They of the High Trails

They of the High Trails Page 9

by Hamlin Garland

  VIII

  THE LEASER

  The only passenger in the car who really interested me was a burly youngfellow who sat just ahead of me, and who seemed to be something morethan a tourist, for the conductor greeted him pleasantly and thebrakeman shook his hand. We were climbing to Cripple Creek by way of theShort Line, but as "the sceneries" were all familiar to me, I was ableto study my fellow-passengers.

  The man before me was very attractive, although he was by nointerpretation a gentle type. On the contrary, he looked to be the roughand ready American, rough in phrase and ready to fight. His corduroycoat hunched about his muscular shoulders in awkward lines, and hisbroad face, inclining to fat, was stern and harsh. He appeared to beabout thirty-five years of age.

  The more I studied him the more I hankered to know his history. Theconductor, coming through, hailed him with:

  "Well, gettin' back, eh? Had a good trip?"

  Once or twice the miner--he was evidently a miner--leaned from thewindow and waved his hat to some one on the crossing, shouted a cheery,"How goes it?" and the brakeman asked:

  "How did you find the East?"

  From all this I deduced that the miner had been away on a visit to NewYork, or Boston, or Washington.

  As we rose the air became so cool, so clear, so crisp, that we seemed tobe entering a land of eternal dew and roses, and as our car filled withthe delicious scent of pine branches and green grasses, the miner, witha solemn look on his face, took off his hat and, turning to me, said,with deep intonation:

  "This is what I call _air_. This is good for what ails me."

  "You've been away," I stated rather than asked.

  "I've been back East--back to see the old folks--first time in elevenyears."

  "What do you call East?" I pursued.

  "Anything back of the Missouri River," he replied, smiling a little. "Inthis case it was Michigan--near Jackson."

  "Citizen of the camp?" I nodded up the canyon.

  "Yes, I'm workin' a lease on Bull Hill."

  "How's the old camp looking?"

  "All shot to pieces. Half the houses empty, and business gone to pot.It's a purty yellow proposition now."

  "You don't say! It was pretty slow when I was there last, but I didn'tsuppose it had gone broke. What's the matter of it?"

  "Too many monopolists. All the good properties have gone into one or twohands. Then these labor wars have scared operators away. However, I'mnot complainin'. I've made good on this lease of mine." He grinnedboyishly. "I've been back to flash my roll in the old man's face. Yousee, I left the farm rather sudden one Sunday morning eleven years ago,and I'd never been back." His face changed to a graver, sweeterexpression. "My sister wrote that mother was not very well and kind o'grievin' about me, so, as I was making good money, I thought I couldafford to surprise the old man by slapping him on the back. You see,when I left, I told him I'd never darken his door again--you know theline of talk a boy hands out to his dad when he's mad--and for over tenyears I never so much as wrote a line to any of the family."

  As he mused darkly over this period, I insinuated another question."What was the trouble?"

  "That's just it! Nothing to warrant anything more than a cuss-word, andyet it cut me loose. I was goin' around now and then with a girl the oldman didn't like--or rather, my old man and her old man didn'thitch--and, besides, her old man was a kind of shiftless cuss, one o'these men that raised sparrows in his beard, and so one Sunday morning,as I was polishin' up the buggy to go after Nance, who but dad shouldcome out and growl:

  "'Where ye goin' with that buggy?'

  "'None o' your dam' business,' I snaps back, hot as hell in a secunt,'but just to touch you up, I'll tell you. I'm goin' over to see NanceMcRae.'

  "Well, sir, that set him off. 'Not with my horses,' says he, and,grabbin' the buggy by the thills, he sent it back into the shed. Then heturned on me:

  "'If you want to see that girl, you walk! I won't have you usin' mytired animals to cart such trash--'

  "I stopped him right there. He was a big, raw-boned citizen, but I was ahusky chunk of a lad myself and ready to fight.

  "'Don't you speak a word against Nance,' I says, 'for if you do I'llwaller ye right here and now; and as for your horse and buggy, you maykeep 'em till the cows come home. Here's where I get off. You'll neversee me again.'

  "Gee! I was hot! I went in, packed up my grip, and hit the first trainfor the West."

  "Just as thousands of other angry boys have done," I said, realizing tothe minutest detail this scene. "They never think of going East."

  "No, the West is the only place for a man in trouble--at least, so itseems to me."

  "Where did you go? What did you do?"

  He mused again as if recalling his struggles. "I dropped off in Kansasand got a job on a farm and fussed around there for the fall and winter.Then I got the minin' fever and came to Victor. Of course, there wasn'tanything for a grass-cutter like me to do in the hills but swing a pick.I didn't like underground work, and so I went on a ranch again. Well, Ikept tryin' the minin' game off and on, prospectin' here and there, andfinally I got into this leasin' business, and two years ago I secured alease on the 'Red Cent' and struck it good and plenty. Oh, I don'tintend to say it's any Portland--but it pays me and I've been stackin'up some few dollars down at the Commercial Bank, and feelin' easy."

  The man's essential sturdiness of character came out as he talked, andhis face lost the heavy and rather savage look it had worn at first. Ihad taken a seat beside him by this time and my sincere interest in hisaffairs seemed to please him. He was eager to talk, as one who had beensilent for a long time.

  I led him back to the point of most interest to me. "And so at last yourelented and went home? I hope you found the old folks both alive? Didthey know where you were?"

  "Yes. My sister saw my name in a paper--when I made my stake--andwrote, and mother used to send word--used to mention dad occasionally."He laughed silently. "It sure is great fun, this goin' back to the homepasture with a fat wad in your pants pocket--Lord! I owned the wholetown."

  "Tell me about it!" I pleaded.

  He was ready to comply. "Our house stood near the railway, about fourmiles this side of Jackson, and you bet I had my head out of the winderto see if it was all there. It was. It looked just the same, only theold man had painted it yellow--and seemed like I could see mothersettin' on the porch. I'd had it all planned to hire the best automobilein town and go up there in shape to heal sore eyes--but changed my plan.

  "'I'll give 'em more of a shock if I walk out and pretend to be poor andkind o' meek,' I says to myself.

  "So I cached my valise at the station and I wallered out there throughthe dust--it was June and a dry spell and hot. Judas priest! I thoughtI'd sweat my wad into pulp before I got there--me just down from thehigh country! On the way I got to wonderin' about Nancy. 'Is she alive,I wonder?'

  "Do you mean to say you left _her_ without a word of good-by?"

  He looked down at his knee and scratched a patch of grease there."That's what! I was so blame mad I cut loose of the whole outfit. Onceor twice sis had mentioned Nance in a casual kind of way, but as Ididn't bite--she had quit fishin', and so I was all in the dark abouther. She might 'ave been dead or married or crazy, for all I knew.However, now that I was on my way back with nineteen thousand dollars inthe bank and a good show for more, I kind o' got to wonderin' what shewas sufferin' at."

  "I hope she was married to a banker in town and the owner of an electricbrougham. 'Twould have served you right."

  He smiled again and resumed his story. "By the time I reached the oldgate I was dusty as a stage-coach, and this old corduroy suit made melook as much like a tramp as anybody. As I came onto the old man he waswaterin' a span o' horses at the well. Everything looked about the same,only a little older--he was pretty gray and some thinner--and I callsout kind o' meek-like:

  "'Can I get a job here, mister?'

  "He looked me over a spell, then says, 'No, for I'm p
urty well suppliedwith hands.'

  "'What you need is a boss,' I says, grinnin'.

  "Then he knew me, but he didn't do no fancy start--he just growled outkind o' surly:

  "'I'm competent to do all the bossin' on this place,' he says.

  "'You may think so,' I joshed him, 'but if I couldn't keep a placelookin' a little slicker 'n this, I'd sell out and give some better mana chance.'

  "Did that faze him? Not on your life. He checked up both horses beforehe opened his mouth again.

  "'You don't look none too slick yourself. How comes it you're trampin'this hot weather?'

  "I see what he was driving at and so I fed him the dope he wanted.

  "'Well, I've had hard luck,' I says. 'I've been sick.'

  "'You don't look sick,' he snapped out, quick as a flash. 'You looktolerable husky. You 'pear like one o' these chaps that eat up all theyearn--eat and drink and gamble,' he went on, pilin' it up. 'I don't pitytramps a bit; they're all topers.'

  "I took it meek as Moses.

  "'Well,' I says, 'I'm just out of the hospital, and whilst I may seemhusky, I need a good quiet place and a nice easy job for a while.Moreover, I'm terrible hungry.'

  "'You go 'long up to the house,' he says, 'and tell the girl in thekitchen to hand you out a plate of cold meat. I'll be along in aminute.'

  "And off he went to the barn, leavin' me shakin' with his jolt. He wasgame all right! He figured me out as the prodigal son, and wa'n't goin'to knuckle. He intended for me to do all the knee exercise. I driftedalong up the path toward the kitchen.

  "Judas! but it did seem nice and familiar. It was all so green andflowery after camp. There ain't a tree or a patch of green grass left inCripple; but there, in our old yard, were lylock-trees, and rose-bushesclimbin' the porch, and pinks and hollyhocks--and beehives, just as theyused to set--and clover. Say, it nearly had me snifflin'. It sure did."

  The memory of it rather pinched his voice as he described it, but hewent on.

  "Of course I couldn't live down there now--it's too low, after a man hasbreathed such air as this."

  He looked out at the big clouds soaring round Pike's Peak.

  "But the flowers and the grass they did kind o' get me. I edged round onthe front side of the house, and, sure enough, there sat mother, just asshe used to--in the same old chair.

  "Cap, I want to tell you, I didn't play no circus tricks on _her_. Herhead had grown white as snow and she looked kind o' sad and feeble. Ibegan to understand a little of the worry I'd been to her. I said goodevening, and she turned and looked at me. Then she opened her arms andcalled out my name."

  His voice choked unmistakably this time, and it was a minute or twobefore he resumed.

  "No jokes, no lies doin' there! I opened right up to her. I told her I'ddone well, but that I didn't want father to know it just yet, and we sitthere holdin' hands when the old man hove round the corner.

  "'Stephen,' says mother, kind o' solemn, 'here's our son Edward.'

  "Did the old man wilt, or climb the line fence and offer to shake hands?Nitsky! He just shoved one hip onto the edge of the porch and remarked:

  "'Does this dry spell reach as fur as where you've been?'"

  He broke into silent laughter again, and I joined him. This was all sodeeply characteristic of the life I had known in my youth that I writhedwith delight. I understood the duel of wits and wills. I could see itproceed as my companion chuckled.

  "Well, sir, we played that game all the evening. I told of all the badleases I'd tackled--and how I'd been thrown from a horse and laid up forsix months. I brought out every set-back and bruise I'd ever had--all tosee if the old man would weaken and feel sorry for me."

  "Did he?"

  "Not for a minute! And sometimes, as I looked at him, I was sorry I'dcome home; but when I was with mother I was glad. She 'phoned to sis,who lived in Jackson, and sis came on the lope, and we had a nice familyparty. Sis touched on Nancy McRae.

  "'You remember her?' she asked.

  "'I seem to,' I says, kind of slow, as if I was dredgin' my mind to findsomething.

  "'Well, she's on the farm, just the same as ever--takin' care of the oldman. Her mother's dead.'

  "I didn't push that matter any farther, but just planned to ride overthe next morning and see how she looked.

  "All that evening sis and I deviled the old man. Mother had told sisabout my mine--and so she'd bring out every little while how uncertainthe gold-seekin' business was and how if I'd stayed on the farm I could'a' been well off--and she'd push me hard when I started in on one of myhard-luck stories. I had to own up that I had walked out to save money,and that I was travelin' on an excursion ticket 'cause it was cheap--andso on.

  "The old man's mouth got straighter and straighter and his eyescolder--but I told mother not to say anything till next day, and shedidn't, although he tossed and turned and grunted half the night. Hereally took it hard; but he finally agreed to harbor me and give me achance--so mother told me next morning--which was Sunday. I had plannedto get home Saturday night.

  "Next morning after breakfast--and it _was_ a breakfast--I strolled outto the barn and, the carriage-shed door being open, I pulled the oldbuggy out--'peared like it was the very same one, and I was a-dustin'the cushions and fussin' around when the old man came up.

  "'What you doin' with that buggy?' he asks.

  "'I jest thought I'd ride over and see Nance McRae,' I says, just as Idid eleven years before.

  "'I reckon you better think again,' he says, and rolls the buggy backinto the shed, just the way he did before. 'If you want to see NanceMcRae you can walk,' he says, and I could see he meant it.

  "'All right,' I says, and out I stepped without so much as sayinggood-by, intendin' to go for good this time.

  "I went across the road to Martin's and got a chance to 'phone intoJackson, and in about twenty minutes I was whirlin' over the road in ared-cushioned automobile that ran smooth as oil, and inside of half anhour I was rollin' through McRae's gate.

  "Now, up to this time, I hadn't any notion of a program as to Nancy; Iwas all took up with gettin' ahead of dad. But when I found myself infront of old McRae, more down at the heel and raggeder in the seat thanever, I was a whole lot set back. What was I to say to him and to her? Ididn't know. He was gappin' at me with the eyes of an owl, and so Iopened up.

  "'I see you have no lightnin'-rods?' I says. 'In this day and age of theworld you can't afford to go without lightnin'-rods.'

  "He wa'n't no fool, if he did wear rats in his hair, and he says:

  "'I thought you was a cream-separator man. Are lightnin'-rods comin'into style again?'

  "'My kind is,' I says.

  "'Well, the trade must be lookin' up,' he says, walkin' round and roundmy machine and eyin' it. 'I'm thinkin' of havin' one of them wagons forhaulin' milk to town. Won't you light out?'

  "'Don't care if I do,' I says, and out I rolled, feelin' a little shaky.

  "I was mighty anxious to see Nance by this time, but felt shy of askin'about her.

  "'What _is_ the latest kink in rods?' asked the old cuss.

  "'These kind I sell,' I says, 'are the kind that catch and store theelectricity in a tank down cellar. Durin' a thunder-storm you can saveup enough to rock the baby and run the churn for a week or two.'

  "'I want 'o know,' he says. 'Well, we 'ain't got a baby and nochurn--but mebbe it would run a cream-separator?'

  "'Sure it would.'

  "All the time we was a-joshin' this way he was a-studyin' me--andfinally he said:

  "'You can't fool me, Ed. How are ye?'

  "And we shook hands. I always liked the old cuss. He was a greatreader--always talkin' about Napoleon--he'd been a great man if he'dever got off the farm and into something that required just his kind o'brain-work.

  "'Come in,' he says. 'Nance will want to see you.'

  "The minute he said that I had a queer feelin' at the pit o' mystummick--I did, sure thing. 'It's a little early for a call,' I says,'and I ain't in Sunda
y clothes.'

  "'That don't matter,' he says; 'she'll be glad to see you any time.'

  "You'd 'a' thought I'd been gone eleven weeks instead of eleven years.

  "Nance wasn't a bit like her dad. She always looked shipshape, no matterwhat she was a-doin'. She was in the kitchen, busy as a gasoline-motor,when we busted through the door.

  "'Nance!' the old man called out, 'here's Ed Hatch.'

  "She didn't do any fancy stunts. She just straightened up and looked atme kind o' steady for a minute, and then came over to shake hands.

  "'I'm glad to see you back, Ed,' she says."

  The stress of this meeting was still over him, as I could see and hear,and I waited for him to go on.

  "She hadn't changed as much as mother. She was older and sadder and kindo' subdued, and her hand felt calloused, but I'd 'a' known heranywhere. She was dressed in a blue calico dress, but she was surehandsome still, and I said to her:

  "'You need a change of climate,' I says, 'and a different kind of boss.Colorado's where you ought to be,' I went on.

  "For half an hour I kept banterin' her like that, and though she gotpink now and then, she didn't seem to understand--or if she did shedidn't let on. She stuck to her work whilst the old man and me watchedher. Seein' her going about that kitchen that way got me locoed. Ialways liked to watch mother in the kitchen--and Nance was a genuinehousekeeper, I always knew that.

  "Finally I says:

  "'I hain't got any buggy, Nance--the old man wouldn't let me have onelast Sunday--I mean eleven years ago--that's what threw me off thetrack--but I've got a forty-horse-power car out here. Suppose you put onyour best apron and take a ride with me.'

  "She made some words as women will, but she got ready, and she did lookhandsomer than ever as she came out. She was excited, I could see that,but she was all there! No jugglin' or fussin'.

  "'Climb in the front seat, dad,' I says. 'It's me and Nance to theprivate box. Turn on the juice,' I says to the driver.

  "Well, sir, we burned up all the grease in the box lookin' up the oldneighbors and the places we used to visit with horse and buggy--andevery time I spoke to the old man I called him 'Dad'--and finally wefetched up at the biggest hotel in the town and had dinner together.

  "Then I says: 'Dad, you better lay down and snooze. Nance and me aregoin' out for a walk.'

  "The town had swelled up some, but one or two of the old stores wasthere, and as we walked past the windows I says: 'Remember the time westood here and wished we could buy things?'

  "She kind o' laughed. 'I don't believe I do.'

  "'Yes, you do,' I says. 'Well, we can look now to some account, for I'vegot nineteen thousand dollars in the bank and a payin' lease on amine.'"

  Up to this minute he had been fairly free to express his realfeelings--hypnotized by my absorbed gaze--but now, like mostAnglo-Saxons, he began to shy. He began to tell of a fourteen-dollarsuit of clothes (bought at this store) which turned green in the hotsun.

  "Oh, come now!" I insisted, "I want to know about Nancy. All thisinterests me deeply. Did she agree to come back with you?"

  He looked a little bit embarrassed. "I asked her to--right there infront of that window. I said, 'I want you to let me buy you that whitedress.'

  "'Judas priest! I can't let you do that,' she says.

  "'Why not?' I said. 'We're goin' to be married, anyhow.'

  "'Is that so?' she asked. 'I hadn't heard of it.'

  "Oh, she was no babe, I tell you. We went back to the hotel and woke upthe old man, and I ordered up the best machine in the shop--a bigseven-seated, shiny one, half as long as a Pullman parlor-car, with atop and brass housin's and extra tires strapped on, and a place for atrunk--an outfit that made me look like a street-railway magnate. It setme back a whole lot, but I wanted to stagger dad--and I did. As werolled up to the door he came out with eyes you could hang your hat on.

  "'What's all this?' he asked.

  "I hopped out.

  "'Miss McRae,' I says, 'this is my father. Dad, this is Mister McRae. Ithink you've met before.'"

  He chuckled again, that silent interior laugh, and I was certainlygrinning in sympathy as he went on.

  "'Just help me with this trunk,' I says. 'The horses bein' tired, I justthought I'd have a dray to bring up my duds.'

  "Well, sir, I had him flat down. He couldn't raise a grunt. He stoodlike a post while I laid off my trunk; but mother and sis came out andwere both very nice to Nance. Mother asked her to get out, and she did,and I took 'em all for a ride later--all but dad. Couldn't get himinside the machine. Nance stayed for supper, and just as we were goin'in dad said to me:

  "'How much does that red machine cost you an hour?'

  "'About two dollars.'

  "'I reckon you better send it back to the shop,' he says. 'You can takeNance home in my buggy.'

  "It was his surrender; but I didn't turn a hair.

  "'I guess you're right,' I says. 'It is a little expensive to sparkin--and a little too public, too.'"

  The whistle of the engine announcing the station helped him out.

  "Here's Victor, and my mine is up there on the north-west side. You canjust see the chimney. I've got another year on it, and I'm goin' toraise dirt to beat hell durin' all the time there is left, and then I'mgoin' to Denver."

  "And Nance?"

  "Oh, she's comin' out next week," he said, as he rose to take down hisvalise. "I've bought a place at the Springs."

  "Good luck to you both," said I, as he swung from the train.

  THE FOREST RANGER

  _--hardy son of the pioneers--representing the finer social order of the future, rides his lonely trail, guarding with single-hearted devotion the splendid heritage of us all._

  IX

  THE FOREST RANGER

  I

  One April day some years ago, when the rustling of cattle (a picturesquename for stealing) was still going on in one of our central mountainstates, Abe Kitsong, a rancher on the Shellfish, meeting Hanscom, theforest ranger of that district, called out:

  "Say, mister, do you know that some feller has taken a claim in ourvalley right bang up against your boundary line?"

  "Yes," replied Hanscom. "I've an eye on him. He's started a cabinalready."

  "I didn't know that land was open or I'd 'a' took it myself. Who is theold chap, anyway?"

  "I don't know where he comes from, but his name isKauffman--Pennsylvania Dutch, I reckon."

  "Watson will be hot when he runs agin' the fence that feller's puttin'up."

  "Well, the man's in there and on the way to a clear title, so what areyou going to do about it?"

  "I don't plan for to do anything, but Watson will sure be sore,"repeated Kitsong.

  The ranger smiled and rode on. He was a native of the West, aplain-featured, deliberate young fellow of thirty who sat his horsewith the easy grace which marks the trailer, while Abe Kitsong, tall,gaunt, long-bearded, and sour-faced, was a Southerner, a cattleman ofbad reputation with the alfalfa farmers farther down the valley. He wasa notable survivor of the "good old days of the range," and openlyresented the "punkin rollers" who were rapidly fencing all the lowermeadows. Watson was his brother-in-law, and together they had controlledthe upper waters of the Shellfish, making a last stand in the secludedvalley.

  The claim in question lay in a lonely spot at the very head of a narrowcanyon, and included a lovely little meadow close clasped by a corner ofthe dark robe of forest which was Hanscom's especial care, and which heguarded with single-hearted devotion. The new cabin stood back from thetrail, and so for several weeks its owner went about his work inundisturbed tranquillity. Occasionally he drove to town for supplies,but it soon appeared that he was not seeking acquaintance with hisneighbors, and in one way or another he contrived to defend himself fromvisitors.

  He was a short man, gray-mustached and somber, but his supposed wife(who dressed in the rudest fashion and covered her head, face, andshoulders with an old-fashioned gingham sunbonnet) was re
ported byWatson, her nearest neighbor, to be much younger than her husband andcomely. "I came on her the other day without that dinged bunnit," saidhe, "and she's not so bad-looking, but she's shy. Couldn't lay a hand onher."

  In spite of this report, for a month or two the men of the region,always alert on the subject of women, manifested but a moderate interestin the stranger. They hadn't much confidence in Watson's judgment,anyhow, and besides, the woman carried herself so ungracefully anddressed so plainly that even the saloon-door loafers cast contemptuousglances upon her as she hurried by the post-office on her way to thegrocery. In fact, they put the laugh on Watson, and he would have beenbuying the drinks for them all had not the postmaster come to hisrescue.

  THE WOMAN CARRIED HERSELF SO UNGRACEFULLY AND DRESSED SOPLAINLY THAT EVEN THE SALOON-DOOR LOAFERS CAST CONTEMPTUOUS GLANCES UPONHER]

  "Ed's right," said he. "She's younger than she looks, and has a rightnice voice."

  "Is it true that her letters come addressed in two different names?"queried one of the men.

  "No. Her letters come addressed 'Miss Helen McLaren.' What that means Ican't say. But the old man spoke of her as his daughter."

  "I don't take much stock in that daughter's business," said one of theloafers. "There's a mouse in the meal somewhere."

  Thereafter this drab and silent female, by her very wish to be leftalone, became each day a more absorbing topic of conversation. She wasnot what she seemed--this was the verdict. As for Kauffman, he wasconsidered a man who would bear watching, and when finally, beingpressed to it, he volunteered the information that he was in the hillsfor his daughter's health, many sneered.

  "Came away between two days, I'll bet," said Watson. "And as fer thewoman, why should her mail come under another name from his? Does thatlook like she was his daughter?"

  "She may be a stepdaughter," suggested the postmaster.

  "More likely she's another man's wife," retorted Watson.

  During the early autumn Kauffman published the fact that he hadregistered a brand, and from time to time those who happened to ride upthe valley brought back a report that he owned a small but growing herdof cattle. Watson did not hesitate to say that he had never been able tofind where the new-comer bought his stock--and in those days no man wasquite free from the necessity of exhibiting a bill of sale.

  However, the people of the town paid small attention to this slur, forWatson himself was not entirely above suspicion. He was considered adangerous character. Once or twice he had been forced, at the mouth of arifle, to surrender calves that had, as he explained, "got mixed" withhis herd. In truth, he was nearly always in controversy with some one.

  "Kauffman don't look to me like an 'enterprising roper,'" Hanscomreported to his supervisor. "And as for his wife, or daughter, orwhatever she is, I've never seen anything out of the way about her. Sheattends strictly to her own affairs. Furthermore," he added, "Watson, asyou know, is under 'wool-foot surveillance' right now by the CattleRaisers' Syndicate, and I wouldn't take his word under oath."

