Tharon of Lost Valley

by Vingie E. Roe

  Produced by Roger Frank and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  AS EL REY ROSE ON HIS HIND FEET WHIRLING, THAT UNWAVERINGMUZZLE WHIRLED ALSO TO KEEP IN LINE]

  THARON OF LOST VALLEY

  BY VINGIE E. ROE

  Author of "The Maid of the Whispering Hills,""The Heart of Night Wind," etc.

  ILLUSTRATIONS BY FRANK TENNEY JOHNSON

  NEW YORK

  DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY

  1919

  Copyright, 1919

  By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER PAGE I. The Gun Man's Heritage 1 II. The Horses of the Finger Marks 29 III. The Man in Uniform 52 IV. Unbroken Bread 76 V. The Working of the Law 102 VI. El Rey and Bolt 128 VII. The Shot in the Canons 157 VIII. White Ellen 187 IX. Signal Fires in the Valley 214 X. The Untrue Firing Pin 247 XI. Finger Mark and Ironwood at Last 277

  ILLUSTRATIONS

  PAGE

  As El Rey rose on his hind feet whirling, that unwavering muzzle whirled also to keep in line _Frontispiece_

  Near them sat a rider on a buckskin horse 38

  She talked with Conford who rode beside her and now and then she smiled 104

  In fact Courtrey, burning with the new desire that was beginning to obsess him, was working out a new design 131

  THARON OF LOST VALLEY

  CHAPTER I

  THE GUN MAN'S HERITAGE

  Lost Valley lay like a sparkling jewel, fashioned in perfection, castin the breast of the illimitable mountain country--and forever afterforgotten of God.

  A tiny world, arrogantly unconscious of any other, it lived its ownlife, went its own ways, had its own conceptions of law--and they werebased upon primeval instincts.

  Cattle by the thousand head ran on its level ranges, riders joggedalong its trail-less expanses, their broad hats pulled over theireyes, their six-guns at their hips. Corvan, its one town, ran itsnightly games, lined its familiar streets with swinging-dooredsaloons.

  Toward the west the Canon Country loomed behind its sharp-facedcliffs, on the east the rolling ranges, dotted with oak anddigger-pine, went gradually up to the feet of the stupendous peaksthat cut the sapphire skies.

  Lost indeed, it was a paradise, a perfect place of peace but for itshumans. Through it ran the Broken Bend, coming in from the high andjumbled rocklands at the north, going out along the sheer cliffs atthe south.

  Out of its ideal loneliness there were but two known ways, and bothwere worth a man's best effort. Down the river one might drive a bandof cattle, bring in a loaded pack train, single file against the wall.That was a twelve days' trip. Up through the defiles at the west a manon foot might make it out, provided he knew each inch of the SecretWay that scaled False Ridge.

  It was spring, the time of greening ranges and the coming of newcalves. Soft winds dipped and wantoned with Lost Valley, in the CanonCountry shy flowers, waxen, heavy-headed on thin stems, clung to therugged walls.

  All day the sun had shone, mild as a lover, coaxing, promising. Thevery wine of life was a-pulse in the air.

  All day Tharon Last had sung about her work scouring the boards of thekitchen floor until they were soft and white as flax, helping oldAnita with the dinner for the men, seeing about the number of newpalings for the garden. She had swept every inch of the deep adobehouse, had fixed over the arrangement of Indian baskets on the mantel,had filled all the lamps with coal-oil. She was very careful with thelamps, trimming the wicks to smokeless perfection, for oil was scarceand precious in Lost Valley, as were all outside products, since theymust come in at long intervals and in small quantities. And as sheworked she sang, wild, wordless melodies in a natural voice as rich asa harp. That voice of Tharon's was one of the wonders of Lost Valley.Many a rider went by that way on the chance that he might catch itsgolden music adrift on the breeze, her father's men came up at nightto hear its martial stir, its tenderness, for the voice was the girl,and Tharon was an unknown quantity, sometimes all melting sweetness,sometimes fire that flashed and was still.

