CHAPTER XIV

CONCERNING THE BOONE-BELLAMY-YARNELL FEUD

The story that Ferne Yarnell told them in the parlor of the hotel had its

beginnings far back in the days before the great war. They had been

neighbors, these three families, had settled side by side in this new land

of Arkansas, had hunted and feasted together in amity. In an hour had

arisen the rift between them that was to widen to a chasm into which much

blood had since been spilt. It began with a quarrel between hotheaded

young men. Forty years later it was still running its blind wasteful

course.

Even before the war the Boones had begun to go down hill rapidly. Cad

Boone, dissipated and unprincipled, had found even the lax discipline of

the Confederate army too rigid and had joined the guerrillas, that band of

hangers-on which respected neither flag and developed a cruelty that was

appalling. Falling into the hands of Captain Ransom Yarnell, he had been

tried by drumhead courtmartial and executed within twenty four hours of

his capture.

The boast of the Boones was that they never forgot an injury. They might

wait many years for the chance, but in the end they paid their debts.

Twenty years after the war Sugden Boone shot down Colonel Yarnell as he

was hitching his horse in front of the courthouse at Nemo. Next Christmas

eve a brother of the murdered man--Captain Tom, as his old troopers still

called him--met old Sugden in the postoffice and a revolver duel followed.

From it Captain Tom emerged with a bullet in his arm. Sugden was carried

out of the store feet first to a house of mourning.

The Boones took their time. Another decade passed. Old Richard Bellamy,

father of the young man, was shot through the uncurtained window of his

living rooms while reading the paper one night. Though related to the

Yarnells, he had never taken any part in the feud beyond that of

expressing his opinion freely. The general opinion was that he had been

killed by Dunc Boone, but there was no conclusive evidence to back it.

Three weeks later another one of the same faction met his fate. Captain

Tom was ambushed while riding from his plantation to town and left dead on

the road. Dunc Boone had been seen lurking near the spot, and immediately

after the killing he was met by two hunters as he was slipping through the

underbrush for the swamps. There was no direct evidence against the young

man, but Captain Tom had been the most popular man in the county. Reckless

though he was, Duncan Boone had been forced to leave the country by the

intensity of the popular feeling against him.

Again the feud had slumbered. It was understood that the Yarnells and the

Bellamys were ready to drop it. Only one of the opposite faction remained

on the ground, a twin brother of Duncan. Shep Boone was a drunken

ne'er-do-well, but since he now stood alone nothing more than empty

threats was expected of him. He spent his time idly with a set of gambling

loafers, but he lacked the quality of active malice so pronounced in

Dunc.

A small part of the old plantation, heavily mortgaged, still belonged to

Shep and was rented by him to a tenant, Jess Munro. He announced one day

that he was going to collect the rent due him. Having been drinking

heavily, he was in an abusive frame of mind. As it chanced he met young

Hal Yarnell, just going into the office of his kinsman Dick Bellamy, with

whom he was about to arrange the details of a hunting trip they were

starting upon. Shep emptied his spleen on the boy, harking back to the old

feud and threatening vengeance at their next meeting. The boy was white

with rage, but he shut his teeth and passed upstairs without saying a

word.

The body of Shep Boone was found next day by Munro among the blackberry

bushes at the fence corner of his own place. No less than four witnesses

had seen young Yarnell pass that way with a rifle in his hand about the

same time that Shep was riding out from town. They had heard a shot, but

had thought little of it. Munro had been hoeing cotton in the field and

had seen the lad as he passed. Later he had heard excited voices, and

presently a shot. Other circumstantial evidence wound a net around the

boy. He was arrested. Before the coroner held an inquest a new development

startled the community. Dick Bellamy fled on a night train, leaving a note

to the coroner exonerating Hal. In it he practically admitted the crime,

pleading self defence.

This was the story that Ferne Yarnell told in the parlor of the Palace

Hotel to Jack Flatray and the Lees.

Melissy spoke first. "Did Mr. Bellamy kill the man to keep your brother

from being killed?"

"I don't know. It must have been that. It's all so horrible."

The deputy's eyes gleamed. "Think of it another way, Miss Yarnell. Bellamy

was up against it. Your brother is only a boy. He took his place. A friend

couldn't have done more for another."

The color beat into the face of the Arkansas girl as she looked at him.

"No. He sacrificed his career for him. He did a thing he must have hated

to do."

"He's sure some man," Flatray pronounced.

A young man, slight, quick of step, and erect as a willow sapling, walked

into the room. He looked from one to another with clear level eyes. Miss

Ferne introduced him as her brother.

A thought crossed the mind of the deputy. Perhaps this boy had killed his

enemy after all and Bellamy had shouldered the blame for him. If the mine

owner were in love with Ferne Yarnell this was a hypothesis more than

possible. In either case he acquitted the slayer of blame. In his pocket

was a letter from the sheriff at Nemo, Arkansas, stating that his county

was well rid of Shep Boone and that the universal opinion was that neither

Bellamy nor young Yarnell had been to blame for the outcome of the

difficulty. Unless there came to him an active demand for the return of

Bellamy he intended to let sleeping dogs lie.

No such demand came. Within a month the mystery was cleared. The renter

Munro delivered himself to the sheriff at Nemo, admitting that he had

killed Shep Boone in self defence. The dead man had been drinking and was

exceedingly quarrelsome. He had abused his tenant and at last drawn on

him. Whereupon Munro had shot him down. At first afraid of what might

happen to him, he had stood aside and let the blame be shouldered upon

young Yarnell. But later his conscience had forced him to a confession. It

is enough here to say that he was later tried and acquitted, thus closing

the chapter of the wastrel's tragic death.

The day after the news of Munro's confession reached Arizona Richard

Bellamy called upon Flatray to invite him to his wedding. As soon as his

name was clear he had asked Ferne Yarnell to marry him.

PART II

DEAD MAN'S CACHE

CHAPTER I

KIDNAPPED

As a lake ripples beneath a summer breeze, so Mesa was stirred from its

usual languor by the visit of Simon West. For the little Arizona town was

dreaming dreams. Its imagination had been aroused; and it saw itself no

longer a sleepy cow camp in the unfeatured desert, but a metropolis, in

touch with twentieth-century life.

The great Simon West, pirate of finance, empire builder, molder of the

destinies of the mighty Southwestern Pacific system, was to touch the

adobe village with his transforming wand and make of it a hive of

industry. Rumors flew thick and fast.

Mesa was to be the junction for the new spur that would run to the big

Lincoln dam. The town would be a division point; the machine shops of the

system would be located there. Its future, if still a trifle vague, was

potentially immense. Thus, with cheerful optimism, did local opinion

interpret the visit of the great man.

Whatever Simon West may have thought of Mesa and its prospects, he kept

behind his thin, close-shut lips. He was a dry, gray little man of

fifty-five, with sharp, twinkling eyes that saw everything and told

nothing. Certainly he wore none of the visible signs of greatness, yet at

his nod Wall Street trembled. He had done more to change the map of

industrial America than any other man, alive or dead. Wherefore, big

Beauchamp Lee, mayor of Mesa, and the citizens on the reception committee

did their very best to impress him with the future of the country, as they

motored out to the dam.

"Most promising spot on earth. Beats California a city block on oranges

and citrons. Ever see an Arizona peach, Mr. West? It skins the world," the

big cattleman ran on easily.

The financier's eye took in the girl sitting beside the chauffeur in the

front seat, and he nodded assent.

Melissy Lee bloomed. She was vivid as a wild poppy on the hillsides past

which they went flashing. But she had, too, a daintiness, a delicacy of

coloring and contour, that suggested the fruit named by her father.

"You bet we raise the best here," that simple gentleman bragged

patriotically. "All we need is water, and the Lincoln dam assures us of

plenty. Yes, sir! It certainly promises to be an Eden."

West unlocked his lips long enough to say: "Any country can promise. I'm

looking for one that will perform."

"You're seeing it right now, seh," the mayor assured him, and launched

into fluent statistics.

West heard, saw the thing stripped of its enthusiasm, and made no comment

either for or against. He had plenty of imagination, or he could never

have accomplished the things he had done. However, before any proposition

appealed to him he had to see money in the deal. Whether he saw it in this

particular instance, nobody knew; and only one person had the courage to

ask him point-blank what his intentions were. This was Melissy.

Luncheon was served in the pleasant filtered sunlight, almost under the

shadow of the great dam.

On the way out Melissy had sat as demure and dovelike as it was possible

for her to be. But now she showed herself to be another creature.

Two or three young men hovered about her; notable among them was a young

fellow of not many words, good-humored, strong, with a look of power about

him which the railroad king appreciated. Jack Flatray they called him. He

was the newly-elected sheriff of the county.

The great man watched the girl without appearing to do so. He was rather

at a loss to account for the exotic, flamelike beauty into which she had

suddenly sparkled; but he was inclined to attribute it to the arrival of

Flatray.

Melissy sat on a flat rock beside West, swinging her foot occasionally

with the sheer active joy of life, the while she munched sandwiches and

pickles. The young men bantered her and each other, and she flashed back

retorts which gave them alternately deep delight at the discomfiture of

some other. Toward the close of luncheon, she turned her tilted chin from

Flatray, as punishment for some audacity of his, and beamed upon the

railroad magnate.

"It's very good of you to notice me at last," he said, with his dry

smile.

"I was afraid of you," she confided cheerfully.

"Am I so awesome?"

"It's your reputation, you know. You're quite a dragon. I'm told you

gobble a new railroad every morning for breakfast."

"'Lissie," her father warned.

"Let her alone," the great man laughed. "Miss Lee is going to give me the

privilege of hearing the truth about myself."

"But I'm asking. I don't know what the truth is," she protested.

"Well, what you think is the truth."

"It doesn't matter what we think about you. The important thing to know is

what you think about us."

"Am I to tell you what I think of you--with all these young men here?" he

countered.

She was excited by her own impudence. The pink had spilled over her creamy

cheeks. She flashed a look of pretended disdain at her young men.

Nevertheless, she made laughing protest.

"It's not me, but Mesa, that counts," she answered ungrammatically. "Tell

me that you're going to help us set orchards blossoming in these deserts,

and we'll all love you."

"You offer an inducement, Miss Lee. Come--let us walk up to the Point and

see this wonderful country of yours."

She clapped her hands. "Oh, let's! I'm tired of boys, anyhow. They know

nothing but nonsense." She made a laughing moue at Flatray, and turned to

join the railroad builder.

The young sheriff arose and trailed to his pony. "My marching orders, I

reckon."