  The supervisor shared the ranger's view, and smiled at "the pot callingthe kettle black." And so matters drifted along till in one way oranother the Kitsongs had set the whole upper valley against the hermitsand Watson (in his cups) repeatedly said: "That fellow has no businessin there. That's my grass. He stole it from me."

  His resentment grew with repetition of his fancied grievance, and atlast he made threats. "He's an outlaw, that's what he is--and as forthat woman, well, I'm going up there some fine day and snatch the bunnitoff her and see what she really looks like!"

  "Better go slow," urged one of his friends. "That chap looks to me likeone of the old guard. _He_ may have something to say about your doingswith his daughter."

  Watson only grinned. "He ain't in no position to object if shedon't--and I guess I can manage her," he ended with drunken swagger.

  Occasionally Hanscom met the woman on the trail or in the town, andalways spoke in friendly greeting. The first time he spoke she liftedher head like a scared animal, but after that she responded with a low,"Howdy, sir?" and her voice (coming from the shadow of her uglyheadgear) was unexpectedly clear and sweet. Although he was never ableto see her face, something in her bearing and especially in her accentpleased and stirred him.

  Without any special basis for it, he felt sorry for her and resolved tohelp her, and when one day he met her on the street and asked, infriendly fashion, "How are you to-day?" she looked up at him andreplied, "Very well, thank you, sir," and he caught a glimpse of alovely chin and a sad and sensitive mouth.

  "She's had more than her share of trouble, that girl has," he thought ashe passed on.

  Thereafter a growing desire to see her eyes, to hear her voice, troubledhim.

  Kauffman stopped him on the road next day and said: "I am Bavarian, andin my country we respect the laws of the forest. I honor your office,and shall regard all your regulations. I have a few cattle which willnaturally graze in the forest. I wish to take out a permit for them."

  To this Hanscom cordially replied: "Sure thing. That's what I'm herefor. And if you want any timber for your corrals just let me know andI'll fix you out."

  Kauffman thanked him and rode on.

  As the weeks passed Hanscom became more and more conscious of thestrange woman's presence in the valley. He gave, in truth, a great dealof thought to her, and twice deliberately rode around that way in thehope of catching sight of her. He could not rid himself of a feeling ofpity. The vision of her delicately modeled chin and the sorrowful droopin the line of her lips never left him. He wished--and the desire wasmore than curiosity--to meet her eyes, to get the full view of her face.

  Gradually she came to the exchange of a few words with him, and alwayshe felt her dark eyes glowing in the shadow of her head-dress, and theyseemed quite as sad as her lips. She no longer appeared afraid of him,and yet she did not express a willingness for closer contact. That shewas very lonely he was sure, for she had few acquaintances in the townand no visitors at all. No one had ever been able to penetrate to theinterior of the cabin in which she secluded herself, but it was reportedthat she spent her time in the garden and that she had many strangeflowers and plants growing there. But of this Hanscom had only the mostdiffused hearsay.

  Watson's thought concerning the lonely woman was not merelydishonoring--it was ruthless; and when he met her, as he occasionallydid, he called to her in a voice which contained something at oncesavage and familiar. But he could never arrest her hurrying step. Oncewhen he planted himself directly in her way she bent her head andslipped around him, like a partridge, feeling in him the enmity thatknows no pity and no remorse.

  His baseness was well known to the town, for he was one of those whosetongues reveal their degradation as soon as they are intoxicated. Heboasted of his exploits in the city and of the women he had brought tohis ranch, and these revelations made him the hero of a certain type ofloafer. His cabin was recognized as a center of disorder and wasgenerally avoided by decent people.

  As he felt his dominion slipping away, as he saw the big farmers come indown below him and recognized the rule of the Federal government abovehim, he grew reckless in his roping and branding. He had not beenconvicted of dishonesty, but it was pretty certain that he was arustler; in fact, the whole Shellfish community was under suspicion. Asthe ranger visited these cabins and came upon five or six big, hulking,sullen men, he was glad that he had little business with them. They werein a chronic state of discontent with the world and especially with theForest Service.

  With the almost maniacal persistency of the drunkard, Watson now fixedhis mind upon the mysterious woman at the head of the valley. He talkedof no one else, and his vile words came to Hanscom's ears. Watson'scronies considered his failure to secure even a word with the woman agreat joke and reported that he had found the door locked when hefinally followed her home.

  Hanscom, indignant yet helpless to interfere, heard with pleasure thatthe old man had threatened Watson with bodily harm i
f he came to hisdoor again, that with all his effrontery Watson had not yet been able toset his foot across the threshold, and that he had gone to Denver onbusiness. "He'll forget that poor woman, maybe," he said.

  Thereafter he thought of her as freed from persecution, although he knewthat others of the valley held her in view as legitimate quarry.

  His was a fine, serious, though uncultivated nature. A genuine lover ofthe wilderness, he had reached that time of life when love is cleansedof its devastating selfishness, and his feeling for the lonely woman ofthe Shellfish held something akin to great poetry.

  His own solitary, vigorous employment, his constant warfare with windand cloud, had made him a little of the seer and something of the poet.Woman to him was not merely the female of his species; she was amarvelous being, created for the spiritual as well as for the materialneed of man.

  In this spirit he had lived, and, being but a plain, rather shy farmerand prospector, he had come to his thirtieth year with very little lovehistory to his credit or discredit. He was, therefore, peculiarlysusceptible to that sweet disease of the imagination which is able totransform the rudest woman into beauty. In this case the very slightnessof the material on which his mind dwelt set the wings of his fancy free.He brooded and dreamed as he rode his trail as well as when he satbeside his rude fireplace at night, listening to the wind in the highfirs. In all his thought he was honorable.

  II

  One day in early autumn, as he was returning to his station, Hanscom metAbe Kitsong just below Watson's cabin, riding furiously down the hill.Drawing his horse to a stand, the rancher called out:

  "Just the man I need!"

  "What's the trouble?"

  "Ed Watson's killed!"

  Hanscom stared incredulously. "No! Where--when?"

  "Last night, I reckon. You see, Ed had promised to ride down to myplace this morning and help me to raise a shed, and when he didn't comeI got oneasy and went up to see what kept him, and the first thing I sawwhen I opened the door was him layin' on the floor, shot through andthrough." Here his voice grew savage. "And by that Kauffman woman!"

  "Hold on, Abe!" called the ranger, sharply. "Go slow on that talk. Whatmakes you think that woman--any woman--did it?"

  "Well, it jest happened that Ed had spilled some flour along the porch,and in prowling around the window that woman jest naturally walked overit. You can see the print of her shoes where she stopped under thewindow. You've got to go right up there--you're a gover'mentofficer--and stand guard over the body while I ride down the valley andget the coroner and the sheriff."

  "All right. Consider it done," said Hanscom, and Kitsong continued hisfrenzied pace down the valley.

  The ranger, his blood quickening in spite of himself, spurred his horseinto a gallop and was soon in sight of the Shellfish Ranch, where Watsonhad lived for several years in unkempt, unsavory bachelorhood, for thereason that his wife had long since quit him, and only the roughestcowboys would tolerate the disorder of his bed and board. Privately,Hanscom was not much surprised at the rustler's death (although themanner of it seemed unnecessarily savage), for he was quarrelsome andvindictive.

  The valley had not yet emerged from the violent era, and every man inthe hills went armed. The canyons round about were still safe harbors for"lonesome men," and the herders of opposition sheep and cattle outfitswere in bitter competition for free grass. Watson had many enemies, andyet it was hard to think that any one of them would shoot him at nightthrough an open window, for such a deed was contrary to all theestablished rules of the border.

  Upon drawing rein at the porch the ranger first examined the footstepsin the flour and under the window, and was forced to acknowledge thatall signs pointed to a woman assailant. The marks indicated small,pointed, high-heeled shoes, and it was plain that the prowler had spentsome time peering in through the glass.

  For fear that the wind might spring up and destroy the evidence, Hanscommeasured the prints carefully, putting down the precise size and shapein his note-book. He studied the position of the dead man, who lay as hehad fallen from his chair, and made note of the fact that a half-emptiedbottle of liquor stood on the table. The condition of the room, thoughdisgusting, was not very different from its customary disorder.

  Oppressed by the horror of the scene, the ranger withdrew a little way,lit his pipe, and sat down to meditate on the crime.

  "I can't believe a woman did it," he said. And yet he realized thatunder certain conditions women can be more savage than men. "If Watsonhad been shot on a woman's premises it wouldn't seem so much likeslaughter. But to kill a man at night in his own cabin is tolerablyfierce."

  That the sad, lonely woman in the ranch above had anything to do withthis he would not for a moment entertain.

  He turned away from the problem at last and dozed in the sunshine,calculating with detailed knowledge of the trail and its difficultiesjust how long it would take Kitsong to reach the coroner and start backup the hill.

  It was nearly four o'clock when he heard the feet of horses on thebridge below the ranch, and a few minutes later Kitsong came into view,heading a motley procession of horsemen and vehicles. It was evidentthat he had notified all his neighbors along the road, for they cameriding in as if to a feast, their eyes alight with joyous interest.

  The coroner, a young doctor named Carmody, took charge of the case withbrisk, important pomp, seconded by Sheriff Throop, a heavy man withwrinkled, care-worn brow, who seemed burdened with a sense of personalresponsibility for Watson's death. He was all for riding up andinstantly apprehending the Kauffmans, but the coroner insisted onlooking the ground over first.

  "You study the case from the outside," said he, "and I'll size it upfrom the inside."

  As the dead man had neither wife nor children to weep for him, Mrs.Kitsong, his sister, a tall, gaunt woman, assumed the role of chiefmourner, while Abe went round uttering threats about "stringing theKauffmans up," till the sheriff, a good man and faithful officer,jealous of his authority, interfered.

  "None of that lynching talk! There'll be no rope work in this countywhile I am sheriff," he said, with noticeable decision.

  In a few moments Carmody, having finished his examination of the body,said to the sheriff: "Go after this man Kauffman and his daughter. Itseems they've had some trouble with Watson and I want to interrogatethem. Search the cabin for weapons and bring all the woman's shoes," headded. And while the sheriff rode away up the trail on his sinistererrand, Hanscom with sinking heart remained to testify at the inquest.

  A coroner in the mountains seven thousand feet above the sea-level andtwenty miles from a court-house must be excused for slight informalitiesin procedure, and Carmody confidentially said to the ranger:

  "I don't expect for a minute the sheriff will find the Kauffmans. Ifthey did for Watson, they undoubtedly pulled out hotfoot. But we've gotto make a bluff at getting 'em, anyway."

  To this the ranger made no reply, but a sense of loss filled his heart.

  As soon as the jury was selected the condition of the body was noted,and Abe Kitsong, as witness, was in the midst of his testimony (and theshadows of the great peaks behind the cabin had brought the eveningchill into the air) when the sheriff reappeared, escorting a mountainwagon in which Kauffman and his daughter were seated.

  Hanscom stared in mingled surprise and dismay--surprise that they hadnot fled and dismay at the girl's predicament--and muttered: "Now whatdo you think of that! It takes an Eastern tenderfoot to kill a man andthen go quietly home and wait for results."

  Kauffman glared about him defiantly, but the face of the girl remainedhidden in her bonnet; only her bowed head indicated the despair intowhich she had fallen.

  With a deep sense of pity and regret, Hanscom went to meet her. "Don'tbe scared," he said. "I'll see that you have a square deal."

  She peered down into his face as he spoke, but made no reply, and heconceived of her as one burdened with grief and shame and ready for anyfate.

  The sheriff, his face
showing an agony of perplexity, turned over to thecoroner all the weapons and other "plunder" he had brought from thehouse, and querulously announced that he couldn't find a shotgunanywhere around, and only one small rifle. "And there wasn't a pointedshoe on the place," he added, forcibly.

  "That proves nothing," insisted Abe. "They've had time to hide 'em orburn 'em."

  "Well, bring them both over here and let's get to business," said thecoroner. "It's getting late."

  As Hanscom assisted the accused woman from the wagon he detected youthand vigor in her arm. "Don't be afraid," he repeated. "I will see thatyou are treated right."

  Her hand clung to his for an instant as she considered the throng ofhostile spectators, for she apprehended their hatred quite as clearly asshe perceived the chivalrous care of the ranger, and she kept close tohis side as he led the way to the cabin.

  Kauffman was at once taken indoors, but the young woman, under guard ofa deputy, was given a seat on the corner of the porch just out ofhearing of the coroner's voice.

  Carmody, who carried all the authority, if not all the forms, of a courtinto his interrogation, sharply questioned the old man, who said thathis name was Frederick Kauffman and that he was a teacher of music.

  "I was born near Munich," he added, "but I have lived in this countryforty years, mostly in Cincinnati. This young lady is my stepdaughter.It is for her health that I came here. She has been very ill."

  Carmody nodded to the sheriff, and Throop with a deep sigh and mostdramatic gesture lifted the shroud which concealed the dead man."Approach the body," commanded the coroner, and the jurors watched everymotion with wide, excited eyes, as though expecting involuntary signs ofguilt; but Kauffman calmly gazed upon the still face beneath him.

  "Do you recognize this body?" demanded the coroner.

  "I do," said Kauffman.

  "When did you see him last?"

  "Oh, two or three days ago," answered Kauffman.

  "You may be seated," said the coroner.

  Under close interrogation the old man admitted that he had had sometrouble with Watson. "Once I forced him to leave my premises," he said."He was drunk and insulting."

  "Did you employ a weapon?"

  "Only this "--here he lifted a sturdy fist--"but it was sufficient. Ihave not forgotten my gymnastic training."

  Prompted by Kitsong, who had assumed something of the attitude of aprosecuting attorney, the coroner asked, "Has your daughter ever been inan asylum?"

  Although this question plainly disturbed him, Kauffman replied, after amoment's hesitation, "No, sir."

  "Where were you last night?"

  "At home."

  "Was your daughter there?"

  "Yes."

  "All the evening?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Are you sure she did not leave the house?"

  "Perfectly sure."

  The coroner took up a small rifle which the sheriff had leaned againstthe wall. "Is this your rifle?"

  The old man examined it. "I think so--yes, sir."

  "Have you another?"

  "No, sir."

  "That is all for the present, Mr. Kauffman. Sheriff, ask Miss Kauffmanto come in."

  As the woman (without the disfiguring head-dress which she habituallywore) stepped to the center of the room a murmur of surprise arose fromthe jury and the few spectators who were permitted to squat along thewalls. She not only appeared young; she was comely. Her face, thoughdarkly tanned, was attractive, and her hair, combed rigidly away fromher brow, was abundant and glossy. The line of her lips was firm yetsweet, and her long, straight nose denoted the excellence of her strain.Even her hands, reddened and calloused by labor, were well kept andshapely. But it was through her bearing that she appealed most stronglyto the ranger and the coroner. She was very far from being humble. Onthe contrary, the glance which she directed toward Carmody was remoteand haughty. She did not appear to notice the still, sheeted shape inthe corner.

  In answer to a query she informed the jury that her name was HelenMcLaren; that she was a native of Kentucky and twenty-six years of age."I came to the mountains for my health," she said, curtly.

  "You mean your mental health?" queried the coroner.

  "Yes. I wanted to get away from the city for a while. I needed rest anda change."

  The coroner, deeply impressed with her dignity and grace, leaned back inhis chair and said: "Now before I ask the next question, Miss McLaren, Iwant to tell you that what you say in answer may be used against you incourt, and according to law you need not incriminate yourself. Youunderstand that, do you?"

  "Yes, sir. I think I do."

  "Very well. Now one thing more. It is usual in cases of this kind tohave some one to represent you, and if you wish Mr. Hanscom, the forestranger, will act for you."

  The glance she turned on Hanscom confused him, but he said: "I'm nolawyer, but I'll do my best to see that you are treated fairly."

  She thanked him with a trustful word, and the coroner began.

  "You have had a great sorrow recently, I believe?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "A very bitter bereavement?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Have you any near relatives living?"

  "Yes, sir. A sister and several aunts and uncles."

  "Do they know where you are?"

  "No, sir--at least, not precisely. They know I am in the mountains."

  "Will you give me the names and addresses of these relatives?"

  "I would rather not, if you please. I do not care to involve them in anytroubles of mine."

  "Well, I won't insist on that at this point. But I would like tounderstand whether, if I require it, you will furnish this information?"

  "Certainly. Only I would rather not disturb them unnecessarily."

  Her manner not only profoundly affected the coroner; it soon softenedthe prejudices of the jury, although four of them were immediate friendsand neighbors of Kitsong. They all were manifestly astonished at thecandor of her replies.

  The coroner himself rose and solemnly disclosed the corpse. "Do yourecognize this man?" he asked.

  She paled and shrank from the face, which was brutal even in death, butanswered, quietly, "I do."

  "Did you know him when alive?"

  "I did not."

  This answer surprised both the coroner and his jury.

  "Your stepfather testified that he came to your home."

  "So he did. But I refused to see him. My stepfather met him outside thedoor. I never spoke to him in my life."

  "You may be seated again," said Carmody, and after a slight pauseproceeded: "Why did you dislike the deceased? Was he disrespectful toyou?"

  "He was."

  "In what way?"

  She hesitated and flushed. "He wrote to me."

  "More than once?"

  "Yes, several times."

  "Have you those letters?"

  "No; I destroyed them."

  "Could you give me an idea of those letters?"

  Hanscom interposed: "She can't do that, Mr. Coroner. It is evident thatthey were vile."

  The coroner passed this point. "You say he called at your house--howmany times?"

  "Two or three, I think."

  "Was your father at home each time?"

  "Once I was alone."

  "Did you meet Watson then?"

  "No. I saw him coming in the gate and I went inside and locked thedoor."

  "What happened then?"

  "He beat on the door, and when I failed to reply he went away."

  "Was he drunk?"

  "He might have been. He seemed more like an insane man to me."

  Kitsong broke in, "I don't believe all this--"

  "When was that?"

  "Night before last, at about this time or a little earlier."

  "Was he on foot?"

  "No; he came on horseback."

  "Did he ride away on horseback?"

  "Yes, though he could scarcely mount. I was surprised to see how well hewas able to ma
nage his horse."

  "Did you tell your father of this?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  She hesitated. "He would have been very--very much disturbed."

  "You mean he would have been angry?"

  "Yes."

  The coroner suddenly turned the current of his inquiry. "Do you alwayswear shoes such as you now have on?"

  Every eye in the room was directed toward her feet, which were shod inbroad-toed, low-heeled shoes.

  She was visibly embarrassed, but she answered, composedly: "I do--yes,sir. In fact, I go barefoot a great deal while working in the garden.The doctor ordered it, and, besides, the ordinary high-heeled shoes seemfoolish up here in the mountains."

  "Will you be kind enough to remove your shoe? I would like to take somemeasurements from it."

  She flushed slightly, but bent quickly, untied the laces, and removedher right shoe.

  The coroner took it. "Please remain where you are, Miss McLaren." Thento the jury, who appreciated fully the importance of the moment, "Wewill now compare this shoe with the footprints."

  "Don't be disturbed, miss," whispered the ranger. "I know the size andshape of those footprints."

  The sheriff cleared the way to the porch, where the little patch offlour had been preserved by ropes stretched from post to post, and theoutside crowd, pressing closer, watched breathlessly while the jury benttogether and compared the shoes and the marks.

  It required but a few moments' examination to demonstrate that the solesof the accused woman's shoes were larger and broader and entirelydifferent in every way.

  "She may have worn another shoe," Kitsong put in.

  "Of course! We'll find that out," retorted the coroner.

  As they returned to the room Hanscom said to the witness: "Now be verycareful what you reply. Take plenty of time before you answer. If youare in doubt, say nothing."

  In the sympathy of his glance her haughty pose relaxed and her eyessoftened. "You are very kind," she said.

  "I don't know a thing about law," he added, apologetically, "but I maybe able to help you."

  The coroner now told the jury that Mr. Hanscom, as representing thewitness at the hearing, would be allowed to ask any questions he pleasedbefore the end of the hearing.

  "But I must insist upon taking measurements of your bare feet, MissMcLaren."

  The jury grinned and the girl flushed with anger, but at a word from theranger yielded and drew off her stocking.

  Hanscom, while assisting the coroner in measurements, said, "I'm sorry,miss, but it is necessary."

  The examination proved that her bare foot was nearly two sizes wider andat least one size longer than the footprints in the flour. Furthermore,it needed but a glance for the jury, as well as the doctor, to provethat she had been going barefoot, as she claimed, for many weeks. Herfoot was brown and her toes showed nothing of the close confinement of apointed shoe.

  Carmody, returning to his seat, conferred with the jury, designating thedifference between the telltale marks on the porch and the feet of thewitness, and Hanscom argued that the woman who made the telltale tracksmust have been small.

  "Miss McLaren could not possibly wear the shoe that left those marks inthe flour," he said.

  "We are on the wrong trail, I guess," one of the jury frankly stated. "Idon't believe that girl was ever on the place. If she or the old man hadbeen guilty, they wouldn't have been hanging around home this morning.They'd have dusted out last night."

  And to this one other agreed. Four remained silent.

  The ranger seized on these admissions. "There is nothing, absolutelynothing, to connect the tracks in the flour with the person who did theshooting. It may have been done by another visitor at another time."

  "Well," decided the coroner, "it's getting dark and not much chance forhotel accommodations up here, so I guess we'd better adjourn thishearing." He turned to Helen. "That's all, Miss McLaren."

  As Hanscom handed back her shoe he said: "I hope you won't worry anotherminute about this business, miss. The jury is certain to report for'persons unknown.'"

  "I'm very grateful for your kindness," she answered, feelingly. "I feltso utterly helpless when I came into the room."

  "You've won even the jury's sympathy," he said.

  Nevertheless, as she left the room, he followed closely, for theKitsongs, who had been denied admittance, were openly voicing theirdissatisfaction with the coroner's verdict. "She ought to be held, andthe old man ought to be held," they insisted.

  "One or the other of them shot Watson," declared Abe to Carmody. "Nomatter if the girl's foot doesn't just exactly fit the tracks. She couldjam her foot into a narrow shoe if she tried, couldn't she? If you letthat girl pull the wool over your eyes like that you ain't fit to becoroner."

  Carmody's answer was to the point. "The thing for your crowd to do is toquit chewing the rag and get this body down the valley and decentlyburied. I can't stand around here all night listening to amateurattorneys for the prosecution."

  "Vamose!" called the sheriff, and in ten minutes the crowd wasclattering down the trail in haste to reach food and shelter, leavingthe Kauffmans to take their homeward way alone.

  Hanscom helped the girl into the wagon and rode away up the valley closebehind her, his mind filled with the singular story which she had sobriefly yet powerfully suggested. That she was a lady masquerading inrough clothing was evident even before she spoke, and the picture shemade, sitting in the midst of that throng of rough men and slatternlywomen, had profoundly stirred his imagination. He longed to know more ofher history, and it was the hope of still further serving her which ledhim to ride up alongside the cart and say:

  "Here's where my trail forks, but I shall be very glad to go up and campdown at your gate if you feel at all nervous about staying alone."

  Kauffman, who had regained his composure, answered, "We have no fear,but we are deeply grateful for your offer."

  The ranger dismounted and approached the wagon, as if to bring himselfwithin reach, and the girl, looking down at him from her seat withpenetrating glance, said:

  "Yes, we are greatly indebted to you."

  "If I can be of any further help at any time," the young forester said,a little hesitatingly, "I hope you will let me know." His voice sosincere, his manner so unassuming, softened her strained mood.

  "You are very kind," she answered, with gentle dignity. "But the worstof this trial is over for us. I cannot conceive that any one willtrouble us further. But it is good to know that we have in you a friend.The valley has always resented us."

  He was not yet satisfied. "I wish you'd let me drop around to-morrow ornext day and see how you all are. It would make me feel a whole lotbetter."

  The glance which she gave him puzzled and, at the moment, daunted him.She seemed to search his soul, as if in fear of finding somethingunworthy there. At last she gave him her strong, brown hand.

  "Come when you can. We shall always be glad to see you."

  III

  Hanscom rode away up the trail in a singularly exalted mood. The girlwith whom he had been so suddenly related in a coroner's inquest filledhis mind to the exclusion of all else. He saw nothing, heard nothing ofthe forest. Helen's sadness, her composure, her aloofness, engaged hisimagination.

  "She's been sick and she's been in trouble," he decided. "She's outhere to get away from somebody or something."

