WAH-NA-GI:

I cannot come back. Don't wait for me. Don't expect me. I can't ask

you to forget me, because I love you, never so much as now when I am

saying good-by. HAL.

He could only see dimly the address as he wrote it. Then he held it

before him and whispered: "'I hear the pulse of her secret soul!'"

"I beg your lordship's pardon----"

"Lordship? Lordship?" Who was that? And who was speaking? He was out

in the shadow of the Moquitch. Ah, no, he was in London, in his

father's house.

"Come in, Andrews; what is it?"

It was his father's butler, a slender little old man, with a deferential

face and a refined cultivated voice like the gentle-folk with whom he

had always lived. Even Andrews felt that there was something unusual in

the air.

"I hope I'm not intruding on your lordship."

"Not at all, Andrews."

"Is there anything I can do for you before you retire?"

"No; put out the lights and go to bed. Oh, and mail this letter for me,

please."

He and the letter were a long time in parting. He looked at it, passed

it from one hand to the other, held it out in view for a moment, then

entrusted it to Andrews, his eye following it in the butler's hand and

his body straining across the table as if he would go after it and bring

it back. As the old man got over to the electric switch he turned and,

with old-world deference, said: "Will your lordship permit me to say how

glad your father's old servants are to see you at home once more, and we

hope you are _home to stay_."

Hal caught his breath. The judge was putting on the black cap.

"Home to stay?--Yes, thank you, Andrews; thank you. Good night."

"Good night, my lord."

And the representative of that which was and would be turned out the

lights, and left him to himself, left him in the shadows of the big

room.

As soon as the door closed behind the form of Andrews, Hal clutched at

his collar, tore it open, threw off his coat, rushed to the windows that

formed one side of the room, threw them open, and stood for a moment

with his breast and face bared to the sluggish, clammy breeze that was

struggling with the burden of the fog. It was the act of a man used to

the open.

The light from the street lamp outside struggled feebly through the

precious stones that glowed in the windows on the stair. The fire light

crept out timidly into the room with a sinister glint. Hal found his

way back to the chair before the library table, and fell into it. The

light from the jewelled lamp on the table threw a white nimbus about his

face that made him look eerie and spectral, like a ghost that had stolen

out of the night and the fog.

"Home to stay!" he gasped. "To stay!"

Unknown to him, another apparition evolved from the gloom of the stairs,

floated in soft lacy clouds down into the room, stood for a moment

looking off into the hall where Lord Yester had disappeared, then

drifted noiselessly down and stood beside him. It was Edith.

"Well, he has gone," she said softly. "You have sent him away. You

have locked the door and thrown away the key, and now we have the rest

of our awful lives to spend with each other."

He did not move or seem to hear, and she slid serpent-like onto the

table, and brought her mocking face close to his.

"We shall have many, many glorious years to look forward to, each day of

each year a crucifixion. We shall hate each other over our coffee; we

shall loathe each other over the luncheon; we shall despise each other

through the long, long dinner. With murder in our thoughts and the itch

to strangle each other in our fingers, we'll have to be polite and even

affectionate," and she chuckled softly as she crossed to the fire, in

whose red glow she looked like a satanic Lamia.

"From now on I shall take an active interest in what interests you and I

shall have the satisfaction of knowing that I poison every minute of

your life. It's a glorious prospect, isn't it? When I think that for a

cheap bit of sentimental rubbish you ruined our lives, your own as well

as mine, it seems like a joke--a huge, ghastly, ferocious joke. Why

don't you laugh? Why don't you laugh? Why don't you laugh?" and she

gave way to a burst of demoniac cachinnation as she threw herself into

the big chair before the fire.

He did not reply or look at her or turn toward her, but kept his gaze

fixed on that solemn rock so many thousand miles away. When she had

exhausted herself, he said softly to himself: "Wah-na-gi! John McCloud!

I've kept my promise. My heart is empty, but my hands are clean!"

And so they sat as far apart as two worlds in space until the morning of

another day.

*CHAPTER XXI*

Before leaving New York Hal had arranged for a bank account upon which

Big Bill was at liberty to call, but otherwise the folks at Red Butte

were left to themselves. With the boy had gone the life of the ranch.

After him a cold torpor settled down and took possession. Routine ruled

supreme. Twice a week Curley rode over to the Agency, the nearest

post-office. His return was an event, not on account of anything that

ever happened or followed from it, but because of what might happen.

Some one might get a letter. Occasionally this unique experience

happened to John McCloud who had a married sister living in Washington

with whom he corresponded. Except the preacher, no one at the ranch was

much of a correspondent. Hal was not a letter-writer. In fact, the

writing of a letter assumed huge, formidable, and forbidding

proportions. Outside the necessary business matters, the letters he had

written in his life could have been counted on two hands. The newspapers

were always old. By the time they knew any event at the ranch the world

without had forgotten it or was preparing to forget it. In winter the

world without at times disappeared altogether. One day something

happened. Curley rode in with a letter for Wah-na-gi. Every one on the

ranch knew that an important thing had happened, that Wah-na-gi had

received a letter, that it was from London, and consequently from Hal.

No one said a word about it; no one asked her in regard to it. She did

not read it until it was night and she was alone in the living-room.

Then she went to a chest of drawers up under the window, took from them

the tiny pair of moccasins which had now become her "medicine," her

"sacred bundle," as the Indians call their treasures, their good-luck

symbols, brought them down, and sank on her knees before the blazing

logs in the big fireplace.

The reading of the letter was a solemn and formal function. She did not

tear it open with feverish curiosity. She put it down before her in

order to prepare her mind, to calm the beating of her heart. The little

moccasins had been a great comfort to her. When she was troubled she

went apart and held them next her heart, and had a "long think," and

somehow she got the impression that at such times Nat-u-ritch and her

son were near. The little shoes had walked into her Holy of Holies,

where she dreamed the divine dream of women, and she saw other tiny feet

romp about in them, the little feet of him who would call Hal father and

call her mother. Then she put down the sacred symbols and in the angry

glow of the fire read the bitter message which came to her out of the

London fog. There was no mistaking its meaning, its farewell. It

slipped from her hands to the floor and in her despair she seized his

gift to her and held it to her heart as she had done so often, but this

time comfort came slowly; came not at all. It was the end. He had said

so; had said good-by. She did not for a moment dispute its

inevitableness or question his decision. She remained there a long

time, looking into the cruel fire. Then she rose and put the baby shoes

away, and this time she knew what the mother feels who gathers up the

clothes and playthings her darling will never need again. Then she came

back and took up the letter and read it once more. She would never need

to read it again. It was burnt into her brain. McCloud came into the

room and at a glance saw what had happened. He brought a chair near,

sat down in it, and put his hand on her head with a caress.

"Wah-na-gi, my dear little girl," he said after a long pause; "I wish I

could bear this for you. You've been a teacher. Try to think of God as

a teacher. This life is a plane of consciousness, a kindergarten plane,

the primary class, and we may miss no step in the progress to a larger

plane, a higher plane, in the search to know God, whom to know is life

and peace. This will mean nothing to you now, but perhaps it will when

you can see beyond your own tears, and can take up your lesson again.

You know what the love of a teacher is; add to that the love of a

father, the love of a mother, and know they are only symbols of that

love which is divine."

Wah-na-gi did not answer, but she hastily picked up her letter and her

life and passed out of the room, and routine resumed its normal sway.

Fortunately for her, she was the busiest person on the ranch, for she

had the care of the house and of John McCloud. In the death valley

these two found each other. They began to see each other face to face,

to know and understand, and a great love took them by the hand and

walked with them in holy peace. Each was metaphysical; each had been

denied what seemed the one supreme need; each had been through the

waters of affliction; each seemed to be God's compensation to the other.

The lonely man who had missed the love of children found a child; the

lonely child found a father whose love, supreme, benignant, was like the

love of God. And so they walked in sad and solemn joy.

"Winter-man" came and went and had come again. "Cold-maker" had ridden

down out of the North and a white shroud lay over all the inert

desolation.

Even in the busy summer it is a silent land, its wide, vast muteness

occasionally relieved by the tumble of a cataract, the sob of a solemn

river, the twitter of a lonesome bird, the barking of a dog, the nightly

plaint of the coyote, the sound of the voice of some taciturn ranchman

or some wandering cowboy. Sometimes the muffled monotony of the

untenanted wastes falls over the mind and the soul, and men and women

are monotony-mad. When the cowboy goes to town he wants to ride up and

down through the streets making a noise, a noise other people can hear,

yapping and shooting off his revolver. The summer has activities, the

ranch, the crops, the round-up, social amenities, many things to

interest and occupy the isolated. In the winter the bear and the snake

go to sleep, and man hibernates too, in the solemn hush that broods over

the pulseless world.