They walked up the hill together, the great man and the untutored girl. He

still carried himself with the lightness of the spare, wiry man who has

never felt his age. As for her, she moved as one on springs, her slender,

willowy figure beautiful in motion.

"You're loyal to Mesa. Born and brought up there?" West asked Melissy.

"No. I was brought up on the Bar Double G ranch. Father sold it not long

since. We're interested in the Monte Cristo mine, and it has done so well

that we moved to town," she explained.

At the first bend in the mountain road Jack had turned in his saddle to

look at her as she climbed the steep. A quarter of a mile farther up there

was another curve, which swept the trail within sight of the summit. Here

Flatray pulled up and got out his field glasses. Leisurely the man and the

maid came into sight from the timber on the shoulder of the hill, and

topped the last ascent. Jack could discern Melissy gesturing here and

there as she explained the lay of the land.

Something else caught and held his glasses. Four riders had emerged from a

little gulch of dense aspens which ran up the Point toward the summit. One

of these had with him a led horse.

"Now, I wonder what that means?" the sheriff mused aloud.

He was not left long in doubt. The four men rode swiftly, straight toward

the man and the girl above. One of them swung from the saddle and stepped

forward. He spoke to West, who appeared to make urgent protest. The

dismounted rider answered. Melissy began to run. Very faintly there came

to Flatray her startled cry. Simultaneously he caught the flash of the sun

on bright steel. The leader of the four had drawn a revolver and was

covering West with it. Instantly the girl stopped running. Plainly the

life of the railroad president had been threatened unless she stopped.

The man behind the weapon swept a gesture in the direction of the led

horse. Reluctantly West moved toward it, still protesting. He swung to the

saddle, and four of the horses broke into a canter. Only the man with the

drawn revolver remained on the ground with Melissy. He scabbarded his gun,

took a step or two toward her, and made explanations. The girl stamped her

foot, and half turned from him.

He laughed, stepped still closer to her, and spoke again. Melissy, with

tilted chin, seemed to be unaware that he existed. Another step brought

him to her side. Once more he spoke. No stone wall could have given him

less recognition. Then Jack let out a sudden fierce imprecation, and gave

his pony the spur. For the man had bent forward swiftly, had kissed the

girl on the lips once--twice--three times, had swept his hat off in a low,

mocking bow, and had flung himself on his horse, and galloped off.

Pebbles and shale went flying from the horse's hoofs as the sheriff tore

down the trail toward Melissy. He cut off at an angle and dashed through

cactus and over rain-washed gullies at breakneck speed, pounding up the

stiff slope to the summit. He dragged his pony to a halt, and leaped off

at the same instant.

Melissy came to him with flashing eyes. "Why didn't you get here sooner?"

she panted, as if she had been running; for the blind rage was strong in

her.

His anger burst out to meet hers. "I wish I had!" he cried, with a furious

oath.

"He insulted me. He laughed at me, and taunted me--and kissed me!"

Jack nodded. "I saw. If I had only had my rifle with me! Who was he?"

"He wore a mask. But I knew him. It was Dunc Boone."

"With the Roaring Fork gang?"

"I don't know. Is he one of them?"

"I've been thinking so for years."

"They must have known about our picnic. But what do they want with Mr.

West?"

"He's one of the world's richest men."

"But he doesn't carry his money with him."

"He carries his life."

"They must mean to hold him for a ransom. Is that it?"

"You've guessed it. That's the play." Jack considered, his eyes on the

far-away hills. When he spoke again it was with sharp decision. "Hit the

trail back to town with your motor. Don't lose a minute on the way. Send a

dispatch to Bucky O'Connor. You'd ought to get him at Douglas. If not,

some of his rangers will know where to reach him. Keep the wires hot till

you're in touch with him. Better sign my name. I've been writing him about

this outfit. This job is cut out for Bucky, and we've got to get him on

it."

"And what are _you_ going to do?"

"I can't do much--I'm not armed. First time I've been caught that way

since I've been sheriff. Came out to-day for a picnic and left my gun at

home. But if they're the Roaring Fork outfit, they'll pass through the

Elkhorn canyon, heading for Dead Man's Cache. I'm going to cut around Old

Baldy and try to beat them to it. Maybe I can recognize some of them."

"But if they see you?"

"I ain't aiming to let them see me."

"Still, they may."

His quiet eyes met hers steadily. "Yes, they may."

They were friends again, though he had never fully forgiven her doubt of

him. It might be on the cards that some day she would be more to him than

a friend. Understanding perfectly the danger of what he proposed, she yet

made no protest. The man who would storm her heart must be one who would

go the limit, for her standards were those of the outdoor West. She, too,

was "game" to the core; and she had never liked him better than she did at

this moment. A man must be a man, and take his fighting chance.

"All right, Jack."

Not for years before had she called him by his first name. His heart

leaped, but he did not let even his look tell what he was feeling.

"I reckon I'll cut right down from here, Melissy. Better not lose any time

getting to town. So-long!" And with that he had swung to the saddle and

was off.

Melissy ran swiftly down to the picnic party and cried out her news. It

fell upon them like a bolt out of a June sky. Some exclaimed and wondered

and deplored; but she was proud to see that her father took instant

command, without an unnecessary word.

"They've caught us in swimming, boys! We've got to burn the wind back to

town for our guns. Dick, you ride around by the Powder Horn and gather up

the boys on the ranch. Get Swain to swing around to the south and comb the

lower gulches of the Roaring Fork. Tell him to get in touch with me soon

as he can. I'll come through by Elkhorn."

Lee helped his daughter into the machine, and took his place beside her.

"Hit the high spots, Jim. I've got an engagement in the hills that won't

wait, prior to which I've got to get back to town immediate," he told the

chauffeur cheerfully; for he was beginning to enjoy himself as in the old

days, when he had been the hard-riding sheriff of a border county which

took the premium for bad men.

The motor car leaped forward, fell into its pace, and began to hum its

song of the road as it ate up swiftly the miles that lay between the dam

and Mesa.

CHAPTER II

A CAPTURE

Flatray swung around Old Baldy through the sparse timber that edged its

roots. He knew this country well; for he had run cattle here, and combed

the draws and ridges on the annual spring and fall round-ups.

There was no trail to follow. Often the lay of the land forced him to a

detour; for it was rough with washes, with matted cactus, and with a thick

growth of netted mesquite and underbrush. But true as the needle of a

compass, he turned back always to the direction he was following. He had

the instinct for direction, sharpened almost to infallibility by the

experience his work had given him.

So, hour after hour, he swung forward, pushing his horse over the ground

in a sort of running walk, common to the plains. Sunset found him climbing

from the foothills into the mountains beyond. Starlight came upon him in a

saddle between the peaks, still plodding up by winding paths to the higher

altitudes that make the ridge of the continent's backbone.

The moon was up long before he struck a gulch spur that led to Elkhorn

canyon. Whether he would be in time or not--assuming that he had guessed

aright as to the destination of the outlaws--he could not tell. It would

be, at best, a near thing. For, though he had come more directly, they had

followed a trail which made the going much faster. Fast as the cow pony

could pick its way along the rock-strewn gulch, he descended, eye and ear

alert to detect the presence of another human being in this waste of

boulders, of moonlit, flickering shadows, of dark awesome peaks.

His quick ear caught the faintest of sounds. He slipped from the saddle

and stole swiftly forward to the point where the gulch joined the main

canyon. Voices drifted to him--the sound of careless laughter, wafted by

the light night wind. He had missed the outlaws by scarce a hundred yards.

There was nothing for it but to follow cautiously. As he was turning to go

back for his horse the moon emerged from behind a cloud and flooded the

canyon with a cold, silvery light. It showed Jack a man and a horse

standing scarce twenty yards from him. The man had his back to him. He had

dismounted, and was tightening the cinches of his saddle.

Flatray experienced a pang of disappointment. He was unarmed. His second

thought sent him flying noiselessly back to his horse. Deftly he unloosed

the rope which always hung coiled below the saddle horn. On tiptoe he ran

back to the gulch mouth, bearing to the right, so as to come directly

opposite the man he wanted. As he ran he arranged the lariat to his

satisfaction, freeing the loop and making sure that the coil was not

bound. Very cautiously he crept forward, taking advantage for cover of a

boulder which rose from the bed of the gulch.

The man had finished tightening the girth. His foot rose to the stirrup.

He swung up from the ground, and his right leg swept across the flank of

the pony. It did not reach the stirrup; for, even as he rose, Jack's

lariat snaked forward and dropped over his head to his breast. It

tightened sharply and dragged him back, pinioning his arms to his side.

Before he could shake one of them free to reach the revolver in his chaps,

he was lying on his back, with Flatray astride of him. The cattleman's

left hand closed tightly upon his windpipe, while the right searched for

and found the weapon in the holster of the prostrate man.

Not until the steel rim of it pressed against the teeth of the man beneath

him did Jack's fingers loosen. "Make a sound, and you're a dead man."

The other choked and gurgled. He was not yet able to cry out, even had he

any intention of so doing. But defiant eyes glared into those of the man

who had unhorsed and captured him.

"Where are your pals bound for?" Flatray demanded.

He got no answer in words, but sullen eyes flung out an obstinate refusal

to give away his associates.

"I reckon you're one of the Roaring Fork outfit," Jack suggested.

"You know so darn much I'll leave you to guess the rest," growled the

prisoner.

"The first thing I'll guess is that, if anything happens to Simon West,

you'll hang for it, my friend."

"You'll have to prove some things first."

Flatray's hand slid into the man's coat pocket, and drew forth a piece of

black cloth that had been used as a mask.

"Here's exhibit A, to begin with."

The man on the ground suddenly gave an upward heave, grasped at the

weapon, and let out a yell for help that echoed back from the cliff, while

the cattleman let the butt of the revolver crash heavily down upon his

face. The heavy gun came down three times before the struggling outlaw

would subside, and then not before blood streamed from ugly gashes into

his eyes.

"I've had enough, damn you!" the fellow muttered sullenly. "What do you

want with me?"

"You'll go along with me. Let out another sound, and I'll bump you off.

Get a move on you."

Jack got to his feet and dragged up his prisoner. The man was a heavy-set,

bowlegged fellow of about forty, hard-faced, and shifty-eyed--a frontier

miscreant, unless every line of the tough, leathery countenance told a

falsehood. But he had made his experiment and failed. He knew what manner

of man his captor was, and he had no mind for another lesson from him. He

slouched to his horse, under propulsion of the revolver, and led the

animal into the gulch.

Both mounted, Jack keeping the captive covered every moment of the time;

and they began to retrace the way by which the young cattleman had just

come.