  Over and over again he recounted her words, lingering especially uponthe sweetness of her voice and the searching quality of that last lookshe had given him. He unsaddled his horse mechanically, and went abouthis cabin duties with listless deftness.

  Lonely, cut off from even the most formal intercourse with marriageablemaidens, he was naturally extremely susceptible to the charm of thiscultivated woman. The memory of her handsome foot, the clasp of herstrong fingers, the lines of her lovely neck--all conspired to dull hisappetite for food and keep him smoking and musing far into the night,and these visions were with him as he aro
se the next morning to resumehis daily duties in the forest. They did not interrupt his work; theylightened it.

  As the hours went by, the desire to see her grew more and more intense,and at last, a couple of days later while riding the trail not far abovethe Kauffman ranch, he decided that it was a part of his day's work to"scout round" that way and inquire how they were all getting on. He wasstrengthened in this determination by the reports which came to him fromthe ranchers he met. No other clue had developed, and the Kitsongs,highly incensed at the action of the jury, not only insisted that thegirl was the murderess, but that the doctor was shielding her forreasons of his own--and several went so far as to declare theirintention to see that the Kauffmans got their just punishment.

  It is true, the jury admitted that they were divided in their opinion,but that the coroner's attitude brought about a change of sentiment. Thefact that the woman didn't wear and couldn't wear so small a shoe was atthe moment convincing. It was only later, when the Kitsong sympathizersbegan to argue, that they hesitated.

  Mrs. Abe Kitsong was especially bitter, and it was her influence whichbrought out an expression of settled purpose to punish which led to theranger's decision to go over and see if the old German and his daughterwere undisturbed.

  As he turned in at the Kauffman gate he caught a glimpse of the girlhoeing in the garden, wearing the same blue sunbonnet in which she hadappeared at the inquest. She was deeply engaged with her potatoes anddid not observe him till, upon hearing the clatter of his horse's hoofsupon the bridge, she looked up with a start. Seeing in him a possibleenemy, she dropped her hoe and ran toward the house like a hare seekingcovert. As she reached the corner of the kitchen she turned, fixed asteady backward look upon him, and disappeared.

  Hanscom smiled. He had seen other women hurrying to change theirworkaday dress for visitors, and he imagined Helen hastily putting onher shoes and smoothing her hair. He was distinctly less in awe of herby reason of this girlish action--it made her seem more of his ownrough-and-ready world, and he dismounted at her door almost at his ease,although his heart had been pounding furiously as he rode down theridge.

  She surprised him by reappearing in her working-gown, but shod withstrong, low-heeled shoes. "Good evening, Mr. Forest Ranger," she said,smiling, yet perturbed. "I didn't recognize you at first. Won't you'picket' and come in?" She said this in the tone of one consciouslyassuming the vernacular.

  "Thank you, I believe I will," he replied, with candid heartiness. "Iwas riding one of my lower trails to-day, so I just thought I'd dropdown and see how you were all coming on."

  "We are quite well, thank you. Daddy's away just this minute. One of ourcows hid her calf in the hills, and he's trying to find it. Won't youput your horse in the corral?"

  "No; he's all right. He's a good deal like me--works better on a smallration. A standing siesta will just about do him."

  A gleam of humor shone in her eyes. "Neither of you 'pear to besuffering from lack of food. But come in, please, and have a seat."

  He followed her into the cabin, keenly alive to the changes in her dressas well as in her manner. She wore her hair plainly parted, as at thehearing, but it lay much lower about her brow and rippled charmingly.She stood perfectly erect, also, and moved with a fine stride, and thelines of her shoulders, even under a rough gray shirtwaist, were strongand graceful. Though not skilled in analyzing a woman's "outfit," theranger divined that she wore no corset, for the flex of her powerfulwaist was like that of a young man.

  Her speech was noticeably Southern in accent, as if it were a part ofher masquerade, but she brought him a chair and confronted him withoutconfusion. In this calm dignity he read something entirely flattering tohimself.

  "Evidently she considers me a friend as well as an officer," hereasoned.

  "I hope you are a little hungry," she said. "I'd like to have you breakbread in our house. You were mighty kind to us the other day."

  "Oh, I'm hungry," he admitted, meeting her hospitality half-way. "Seemslike I'm always hungry. You see, I cook my own grub, and my bill of fareisn't what you'd call extensive, and, besides, a man's cooking neverrelishes the way a woman's does, anyhow."

  "I'll see what I can find for you," she said, and hurried out.

  While waiting he studied the room in which he sat with keenest interest.It was rather larger than the usual living-room in a mountain home, butit had not much else to distinguish it. The furniture was of the kind tobe purchased in the near-by town, and the walls were roughly ceiled withcypress boards; but a few magazines, some books on a rude shelf, afiddle-box under the table, and a guitar hanging on a nail gave evidenceof refinement and taste and spoke to him of pleasures which he had onlyknown afar. The guitar especially engaged his attention. "I wonder ifshe sings?" he asked himself.

  Musing thus in silence, he heard her moving about the kitchen with rapidtread, and when she came in, a few minutes later, bearing a tray, hethought her beautiful--so changed was her expression.

  "I didn't wait for the coffee," she smilingly explained. "You said youwere hungry and so I have brought in a little 'snack.' The coffee willbe ready soon."

  "Snack!" he exclaimed. "Lady! This is a feast!" And as she put the traydown beside him he added: "This puts me right back in Aunt Mary's houseat Circle Bend, Nebraska. I don't rightly feel fit to sit opposite aspread like that."

  She seemed genuinely amused by his extravagance. "It's nothing but alittle cold chicken and some light bread. I made the bread yesterday;and the raspberry jam is mine also."

  THE AUTHOR AND A FOREST RANGER]

  "It's angels' food to me," he retorted, as he eyed the dainty napkinsand the silver spoons and forks. "You don't know what this means to aman who lives on rice and prunes and kittle bread. I have a guiltyfeeling; I do, indeed. Seems like I'm getting all this thanksgivingtreat under false pretenses. Perhaps you think I'm an English noblemanin disguise. But I'm not--I'm just a plain dub of a forest ranger,ninety dollars a month and board myself."

  She laughed at his disclaimer, and yet under her momentary lightness hestill perceived something of the strong current of bitter sadness whichhad so profoundly moved him at the inquest and which still remainedunexplained; therefore he hesitated about referring to the Watson case.

  As he ate, she stood to serve him, but not with the air of aserving-maid; on the contrary, though her face was bronzed by the winds,and her hands calloused by spade and hoe, there was little of the rusticin her action. Her blouse, cut sailor fashion at the throat, displayed alovely neck (also burned by the sun), and she carried herself with thegrace of an athlete. Her trust and confidence in her visitor became moreevident each moment.

  "No," she said in answer to his question. "We hardly ever have visitors.Now and then some cowboy rides past, but you are almost the only callerwe have ever had. The settlers in the valley do not attract me."

  "I should think you'd get lonesome."

  She looked away, and a sterner, older expression came into her face. "Ido, sometimes," she admitted; then she bravely faced him. "But my healthis so much better--it was quite broken when I came--that I have everyreason to be thankful. After all, health is happiness. I ought to beperfectly content, and I am when I think how miserable I once was."

  "Health is cheap with me," he smilingly replied. "But I get so lonesomesometimes that I pretty near quit and go out. Do you intend to stay hereall winter?"

  "We expect to."

  He thought it well to warn her. "The snow falls deep in thisvalley--terribly deep."

  She showed some uneasiness. "I know it, but I'm going to learn tosnow-shoe."

  "I wish you'd let me come over and teach you."

  "Can you snow-shoe? I thought rangers always rode horseback."

  He smiled. "You've been reading the opposition press. A forest rangerwho is on the job has got to snow-shoe like a Canuck or else go down thevalley after the snow begins to fall. It was five feet deep around mycabin last year. I hate to think of your being here alone. If one of youshould
be sick, it would be--tough. Unless you absolutely have to stayhere, I advise you to go down the creek."

  "Perhaps our neighbors and not the snow will drive us out," she replied."They've already served notice."

  He looked startled. "What do you mean by that?"

  Without answering, she went to the bookshelf and took down a foldedsheet of paper. "Here is a letter I got yesterday," she explained, asshe handed it to him.

  It was a rudely penciled note, but entirely plain in its message. "Spiteof what the coroner found, most folks believe you killed Ed Watson," itbegan, abruptly. "Some of us don't blame you much. Others do, and theysay no matter what the jury reports you've got to go. I don't like tosee a woman abused, so you'd better take warning and pull out. Do itright away." It was signed, "A Friend."

  The ranger read this through twice before he spoke. "Did this comethrough the mail?"

  "Yes--addressed to me."

  He pretended to make light of it. "I wouldn't spend much time over that.It's only some smart Aleck's practical joke."

  "I don't think so," she soberly replied. "It reads to me like a sincerewarning--from a woman. I haven't shown it to daddy yet, and I don't knowwhether to do so or not. I thought of going over to see you, but I wasnot sure of the way. I'm glad Providence sent you round to-day, for I amuncertain about what to do."

  "I'm a little uneasy about that warning myself," he confessed, after apause. "I hear the Kitsong gang is bitterly dissatisfied with the resultof the inquest thus far. They still insist on connecting you in some waywith the shooting. Fact is, I came over to-day to see if they had madeany new move."

  All the lightness had gone out of his face now, and in the girl's eyesthe shadow deepened as she said:

  "It seems to me that I have drawn more than my share of trouble. I cameout here hoping to find a sanctuary, and I seem to have fallen into aden of wolves. These people would hang me if they could. I don'tunderstand their hate of us. They resent our being here. Sometimes Ifeel as if they were only trying to drive us from our little ranch."

  "Of course, all this talk of violence is nonsense," he vigorously wenton. "They can make you a whole lot of discomfort, but you are in nodanger."

  Her glance was again remote as she said: "I cannot take that murder caseseriously. It all seems a thousand miles away from me now. And yet I amafraid for daddy's sake. Why connect me with it? Is there no other womanto accuse? Do you suppose a woman did the shooting? I don't."

  "No. I think the footprints were accidental. I figure the killing wasdone by some man who had it in for Watson. He was always rowing with hishelp, and there are two or three Mexicans who have threatened to gethim. At the same time, I don't like this letter. They're a tough lot inthis valley." He mused a moment. "Yes, I guess you'd better plan to go."

  Her gaze wandered. "I hate to leave my garden and my flowers," she said,sadly. "After all, I've had some very peaceful hours in this nook." Herface brightened. She became the genial hostess again. "If you havefinished your lunch, I wish you would come out and see my crops."

  He followed her gladly, and their talk again became cheerfullyimpersonal. Truly she had done wonders in a small space and in a shorttime. Flower-beds glowed beside the towering rocks. Small ditchessupplied the plants with water, and from the rich red soil lusciousvegetables and fragrant blooms were springing.

  All animation now, she pointed out her victories. "This is all my work,"she explained, proudly. "Daddy isn't much of a hand with the spade orthe hoe. Therefore I leave the riding and the cows to him. I love topaddle in the mud, and it has done me a great deal of good."

  "What will you do with all this 'truck'?"

  "Daddy intends to market it in town."

  "He's away a good deal, I take it."

  "Yes, I'm alone often all day, but he's always home before dark."

  He voiced his concern. "I don't like to think of your being alone, evenin the daytime." He spoke as one who had been swiftly advanced fromstranger to trusted friend. "I'll tell you what I'll do," he continued,as if moved by a sudden thought. "I'll go into camp across the creek forto-night, and then if anything goes wrong I'll be within call."

  "Oh no! Don't think of doing that! You must not neglect your duties.Daddy is a pretty good marksman, and I have learned to handle a rifle,and, besides"--here her tone became ironic--"in the chivalrous West awoman need not fear."

  "There is a whole lot of hot air about that Western chivalry talk," heretorted. "Bad men are just as bad here as anywhere, and they'reparticularly bad on the Shellfish. But, anyhow, you'll call on me if Ican be of any use, won't you?"

  "I certainly shall do so," she responded, heartily, and there wasconfidence and liking in her eyes as well as in the grip of her hand asshe said good-by.

  When in the saddle and ready to ride away he called to her, "You won'tmind my coming over here again on Saturday, will you?"

  "No, indeed. Only it is so far."

  "Oh, the ride is nothing. I don't like to think of your being herealone."

  "I'm not afraid. But we shall be glad to see you just the same."

  And in appreciation of her smile he removed his hat and rode away withbared head.

  The young ranger was highly exalted by this visit, and he was alsogreatly disturbed, for the more he thought of that warning letter andthe conditions which gave rise to it, the more menacing it became. Itwas all of a piece with the tone and character of the Shellfish gang,for this remote valley had long borne an evil reputation, and Watson andKitsong had been its dominating spirits for more than twenty years anddeeply resented Kauffman's settlement in the canyon.

  "It would be just like old Kit to take the law into his own hands," theranger admitted to himself. "And the writing in that letter looked to melike Mrs. Abe Kitsong's."

  Instead of going up to the Heart Lake sheep-camp, as he had planned todo, he turned back to his station, moved by a desire to keep as near thegirl as his duties would permit. "For the next few days I'd better bewithin call," he decided. "They may decide to arrest her--and if theydo, she'll need me."

  He went about his evening meal like a man under the influence of a drug,and when he sat down to his typewriter his mind was so completely filledwith visions of his entrancing neighbor that he could not successfullycast up a column of figures. He lit his pipe for a diversion, but underthe spell of the smoke his recollection of just how she looked, how shespoke, how she smiled (that sad, half-lighting of her face) set all hisnerves atingle. He grew restless.

  "What's the matter with me?" he asked himself, sharply, but dared notanswer his own question. He knew his malady. His unrest was that of thelover. Thereafter he gave himself up to the quiet joy of reviewing eachword she had uttered, and in doing so came to the conclusion that shewas in the mountains not so much for the cure of her lungs or throat asto heal the hurt of some injustice. What it was he could not imagine,but he believed that she was getting over it. "As she gets over itshe'll find life on the Shellfish intolerable and she'll go away," hereasoned, and the thought of her going made his country lonesome, empty,and of no account.

  "I wish she wouldn't go about barefoot," he added, with a tinge ofjealousy. "And she mustn't let any of the Shellfish gang see her in thatdress." He was a little comforted by remembering her sudden flight whenshe first perceived him coming across the bridge, and he wonderedwhether the trustful attitude she afterward assumed was due entirely tothe fact that he was a Federal officer--he hoped not. Some part of itsprang, he knew, from a liking for him.

  The wilderness was no place for a woman. It was all well enough for avacation, but to ask any woman to live in a little cabin miles fromanother woman, miles from a doctor, was out of the question. He began toperceive that there were disabilities in the life of a forester. Hisworld was suddenly disorganized. Life became complex in its bearings,and he felt the stirrings of new ambitions, new ideals. Civilizationtook on a charm which it had not hitherto possessed.

  He was awakened at dawn the following morning by the smell of burni
ngpine--a smell that summons the ranger as a drum arouses a soldier.Rushing out of doors, he soon located the fire. It was off the forestand to the southeast, but as any blaze within sight demandedinvestigation, he put a pot of coffee on the fire and swiftly roped andsaddled one of his horses. In thirty minutes he was riding up the sideof a high hill which lay between the station and Otter Creek, a branchof the Shellfish, at the mouth of which, some miles below, stoodKitsong's ranch.

  It was not yet light, the smoke was widely diffused, and the preciselocation of the blaze could not be determined, but it appeared to be onthe Shellfish side of the ridge, just below Watson's pasture. Hence hekept due south over the second height which divided the two creeks. Itwas daylight when he reached the second hogback, and the smoke of thefire was diminishing, but he thought it best to ride on to renew hiswarning against the use of fire till the autumn rains set in, and he hadin mind also a plan to secure from Mrs. Kitsong a specimen of herhandwriting and to pick up whatever he could in the way of gossipconcerning the feeling against the Kauffmans.

  He was still some miles from the ranch, and crossing a deep ravine, whenhe heard the sound of a rifle far above him. Halting, he listenedintently. Another shot rang out, nearer and to the south, and a momentlater the faint reports of a revolver. This sent a wave of excitementthrough his blood. A rifle-shot might mean only a poacher. A volley ofrevolver-shots meant battle.

  Reining his cayuse sharply to the right and giving him the spur, he senthim on a swift, zigzagging scramble up the smooth slope. A thirdrifle-shot echoed from the cliff, and was answered by a smaller weapon,much nearer, and, with his hair almost on end with excitement, hereached the summit which commanded the whole valley of the Otter, justin time to witness the most astounding drama he had ever known.

  Down the rough logging road from the west a team of horses was wildlygalloping, pursued at a distance by several horsemen, whose weapons,spitting smoke at intervals, gave proof of their murderous intent. Inthe clattering, tossing wagon a man was kneeling, rifle in hand, while awoman, standing recklessly erect, urged the flying horses to greaterspeed. Nothing could have been more desperate, more furious, than thisrunning battle.

  "My God! It's the Kauffman team!" he exclaimed, and with a shrill shoutsnatched his revolver from its holster and fired into the air, withintent to announce his presence to the assailing horsemen. Even as hedid so he saw one of the far-off pursuing ruffians draw his horse to astand and take deliberate aim over his saddle at the flying wagon. Theoff pony dropped in his traces, and the vehicle, swinging from the road,struck a boulder and sent the man hurtling over the side; but the girl,crouching low, kept her place. Almost before the wheels had ceased torevolve she caught up the rifle which her companion had dropped and senta shot of defiance toward her pursuers.

  "Brave girl!" shouted Hanscom, for he recognized Helen. "Hold the fort!"But his voice, husky with excitement, failed to reach her.

  She heard the sound of his revolver, however, and, believing him to beonly another of the attacking party, took aim at him and fired. Thebullet from her rifle flew so near his head that he heard its song.

  Again her rifle flashed, this time at the man above her, and again theforester shouted her name. In the midst of the vast and splendidlandscape she seemed a minute brave insect defending itself againstinvading beasts. Her pursuers, recognizing the ranger's horse, wheeledtheir ponies and disappeared in the forest.

  Hanscom spurred his horse straight toward the girl, calling her name,but even then she failed to recognize him till, lifting his hat from hishead, he desperately shouted:

  "Don't shoot, girl--don't shoot! It's Hanscom--the ranger!"

  She knew him at last, and, dropping her rifle to the ground, awaited hisapproach in silence.

  As he leaped from his horse and ran toward her she lifted her hands tohim in a gesture of relief and welcome, and he took her in his arms asnaturally as he would have taken a frightened child to his breast.

  "Great God! What's the meaning of all this?" he asked. "Are you hurt?"

  She was white, but calm. "No, but daddy is--" And they hastened to wherethe old man lay crumpled up beside a rock.

  Hanscom knelt to the fallen man and examined him carefully. "He'salive--he isn't wounded," he said. "He's only stunned. Wait! I'll bringsome water."

  Running down to the bank, he filled his hat from the flood, and withthis soon brought the bruised and sadly bewildered rancher back toconsciousness.

  Upon realizing who his rescuer was Kauffman's eyes misted withgratitude. "My friend, I thank God for you. We were trying to find you.We were on our way to claim your protection. We lost our road, and thenthese bandits assaulted us."

  The girl pieced out this explanation. She told of being awakened in thenight by a horse's hoofs clattering across the bridge. Some one roderapidly up to the door, dismounted, pushed a letter in over thethreshold, and rode away. "I rose and got the letter," she said. "Itwarned us that trouble was already on the way. '_Get out!_' it said. Iroused daddy, we harnessed the horses and left the house as quickly aswe could. We dared not go down the valley, so we tried to reach you byway of the mill. We took the wrong road at the lake. Our pursuerstrailed us and overtook us, as you saw."

  It was all so monstrous that the ranger could scarcely believe ittrue--and yet, there lay the dead horse and here was the old man besidethe stone. He did not refer to his own narrow escape, and apparentlyHelen did not associate him with the horseman at whom she had fired withsuch bewildering zeal.

  IV

  It was a rugged and barren setting for love's interchange, and yet thesetwo young souls faced each other, across the disabled old man, withspirits fused in mutual understanding. Helen's face softened and hereyes expressed the gratitude she felt. At the moment the ranger's sturdyframe and plain, strong-featured face were altogether admirable to her.She relied upon him mentally and physically, as did Kauffman, whose headwas bewildered by his fall.

  Hanscom roused himself with effort. "Well, now, let's see what's to bedone next. One of your horses appears to be unhurt, but the other isdown." He went to the team and after a moment's examination came back tosay: "One is dead. I'll harness my own saddler in with the other, and inthat way we'll be able to reach my cabin. You must stay there for thepresent."

  Quickly, deftly, he gathered the scattered goods from the ground,restored the seat to the wagon, untangled the dead beast from itsharness, and substituted his own fine animal, while Helen attended toKauffman. He recovered rapidly, and in a very short time was able totake his seat in the wagon, and so they started down the road toward thevalley.

  "It's a long way round by the wagon road," Hanscom explained. "But wecan make the cabin by eleven, and then we can consider the next move."

  To this Helen now made objection. "We must not bring more trouble uponyou. They will resent your giving us shelter. Take us to the railway.Help us to leave the state. I am afraid to stay in this country anothernight. I want to get away from it all to-day."

  A shaft of pain touched the ranger's heart at thought of losing her sosoon after finding her, and he said: "I don't think that is necessary.They won't attempt another assault--not while you are under myprotection. I'd like the pleasure of defending you against them," headded, grimly.

  "But I'm afraid for daddy. I'm sure he wounded one of them, and if hedid they may follow us. You are very good and brave, but I am eager toreach the train. I want to get away."

  To this Kauffman added his plea. "Yes, yes, let us go," he said,bitterly. "I am tired of these lawless savages. We came here, thinkingit was like Switzerland, a land inhabited by brave and gentle people,lovers of the mountains. We find it a den of assassins. If you can helpus to the railway, dear friend, we will ask no more of you and we willbless you always."

  The ranger could not blame them for the panic into which they hadfallen, and frankly acknowledged that it was possible for Kitsong tomake them a great deal of trouble. Reluctantly he consented.

  "I am sorry to have you go, but
I reckon you're justified. There is away to board the northbound train without going to town, and if nothingelse happens we'll make the eastbound express. That will take you out ofthe state with only one stop."

  Conditions were not favorable for any further expression of the deepregret he felt, for the road was rough, and with only one seat in thewagon he was forced to perch himself on his up-ended saddle, and so,urging the team to its best, he spoke only to outline his plan.

  "I'll drive you to the Clear Creek siding," he explained. "All trainsstop there to take on water, and No. 3 is due round about one. We canmake it easily if nothing happens, and unless the Kitsong gang get wordfrom some of these ranches we pass, you will be safely out of thecountry before they know you've gone."

  They rode in silence for some time, but as they were dropping down intothe hot, dry, treeless foot-hills the ranger turned to explain: "I'mgoing to leave the main road and whip out over the mesa just above theBlackbird Ranch, so don't be surprised by my change of plan. They are adubious lot down there at the Blackbird, and have a telephone, so I'djust as soon they wouldn't see us at all. They might send word to Abe.It'll take a little longer, and the road is rougher, but our chances forgetting safely away are much better."

  "We are entirely in your hands," she answered, with quiet confidence.Her accent, her manner, were as new to him as her dress. She no longerseemed a young girl masquerading, but a woman--one to whom life wasoffering such stern drama that all her former troubles seemed suddenlyfaint and far away.

  Kauffman was still suffering from his fall, and it became necessary forHelen to steady, him in his seat. Her muscles ached with the strain, butshe made no complaint, for she feared the ranger might lessen the speedof their flight.

  Upon turning into the rough road which climbed the mesa, the horses fellinto a walk, and the ranger, leaping from the wagon, strode alongside,close to the seat on which the girl sat.

  "All this is not precisely in the Service Book," he remarked, with atouch of returning humor, "but I reckon it will be accounted 'giving aidand succor to settlers in time of need.'"

  She was studying him minutely at the moment, and it pleased her toobserve how closely his every action composed with the landscape. Hisdusty boots, clamped with clinking spurs, his weather-beaten gray hat,his keen glance flashing from point to point (nothing escaped him), hisevery word and gesture denoted the man of outdoor life, self-reliant yetself-unconscious; hardy, practical, yet possessing something that wasreflective as well as brave. Her heart went out to him in tenderness andtrust. Her shadow lifted.

  He had no perception of himself as a romantic figure; on the contrary,while pacing along there in the dust he was considering himself a sadesquire to the woman in whose worshipful service he was enlisted. He waseager to know more about her, and wondered if she would answer if hewere to ask her the cause of her exile. Each moment of her company, eachglimpse of her face, made the thought of losing her more painful. "WillI ever see her again?" was the question which filled his mind.