  So on this day she sang, since she was happy. Why, she did not know.Perhaps it was because of the six new puppies in the milk-house,rolling in awkward fatness against their shepherd mother, whose softeyes beamed up at the girl in beautiful pride. Perhaps it was becauseof the springtime in the air.

  At any rate she worked with all the will and pleasure of youth in acongenial task, and the roses of health bloomed in her cheeks. Thesun itself shone in her tawny hair where the curls made waves andripples, the blue skies of Lost Valley were faithfully reflected inher eyes.

  Her skin was soft-golden, the enchanting skin of some half-blondswhich can never be duplicated by all the arts of earth, and her fullmouth was scarlet as pomegranates.

  Sometimes old Anita who had raised her, would stop and look at her inwonder, so beautiful was she to old and faithful eyes.

  And not alone to Anita was she entirely lovely.

  There was not a full grown man in Lost Valley who would not go many amile to look upon her--with varying desires. Few voiced theirlongings, however, for Jim Last was notorious with his guns and couldprotect his daughter. He had protected her for twenty years, come fullsummer, and he asked no odds of any. His eyes were like Tharon's--blueand changing, with odd little lines that crinkled about them at thecorners, elongating them in appearance. He was a big man, vital andquiet. The girl took her stature from him. Her flashes of fire camefrom her mother, of whom she knew little and of whom Jim Last saidnothing. Once as a child she had asked him, after the manner ofchildren, about this mother of dim memories, and his eyes had hazedwith a look of suffering that scared her, he had struck his palm upona table, and said only:

  "She was an angel straight out of Heaven. Don't ask me again."

  So Tharon had not asked again, though she had wondered much.

  Sometimes old Anita, become garrulous with age, mumbled in thetwilight when the rose and the lavendar lights swept down the easternramparts and across the rolling range lands, and the girl gleanedscattered pictures of a gentle and lovely creature who had come withher father out of a mystic country somewhere "below."

  "Below" meant down the river and beyond, an unnamable region.

  In the big living room there was one relic of this mysterious mother,a tiny melodeon, its rosewood case a trifle marred by unknownhardships, its ivory keys yellow with age. It had two small pedals andtwo slender sticks which fitted therein and pushed the bellows up anddown when one trampled upon them. And to Tharon this little oldinstrument was wealth of the Indies. The low piping of its reedy notesmade an accompaniment of surpassing sweetness when she sat before itand sang her wordless melodies. And just as she found music in herthroat without conscious effort, so she found it in her fingers, deep,resonant chords for her running minors, thin, trickling streams oflightness for her own slow notes.

  The sun had turned to the west in its majestic course and Tharon, thenoon work over, drew up the spindle-legged stool and sat down to playto herself and Anita. The old woman, half Mexic, half Indian, drowsedin a low chair by the eastern window, her toil-hard hands clasped inher
lap, a black _reboso_ over her head, though the day was warm assummer. A kitten frisked in the sunlight at the open door, wild ducks,long domesticated, squalled raucously down the yards, some cattleslept in the huge corrals and the little world of Last's Holding wasat peace. It seemed that only the girl idling over the yellowed keys,was awake.

  For a long and happy hour Tharon sat so, sometimes opening her prettythroat in ambitious flights of sound, again humming lowly--and thatwas enchanting, as if one sang lullabies to flaxen heads onshoulders.

  And it did enchant one--a man who stood for the better part of thathour at the edge of the deep window in the adobe wall and watched thesinger.

  He was a splendid figure of a man, tall, broad, muscular, built forstrength and endurance. His face was unduly lined, even for his age,which was near fifty, but the eyes under the arched black brows werevital as a hawk's. He wore the customary garments of the Lost Valleymen, broad sombrero, flannel shirt, corduroys and cowboy boots,stitched and decorated above their high heels. At his hips hung twoguns, spurs clinked when he stepped unguardedly. He rarely steppedthat way, however.