After they had ridden about a quarter of a mile Flatray made a

readjustment of the rope. He let the loop lie loosely about the neck of

the outlaw, the other end of it being tied to the horn of his own saddle.

Also, he tied the hands of the man in such a way that, though they were

free to handle the bridle rein, he could not raise them from the saddle as

high as his neck.

"If you make any sudden moves, you'll be committing suicide. If you yell

out, it will amount to about the same thing. It's up to you to be good,

looks like."

The man cursed softly. He knew that the least attempt to escape or to

attract the attention of his confederates would mean his undoing.

Something about this young man's cold eye and iron jaw told him that he

would not hesitate to shoot, if necessary.

Voices came to them from the canyon. Flatray guessed that a reconnaissance

of the gulch would be made, and prepared himself for it by deflecting his

course from the bed of the _arroyo_ at a point where the walls fell back

to form a little valley. A little grove of aspens covered densely the

shoulder of a hillock some fifty yards back, and here he took his stand.

He dismounted, and made his prisoner do the same.

"Sit down," he ordered crisply.

"What for?"

"To keep me from blowing the top of your head off," answered Jack

quietly.

Without further discussion, the man sat down. His captor stood behind him,

one hand on the shoulder of his prisoner, his eyes watching the point of

the gulch at which the enemy would appear.

Two mounted men showed presently in silhouette. Almost opposite the grove

they drew up.

"Mighty queer what has become of Hank," one of them said. "But I don't

reckon there's any use looking any farther. You don't figure he's aiming

to throw us down--do you, Buck?"

"Nope. He'll stick, Hank will. But it sure looks darned strange. Here's

him a-ridin' along with us, and suddenly he's missin'. We hear a yell, and

go back to look for him. Nothin' doin'. You don't allow the devil could

have come for him sudden--do you, Jeff?"

It was said with a laugh, defiantly, but none the less Jack read

uneasiness in the manner of the man. It seemed to him that both were eager

to turn back. Giant boulders, carved to grotesque and ghostly shapes by a

million years' wind and water, reared themselves aloft and threw shadows

in the moonlight. The wind, caught in the gulch, rose and fell in

unearthly, sibilant sounds. If ever fiends from below walk the earth, this

time and place was a fitting one for them. Jack curved a hand around his

mouth, and emitted a strange, mournful, low cry, which might have been the

scream of a lost soul.

Jeff clutched at the arm of his companion. "Did you hear that, Buck?"

"What--what do you reckon it was, Jeff?"

Again Jack let his cry curdle the night.

The outlaws took counsel of their terror. They were hardy, desperate men,

afraid of nothing mortal under the sun. But the dormant superstition in

them rose to their throats. Fearfully they wheeled and gave their horses

the spur. Flatray could hear them crashing through the brush.

He listened while the rapid hoofbeats died away, until even the echoes

fell silent. "We'll be moving," he announced to his prisoner.

For a couple of hours they followed substantially the same way that Jack

had taken, descending gradually toward the foothills and the plains. The

stars went out, and the moon slid behind banked clouds, so that the

darkness grew with the passing hours. At length Flatray had to call a

halt.

"We'll camp here till morning," he announced when they reached a grassy

park.

The horses were hobbled, and the men sat down opposite each other in the

darkness. Presently the prisoner relaxed and fell asleep. But there was no

sleep for his captor. The cattleman leaned against the trunk of a

cottonwood and smoked his pipe. The night grew chill, but he dared not

light a fire. At last the first streaks of gray dawn lightened the sky. A

quarter of an hour later he shook his captive from slumber.

"Time to hit the trail."

The outlaw murmured sleepily, "How's that, Dunc? Twenty-five thousand

apiece!"

"Wake up! We've got to vamose out of here."

Slowly the fellow shook the sleep from his brain. He looked at Flatray

sullenly, without answering. But he climbed into the saddle which Jack had

cinched for him. Dogged and wolfish as he was, the man knew his master,

and was cowed.

CHAPTER III

THE TABLES TURNED

From the local eastbound a man swung to the station platform at Mesa. He

was a dark, slim, little man, wiry and supple, with restless black eyes

which pierced one like bullets.

The depot loungers made him a focus of inquiring looks. But, in spite of

his careless ease, a shrewd observer would have read anxiety in his

bearing. It was as if behind the veil of his indifference there rested a

perpetual vigilance. The wariness of a beast of prey lay close to the

surface.

"Mornin', gentlemen," he drawled, sweeping the group with his eyes.

"Mornin'," responded one of the loafers.

"I presume some of you gentlemen can direct me to the house of Mayor

Lee."

"The mayor ain't to home," volunteered a lank, unshaven native in

butternut jeans and boots.

"I think it was his house I inquired for," suggested the stranger.

"Fust house off the square on the yon side of the postoffice--a big

two-story brick, with a gallery and po'ches all round it."

Having thanked his informant, the stranger passed down the street. The

curious saw him pass in at the mayor's gate and knock at the door. It

opened presently, and disclosed a flash of white, which they knew to be

the skirt of a girl.

"I reckon that's Miss 'Lissie," the others were informed by the unshaven

one. "She's let him in and shet the door."

Inevitably there followed speculation as to who the arrival might be. That

his coming had something to do with the affair of the West kidnapping, all

were disposed to agree; but just what it might have to do with it, none of

them could do more than guess. If they could have heard what passed

between Melissy and the stranger, their curiosity would have been

gratified.

"Good mornin', miss. Is Mayor Lee at home?"

"No--he isn't. He hasn't got back yet. Is there anything I can do for

you?"

Two rows of even white teeth flashed in a smile. "I thought maybe there

was something I could do for you. You are Miss Lee, I take it?"

"Yes. But I don't quite understand--unless you have news."

"I have no news--yet."

"You mean----" Her eager glance swept over him. The brown eyes, which had

been full of questioning, flashed to understanding. "You are not

Lieutenant O'Connor?"

"Am I not?" he smiled.

"I mean--are you?"

"At your service, Miss Lee."

She had heard for years of this lieutenant of rangers, who was the terror

of all Arizona "bad men." Her father, Jack Flatray, the range riders whom

she knew--game men all--hailed Bucky O'Connor as a wonder. For coolness

under fire, for acumen, for sheer, unflawed nerve, and for his skill in

that deadly game he played of hunting down desperadoes, they called him

chief ungrudgingly. He was a daredevil, who had taken his life in his

hands a hundred times. Yet always he came through smiling, and brought

back with him the man he went after. The whisper ran that he bore a

charmed life, so many had been his hairbreadth escapes.

"Come in," the girl invited. "Father said, if you came, I was to keep you

here until he got back or sent a messenger for you. He's hunting for the

criminals in the Roaring Fork country. Of course, he didn't know when you

would get here. At the time he left we hadn't been able to catch you on

the wire. I signed Mr. Flatray's name at his suggestion, because he was in

correspondence with you once about the Roaring Fork outlaws. He is out in

the hills, too. He started half an hour after the kidnappers. But he isn't

armed. I'm troubled about him."

Again the young man's white-toothed smile flashed. "You'd better be.

Anybody that goes hunting Black MacQueen unarmed ought to be right well

insured."

She nodded, a shadow in her eyes. "Yes--but he would go. He doesn't mean

them to see him, if he can help it."

"Black sees a heap he isn't expected to see. He has got eyes all over the

hills, and they see by night as well as by day."

"Yes--I know he has spies everywhere; and he has the hill people

terrorized, they say. You think this is his work?"

"It's a big thing--the kind of job he likes to tackle. Who else would dare

do such a thing?"

"That's what father thinks. If he had stolen the President of the United

States, it wouldn't have stirred up a bigger fuss. Newspaper men and

detectives are hurrying here from all directions. They are sure to catch

him."

"Are they?"

She noticed a curious, derisive contempt in the man's voice, and laid it

to his vanity. "I don't mean that _they_ are. I mean that _you_ are sure

to get him," she hastened to add. "Father thinks you are wonderful."

"I'm much obliged to him," said the man, with almost a sneer.

He seemed to have so good an opinion of himself that he was above praise

even. Melissy was coming to the decision that she did not like him--which

was disappointing, since she had expected to like him immensely.

"I didn't look for you till night. You wired you would be on number

seven," she said. "I understood that was the earliest you could get

here."

His explanation of the change was brief, and invited no further

discussion. "I found I could make an earlier train."

"I'm glad you could. Father says it is always well to start on the trail

while it is fresh."

"Have you ever seen this MacQueen, Miss Lee?" he asked.

"Not unless he was there when Mr. West was kidnapped."

"Did you know any of the men?"

She hesitated. "I thought one was Duncan Boone."

"What made you think so?"

"He was the leader, I think, moved the way he does." Her anger flashed for

an instant. "And acted like him--detestably."

"Was he violent to West? Injure him?"

"No--he didn't do him any physical injury that I saw. I wasn't thinking

about Mr. West."

"Surely he didn't lay hands on _you_!"

She looked up, in time to see the flicker of amusement sponged from his

face. It stirred vague anger in her. "He was insolent and ungentlemanly."

"As how?"

"It doesn't matter how." Her manner specifically declined to

particularize.

"Would you recognize him again if you met him? Describe him, if you can."

"Yes. I used to know him well--before he became known as an outlaw," she

added after a perceptible hesitation. "There's something ravenous about

him."

"You mean that he is fierce and bloodthirsty?"

"No--I don't mean that; though, for that matter, I don't think he would

stick at anything. What I mean is that he is pantherine in his

movements--more lithe and supple than most men are."

"Is he a big man?"

"No--medium size, and dark."

"There were four of them, you say?"

"Yes. Jack saw them, too, but at a distance."

"He reached you after they were out of sight?"

"They had been gone about five minutes when I saw him--five or ten. I

couldn't be sure."

"Boone offered no personal indignity to you?"

"Why are you so sure?" she flashed.

"The story is that he is quite the ladies' man."

Melissy laughed scornfully.

At his request, she went over again the story of the abduction, telling

everything save the matter of the ravished kisses. This she kept to

herself. She did not quite know why, except that there was something she

did not like about this Bucky O'Connor. He had a trick of narrowing his

eyes and gloating over her, as a cat gloats over its expected kill.

However, his confidence impressed her. Cocksure he was, and before long

she knew him boastful; but competence sat on him, none the less. She

thought she could see why he was held to be the most deadly bloodhound on

a trail that even Arizona could produce. That he was fearless she did not

need to be told, any more than she needed a certificate that on occasion

he could be merciless. On the other hand, he fitted very badly with the

character of the young lieutenant of rangers, as Jack Flatray had sketched

it for her. Her friend's description of his hero had been enthusiastic.