  At the top of the mesa he again mounted to his seat on the upturnedsaddle, and kept the team steadily on the trot down the swiftlydescending road. The sun was high above them now, and every mile carriedthem deeper into the heat and dust of the plain, but the girl uttered noword of complaint. Her throat was parched with thirst, but she did notpermit him to know even this, for to halt at a well meant delay. Theyrode in complete silence, save now and again when the ranger made someremark concerning the character of the ranches they were passing.

  "We are down among the men of the future now," he said--"the farmers whocarry spades instead of guns."

  Once they met a boy on horseback, who stared at them in open-mouthed,absorbed interest, and twice men working in the fields beckoned to them,primitively curious to know who they were and where they were going.

  But Hanscom kept his ponies to their pace and replied only by shouting,"Got to catch the train!" In such wise he stayed them in their tracks,reluctant but helpless. At last, pointing to a small, wavering speck farout upon the level sod, he called with forceful cheerfulness: "There'sthe tank. We'll overhaul it in an hour." Then he added: "I've beenthinking. What shall I do about the cabin? Shall I pack the furnitureand ship it to you?"

  "No, no. Take it yourself or give it away. I care very little for mostof the things, except daddy's violin and my guitar. Those you may keepuntil we send for them."

  "I shall take good care of the guitar," he asserted, with a look whichshe fully understood. "What about the books?"

  "You may keep them also. We'd like you to have them--wouldn't we,daddy?"

  "Yes, yes," said Kauffman. "There is nothing there of much value, butsuch as they are they are yours."

  "I shall store everything," the young fellow declared, firmly, "in thehope that some day you will come back."

  "That will never be! My life here is ended," she asserted.

  "You will not always feel as you do now," he urged. "All the people ofthe county are not of Watson's stripe."

  "That is true," she said. "I shall try not to be unjust, but I see nowthat in seeking seclusion in that lonely canyon we thrust ourselves amongthe most lawless citizens of the state, and cut ourselves off from thevery people we should have known. However, I have had enough ofsolitude. My mind has changed. This week's experience has swept away thefog in my brain. I feel like one suddenly awakened. I see my folly and Ishall go back to my people--to the city."

  The ranger, recognizing something inflexible in this, made no furtherappeal.

  There was nothing at the tank but a small, brown cottage in which thewife of the Mexican section boss lived, and to her Hanscom committed hischarges and turned to the care of his almost exhausted team. The trainwas late, the guard at the tank said, and in consequence the ranger wastorn between an agony of impatience and a dread of parting.

  It was probable that some of the Kitsongs were in the raiding party, andif they were hurt the Kauffmans were not safe till the state line waspassed. It would be easy to head them off by a wire. It was a hideouscoil to throw about a young girl seeking relief from some unusualsorrow, and though he longed even more deeply to keep her under hisprotection, he made no objection to her going.

  Returning to the section-house, he shared with her the simple meal whichthe reticent, smiling little Mexican woman had prepared, and did hisbest to cheer Kauffman with a belief in the early arrival of the train.

  "It will be here soon, I am sure," he said.

  Helen detected the lack of elation in his tone, and understood in somedegree the sense of loss which made him heartsick, and yet she could notbring herself to utter words of comfort.

  At the close of the meal, as they set out to walk across the sand to theswitch, he said to her: "Am I never to see you again?"

  "I hope so--somewhere, somehow," she replied, evasively.

  "I wish you'd set a time and place," he persisted. "I can't bear to seeyou go. You can't realize how I shall miss you."

  A fleeting gleam of amusement lighted her face. "You have known me onlya few days."

  "Oh yes, I have. I've known you all summer. You kept me busy thinkingabout you. The whole country will seem empty now."

  She smiled. "I didn't know I filled so much space in the landscape. Ithought I was but a speck in it." She hesitated a moment, then added: "Icame out to lose myself in nature. I had come to hate men and to despisewomen. I was sick of my kind. I wanted to live like a savage, a part ofthe wild, and so--forget."

  "Animals sometimes live alone; savages never do," he corrected, "unlessthey are outlawed from their tribe."

  "That's what I tried to do--outlaw myself from my tribe. I wanted to getaway from foolish comment, from malicious gossip."

  "Are you ready to go back to it now--I mean to the city?"

  "No, not quite; and yet this week's experience has shaken me and helpedme. You have helped me, and I want to thank you for it. I begin tobelieve once more in good, brave, simple manhood. You and daddy haverevived my faith in men.
"

  "Some man must have hurt you mighty bad," he said, simply. Then added:"I can't understand that. I don't see how any man could do anything butjust naturally _worship_ you."

  She was moved by the sincerity of his adoration, but she led him nofarther in that direction. "At first I thought I had won a kind ofpeace. I was almost content in a benumbed way. Then came my arrest--andyou. It was a rough awakening, but I begin to see that I still live,that I am young, that I can become breathless with excitement. Thisraid, this ride, has swept away all that deathlike numbness which hadfallen upon me. I've had my lesson. Now I can go back. I must get awayfrom here."

  Under the spell of her intense utterance the ranger's mind workedrapidly, filling in the pauses. "Yes, you'd better go away, but I'm notgoing to let you pass out of my life--not if I can help it! I'm going toresign and go where you go--"

  She laid a protesting hand upon his arm. "No, no!" she said. "Don't dothat. Don't resign. Don't change your plans on my account. I'm not worthsuch a sacrifice, such risk."

  "You're worth any risk," he stoutly retorted, with some part of her ownintensity in his voice. "I can't think of letting you go. I need you inmy business." He smiled wanly. "I'm only a forest ranger at ninetydollars per month, but I'm going to be something else one of these days.I won't mind a long, rough trail if I can be sure of finding you at theend of it."

  The far-away whistle of the train spurred him into fierce demand."You'll let me write to you, and you will reply once in a while, won'tyou? It will give me something to look forward to. You owe me thatmuch!" he added.

  "Yes, I will write," she promised. "But I think it better that youshould forget me. I hope we have not involved you in any trouble withyour neighbors or with the coroner."

  "I am not worrying about that," he answered. "I am only concerned aboutyou. I would go to jail in a minute to save you any further worry."

  "You are putting me so deeply in your debt that I can never repay you,"she replied.

  "A letter now and then will help," he suggested.

  The train, panting, wheezing, hot with speed, came to a creeping halt,and the conductor, swinging out upon the side track, greeted the rangerpleasantly. "Hello, Hans! What are you doing here?"

  Hanscom returned his greeting gravely. "Billy, here are some friends ofmine, just down from the hills. Take good care of them for me, willyou?"

  "Sure thing, major," said the conductor. He helped Kauffman aboard, thenturned to Helen. "Now, lady," he said, holding out a hand, "I'm sorrythe step is so high, but--"

  The ranger, stooping, took the girl in his arms and set her feet on thelower step. "Good-by," he said, huskily. Then added: "For now. Write mesoon."

  She turned and looked down upon him with a faint smile on her lips and atender light in her eyes. "I promise. Good-by," she said, and enteredthe car.

  The ranger stood for a long time gazing after the train, then languidlywalked away toward his team.

  * * * * *

  Hanscom turned his face toward the forest with a full knowledge thathis world had suddenly lost its charm. At one moment his thought wentanxiously forward with the fugitives, at another it returned to confrontthe problem of his own desires. His act in thus assisting the mainwitness to escape might displease the court and would undoubtedlyintensify the dislike which Kitsong had already expressed toward him."My stay in the district is not likely to be as quiet as it has been,"he said to himself.

  However, his own safety was not a question of grave concern. The mysteryof Watson's death yet remained, and until that was solved Helen wasstill in danger of arrest. His mind at last settled to the task ofdiscovering and punishing the raiders. Who was Watson's assassin? Whatfierce desire for revenge had prompted that savage assault?

  There was no necessary connection between that small footprint and theshooting, and yet, until it was proved to be the work of another,suspicion would point to Helen as the only woman of the vicinity who hadthe motive for the deed. To some the coroner's failure to hold her wasalmost criminal.

  His return to the hills was equivalent to running the gantlet. Fromevery ranch-gate men and boys issued, wall-eyed with curiosity. They, ofcourse, knew nothing of the raiding-party of the morning, but theyunderstood that something unusual had taken place, for was not theranger's saddle in his wagon, and his saddle-horse under harness, not tomention a streak of blood along the flanks of its mate? The eyes ofthese solitary cattlemen are as analytical as those of traineddetectives. Nothing material escapes them. Being taught to observe frominfancy, they had missed little of the ranger's errand.

  "Who were you taking to the train?" they asked.

  Hanscom's defense was silence and a species of jocular, curt evasion,and he succeeded at last in getting past them all without resort todirect and violent lying. As he had reason to suspect that one, atleast, of the riflemen of the morning belonged to the Blackbird outfit,he decided to avoid that ranch altogether.

  It would be absurd to claim that his nerves were perfectly calm and hisheart entirely unhurried as he crept across the mesa and dropped intothe wooded canyon just above the pasture fence. Although sustained by hisauthority as a Federal officer, he was perfectly well aware that it waspossible for him to meet with trouble when the gang found out what hehad done.

  Another disturbing thought began to grow in his mind. "If those raiderswatched me go down the hill, they may consider it a clever trick to dropin on the Kauffman place and loot the house. They know it is unguarded.Perhaps I ought to throw the saddle on old Baldy and ride over there tomake sure about it."

  The more he considered this the more uneasy he became. "They're justabout sure to run off the stock, or be up to some other devilment," hesaid. "They might set fire to the house." In the end he roped his extrahorse and set out.

  Even by the cut-off it was a stiff ride, and it was nearly midnight ashe topped the last ridge and came in sight of the cabin. "Hello!" heexclaimed. "Somebody _has_ moved in. I'm just in time."

  A light was gleaming from the kitchen window, and the ranger's mindworked quickly. No one but members of the raiding-party would think oftaking possession of this cabin so promptly. No one else would know thatthe Kauffmans were away. "That being the case," he said, musingly, "itstands me in hand to walk light and shifty." And he kept on above theranch in order to drop down through the timber of the canyon.

  After tethering his horse upon a little plot of grass just west of thegarden, he adjusted his revolver on his thigh at the precise point whereit was handiest, and moved forward with care. "They mustn't have timeeven to _think_ fight," he decided.

  As he rounded the corner of the stable he heard the voice of a girlsinging, and the effect of this upon him was greater than any uproar. Itwas uncanny. It made him wonder what kind of woman she could be whocould carol in the midst of the band of raiders. She might be moredangerous than the men. She certainly added another complication to thesituation.

  Listening closely, he was able to detect the voices of at least two menas they joined discordantly in the refrain of the song. It was evidentthat all felt entirely secure, and the task to which the ranger nowaddressed himself was neither simple nor pleasant. To take these raidersunaware, to get the upper hand of them, and to bring them to justice wasa dangerous program, but he was accustomed to taking chances and did nothesitate very long.

  Keeping close to the shadow, he crept from the corral to the gardenfence and from the covert of a clump of tall sunflowers was able to peerinto the cabin window with almost unobstructed vision. A woman wasseated on a low chair in the middle of the floor, playing a guitar andsinging a lively song. He could not see the men. "I wonder if that dooris locked?" he queried. "If it isn't, the job is easy. If it is, I'llhave to operate through a screen window."

  He remembered that both doors, front and back, were very strong, forKauffman had been careful to have them heavily hinged and double-barred.They could not be broken except with a sledge. The screen on the windowscould be ripped off, b
ut to do that would make delay at the precisemoment when a quarter of a second would be worth a lifetime. "No, I'vegot to gamble on that door being unlocked," he concluded, with thefatalism of the mountaineer, to whom danger is an ever-presentside-partner.

  With his revolver in his hand, he slid through the garden and reachedthe corner of the house unperceived. The woman was now playing a dancetune, and the men were stamping and shouting; and under cover of theirclamor the ranger, stooping low, passed the window and laid his hand onthe knob. The door yielded to his pressure, and swiftly, almostsoundlessly, he darted within and stood before the astounded trio like aghost--an armed and very warlike ghost.

  "What's going on here?" he demanded, pleasantly, as with weapon incomplete readiness he confronted them.

  He had no need to command quiet. They were all schooled in the rules ofthe game he was playing, and understood perfectly the advantage which heheld over them. They read in his easy smile and jocular voice the deadlydetermination which possessed him.

  The woman was sitting in a low chair with the guitar in her lap and herfeet stretched out upon a stool. Her companions, two young men, hardlymore than boys, were standing near a table on which stood a bottle ofliquor. All had been stricken into instant immobility by the suddeninterruption of the ranger. Each stared with open mouth and dazed eyes.

  Hanscom knew them all. The girl was the wilful daughter of a Basquerancher over on the Porcupine. One of the boys was Henry Kitsong, anephew of Abe, and the other a herder named Busby, who had been at onetime a rider for Watson.

  "Having a pleasant time, aren't you?" the ranger continued, stillretaining his sarcastic intonation. From where he stood he could see thebottom of the girl's upturned shoes, and his alert brain took carefulnote of the size and shape of the soles. A flush of exultation ran overhim. "Those are the shoes that left those telltale footprints in theflour," he said to himself.

  "You lads had better let me have your guns," he suggested. "Busby, I'lltake yours first."

  The young ruffian yielded his weapon only when the ranger repeated hisrequest with menacing intonation. "You next, Henry," he said to Kitsong,and, having thus cut the claws of his young cubs, his pose relaxed. "Youthought the owners of the place safely out of reach, didn't you? You sawme go down in the valley with them? Well, I had a hunch that maybe you'dtake advantage of my absence, so I just rode over. I was afraid youmight drop down here and break things up. You see, I'm responsible forall these goods, and I don't want to see them destroyed. That music-box,for instance" (he addressed the girl); "I happen to know that's ahigh-priced instrument, and I promised the owner to take good care ofit. That bottle you fellows dug up I didn't know anything about, but Iguess I'll confiscate that also. It ain't good for little boys." Heturned sharply on Kitsong. "Henry, was your father in that band ofsharpshooters this morning?"

  "No, he wasn't," blurted the boy. "And I wasn't, either."

  "We'll see about that in the morning. Which of you rode a blaze-facedsorrel?" Neither answered, and Hanscom said, contentedly: "Oh, well,we'll see about _that_ in the morning."

  Hanscom had drawn close to the girl, who remained as if paralyzed withfright. "Senorita, I reckon I'll have to borrow one of your shoes for aminute." As he stooped and laid hold of her slipper Busby fell upon himwith the fury of a tiger.

  Hanscom was surprised, for he had considered the fellow completely cowedby the loss of his revolver. He could have shot him dead, but he didnot. He shook him off and swung at him with the big seven-shooter whichhe still held in his hand. The blow fell upon the young fellow'scheek-bone with such stunning force that he reeled and fell to thefloor.

  Young Kitsong cried out, "You've killed him!"

  "What was he trying to do to me?" retorted Hanscom. "Now you take thatkerchief of yours and tie his hands behind him. If either of you makesanother move at me, you'll be sorry. Get busy now."

  Young Kitsong obeyed, awed by the ranger's tone, and Busby was soonsecurely tied. He writhed like a wildcat as his strength came back, buthe was helpless, for Hanscom had taken a hand at lashing his feettogether. There was something bestial in the boy's fury. He would havebraved the ranger's pistol unhesitatingly after his momentary daze hadpassed, for he had the blind rage of a trapped beast, and his strengthwas amazing.

  During all this time the girl remained absolutely silent, her backagainst the wall, as if knowing that her capture would come next.Hanscom fully expected her to take a hand in the struggle, but he wasrelieved--greatly relieved--by her attitude of non-resistance.

  "Now, Henry," he said, with a breath of relief, "I can't afford to leteither you or the senorita out of my sight. I reckon you'll both have tosit right here and keep me company till morning. Mebbe the senorita willbustle about and make a pot of coffee--that'll help us all to keepawake. But first of all I want both her slippers. Bring 'em to me,Henry."

  Kitsong obeyed, and the girl yielded the slippers, the soles of whichseemed to interest Hanscom very deeply.

  He continued with polite intonation, "We'll all start down the valley atdaybreak."

  "What do you want of me?" asked the girl, hoarsely.

  "I want you as a witness to the assault Busby made on me; and then, yousee, you're all housebreakers"--he waved his hand toward the frontwindow, from which the screen had been torn and the glass broken--"andhousebreaking is pretty serious business even in this country.Furthermore, you were all concerned in that raid, and I'm going to seethat you all feel the full weight of the law."

  All the time he was talking so easily and so confidently he was reallysaying to himself: "To take you three to jail will be like driving somany wolves to market--but it's got to be done."

  He was tired, irritable, and eager to be clear of it all. His own cabinat the moment seemed an ideally peaceful retreat. Only his belief thatin this girl's small shoe lay the absolute proof of Helen's innocencenerved him to go on with his self-imposed duty. His chief desire was toplace these shoes in the coroner's hands and so end all disputeconcerning the footprints in the flour.

  The girl, whose name was Rita, sullenly made coffee, and as she broughtit to him, he continued his interrogation:

  "How did you get here?"

  "I rode."

  "Over the trail? Across the divide?"

  "Yes."

  "Were you in the raid this morning?"

  "What raid? I don't know of any raid."

  He knew she was lying, but he only said, "When did you leave home?"

  "Three days ago."

  "Where have you been?"

  "In camp."

  "Where?"

  She pointed up the stream.

  "How long have you been acquainted with this man Busby?"

  Here he struck upon something stubborn and hard in the girl's nature.She refused to reply.

  "When were you over here last?"

  A warning word from Busby denoted that he understood the course of theranger's questioning and was anxious to strengthen her resistance.

  Hanscom had several hours in which to ponder, and soon arrived at afairly accurate understanding of the whole situation. He rememberedvaguely the report of a row between Watson and Busby, and he was awareof the reckless cruelty of the dead man. It might be that in revenge forsome savagery on his part, some graceless act toward Rita, this moody,half-insane youth had crept upon the rancher and killed him.

  He turned to young Kitsong. "I haven't seen you lately. Where have youbeen?"

  "Over on the Porcupine."

  "Working on Gonzales's ranch?"

  "Yes, part of the time."

  "Does your father know you are back in the valley?"

  "No--yes, he does, too!"

  "You fired that shot that killed the horse, didn't you?"

  Young Kitsong betrayed anxiety. "I don't know what you are talkingabout."

  "Which of you rode the blaze-faced sorrel?"

  In spite of himself the boy glanced quickly at the girl, who shook herhead.

  Hanscom addressed himself to her.
"Senorita, which of your friends rodethe blaze-faced sorrel?"

  Her head dropped in silent refusal to answer.

  "Oh, well," said the ranger, "we'll find out in the course of time. Myeyesight is pretty keen, and I can swear that it was the man on thesorrel horse that fired the shot that stopped the Kauffman team. Now oneor the other of you will have to answer to that charge." His voice tookon a sterner note. "What were you doing on Watson's porch lastSaturday?"

  The girl started and flushed. "I wasn't on his porch."

  "Oh yes, you were! You didn't know you left your footprints in someflour on the floor, did you?"

  Her glance was directed involuntarily toward her feet, as if in guiltysurprise. It was a slight but convincing evidence to the ranger, whowent on:

  "Who was with you--Busby or Henry?"

  "Nobody was with me. I wasn't there. I haven't been in the valley beforefor weeks."

  "You didn't go there alone. You wouldn't dare to go alone in the night,and the man who was with you killed Watson."

  She sat up with a gasp, and young Kitsong stared. Their surprise was toogenuine to be assumed. "What's that you say? Watson killed?"

  "Yes. Watson was shot Monday night. Didn't you know that? Where have youbeen that you haven't heard of it?"

  Young Kitsong was all readiness to answer now. "We've been up in thehills. We have a camp up there."

  "Oh," said Hanscom, "kind of a robbers' den, eh? Has Busby been withyou?"

  "Sure thing. We've all been fishing and hunting--" Here he stoppedsuddenly, for to admit that he had been hunting out of season was to layhimself liable to arrest as a poacher on the forest. He went on: "We allcame down here together."

  "What were you doing chasing that team? What was the game in that?"

  "Well, he shot at us first," answered the boy.

  And Busby shouted from his position in the corner on the floor, "Shutup, you fool!"

  The ranger smiled. "Oh, it's got to all come out, Busby. I saw the manon the sorrel horse fire that shot--don't forget that. And I know whomade the tracks in the flour. But I am beginning to wonder if you hadanything to do with warning the Kauffmans to get out."

  He had indeed come to the end of his questioning, for his captivesrefused to utter another word, and he himself fell silent, his mindengaged with the intricacies of this problem. It might be that theseyoung dare-devils just happened to meet Kauffman on the road and decidedto hold him up. It was possible that they knew nothing of the warningswhich had been sent. But in that case, who pushed that final warningunder the door? Who let them know of trouble from above?

  Dawn was creeping up the valley, and, calling young Kitsong from thedoze into which he had fallen, he said: "Now, Henry, I'm going to takethis bunch down to the sheriff, and you might as well make up your mindto it first as last. You go out and saddle up while the senorita heatsup some more coffee, and we'll get ready and start."

  Hanscom was by no means as confident as his voice sounded, and, as theyoung fellow rose to go, only half expected him to show his face again."Well, let him slip," he said to himself. "I'll be safer without him."

  Busby spoke up from the floor. "You stay with the game, Hank, and youride your own horse."

  "You bet I'll ride my own horse," Kitsong violently retorted, from thedoorway.

  The girl, who understood the significance of this controversy,interposed. "I'll ride the sorrel. He's my horse, anyway."

  Hanscom mockingly chimed in. "That's mighty fine and self-sacrificing,but it won't do. The rider who fired that shot was a man. But I'll leaveit to Henry. Bring around the horses, and remember, if you slip out withthat bay horse I'll _know_ you rode the sorrel yesterday."

  The situation had become too complicated for the girl, who fell silent,while Busby cursed the ranger in fierce, set terms. "What right have yougot to arrest us, anyhow?"

  "All the right I need. That shooting began inside the forest boundary,and it's my duty to see that you are placed in the hands of the law."Here his voice took on a note of grim determination. "And I want you tounderstand there will be no funny business on the way down."

  "How can I ride, all tied up like this?" demanded the ruffian.

  "Oh, I'm going to untie you, and you are going to come alongquietly--either as live stock or freight--you can take your choice."

  Busby, subdued by several hours on the floor, was disposed to do as hewas told, and Hanscom unbound his legs and permitted him to rise.

  As young Kitsong brought the horses around in front of the cabin,Hanscom was not disappointed in finding the girl's saddle on the sorrel.He made no comment.

  "Now, Busby, we'll mount you first," he said, and slipped the bridlefrom the horse. "You see, to make sure of you I am going to lead yourpony." He then untied the youth's hands. "Climb on!" he commanded.

  Busby silently mounted to his saddle, the girl took the sorrel, and atcommand Kitsong started down the trail.

  "You go next," said Hanscom to the girl, "now you, Busby," he added, andwith the rope across the horse's rump--the trick of a trainedtrailer--he started down the trail.

  Sinister as this small procession really was, it would have appearedquite innocent to a casual observer as it went winding down the hill. Noone at a little distance would have been able to tell that in the silentdetermination of the horseman in the rear lay the only law, the onlybond which kept these four riders in line. Neither Busby nor Kitsong northe girl doubted for an instant that if any of them made a deflection, arush for freedom, they would be shot. They knew that as a Federalofficer he had certain authority. Just how much authority they could notdetermine, but they were aware that the shooting had begun in theforest, which was his domain.

  As they sighted Watson's cabin Hanscom was curious to know whethernearing the scene of the crime would have any perceptible effect onBusby. "Will he betray nervousness?" he asked himself.

  Quite the contrary. As he came opposite the house, Busby turned in hissaddle and asked, "When was Watson killed?"

  "Nobody knows exactly. Some time Monday night," answered the ranger.

  A few miles down the road they met a rancher coming up the valley with atimber-wagon, and to him the ranger explained briefly the nature of hisexpedition, and said:

  "Now, Tom, I reckon you'll have to turn around and help me take theseyoungsters to the sheriff. I would rather have them in your wagon thanon horseback."

  The rancher consented with almost instant readiness.

  The prisoners were transferred to the wagon, and in this way theremainder of the trip was covered.

