THE UNCONQUERED.

Illustrated by Charles E. Chambers.

The triumph of a dauntless spirit over adverse conditions.

THE HEART OF RACHAEL.

Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers.

An interesting story of divorce and the problems that come with a
second marriage.

THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE.

Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert.

A sympathetic portrayal of the quest of a normal girl, obscure and
lonely, for the happiness of life.

SATURDAY'S CHILD. Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes.

Can a girl, born in rather sordid conditions, lift herself through
sheer determination to the better things for which her soul hungered?

MOTHER. Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

A story of the big mother heart that beats in the background of every
girl's life, and some dreams which came true.

Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD'S STORIES OF ADVENTURE

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

THE RIVER'S END

A story of the Royal Mounted Police.

THE GOLDEN SNARE

Thrilling adventures in the Far Northland.

NOMADS OF THE NORTH

The story of a bear-cub and a dog.

KAZAN

The tale of a "quarter-strain wolf and three-quarters husky" torn
between the call of the human and his wild mate.

BAREE, SON OF KAZAN

The story of the son of the blind Grey Wolf and the gallant part he
played in the lives of a man and a woman.

THE COURAGE OF CAPTAIN PLUM

The story of the King of Beaver Island, a Mormon colony, and his
battle with Captain Plum.

THE DANGER TRAIL

A tale of love, Indian vengeance, and a mystery of the North.

THE HUNTED WOMAN

A tale of a great fight in the "valley of gold" for a woman.

THE FLOWER OF THE NORTH

The story of Fort o' God, where the wild flavor of the wilderness is
blended with the courtly atmosphere of France.

THE GRIZZLY KING

The story of Thor, the big grizzly.

ISOBEL

A love story of the Far North.

THE WOLF HUNTERS

A thrilling tale of adventure in the Canadian wilderness.

THE GOLD HUNTERS

The story of adventure in the Hudson Bay wilds.

THE COURAGE OF MARGE O'DOONE

Filled with exciting incidents in the land of strong men and women.

BACK TO GOD'S COUNTRY

A thrilling story of the Far North. The great Photoplay was made from
this book.

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

ZANE GREY'S NOVELS

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

THE MAN OF THE FOREST

THE DESERT OF WHEAT

THE U. P. TRAIL

WILDFIRE

THE BORDER LEGION

THE RAINBOW TRAIL

THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT

RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE

THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS

THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN

THE LONE STAR RANGER

DESERT GOLD

BETTY ZANE

LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS

The life story of "Buffalo Bill" by his sister Helen Cody Wetmore,
with Foreword and conclusion by Zane Grey.

ZANE GREY'S BOOKS FOR BOYS

KEN WARD IN THE JUNGLE

THE YOUNG LION HUNTER

THE YOUNG FORESTER

THE YOUNG PITCHER

THE SHORT STOP

THE RED-HEADED OUTFIELD AND OTHER BASEBALL STORIES

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE

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

MAVERICKS

A tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler" abounds. One of
the sweetest love stories ever told.

A TEXAS RANGER

How a member of the border police saved the life of an innocent man,
followed a fugitive to Wyoming, and then passed through deadly peril
to ultimate happiness.

WYOMING

In this vivid story the author brings out the turbid life of the
frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor.

RIDGWAY OF MONTANA

The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics and
mining industries are the religion of the country.

BUCKY O'CONNOR

Every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with
the dashing spirit of the border.

CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT

A story of Arizona: of swift-riding men and daring outlaws, of a
bitter feud between cattlemen and sheep-herders.

BRAND BLOTTERS

A story of the turbid life of the frontier with a charming love
interest running through its pages.

STEVE YEAGER

A story brimful of excitement, with enough gun-play and adventure to
suit anyone.

A DAUGHTER OF THE DONS

A Western story of romance and adventure, comprising a vivacious and
stirring tale.

THE HIGHGRADER

A breezy, pleasant and amusing love story of Western mining life.

THE PIRATE OF PANAMA

A tale of old-time pirates and of modern love, hate and adventure.

THE YUKON TRAIL

A crisply entertaining love story in the land where might makes
right.

THE VISION SPLENDID

In which two cousins are contestants for the same prizes: political
honors and the hand of a girl.