She decided that the young cattleman was a bad judge of men--though, of

course, he had never actually met O'Connor.

"I reckon I'll not wait for your father's report, Miss Lee. I work

independent of other men. That is how I get the wonderful results I do."

His conceit nettled her; also, it stung her filial loyalty. "My father was

the best sheriff this county ever had," she said stiffly.

He smiled satirically. "Still, I reckon I'll handle this my own

way--unless your father's daughter wants to go partners with me in it."

She gave him a look intended to crush his impudence. "No, thank you."

He ate a breakfast which she had the cook prepare hurriedly for him, and

departed on the horse for which she had telephoned to the nearest livery

stable. Melissy was a singularly fearless girl; yet she watched him go

with a decided relief, for which she could not account. He rode, she

observed, like a centaur--flat-backed, firm in the saddle with the easy

negligence of a plainsman. He turned as he started, and waved a hand

debonairly at her.

"If I have any luck, I'll bring back one of the Roaring Fork bunch with

me--a present for a good girl, Miss Melissy."

She turned on her heel and went inside. Anger pulsed fiercely through her.

He laughed at her, made fun of her, and yet called her by her first name.

How dared he treat her so! Worst of all, she read admiration bold and

unveiled in the eyes that mocked her.

Half an hour later Flatray, riding toward town with his prisoner in front

of him, heard a sudden sharp summons to throw up his hands. A man had

risen from behind a boulder, and held him covered steadily.

Jack looked at the fellow without complying. He needed no second glance to

tell him that this man was not one to be trifled with. "Who are you?" he

demanded quietly.

"Never mind who I am. Reach for the sky."

The captured outlaw had given a little whoop, and was now loosening the

rope from his neck. "You're the goods, Cap! I knew the boys would pull it

off for me, but I didn't reckon on it so durn soon."

"Shut up!" ordered the man behind the gun, without moving his eyes from

Flatray.

"I'm a clam," retorted the other.

"I'm waiting for those hands to go up; but I'll not wait long, seh."

Jack's hands went up reluctantly. "You've got the call," he admitted.

They led him a couple of hundred yards from the trail and tied him hand

and foot. Before they left him the outlaw whom he had captured evened his

score. Three times he struck Flatray on the head with the butt of his

revolver. He was lying on the ground bleeding and senseless when they rode

away toward the hills.

Jack came to himself with a blinding headache. It was some time before he

realized what had happened. As soon as he did he set about freeing

himself. This was a matter of a few minutes. With the handkerchief that

was around his neck he tied up his wounds. Fortunately his hair was very

thick and this had saved him from a fractured skull. Dizzily he got to his

feet, found his horse, and started toward Mesa.

Not many people were on the streets when the sheriff passed through the

suburbs of the little town, for it was about the breakfast hour. One stout

old negro mammy stopped to stare in surprise at his bloody head.

"Laws a mussy, Mistah Flatray, what they done be'n a-doin' to you-all?"

she asked.

The sheriff hardly saw her. He was chewing the bitter cud of defeat and

was absorbed in his thoughts. He was still young enough to have counted on

the effect upon Melissy of his return to town with one of the abductors as

his prisoner.

It happened that she was on the porch watering her flower boxes when he

passed the house.

"Jack!" she cried, and on the heels of her exclamation: "What's the matter

with you? Been hurt?"

A gray pallor had pushed through the tan of her cheeks. She knew her heart

was beating fast.

"Bumped into a piece of bad luck," he grinned, and told her briefly what

had occurred.

She took him into the house and washed his head for him. After she saw how

serious the cuts were she insisted on sending for a doctor. When his

wounds were dressed she fed him and made him lie down and sleep on her

father's bed.

The sun was sliding down the heavens to a crotch in the hills before he

joined her again. She was in front of the house clipping her roses.

"Is the invalid better?" she asked him.

"He's a false alarm. But he did have a mighty thumping headache that has

gone now."

"I've been wondering why you didn't meet Lieutenant O'Connor. He must have

taken the road you came in on."

The young man's eyes lit. "Is Bucky here already?"

"He was. He's gone. I was greatly disappointed in him. He's not half the

man you think he is."

"Oh, but he is. Everybody says so."

"I never saw a more conceited man, or a more hateful one. There's

something about him--oh, I don't know. But he isn't good. I'm sure of

that."

"His reputation isn't of that kind. They say he's devoted to his wife and

kids."

"His wife and children." Melissy recalled the smoldering admiration in his

bold eyes. She laughed shortly. "That finishes him with me. He's married,

is he? Well, I know the kind of husband he is."

Jack flashed a quick look at her. He guessed what she meant. But this did

not square at all with what his friends had told him of O'Connor.

"Did he ask for me?"

"No. He said he preferred to play a lone hand. His manner was unpleasant

all the time. He knows it all. I could see that."

"Anyhow, he's a crackerjack in his line. Have you heard from your father

since he set out?"

"Not yet."

"Well, I'm going to start to-night with a posse for the Cache. If O'Connor

comes back, tell him I'll follow the Roaring Fork."

"You'll not go this time without a gun, Jack," she said with a ghost of a

smile.

"No. I want to make good this trip."

"You did splendidly before. Not one man in a hundred would have done so

well."

"I'm a wonder," he admitted with a grin.

"But you will take care of yourself--not be foolish."

"I don't aim to take up residence in Boot Hill cemetery if I can help

it."

"Boone and his men are dangerous characters. They are playing for high

stakes. They would snuff your life out as quick as they would wink. Don't

forget that."

"You don't want me to lie down before Dunc Boone, do you?"

"No-o. Only don't be reckless. I told father the same."

Her dear concern for him went to Jack's head, but he steadied himself

before he answered. "I've got one real good reason for not being reckless.

I'll tell you what it is some day."

Her shy, alarmed eyes fled his at once. She began an account of how her

father had gathered his posse and where she thought he must have gone.

After dinner Jack went downtown. Melissy did some household tasks and

presently moved out to the cool porch. She was just thinking about going

back in when a barefoot boy ran past and whistled. From the next house a

second youngster emerged.

"That you, Jimmie?"

"Betcherlife. Say, 've you heard about the sheriff?"

"Who? Jack Flatray! Course I have. The Roaring Fork outfit ambushed him,

beat him up, and made him hit the trail for town."

"Aw! That ain't news. He's started back after them again. Left jes' a

little while ago. I saw him go--him 'n' Farnum 'n' Charley Hymer 'n' Hal

Yarnell 'n' Mr. Bellamy."

"Bet they git 'em."

"Bet they don't."

"Aw, course they'll git 'em, Tom."

The other youngster assumed an air of mystery. He swelled his chest and

strutted a step or two nearer. Urbane condescension oozed from him.

"Say, Jimmie. C'n you keep a secret?"

"Sure. Course I can."

"Won't ever snitch?"

"Cross my heart."

"Well, then--I'm Black MacQueen, the captain of the Roaring Fork bad

men."

"You!" Incredulity stared from Jimmie's bulging eyes.

"You betcher. I'm him, here in disguise as a kid."

The magnificent boldness of this claim stole Jimmie's breath for an

instant. He was two years younger than his friend, but he did not quite

know whether to applaud or to jeer. Before he could make up his mind a

light laugh rippled to them from behind the vines on the Lee porch.

The disguised outlaw and his friend were startled. Both fled swiftly, with

all the pretense of desperate necessity young conspirators love to

assume.

Melissy went into the house and the laughter died from her lips. She knew

that either her father's posse or that of Jack Flatray would come into

touch with the outlaws eventually. When the clash came there would be a

desperate battle. Men would be killed. She prayed it might not be one of

those for whom she cared most.

CHAPTER IV

THE REAL BUCKY AND THE FALSE

Number seven was churning its way furiously through brown Arizona. The day

had been hot, with a palpitating heat which shimmered over the desert

waste. Defiantly the sun had gone down beyond the horizon, a great ball of

fire, leaving behind a brilliant splash of bold colors. Now this, too, had

disappeared. Velvet night had transformed the land. Over the distant

mountains had settled a smoke-blue film, which left them vague and

indefinite.

Only three passengers rode in the Pullman car. One was a commercial

traveler, busy making up his weekly statement to the firm. Another was a

Boston lady, in gold-rimmed glasses and a costume that helped the general

effect of frigidity. The third looked out of the open window at the

distant hills. He was a slender young fellow, tanned almost to a coffee

brown, with eyes of Irish blue which sometimes bubbled with fun and

sometimes were hard as chisel steel. Wide-shouldered and lean-flanked he

was, with well-packed muscles, which rippled like those of a tiger.

At Chiquita the train stopped, but took up again almost instantly its

chant of the rail. Meanwhile, a man had swung himself to the platform of

the smoker. He passed through that car, the two day coaches, and on to the

sleeper; his keen, restless eyes inspected every passenger in the course

of his transit. Opposite the young man in the Pullman he stopped.

"May I ask if you are Lieutenant O'Connor?"

"My name, seh."

The young man in the seat had slewed his head around sharply, and made

answer with a crisp, businesslike directness.

The new-comer smiled. "I'll have to introduce myself, lieutenant. My name

is Flatray. I've come to meet you."

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Flatray. I hope that together we can work this

thing out right. MacQueen has gathered a bunch that ought to be cleaned

out, and I reckon now's the time to do it. I've been reading about him for

a year. I've got a notion he's about the ablest thing in bad men this

Territory has seen for a good many years."

Flatray sat down on the seat opposite O'Connor. A smile flicked across his

face, and vanished. "I'm of that opinion myself, lieutenant."

"Tell me all about this affair of the West kidnapping," the ranger

suggested.

The other man told the story while O'Connor listened, alert to catch every

point of the narrative.

The face of the lieutenant of rangers was a boyish one--eager, genial, and

frank; yet, none the less, strength lay in the close-gripped jaw and in

the steady, watchful eye. His lithe, tense body was like a coiled spring;

and that, too, though he seemed to be very much at ease.

With every sentence that the other spoke, O'Connor was judging Flatray,

appraising him for a fine specimen of a hard-bitten breed--a vigilant

frontiersman, competent to the finger tips. Yet he was conscious that, in

spite of the man's graceful ease and friendly smile, he did not like

Flatray. He would not ask for a better man beside him in a tight pinch;

but he could not deny that something sinister which breathed from his

sardonic, devil-may-care face.

"So that's how the land lies," the sheriff concluded. "My deputies have

got the pass to the south blocked; Lee is closing in through Elkhorn; and

Fox, with a strong posse, is combing the hills beyond Dead Man's Cache.