Winter was upon them before any one realized it, and it came with an

angry rush that boded no good. The few books and magazines were soon

exhausted. The men looked after the stock, tried to keep in touch with

the cattle, made occasional excursions for deer, and played cards, and

then cards, and then some more cards. It was a hard winter and its dull

level unbroken except for two events. One day McShay came over with a

wagon-load of supplies and brought with him a stranger, a man he had

picked up on the trail and who was inquiring the way to Red Butte Ranch.

It was obvious to the Irishman that the man was a woodsman and used to

hardship. He was clean-cut, wiry, seasoned, built for endurance, but

evidently an outsider, not of the region. His equipment was too

complete, too up-to-date, and yet he wasn't an amateur hunter or a

tenderfoot. There was something about him hard to describe unless you

call it cosmopolitan, and there was a quiet reserve that covered powers

of reflection, contemplation, the dreamer or the student. He didn't fit

in to any of the conditions of the Indian country. As he volunteered

little information on the way to the ranch, he found McShay equally

taciturn. When he reached the ranch, however, the stranger did not

leave them long in doubt as to who he was and what he wanted.

"My name is Gifford--Walter Gifford," he volunteered as Mike started to

introduce him to McCloud, "This is Doctor McCloud, isn't it? You're a

Princeton man--so am I. You studied at Bonn--so did I. You see, I know

all about you, and now I'm glad to have the honor of knowing you

personally."

He talked now very fast, as if he were in a hurry.

"I've been out to look over the Moquitch Forest Reserve and before I

return to Washington I wanted to see Mr. Calthorpe. I hope----"

As he looked from one to the other and divined that his hope was vain,

it was manifest that his disappointment was very great.

"Hal has been gone for over a year," said the clergyman.

"Yes," said Gifford; "we knew he went to London about a year ago, but he

isn't in London; hasn't been there for some time, and no one knows just

where he is. I hoped I might find him here. Too bad--too bad."

Gifford spoke with such earnestness as to almost necessitate further

explanation, but every one hesitated to embarrass him with questions.

Finally McCloud said:

"Is there anything that we can do?"

Gifford looked from one to the other. McCloud added: "You may speak

freely. We are all his friends here."

"Well, we depended on Calthorpe, on his testimony, on his documents--the

incriminating documents we supposed he had which came into his

possession while he was chief of police on the Agency--and we were led

to believe that he would be on hand when he and they were needed. He

failed us, signally failed us. It really is too bad."

McShay said: "Mr. Gifford tells me that Ladd is back on his job with a

coat of whitewash that would make the driven snow look dissolute. You

know I think they ought to call that place Whitewashington."

"Agent Ladd? Back? Is it possible?" ejaculated the clergyman in

dismay.

"Maybe they cooked it up," said McShay, "to pull off the investigation

when the kid couldn't be present. It's a disappointment to me in a way.

I thought when the boy put his hand to the plow he'd stay with it until

the plow fell apart. He promised to have Ladd's scalp, and he's Injin.

Something's wrong. The boy ain't a quitter. You can stake your life on

that. Did you notify him?"

"We wrote to him again and again, first to his London address, then

here."

"We have always forwarded all mail that came here for him," said the

preacher.

"Then we found that he was not in London, that he and his wife had gone

away, without leaving an address, to South America or Africa, no one

knew where, but supposedly on a hunting expedition. We expected him in

Washington on his way to London; but he didn't turn up."

"Anyway," groaned McShay, "Ladd got away with it and is back with the

bells."

"Ladd personally is a small matter. Individually he doesn't count,"

said Gifford earnestly; "but it was a chance, a fine chance, to drag

these big malefactors into the light, make them come into the open, make

them show their rapacious hands. Ladd's just a common or garden

criminal, but we thought we had the chance to show his connection with

the big fellows, and their backers in the cabinet and in congress. The

trial of Ladd was a farce. Secretary Walker is discredited. He will be

forced out of the cabinet. Whittaker of the Land Office will go in, and

the game will go on behind closed doors. Something is at stake, bigger

than Ladd and his honesty; bigger than even Walker and his reputation,

and his honor and his career; bigger than these asphalt lands; bigger

than the coal lands behind them, enormous as they are; bigger than you

and me or our immediate interests--the right of the people to preserve

the resources God has given them from spoliation, to keep them for the

public good instead of for private gain."

It was evident that Mr. Gifford was a man with a purpose, an idea, and

that he could glow with it.

"Say," said McShay, "you ain't the Gifford of the Forest Service?"

"Yes; I am."

"Well, gosh-all-hemlocks, you're the most unpopular man in the world in

these here parts."

"Of course we're unpopular. It'll be a sad day for this country when no

one is willing to be unpopular."

"Mr. Gifford," said the cowman rising, "I'd follow your lead if I

thought you'd arrive anywhere, but you can't pull it off. I'm a

practical man. These fellers are practical men. They'll beat you to it

every time. You appeal to love of country, posterity; they appeal to

each man's self-interest, his immediate self-interest. It's me first

and then the country. That's human nature. Look at my people. You'll

get no support from them. We discovered this asphalt. We located it.

You have it withdrawn from entry and the Asphalt Trust helps you do it.

When we're frozen out and have surrendered, they'll have it restored

again. You hope to prevent that, but you won't do it. They control

power in congress and in the cabinet. Whittaker belongs to 'em. We

won't get the lands, but we'll force them to buy us out. When the gold

mines in the Black Hills were thrown open to entry, the Supreme Court

held that the original locators had priority rights, and that's a

precedent that will cover our case. You have a noble idea, Mr. Gifford,

but what the plain American citizen wants to know is: 'Where do I come

in?' He'd rather have two dollars and a half in cash than one thousand

dollars for posterity."

"Mike is right," said the preacher, "as to his constituency. Your

splendid purpose, Mr. Gifford, would get Wah-na-gi's vote and mine, and

Hal's, if he were here."

"If he were here," repeated the forester wistfully. "If he were here,"

but he let the subject drop and shortly after McShay said good-night and

took himself to Big Bill's quarters.

When he was gone Gifford said, drawing in to the comfort of the fire:

"Doctor McCloud, I'm glad we are alone; McShay is not for us."

"You mustn't get a false impression of Mike, Mr. Gifford. He's not a

man of imagination or a large horizon, but within his limitations, which

are the limitations of most men, he is true and big. You know where he

stands. I'd trust him with everything but my soul." The other bowed to

this and did not contest it.

"I'm going to be very frank with you, Doctor; and I hope you will be as

frank with me. At the superficial investigation of Mr. Ladd certain

expressions came out that indicated that his backers were in possession

of certain of our letters directed to Calthorpe. You know him

intimately. Would Mr. Calthorpe ignore these appeals completely, if he

received them?"

"I think not. I can conceive of no reason why he should not answer your

letters and either promise to come or say why he could not come. Do you

think any of your appeals reached him before he left London?"

"I am sure of it. You say he would not ignore these appeals if he

received them. If he did not receive them, who that was near him would

have a motive for tampering with his mail or his correspondence? Who in

his household would be approachable? Who would want to injure him or us?

Or would act from motives of hate or revenge?

"I need not tell you that our opponents would stop at nothing to

side-track Calthorpe or get possession of his papers. You know the old

saying--find the woman. Well, in this case it leads nowhere. There are

only two women in his life apparently--this Indian girl here----"

"She knows no more of him at this moment than you do."

"And his wife."

"It is preposterous," said McCloud, "to think of his wife in connection

with a criminal act, and one in which she could have no conceivable

interest. As a matter of fact, I have reason to believe that though

they once had an estrangement----"

"Ah, there had been trouble between them?"

"A temporary drawing apart apparently, but, as I was saying, I have

reason to believe, to know in fact, that they have become reconciled,

and been reunited. Their going away together is proof positive of

that."

"It's very mysterious, isn't it?" said Gifford. "His papers? Did he

take them with him or leave them here?"

"He went away very hurriedly, taking with him nothing, so far as I know,

except some of his clothes. He left some papers and documents, not many,

which I put carefully in a marked envelope, to await his instructions."

"And of course you know nothing of the contents of those documents?"

"Absolutely nothing. I know he offered to return the certificates of

stock to the asphalt company, but they ignored his letter."

"I needn't warn you, Doctor, to take good care of those papers."

"No one here would think of disturbing them any more than I would. If I

should die before they are called for by Hal, I have written

instructions on the outside of the envelope to have them sent to my

sister in Washington, who will hold them until she can put them in

possession of the owner."

"Doctor McCloud, we must find Calthorpe and he must come to America and

get into this fight. He owes it to himself. He owes it to Secretary

Walker who took up his fight in reliance upon him. and whose future is

at stake. We have reserved the right to reopen the Ladd case and we

have six months in which to do it. Back of all this, back of Walker and

Calthorpe, is a big cause which will be set back twenty-five years if we

fail. Possibly we can't prove anything against Whittaker, anything

illegal, but we can drag these interests into the open and save the

resources of the people for the people. If you will write him a

personal letter, telling him the facts, asking for instructions, and

have it signed also by this Indian woman, I will take it away with me in

the morning and eventually put it into the care of a messenger who will

have instructions to find Calthorpe, wherever he is in the world, and

put that letter into his individual hand. Will you do it?"