  V

  The county jail was a square, brick structure standing in the midst of agrove of small cottonwood-trees (planted in painful rows), and thesheriff's office and his wife's parlor, situated on opposite sides ofthe hall, occupied the front part of the first story, while the rear andthe basement served as kitchen and dungeon keep. Generally the lockupwas empty and the building quite as decorous as any other on the street,although at certain times it resounded with life. On this day it wasquiet, and Throop and his wife, who served as matron, were sitting undera tree as the rancher's wagon halted before the gate.

  It was about three o'clock in the afternoon and Hanscom's prisonerswere dusty, tired, and sullen as they filed up the walk toward thesheriff, who awaited their approach with an inquiring slant to his hugehead. Mrs. Throop retreated to the house.

  When at close range Hanscom with a weary smile said, "I've brought yousome new boarders, Mr. Sheriff."

  "So I see," said the officer, as he motioned them to enter the door."What's it all about?"

  "It's a long story," replied the ranger, "and of course I can't go intoit here, but I want you to take charge of these people while I seeCarmody and find out what he wants done with them. I think he'll findthem valuable witnesses. Incidentally I may say they've been shooting ahorse and breaking and entering a house."

  The sheriff was deeply impressed with this charge. "Well, well!" hesaid, studying with especial care the downcast face
of the girl. "Ithought it might be only killing game out of season, stealing timber, orsome such thing." He called a deputy. "Here, Tom, take these men intothe guard-room, and, Mrs. Throop, you look after this girl while I goover the case with Mr. Hanscom."

  "Don't let 'em talk with anybody," warned the ranger.

  The sheriff passed the word to the deputy, "That's right, Tom."

  In deep relief the ranger followed the sheriff into his private officeand dropped into a seat. "Jeerusalem! I'm tired!" he exclaimed. "Thatwas a nervous job!"

  "Cut loose," said the sheriff.

  Hanscom then related as briefly as he could the story of the capture. Atthe end he confessed that he had hardly expected to reach town with allof them. "I had no authority to arrest them. I just bluffed them, aswell as the rancher who drove the wagon, into thinking I had. I wantedthem for Carmody to question, and I hung to the girl because I believeshe can absolutely clear Kauffman and his daughter of any connection--"

  Throop, who had listened intently, now broke out: "Well, I hope so. Thatold man and his girl sure are acquiring all kinds of misery. Kitsong gotCarmody to issue a warrant for them yesterday, and I wired theauthorities at Lone Rock and had them both taken from the train."

  The ranger's face stiffened as he stared at the officer. "You did!"

  "I did, and they're on their way back on No. 6."

  "How could Carmody do that?" Hanscom demanded, hotly. "He told them togo--I heard him."

  "He says not. He says he just excused the girl for the time being. Hedeclares now that he expected them both to stay within call, and when heheard they were running away--"

  "How did he know they were running away?"

  "Search me! Some one on the train must have wired back."

  "More likely the Blackbird Ranch 'phoned in. They are all related toWatson. I was afraid of them." He rose. "Well, that proves that Abe andhis gang were at the bottom of that raid."

  "Maybe so, but I don't see how Carmody can go into that--his job is tofind the man or woman who killed Watson."

  "Well, there's where I come in. I've got the girl who made those trackson the floor."

  The sheriff was thoughtful. "I guess you'd better call up Carmody--he'sthe whole works till his verdict is rendered, and he ought to benotified at once."

  A moment's talk with the doctor's office disclosed the fact that he wasout in the country on a medical trip, and would not return till late."Reckon we'll have to wait," said the sheriff.

  The ranger's face fell. After a pause he asked, "When does that trainget in?"

  "About six; it's an hour late."

  "And they'll be jailed?"

  "Sure thing! No other way. Carmody told me to take charge of them andsee that they were both on hand to-morrow."

  Hanscom's fine eyes flamed with indignation. "It's an outrage. That girlis as innocent of Watson's killing as you are. I won't have herhumiliated in this way."

  "You seem terribly interested in this young lady," remarked Throop, witha grin.

  Hanscom was in no mood to dodge. "I am--and I'm going to save her fromcoming here if I can." He started for the door. "I'll see Judge Brinkleyand get her released. Carmody has no authority to hold her."

  "I hope you succeed," said the sheriff, sympathetically; "but at presentI'm under orders from the coroner. It's up to him. So you think you'vegot the girl who made them tracks?"

  "I certainly do, and I want you to hold these prisoners till Carmodygets home. Don't let anybody see them, and don't let them talk with oneanother. They'll all come before that jury to-morrow, and they mustn'thave any chance to frame up a lie."

  "All right. I see your point. Go ahead. Your prisoners will be here whenyou come back."

  Hanscom went away, raging against the indignity which threatened Helen.At Carmody's office he waited an hour, hoping the coroner might return,and, in despair of any help from him, set out at last for Brinkley'soffice, resolute to secure the judge's interference.

  The first man he met on the street stopped him with a jovial word:"Hello, Hans! Say, you want to watch out for Abe Kitsong. He cameb'ilin' in half an hour ago, and is looking for you. Says you helpedthat Dutchman and his girl (or wife, or whatever she is) to get away,and that you've been arresting Henry, his nephew, without a warrant, andhe swears he'll swat you good and plenty, on sight."

  Hanscom's voice was savage as he replied: "You tell him that I'm bigenough to be seen with the naked eye, and if he wants me right awayhe'll find me at Judge Brinkley's office."

  The other man also grew serious. "All the same, Hans, keep an eye out,"he urged. "Abe is sure to make you trouble. He's started in drinking,and when he's drunk he's poisonous as a rattler."

  "All right. I'm used to rattlers--I'll hear him before he strikes. He'sa noisy brute."

  The ranger could understand that Rita's father might very naturally bethrown into a fury of protest by the news of his daughter's arrest, butKitsong's concern over a nephew whom he had not hitherto regarded asworth the slightest care did not appear especially logical or singularlyimportant.

  Brinkley was not in his office and so Hanscom went out to his house, outon the north bend of the river in a large lawn set with young trees.

  The judge, seated on his porch in his shirt-sleeves, exhibited theplacid ease of a man whose office work is done and his grass freshlysprinkled.

  "Good evening, Hanscom," he pleasantly called. "Come up and have a seatand a smoke with the gardener."

  "I have but a moment," the ranger replied, and plunged again into thestory, which served in this instance as a preface to his plea forintervention. "You must help _me_, Judge. Miss McLaren must not go tojail. To arrest her in this way a second time is a crime. She's a lady,Judge, and as innocent of that shooting as a child."

  "You surprise me," said Brinkley. "According to all reports she is very,very far from being a lady."

  Hanscom threw out his hands in protest. "They're all wrong, Judge. Itell you she _is_ a lady, and young and handsome."

  "Handsome and young!" The judge's eyes took on a musing expression."Well, well! that accounts for much. But what was she doing up there inthe company of that old Dutchman?"

  "I don't know why she came West, but I'm glad she did. I'm glad to haveknown her. That old Dutchman, as you call him, is her stepfather and afine chap."

  "But Carmody has arrested her. What caused him to do that?"

  "I don't know. I can't understand it. It may be that Kitsong has put thescrews on him some way."

  The judge reflected. "As the only strange woman in the valley, the girlnaturally falls under suspicion of having made those footprints."

  "I know it, Judge, but you have only to see her--to hear her voice--torealize how impossible it is for her to kill even a coyote. All I ask,now, is that you save her from going to jail."

  "I don't see how I can interfere," Brinkley answered, with gentledecision. "As coroner, Carmody has the case entirely in his hands tillafter the verdict. But don't take her imprisonment too hard," he added,with desire to comfort him. "Throop has a good deal of discretion andI'll 'phone him to make her stay as little like incarceration aspossible. You see, while nominally she's only a witness for the state,actually she's on trial for murder, and till you can get your otherwoman before the jury she's a suspect. If you are right, the jury willat once bring in a verdict against other parties, known or unknown, andshe will be free--except that she may have to remain to testify in herown case against the raiders. Don't worry, my dear fellow. It will comeout all right."

  Hanscom was now in the grasp of conflicting emotions. In spite ofBrinkley's refusal to interfere, he could not deny a definite feeling ofpleasure in the fact that Helen was returning and that he was about tosee her again. "Anyhow, I have another opportunity to serve her," hethought, as he turned down the street toward the station. "Perhaps afterthe verdict she will not feel so eager to leave the country."

  VI

  Meanwhile the fugitives on the westbound express were nearing the townin cha
rge of the marshal of Lone Rock, and Helen (who had telegraphedher plight to Hanscom and had received no reply) was in silent dread ofthe ordeal which awaited her. Her confidence in the ranger had notfailed, but, realizing how difficult it was to reach him, she had smallhope of seeing his kindly face at the end of her journey.

  "He may be riding some of those lonely heights this moment," shethought, and wondered what he would do if he knew that she wasreturning, a prisoner. "He would come to me," she said, in answer to herown question, and the thought that in all that mighty spread of peak andplain he was the one gracious and kindly soul lent a kind of glamour tohis name. "After all, a loyal soul like his is worth more than any mineor mountain," she acknowledged.

  The marshal, a small, quaint, middle-aged person with squinting glanceand bushy hair, was not only very much in awe of his lovely prisoner,but so accustomed to going about in his shirt-sleeves that he sufferedacutely in the confinement of his heavy coat. Nevertheless, in spite ofhis discomfort, he was very considerate in a left-handed way, and didhis best to conceal the official relationship between himself and hiswards. He not only sat behind them all the way, but he made no attemptat conversation, and for these favors Helen was genuinely grateful. Onlyas they neared the station did he venture to address her.

  "Now the sheriff will probably be on hand," he said; "and if he is I'lljust naturally turn you over to him; but in case he isn't I'll have totake you right over to the jail. I'm sorry, but that's my orders. So ifyou'll kindly step along just ahead of me, people may not notice you'rein my charge."

  Helen assured him that she would obey every suggestion, and that shedeeply appreciated his courtesy.

  Kauffman's spirit was sadly broken. His age, the rough usage of the daybefore, and this unwarranted second arrest had combined to take awayfrom him a large part of his natural courage. He insisted that Helenshould wire her Eastern friends, stating the case and appealing foraid.

  "We need help now," he said. "We are being persecuted."

  Helen, however, remembering Carmody's kindness, said: "Don't bediscouraged, daddy. It may be that we are only witnesses and that afterwe have testified we shall be released. Wait until to-morrow; I hate toannounce new troubles to my relatives."

  "But we shall need money," he said, anxiously. "We have only a smallbalance."

  It was nearly six o'clock as they came winding down between the grassybuttes which formed the gateway to the town, and the girl recalled, witha wave of self-pity, the feeling of exaltation with which she had firstlooked upon that splendid purple-walled canyon rising to the west. It hadappealed to her at that time as the gateway to a mystic sanctuary. Nowit was but the lair of thieves and murderers, ferocious and obscene.Only one kindly human soul dwelt among those majestic, forested heights.

  She was pale, sad, but entirely composed, and to Hanscom very beautiful,as she appeared in the vestibule of the long day-coach, but her faceflushed with pleasure at sight of him, and as she grasped his hand andlooked into his fine eyes something warm and glowing flooded her heart.

  "Oh, how relieved I am to find you here!" she exclaimed, and her lipstrembled in confirmation of her words. "I did not expect you. I wasafraid my telegram had not reached you."

  "Did you telegraph me?" he asked. "I didn't get it--but I'm here all thesame," he added, and fervently pressed the hands which she had allowedhim to retain.

  Oblivious of the curious crowd, she faced him in a sudden realization ofher dependence upon him, and her gratitude for his stark manliness wasso deep, so full, she could have put her hands about his neck. Howdependable, how simple, how clear-eyed he was!

  He on his part found her greatly changed in both face and voice. Sheseemed clothed in some new, strange dignity, and yet her glance was lessremote, less impersonal than before and her pleasure at sight of himdeeply gratifying. In spite of himself his spirits lightened.

  "I have a lot to tell you," he began, but the sheriff courteouslyinterposed:

  "Put her right into my machine--You go too, Hanscom."

  "I couldn't prevent this," he began, sorrowfully, as he took a seatbeside her; "but you will not be put into a cell. Mrs. Throop will treatyou as a guest."

  The self-accusation in his voice moved her to put her hand on his arm incaressing reassurance. "Please don't blame yourself about that," shesaid. "I don't mind. It's only for the night, anyway. Let us think ofto-morrow."

  The ride was short and Mrs. Throop, a tall, dark, rather gloomy woman,came to the door to meet her guests with the air of an old-fashionedvillage hostess, serious but kindly.

  "Mrs. Throop," said her husband. "This is Miss McLaren and her father,Mr. Kauffman. Make them as comfortable as you can."

  Mrs. Throop greeted Helen with instant kindly interest. "I am pleased toknow you. Come right in. You must be tired."

  "I am," confessed the girl, "very tired and very dusty. I hope youalways put your prisoners under the hose."

  "I'll give you my spare chamber," replied the matron, with abstractedglance. "It's next the bath-room. I'm sorry, but I guess your father'llhave to go down below."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  The sheriff explained, "The cells are below."

  Helen was instantly alarmed. "Oh no!" she protested. "My father is notat all well. Please give him my room. I'll go down below."

  "It won't be necessary for either of you to go below," interposed thesheriff. "Hanscom, I'll put Kauffman in your charge. You can take him toyour boarding-house if you want to."

  "You're very kind," said Helen, with such feeling that the sheriffreacted to it. "I hope it won't get you into trouble."

  "Oh, I don't think it will," he said, cheerily. "So long as I know he'ssafe, it don't matter where he sleeps."

  "Well, you'd better all stay to supper, anyhow," said Mrs. Throop. "It'sready and waiting."

  No one but Helen perceived anything unusual in this hearty offhandinvitation. To Hanscom it was just another instance of Westernhospitality, and to the sheriff a common service, and so a few minuteslater they all sat down at the generous table, in such genial mood (withMrs. Throop doing her best to make them feel at home) that all theirtroubles became less than shadows.

  Although disinclined to go into a detailed story of his return to thehills, Hanscom described the capture of the housebreakers and, in spiteof a careful avoidance of anything which might sound like boasting,disclosed the fact that at the moment when he threw open the door ofthe cabin he had exposed himself to the weapons of a couple of recklessyoung outlaws and might have been killed.

  "You shouldn't have risked that," Helen protested. "Our poor possessionsare not worth such cost."

  "I couldn't endure the notion of those hoodlums looting the place," heexplained.

  At the thought of Rita (who was occupying a cell in the women's ward)Helen grew a little sad, for, according to the ranger's own account, shewas hardly more than a child, and had been led away by her firstpassion.

  At the close of the meal, upon Mrs. Throop's housewifely invitation,they all took seats in the "front room" and Helen quite forgot that shewas a prisoner, and the ranger almost returned to boyhood as he facedthe marble-topped table, the cabinet organ, and the enlarged familyportraits on the walls, for of such quality were his mother's adornmentsin the old home at Circle Bend. Something vaguely intimate and a littleconfusing filled his mind as he listened to the voice of the womanbefore him. Only by an effort could he connect her with the cabin in thehigh valley. She was becoming each moment more alien, more aloof, but atthe same time more desirable, like the girls he used to worship in thechurch choir.

  Speech was difficult with him, and he could only repeat: "It makes mefeel like a rabbit to think I could not keep you from coming here, andthe worst of it is I had nothing to offer as security. All I have in theworld is a couple of horses, a saddle, and a typewriter."

  "It really doesn't matter," she replied in hope of easing his mind. "Seehow they treat us! They know we're unjustly held and that we shall beset free to-morr
ow."

  Strange to say, this did not lighten his gloom. "And then--you will goaway," he said, soberly.

  "Yes; we cannot remain here."

  "And I shall never see you again," he pursued.

  Her face betrayed a trace of sympathetic pain. "Don't say that! _Never_is such a long time."

  "And you'll forget us all out here--"

  "I shall never forget what you have done, be sure of that," she replied.

  Nevertheless, despite the tenderness of her tone and her gratitudeopenly expressed, something disconcerting had come into her eyes andvoice. She was more and more the lady and less and less the recluse, andas she receded and rose to this higher plane, the ranger lost heart,almost without knowing the cause of it.

  At last he turned to Kauffman. "I suppose we'd better go," he said. "Youlook tired."

  "I am tired," the old man admitted. "Is it far to your hotel?"

  "Only a little way."

  "Good night," said Helen, extending her hand with a sudden light in herface which transported the trailer. "We'll meet again in the morning."

  He took her hand in his with a clutch in his throat which made replydifficult; but his glance expressed the adoration which filled hisheart.

  * * * * *

  Kauffman left the house, walking like a man of seventy. "My bones arenot broken, but they are weary," he said, dejectedly; "I fear I am to beill."

  "Oh, you'll be all right in the morning," responded the ranger much morecheerily than he really felt.

  "Is it not strange that any reasonable being should accuse my daughterand me of that monstrous deed?"

  "That is because no one knows you. When the towns-folk come to know youand her they will think differently. That is why I am glad the coroneris to hold his court here in the town."

  "Well, if only we are set free--We shall be set free, eh?"

  "Surely? But what will you do then? Where will you go?"

  "I hope Helen will return to her people." He sighed deeply. "It was allvery foolish to come out here. But it was natural. She was stricken, andsensitive--so morbidly sensitive--to pity, to gossip. Then, too, aromantic notion about the healing power of the mountains was in herthought. She wished to go where no one knew her--where she could livethe simple life and regain serenity and health. She said: 'I will not goto a convent. I will make a sanctuary of the green hills.'"

  "Something very sorrowful must have happened--" said Hanscom,hesitatingly.

  The old man's voice was very grave as he replied: "Not sorrow, buttreachery," he said. "A treachery so cruel, a betrayal so complete, thatwhen she lost her lover and her most intimate girl friend (one nearerthan a sister) she lost faith in all men and all women--almost in God. Icannot tell you more of her story--" He paused a moment, then added:"She believes in you--she already trusts you--and some time, perhaps,she herself will tell the story of her betrayal. Till then you must becontent with this--she is here through no fault or weakness of her own."

  The ranger, pondering deeply, dared not put into definite form theprecise disloyalty which had driven a broken-hearted girl to seek theshelter of the hills, but he understood her mood. Hating her kind andbelieving that she could lose herself in the immensity of the landscape,she had come to the mountains only to be cruelly disillusioned. TheKitsongs had taught her that in the wilderness a woman is morenoticeable than a peak.

  Just why she selected the Shellfish for her retreat remained to beexplained, and to this question Kauffman answered: "We came here becausea friend of ours, a poet, who had once camped in the valley, told us ofthe wonderful beauty of the place. It is beautiful--quite as beautifulas it was reported--but a beautiful landscape, it appears, does not makemen over into its image. It makes them seem only the more savage."

  Hanscom, refraining from further question, helped the old man up thestairway to his bed and then returned to the barroom, in which severalof the regular boarders were loafing. One or two greeted him familiarly,and it was evident that they all knew something of the capture and werecurious to learn more. His answers to their questions were brief:"You'll learn all about it to-morrow," he said.

  Simpson, the proprietor of the hotel, jocosely remarked: "Well, Hans, asnear as I can figure it out, to-morrow is to be your busy day, but you'dbetter lay low to-night. The Kitsongs'll get ye, if ye don't watchout."

  "I'll watch out. What do you hear?"

  "The whole of Shellfish Valley is coming in to see that your Dutchmanand his girl gets what's coming to them. Abe has just left here, lookingfor you. He's turribly wrought up. Says you had no right to arrest themyoungsters and he'll make you sorry you did."

  One of the clerks dryly remarked: "They's a fierce interest in thisinquest. Carmody will sure have to move over to the court-house. Gee!but he feels his feed! For one day, anyhow, he's bigger than the_en_tire County Court."

  The ranger had a clearer vision of his own as well as Helen's situationas he replied: "Well, I'm going over to see him. When it comes to ashow-down he's on my side, for he needs the witnesses I've brought him."

  "Abe sure has got it in for you, Hans. Your standing up for the Dutchmanand his woman was bad enough, but for you to arrest Hank without awarrant has set the old man a-poppin'." He glanced at the ranger's emptybelt. "Better take your gun along."

  "No; I'm safer without it," he replied. "I might fly mad and hurtsomebody."

  The loafers, though eager to witness the clash, did not rise from theirchairs till after Hanscom left. No one wished to betray unseemly haste.

  "There'll be something doing when they meet," said Simpson. "Let'sfollow him up and see the fun."

  As he walked away in the darkness the ranger began to fear--not forhimself, but for Helen. The unreasoning ferocity with which the valleystill pursued her was appalling. For the first time in his life hestrongly desired money. He felt his weakness, his ignorance. In the faceof the trial--which should mean complete vindication for the girl, butwhich might prove to be another hideous miscarriage of justice--he wasof no more value than a child. Carmody had seemed friendly, but someevil influence had evidently changed his attitude.

  "What can I do?" the ranger asked himself, and was only able to answer,"Nothing."

  From a sober-sided, capable boy, content to do a thing well, he haddeveloped at thirty into a serious but singularly unambitious man.Loving the outdoor life and being sufficiently resourceful to live alonein a wilderness cabin without becoming morbid, he had naturally driftedinto the Forest Service. Without being slothful, he had been foolishlyunaspiring, and he saw that now. "I must bestir myself," he said,sharply. "I must wake up. I must climb. I must get somewhere."

  He took close grip on himself. "Carmody must squeeze the truth out ofthese youngsters to-morrow, and I must help him do it. If Brinkley can'thelp, I must have somebody else." And yet deep in his heart was thebelief that the sight of Helen as she took the witness-chair would domore to clear her name than any lawyer could accomplish by craft orpassionate speech.

  At the door of Carmody's office he came upon Kitsong and a group of hisfollowers, waiting for him. Abe was in a most dangerous mood, and hishearers, also in liquor, were listening with approval to the descriptionof what he intended to do to the ranger.

  "You can't arrest a man without a warrant," he was repeating. "Hanscom'sno sheriff--he's only a dirty deputy game-warden. I'll make him wish hewas a goat before I get through with him."

  Although to advance meant war, Hanscom had no thought of retreating. Hekept his way, and as the band of light which streamed from the saloonwindow fell on him one of the watchers called out, "There's the rangernow."

  Kitsong turned, and with an oath of savage joy advanced upon theforester. "You're the man I have been waiting for," he began, with amenacing snarl.

  "Well," Hanscom retorted, "here I am. What can I do for you?"

  His quiet tone instantly infuriated the ruffian. Shaking his fist closeto the ranger's nose, he shouted: "I'll do for you, you loafer! Whatright had yo
u to arrest them kids? What right had you to help themwitnesses to the train? You're off your beat, and you'd better climbright back again."

  Righteous wrath flamed hot in the ranger's breast. "You keep your fistout of my face or I'll smash your jaw," he answered, and his voice washusky with passion. "Get out of my way!" he added, as Kitsong shiftedground, deliberately blocking his path.

  "You can't bluff me!" roared the older man. "I'm going to have youjugged for false arrest. You'll find you can't go round taking people tojail at your own sweet will."

  The battle song in the old man's voice aroused the street. Hissympathizers pressed close. All their long-felt, half-hidden hatred ofthe ranger as a Federal officer flamed from their eyes, and Hanscomregretted the absence of his revolver.

  Though lean and awkward, he was one of those deceptive men whose musclesare folded in broad, firm flakes like steel springs. A sense of dangerthrilled his blood, but he did not show it--he could not afford to showit. Therefore he merely backed up against the wall of the building andwith clenched hands awaited their onset.

  Something in his silence and self-control daunted his furious opponents.They hesitated.

  "If you weren't a government officer," blustered Abe, "I'd wallerye--But I'll get ye! I'll put ye where that Dutchman and his--"

  Hanscom's fist crashing like a hammer against the rancher's jaw closedhis teeth on the vile epithet which filled his mouth, and even as hereeled, stunned by this blow, the ranger's left arm flashed in anothersavage swing, and Abe, stunned by the swift attack, would have falleninto the gutter had not one of his gang caught and supported him.

  "Kill him! Kill the dog!" shouted one of the others, and in his voicewas the note of the murderer.

  Eli Kitsong whipped out his revolver, but the hand of a friendlybystander clutched the weapon. "None of that; the man is unarmed," hesaid.

  At this moment the door of the saloon opened and five or six men camerushing, eager to see, quick to share in a fight. Believing them to beenemies, Hanscom with instant rush struck the first man a heavy blow,caught and wrenched his weapon from his fist, and so, armed anddesperate, faced the circle of inflamed and excited men.

  "Hands up now!" he called.

  "Don't shoot, Hans!" shouted the man who had been disarmed. "We're allfriends."

  In the tense silence which followed, the sheriff, attracted by thenoise, emerged from the coroner's door with a shout and hurled himselflike an enormous ram into the crowd. Pushing men this way and that, hereached the empty space before the ranger's feet.