There's only one way out for him, and that is over Powderhorn Pass. Word

has just reached us that MacQueen is moving in that direction. He is

evidently figuring to slip out over the hills during the night. I've

arranged for us to be met at Barker's Tank by a couple of the boys, with

horses. We'll drop off the train quietly when it slows up to water, so

that none of his spies can get word of our movements to him. By hard

riding we'd ought to reach Powderhorn in time to head him off."

The ranger asked incisive questions, had the topography of the country

explained to him with much detail, and decided at last that Flatray was

right. If MacQueen were trying to slip out, they might trap him at the

pass; if not, by closing it they would put the cork in the bottle that

held him.

"We'll try it, seh. Y'u know this country better than I do, and I'll give

y'u a free hand. Unless there's a slip up in your calculations, you'd

ought to be right."

"Good enough, lieutenant. I'm betting on those plans myself," the other

answered promptly, and added, as he looked out into the night: "By that

notch in the hills, we'd ought to be close to the tank now. She's slowing

up. I reckon we can slip out to the vestibule, and get off at the far side

of the track without being noticed much."

This they found easy enough. Five minutes later number seven was steaming

away into the distant desert. Flatray gave a sharp, shrill whistle; and

from behind some sand dunes emerged two men and four horses.

"Anything new?" asked the sheriff as they came nearer.

"Not a thing, cap," answered one of them.

"Boys, shake hands with the famous Lieutenant O'Connor," said Flatray,

with a sneer hid by the darkness. "Lieutenant, let me make you acquainted

with Jeff Jackson and Buck Lane."

"Much obliged to meet you," grinned Buck as he shook hands.

They mounted and rode toward the notch in the hills that had been pointed

out to the ranger. The moon was up; and a cold, silvery light flooded the

plain. Seen in this setting, the great, painted desert held more of

mystery, of beauty, and less of the dead monotony that glared endlessly

from arid, barren reaches. The sky of stars stretched infinitely far, and

added to the effect of magnitude.

The miles slipped behind them as they moved forward, hour after hour,

their horses holding to the running walk that is the peculiar gait of the

cow country. They rode in silence, with the loose seat and straight back

of the vaquero. Except the ranger, all were dressed for riding--Flatray in

corduroys and half-knee laced boots; his men in overalls, chaps, flannel

shirts, and the broad-brimmed sombrero of the Southwest. All four were

young men; but there was an odd difference in the expressions of their

faces.

Jackson and Lane had the hard-lined faces, with something grim and stony

in them, of men who ride far and hard with their lives in their hands. The

others were of a higher type. Flatray's dark eyes were keen, bold, and

restless. One might have guessed him a man of temperament, capable of any

extremes of conduct--often the victim of his own ungovernable whims and

passions. Just as he looked a picture of all the passions of youth run to

seed, so the ranger seemed to show them in flower. There was something

fine and strong and gallant in his debonair manner. His warm smile went

out to a world that pleased him mightily.

They rode steadily, untired and untiring. The light of dawn began to

flicker from one notched summit to another. Out of the sandy waste they

came to a water hole, paused for a drink, and passed on. For the delay of

half an hour might mean the escape of their prey.

They came into the country of crumbling mesas and painted cliffs, of

hillsides where greasewood and giant cactus struggled from the parched

earth. This they traversed until they came to plateaus, terminating in

foothills, crevassed by gorges deep and narrow. The canyons grew steeper,

rock ridges more frequent. Gradually the going became more difficult.

Trails they seldom followed. Washes, with sides like walls, confronted

them. The ponies dropped down and clambered up again like mountain goats.

Gradually they were ascending into the upper country, which led to the

wild stretches where the outlaws lurked. In these watersheds were heavy

pine forests, rising from the gulches along the shoulders of the peaks.

A maze of canyons, hopelessly lost in the hill tangle into which they had

plunged, led deviously to a twisting pass, through which they defiled, to

drop into a vista of rolling waves of forest-clad hills. Among these wound

countless hidden gulches, known only to those who rode from out them on

nefarious night errands.

The ranger noted every landmark, and catalogued in his mind's map every

gorge and peak; from what he saw, he guessed much of which he could not be

sure. It would be hard to say when his suspicions first became aroused.

But as they rode, without stopping, through what he knew must be

Powderhorn Pass, as the men about him quietly grouped themselves so as to

cut off any escape he might attempt, as they dropped farther and farther

into the meshes of that forest-crowned net which he knew to be the Roaring

Fork country, he did not need to be told he was in the power of MacQueen's

gang.

Yet he gave no sign of what he knew. As daylight came, so that they could

see each other distinctly, his face showed no shadow of doubt. It was his

cue to be a simple victim of credulity, and he played it to the finish.

Without warning, through a narrow gulch which might have been sought in

vain for ten years by a stranger, they passed into the rim of a

bowl-shaped valley. Timber covered it from edge to edge, but over to the

left a keen eye could see a thinning of the foliage. Toward this they

went, following the sidehill and gradually dipping down through heavy

underbrush. Before him the officer of rangers saw daylight, and presently

a corral, low roofs, and grazing horses.

"Looks like some one lives here," he remarked amiably.

They were already riding into the open. In front of one of the log cabins

the man who had called himself Flatray swung from his saddle.

"Better 'light, lieutenant," he suggested carelessly. "We'll eat breakfast

here."

"Don't care if we do. I could eat a leather mail sack, I'm that hungry,"

the ranger answered, as he, too, descended.

His guide was looking at him with an expression of open, malevolent

triumph. He could scarce keep it back long enough to get the effect he

wanted.

"Yes, we'll eat breakfast here--and dinner, and supper, and breakfast

to-morrow, and then about two more breakfasts."

"I reckon we'll be too busy to sit around here," laughed his prisoner.

The other ignored his comment. "And after that, it ain't likely you'll do

much more eating."

"I don't quite get the point of that joke."

"You'll get it soon enough! You'd _savez_ it now, if you weren't a

muttonhead. As it is, I'll have to explain it. Do you remember capturing

Tony Chaves two years ago, lieutenant?"

The ranger nodded, with surprise in his round, innocent eyes.

"What happened to him?" demanded the other. A child could have seen that

he was ridden by a leering, savage triumph.

"Killed trying to escape four days later."

"Who killed him?"

"I did. It was necessary. I regretted it."

A sudden spasm of cruelty swept over the face of the man confronting him.

"Tony was my partner."

"Your partner?"

"That's right. I've been wanting to say 'How d'ye do?' ever since,

Lieutenant O'Connor. I'm right glad to meet you."

"But--I don't understand." He did, however.

"It'll soak through, by and by. Chew on this: You've got just ninety-six

hours to live--exactly as long as Tony lived after you caught him! You'll

be killed trying to escape. It will be necessary, just as you say it was

with him; but I reckon I'll not do any regretting to speak of."

"You would murder me?"

"Well, I ain't particular about the word I use." MacQueen leaned against

the side of his horse, his arm thrown across its neck, and laughed in slow

maliciousness. "Execute is the word I use, though--if you want to know."

He had made no motion toward his weapon, nor had O'Connor; but the latter

knew without looking that he was covered vigilantly by both of the other

men.

"And who are you?" the ranger asked, though he was quite sure of the

answer.

"Men call me Black MacQueen," drawled the other.

"MacQueen! But you said----"

"That I was Flatray. Yep--I lied."

O'Connor appeared to grope with this in amazement.

"One has to stretch the truth sometimes in my profession," went on the

outlaw smoothly. "It may interest you to know that yesterday I passed as

Lieutenant O'Connor. When I was O'Connor I arrested Flatray; and now that

I am Flatray I have arrested O'Connor. Turn about is fair play, you

know."

"Interesting, if true," O'Connor retorted easily.

"You can bank on its truth, my friend."

"And you're actually going to kill me in cold blood."

The black eyes narrowed. "Just as I would a dog," said the outlaw, with

savage emphasis.

"I don't believe it. I've done you no harm."

MacQueen glanced at him contemptuously. The famous Bucky O'Connor looked

about as competent as a boy in the pimply age.

"I thought you had better sense. Do you think I would have brought you to

Dead Man's Cache if I had intended you to go away alive? I'm afraid,

Lieutenant Bucky O'Connor, that you're a much overrated man. Your

reputation sure would have blown up, if you had lived. You ought to thank

me for preserving it."

"Preserving it--how?"

"By bumping you off before you've lost it."

"Sho! You wouldn't do that," the ranger murmured ineffectively.

"We'll see. Jeff, I put him in your charge. Search him, and take him to

Hank's cabin. I hold you responsible for him. Bring me any papers you find

on him. When I find time, I'll drop around and see that you're keeping him

safe."

Bucky was searched, and his weapons and papers removed. After being

handcuffed, he was chained to a heavy staple, which had been driven into

one of the log walls. He was left alone, and the door was locked; but he

could hear Jeff moving about outside.

With the closing of the door the vacuous look slipped from his face like a

mask. The loose-lipped, lost-dog expression was gone. He looked once more

alert, competent, fit for the emergency. It had been his cue to let his

adversary underestimate him. During the long night ride he had had chances

to escape, had he desired to do so. But this had been the last thing he

wanted.

The outlaws had chosen to take him to their fastness in the hills. He

would back himself to use the knowledge they were thrusting upon him, to

bring about their undoing. Only one factor in the case had come upon him

as a surprise. He had not reckoned that they would have a personal grudge

against him. And this was a factor that might upset all his calculations.

It meant that he was playing against time, with the chances of the game

all against him. He had forty-eight hours in which to escape--and he was

handcuffed, chained, locked up, and guarded. Truly, the outlook was not

radiant.

CHAPTER V

A PHOTOGRAPH

On the third morning Beauchamp Lee returned to Mesa--unshaven, dusty, and

fagged with hard riding. He brought with him a handbill which he had

picked up in the street. Melissy hung over him and ministered to his

needs. While he was eating breakfast he talked.

"No luck yet, honey. He's hiding in some pocket of the hills, I reckon;

and likely there he'll stay till the hunt is past. They don't make them

any slicker than Dunc, dad gum his ugly hide!"

"What is that paper?" his daughter asked.

Lee curbed a disposition toward bad language, as he viewed it with

disgust. "This here is bulletin number one, girl. It's the cheekiest, most

impudent thing I ever saw. MacQueen serves notice to all the people of

this county to keep out of this fight. Also, he mentions me and Jack

Flatray by name--warning us that, if we sit in the game, hell will be

popping for us."

"What will you do?"

"Do? I'll get back to my boys fast as horseflesh will get me there, once

I've had a talk with that beef buyer from Kansas City I made an

appointment to see before this thing broke loose. You don't allow I'm

going to let any rustler dictate to me what I'll do and what I won't--do

you?"