*CHAPTER XXII*

All London knew that the "affair" between Viscountess Effington and Lord

Yester was at an end. People in Society are very busy; they work very

hard, but they always have time to devote to each other's interests, and

they bring to bear on these matters their best abilities, frequently of

a high order. If the ingenuity, the penetration, the powers of analysis

and deduction focussed upon why Mrs. Smith is not now speaking to Mrs.

Jones, or the exact thermometric relations of Mr. White to Mr. Black and

Mr. Black's interesting wife, could be concentrated upon, say the

subject of unemployment, the world would go forward by leaps and bounds.

The interesting and accomplished thief is frequently told that if he

would keep his splendid gifts within legal bounds he would be the same

ornament to Society that we are, but this artist has no taste for our

dull levels. The noble river refuses to flow in straight lines and at

an average depth. It loves the rapids, and the falls, and the crooked

way. So probably Society will go on with its minute microscopic study

of itself.

Edith, Viscountess Effington, began to think socially at a very early

age, and ever since she had come to years of indiscretion the one aim

and object of all life, all hope and endeavor, had been the Court Set.

Many people pass through life almost ignorant that there is such a

thing, but it is of no use to say to one who cannot breathe at an

elevation of ten thousand feet: "I am breathing very comfortably."

While we are pleasantly exhilarated the other is bleeding to death.

Edith had seen the ambition of her life possible of realization as the

Duchess of Uxminster. Every phase of her struggle to this end was

familiar to her friends, and every one knew that it now rested in a

fashionable London cemetery, where "Here Lies," etc., could be read by

any one in the street who would stop long enough to give it a curious

glance. This made London somewhat difficult. It furnished her heaven

with some of the characteristics of a warmer place. To know that your

grief and despair have furnished amusement to your friends, that your

thwarted ambition has given them a keen sense of enjoyment; to hear some

one throw the switch when you enter a drawing-room, to feel the

embarrassed silence, and to know that a damask curtain has been hastily

thrown over the remains of your inmost soul under the knives of skilful

surgeons who have left no organ unexamined, is an ordeal for the bravest

man or woman. Edith tried it. She went everywhere, just as she had

done before. She tried to act and look as if nothing had happened. She

made a brave show, but she had climbed in a ruthless way and she was

finding out that those who live by the sword shall perish by it. She

came to know that she had not only not gained ground, but had lost it.

Her world had seen her play her cards, knew what she had in her hand,

and had already decided that she was inevitable as the Duchess, and it

adjusted its deportment accordingly. When they found that she had played

and lost, they did not know exactly how or why, they felt the resentment

of those who have been cruelly deceived, who have paid something for

nothing, or kowtowed to the wrong person, and the gratification of

social resentments is a fine art. To a woman of her pride, pertinacity,

and ambition this was maddening. She came back from teas, at-homes,

week-ends quivering, lacerated, and of course her habits did not

improve. Every nerve screamed for rest, for quiet, for forgetfulness,

and she drank more and more and more, and then sought relief in the

oblivion of the master drug. She had always been an accomplished gambler

in the usual social sense, but now it became a passion, an obsession,

and she played for stakes that increased rapidly and dangerously, stakes

she could not afford to lose. It was the one social diversion that

helped her to forget. Her passion for play was leading her into

questionable associations, into intimacy with shady people, people she

would not have wiped her dainty boots on before. She had used people as

steps. They were now using her to walk on, and it was likely to be a

muddy process.

There was an old-fashioned prehistoric assumption that the basis of

social intercourse was similarity of tastes, the interchange of

intellectual or spiritual ideas; but when Society becomes an adjunct to

politics, business, or when it becomes a formal profession, a vocation,

then some strange things happen.

Things very surprising to herself were now happening to Edith. To her

own huge disgust and dismay, she found herself one week-end a guest at

the beautiful country-place of Solly Wirtheimer, a South African

burglar-person, who was trying to jimmy his way into the polite world.

Without any more interest in the horse than in the Mithraic mythology he

owned a racing stable, and he was trying hard to lose enough money to

the proper persons to enable him to associate with them. It really was

hard work. He almost had to push it over to them. Edith naturally felt

that nothing short of winning a pot of money would compensate her for

the degradation of being one of Solly's house party. At the usual game

of bridge, however, she lost persistently. Her game was degenerating or

Solly's guests were especially clever or lucky. Eventually she became

frightened at her losses. Her genial host offered to lend her any

amount she required. She chose rather to accept the offer of her own

partner, a friendly young American person, whom she met here for the

first time and about whom she knew nothing. This loan naturally led to

further acquaintance. It is a way with loans. They either lead to

intimacy or estrangement. In the course of London activities her own

fortune had been pretty well dissipated, and she had been more than

ordinarily reckless because the future had seemed so well assured and

the estates of Uxminster seemed to guarantee one against misfortune!

Instead of bridge being a pastime, it must be confessed that a great

many of the most refined people play it to win. Every smart house in

London is a casino, and one must play well, or be very lucky, or have

lots of money to lose. In the course of bridge Edith found herself

again in need of a loan, and the friendly young American person seemed

the most available resource. Young American persons have so much and are

usually so delightfully careless with it. This was arranged over a

luncheon at The Savoy grill room. At this luncheon the "American person"

induced the Viscountess to talk of her husband. She took small pains to

conceal her animosity. The upshot of this interview was that she

achieved a remunerative occupation that promised an assured income and

enabled her to gratify her supreme hate. The combination was

delightful. It was understood that she was to give the American person

a perusal of all Hal's papers and letters that were available, that she

would exercise a supervision of all his future correspondence, and that

she would induce him to leave London; that she would keep him out of the

way and inaccessible so long as it suited the purposes of the young

American person and his friends. This latter stipulation was the only

part of the bargain that made her hesitate. She took this under

advisement. One day shortly after this interview she was having her

breakfast and, happening to look at the clock, she saw that it was six

P.M., and after breakfast, when her mind was fairly clear, she looked

into the mirror. She was frightened, thoroughly frightened. Her beauty

had been her armor, her weapon, her resource, her salvation. She had

always suffered. The aches, the pains, the discomfort of ill-health she

could endure so long as she kept her personal appearance. Now, in the

depths of the mirror, she saw walking toward her a faded, broken woman,

with something in the background, something cold, inevitable, horrible,

hovering near. Sir George had advised her to travel, to get away from

London. London at the moment was difficult. She was under a small

temporary cloud. It was very smart to go to the ends of the world in

search of sport. Hal had urged it on that terrible night. He had not

mentioned it since, because he had learned to conceal his desires. That

he wanted to do anything, go anywhere, was sufficient to arouse her

vivid opposition, and she was ingenious in making that opposition as

painful as possible. He had resort therefore to the trick of advocating

the exact opposite of his intent, but she was very cunning in seeing

through such subterfuge. She saw, too, in their peregrinations enlarged

opportunities of thwarting him. So to his intense amazement she

announced her intention of giving up her own pleasures to gratify him,

her willingness to go out, "the world forgetting, by the world forgot."

He concluded that she had become frightened about her health. His own

position was deplorable. The atmosphere of the clubs where he would

care to go was cold and clammy. The clubs where he would have been

welcomed disgusted him. At home he wore the armor of silence and

impassivity, to keep from being stung to death. Abroad he wandered

here, he wandered there, without pleasure or purpose. At night he

frequented the music-halls, bored, with a sneer on his lip for the bald

common vulgarity of it all--the brazen women, the vicious youngsters,

and the feeble slimy old men. He went to the sporting events, the

races. He never missed the Sporting Club, and got some diversion from

seeing one gladiator beat another into a bloody pulp. He was drinking

again, and gambling too. He didn't have to look into a mirror to see

the end of it all. At the suggestion that they go into the wilderness

the rubber mask dropped from his face and he smiled. Dormant energy

awoke in him. He suggested India. India suited the young American

person too, and so it was agreed that they would go after the pigmy hog

in Nepal and Sikkim, the cat-bear (_AElurus_), wild sheep and goats, and

the musk-deer in the precipices of the Himalayas. It was the boy's

salvation. It gave him something to think of, plan for, and at least he

had the joys of imagination and anticipation all the long way to India.

Of hunting he got precious little; of game almost none at all. Edith

had no taste for hardship or even discomfort, and she was possessed with

a satanic restlessness and capriciousness. No sooner had they

determined on one course than she changed it. They were lucky to reach

any destination before her whim veered. He had not the strength or the

patience to fight these moods. It was easier to let her have her way.