  When presently the girl at the melodeon ceased and drew the lid overthe keys with reverent fingers, he moved silently back a pace or twoalong the wall. Then he waited. As he had anticipated, she came to thedoor to look upon the budding world, and for another moment he watchedher with a strange expression. Then he swung forward and let the spursrattle. Tharon flashed to face him like a startled animal.

  "Hello, Tharon," he said and smiled. The girl stared at him with quickinsolence.

  "Howdy," she said coldly.

  He came close to the doorway, put one hand on the facing, the other onhis hip and leaned near. She drew back. He reached out suddenly andgripped her wrist in fingers that bit like steel.

  "Pretty," he said, while his dark eyes narrowed.

  Tharon flung her whole young strength against his grip with atwisting wrench and came free. The quick, tremendous effort left hercalm. And she did not retreat a step.

  "Hell," said the man admiringly, "little wildcat!"

  "What you want?" she asked sharply.

  "You," he answered swiftly.

  "Buck Courtrey," she said, "you might own an' run Lost Valley--all butone outfit. You ain't never run Last nor put your dirty hand on th'Holdin'. An' that ain't all. You never will. If you ever touch meagain, I'll tell Dad Jim an' he'll kill you. I'd a-told him beforewhen you met me that day on the range, only I didn't want his honesthands smutted up with such as you. He's had his killin's before--butthey was always in fair-an'-open. You he'd give no quarter--if he knewwhat you ben askin' me."

  The man's eyes narrowed evilly. They became calculating.

  "Tell him," he said.

  "Eh?"

  "Tell him."

  "You want to feed th' buzzards?" the girl asked with an insulting pealof laughter.

  "Not yet--but I'll remember that speech some day."

  "Remember an' be damned," said Tharon. "Now kindly take your dirtycarcass off Last's Holding--back to your wife."

  The fire was flashing a little in her blue eyes as she spoke, and shehalf turned to enter the house.

  As she did so, Courtrey flung out an arm and caught her about theshoulders. He drew her against him with the motion and kissed hersquare on the lips. For a second his narrowed eyes were drunken.

  As he loosed her Tharon gasped like a swimmer sinking.

  She put up a hand and drew it across her mouth, which was pale asashes with sudden rage.

  "Now," she said, "I'll tell him."

  "Do," said Courtrey, and swung away around the wall of the house.

  There were no more artless songs that day at Last's Holding. Anita wasawake and peering with dim eyes when Tharon came in from the doorsill.

  "_Mi querida_," she asked, "what happened?"

  "Nothing," said the girl, "it's time to begin supper. Th' boys'll soonbe comin' in."

  "_Si, si_," said Anita, "I'll ask Jose to cut the fresh beef--it hashung long enough in the cooling house."

  Supper at Last's was a lively affair. At the long tables in theeating room the riders gathered, lean, tanned men, young mostly, allalert, quick-eyed, swift in judgment. Their days were full and earnestenough, running Last's cattle on the Lost Valley ranges. The eveningswere their own, and they made the most of them. The big house was freeto them, and they made it home, smoking, playing cards on the livingroom table under the hanging lamp, mulling over the work of the day,and begging Tharon to sing to them, sometimes with the instrument,sometimes sitting in the deep east window, when the moon shone, andthen they turned out the light and listened in adoring rapture.

  For Last's girl was the rose of the Valley, the one absolutelyunattainable woman, and they worshipped her accordingly.

  Not that she was aloof. Far from it. In her deep heart the whole bunchof boys had a place; singly and collectively. They were her privateproperty, and she would have been inordinately jealous of any one ofthem had he slipped allegiance.