  "What's the meaning of all this?" he demanded, with panting intensity."Put up them guns." The crowd obeyed. "Now, what's it all about?" hesaid, addressing Abe.

  "He jumped me," complained Kitsong. "I want him arrested for that andfor taking Henry without a warrant."

  "Where's _your_ warrant?" asked Throop.

  Abe was confused. "I haven't any yet, but I'll get one."

  Throop addressed the crowd, which was swiftly augmenting. "Clear out ofthis, now! _Vamose_, every man of you, or I'll run you all in. Clearout, I say!" The throng began to move away, for the gestures with whichhe indicated his meaning were made sinisterly significant by the weaponwhich he swung. The leaders fell back and began to move away. Throopsaid to the ranger: "Hans, you come with me. The coroner wants you."

  Hanscom returned the revolver to the man from whom he had snatched it."I'm much obliged, Pete," he said, with a note of humor. "Hope I didn'tdo any damage. I didn't have time to see who was coming. I wouldn't havebeen so rough if I'd known it was you."

  The other fellow grinned. "'Peared to me like you'd made a mistake, butI couldn't blame you. Feller has to act quick in a case like that."

  "Bring your prisoner here," called Carmody from his open door. "I'lltake care of him."

  "I'll get you yet," called Kitsong, venomously. "I'll get youto-morrow!"

  "Go along out o' here!" repeated the sheriff, hustling him off the walk."You're drunk and disturbing the peace. Go home and go to bed."

  With a sense of having made a bad matter worse the ranger followed thecoroner into his office and closed the door.

  VII

  Dr. Carmody, who had held the office of coroner less than a year, had akeen sense of the importance which this his first murder case had givenhim. His procedure at the cabin had been easy and rather casual, it istrue, but contact with the town-folk and a careful perusal of the StateCode had given him a decided tone of authority and an air of judicialseverity which surprised and somewhat irritated Hanscom, fresh from hisencounter with Kitsong.

  "What was the cause of that row out there?" demanded the doctor,resuming his seat behind his desk with the expression of a policemagistrate.

  The ranger, still hot with anger, looked at his questioner withresentful eyes. "Kitsong and his gang were laying for me and I stood 'emoff--that's all. Old Abe was out for trouble, and he got it. I punchedhis jaw and the other outlaws started in to do me up."

  Carmody softened a bit. "Well, you're in for it. He'll probably have youarrested and charged with assault and battery."

  "If he can," interposed Throop. "He'll find some trouble gettin' awarrant issued in this town to-night."

  Carmody continued his accusing interrogation: "What about this report ofyour helping the Kauffmans to leave the country? Is that true?"

  Hanscom's tone was still defiant as he replied: "It is, but I wonder ifyou know that they were being chased out of the country at the time?"

  "Chased out?"

  "Yes. After receiving several warnings, they got one that scared them,and so they hitched up and started over early in the morning to find me.On the way they were waylaid by an armed squad and chased for severalmiles. I heard the shooting, and by riding hard across the Black Hogbackintercepted them and scared the outlaws off, but the Kauffmans were inbad shape. One of the horses had been killed and Kauffman himself waslying on the ground. He'd been thrown from the wagon and was badlybruised. The girl was unhurt, but naturally she wanted to get out of thecountry at once. She wasn't scared; she was plain disgusted. She wantedme to take them to the train, and I did. Any decent citizen would havedone the same. I didn't know you wanted them again, and if I had Iwouldn't have tried to hold them at the time, for I was pretty wellwrought up myself."

  Carmody was less belligerent as he said: "What about arresting theseyoung people? How did that happen?"

  "Well, on the way back from the station I got to thinking about thoseraiders, and it struck me that it would be easy for them to ride down tothe Kauffman cabin and do some damage, and that I'd better go over andsee that everything was safe. It was late when I got home, but I saddledup and drove across. Good thing I did, for I found the house all lit up,and Henry Kitsong, young Busby, and old Pete Cuneo's girl were in fullpossession of the place and having a gay time. I arrested the boys forbreaking into the house on the theory that they were both in that raid.Furthermore, I'm sure they know something about Watson's death. That'swhat Abe and Eli were fighting me about to-night--they're afraid Henrywas mixed up in it. He and Watson didn't get on well."

  The vigor and candor of the ranger's defense profoundly affectedCarmody. "You may be right," he said, thoughtfully. "Anyhow, I'll bringthem all before the jury to-morrow. Of course, I can't enter into thatraid or the housebreaking--that's out of my jurisdiction--but if youthink this Cuneo girl knows something--"

  "I am certain she does. She made those tracks in the flour."

  The coroner turned sharply. "What makes you think so?"

  Hanscom then told him of the comparison he had made of her shoes withthe drawings in his note-book, and the coroner listened intently.

  "That's mighty important," he said, at last. "You did right in bringingher down. I'll defend your action."

  Hanscom persisted: "You must make it clear to that jury that HelenMcLaren never entered Watson's gate in her life."

  Carmody was at heart convinced. "Don't worry," said he. "I'll give you achance to get all that evidence before the
jury, and for fear Abe maytry to arrest you and keep you away from the session, I reckon I'dbetter send you home in charge of Throop." He smiled, and the sheriffsmiled, but it was not so funny to the ranger.

  "Never mind about me," he said. "I can take care of myself. Kitsong isonly bluffing."

  "All the same, you'd better go home with Throop," persisted the coroner."You're needed at the hearing to-morrow, and Miss McLaren will want youall in one piece," he said.

  Hanscom considered a moment. "All right. I'm in your hands tillto-morrow. Good night."

  "Good night," replied Carmody. "Take good care of him," he added to thesheriff as he rose.

  "He won't get away," replied Throop. As he stepped into the street heperceived a small group of Kitsong's sympathizers still hanging aboutthe door of the saloon. "What are you hanging around here for?" hedemanded.

  "Waiting for Abe. He's gone after a warrant and the city marshal," oneof them explained.

  "You're wasting time and so is Abe. You tell him that the coroner hasput Hanscom in my custody and that I won't stand for any interferencefrom anybody--not even the county judge--so you fellers better clearoff home."

  The back streets were silent, and as they walked along Throop said: "I'mgoing to lose you at the door of the hotel, but you'd better turn up atmy office early to-morrow."

  Hanscom said "Good night" and went to his bed with a sense of physicalrelaxation which should have brought slumber at once, but it didn't. Onthe contrary, he lay awake till long after midnight, reliving theexciting events of the day, and the hour upon which he spent mostthought was that in Mrs. Throop's front room when he sat opposite Helenand discussed her future and his own.

  When he awoke it was broad day, and as Kauffman, who occupied a bed inthe same chamber, was still soundly slumbering, the ranger dressed asquietly as possible and went out into the street to take account of adawn which was ushering in the most important morning of his life--a dayin which his own fate as well as that of Helen McLaren must be decided.

  The air was clear and stinging and the mountain wall, lit by the directrays of the rising sun, appeared depressingly bald and prosaic, like hisown past life. The foot-hills, in whose minute wrinkle the drama ofwhich he was a vital part had taken place, resembled a crumpled carpetof dull gold and olive-green, and for the first time in his experienceL. J. Hanscom, wilderness trailer, acknowledged a definitedissatisfaction with his splendid solitude.

  "What does my life amount to?" he bitterly inquired. "What am I headedfor? Where is my final camping-place? I can't go on as I'm going. If Iwere sure of some time getting a supervisor's job, or even an assistantsupervisor's position, the outlook would not be so hopeless. But to geteven that far means years of work, years of riding." And then, as hethought of his lonely cabin, so unsuited to a woman's life, he said:"No, I must quit the service; that's sure."

  Returning to the hotel, he wrote out his resignation with resolute handand dropped it into the mail-box. "There," he told himself, "now you'rejust naturally obliged to hustle for a new job," and, strange to say, afeeling of elation followed this decisive action.

  Kauffman was afoot and dressing with slow and painful movements asHanscom re-entered, saying, cheerily, "Well, uncle, how do you feel bynow?"

  With a wan smile the old man answered: "Much bruised and very painful,but I am not concerned about myself. I am only afraid for you. I hopeyou will not come to harm by reason of your generous aid to us."

  "Don't you fret about me," responded Hanscom, sturdily. "I'm hard tokill; and don't make the mistake of thinking that the whole country isdown on you, for it isn't. Abe and his gang are not much better thanoutlaws in the eyes of the people down here in the valley, and as soonas the town understands the case the citizens will all be withyou--and--Helen." He hesitated a little before speaking her name, andthe sound of the word gave him a little pang of delight--brought hernearer, someway. "But let's go down to breakfast; you must be hungry."

  The old man did not reply as cheerily as the ranger expected him to do.On the contrary, he answered, sadly: "No, I do not feel like eating, butI will go down with you. Perhaps I shall feel better for it."

  The dining-room was filled with boarders, and all betrayed the keenestinterest in Kauffman. It was evident also that the ranger's punishmentof Kitsong was widely known, for several spoke of it, and Simpsonwarningly said:

  "Abe intends to have your hide. He's going to slap a warrant on you assoon as you're out of Carmody's hands and have you sent down the linefor assault with intent to kill."

  All this talk increased Kauffman's uneasiness, and on the way over tothe jail he again apologized for the trouble they had brought upon him.

  "Don't say a word of last night's row to Helen," warned Hanscom. "Throoppromised to keep it from her, and don't consider Kitsong; he can't touchme till after Carmody is through with me."

  The deputy who let them in said that the sheriff was at breakfast--afact which was made evident by the savory smell of sausages whichpervaded the entire hall, and a moment later, Throop, hearing theirvoices, came to the dining-room door, napkin in hand. "Come in," hecalled. "Come in an have a hot cake."

  "Thank you, we've had our breakfast," Hanscom replied.

  "Oh, well, you can stand a cup of coffee, anyway, and Miss Helen wantsto see you."

  The wish to see Helen brought instant change to the ranger's plan.Putting down his hat, he followed Kauffman into the pleasant sunlitbreakfast-room with a swiftly pounding heart.

  Helen, smiling cheerily, rose to meet her stepfather with a lovely airof concern. "Dear old daddy, how do you feel this morning?"

  "Very well indeed," he bravely falsified.

  She turned to Hanscom with outstretched hand. "Isn't it glorious thismorning!" she exclaimed, rather than asked.

  The sheriff, like the good boomer that he was, interrupted the ranger'sreply. "Oh, we have plenty of mornings like this."

  She protested. "Please don't say that! I want to consider this morningespecially fine. I want it to bring us all good luck."

  Evidently Throop had kept his promise to Hanscom, for Helen said nothingof the battle of the night before, and with sudden flare of confidencethe ranger said:

  "You're right. This is a wonderful morning, and I believe this trial iscoming out right, but just to be prepared for anything that comes, Ithink I'd better get a lawyer to represent you. I don't feel ableproperly to defend your interests."

  "But you must be there," she quickly answered. "You are the one surefriend in all this land."

  His sensitive face flushed with pleasure, for beneath the frankexpression of her friendship he perceived a deeper note than she hadhitherto expressed, and yet he was less sure of her than ever, for inways not easily defined by one as simple as he she had contrived toaccent overnight the alien urban character of her training. She nolonger even remotely suggested the hermit he had once supposed her tobe. A gown of graceful lines, a different way of dressing her hair, hadeffected an almost miraculous change in her appearance. She became frommoment to moment less of the mountaineer and more of the city dweller,and, realizing this, the trailer's admiration was tinged with somethingvery like despair. He was not a dullard; he divined that these outersigns of change implied corresponding mental reversals. Her attitudetoward the mountains, toward life, had altered.

  "She is turning away from my world back to the world from which shecame," was his vaguely defined conclusion.

  Meanwhile the sheriff was saying: "Well, now, Carmody opens court in thetown-hall at ten this morning, and, Hans, you are to be on hand early.I'll bring Miss McLaren up in the car about a quarter to ten and haveher in the doctor's office, which is only a few doors away."

  "How is the Cuneo girl?" asked Hanscom.

  "She seems rested and fairly chipper, but I can see she's going to be abad witness."

  Helen's face clouded. "Poor girl! I feel sorry for her."

  Mrs. Throop was less sympathetic. "She certainly has made a mess of it.I can't make out which of t
hese raiders she ran away with."

  "She's going to defend them both," said Throop; "and she's going to denyeverything. I'd like to work the third degree on her. I'd bet I'd findout what she was doing down at Watson's."

  Helen, who knew the value which her defenders placed on thecorrespondence between Rita's shoes and the footprint, was very grave asshe said: "I hope she had no part in the murder. Mrs. Throop says she ishardly more than a child."

  "Well," warned the sheriff, "we're not the court. It's up to Carmody andhis jury."

  They said no more about the trial, and Hanscom soon left the room withintent to find a lawyer who would be willing for a small fee torepresent the Kauffmans--a quest in which he was unsuccessful.

  The sheriff followed him out. "Reckon I'd better take you up toCarmody's office in my car," he said. "Kitsong may succeed in clapping awarrant on your head."

  VIII

  The valley had wakened early in expectation of an exciting day. The newsof the capture of Busby and his companions had been telephoned fromhouse to house and from ranch to ranch, and the streets were alreadyfilled with farmers and their families, adorned as for a holiday. Theentire population of Shellfish Canyon had assembled, voicing highindignation at the ranger's interference. Led by Abe and Eli, who busilyproclaimed that the arrest of Henry and his companions was merely atrick to divert suspicion from the Kauffman woman, they advanced uponthe coroner.

  Abe had failed of getting a warrant for the ranger, but boasted that hehad the promise of one as soon as the inquest should be ended."Furthermore," he said, "old Louis Cuneo is on his way over the range,and I'll bet something will start the minute he gets in."

  Carmody, who was disposed to make as much of his position as thestatutes permitted, had called the hearing in a public hall which stooda few doors south of his office, and at ten o'clock the aisles were sojammed with expectant auditors that Throop was forced to bring hiswitnesses in at the back door. Nothing like this trial in the way offree entertainment had been offered since the day Jim Nolan was lynchedfrom the railway bridge.

  Hanscom was greatly cheered by the presence of his chief, SupervisorRawlins, who came into the coroner's office about a quarter to ten. Hehad driven over from Cambria in anxious haste, greatly puzzled by therumors which had reached him. He was a keen young Marylander, a collegegraduate, with considerable experience in the mountain West. He likedHanscom and trusted him, and when the main points of the story wereclear in his mind he said:

  "You did perfectly right, Hans, and I'll back you in it. I'm somethingof a dabster at law myself, and I'll see that Kitsong don't railroad youinto jail. What worries me is the general opposition now beingmanifested. With the whole Shellfish Valley on edge, your work will behampered. It will make your position unpleasant for a while at least."

  Hanscom uneasily shifted his glance. "That doesn't matter. I'm going toquit the work, anyhow."

  "Oh no, you're not!"

  "Yes, I am. I wrote out my resignation this morning."

  Rawlins was sadly disturbed. "I hate to have you let this gang drive youout."

  "It isn't that," replied Hanscom, somberly. "The plain truth is, Jack,I've lost interest in the work. If Miss McLaren is cleared--and she willbe--she'll go East, and I don't see myself going back alone into thehills."

  The supervisor studied him in silence for a moment, and his voice wasgravely sympathetic as he said: "I see! This girl has made your cabinseem a long way from town."

  "She's done more than that, Jack. She's waked me up. She's shown me thatI can't afford to ride trail and camp and cook and fight fire any more.I've got to get out into the world and rustle a home that a girl likeher can be happy in. I'm started at last. I want to do something. I'm asambitious as a ward politician!"

  The supervisor smiled. "I get you! I'm sorry to lose you, but I guessyou are right. If you're bent on winning a woman, you're just aboutobliged to jump out and try something else. But don't quit until I havetime to put a man in your place."

  Hanscom promised this, although at the moment he had a misgiving thatthe promise might prove a burden, and together they walked over to thehall.

  The crowded room was very quiet as the ranger and his chief entered andtook seats near the platform on which the coroner and his jury werealready seated. It was evident, even at a glance, that the audience wasvery far from being dominated, or even colored, by the Shellfish crowd,and yet, as none of the spectators, men or women, really knew theKauffmans, they could not be called friendly. They were merely curious.

  Hanscom was somewhat relieved to find that the jury was not preciselythe same as it had been on the hillside. An older and better man hadreplaced Steve Billop, a strong partisan of Kitsong's; but tocounter-balance this a discouraging feature developed in the presence ofWilliam Raines, a dark, oily, whisky-soaked man of sixty, a lawyer whosesmall practice lay among the mountaineers of Watson's type.

  "He's here as Kitsong's attorney," whispered the ranger, who regrettedthat he had not made greater efforts to secure legal aid. However, thepresence of his chief, a man of education and experience, reassured himin some degree.

  Carmody, rejoicing in his legal supremacy, and moved by love of drama,opened proceedings with all the dignity and authority of a judge,explaining in sonorous terms that this was an adjourned session of aninquest upon the death of one Edward Watson, a rancher on theShellfish.

  "New witnesses have been secured and new evidence has developed," hesaid in closing, "and Mr. L. J. Hanscom, the forest ranger, who hasimportant testimony to give, will first take the stand."

  Though greatly embarrassed by the eyes of the vast audience and somewhatintimidated by the judicial tone of Carmody's voice, Hanscom wentforward and told his story almost without interruption, and at the endexplained his own action.

  "Of course, I didn't intend to help anybody side-step justice when Itook the Kauffmans to the station, because I heard the coroner say hehad excused them."

  "What about those raiders?" asked one of the jurors. "Did you recognizethe man who shot Kauffman's horse?"

  Carmody interrupted: "We can't go into that. That has no connection withthe question which we are to settle, which is, Who killed Watson?"

  "Seems to me there is a connection," remarked Rawlins. "If those raiderswere the same people Hanscom arrested in the cabin, wouldn't it provesomething as to their character?"

  "Sure thing!" answered another of the jurors.

  "A man who would shoot a horse like that might shoot a man, 'pears tome," said a third.

  "All right," said Carmody. "Mr. Hanscom, you may answer. Did yourecognize the man who fired that shot?"

  "No, he was too far away; but the horse he rode was a sorrel--the sameanimal which the Cuneo girl rode."

  Raines interrupted: "Will you _swear_ to that?"

  "No, I won't swear to it, but I think--"

  Raines was savage. "Mr. Coroner, we don't want what the witness_thinks_--we want what he _knows_."

  "Tell us what you know," commanded Carmody.

  "I know this," retorted Hanscom. "The man who fired that shot rode asorrel blaze-faced pony and was a crack gunman. To drop a running horseat that distance is pretty tolerable shooting, and it ought to be easyto prove who the gunner was. I've heard say Henry Kitsong--"

  "I object!" shouted Raines, and Carmody sustained the objection.

  "Passing now to your capture of the housebreakers," said he, "tell thejury how you came to arrest the girl."

  "Well, as I entered the cabin the girl Rita was sitting with her feet ona stool, and the size and shape of her shoe soles appeared to me aboutthe size and shape of the tracks made in the flour, and I had juststarted to take one of her shoes in order to compare it with thedrawings I carried in my pocket-book when Busby jumped me. I had to wearhim out before I could go on; but finally I made the comparison andfound that the soles of her shoes fitted the tracks exactly. Then Idecided to bring her down, too."

  A stir of excited interest passed over the hall, but Raines c
hecked itby asking: "Did you compare the shoes with the actual tracks on theporch floor?"

  "No, only with the drawings I had made in my note-book."

  Raines waved his hand contemptuously. "That proves nothing. We don'tknow anything about those drawings."

  "I do," retorted Carmody, "and so does the jury; but we can take thatmatter up later. You can step down, Mr. Hanscom, and we'll hear James B.Durgin."

  Durgin, a bent, gray-bearded old rancher, took the stand and swore thathe had witnessed a hot wrangle between Kauffman and Watson, and that hehad heard the Dutchman say, "I'll get you for this!"

  Hanscom, realizing that Durgin was Kitsong's chief new witness, wasquick to challenge his testimony, and finally forced him to admit thatWatson had also threatened Kauffman, so that the total effect of histestimony was rather more helpful than harmful.

  "Is it not a matter of common report, Mr. Coroner," demanded the ranger,"that Watson has had many such quarrels? I am told that he had at leastone fierce row with Busby--"

  "We'll come to that," interjected Carmody, as Durgin left the chair."Have you Rita's shoes, Mr. Sheriff?" Throop handed up a pair of women'sshoes, and Carmody continued: "You swear these are the shoes worn byMargarita Cuneo when you took charge of her?"

  "I do."

  "Mr. Hanscom, will you examine these shoes and say whether they are theones worn by Rita Cuneo when you arrested her?"

  Hanscom took them. "I think they are the same, but I cannot tellpositively without comparing them with my drawings."

  The jury, deeply impressed by this new and unexpected evidence, minutelyexamined the shoe soles and compared them with the drawings while theaudience waited in tense expectancy.

  "They sure fit," said the spokesman of the jury.

  Raines objected. "Even if they do _seem_ to fit, that is not conclusive.We don't know _when_ the tracks were made. They may have been made afterthe murder or before."

  "Call Rita Cuneo," said Carmody to the sheriff.

  The girl came to the stand, looking so scared, so pale, and so smallthat some of the women, without realizing the importance of hertestimony, clicked their tongues in pity. "Dear, dear! How young sheis!" they exclaimed.

  Carmody, by means of a few rapid questions gently expressed, drew outher name, her age, and some part of her family history, and then, withsudden change of manner, bluntly asked:

  "How did you happen to be in that cabin with those two men?"

  Pitifully at a loss, she finally stammered out an incoherent explanationof how they were just riding by and saw the door standing open, and wentin, not meaning any harm. She denied knowing Watson, but admitted havingmet him on the road several times, and hotly insisted that she had nevervisited his house in her life.

  "Where have you been living since leaving home?"

  "In the hills."

  "Where?"

  "At the sawmill."

  "How long had you been there when you heard of Watson's death?"

  "About two weeks."

  "Were you in camp?"

  "No, we were staying in the old cabin by the creek."

  "You mean Busby and Kitsong and yourself?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, now, which one of these men did you leave home with--Busby orKitsong?"

  Her head drooped, and while she wavered Raines interposed, arguing thatthe question was not pertinent. But Carmody insisted, and soon developedthe fact that she was much more eager to defend Busby than Kitsong. Shedenied that he had ever cursed Watson or threatened to do him harm, butthe coroner forced her to admit that Busby had told her of having hadtrouble with the dead man, and then, thrusting a pair of shoes at her,he sternly asked:

  "Are these your shoes?"

  "No, sir," she firmly declared.

  Her answer surprised Hanscom and dazed the sheriff, who exclaimedbeneath his breath, "The little vixen!"

  Carmody's tone sharpened: "Do you mean to tell me that these are not theshoes you wore in town yesterday?"

  "No, I don't mean that."

  "What _do_ you mean?"

  "I mean they're not my shoes. They belong to that Kauffman girl. I foundthem in that cabin."

  Hanscom sprang to his feet. "She's lying, Your Honor."

  "Sit down!" shouted Raines.

  The entire audience rose like a wave under the influence of the passionin these voices; the sheriff shouted for silence and order, and Carmodyhammered on his desk, commanding everybody to be seated. At last, whenhe could be heard, he rebuked Hanscom.

  "You're out of order," he said, and, turning to Raines, requested him totake his seat.

  Raines shook his fist at the ranger. "You can't address such remarks toa witness. _You_ sit down."

  Hanscom was defiant. "I will subside when you do."

  "Sit _down_, both of you!" roared Carmody.

  They took seats, but eyed each other like animals crouching to spring.

  Carmody lectured them both, and, as he cooled, Hanscom apologized. "I'msorry I spoke," he said; "but the ownership of those shoes has got to beproved. I _know_ they belong to this girl!"

  "We'll come to that; don't you worry," said Carmody, and he turned toRita, who was cowering in the midst of this uproar like a mountainquail. "Who told you to deny the ownership of these shoes?"

  "Nobody."

  "Just reasoned it out yourself, eh?" he asked, with acrid humor. "Well,you're pretty smart."

  The girl, perceiving the importance of her denial, enlarged upon it,telling of her need of new shoes and of finding this dry, warm pair in acloset in the cabin. She described minutely the worn-out places of herown shoes and how she had thrown them into the stove and burned them up,and the audience listened with renewed conviction that "the strangewoman" was the midnight prowler at the Watson cabin, and that Rita andher companions were but mischievous hoodlums having no connection withthe murder.