And so they drifted, drifted from day to day, from place to place, her

preference always being for the cities where racing and other forms of

gambling offered some diversion.

The cities brought them in contact with the military class, with its

painful and odious memories. She wouldn't go into the forests or the

mountains with him, and she wouldn't let him go alone. So drifting here

and there up and down over the earth like two lost souls, they found

themselves one day at Hardwar, near the head-waters of the sacred

Ganges, and Hal felt the call of the mountain, and determined to go into

the Kedarnath region for game, but, game or no game, he felt that he

must get away, go into the solitudes and have a "long think." He had

endured the caprices, the nagging, the ingenious cruelties of her

deviltry as long as it was possible. He knew she would not follow him,

at least not far. She returned to Hardwar, as he knew she would, before

he reached the waters of the Bhaghirati, where they camped for the

night.

After the evening meal, as they were gathered about the camp-fire--the

guides, interpreter, the carriers--out of the shadows of the night, into

the fitful gleam of the flames, walked a religious mendicant, a holy

man. Almost naked, oblivious to the intense cold, with the abstraction

of the devotee, he stood in proud humility. If he came to beg for food,

his purpose was at once absorbed, merged in a rhapsodical fervor. From

the perfunctory murmur of what might have been a benediction or a

prayer, his voice rose to a penetrating and commanding pitch, reached an

intense climax, and then he went out again into the night as he had

come. What he said produced a profound impression on his hearers.

Hal was conscious of being moved, thrilled, awed by it, though he had no

notion of its meaning. A profound silence followed the disappearance of

the fakir, a silence that finally became unbearable. Hal somehow

dreaded to ask what the old man had said, but finally he started to

discuss the plans for the ensuing day. The interpreter shook his head.

On the following day they would go back, he informed the sahib. Go

back? What for? They had scarcely started. Then it was explained to

him that it would be unsafe, unwise, to go on in face of the warning

they had received. This was most annoying. Hal indignantly protested

against having his plans upset by the wild words of a crazy old man. He

would go on. He was informed that in that event he would go alone. The

natives would go no further. He fumed, raged, but saw that it was to no

purpose. They would return on the morrow. Again he must submit. There

was no other way. When all the others had retired he asked the

interpreter what the holy man had said. He was informed that the devout

man had suddenly become conscious of the presence of a stranger, for

whom he brought a message. The voices of destiny cried to him to flee

from the East; to go back, to retrace his steps, to find his life where

he had lost it, in the far-away where the sun sets in the West. Was

that all? No. The written word was following him about the world,

running toward him; he must turn back to meet it. That was not all. It

was difficult to get the interpreter to complete it. Under pressure he

admitted that the wise and holy one had seen a serpent coiled about him,

slowly crushing, strangling his soul; that he had disappeared into the

night, crying to him: "Escape, escape, escape!"

The following day, on the way back to Hardwar, as they halted for the

noonday meal, a native joined them and attached himself to their party

without attracting the attention of the sahib who was silent,

abstracted, despondent. That night as they camped again the native,

having in various ways established to his own satisfaction the identity

of the European gentleman, handed him an envelope containing two

letters, one from John McCloud and Wah-na-gi, and the other from Walter

Gifford. The native was attached to the Indian secret police. That

night the sahib had a "long think." When he reached Hardwar the

following night he found Edith sunk in a complete stupor. Over the

writing-table were scattered letters. In looking for his own it was

inevitable that he should see complete evidence of the extent to which

he had been the victim of her malice. That night he wrote to John

McCloud to forward his papers by registered mail to the care of

Secretary Walker at Washington. He wrote to Gifford saying that he

would be in Washington at the earliest possible moment, and he left a

note for Edith advising her to return to London, where he promised to

meet her on his return from America.

*CHAPTER XXIII*

Down from the summits of the Moquitch had swept "Winter-man" with

legions upon legions of white cavalry and overrun the land. Trails,

roads, trees, rocks, landmarks, fences, rivers, disappeared. Cabins and

stables had to be unsnowed. Man's boasted dominion reached from the

cabin to the stable and back again. The throbbing, suffering earth had

gone to sleep, to dream under a white silence.

John McCloud was dying and God had said to the world, "Peace! Be

still!" In the crowded haunts of men brooding sorrow does not sit down

by the fireside, and stay. Even sorrow is hustled and bustled about.

The butcher and baker are at the kitchen door. The telephone-bell

rings. The postman brings the claims of church, hospital, school, town,

county, or State. Friends put books, pictures in our hands, close the

shutters, take us away, lead us where music soothes, or into strange

lands, or into the playhouse where the tragedy of imaginary sins and

sufferings forces us for the blessed moment to forget our own. Life,

multitudinous life, goes on and sweeps us with it. In the desert sorrow

sits by the fire, comes to the table, lies down beside one in the

terrible night. There is no other voice except the voice of God.

Wah-na-gi and John McCloud had each a noble gift for loving, a gift that

had been narrowed down almost to the other. Silence, solitude, and

suffering had put the eternal sign and seal upon their love. Out of the

wreck of their lives this seemed to be all. It made them very tender,

very thoughtful, very considerate of each other. She took elaborate

pains that he should not see her anxiety, her terror, her fierce protest

against the cruelty of it. She tried very hard to surround the invalid

with an atmosphere of comfort, hope, and courage. At times the pretence

wore a very thin disguise, and he tried so hard not to let her see him

suffer, not to tax her strength, not to shadow her young life with

incurable sorrow. Each made a brave show of a cheerfulness neither

felt. Each was very sensitive of the smallest change in the simple

elements that made up their lives. Each seized upon the smallest sign

of encouragement to hand to the other, and each turned away from the

grim truth. The tide ebbed and flowed, but on the morning and evening

of each day both could take the measure of his drift out to the eternal

sea, the measure of their parting.

All that care, ever watchful; all that prayer, silent and spoken; all

that love could do to hold him back had been done, and the tide kept on

its inevitable way.

As the certain separation came closer and closer each clung to the other

with desperate tenderness.

Oh, if the cruel snows would go, and the warm sun would come, and the

flowers, and the gentle spring, and give this brave, battling soul a

chance! Finally she sent word to McShay to come. She felt that she

must have help, help to face this, to do what was to be done, to meet

what was to come, if nothing could be done. She cried out for help, and

McShay was a strong man, the strongest man she knew, and he loved John

McCloud too. He would come. Mike came, came knowing he could do

nothing, but glad to come; glad to bring his silent offering. He came

when he could, and with him came a storm that raged with unabated fury

and made his return impossible; a storm that cut them off completely

from the world, that blotted out the sky, that swept the great white

plains, caught up the snow in angry swirls, throwing it into vast

drifts, tearing it up again and tossing it back against the falling

heavens, the turbulent air filled with blinding, stinging, suffocating

flakes, while through it all the wind moaned and shrieked and called for

victims.

"Beats all," said McShay. "Never will let up, I reckon. Ain't seen a

storm like this since I kin remember."

He was sitting on a three-legged stool by the chimney in the living-room

of the cabin of the Red Butte Ranch, smoking his pipe. The remark was

addressed more to himself than to Wah-na-gi, who sat beside a couch

covered with skins and Navajo blankets, which had been drawn down into

the glow of the roaring fire. The light from a bracket oil lamp swung

from the ceiling fell over her and the pale face resting against the

black bear skin, and showed her holding the ghostly hand of all that was

left of John McCloud. He was sleeping fitfully, painfully. The windows

on each side of the storm-door in the back were shivering in their

sockets. The cabin nestled close to the ground or the wild wind would

have torn it loose. As it was, it trembled as the wind caught it in its

teeth, shook it fiercely, and dropped it howling with impotent fury. As

the storm-door opened vagrant hurrying flakes danced into the room and

died an instant death in the glow of the great fire. With them Big Bill

entered and shook the snow from his cap and clothes, and beat his big

hands to get the blood flowing in them.

"Well, Bill, any news?" asked McShay quietly.

"Yes, Rough-house Joe's got in, but he's in awful bad shape,

frost-bitten, starving; never will git over it, I guess."

"And the supplies? What about the supplies?"

"Lost!"

"Lost?" and Mike indulged in a low, long whistle.

"Snowslide comin' through Dead Man's Canyon. As far as he knows, Joe's

the only one of the party left."

"Gee, that's tough, ain't it?" said McShay quietly.

"The stuff you brought in, Mike, is gone, and we're up against it."

Bill referred to the former visit of McShay's in which he had brought a

wagon-load of supplies.

"We got to git in touch with somewhere or starve."

Both men realized that help from without was unlikely as no one would

know of their necessities. It would be natural to suppose that the

supplies lost in Dead Man's Canyon had reached their destination. The

situation was serious.

Bill got a stool and came down and sat on the other side of the

fireplace and they smoked in silence for some time. Finally Mike said:

"No one will try to break through to us."