  As the purple and crimson veils began to drape the eastern rampartswhere the forests thickened and swept up the slopes, these ridersbegan to come in across the range, driving the herds before them.Running cattle in Lost Valley was no child's play. Any small bunch ofcows left out at night was not there by dawn. Eternal vigilance wasthe price of safety, and then they were not always safe. Witness poorHarkness, a year ago shot in the back and left to die alone--his bandrun off in daylight.

  They had found him too late, pitifully propped against a stone, thecigarette, he had tried to light to comfort him, dead in his nervelesshand. Tharon had wept and wept for Harkness, for he had been a goodcomrade, open-hearted and merry. And deep in her soul she harboureddim longings for justice on his murderer--revenge, if you will.

  Tonight she thought of him, somehow, as she went about the supper workalong with Anita and Jose and pretty dark Paula. She stood a moment onthe broad stone at the kitchen door, a dish of butter from thespringhouse under the poplars in her hand, and watched Billy Brent andCurly bring in a bunch from up Long Meadow way. She thought how brightthe spotted cattle looked, how lithe and graceful the men, and thenher eyes lighted as they always did when she beheld the horses ofLast's Holding--the horses of the Finger Marks.

  Billy rode Redbuck, Curly Drumfire, and they were princes of a royalblood, albeit Nature's strain alone. Slim, spirited, wiry, eagerheads up, manes flying, bright hoofs flashing in the late sunlight,they came home to Last's after a long day's work, fresh as when theywent out at dawn.

  "Nothin' ever floors them," Tharon said aloud to herself. "Wonderfulcreatures."

  She set the butter down on the rock at her feet, cupped her handsabout her lips and sent out a keen, clear call, two notes, one rising,one falling. It had a livening, compelling quality.

  Instantly Drumfire flung up his head and answered it with a ringingwhistle, though he did not lose a stride in the flying curve he wasperforming to head a stubborn yearling that refused in stiff-tailedarrogance to go into the corrals.

  The girl smiled and, stooping, picked up her dish and entered.

  It was late before the last straggler was in from the range. The boyswashed at the big sink on the porch, and were ready for the heartyfare that steamed in the lamp-lighted room. For the last hour Tharonhad been watching the eastern slopes for her father.

  "He's ridin' late, Anita," she said anxiously as the men trooped inwith the usual jest and laughter.

  "He went far, no doubt, _Corazon,"_ said old Anita comfortably. "Hegoes so fast on El Rey that time as well as distance flies beneath theshining hoofs."

  Anita was like her people, mystic and soft-spoken.

  "True," said the girl gently, "I forget, El Rey is mighty. He wentvery far I make no doubt. We'll hear him comin' soon."

  Then she poured steaming coffee in the cups about the table, smilingdown in the eyes upturned to hers. Billy, Curly, Bent Smith, JackMasters and Conford, the foreman, they all had a love-look for her,and the girl felt it lik
e a circling guerdon. She was grateful for thesense of security that seemed to emanate from her father's riders, abit wistful withal, as if, for the first time in her life, she neededsomething more than she had always had.

  "Which way did Dad go, Billy?" she asked, "north or south?"

  "North," said Billy, "he rode th' Cup Rim range today."

  When the meal, a trifle silent in deference to Tharon's silence, wasdone, the men rose awkwardly. They stood a moment, looking about,undecided.

  Conford picked them up with his eyes and nodded out. He felt that justmaybe the girl would rather be alone. But Tharon stopped thereluctant egress.

  "Don't go, boys," she said, "come on in th' room. There's no moontonight." But she did not play on the melodeon. Instead she sat in thedeep window that looked over the rolling uplands and was quiet,listening.

  "Turn out th' light, Bent," she said, "somehow I feel like shadowstonight."

  So they sat about in the great room, black with the darkness of thesoft spring night, and like the true worshippers they were, they didnot speak. Only the red butts of their cigarettes glowed and faded, toglow again and again fade out. Tharon sat curled in the window, hergraceful limbs drawn up to her chin, her eyes half closed, her keenears open like a forest creature's. She was listening for the markedrhythm of the great El Rey, the clap-clap, clap-clap of the king ofLast's Holding as he singlefooted down the hollow slopes of thelifting eastern range.