THE SHERIFF'S SON

The hero finally conquers both himself and his enemies and wins the
love of a wonderful girl.

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER

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

MICHAEL O'HALLORAN. Illustrated by Frances Rogers.

Michael is a quick-witted little Irish newsboy, living in Northern
Indiana. He adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. He also assumes
the responsibility of leading the entire rural community upward and
onward.

LADDIE. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.

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

THE HARVESTER. Illustrated fay W. L. Jacobs.

"The Harvester," is a man of the woods and fields, and if the book had
nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable.
But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods," there begins a
romance of the rarest idyllic quality.

FRECKLES. Illustrated.

Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which
he takes hold of life: the nature friendships he forms in the great
Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs
to the charm of his engaging personality; and his love story with "The
Angel" are full of real sentiment.

A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. Illustrated.

The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable type of
the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindness
towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty
of her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and
unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage.

AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. Illustrations in colors.

The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. The
story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love.
The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature,
and its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all.

THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL. Profusely illustrated.

A love ideal of the Cardinal bird and his mate, told with delicacy and
humor.

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

JACK LONDON'S NOVELS

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

JOHN BARLEYCORN. Illustrated by H. T. Dunn.

This remarkable book is a record of the author's own amazing
experiences. This big, brawny world rover, who has been acquainted
with alcohol from boyhood, comes out boldly against John Barleycorn.
It is a string of exciting adventures, yet it forcefully conveys an
unforgetable idea and makes a typical Jack London book.

THE VALLEY OF THE MOON. Frontispiece by George Harper.

The story opens in the city slums where Billy Roberts, teamster and
ex-prize fighter, and Saxon Brown, laundry worker, meet and love and
marry. They tramp from one end of California to the other, and in the
Valley of the Moon find the farm paradise that is to be their
salvation.

BURNING DAYLIGHT. Four illustrations.

The story of an adventurer who went to Alaska and laid the foundations
of his fortune before the gold hunters arrived. Bringing his fortunes
to the States he is cheated out of it by a crowd of money kings, and
recovers it only at the muzzle of his gun. He then starts out as a
merciless exploiter on his own account. Finally he takes to drinking
and becomes a picture of degeneration. About this time he falls in
love with his stenographer and wins her heart but not her hand and
then--but read the story!

A SON OF THE SUN. Illustrated by A. O. Fischer and C. W. Ashley.

David Grief was once a light-haired, blue-eyed youth who came from
England to the South Seas in search of adventure. Tanned like a native
and as lithe as a tiger, he became a real son of the sun. The life
appealed to him and he remained and became very wealthy.

THE CALL OF THE WILD. Illustrations by Philip R. Goodwin and Charles
Livingston Bull. Decorations by Charles E. Hooper.

A book of dog adventures as exciting as any man's exploits could be.
Here is excitement to stir the blood and here is picturesque color to
transport the reader to primitive scenes.

THE SEA WOLF. Illustrated by W. J. Aylward.

Told by a man whom Fate suddenly swings from his fastidious life into
the power of the brutal captain of a sealing schooner. A novel of
adventure warmed by a beautiful love episode that every reader will
hail with delight.

WHITE FANG. Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull.

"White Fang" is part dog, part wolf and all brute, living in the frozen
north; he gradually comes under the spell of man's companionship, and
surrenders all at the last in a fight with a bull dog. Thereafter he is
man's loving slave.

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

RALPH CONNOR'S STORIES OF THE NORTHWEST

May be had wherever books me sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list

THE SKY PILOT IN NO MAN'S LAND

The clean-hearted, strong-limbed man of the West leaves his hills and
forests to fight the battle for freedom in the old world.

BLACK ROCK

A story of strong men in the mountains of the West.

THE SKY PILOT

A story of cowboy life, abounding in the freshest humor, the truest
tenderness and the finest courage.

THE PROSPECTOR

A tale of the foothills and of the man who came to them to lend a hand
to the lonely men and women who needed a protector.

THE MAN FROM GLENGARRY

This narrative brings us into contact with elemental and volcanic
human nature and with a hero whose power breathes from every word.

GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS

In this rough country of Glengarry, Ralph Connor has found human
nature in the rough.