"Some of us got to git through to them," said Bill. "That's about the

size of it."

"I've only been waitin' for the storm to let up a bit," said the

Irishman.

"Gosh, it may keep this up for a month of Sundays. No use waitin' any

longer. I think it's a dyin' down some. I'm fer a try at it."

"You?" said Mike with incredulity. "Git out. That's my job. You with

your rheumatiz? You ain't any longer young, Bill. Better leave it to

me."

Both Bill and McShay had reached the age when it is impossible to take

advice. Each went about his preparations while the argument continued.

"You can go if you like," Bill suggested; "but I'm agoin'."

"Ain't you old fellers vain?" protested Mike. "You'll only be a nuisance

to me. Better stay."

"Old fellers, eh? Say, you needn't be afraid. If I can't pull you

through I won't run away from you. I'll bring you back."

"What is it, Bill?" asked Wah-na-gi, looking up and seeing their

elaborate preparations.

"Well, we're clean out o' grub, Wah-na-gi, and some one's got to git

through to Calamity or the fort or the Agency."

"Oh, Bill," she said; "couldn't you bring back a doctor for him?"

Bill and McShay exchanged looks and the latter bent over the clergyman

and listened to his breathing for a second, and then he said very gently

to her:

"It wouldn't be no use, Wah-na-gi. He's pretty nearly over the Divide,

I guess. You won't be afraid to be left here alone, will you?"

"Oh, no," she answered simply.

Afraid of what? There was nothing to be afraid of, except this grim

spectre which sat on the other side of the couch and held the other hand

of her foster-father.

"He may pass out to-night," said McShay, following her gaze.

"Don't see how he can play the game much longer. Gee, he's made a game

fight! He was just lent to us, I guess, just to show us what a real man

was like; a man who was on the level and wasn't lookin' for the best of

it. In my experience I've seen men handled; I've handled 'em myself,

and you can appeal to every feller's fear or his lust or his cupidity,

and that about lets 'em out. I've always thought this

'love-one-another' thing, this 'turn-the-other-cheek' game, this

'bear-ye-one-another's-burden' racket was a beautiful fairy tale, a good

thing for little boys and old women, but say, he makes it good. John,

here, makes you believe in it. A life like his puts it up to you, the

Christ story, and says: 'Say, what about it?'" Wah-na-gi was weeping.

The preacher was asleep, so she could have the relief of tears.

"Don't you cry, little woman," said Mike, trying to console her. "He's

had a tough job here. It can't be as hard for him farther on. Would

you want to keep him here knowin' what he suffers?"

Ah, that's a hard question to ask. It's only answered by another, and

not answered then.

"Don't your arm git tired holdin' it that-a'-way hour after hour?" said

the Irishman, trying to divert her.

"He sleeps better that way," was all she said.

"Beats all," said Mike with undisguised admiration. "He clings to the

Almighty with one hand, and a little Injin woman with the other.

Suppose there's Injin angels, Bill?"

"Looks that-a'-way, don't it?" replied the foreman. "It's a sure thing

there's _one_."

Bill had always kept a small supply of liquor on the ranch, hidden away

with supreme cunning. Where or what his private cellar was no one ever

knew, but on state occasions and in emergency Bill could be depended on

to produce. The law of supply having been completely suspended, the

private cellar had been reduced to a bottle containing perhaps one and a

half drinks of whiskey and another containing perhaps a third of a

bottle of brandy. The brandy he now divided carefully into three parts.

One flask he handed to McShay, the other he put in the inside of his own

storm-coat, and the rest he poured into a cup which he held out to

Wah-na-gi.

"What is it, Bill?" she asked.

"It's fer him," he said, nodding toward the invalid. Wah-na-gi had to

move to take the cup and, though she disengaged her hand ever so gently,

the drifting man felt the anchor drag, and he woke with a little start.

"Well, boys," he said with a faint smile, seeing the two men over him;

"what is it?"

"Just tellin' Wah-na-gi to make you take a little of this if you should

feel faint in the night," said Bill.

"I've reformed, Bill. I'm not drinking now," said the sick man with a

quizzical look playing about his eyes, tenuous and vapory. "I won't

need it. Thank you just the same."

The noble voice was gone, the voice he had played upon with all the

skill of a great musician, the voice that had swayed multitudes. He

spoke with effort in a husky whisper.

"Bill and I are going to try to git through to Calamity or the fort,

Parson," said McShay.

"In this storm?" asked the sick man.

"Oh, Bill and I don't mind a little thing like a storm."

"And the wind has died down a whole lot," added Bill cheerfully.

"May God go with you," said the clergyman, raising himself upon the

couch. "I'll say good-by to you before you go."

"Oh, shucks," laughed Mike uneasily. "'Tain't good-by, Parson. We're

a-comin' back."

"But I won't be here, Mike."

Each one knew what McCloud meant, and each one tried to look as if he

didn't. Wah-na-gi, seeing that he wanted to sit up, had put a pillow

under his shoulders, and now he stretched out an emaciated hand, to the

two big brawny men, and his eyes looked from one to the other with

admiration.

"You are two fine, brave, splendid men. I'm proud to have known you, to

have called you my friends."

The lines about Bill's mouth twitched and all he could say was, "Same

here, Parson," and he walked away to the fire.

Wah-na-gi had gone to the window, as if to look out at the storm, but

really to hide her tears. McShay glanced at her and Bill furtively,

then he sat down on the stool, and bent down over the sick man and spoke

for his ear alone: "And say, Parson, just before comin' over this time,

I--I--sold out my liquor business. Thought maybe it would please you,

and somehow couldn't think of anything else that would."

A smile spread over the wan face.

"Oh, thank you, Mike. Thank you. Perhaps I haven't lived in vain."

"Anything we kin do fer you while we're gone?" asked Bill, not turning,

but gazing deep into the fire. "Any letters, or telegrams, or messages

you want to trust us with?"

"No, Bill, thank you. There is just one thing troubles me, and only

one--this dear child." He nodded his head in the direction of the

window where she was standing weeping. "She's made such a noble fight,

against such frightful odds, she mustn't go back; she mustn't be allowed

to give up or be forced into the old environment. She must be saved."

"Say, Parson, rest your mind easy about that," said Mike earnestly.

"She ain't agoin' to want a friend while Bill or me lives. Ain't that

right, Bill?"

"It sure is, Mike."

"That's all," said the sick man with a sigh of relief. "And now I'm

ready to go." He meant for the long, long journey.

Bill and Mike were ready too. The wind had died down to a cruel whine

and their project waited.

"Well, so long, Parson," said Bill with a pretty decent show of cheer in

his voice. "If we can't git through we'll have to come back. That's

all."

"Now no gittin' low spirited while we're gone," called out McShay as he

went to the door. "Now mind! No gittin' discouraged; no givin' up; no

white-flag business! Don't you let him weaken, Wah-na-gi."

"No, no," she answered back through her tears, trying hard to catch the

uplift of the big cowman.

"God sure hates a quitter, Parson; ain't that right?"

"That's right," whispered back McCloud, meeting the demand for a rally

and a charge. "That's right. Mike. No one shall say I was a quitter.

I'm going out with the honors of war, the flag flying and the band

playing."

"Good," shouted back the Irishman from the storm-door, and they were

gone.

After the paroxysm that followed their departure had passed, the sick

man sank back upon the couch exhausted, and closed his eyes to rest. It

had been a great strain, but somehow he felt more at peace than he had

done for a long time, and he drifted into a great calm.

To Wah-na-gi, who had to watch the struggle, and whose great pity and

love demanded something to do, her conscious helplessness was an ordeal.

Finally she could restrain herself no longer and she cried out in the

agony of her soul: "Oh, my father, why is it? Why is it? If there is a

God, why does he let you suffer?"

"Every heart has faced that mystery, dear child," he said gently. "Even

the Saviour had a moment when he felt forsaken. I thought once I was to

do big things for humanity and God, but who knows what is great or what

is little? Some careless word I may have spoken and forgotten may be

blessed, or my obedience, my patience, may have touched some heart here,

yours or another's, who will redeem the waste places and make the

wilderness to blossom as the rose."

His spirit was unquenchable, his fervor undying. His enthusiasm rose

superior to the claims of physical dissolution. She didn't try any

longer to force him to husband his strength. She knew he wanted to go

down with colors flying, militant. She knelt by his bed and bowed her

head, so as to lose no word of those precious words which were to be his

last.