"Where do you reckon he had this printed?" she asked.

"I don't reckon, I know. Late last night a masked man woke up Jim Snell.

You know, he sleeps in a room at the back of the printing office. Well,

this fellow made him dress, set up this bill, and run off five hundred

copies while he stood over him. I'll swan I never heard of such cheek!"

Melissy told what she had to tell--after which her father shaved, took a

bath, and went out to meet the buyer from Kansas City. His business kept

him until noon. After dinner Melissy's saddle horse was brought around,

and she joined her father to ride back with him for a few miles.

About three o'clock she kissed him good-bye, and turned homeward. After

she had passed the point where the Silver Creek trail ran into the road

she heard the sound of a galloping horse behind. A rider was coming along

the trail toward town. He gained on her rapidly, and presently a voice

hailed her gayly:

"The top o' the mornin' to you, Miss 'Lissie."

She drew up to wait for him. "My name is still Miss Lee," she told him

mildly, by way of correction.

"I'm glad it is, but we can change it in three minutes at any time, my

dear," he laughed.

She had been prepared to be more friendly toward him, but at this she

froze again.

"Did you leave Mrs. O'Connor and the children well?" she asked pointedly,

looking directly at him.

His smile vanished, and he stared at her in a very strange fashion. She

had taken the wind completely out of his sails. It had not occurred to him

that O'Connor might be a married man. Nor did he know but that it might be

a trick to catch him. He did the only thing he could do--made answer in an

ironic fashion, which might mean anything or nothing.

"Very well, thank you."

She saw at once that the topic did not allure him, and pushed home her

advantage. "You must miss Mrs. O'Connor when you are away on duty."

"Must I?"

"And the children, too. By the way, what are their names?"

"You're getting up a right smart interest in my family, all of a sudden,"

he countered.

"One can't talk about the weather all the time."

He boldly decided to slay the illusion of domesticity. "If you want to

know, I have neither wife nor children."

"But I've heard about them all," she retorted.

"You have heard of Mrs. O'Connor, no doubt; but she happens to be the

wife of a cousin of mine."

The look which she flashed at him held more than doubt.

"You don't believe me?" he continued. "I give you my word that I'm not

married."

They had left the road, and were following a short cut which wound down

toward Tonti, in and out among the great boulders. The town, dwarfed to

microscopic size by distance, looked, in the glare of the sunlight, as if

it were made of white chalk. Along the narrow trail they went singly,

Melissy leading the way.

She made no answer, but at the first opportunity he forced his horse to a

level with hers.

"Well--you heard what I said," he challenged.

"The subject is of no importance to me," she said.

"It's important to me. I'm not going to have you doing me an injustice. I

tell you I'm not married. You've got to believe me."

Her mind was again alive with suspicions. Jack had told her Bucky O'Connor

was married, and he must have known what he was talking about.

"I don't know whether you are married or not. I am of the opinion that

Lieutenant O'Connor has a wife and three children. More than once I have

been told so," she answered.

"You seem to know a heap about the gentleman."

"I know what I know."

"More than I do, perhaps," he suggested.

Her eyes dilated. He could see suspicion take hold of her.

"Perhaps," she answered quietly.

"Does that mean you think I'm not Bucky O'Connor?" He had pushed his pony

forward so as to cut off her advance, and both had halted for the moment.

She looked at him with level, fearless eyes. "I don't know who you are."

"But you think I'm not Lieutenant O'Connor of the rangers?"

"I don't know whether you are or not."

"There is nothing like making sure. Just look over this letter, please."

She did so. It was from the governor of the Territory to the ranger

officer. While he was very complimentary as to past services, the governor

made it plain that he thought O'Connor must at all hazards succeed in

securing the release of Simon West. This would be necessary for the good

name of the Territory. Otherwise, a widespread report would go out that

Arizona was a lawless place in which to live.

Melissy folded the letter and handed it back. "I beg your pardon,

Lieutenant O'Connor. I see that I was wrong."

"Forget it, my dear. We all make mistakes." He had that curious mocking

smile which so often hovered about his lips. She felt as though he were

deriding her--as though his words held some hidden irony which she could

not understand.

"The governor seems very anxious to have you succeed. It will be a black

eye for Arizona if this band of outlaws is not apprehended. You don't

think, do you, that they will do Mr. West any harm, if their price is not

paid? They would never dare."

He took this up almost as though he resented it. "They would dare

anything. I reckon you'll have to get up early in the mornin' to find a

gamer man than Black MacQueen."

"I wouldn't call it game to hurt an old man whom he has in his power. But

you mustn't let it come to that. You must save him. Are you making any

progress? Have you run down any of the band? And while I think of it--have

you seen to-day's paper?"

"No--why?"

"The biggest story on the front page is about the West case. It seems that

this MacQueen wired to Chicago to Mr. Lucas, president of one of the lines

on the Southwestern system, that they would release Mr. West for three

hundred thousand dollars in gold. He told him a letter had been mailed to

the agent at Mesa, telling under just what conditions the money was to be

turned over; and he ended with a threat that, if steps were taken to

capture the gang, or if the money were not handed over at the specified

time, Mr. West would disappear forever."

"Did the paper say whether the money would be turned over?"

"It said that Mr. Lucas was going to get into touch with the outlaws at

once, to effect the release of his chief."

A gleam of triumph flashed in the eyes of the man. "That's sure the best

way."

"It won't help your reputation, will it?" she asked. "Won't people say

that you failed on this case?"

He laughed softly, as if at some hidden source of mirth. "I shouldn't

wonder if they did say that Bucky O'Connor hadn't made good this time.

They'll figure he tried to ride herd on a job too big for him."

Her surprised eye brooded over this, too. Here he was defending the outlaw

chief, and rejoicing at his own downfall. There seemed to be no end to the

contradictions in this man. She was to run across another tangled thread

of the puzzle a few minutes later.

She had dismounted to let him tighten the saddle cinch. Owing to the heat,

he had been carrying his coat in front of him. He tossed it on a boulder

by the side of the trail, in such a way that the inside pocket hung down.

From it slid some papers and a photograph. Melissy looked down at the

picture, then instantly stooped and picked it up. For it was a photograph

of a very charming woman and three children, and across the bottom of it

was written a line.

"To Bucky, from his loving wife and children."

The girl handed it to the man without a word, and looked him full in the

face.

"Bowled out, by ginger!" he said, with a light laugh.

But as she continued to look at him--a man of promise, who had plainly

traveled far on the road to ruin--the conviction grew on her that the

sweet-faced woman in the photograph was no loving wife of his. He was a

man who might easily take a woman's fancy, but not one to hold her love

for years through the stress of life. Moreover, Bucky O'Connor held the

respect of all men. She had heard him spoken of, and always with a meed of

affection that is given to few men. Whoever this graceless scamp was, he

was not the lieutenant of rangers.

The words slipped out before she could stop them: "You're not Lieutenant

O'Connor at all."

"Playing on that string again, are you?" he jeered.

"I'm sure of it this time."

"Since you know who I'm not, perhaps you can tell me, too, who I am."

In that instant before she spoke, while her steady eyes rested on him, she

put together many things which had puzzled her. All of them pointed to

one conclusion. Even now her courage did not fail her. She put it into

words quietly:

"You are that villain Black MacQueen."

He stared at her in surprise. "By God, girl--you're right. I'm MacQueen,

though I don't know how you guessed it."

"I don't know how I kept from guessing it so long. I can see it, now, as

plain as day, in all that you have done."

After that they measured strength silently with their eyes. If the

situation had clarified itself, with the added knowledge of the girl had

come new problems. Let her return to Mesa, and he could no longer pose as

O'Connor; and it was just the audacity of this double play that delighted

him. He was the most reckless man on earth; he loved to take chances. He

wanted to fool the officers to his heart's content, and then jeer at them

afterward. Hitherto everything had come his way.

But if this girl should go home, he could not show his face at Mesa; and

the spice of the thing would be gone. He was greatly taken with her

beauty, her daring, and the charm of high spirits which radiated from her.

Again and again he had found himself drawn back to her. He was not in love

with her in any legitimate sense; but he knew now that, if he could see

her no more, life would be a savorless thing, at least until his fancy had

spent itself. Moreover, her presence at Dead Man's Cache would be a

safeguard. With her in his power, Lee and Flatray, the most persistent of

his hunters, would not dare to move against the outlaws.

Inclination and interest worked together. He decided to take her back with

him to the country of hidden pockets and gulches. There, in time, he would

win her love--so his vanity insisted. After that they would slip away from

the scene of his crimes, and go back to the world from which he had years

since vanished.

The dream grew on him. It got hold of his imagination. For a moment he saw

himself as the man he had been meant for--the man he might have been, if

he had been able to subdue his evil nature. He saw himself respected, a

power in the community, going down to a serene old age, with this woman

and their children by his side. Then he laughed derisively, and brushed

aside the vision.

"Why didn't the real Lieutenant O'Connor arrive to expose you?" she

asked.

"The real Bucky is handcuffed and guarded at Dead Man's Cache. I don't

think he's enjoying himself to-day."

"You're getting quite a collection of prisoners. You'll be starting a

penitentiary on your own account soon," she told him sharply.

"That's right. And I'm taking another one back with me to-night."

"Who is he?"

"It's a lady this time--Miss Melissy Lee."

His words shook her. An icy hand seemed to clamp upon her heart. The blood

ebbed even from her lips, but her brave eyes never faltered from his.

"So you war on women, too!"

He gave her his most ironic bow. "I don't war on you, my dear. You shall

have half of my kingdom, if you ask it--and all my heart."

"I can't use either," she told him quietly. "But I'm only a girl. If you

have a spark of manliness in you, surely you won't take me a prisoner

among those wild, bad men of yours."

"Those wild, bad men of mine are lambs when I give the word. They wouldn't

lift a hand against you. And there is a woman there--the mother of one of

my boys, who was shot. We'll have you chaperoned for fair."

"And if I say I won't go?"

"You'll go if I strap you to your saddle."

It was characteristic of Melissy that she made no further resistance. The

sudden, wolfish gleam in his eyes had told her that he meant what he said.

It was like her, too, that she made no outcry; that she did not shed tears

or plead with him. A gallant spirit inhabited that slim, girlish body; and

she yielded to the inevitable with quiet dignity. This surprised him

greatly, and stung his reluctant admiration. At the same time, it set her

apart from him and hedged her with spiritual barriers. Her body might

ride with him into captivity; she was still captain of her soul.

"You're a game one," he told her, as he helped her to the saddle.

She did not answer, but looked straightforward between her horse's ears,

without seeing him, waiting for him to give the word to start.