THE DOCTOR

The story of a "preacher-doctor" whom big men and reckless men loved
for his unselfish life among them.

THE FOREIGNER

A tale of the Saskatchewan and of a "foreigner" who made a brave and
winning fight for manhood and love.

CORPORAL CAMERON

This splendid type of the upright, out-of-door man about which Ralph
Connor builds all his stories, appears again in this book.

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

B. M. BOWER'S NOVELS

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

CHIP OF THE FLYING U. Wherein the love affairs of Chip and Delia
Whitman are charmingly and humorously told.

THE HAPPY FAMILY. A lively and amusing story, dealing with the
adventures of eighteen jovial, big-hearted Montana cowboys.

HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT. Describing a gay party of Easterners who exchange
a cottage at Newport for a Montana ranch-house.

THE RANGE DWELLERS. Spirited action, a range feud between two
families, and a Romeo and Juliet courtship make this a bright, jolly
story.

THE LURE OF THE DIM TRAILS. A vivid portrayal of the experience of an
Eastern author among the cowboys.

THE LONESOME TRAIL. A little branch of sage brush and the recollection
of a pair of large brown eyes upset "Weary" Davidson's plans.

THE LONG SHADOW. A vigorous Western story, sparkling with the free
outdoor life of a mountain ranch. It is a fine love story.

GOOD INDIAN. A stirring romance of life on an Idaho ranch.

FLYING U RANCH. Another delightful story about Chip and his pals.

THE FLYING U'S LAST STAND. An amusing account of Chip and the other
boys opposing a party of school teachers.

THE UPHILL CLIMB. A story of a mountain ranch and of a man's hard
fight on the uphill road to manliness.

THE PHANTOM HERD. The title of a moving-picture staged to "New Mexico
by the Flying U" boys.

THE HERITAGE OF THE SIOUX. The "Flying U" boys stage a fake bank
robbery for film purposes which precedes a real one for lust of gold.

THE GRINGOS. A story of love and adventure on a ranch is California.

STARR OF THE DESERT. A New Mexico ranch story of mystery and
adventure.

THE LOOKOUT MAN. A Northern California story full of action,
excitement and love.

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

ETHEL M. DELL'S NOVELS

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

THE LAMP IN THE DESERT

The scene of this splendid story is laid in India and tells of the
lamp of love that continues to shine through all sorts of tribulations
to final happiness.

GREATHEART

The story of a cripple whose deformed body conceals a noble soul.

THE HUNDREDTH CHANCE

A hero who worked to win even when there was only "a hundredth
chance."

THE SWINDLER

The story of a "bad man's" soul revealed by a woman's faith.

THE TIDAL WAVE

Tales of love and of women who learned to know the true from the
false.

THE SAFETY CURTAIN

A very vivid love story of India. The volume also contains four other
long stories of equal interest.

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

FLORENCE L. BARCLAY'S NOVELS

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

THE WHITE LADIES OF WORCESTER

A novel of the 12th Century. The heroine, believing she had lost her
lover, enters a convent. He returns, and interesting developments
follow.

THE UPAS TREE

A love story of rare charm. It deals with a successful author and his
wife.

THROUGH THE POSTERN GATE

The story of a seven day courtship, in which the discrepancy in ages
vanished into insignificance before the convincing demonstration of
abiding love.

THE ROSARY

The story of a young artist who is reputed to love beauty above all
else in the world, but who, when blinded through an accident, gains
life's greatest happiness. A rare story of the great passion of two
real people superbly capable of love, its sacrifices and its exceeding
reward.

THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE

The lovely young Lady Ingleby, recently widowed by the death of a
husband who never understood her, meets a fine, clean young chap who
is ignorant of her title and they fall deeply in love with each other.
When he learns her real identity a situation of singular power is
developed.

THE BROKEN HALO

The story of a young man whose religious belief was shattered in
childhood and restored to him by the little white lady, many years
older than himself, to whom he is passionately devoted.

THE FOLLOWING OF THE STAR

The story of a young missionary, who, about to start for Africa,
marries wealthy Diana Rivers, in order to help her fulfill the
conditions of her uncle's will, and how they finally come to love each
other and are reunited after experiences that soften and purify.

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York