"I think the great Teacher is educating us out of the physical. He puts

two objects in our hands, then He shows us that if you take one object

from two objects it leaves one object, and we are altogether concerned

with the objects, stones, or sticks, or flowers that fade, and by and by

He takes away the objects because we no longer need them. We have

grasped the truth, the fixed, unalterable truth, that one from two

leaves one. I saw two little street urchins once standing outside a

great shop window filled with things they desired--playthings. One said

'I choose _that_.' And the other said 'I choose _that_.' Finally they

chose the same object, and there was a battle, a fierce, cruel fight,

for what neither of them had or could have. We are like that. And so

God, little by little, takes away from us houses and lands and bodies,

playthings, that we may know the truths of spirit."

Wah-na-gi raised her bowed head to look at him.

"Your face shines with a strange light," she said with an awed whisper.

"I am very close to the Hereafter, Wah-na-gi."

"I shall be very lonely when you are gone."

"Ah, my child, you are lonely now, grieving for him, for Hal, grieving,

grieving."

"Yes, so it will be always."

He knew that each day as the sun crept up over the Moquitch she stood on

the rock and scanned the horizon, and gazed long across the trail where

he had disappeared and whence he would return, _if he returned_.

"I came between you and the man you loved," he said, putting his hand

gently on her glossy hair. "Don't hold it up against me. I thought I

was doing right. I loved you both. Nothing would have made me happier

than to see you one. I have prayed that I might be spared to put your

hand in his, to say the words that would make you man and wife, to see

you happy, but happiness mustn't be stolen. It must be earned. And so

I drove him away, drove him back to duty, because I loved him. When I'm

gone, send him word and ask him not to hold it up against me, and God

will surely bless this sacrifice. Oh, yes, God will surely bless you."

A cruel fit of coughing racked the poor remnants of a body, and she held

her breath till it was over, and she could lay him back upon the soft

couch.

"Talking has tired you. Sleep and rest," she said, and he fell away

into the sleep of exhaustion.

Those were the last words she would hear him say, the last words he

spoke--"God will surely bless you." Often and often thereafter in her

life she remembered those words, his last--"God will surely bless you."

She smoothed his pillow, pulled the blankets up over his wasted form,

stirred the logs into a fierce blaze. Then she went to the chest of

drawers under the window to the left of the storm-door and took from it

a letter and the little moccasins, and brought them down to the fire.

She was still a child and needed symbols. These were the words he had

written with his own hand, cruel words, that shut out the light and put

a blight upon her life, but still they were his words. She had a savage

instinct to thrust them into the blaze, with the crude half-formed

notion that to destroy them would be to destroy the conditions which

they expressed. But this was only momentary. The tokens of their love

had been so few, she clung to every scrap and shred of them. It never

occurred to her that Hal had trifled with her, had forgotten or deserted

her. It wouldn't have mattered if he had. She accepted their fate but

without regret or bitterness, and her heart eternally asked the

question, full of hope, full of fear, that she had asked John McCloud

the day he went away: "Will he come back?" And now that John McCloud

was going away, she felt the need of Hal anew. The mystery of death was

sitting in the room with her. It was hard to sit there in the silent

place, to face that cruel shadow which tugged and nagged at the poor

tired body, and worried it like a famished dog, and count the ticking of

the clock, the strong, steady ticks, like blows, and know that it was

counting out the feeble beats of the noble heart which would soon be

still, forever still. It was hard to be alone in such an hour. If Hal

had been with her! Mike had asked her if she would be afraid, and she

was so absorbed in the human drama as to wonder why, but now, now that

all was over except the flutter of the black wing of the grim enemy, she

felt a cold chill at her heart. She clutched the tiny moccasins and

crouched in numb terror before the nameless, the unknown. The breathing

of the invalid, the sonorous clock, the explosions of the burning logs

assumed unnatural proportions. The wind had died down again to a

plaintive lament, a dolorous sob, and then it rose to the fretful cry of

a sick child.

She sat gazing into the fire under a premonitory spell. Unknown to her

the storm-door had opened, and through the inner door glided the tall

sinewy figure of Appah, silent and sinister. He swayed as he entered

and the chest of drawers up under the window kept him from falling. It

also retained a small bag of flour and a shoulder of venison which

slipped from his grasp. He held himself up like a tired wrestler until

the warmth of the room relaxed his stiffened limbs and his eyes had

grown accustomed to the light.

When he felt that he could stand and walk, he glided noiselessly down to

where she was crouching and called her name softly. Her heart gave a

great leap and she started to rise, but he put his hand on her head and

held her.

"No scared," he said as gently as he knew how. "Heap wayno me! Meat,

flour catch 'em! maybeso you hungry. Bring 'em. Pah-sid-u-way?"

He went up and brought down the bag of flour and the venison and threw

them down before her. Then he sank down on the stool by her. He was

very tired.

"Thank you," she said coldly. "That's very kind of you."

Then he waited that she might have time to think it over, to understand

what it was he had done and what it meant. When others were caring for

themselves, their own comfort and safety, he had thought of her; there

had been suffering in the lonely ranches cut off from the rest of the

world; perhaps it was so with her, and he had brought all a man could

carry, and had fought his way to her through the storm. It was something

a woman might be glad of, proud of. Only a strong man, a big chief with

a big heart, could have done it. Surely it was an achievement. Surely

she would know. He must first win her admiration, the rest would

follow. He had not given up his suit, but he had waited for his chance.

He had held aloof. He must not appear too eager. He had not come to the

ranch, but he was familiar with the known facts and had drawn his own

conclusions. His gods, his medicine had freed him from the presence of

his rivals. The chief of police had gone away by the fire-wagons, by

the fire-boat, many sleeps. It was many moons now, and no one ever

talked of when he would be back; in fact, no one talked of him any more.

He had gone back to his own people, where there were many women to be

loved and married. He would not come back. He had already forgotten the

Indian woman and soon she would forget him. It was only natural. For a

time, too, he had been freed from the rivalry of the agent, but Ladd had

returned, was again in power. It was time to act.

He had had a big talk with Cadger too. The trader was a cunning old

fox, who could put his nose up in the air and tell what was afoot.

Cadger had told him that maybeso there were big treaties (papers,

contracts), writings, at the ranch, had advised him to go over and see

Wah-na-gi, that if she would come away with him, they were to bring all

the big treaties (papers) to him, Cadger, and exchange them for heap

ponies, plenty cattle, and the trader kept his bargains. He wasn't like

Ladd, a man of two minds. Cadger, too, had made him understand that by

bringing away the papers he would do a great injury to the ex-chief of

police, and Appah had not forgotten what he owed Hal, and his heart

burned hot within him at the prospect of getting revenge for the

slights, insults, and wrongs he felt that he had suffered at the hands

of the insolent young man. Perhaps it would be safe and practical

before returning to the Agency to burn the barns and the cabin. It all

depended on Wah-na-gi. Cadger had warned him to be sure of her before

speaking of the papers. With her as an ally all would be well. If

not--His mind refused to consider such an eventuality. She had cared

for Calthorpe. Calthorpe was gone. Nothing stood between them now, but

if there should arise-- At the suggestion, murder entered his heart.

She had laughed at him, ridiculed him, flouted him, scorned him. That

would never be again. He could not permit that to be. She must realize

that. It was a fateful night and here he was waiting.

"Touge frejo!" he said after a long pause in which each thought very

fast but in which neither spoke. "Touge frejo!" (Plenty cold.)

"Yes," she said, "it's a cold night."

"Maybeso you talk Injin talk now, eh?"

"No, never again. Never again so long as I live."

That was not promising. Again there was a long pause. What was it she

had left unsaid? That she would only speak the white chief's talk, the

talk of the man she loved? Then she still loved him? That was the

test--her willingness to speak the tongue of her people, to be like

them. He tried hard to be patient with her. Perhaps she found it hard

now. She had lived among the whites and perhaps had forgotten much of

her own tongue.

He would go slowly, be very sure, before proceeding to extremes. He

made her a long speech in their vernacular. He saw that she had not

forgotten the speech of her people, that she followed him perfectly, and

he felt that he was eloquent and convincing. He was considered a great

orator by his tribe. His talk recited in detail that the white chief

had gone on a long trail back to his people, that he would never come

again. He watched her face and saw that she had no reason to expect his

return. Perhaps she was hungry? Did the white man care? No, he had

forgotten. Appah hadn't forgotten. Winter-man had come. Cold-maker

had come. White man was scared. Injin was scared. Appah wasn't

scared. Cold! Touge frejo! Heap cold. Snow, heap snow, plenty snow,

snow all time! The snow came like white wolves. They howled and showed

their teeth. White foam flew from their lips. They leaped up and tried

to bite, to tear at one's heart, but Appah wasn't frightened. He had

big medicine. Pretty soon the snow wolves saw he was too strong for

them. The wind told them. The wind told them to pikeway, to get out,

here was a big chief, a big medicine man who was not afraid of them, who

had a big heart and who was bringing food, gifts, to his woman, his

squaw.

"You must not say that," she said promptly. "The food is good. I thank

you for that; but you must not call me your squaw. I am not your squaw.

I never will be."