  Hanscom, filled with distrust of Carmody, demanded that the sheriff becalled to testify on this point, for he had made search of the cabin inthe first instance.

  "We proved at the other session that Miss McLaren was unable to wear theshoes which made the prints."

  "We deny that!" asserted Raines. "That is just the point we are tryingto make. We don't _know_ that this Kauffman woman is unable to wearthose shoes."

  Carmody decided to call young Kitsong, and Throop led Rita away and soonreturned with Henry, who came into the room looking like a trapped fox,bewildered yet alert. He was rumpled and dirty, like one called fromsleep in a corral, but his face appealed to the heart of his mother, whoflung herself toward him with a piteous word of appeal, eager to lethim know that she was present and faithful.

  The sheriff stopped her, and her husband--whose parental love was muchless vital--called upon her not to make a fool of herself.

  The boy gave his name and age, and stated his relationship to the deadman, but declared he had not seen him for months. "I didn't know he wasdead till the ranger told me," he said. He denied that he had had anytrouble with Watson. "He is my uncle," he added.

  "I've known relatives to fight," commented the coroner, with dryintonation, and several in the audience laughed, for it was well knownto them that the witness was at outs not only with his uncle, but withhis father.

  "Now, Henry," said the coroner, severely, "we know this girl, Rita, madea night visit to Watson's cabin. We have absolute proof of it. She didnot go there alone. Who was with her? Did you accompany her on thistrip?"

  "_No_, sir."

  "She never made that trip alone. Some man was with her. If not you, itmust have been Busby."

  A sullen look came into the boy's face. "Well, it wasn't me--I knowthat."

  "Was it Busby?"

  He paused for a long time, debating what the effect of his answer wouldbe. "He may of. I can't say."

  Carmody restated his proof that Rita had been there and said: "One orthe other of you went. Now which was it?"

  The witness writhed like a tortured animal, and at last said, "He did,"and Mrs. Eli s
ighed with relief.

  Carmody drew from him the fact that Watson owed Busby money, and that hehad vainly tried to collect it. He would not say that Rita left campwith Busby, but his keen anxiety to protect her was evident to every onein the room. He admitted that he expected Busby to have trouble withWatson.

  Mrs. Kitsong, who saw with growing anxiety the drift of the coroner'squestioning, called out: "Tell him the truth, Henry; the whole truth!"

  Raines silenced her savagely, and Carmody said: "So Busby had tried tocollect that money before, had he?"

  "Tell him 'yes,' Henry," shouted Eli, who was now quite as eager toshield his son as he had been to convict Helen.

  Carmody warned him to be quiet. "You'll have a chance very soon totestify on this very point," he said, and repeated his question: "Busbyhad had a fight with Watson, hadn't he--a regular knockdown row?"

  Henry, sweating with fear, now confessed that Busby had returned fromWatson's place furious with anger, and this testimony gave an entirelynew direction to the suspicions of the jurors, several of whom knewBusby as a tough customer.

  Dismissing Henry for the moment, Carmody recalled Margarita. "You swearyou never visited Watson's cabin?" he began. "Well, suppose that I wereto tell you that we know you did, would you still deny it?" She lookedat him in scared silence, trying to measure the force of his question,while he went on: "You mounted the front steps and went down the porchto the right, pausing to peer into the window. You kept on to the eastend of the porch, where you dropped to the ground, and continued onaround to the back door. Do you deny that?"

  Amazed by the accuracy of his information and awed by his tone, the girlstruggled for an answer, while the audience waited as at a crisis in apowerful play.

  Then the coroner snapped out, "Well, what were you doing there?"

  She looked at Henry, then at Mrs. Eli. "I went to borrow some blankets,"she confessed, in a voice so low that only a few heard her words.

  "Was Watson at home?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you see him?"

  "Yes."

  "What did he say?"

  At this point she became tearful, and the most that could be drawn fromher was a statement that Watson had refused to loan or sell her anyblankets. She denied that Busby was with her, and insisted that she wasalone till Carmody convinced her that she was only making matters worseby such replies.

  "Your visit was at night," he said. "You would never have walked in thatflour in the daytime, and you wouldn't have gone there alone in thenight. Busby wouldn't have permitted you to go to Watson's alone--heknew Watson too well." The force of this remark was felt by nearly everyperson in the room.

  Hanscom said: "Mr. Coroner, this girl is trying to shield Busby, and Iwant her confronted by him, and I want Eli Kitsong called."

  By this time many admitted that they might have been mistaken inaccusing the Kauffmans of the deed.

  Busby, a powerful young fellow, made a bad impression on the stand. Hisface was both sullen and savage, and the expression of his eyes furtive.He was plainly on guard even before Raines warned him to be careful.

  "My name is Hart Busby," he said, in answer to Carmody. "I'm twenty-sixyears old. I was born in the East. I've been here eight years." Here hestopped, refusing to say where his parents lived or when he first metMargarita. He flatly denied having had any serious trouble with Watson,and declared that he had not seen him for almost a year.

  "What were you doing in the Kauffmans' cabin?" demanded Hanscom. "Youwon't deny my finding you there, will you?"

  He told the same story that Rita had sworn to. "We were riding by andsaw that the place was deserted, and so we went in to look around."

  "When did _you_ first hear of Watson's death?" asked Carmody.

  The witness hesitated. A look of doubt, of evasion, in his eyes. "Why,the ranger told us."

  "Which of you owns that sorrel horse?" asked one of the jury.

  Raines again interposed. "You needn't answer that," he warned. "That'snot before the court."

  Carmody went on. "Now, Busby, you might as well tell us the truth. Henryand Rita both state that Watson had refused to pay you, and that you hada scrap and Watson kicked you off the place. Is that true?"

  Raines rescued him. "You don't have to answer that," he said, and thewitness breathed an almost inaudible sigh of relief.

  A violent altercation arose at this point between the coroner and thelawyer. Carmody insisted on his right to ask any question he saw fit,and Raines retorted that the witness had a right to refuse toincriminate himself.

  "You stick to your bread pills and vials," he said to the coroner, "anddon't assume a knowledge of the law. You become ridiculous when you do."

  "I know my powers," retorted Carmody in high resentment, "and you keep acivil tongue in your head or I'll fine you for contempt. I may not knowall the ins and outs of court procedure, but I'm going to see justicedone, and I'm going to see that you keep your place."

  "You can't steam-roll me," roared Raines.

  The argument became so hot that Throop was forced to interfere, and inthe excitement and confusion of the moment Busby mad a dash for thedoor, and would have escaped had not Hanscom intercepted him. The roomwas instantly in an uproar. Several of Busby's friends leaped to hisaid, and for a few minutes it seemed as if the coroner's court hadresolved itself into an arena for battling bears. Busby foughtdesperately, and might have gained his freedom, after all, had notRawlins taken a hand.

  At last Throop came into action. "Stop that!" he shouted, and fetchedBusby a blow that ended his struggles for the moment. "Let go of him,Hanscom," he said. "I'll attend to him."

  Hanscom and Rawlins fell back, and Throop, placing one huge paw on theoutlaw's shoulder, shoved the muzzle of a revolver against his neck.

  "Now you calm right down, young man, and remember you're in court andnot in a barroom."

  Raines, still unsubdued, shouted out, "You take your gun away from thatman, you big stiff!"

  "_Silence!_" bellowed Carmody. "I'll have you removed if you utteranother word."

  "I refuse to take orders from a pill-pusher like you."

  "Sheriff, seat that man," commanded Carmody, white with wrath.

  Throop, thrusting Busby back into his chair, advanced upon Raines withponderous menace. "Sit down, you old skunk."

  "Don't you touch me!" snarled the lawyer.

  "Out you go," said Throop, with a clutch at the defiant man's throat.

  Raines reached under his coat-tails for a weapon, but Rawlins caught himfrom behind, and Throop, throwing his arms around his shoulders in abearlike hug, carried him to his chair and forced him into it.

  "Now will you be quiet?"

  The whole room was silent now, silent as death, with a dozen men ontheir feet with weapons in their hands, waiting to see if Raines wouldrise.

  Breaking this silence, Carmody, lifted by excitement to unusualeloquence, cried out: "Gentlemen, I call upon you to witness that I amin no way exceeding my authority. The dignity of this court must beupheld." He turned to the jury, who were all on end and warlike. "I callupon you to witness the insult which Mr. Raines has put on this court,and unless he apologizes he will be ejected from the room."

  Raines saw that he had gone too far, and with a wry face andcontemptuous tone of voice muttered an apology which was in spirit aninsult, but Carmody accepted the letter of it with a warning that hewould brook no further displays of temper.

  When the coroner resumed his interrogation of Busby, whose sullen calmhad given place to a look of alarm and desperation, he refused to speakone word in answer to questions, and at last Carmody, ordering him totake a seat in the room, called Mrs. Eli Kitsong to the chair.

  She was a thin, pale little woman with a nervous twitch on one side ofher face, and the excitement through which she had just passed renderedher almost speechless; but she managed to tell the jury that Busby andWatson had fought and that she had warned her son not to run with HartBusby.

  "I knew he'd get hi
m into trouble," she said. "I told Henry not to gowith him; but he went away with him in spite of all I could say."

  "Did you actually _see_ the fight between Busby and Watson?"

  "No, I only heard Ed tell about it."

  "Did he say Busby threatened to kill him?"

  "Yes, he did, but he laughed and said he was not afraid of a fool kidlike him."

  Busby was deeply disturbed. He sat staring at the floor, moistening hislips occasionally with the tip of his tongue as the coroner called oneafter another of his neighbors to testify against him. The feeling thatCarmody was on the right track spread through the audience, but Abeinsisted that the Kauffmans be called to the stand, and to this Hanscomadded:

  "I join in that demand. Call Miss McLaren. I want the ownership of theseshoes settled once and for all."

  In the tone of one making a concession, Carmody said, "Very well. Mr.Sheriff, take Busby out and ask Miss McLaren to step this way."

  As the young ruffian was led out Rita sprang up as if to follow him, butCarmody restrained her. "Stay where you are. I want you to confront MissMcLaren."

  A stir, a sigh of satisfaction, passed over the room, and every eye wasturned toward the door through which Helen must approach. Not one of allthe town-folk and few of the country-folk had ever seen her face orheard her voice. To them she was a woman of mystery, and for the mostpart a woman of dark repute, capable of any enormity. They believed thatshe had been living a hermit life simply and only for the reason thatshe had been driven out of the East by the authorities, and most of thembelieved that the man she was living with was her paramour.

  Every preconception of her was of this savage sort, and so when thesheriff reappeared, ushering in a tall, composed, and handsome youngwoman whose bearing, as well as her features, suggested education andrefinement, the audience stared in dumb amazement.

  Hanscom and Rawlins both rose to their feet, and Carmody, moved by asomewhat similar respect and admiration, followed their example. He wentfurther; he indicated, with a bow, the chair in which she was to sit,while the jurors with open mouths followed her every movement. Theycould not believe that this was the same woman they had examined at theprevious session of the court.

  Hanscom, without considering her costume as designed to produce animpression--he was too loyal for that--exulted in its perfectly obviouseffect on the spectators, and glowed with confidence over the outcome.

  She looked taller, fairer, and younger in her graceful gown, and herbroad hat--which was in sharpest contrast to the sunbonnet which had solong been her disguise--lent a girlish piquancy to her glance. Mrs.Brinkley expressed in one short phrase the change of sentiment whichswept almost instantly over the room. "Why, she's a _lady_!" she gasped.

  Carmody, while not so sure the witness's costume was unpremeditated,nevertheless acknowledged its power. He opened his examination with anapology for thus troubling her a second time, and explained that newwitnesses and new evidence made it necessary.

  She accepted his apology with grave dignity, and in answer to questionsby Raines admitted that Kauffman had told her of his clash with Watsonover some cattle.

  "But he never threatened to shoot Watson. He is not quarrelsome. On thecontrary, he is very gentle and patient, and only resented Watson'sinvasion of our home."

  Upon being shown the shoes which Rita Cuneo had worn she sharplyanswered:

  "No, they are not mine. I could not wear them. They are much too smallfor me."

  This answer, though fully expected by Hanscom and the coroner, sentanother wave of excitement over the audience, and when Carmody said,almost apologetically, "Miss McLaren, will you kindly try on theseshoes?" the women in the room rose from their seats in access ofinterest, and loud cries of "Down in front!" arose from those behindthem.

  Seemingly without embarrassment, yet with heightened color, Helenremoved one of her shoes--a plain low walking-shoe--and handed it toCarmody, who received it with respectful care and handed it to theforeman of the jury, asking him to make comparison of it with thefootprints.

  The jurors, two by two, examined, measured, muttered, while the audiencewaited in growing impatience for their report. Most of the onlookersbelieved this to be a much more important test than it really was, andwhen at last the foreman returned the shoe, saying, "This ain't theshoe that made the tracks," the courtroom buzzed with pleased comment.

  Raines was on his feet. "Mr. Coroner, we demand that the witness try onthat other pair of shoes. We are not convinced that she cannot wearthem."

  Carmody yielded, and the room became very quiet as Helen, withnoticeable effort, wedged her foot into the shoe.

  "I cannot put it on; it is too small," she said to Carmody, and Rita,who sat near, bent a terrified gaze upon her.

  Raines then called out: "She's playing off. Have her stand up."

  Hanscom, furious at this indignity, protested that it was not necessary,but Helen rose and, drawing aside the hem of her skirt, calmly offeredher foot for inspection.

  "I can't possibly walk in it," she said, addressing the jury.

  One by one the jury clumsily knelt and examined her foot, then returnedto their seats, and when the foreman said, "That never was her shoe," apart of the audience applauded his utterance as conclusive.

  "That will do, Miss McLaren," said Carmody; "you may step down." And,turning sharply to where Rita sat with open mouth and dazed glance, hedemanded: "Do you know what the court calls your testimony? It'sperjury! That's what it is! Do you know what we can do to you? We canshut you up in jail. These shoes are yours. Are you ready to say sonow?"

  She shrank from him, and her eyes fell.

  Raines intervened. "You are intimidating the witness," he protested.

  Carmody repeated his question, "_Are these your shoes?_"

  "Yes, sir," she faintly answered; a sigh of relief, a ripple ofapplause, again interrupted the coroner.

  Hanscom rose. "Mr. Coroner, in view of this testimony, I move MissMcLaren be excused from further attendance on this court."

  The unmistakable rush of sympathy toward Helen moved Carmody todramatize the moment. "Miss McLaren," he said, with judicial poise, "Iam convinced that you are not a material witness in this case. You aredismissed."

  The hearty handclapping of a majority of the auditors followed, andHelen was deeply touched. Her voice was musical with feeling as shesaid:

  "Thank you, sir. I am very grateful. Is my father also excused?"

  "Unless the jury wishes to question him."

  The jurors conferred, and finally the spokesman said, "I don't thinkwe'll need him."

  "Very well, then, you are both free."

  Mrs. Brinkley, a round-faced, fresh-complexioned little woman, who hadbeen sitting near the front seat, made a rush for Helen, eager tocongratulate her and invite her to dinner. Others, both men and women,followed, and for a time all business was suspended. It was evident thatHelen had in very truth been on trial for murder, and that the coroner'sdismissal was in effect her acquittal. Hanscom, on the edge of thethrong, waited impatiently for an opportunity to present Rawlins. Rainesand Kitsong excitedly argued.

  Meanwhile the jury and the coroner were in conference, and at lastCarmody called for the finding: "We believe that the late Edward Watsoncame to his death at the hands of one Hart Busby, with Henry Kitsong andMargarita Cuneo knowing to it, and we move that they be held to thegrand jury for trial at the next term of court," drawled the foreman andsat down.

  No one applauded now, but a murmur of satisfaction passed over the room.Eli and Abe sprang up in excited clamor, and Raines made violent protestagainst the injustice of the verdict.

  "It's all irregular!" he shouted.

  Carmody remained firm. "This finding will stand," he said. "The court isadjourned."

  Raines immediately made his way to Hanscom and laid a hand on hisshoulder. "In that case," he said, "I'll take you into camp. Mr.Sheriff, I have a warrant for this man's arrest."

  Hanscom was not entirely surprised, but he rese
nted their haste tohumiliate him before the crowd--and before Helen. "Don't do that now,"he protested. "Wait an hour or two. Wait till I can get Miss McLaren andher father out of the country. I give you my word I'll not run away."

  Carmody, seeing Raines with his hand on the ranger's arm, understoodwhat it meant and hurried over to urge a decent delay. "Let him put thegirl on the train," he said.

  "I'll give him two hours," said Raines, "and not a minute more."

  Hanscom glanced at Helen and was glad of the fact that, being surroundedby her women sympathizers, she had seen and heard nothing of the enemy'snew attack upon him.

  IX

  Helen and the ranger left the room together, and no sooner were theyfree from the crowd than she turned to him with a smile which expressedaffection as well as gratitude.

  "How much we owe to you and Dr. Carmody, and what a sorry interruptionwe've caused in your work."

  He protested that the interruption had been entirely a pleasure, butshe, while knowing nothing of his impending arrest, was fully aware thathe had undergone actual hardship for her sake, and her plan for hurryingaway seemed at the moment most ungracious. Yet this, after all, wasprecisely what she now decided to do.

  "Is there time for us to catch that eastbound express?" she asked.

  Her words chilled his heart with a quick sense of impending loss, but helooked at his watch. "Yes, if it should happen to be late, as itgenerally is." Then, forgetting his parole, in a voice which expressedmore of his pain than he knew, he said: "I hate to see you go. Can't youwait another day?"

  His pleading touched a vibrant spot in her, but she was resolved. "Ihave an almost insane desire to get away," she hurriedly explained. "Iam afraid of this country. Its people scare me!" A quick change in hervoice indicated a new thought. "I hope the Kitsongs will not continue inpursuit of you."

  "They won't have a chance to do that," he replied, gloomily. "I'mleaving, too. I have resigned."

  "Oh no! You mustn't do that."

  "I turned in my papers this morning." He suddenly recalled his parole."I shall soon be free--I hope--to go anywhere and do anything--and I'dlike to keep in touch with you--if you'll let me."

  She evaded him. "I shall be very sorry if we are the cause of yourleaving the service."

  "Well, you are--but not in the way you mean. You have made mediscontented with myself, that's all, and I'm going to get out of thetall timber and see if I can't do something in the big world. I want towin your respect."

  "I respect you now. Your work as a forester seems to me very fine andhonorable."

  "The work is all right, but I'm leaving it, just the same. I can't see afuture in it. Fact is, I begin to long for a home; that lunch in yourcabin started me on a new line of thought."

  The memory of his visit to her garden in the valley seemed now like achapter in the story of a far-off community, and she could hardly relateherself to the hermit girl who served the tea, but the forester--whomshe recognized as a lover--was becoming every moment nearer, moreinsistent. A time of reckoning was at hand, and because she could notmeet it she was eager to escape--to avoid the giving of pain. His faceand voice had become dear--and might grow dearer. Therefore she made nocomment on his statement of a desire for a home, and he asked:

  "Don't you feel like going back to your garden once more?"

  "No," she answered, sharply, "I never want to see the place again. It isrepulsive to me."

  Again a little silence intervened. "I hate to think of your posiesperishing for lack of care," he said, with gentle sadness. "If I can,I'll ride over once in a while and see that they get some water."

  His words exerted a magical power. She began to weaken in resolution. Itwas not an easy thing to sever the connection which had been sostrangely established between herself and this good friend, who seemedeach moment to be less the simple mountaineer she had once believed himto be. Western he was, forthright and rough hewn, but he had shownhimself a man in every emergency--a candid, strong man. Her throatfilled with emotion, but she walked beside him in silence.

  He had another care on his mind. "You'd better let me round up yourhousehold goods," he suggested.

  "Oh no. Let them go; they're not worth the effort."

  He insisted. "I don't like to think of any one else having them. It mademe hot just to see that girl playing your guitar. I'll have 'em allbrought down and stored somewhere. You may want 'em some time."

  She was rather glad to find they had reached the door of Carmody'soffice and that further confidences were impossible, for she wasdiscovering herself to be each moment deeper in his debt andcorrespondingly less able to withstand his wistful, shy demand.

  Mrs. Carmody, a short, fat, excited person, met them in the hall with acackle of alarm. "I'm awfully glad you've come," she exclaimed. "Yourfather has been taken with a cramp or something."

  Helen paled with apprehension of disaster, for she knew that her fatherhad been keenly suffering all the morning. "Here I am, daddy," shecheerily called, as she entered the room. "It's all right. The inquestis over and we are free to go."

  Kauffman, who was lying on a couch in a corner of the office, turned hisface and bravely smiled. "I'm glad," he weakly replied. "I was afraidthey would call me to the stand again."

  Kneeling at his side, she studied his face with anxious care. "Are youworse, daddy? Has your pain increased?"

  "Yes, Nellie, it is worse. I fear I am to be very ill."

  She took his hand in hers, a pang of remorseful pity wrenching herheart. "Don't say that, daddy," she gently chided. "Keep your goodcourage." She looked up at the ranger, who stood near with troubledbrow. "Mr. Hanscom, will you please find Dr. Carmody and tell him myfather needs him?"

  With a quick word of assurance he hurried away, and the girl, bending tothe care of her stepfather, suffered from a full realization of the factthat he had been brought to this condition by the strength of hisdevotion to her. "For my sake he exiled himself, for me he has beenassaulted, wounded, arrested"--and, looking down upon him in the lightof her recovered sense of values, she became very humble.

  "Dear old daddy," she wailed, "it's all my fault. What can I do to makeamends? You've sacrificed so much for me."

  Sick as he was, the old man did his best to comfort her, but she wasstill sitting on the floor, with head bowed in troubled thought, whenHanscom and Carmody hurried in. Her relief, made manifest by the instantmovement with which she gave way to him, was almost childlike.

  "Oh, Doctor, I'm glad to see you!" she cried out. "I was afraid yourlegal duties might keep you."

  "Luckily my legal duties are over," he replied, quickly, "and I'm gladof it. I hope I never'll have another such case."

  A brief examination convinced him that the sick man should be put tobed, and he suggested the Palace Hotel, which stood but a few doorsaway.

  "He can't travel to-day," he added, knowing that Helen had planned totake the train.

  Kauffman insisted on going. "I can walk," he said, firmly. "I feel alittle dizzy, but I'll be all right in the coach."

  Hanscom was at his side, supporting him. "You'd better wait a day," hesaid, gently; and Helen understood and sided with him.

  Together they helped the sick man to the door and into the doctor's car,and in a few minutes Kauffman was stretched upon a good bed in apleasant room. With a deep sigh of relief he laid his head upon the softpillow.

  "I am glad not to entrain to-day," he said. "To-morrow will be betterfor us all."

  "Never mind about to-morrow," said Hanscom. "You rest as easy as youcan."

  Helen followed Carmody into the hall. "Tell me the truth," she demanded."Is he injured internally?"

  "It's hard to say what his injuries are," he cautiously replied. "He'sbadly bruised and feverish, but it may be nothing serious. However, hecan't travel for a few days, that's certain."

  She was not entirely reassured by his reply, and her voice was bitterlyaccusing as she said: "If he should die, I would never forgive myself.He came here on my accou
nt."

  "There's no immediate danger. He seems strong and will probably throwthis fever off in a few hours, but he must be kept quiet and cheerful."

  There was a rebuke in his final words, and she accepted it as such."I'll do the best I can, Doctor," she replied, and returned to her duty.

  Hanscom, divining some part of the passion of self-accusation into whichthe girl had been thrown, eagerly asked, "Is there something more I cando?"

  "If you will have our bags brought, I shall be grateful. We may not beable to leave for several days."

  "I'll attend to them at once, but"--he looked aside as if afraid ofrevealing something--"I may be called away during the afternoon onbusiness, and if I am, don't think I'm neglecting you."

  "How long will you be gone?"

  "I can't tell--for a day or two, perhaps."

  The thought of his going gave her a sharp pang of prospectiveloneliness. "I know you must return to your work," she said, slowly,"but I shall feel very helpless without you," and the voicing of herdependence upon him added definiteness and power to her regret.

  He hastened to say: "I won't go if I can possibly help it, be sure ofthat; but something has come up which may make it necessary for meto--to take a trip. I'll return as soon as I can. I'll hurry away nowand bring your baggage; that much I can surely do," and he went out,leaving her greatly troubled by something unexplained in the manner ofhis going.

  Stopping at Carmody's, Hanscom again thanked him for his kindness andwarned him not to say one word to Helen about his fight with Abe norabout the warrant that was hanging over him.

  "She has enough to worry about as it is," he said; "and if they get me,as they will, I want you to look after her and let me know how she getson."