  And as she waited she thought of many things. Odd little happenings ofher childhood came back to her--the time she had caught her fatherkilling the winter's beef, had wept in hysterical pity and forbiddenhim to finish.

  They had had no meat those long months following--and she had so tiredof beans, that she had never been able to eat them since. She smiledin the dusk as she recalled Jim Last's life-long indulgence of her.

  And the time she had wanted to make her own knee-short dresses as longas Anita's, to sweep the floors, with fringe upon them and stripes ofbright print.

  She had worn them so--at twelve--until she found that they hinderedthe free use of her young limbs in mounting a horse, free-foot andbareback. Then, once again the memory of her father's face when shequestioned him concerning her mother.

  "Boys," she said suddenly, smiling to herself, "did you ever know aman like my dad?"

  There was a movement among the lounging riders, a shifting ofposition, a striking of cigarette ash.

  "No, sir," said Billy promptly, "there hain't another man's good witha gun as him, not anywhere's in Lost Valley. Not even Buck Courtreyhimself. I'd back Jim Last against him, even, in fair-draw. Why?"

  "Oh, nothin'," said the girl, "only--listen--Glory!" she added slippingdown from the window to stand quietly in the gloom, "that's him now! Iwas wishin' hard he'd come. Say--listen----Why,--there's somethin'gone wrong with El Rey's feet! 1--2----3, 4, 5, 6----1--2--Boys--he'sbreakin'! Th' king ain't singlefootin' right, for th' first timesince Jim Last put a halter on him! Come--come quick!"

  Ordinarily Tharon was a bit slow in her movements, as the verygraceful often are. Now she was across the room to the western doorbefore a man had moved. They joined her there and she stood atattention, one hand at her breast, the breath held still in herthroat. The light, shining through from the eating room beyond, made ahalo of her tawny hair. Silently the riders grouped about her andlistened.

  Sure enough. Down along the range that rang as some open stretches do,there came the clip-clap of a hurrying horse, only now the hoof beatswere regular for a little space, to break, halt, start on, and againring true in the beautiful syncopation of the born singlefooter. Theking was coming home, but, alas! not as he had ever come before, infull flight, proud and powerful. He held his speed and sacrificed hiscertainty to the man who clung desperately to the saddle horn andswayed in wide arcs, so that he must shift continually to keep underhim.

  Into the dim glow of light at the open door came El Rey at last, greatblue-silver stallion, his big eyes shining like phosphorus, hisnostrils wide with horror of the pungent crimson wash that painted hisright shoulder.

  He stopped at the door-stone, his duty done.

  "Dad!" screamed Tharon, shrill as a bugle, for Jim Last, white anddull as a moon in fog, let go his desperate hold on the pommel andslid, deadweight, into the reaching arms that circled him.

  They carried him into the living room. Before they had him safely onthe wide couch where the Indian blankets glowed, Tharon, trembling butefficient, had lighted the hanging lamp above the table.

  Then she pushed the men aside and knelt beside him.

  "Dad," she said clearly, "Jim! Jim Last!"

  But the gaining of his goal had been too much. For a moment theflickering light in him died down to ashes. Tharon, her face as whiteas his own, waited in a man-like quiet. She held his stiffened handsand her eyes burned upon his features. With a deadly knowledge she wasprinting them indelibly upon her heart.

  Presently Jim Last sighed and opened his eyes. They sought hers and hesmiled, a tender lighting from within. He fumbled for the buckle ofhis gun-belt. The girl unclasped it and pulled it free. She noticedthat both guns were in their holsters.

  "Put it on," whispered the master of Last's Holding.

  Without a question Tharon stood up and buckled the belt about herslender waist.