He forgot the instructions of Cadger, forgot the papers altogether. He

saw only the woman, the woman he wanted, all the more because she was

unattainable. He could have had any other woman in the tribe for the

asking, but nothing seemed worth while but that which was out of reach.

She had flouted him again. It was hard to believe. Again there was a

long pause, in which the fires of desire leaped up and threatened to

consume him. Cadger had supplied him with a small flask of whiskey

before he left the Agency. The fire was racing in his blood, prompting

him to nameless things. He sat and smouldered. Passion and hate

struggled for control. He stood up.

He told her she was a fool to wait and weep for a man who only laughed

at her, who would never come back. Why had he gone away? Because he

did not dare to take the woman Appah wanted. He knew Appah would kill

him and so he had run away. He was afraid!

She leaped to her feet.

"He never was afraid, least of all of you. You are lying. You cannot

say this to me. Take your food and go. I would not eat it. Go." She

was very fine with her eyes blazing.

Go? On such a night? The snow wolves were mad, dancing a war-dance,

thirsting for blood. The fire-spirits were good. He had brought her

food, and she thrust him out into the wild night. He looked her over

and laughed evilly. The big chief is patient; he knows how to wait.

Then one day he gets crazy, mad, and then he reaches out and takes what

he wants. He tried to put his hand on her. Quickly she eluded him and

put the couch of the sick man between them. Yes, she could avoid,

resist, but she could not escape.

She had laughed at him, scorned him again and again. Now he would

possess her, break her, bend her to his will or kill her.

"Hush," she said, pointing to the sick man; "don't wake him."

Appah moved close to the couch and looked at McCloud. He had been sick

a long time. There was nothing to be feared from him. Still he looked

again. If there had been the slightest chance that McCloud could have

interfered with his purposes he would have killed him there where he

lay.

"No scared sick man," he muttered contemptuously.

She had directed his attention to McCloud for a purpose. In the short

interval Appah had given to the dying man, she had backed swiftly

against the chest of drawers, beneath the left-hand window. A short

time before she had taken the letter and the little moccasins from this

drawer, and had left it open. Now, keeping her eye on Appah, she had put

her hand behind her and rummaged in the drawer until her hand felt the

little automatic gun that Hal had given her. Appah glanced up and

divined her purpose. Quick as a panther he leaped over the unconscious

clergyman and threw himself upon the girl as she tried to bring the gun

in play. Her scream awoke the dying man, and he raised himself on his

elbow, though it was a perceptible interval before his mind grasped the

reality of what was happening. There was a struggle which brought Appah

and the girl down in front of the fire. It was a short struggle. Her

frenzied strength was as nothing in his grasp. He gave her arm a twist

and the gun fell from her hand. Then he stopped her breath until she

was helpless, when he picked her up in his arms and bore her through the

door leading to the kitchen.

McCloud tried to get up. He did in fact get to a sitting position on

the low couch; then he realized for a terrible moment his helplessness.

On the small stool beside him rested the cup containing brandy left

there by Big Bill. He drank it quickly, drank it all. It gave him a

fictitious strength, a momentary capacity. While the struggle was going

on in the next room, he crawled to the spot where the little gun had

fallen, picked it up, and by slow and painful stages dragged himself

across the room to the open kitchen door. He could go no further. He

sank down. He could not hold the little weapon without trembling. He

rested his elbows on the floor, grasped it with both hands, steadied it

long enough to fire. Then he collapsed and lay very still upon his face.

There was a sudden quiet in the next room, then the sound of a body

falling heavily. After a few moments Wah-na-gi appeared in the kitchen

door, wild-eyed, haggard. She leaned wearily against the jamb until her

mind and some of her strength came back, then she saw the body of

McCloud. With a cry she ran to him, turned him over, and looked into

the beloved face.

Not in the way he thought, but as he wished, John McCloud had gone

out--militant.

*CHAPTER XXIV*

Hal had plenty of evidence that Ladd had robbed the Indians, that he was

the representative of the Asphalt Trust, and had tried to bribe him with

its valuable securities. He still had Ladd's receipt for the fifteen

thousand dollars he didn't pay for them. As Doctor McCloud had said, he

had offered to return the securities to the company, an offer which had

been ignored. While he was chief of police at the Agency, and while he

was secretly camping on the agent's trail, letters and copies of letters

belonging to Ladd's correspondence had come into Hal's possession

through a disgruntled clerk who had earned the enmity of the agent and

been discharged. It was manifest that the interests behind Mr. Ladd

were very anxious to secure or destroy these letters. They would have

cheerfully sacrificed the agent, but they were forced to protect him for

their own sakes. The fight therefore centred about David Ladd. The

interests had won the first skirmish with a shout and a hurrah. It was

made to appear that Secretary Walker had given credence to absurd

accusations involving honorable business men high in the financial

world, accusations which could not be substantiated; had removed a

valued public servant without cause, under charges involving not only

his position but his honor, etc., etc. The victory of the interests was

announced with bellringing and bonfires.

The arrival of Hal in Washington was therefore an enormous relief to

those who by reason of their efforts for the general welfare were now

forced to fight for self-preservation and vindication. Hal's dismay on

learning that Secretary Walker had not received any package or

communication from Red Butte Ranch was disheartening. He had written to

John McCloud to forward his papers to the care of Secretary Walker.

They had not come. No word had come. No one in Washington could give

him any comfort. Gifford had informed him that the winter in the

Moquitch country had been the severest in the memory of living man.

That was all any one knew. This would explain some of the delay, not all

of it, as Hal felt. A council of war was held. It was unanimously

agreed that Hal must go in person for the papers. He hesitated. No one

knew why he hesitated. Did he dare go? Could he trust himself? At

times his sacrifice had seemed so futile. At times it must be confessed

he bitterly regretted it. He felt incapable of further immolation.

Life had lost its zest, its interest. Could he see her, take her hand,

look into her eyes once more, come to life again, vivid life, and then

turn away and walk deliberately back into the grave? No, it wasn't

possible. It wasn't fair to ask it. Strange chap, this half-breed boy,

was the feeling of the serious men who watched him, who saw his

hesitation. What was the matter with him now? Unstable in all their

ways, these mixed breeds! Not to be depended on!

Gifford watched him narrowly. He knew more than the rest. He remarked

casually that much of the country was cut off from communication and it

was feared that there was great suffering at the lonely

ranches--starvation perhaps.

Starvation? Had they tried to get into touch with the ranch? Yes, but

without success. They had telegraphed McShay to go to their relief, but

had heard nothing from him. McShay was not at Calamity. Starvation? He

would go. When was the next and the fastest train? He would go by way

of Fort Serene. They promised that he would be furnished with supplies

at the post.

And so it came to pass that he turned his face once more to the West,

and every step of the way his heart lifted, the light came back into his

eye, the ring came back into his voice, the spring to his step. In

spite of his anxiety for their safety, in spite of a painful knowledge

of the difficulties in the way, the possibility that he might be too

late, his soul sang for joy. He was going back to his own, his country,

his people, the land of his desire--going back not of his own volition

but in answer to the call, the silent call which could not be denied.

It seems that the examination of Hal's papers in the London house had

been thorough, but with small results. It was correctly surmised that

the papers of importance were at the ranch. Hal's departure from

Washington was promptly telegraphed to the Standing Bear Agency and the

race was on.

The nearest post-office to the ranch, as I have intimated, was the

Agency, but Hal had directed his letter to McCloud to the post, as being

safer and farther removed from hostile influences. He had also written

a short note to Captain Baker, asking him to warn the official in charge

not to deliver any mail except to some one connected with the ranch, and

properly accredited. When he arrived at the Fort Hal discovered that

Baker was no longer stationed at Serene. His action with regard to Ladd

and Wah-na-gi had been adversely criticised, and though he was not

called before a court of inquiry, he was sufficiently punished by being

exiled to the Philippines. Hal's letter to him found him eventually long

after the incidents of this story were ancient history. The new

commandant was a stranger who knew nothing of the undercurrent of

affairs in his domain, and who could be depended on to stick to routine

and, if necessary, look the other way. Hal learned that Agent Ladd had

been to the fort, had informed the commandant that he was about to send

an Indian runner over to the Red Butte Ranch to see if they were in

need, and offered to send any mail there was for the ranch people. This

seemed quite all right to the soldier, both thoughtful and friendly, and

he interposed no objection. It developed that considerable mail had

collected for the Red Butte people and it was naturally handed over to

the agent. Hal very properly drew the conclusion that Ladd now knew his

papers were at the ranch and in the keeping of McCloud. He was also

confident that the agent would leave no stone unturned in order to

obtain them. As a matter of fact, Cadger had opened the letter to

McCloud, sealed it up again, and then given it to Appah with

instructions to lose it on the way over. He was for the sake of

appearances to lose the entire mail. This was not hard to do. When

Appah did not reappear promptly there was anxiety at the Agency. When

due allowance had been made for all supposable emergencies, and still he

did not return, the best runners in the tribe were sent out to learn the

truth. An extraordinary story came back. It alleged that the priest of

the white man and the priest of the Indian had passed into the Great

Beyond together, that Appah had lost his life at the hands of John

McCloud, the man of peace. That the dying clergyman had killed the

powerful medicine-man seemed unbelievable. Still, it simplified

matters. Ladd telegraphed the news to his friends at Washington and

wired them to get for him instructions from McCloud's sister to take

charge of his effects. As soon as this authorization arrived, Ladd and

Cadger started for the ranch.