CHAPTER VI

IN DEAD MAN'S CACHE

Not since the start of their journey had Melissy broken silence, save to

answer, in few words as possible, the questions put to her by the outlaw.

Yet her silence had not been sullenness. It had been the barrier which she

had set up between them--one which he could not break down short of actual

roughness.

Of this she could not accuse him. Indeed, he had been thoughtful of her

comfort. At sunset they had stopped by a spring, and he had shared with

her such food as he had. Moreover, he had insisted that she should rest

for a while before they took up the last stretch of the way.

It was midnight now, and they had been traveling for many hours over rough

mountain trails. There was more strength than one would look for in so

slender a figure, yet Melissy was drooping with fatigue.

"It's not far now. We'll be there in a few minutes," MacQueen promised

her.

They were ascending a narrow trail which ran along the sidehill through

the timber. Presently they topped the summit, and the ground fell away

from their feet to a bowl-shaped valley, over which the silvery moonshine

played so that the basin seemed to swim in a magic sea of light.

"Welcome to the Cache," he said to her.

She was surprised out of her silence. "Dead Man's Cache?"

"It has been called that."

"Why?"

She knew, but she wanted to see if he would tell a story which showed so

plainly his own ruthlessness.

He hesitated, but only for a moment.

"There was a man named Havens. He had a reputation as a bad man, and I

reckon he deserved it--if brand blotting, mail rustling, and shooting

citizens are the credentials to win that title. Hard pressed on account of

some deviltry, he drifted into this country, and was made welcome by those

living here. The best we had was his. He was fed, outfitted, and kept safe

from the law that was looking for him.

"You would figure he was under big obligations to the men that did this

for him--wouldn't you? But he was born skunk. When his chance came he

offered to betray these men to the law, in exchange for a pardon for his

own sneaking hide. The letter was found, and it was proved he wrote it.

What ought those men to have done to him, Miss 'Lissie?"

"I don't know." She shuddered.

"There's got to be law, even in a place like this. We make our own laws,

and the men that stay here have got to abide by them. Our law said this

man must die. He died."

She did not ask him how. The story went that the outlaws whom the wretched

man had tried to sell let him escape on purpose--that, just as he thought

he was free of them, their mocking laughter came to him from the rocks all

around. He was completely surrounded. They had merely let him run into a

trap. He escaped again, wandered without food for days, and again

discovered that they had been watching him all the time. Turn whichever

way he would, their rifles warned him back. He stumbled on, growing weaker

and weaker. They would neither capture him nor let him go.

For nearly a week the cruel game went on. Frequently he heard their voices

in the hills about him. Sometimes he would call out to them pitifully to

put him out of his misery. Only their horrible laughter answered. When he

had reached the limit of endurance he lay down and died.

And the man who had engineered that heartless revenge was riding beside

her. He had been ready to tell her the whole story, if she had asked for

it, and equally ready to justify it. Nothing could have shown her more

plainly the character of the villain into whose hands she had fallen.

They descended into the valley, winding in and out until they came

suddenly upon ranch houses and a corral in a cleared space.

A man came out of the shadows into the moonlight to meet them. Instantly

Melissy recognized his walk. It was Boone.

"Oh, it's you," MacQueen said coldly. "Any of the rest of the boys up?"

"No."

Not a dozen words had passed between them, but the girl sensed hostility.

She was not surprised. Dunc Boone was not the man to take second place in

any company of riff-raff, nor was MacQueen one likely to yield the

supremacy he had fought to gain.

The latter swung from the saddle and lifted Melissy from hers. As her feet

struck the ground her face for the first time came full into the

moonlight.

Boone stifled a startled oath.

"Melissy Lee!" Like a swiftly reined horse he swung around upon his chief.

"What devil's work is this?"

"My business, Dunc!" the other retorted in suave insult.

"By God, no! I make it mine. This young lady's a friend of mine--or used

to be. _Sabe_?"

"I _sabe_ you'd better not try to sit in at this game, my friend."

Boone swung abruptly upon Melissy. "How come you here, girl? Tell me!"

And in three sentences she explained.

"What's your play? Whyfor did you bring her?" the Arkansan demanded of

MacQueen.

The latter stood balanced on his heels with his feet wide apart. There was

a scornful grin on his face, but his eyes were fixed warily on the other

man.

"What was I to do with her, Mr. Buttinski? She found out who I was. Could

I send her home? If I did how was I to fix it so I could go to Mesa when

it's necessary till we get this ransom business arranged?"

"All right. But you understand she's a friend of mine. I'll not have her

hurt."

"Oh, go to the devil! I'm not in the habit of hurting young ladies."

MacQueen swung on his heel insolently and knocked on the door of a cabin

near.

"Don't forget that I'm here when you need me," Boone told Melissy in a low

voice.

"I'll not forget," the girl made answer in a murmur.

The wrinkled face of a Mexican woman appeared presently at a window.

MacQueen jabbered a sentence or two in her language. She looked at Melissy

and answered.

The girl had not lived in Southern Arizona for twenty years without having

a working knowledge of Spanish. Wherefore, she knew that her captor had

ordered his own room prepared for her.

While they waited for this to be made ready MacQueen hummed a snatch of a

popular song. It happened to be a love ditty. Boone ground his teeth and

glared at him, which appeared to amuse the other ruffian immensely.

"Don't stay up on our account," MacQueen suggested presently with a

malicious laugh. "We're not needing a chaperone any to speak of."

The Mexican woman announced that the bedroom was ready and MacQueen

escorted Melissy to the door of the room. He stood aside with mock

gallantry to let her pass.

"Have to lock you in," he apologized airily. "Not that it would do you any

good to escape. We'd have you again inside of twenty-four hours. This bit

of the hills takes a heap of knowing. But we don't want you running away.

You're too tired. So I lock the door and lie down on the porch under your

window. _Adios, senorita._"

Melissy heard the key turn in the lock, and was grateful for the respite

given her by the night. She was glad, too, that Boone was here. She knew

him for a villain, but she hoped he would stand between her and MacQueen

if the latter proved unruly in his attentions. Her guess was that Boone

was jealous of the other--of his authority with the gang to which they

both belonged, and now of his relationship to her. Out of this division

might come hope for her.

So tired was she that, in spite of her alarms, sleep took her almost as

soon as her head touched the pillow. When she awakened the sun was shining

in at her window above the curtain strung across its lower half.

Some one was knocking at the door. When she asked who was there, in a

voice which could not conceal its tremors, the answer came in feminine

tones:

"'Tis I--Rosario Chaves."

The Mexican woman was not communicative, nor did she appear to be

sympathetic. The plight of this girl might have moved even an unresponsive

heart, but Rosario showed a stolid face to her distress. What had to be

said, she said. For the rest, she declined conversation absolutely.

Breakfast was served Melissy in her room, after which Rosario led her

outdoors. The woman gave her to understand that she might walk about the

cleared space, but must not pass into the woods beyond. To point the need

of obedience, Rosario seated herself on the porch, and began doing some

drawn work upon which she was engaged.

Melissy walked toward the corral, but did not reach it. An old hag was

seated in a chair beside one of the log cabins. From the color of her skin

the girl judged her to be an Indian squaw. She wore moccasins, a dirty and

shapeless one-piece dress, and a big sunbonnet, in which her head was

buried.

Sitting on the floor of the porch, about fifteen feet from her, was a

hard-faced customer, with stony eyes like those of a snake. He was sewing

on a bridle that had given way. Melissy noticed that from the pocket of

his chaps the butt of a revolver peeped. She judged it to be the custom in

Dead Man's Cache to go garnished with weapons.

Her curiosity led her to deflect toward the old woman. But she had not

taken three steps toward the cabin before the man with the jade eyes

stopped her.

"That'll be near enough, ma'am," he said, civilly enough. "This old crone

has a crazy spell whenever a stranger comes nigh. She's nutty. It ain't

safe to come nearer--is it, old Sit-in-the-Sun?"

The squaw grunted. Simultaneously, she looked up, and Miss Lee thought

that she had never seen more piercing eyes.

"Is Sit-in-the-Sun her name?" asked the girl curiously.

"That's the English of it. The Navajo word is a jawbreaker."

"Doesn't she understand English?"

"No more'n you do Choctaw, miss."

A quick step crunched the gravel behind Melissy. She did not need to look

around to know that here was Black MacQueen.

"What's this--what's this, Hank?" he demanded sharply.

"The young lady started to come up and speak to old Sit-in-the-Sun. I was

just explaining to her how crazy the old squaw is," Jeff answered with a

grin.

"Oh! Is that all?" MacQueen turned to Melissy.

"She's plumb loony--dangerous, too. I don't want you to go near her."

The girl's eyes flashed. "Very considerate of you. But if you want to

protect me from the really dangerous people here, you had better send me

home."

"I tell you they do as I say, every man jack of them. I'd flay one alive

if he insulted you."

"It's a privilege you don't sublet then," she retorted swiftly.

Admiration gleamed through his amusement. "Gad, you've got a sharp tongue.

I'd pity the man you marry--unless he drove with a tight rein."

"That's not what we're discussing, Mr. MacQueen. Are you going to send me

home?"

"Not till you've made us a nice long visit, my dear. You're quite safe

here. My men are plumb gentle. They'll eat out of your hand. They don't

insult ladies. I've taught 'em----"

"Pity you couldn't teach their leader, too."

He acknowledged the hit. "Come again, dearie. But what's your complaint?

Haven't I treated you white so far?"

"No. You insulted me grossly when you brought me here by force."

"Did I lay a hand on you?"

"If it had been necessary you would have."

"You're right, I would," he nodded. "I've taken a fancy to you. You're a

good-looking and a plucky little devil. I've a notion to fall in love with

you."

"Don't!"

"Why not? Say I'm a villain and a bad lot. Wouldn't it be a good thing for

me to tie up with a fine, straight-up young lady like you? Me, I like the

way your eyes flash. You've got a devil of a temper, haven't you?"

They had been walking toward a pile of rocks some little way from the

cluster of cabins. Now he sat down and smiled impudently across at her.

"That's my business," she flung back stormily.

Genially he nodded. "So it is. Mine, too, when we trot in double

harness."

Her scornful eyes swept up and down him. "I wouldn't marry you if you were

the last man on earth."

"No. Well, I'm not partial to that game myself. I didn't mention

matrimony, did I?"

The meaning she read in his mocking, half-closed eyes startled the girl.

Seeing this, he added with a shrug:

"Just as you say about that. We'll make you Mrs. MacQueen on the level if

you like."