  Her father raising himself with difficulty on an elbow, wet his lips.

  "Tharon, my girl," he said, "show your dad th' backhand flip."

  Strange play, this, when every second counted, but Last's daughterobeyed him to the letter.

  She stepped clear by the table, stood at attention a second, and, witha peculiar outward whirl, lightning-quick, of her two wrists, had himcovered with the big blue guns.

  He nodded.

  "Good as I learned ye," he whispered, "make it better."

  "I will," promised Tharon swiftly.

  The man closed his eyes, swayed, recovered as Conford caught him, andbrightened again.

  "Now th' under-sling."

  Again she obeyed, replacing the weapons, standing that secondat attention, and flipping them from the holsters so quicklythat the eye could scarcely catch the motion. Both draws werepeculiar--and peculiarly Last's own. "Good girl," he said witha husk grown suddenly in his voice, "take--three hours--a day.I want t' leave you th' best gun-handler in Lost Valley--because,my girl--you'll--have--to--to--pro----"

  He ceased, wilting forward in Conford's arms.

  Then he opened his eyes again for one last smile at the daughter hehad loved above all things on earth, save and except the memory of thewoman who had given her to him.

  For once in her life Tharon did not wait his finished speech. She sawthe Hand reach out of the shadows and flung herself upon his breastwhere the blood still seeped and fairly forced the last flutter oflife to brighten in him. She kissed his rugged cheek.

  "Who, Dad," she called into his dulling senses, "tell me who? I'll gethim, so help me God!" and she loosed one hand to cross herself, as oldAnita had taught her.

  But the promise was late. None knew whether or not Jim Last heard it,for before the last word was done the breath had ceased in histhroat.

  Another twilight came down upon Lost Valley. The wide ranges lay dimand mysterious, grey and pink and lavendar, as if the hand of aMaster Painter had coloured them, as indeed it had. The Rockface atthe west was black with shadow for all its rugged miles, the easternuplands were bathed and aglow with purplish crimson light.

  In Corvan lights twinkled all up and down the one main street. Horseswere tied at the hitch-racks and among them were the Ironwoodsfrom Courtrey's Stronghold, beautiful big creatures, blood-bay,black-pointed, noticeable in any bunch. There were no Finger Marks,however, the blue roans, red roans and buckskins with the fourblack stripes on the outside of the knee, as if one had slapped themwith a tarred hand, which hailed from Last's. There were horsesfrom all up and down the Valley. Cow ponies and half-breeds of theIronwood stock which Courtrey would not keep at the Stronghold but wastoo cl
ose to kill, shouldered pintos from the Indian settlements,big, half-wild horses from over the mountains at the North. Insidethe brightly lighted saloons men passed back and forth, drank neatliquor at the worn bars, played at the green felt and canvascovered tables. At one, The Golden Cloud, more pretentious than therest, there foregathered the leading spirits of the Valley. HereCourtrey came and played and drank, his henchmen with him. He was inhigh mettle this night. Always a contained man, slow to laughterand to speech, he seemed to have unbent more than usual, to respondto the human nature about him. He was not playing steadily as washis wont. He took a turn at poker with three men from the south ofthe Valley where the river ran out of the Bottle Neck, won a handor two, threw down the cards and swung away to talk a moment withthis one, listen a moment where those two spoke of hushed matters.Always when he came near he was accorded deference. There wasnothing sacred from Courtrey of the Stronghold, seated like a feudalplace at the north head of Lost Valley, no conversation so privatethat he could not come in on it if he chose.

  For Courtrey was the king of the country, undisputed sovereign, thebest gun man north of the Rio Grand and south of the Line, if oneexcepted Jim Last. With him tonight were Black Bart, tall, swarthy,gimlet-eyed, a helf-breed Mexican, and Wylackie Bob his right-handman. Without these two he seldom moved. They were both ablelieutenants, experts with firearms. A formidable trio, the three wentwhere and when they listed, and few disputed their right-of-way.