  Carmody did not attempt to minimize the seriousness of the opposition."Abe can make a whole lot of trouble for you, in one way and another,and even if you shake him off, you're in for a settlement with oldCuneo, who will reach here to-night. As near as I can discover, he's oneof those pop-eyed foreigners who'd just as soon use a knife as not, andAbe will do his best to spur him into jumping you."

  "Well, looks like he'll have hard work reaching me, for, unlesssomebody goes my bail, I'm likely to be safe in the 'cooler' when hegets here."

  Carmody had been decidedly friendly all through this troublesome week,and here was a good place for him to say, "I'll go your bail, Hans," buthe didn't--he couldn't. He was poor and not very secure in his position,so he let Hanscom go out, and took up his own work with a feeling thathe was playing a poor part in a rough game.

  The news of Kauffman's illness reached kindly Mrs. Brinkley and movedher to call upon Helen, to offer her services, and in the midst of herpolite condolences she said: "Mr. Hanscom's arrest must have infuriatedyou. It did me."

  Helen turned a startled glance upon her visitor. "I didn't know he wasarrested."

  "Didn't you? Well, he is," said Mrs. Brinkley.

  "Why; that can't be true! He was here less than an hour ago."

  "He's just been arrested for assaulting Kitsong."

  Helen, still unable to believe in this calamity, stammered: "But I don'tunderstand. When did he--When was Kitsong--assaulted?"

  "Last night," replied her visitor, with relish, "and you were the causeof it--in a way."

  "I?"

  "So the story goes. It seems Abe got nasty about you, and Mr. Hanscomresented it. They had a fight and Abe was hurt. Unless somebody bailshim out the poor ranger will have to go to jail."

  The memory of the ranger's last look completed Helen's understanding ofthe situation, and she listened abstractedly while her visitor rattledon:

  "Of course, the judge can't do anything, much as he likes Mr. Hanscom,and I really don't see who is to go on his bond. He hasn't any relativeshere."

  At this point Helen raised her head and interrupted her guest'scommiserating comment. "Yes, you can do something for me. I wish youwould ask Mr. Willing, the vice-president of the First National Bank, tocome over here. I want to consult him on a most important businessmatter, and I cannot leave my father. Will you do this?"

  "Certainly, with pleasure. I was hoping to be of use," said Mrs.Brinkley, and she went away greatly wondering what this strange youngwoman could possibly want of Mr. Willing.

  Helen, with eyes fixed on her father's still form, went over every lookand word the ranger had uttered and understood at last that the "littletrip" he feared was a sentence to the county jail. She was still inprofound thought when Mr. Willing was announced. He was a neat, smallman, whose position in the bank was largely social. Being a friend ofMrs. Brinkley, and keenly interested in the reports of Helen's romanticappearance in the courtroom, he came to her door in smiling andelaborate courtliness.

  Helen coldly checked his gallant advances. "Mr. Willing," she said, withbusiness-like brevity, "I have an account with the Walnut Hills TrustCompany, of Cincinnati, and I want a part of that money transferred, bytelegraph, to my credit in your bank. Can it be done?"

  "It is possible--yes."

  "I need these funds at once. I must have them. Will you please wire Mr.Paul Lyford, president of the company, and have five thousand dollarstransferred to my credit in your bank?"

  Mr. Willing was cautious. He took the name and address. "I will see whatcan be done," he said, non-committally. "Is there anything else I cando?"

  "Yes, I have just heard that Mr. Hanscom has been arrested. If this istrue I want him bailed out as soon as possible. I don't know how thesethings are done, but I want to go on his bond. He should have a lawyeralso. He has fallen into this trouble entirely on my account, and Icannot permit him to suffer. He must be defended."

  "I'll do what I can," responded Willing, "but, of course, the matter ofrelease, on bail, lies with the judge."

  "What judge?"

  "Probably Judge Brinkley."

  "I am glad of that. Mr. Hanscom knows Judge Brinkley. As soon as youhear from Mr. Lyford let me know, please."

  Meanwhile Hanscom had been stopped while bringing the valises to thehotel and was now in Throop's care. Each hour seemed to involve theranger deeper, ever deeper, in his slough of troubles, for it wasreported that Cuneo had 'phoned in from the Cambria power-dam saying hewould reach the town in two hours, and one who had talked with him saidthe receiver burned his ear, so hot was the sheepman's wrath.

  Helen, greatly troubled, in an agony of impatience awaited Willing'sreturn, and the housekeeper of the hotel, who came to offer her advice,did not help to tranquillity.

  "It's a good thing the ranger's locked up," she said, "for old Cuneo,father of the girl, is in town and on the ranger's trail with blood inhis eye."

  Of course the eager gossip did not know that the ranger and thishandsome girl were something more than acquaintances, hence she feltfree to enlarge upon and embroider each scrap of rumor, after thefashion of her kind, and Helen had great difficulty in concealing herincreasing anxiety and self-accusation.

  "Don't say any of these things in my father's hearing," she sharplyurged. "He must be kept free from excitement."

  It was a singular, a most revealing experience for Helen to find thather deepening care for her stepfather and a grave sense ofresponsibility toward Hanscom were bringing out decision anddetermination in her own character. She increased in vigor andperception. "They shall not persecute this man because he is poor andalone," she declared, recalling with keen sense of pity his frankstatement that all his property consisted of a couple of ponies, asaddle, and a typewriter.

  She could not leave her father till a nurse came, and, as there was notelephone in her room, she could only wait--wait and think, and in thisthinking she gave large space to the forester. Her apathy, herbitterness were both gone. She was no longer the recluse. The mood whichhad made her a hermit now seemed both futile and morbid--and yet she wasnot ready to return to her friends and relatives in the East. That lifeshe had also put away. "What if I were to make a new home--somewhere inthe West?" she said, and in this speculation the worshipful face
of theranger came clear before her eyes.

  She was restless and aching with inaction when a hall-boy announced thereturn of Mr. Willing, and, stepping into the hall, she discovered anentirely different Mr. Willing. He was no longer gallant; he was quietlyrespectful. With congratulatory word he handed to her two telegrams,one addressed to her, the other to the bank. One was from the presidentof the Walnut Hills Trust Company. It read: "Place five thousand dollarsto Miss McLaren's credit. See that she wants for nothing. Report if sheneeds help. Her family is greatly alarmed. Any information concerningher will be deeply appreciated. Ask her to report at once."

  The other was to Helen from Mr. Lyford, whom she had known for manyyears. As she read her face flushed and her eyes misted; then a glowingtide of power, a sense of security, swept over her.

  "After all, I am alive and young and rightful owner of this money," shesaid to herself. "I will claim it and use it for some good purpose, andat this moment, what better purpose than to see that a brave, good manshall not lie in prison?" And, thanking the banker for his aid, sheadded: "If Mr. Rawlins, the supervisor, is still in town, I wish youwould find him and ask him to come to me; tell him I want to see himimmediately."

  Willing took occasion, as he went through the hotel office down-stairs,to call the proprietor aside and say: "Anything Miss McLaren wants you'dbetter supply. She's able to pay."

  The landlord, who had shared the general suspicion abroad in thecommunity, stared. "Are you sure of that? I was just wondering aboutthese folks. They have the reputation of being as poor as Job's off ox."

  "You needn't worry. The girl has a balance in our bank of severalthousand dollars."

  "You don't tell me!" exclaimed the landlord.

  Willing went on, smoothly: "Better give her the parlor and put anextension 'phone in for her use. She needs a trained nurse, but I'llattend to that if you'll see to the 'phone."

  In theory, we all despise money; in fact, we find it of wondrouspotency. Behold this hotelkeeper mentally taking his feet from his deskand removing his hat when he learned that one of these hermits hadunlimited credit at the bank. Mr. Willing's cashier was also deeplyimpressed and puzzled.

  "What did such a girl mean by living away up there with that Shellfishgang of rustlers and counterfeiters? What's the idea?" he asked,irritably. "She certainly has acted like a fly-by-night up to thistime."

  "Well, she's established herself now. Her connections are first class,"Willing rejoined. "Here's another telegram from Louisville asking fullinformation concerning Miss McLaren and Arnold Kauffman. They don't stopat expense. Evidently they have all been in the dark about the girl'swhereabouts and want the facts. Some story to put into a telegram, butI'll do my best."

  "Don't scare 'em," cautioned Knight. "Say she's all right and surroundedby friends."

  Willing took his turn at smiling. "Didn't look that way this morning,did it? But she's all right now--except that she's terribly wrought upover Hanscom's predicament."

  "Well, no wonder. As near as I can figger, he's stood by her like abrother-in-law, and the least she can do is to stick around and help himout."

  Conditions between Helen and the ranger were now precisely reversed. Itwas she who was eagerly trying to save him from the prison cell. She wasalarmed, also, by the prediction made by the housekeeper that if theranger were released on bail he would only be out of the frying-pan intothe fire, for old Cuneo would surely meet him and demand satisfaction.

  "Perhaps if I were to see Cuneo," she thought, "I could persuade himthat Mr. Hanscom had no wish to involve Margarita--that her arrest wasonly, in a way, incidental to Busby's capture."

  She said nothing of this resolution, but sent a note to Throop,requesting him to let Rawlins know that she was ready to bail Hanscom."It will be a great injustice if he is held on my account."

  Throop replied in person, for he liked Helen and was eager to do Hanscoma favor. "Yes," he said, "Hans is in jail, but not in a cell, and Ithink Rawlins will succeed in reaching the judge and so get out the writthis afternoon."

  "Is there not some way for me to help? How much bail is needed?"

  "Well, all depends on the judge. The charge the Kitsongs bring is prettyserious. They call it assault with a deadly weapon, and I'll have totestify that Hans was armed when I came into the scrap--and yet Simpsonsays he left the hotel without his gun--Simpson declares Hanscom said:'I'm safer without it. I might fly mad and hurt somebody with it!' As Isay, I didn't see the beginning of the battle, but when I broke into it,'peared to me more like a dozen armed men were attacking Hans. They hadhim jammed up against the wall. He was fighting mad--I must admit that,and later he had a gun. Where he got it, I don't know. However, thatshouldn't count against him, for he was only defending himself as anycitizen has a right to do."

  "Surely the judge will take that into account?"

  "He will; but you see the witnesses are mostly all Abe's friends. Andthen Hans did begin it--he admits he jolted Abe. However, the case willcome up before Brinkley, and he's friendly. He'll do all he can."

  "Could I see him--I mean the judge?"

  "Better not. Judges are fairly testy about being 'seen.' It would lookbad--especially after it got noised around that you had money to spendon the case."

  "Anyhow, Mr. Rawlins must let me relieve him of the financial part ofthe burden. It may not be easy for him to sign such a bond."

  "It isn't easy--now, that's the truth," admitted Throop. "You see, he'sonly a young fellow on a salary, and it means a whole lot to a man juststarting a home. He might have to pledge his entire outfit."

  "Don't let him do that--he mustn't do that! Tell him that I will assumeall the hazard."

  Throop extended a big paw in a gesture of admiration and his throatneeded clearing before he spoke. "You're all _right_!" he said. "Hans isin big luck to have you on his side."

  She submitted to his grip with a fine glow in her face. "I _must_ be onhis side, for he has been on my side all along. He was the one soul inall this land that I could trust."

  Throop's statement concerning Rawlins was right. To put up athousand-dollar bond was a serious matter. It meant pledging his wholefortune, and the case was made the more serious by reason of theprobable disapproval of the district office, and yet he liked Hanscomtoo well not to do all he could for him. Hanscom, who realized quiteclearly his former chief's predicament, urged him not to sign.

  "The office won't like it, Jack--especially as I have quit the work."

  They were in the midst of a heated discussion of this point (in Throop'soffice) when the sheriff returned from his interview with Helen. Heentered wearing a broad smile.

  "I've got something for you, Mr. Supervisor. I've got you a date withthe handsomest girl in the county."

  Rawlins remained calm. "There's only one girl in the world for me, andshe's in Cambria, getting supper for me. However, I'm interested. Who isthe lady?"

  Throop dropped his humorous mask. "Miss McLaren wants to see you. She'sfairly anxious about Hans--wants to go on his bond with you, or insteadof you."

  Hanscom gazed at the sheriff in silence, but Rawlins exclaimed: "Blessthe girl! That's fine of her, but does she realize what going on thisbond means?"

  "She does, and she's willing to back Hans with two thousand dollars ifnecessary."

  Rawlins, frankly astonished, asked: "Two thousand dollars! Has she gotit?"

  "She has, and a good deal more. Willing of the First National has beenin touch with her people back East, and apparently there's no end towhat they're ready to do for her. Somebody, a brother or cousin, hascome to her rescue like a savings-bank. Hans, you do beat the devil forluck. I was ready to congratulate you before--now I am just plumb,low-down envious."

  So far from filling the forester with joy, this news threw him into darkdespair. If Helen turned out to be rich his case was even more hopelessthan he had imagined it to be. It was sweet to be so defended, sorescued, but it was also disheartening. With wealth added to the gracewhich he adored in her, she was
lifted far beyond his reach.

  "Don't let her go on the bond," he said at last; "it's splendid of her,but if she does that she will be kept here, and I know she is crazy toget away, and we must not let her any deeper into this muss of mine."

  Rawlins rose. "Well, I'll go see her, anyway. I'm for letting her helpout if she's able and feels like it."

  Throop followed him out and down the walk. "That girl's getting terriblyinterested in Hans--and she has a right to be. No man could have put inbetter work for a woman than he did for her. She says it's all herfault--and so it is, in a way." He chuckled. "Rather dashes him to findout she's a moneyed person, don't it? But what's the odds? He needn'tcomplain, if she don't."

  Helen's deepening interest in the forester expressed itself in thepleasure she took in discussing with Rawlins the means of setting himfree.

  "All you have to do," the supervisor explained, "is to appear before thejudge, deposit a certified check, and sign the paper which the lawdemands."

  "Let us go at once," she said. "My father is sleeping now and thehousekeeper will sit with him. I can slip away for an hour."

  "The sooner the quicker," agreed Rawlins.

  While she was gone on a cautious inspection of the sick-room amessenger-boy came to the door with a telegram. "Gee! but the company isdoing business to-day!" he remarked to Rawlins, with a grin. "Here'sanother fat one."

  Rawlins gently pushed him into the hall. "That'll do for you, son," hesaid. "Fat or thin, you deliver your goods and keep still."

  The message was indeed a "fat one," and came, Helen said, from a sisterin Chicago, and expressed great anxiety to know exactly what conditionswere. "Do you need me?" the writer demanded. "If you do, I will start atonce. Let us hear from you. We are all very anxious."

  Though visibly affected by this appeal, Helen's reply was brief. "Noneed of you. I am well and returning East soon. Have all I need."

  This she handed in to the operator herself as she and Rawlins were onthe way to Judge Brinkley's office; and then with the thought ofpossibly getting away in a day or two she asked of Rawlins: "When willMr. Hanscom's trial come off?"

  "Not for several weeks, I fear, unless we can do something to have itput forward. You see, they've all conspired to make it a case for theCounty Court, but the judge may be able to throw it back into theJustice Court, where it really belongs. At the worst, Hans should onlybe fined, but, of course, we can't say a word. We can only wait till thehearing."

  A few hours ago she would have been fiercely impatient at this prospectof delay, but now, most strangely, she found herself accepting, withoutprotest, a further stay in the town, for it came as a part of herpledged service in the aid of an unselfish young man, and she wasdefinitely, distinctly moved at the thought of helping him.

  "By the way, Mr. Rawlins, I notice you call Mr. Hanscom Hans. Is thathis Christian name?"

  "Oh no, that's only his nickname. He signs his reports L. J. Hanscom. Ithink his real name is Lawrence. I don't know why everybody calls him'Hans'--probably because he is so friendly and helpful. Everybody likeshim except that Shellfish Valley crowd, and they feel, I suppose, that Iput him down here to keep tab on them, which is the fact. They're a nestof bad ones--a lot of hold-overs from the past--and would have frozenhim out long ago if they could."

  Knowing the ranger's first name seemed to bring him still nearer, andshe began to feel a little uneasy about the way in which he might takeher share in his liberation. "Suppose he should misread it!"

  On the street corner near the judge's office they encountered a dozenmen, grouped around a small, dark, middle-aged citizen with very blackhair, a long mustache, and a fumed-oak complexion, who seemed to bemonologuing for the enlightenment of the crowd. He looked like aMexican, or some exile from the south of Europe, and as Helen andRawlins paused for a moment they heard him say in a voice of patheticsoftness: "I blame nobody but heem, Hart Busby. He steal my girl away. Ihave no fight with any one else."

  This was the dreaded Cuneo, the father of Margarita, whose comingpromised death to the ranger! The imaginary savage with ready knife, theinfuriated giant with blazing eyes, gave place to the actuality of thisgentle, stricken; melancholy little sheepherder, who had no insanedesire to avenge himself on any one, much less on Hanscom. Helen'sresolution to meet and placate the dreaded Basque gave place to pity anda sense of relief.

  Rawlins viewed the matter humorously and laughed softly. "Hans needn'tworry about that little mongrel."

  "He has suffered--he is suffering now," Helen replied. "I wish he mighthave his girl and take her home."

  Judge Brinkley's chambers consisted of two large rooms stacked withlaw-books to the ceiling, and in the outer one a couple of rough-lookingmen and a discouraged-looking little woman were sitting, waiting for aninterview. Ordinarily Helen would have passed the woman without a secondthought; now she wondered what her legal troubles might be.

  The judge gave precedence to Helen and the supervisor and invited themto his private office at once. Although he had some inkling of theromantic attachment between the ranger and this fine young woman, hedid not presume upon it in any way, even in his answer to her questions.

  "I hardly think a serious case can be made out against Hanscom," hesaid, "but you will soon know, for a preliminary hearing will be grantedwithin a day or two. Meanwhile," he added, "I am very glad to issue anorder for his liberation on bond."

  Helen thanked him most warmly, and, with the writ of release in hand,Rawlins asked if she would not like to present it to the sheriffhimself. At first she declined, thinking of her own embarrassment, butas she recalled the unhesitating action with which Hanscom had alwaysacted in her affairs, she changed her mind and consented, and with herconsent came a strong desire to let him know that her gratitude had init something personal. Secretly she acknowledged a wish to see hisrugged, serious face light up with the relief which the release wouldbring. His mouth, she remembered, was singularly refined and his smilewinning.

  On the way Rawlins spoke of Hanscom's resignation in terms of sincereregret. "If he will only stay in the service, I am sure he will bepromoted; but I cannot blame him for feeling lonely."

  At the jail door Helen's self-consciousness increased mightily. Herresolution almost failed her.

  "What will he think of me coming to him in this way?" was the questionwhich disturbed her, and she was deeply flushed and her pulse quickenedas Rawlins, quite unconscious of her sudden panic, led the way into thesheriff's office and with eager haste presented her to Throop, whogreeted her with the smile and gesture of an old acquaintance.

  The supervisor lost no time. "We've come on business," he said. "Wewant Hanscom, Mr. Sheriff. This young lady has gone on his bond in mystead, and here is an order for his release, signed by Judge Brinkley."

  Throop was genuinely pleased. "Hah! I'm glad of that," he said, as hetook the paper. After a moment's glance at it he said: "All right, youcan have the body. Go into the parlor and I'll send him in to you."

  Helen obeyed silently, knowing that Rawlins would remain in theoffice--which he did--leaving her to receive the ranger alone.

  He came in with eyes alight with worship. "I'm heartily obliged to you,"he said, boyishly. "I thought I was in for a week or two of cell lifeand reflection."

  She met his gratitude with instant protest. "Please don't thank me; I amonly repaying a little of our debt. Won't you be seated?" she added,acting the part of hostess in her embarrassment. "Of course I don't meanthat. You must be anxious to leave this place."

  "I was, but I'm not so anxious now. How is Mr. Kauffman?"

  "Much easier. He was sleeping when I left."

  "I'm glad of that. He's had a hard week, and so have you, and yet"--hehesitated--"you are looking well in spite of it all."

  "That is the strange part of it," she admitted. "I am stronger andhappier than I have been for two years. I have just heard from my familyin the East."

  His eyes became grave. "Then you will go back to them?"

  "
I think so, but not at once--not till after your trial--it would begrossly ungrateful for me to go now. I shall wait till you are free."

  His fine, clear, serious eyes were steadily fixed upon her face as shesaid this, and she knew that he was extracting from every word and tonetheir full meaning, and it frightened her a little.

  At last he said, in a voice which was tense with emotion, "Then I hope Ishall never be free."

  She hastened to lessen this tension. "The judge has promised to grantyou a hearing soon. Mr. Rawlins thinks it only a case for Justice Court,anyway." She rose. "But let me see Mrs. Throop for a few minutes andthen we will go."

  "Wait a moment," he pleaded, but she would not stay her course--shedared not.

  They found Mrs. Throop in the hall, discussing the interesting situationwith Rawlins, and when Helen extended her hand and began to thank heragain for her kindness, the matron cut her short. "Never mind that now.I want you should all stay to supper."

  Helen expressed regret and explained that it was necessary to return tothe bedside of her father, and so they managed to get away, althoughMrs. Throop followed them to the door, inviting them both to come again.She saw no humor in this, though the men had their joke about it.

  Rawlins discreetly dropped back into the office, and the two youngpeople passed on into the street.

  "You must let me watch with your father to-night," Hanscom said. "I'vebeen a nurse--along with the rest of my experiences."

  "If I need you I shall certainly call upon you, and if you need moneyyou must call upon me."

  There was something warmer than friendship in her voice, but the rangerwas a timid man in any matter involving courtship, and he dared notpresume on anything so vague as the change of a tone or the quality of asmile. Nevertheless he said:

  "I cannot imagine how it happens that you are here in this roughcountry, but I am glad you are. I shall be glad all my life--even if yougo away and forget me."

  "I shall not forget you," she replied, "not for what you've done, butfor what you are." And in this declaration lay a profound significancewhich the man seized and built upon.

  "I am not even a forest ranger now. I am nothing but a dub--andyou--they say are rich--but some day I'm going to be something else. Ihaven't any right--to ask anything of you--not a thing, but I must--Ican't think of you going entirely out of my life. I want you to let mewrite to you. May I do that?"

  Her answer was unexpected. "You once spoke of getting a transfer to aforest near Denver. If you should do that, you might see meoccasionally--for I may make my home in Colorado Springs."

  He stopped and they faced each other. "Does that mean that you _want_ meto stay in the service?"

  Her face was pale, but her eyes were glowing. "Yes."

  His glance penetrated deeper. "And you will wait for me?"

  "As long as you think it necessary," she answered, with a smile whosemeaning did not at once make itself felt, but when it did he reached hishand as one man to another. She took it, smiling up at him in fullunderstanding of the promise she had made.

  "Right here I make a new start," he said.

  "I shall begin a new life also," she replied, and they walked on insilence.

  _AFTERWORD_

  _Have you seen sunsets so beautiful that your heart ached to watch themfade? So my heart aches to see the trails fading from the earth._

  _As I re-enter the mountain forest I am a reactionary. I would restoreevery hill-stream to its former beauty if I could. I would carry forwardevery sign, every symbol, of the border in order that the children ofthe future should not be deprived of any part of their nation's epicwestward march._

  _I here make acknowledgment to the trail and the trail-makers. They havetaught me much. I have lifted the latch-string of the lonely shack, andbroken bread with the red hunter. I know the varied voices of thecoyote, wizard of the mesa. The trail has strung upon it, as upon asilken cord, opalescent dawns and ruby sunsets. My camping-places returnin the music of gold and amber streams. The hunter, the miner, theprospector, have been my companions and my tutors--and what they havegiven me I hold with jealous hand._

  _The high trail leads away to shadow-dappled pools. It enables me toovertake the things vanishing, to enter the deserted cabin, to bend tothe rude fireplace and to blow again upon the embers, gray with ashes,till a flame leaps out and shadows of mournful beauty dance upon thewall._

  _I am glad that I was born early enough to hear the songs of thetrailers and to bask in the light of their fires._

  Signature: Hamlin Garland]

  +----------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Typographical errors corrected in the text: | | | | Page 108 ranche changed to ranch | | Page 109 penon changed to pinyon | | Page 171 to changed to do | | Page 314 worthy changed to worth | | Page 316 misnumbered section V changed to VI | | Page 329 misnumbered section VI changed to VII | | Page 331 jurisdication changed to jurisdiction | | Page 338 misnumbered section VII changed to VIII | | Page 358 misnumbered section VIII changed to IX | | Page 362 Kaufman changed to Kauffman | +----------------------------------------------------+

 

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