The passion in her surged up. "I'd rather lie dead at your feet--I'd

rather starve in these hills--I'd rather put a knife in my heart!"

He clapped his hands. "Fine! Fine! That Bernhardt woman hasn't got a

thing on you when it comes to acting, my dear. You put that across bully.

Never saw it done better."

"You--coward!" Her voice broke and she turned to leave him.

"Stop!" The ring of the word brought her feet to a halt. MacQueen padded

across till he faced her. "Don't make any mistake, girl. You're mine. I

don't care how. If it suits you to have a priest mumble words over us,

good enough. But I'm the man you've got to get ready to love."

"I hate you."

"That's a good start, you little catamount."

"I'd rather die--a thousand times rather."

"Not you, my dear. You think you would right now, but inside of a week

you'll be hunting for pet names to give me."

She ran blindly toward the house where her room was. On the way she passed

at a little distance Dunc Boone and did not see him. His hungry eyes

followed her--a slender creature of white and russet and gold, vivid as a

hillside poppy, compact of life and fire and grace. He, too, was a

miscreant and a villain, lost to honor and truth, but just now she held

his heart in the hollow of her tightly clenched little fist. Good men and

bad, at bottom we are all made of the same stuff, once we are down to the

primal emotions that go deeper than civilization's veneer.

CHAPTER VII

"TRAPPED!"

Black MacQueen rolled a cigarette and sauntered toward the other outlaw.

"I reckon you better saddle up and take a look over the Flattops, Dunc.

The way I figure it Lee's posse must be somewhere over there. Swing around

toward the Elkhorns and get back to report by to-morrow evening, say."

Boone looked at him in an ugly manner. "Nothin' doing, MacQueen."

"What's that?"

"I'm no greaser, my friend. Orders don't go with me."

"They don't, eh? Who's major domo of this outfit?"

"I'm going to stay right here in this valley to-night. See?"

"What's eatin' you, man?"

"And every night so long as Melissy Lee stays."

MacQueen watched him with steady, hostile eyes. "So it's the girl, is it?

Want to cut in, do you? Oh, no, my friend. Two's company; three's a

crowd. She's mine."

"No."

"Yes. And another thing, Mr. Boone. I don't stand for any interference in

my plans. Make a break at it and you'll take a hurry up journey to kingdom

come."

"Or you will."

"Don't bank on that off chance. The boys are with me. You're alone. If I

give the word they'll bump you off. _Don't make a mistake, Boone._"

The Arkansan hesitated. What MacQueen said was true enough. His

overbearing disposition had made him unpopular. He knew the others would

side against him and that if it came to a showdown they would snuff out

his life as a man does the flame of a candle. The rage died out of his

eyes and gave place to a look of cunning.

"It's your say-so, Black. But there will be a day when it ain't. Don't

forget that."

"And in the meantime you'll ride the Flattops when I give the word?"

Boone nodded sulkily. "I said you had the call, didn't I?"

"Then ride 'em now, damn you. And don't show up in the Cache till

to-morrow night."

MacQueen turned on his heel and strutted away. He was elated at his easy

victory. If he had seen the look that followed him he might not have been

so quiet in his mind.

But on the surface he had cinched his leadership. Boone saddled and rode

out of the Cache without another word to anybody. Sullen and vindictive he

might be, but cowed he certainly seemed. MacQueen celebrated by frequent

trips to his sleeping quarters, where each time he resorted to a bottle

and a glass. No man had ever seen him intoxicated, but there were times

when he drank a good deal for a few days at a stretch. His dissipation

would be followed by months of total abstinence.

All day the man persecuted Melissy with his attentions. His passion was

veiled under a manner of mock deference, of insolent assurance, but as the

hours passed the fears of the girl grew upon her. There were moments when

she turned sick with waves of dread. In the sunshine, under the open sky,

she could hold her own, but under cover of the night's blackness ghastly

horrors would creep toward her to destroy.

Nor was there anybody to whom she might turn for help. Lane and Jackson

were tools of their leader. The Mexican woman could do nothing even if she

would. Boone alone might have helped her, and he had ridden away to save

his own skin. So MacQueen told her to emphasize his triumph and her

helplessness.

To her fancy dusk fell over the valley like a pall. It brought with it the

terrible night, under cover of which unthinkable things might be done.

With no appetite, she sat down to supper opposite her captor. To see him

gloat over her made her heart sink. Her courage was of no avail against

the thing that threatened.

Supper over, he made her sit with him on the porch for an hour to listen

to his boasts of former conquests. And when he let her take her way to her

room it was not "Good-night" but a mocking "Au revoir" he murmured as he

bent to kiss her hand.

Melissy found Rosario waiting for her, crouched in the darkness of the

room that had been given the young woman. The Mexican spoke in her own

language, softly, with many glances of alarm to make sure they were

alone.

"Hist, senorita. Here is a note. Read it. Destroy it. Swear not to betray

Rosario."

By the light of a match Melissy read:

"Behind the big rocks. In half an hour.

"A Friend."

What could it mean? Who could have sent it? Rosario would answer no

questions. She snatched the note, tore it into fragments, chewed them into

a pulp. Then, still shaking her head obstinately, hurriedly left the

room.

But at least it meant hope. Her mind flew from her father to Jack Flatray,

Bellamy, young Yarnell. It might be any of them. Or it might be O'Connor,

who, perhaps, had by some miracle escaped.

The minutes were hours to her. Interminably they dragged. The fear rose in

her that MacQueen might come in time to cut off her escape. At last, in

her stocking feet, carrying her shoes in her hand, she stole into the

hall, out to the porch, and from it to the shadows of the cottonwoods.

It was a night of both moon and stars. She had to cross a space washed in

silvery light, taking the chance that nobody would see her. But first she

stooped in the shadows to slip the shoes upon her feet. Her heart beat

against her side as she had once seen that of a frightened mouse do. It

seemed impossible for her to cover all that moonlit open unseen. Every

moment she expected an alarm to ring out in the silent night. But none

came.

Safely she reached the big rocks. A voice called to her softly. She

answered, and came face to face with Boone. A drawn revolver was in his

hand.

"You made it," he panted, as a man might who had been running hard.

"Yes," she whispered. "But they'll soon know. Let us get away."

"If you hadn't come I was going in to kill him."

She noticed the hard glitter in his eyes as he spoke, the crouched look of

the padding tiger ready for its kill. The man was torn with hatred and

jealousy.

Already they were moving back through the rocks to a dry wash that ran

through the valley. The bed of this they followed for nearly a mile.

Deflecting from it they pushed across the valley toward what appeared to

be a sheer rock wall. With a twist to the left they swung back of a face

of rock, turned sharply to the right, and found themselves in a fissure

Melissy had not at all expected. Here ran a little canyon known only to

those few who rode up and down it on the nefarious business of their

unwholesome lives.

Boone spoke harshly, breaking for the first time in half an hour his moody

silence.

"Safe at last. By God, I've evened my score with Black MacQueen."

And from the cliff above came the answer--a laugh full of mocking deviltry

and malice.

The Arkansan turned upon Melissy a startled face of agony, in which

despair and hate stood out of a yellow pallor.

"Trapped."

It was his last word to her. He swept the girl back against the shelter of

the wall and ran crouching toward the entrance.

A bullet zipped--a second--a third. He stumbled, but did not fall.

Turning, he came back, dodging like a hunted fox. As he passed her,

Melissy saw that his face was ghastly. He ran with a limp.

A second time she heard the cackle of laughter. Guns cracked. Still the

doomed man pushed forward. He went down, struck in the body, but dragged

himself to his feet and staggered on.

All this time he had seen nobody at whom he could fire. Not a shot had

come from his revolver. He sank behind a rock for shelter. The ping of a

bullet on the shale beside him brought the tortured man to his feet. He

looked wildly about him, the moon shining on his bare head, and plunged up

the canyon.

And now it appeared his unseen tormentors were afraid he might escape

them. Half a dozen shots came close together. Boone sank to the ground,

writhed like a crushed worm, and twisted over so that his face was to the

moonlight.

Melissy ran forward and knelt beside him.

"They've got me ... in half a dozen places.... I'm going fast."

"Oh, no ... no," the girl protested.

"Yep.... Surest thing you know.... I did you dirt onct, girl. And I've

been a bad lot--a wolf, a killer."

"Never mind that now. You died to save me. Always I'll remember that."

"Onct you 'most loved me.... But it wouldn't have done. I'm a wolf and

you're a little white lamb. Is Flatray the man?"

"Yes."

"Thought so. Well, he's square. I rigged it up on him about the rustling.

I was the man you liked to 'a' caught that day years ago."

"You!"

"Yep." He broke off abruptly. "I'm going, girl.... It's gittin' black.

Hold my hand till--till----"

He gave a shudder and seemed to fall together. He was dead.

Melissy heard the sound of rubble slipping. Some one was lowering himself

cautiously down the side of the canyon. A man dropped to the wash and

strutted toward her. He kept his eyes fixed on the lifeless form, rifle

ready for action at an instant's notice. When he reached his victim he

pushed the body with his foot, made sure of no trap, and relaxed his

alertness.

"Dead as a hammer."

The man was MacQueen. He turned to Melissy and nodded jauntily.

"Good evening, my dear. Just taking a little stroll?" he asked

ironically.

The girl leaned against the cold wall and covered her face with her arm.

She was sobbing hysterically.

The outlaw seized her by the shoulders and swung her round. "Cut that out,

girl," he ordered roughly.

Melissy caught at her sobs and tried to check them.

"He got what was coming to him, what he's been playing for a long time. I

warned him, but the fool wouldn't see it."

"How did you know?" she asked, getting out her question a word at a time.

"Knew it all the time. Rosario brought his note to me. I told her to take

it to you and keep her mouth shut."

"You planned his death."

"If you like to put it that way. Now we'll go home and forget this

foolishness. Jeff, bring the horses round to the mouth of the gulch."

Melissy felt suddenly very, very tired and old. Her feet dragged like

those of an Indian squaw following her master. It was as though heavy

irons weighted her ankles.

MacQueen helped her to one of the horses Jackson brought to the lip of the

gulch. Weariness rode on her shoulders all the way back. The soul of her

was crushed beneath the misfortunes that oppressed her.

Long before they reached the ranch houses Rosario came running to meet

them. Plainly she was in great excitement.

"The prisoners have escaped," she cried to MacQueen.

"Escaped. How?" demanded Black.

"Some one must have helped them. I heard a window smash and ran out. The

young ranger and another man were coming out of the last cabin with the

old man. I could do nothing. They ran."

They had been talking in her own language. MacQueen jabbed another

question at her.

"Which way?"