  Courtrey, a smile in his dark eyes, the wide black hat at an angle onhis iron-grey hair, leaned against the high bar and scanned thecrowded room where the riders played and laughed and swore withabandon.

  "Heard anything more about Canon Jim?" he asked Bullard, theproprietor of The Golden Cloud, "ain't come in yet?"

  Bullard shook his head.

  "No--nor he won't, according to my notion. Think he mistook th' FalseRidge drop. Ain't no man could make it up again without th' hammerspike an' rope."

  "H'm--don't know. Don't know," mused Courtrey. "I've always thought itcould be done. There ought to be a way on th' other side, seemslike."

  "Well, _ought_ an' _is_ is two diff'rent things, Buck," grinnedBullard.

  "Sure," nodded the king, "sure. An' yet--"

  "Hello, Buck."

  A soft hand touched Courtrey's shoulder with a subtle caress. Hewheeled on the instant, ready, alert. Then he smiled and reaching up,took the hand and held it openly.

  "Hello, Lola," he said, "how goes it?"

  The newcomer was a woman, full, rounded, dark, and she was past-masterof men--as witness the slow glance that she turned interestedly outover the teeming room, even while the pulse in the wrist in Courtrey'sclasp leaped like a racer. She was a perfect specimen of a certaintype, beautiful after a resplendent fashion, full of eye and lip,confident, calm. She was brilliantly clad in crimson and black, andrings of value shone on her ivory-like hands.

  Lola of the Golden Cloud was known all over Lost Valley. Men who hadno women worshipped her--and some who had, also. At the Stronghold atthe Valley's head there was a woman who hated her, though she hadnever set eyes on her--Courtrey's wife.

  If Lola knew this she had never mentioned it, wise creature that shewas. Proud of her beauty and her power she had reigned at The GoldenCloud in supreme indifference, even to her men themselves, it seemed,though hidden undercurrents ran strong in her. Which way they tendedmany a reckless buck of Lost Valley would have given much to know,among them Courtrey himself.

  Now she pulled her hand away from him and sauntered over to a tablewhere five men sat playing, laid it upon the shoulder of one of them,leaned down and looked at the cards in his hand.

  The man, a tall stripling in a silver-studded belt, looked up,flattered.

  Courtrey by the bar watched her, still smiling. Then he turned backto Bullard and went on with his conversation.

  Over by the wall a man on a raised dais began to tune an ancientfiddle.

  Two more women came in from somewhere at the back, a big blooming girlby the name of Sadie, and a small red-head, tragically faded, withsoft brown eyes that should never have looked upon Bullard's. Two menrose and took them as the tune, an old-fashioned waltz, began toripple under the fingers of the fiddler, who was a born musician, andthe four swung down between the tables and the bar. The Golden Cloudwas in full swing, running free for the night, though the softtwilight was scarcely faded from the beautiful country without.

  Slip--step, slip--step--went the dancing feet to the accompaniment ofrattling spurs. These men were lithe and active, able to dance withamazing grace in chaps and the full accoutrement of the rider. Theyeven wore their broad brimmed hats.

  Why should they not, since none objected?

  Bullard, solid, stocky, red-faced, leaned on his bar and watched thebusy room with pleased eyes.

  He did not hear a voice which called his name, once or twice, amongthe jumble of sounds. Presently an odd figure came round the end ofthe bar from a door that opened there into the mysterious backregions of the place and elbowed in to face him.

  This was a little old man, weazened and bent, his unkempt head thrustforward from hunched shoulders. He dragged two grain sacks behind him,and he was so grotesquely bow-legged that the first sight of himalways provoked laughter. This was old Pete the snow-packer, bound onhis nightly trip to the hills. Outside his burros waited, theirpack-saddles empty.

  By dawn they would come down from the world's rim, the grain sacksbulging with hard-packed snow for the cooling of Bullard's liquor.

  "Dick," he said when he faced his employer, "here 'tis time t' startan' there ain't a damned bit o' grub put up fer me! Ef ye don't makethat pig-tailed Chink pay 'tention t' my wants, I quit! I quit, I tellye!"

  And he emphasized his vehement protest by whirling the bags over hishead and flailing them upon the floor.

  A roar of laughter greeted him, which brought dim tears of indignationto his old eyes.

  "Ye don't care a damn!" he whimpered in impotent rage. "Jes' 'causeit's me. Ef 'twas yer ol' Chink, now--if 'twas him, th' ol'he-pigtail, ye'd----"

  "Hold on, Pete," said Bullard, slapping an indulgent hand on thegrotesque shoulder, "You go tell Wan Lee that if he don't put up th'best lunch in camp for you, an' _muy pronto_ at that, I'll come in an'skin him alive. Tell him----"

  But Bullard was never to finish that sentence.

  There was a sound of running horses stopping square at the rackwithout, the rattle of chains, the creak of saddles.

  Booted feet struck the boards of the porch, and almost upon theinstant the great iron door of The Golden Cloud swung inward.

  The dancers stopped in their stride, the players laid down theircards, the noise of the room ceased with the suddenness thatcharacterized the time and place, for Lost Valley was quick upon thetrigger, tragedy often swept in upon hilarity.

  In the opening stood Tharon Last, her blue eyes black and sparkling,her tawny skin cream white, her lips tight-set and pale. She wore aplain dark dress that buttoned up the front, and at her hips therehung her father's famous guns. Her two hands rested on their butts.

  Behind her head against the starlight there was the dim suggestion ofmassed sombreros.

  For a moment she stood so in breathless silence, scanning the room.

  Then her glance came to rest on the face of Buck Courtrey.

  "Men," she said clearly, "we buried Jim Last today. El Rey brought himhome last night--finished. You all know he was a gun man--th' best inthese parts. It was no gun man that killed him, in fair-an'-open, forhe was shot in th' back. It was a skunk, a coyote, a son-of-th'-devil,an' I'm goin' to kill him."

  At the last word there was a lightning movement at the bar asCourtrey's hand flashed at his hip, a flash of fire, a shot that wenthigh and lodged in the deep beam above the door, for the weazened formof the snow-packer had leaped up against him in the same instant.

  The girl had not moved. Her hands still rested on the guns in theirholsters. Now a grim smile curled her mouth, but her eyes did not
laugh.

  "I'm a-goin' t' kill him," she said quietly, still in that clearvoice, "but I'll do it accordin' to th' law Jim Last laid down to meall my life--in certainty. I know--but I'll prove. We hain't noassassins, Jim Last an' me. Some day I'll draw--an' my father's killermust beat me to it."

  Without another word Tharon backed out on the porch, the door swung toat the pull of an unseen hand on the iron strap by the hinge.

  There was again the rattle and creak, the whirl of hoofs, and in thebreathless stillness that lasted for a few seconds, there came to thestrained ears in the Golden Cloud the clip-clap of a singlefooter asthe great El Rey led out of town.

  Then Buck Courtrey, flushed and unsmiling, sent his coldly narrowedeyes over the crowded room, man by man. Laughter came, a triflecracked and forced, cards slapped on the tables, chairs creaked as theplayers drew up again, the dancers swung into step as the fiddle tookup its interrupted strain.

  Only Lola, over by the door, looked for a pregnant moment atCourtrey's face, and shut her lips in a hard, straight line.

  Then, lastly, the cold eyes of the king came down to rest upon theweazened figure of the snow-packer busily engaged in rolling up hissacks for departure. If the strange old creature knew and felt theirpromise, he gave no sign as he trundled himself outdoors on his bandylegs.

  "Skunks," said Old Pete, as he fumbled with his straps about thepatient burros, "are plumb pizen t' pure flesh."