The death of John McCloud had plunged the ranch into gloom. It had been

a hard, dreary, sullen winter, even before want and hunger came to dwell

with them. Cattle were dying, stock suffering everywhere. McShay and

Bill did not get through to the settlements. As Mike had anticipated,

Bill had been an encumbrance to him. The stubborn old fellow had

measured his strength by his courage, and they were no longer equal.

McShay had to return to bring Bill in. After a wild night in which both

came near losing their lives, they succeeded in regaining the shelter of

Hal's cabin. They found the fire dead in its ashes and Wah-na-gi

crouching by the side of the dead man where he had fallen, holding his

hand, as she had done so many hours in his life, in a dumb vacant

instinct of habit, to give him comfort in the long sleep which would

know no waking.

Death obliterates animosities, so they laid the body of Appah decently

in the stable, to await his relatives and friends who would take it on a

sled or a travois to the Agency and weep and wail over it, and extol his

virtues, just as we do with our dead.

To those who live apart from the forms and ceremonies of life they

assume an unusual and unnatural importance. It was a real grief to

these rough men who had grown to love John McCloud that they could do so

little to testify to their sense of his worth. Undemonstrative in life,

they would have liked to have made it up in the paraphernalia of grief

in the hour of death. It didn't occur to them that the dead man had

been very simple, very unostentatious in his life. They did not want to

intrude the subject upon Wah-na-gi, so they gathered to discuss it in

Big Bill's quarters. Orson, Silent, Joe, Curley, Bill, and the others.

Mike, as usual, was the spokesman.

"Boys," he said, after quite a pause, his eyes unduly moist and

struggling to keep from showing emotion; "boys, we're up against it. We

can't do it right, no way you fix it. John McCloud was a big man; an

important man. In any right-minded kummunity, he'd be buried from the

cathedral, with a funeral oration which would try to tell but couldn't

what sort of a man he was, and the mayor and town officials and the

civic organizations would have followed his hearse to the cemetery, and

have covered his grave with wreaths and flowers, and everything would

have been high-toned and impressive, and all that is good. It's good

for the risin' generation. It shows the kids that's inclined to be wild

that they got to live decent if they want a big funeral."

"John didn't care much fer fixin's, Mike," said Bill. "He was awful

simple."

"Sure he was--never asked fer nothin'. All the more reason we should

give it to him; all the more reason we should show the world what we

think of him; but we can't do it, boys. We can't even give him a

casket. A rough board box is the best we kin do, and we'll have to bury

him in the snow until the spring comes. Then we'll do the thing right.

We kin git the band over from the fort. We'll declare a half-week's

holiday in Calamity, and everybody as is anybody in these here regions

will come over here and pay their last respects to John McCloud."

And so it was decided. If John McCloud knew about it he must have been

pleased with his funeral. The rough men gathered around his remains in

the living-room, Wah-na-gi repeated the Lord's Prayer; she led and they

joined in singing "Nearer, My God, to Thee," and they laid him to rest

under the soft beautiful snow. When they came back and the others had

gone to their quarters, Mike said to her:

"Wah-na-gi, there's one thing I'm awful sorry fer--the kid wasn't here."

And he gave way completely and cried like a child. It was the first

time he had mentioned Hal for a long, long time, and he had been

thinking of the affection that had always existed between the preacher

and the boy, and it was the little Indian woman who had to put aside her

own grief to comfort the big cowman. Artfully she told of the dramatic

happenings of that night, the night he and Bill went out into the storm.

She told him what McCloud had said of his notion of God's purposes and

they talked of the man and his character and his words, and recalled

many things that would give them good and gracious memories while life

should last, and Mike said to her with some misgivings and a good deal

of embarrassment:

"Wah-na-gi, I can't take his place. I wouldn't try, but--rely on me.

Savey?"

And so routine once more resumed its quiet sway. The food Appah had

brought didn't amount to much, but it came at the right time and saved

serious complications. Ladd had sent them word by an Indian runner that

he would be over in person to see as to their necessities and that food

would follow him. Those at the ranch had been physically depleted, so

that Mike made no further effort under the circumstances to get through

himself or send any one else. They were marking time; but the situation

was distinctly not cheerful.

Wah-na-gi in particular did not rally. Instead of recovering from the

parson's death and the shock of that night when she had faced its

horrors alone, she seemed to grow more and more depressed. It worried

the boys a whole lot. One night Mike called them all together at Bill's

and they took council-one with another. They discussed the situation

from various stand-points. It was pointed out that Wah-na-gi was a

child. She was young and, bein' young, needed playthings. It was only

natural she should want amusement, relaxation, change. It was awful

dull fer a young girl on a ranch. Injins needed fun and frolic, too,

like anybody else. She needed companionship of her own sex. In the

spring they could git some woman over from somewhere who would be

company fer her. In the spring they promised to see to it that she went

to the dances that might be goin' on in the settlements, and perhaps go

in to Salt Lake fer the Fourth of July Celebration. Some one pointed

out that next spring and summer would doubtless take care of themselves.

It was the present that had to be looked after. If she went on grievin'

and mopin' like she was doin' she wouldn't git to the spring. Finally,

when everybody had had their say and no one had really said anything,

Silent cleared his throat by a great effort and said gravely:

"Say, fellers, to-morrer'll be Christmas."

Silent had a memory that was unusually retentive as to figures. His

statement created a sensation but was, of course, universally

challenged. The days had come and gone, one just like the other, and

how was any one to know that Christmas was upon them? Reference to

calendars and elaborate computations finally showed that Silent had made

a serious discovery.

"Boys," said Mike; "I got it. We'll have a Christmas-tree fer

Wah-na-gi! What do you say? We'll make it as funny as we kin. Gee, if

we sit down here and try to outsigh each other we'll all git bug-house."

The cowboy dearly loves a practical joke and goes to elaborate pains in

its accomplishment. Suddenly the ranch became busy, very busy, and

there were winks and nudges, and an air of mystery. Wah-na-gi was

preoccupied or she would have noticed that there was something unusual

afoot, that every one was engaged, alert, and secretive.

The idea broadened as it went along and little plots were hatched

against each other. In the bustle and activity the men regained their

normal elasticity.

Supper that night was a hurried and a constrained meal with an

undercurrent of excitement. When it had been rushed through all the men

made a hasty exit, leaving Wah-na-gi alone. When the table had been

cleared, and the room tidied, she sat down as usual by the big fire. It

was the hour when the absence of John McCloud and Hal was very poignant.

The care of the sick man had been onerous, but it had been a joy to know

that she could do for him, anticipate his wishes, minister to his

comfort. Now there was a great, blank, empty void. Mike stole into the

room with a bundle under his arm. This he put on the chest of drawers,

then he came down and found her weeping.

"Wah-na-gi," he said to her with suppressed excitement, "sure you

mustn't let the boys see you cryin'. It ain't good for none of us to

sit down here and calculate to a fraction just how miserable we are. Am

I right? Sure I am. John McCloud himself wouldn't like it. He'd want

us to lift our head and face the music, wouldn't he? Sure he would. He

didn't have strength enough left to die, but he went out like a fightin'

man. Sure if I hadn't 'a' loved him before I'd 'a' loved him for that.

Now go to your room, wash the tears from your black eyes, put on your

nicest dress and your prettiest bow, and stay there until you're sent

for."

"Stay there?" said Wah-na-gi with dismay.

"Well, dearly beloved, it's to be a surprise party, and if you stay here

divil a surprise will it be. So scoot, vamoose, git out. And you must

give me your solemn oath not to peek, or listen, or come in until you're

called. Hold up your two hands and make the oath double."

It was impossible to resist the buoyant spirits of the Irishman.

Wah-na-gi laughed in spite of herself as he bustled and herded her out

of the room, she having agreed to the conditions imposed. When he had

the room to himself, Mike went up to the bundle he had left on the

table. These placards, rudely lettered, he began to tack up about the

room. They ran along somewhat after this fashion:

"Merri (ha, ha!) Crismas."

Like some eminent literary artists, Mike was long on words and short on

spelling.

"Resterant And Food-factery."

Food being mostly absent from its accustomed place, was naturally very

much in the minds of the humorists, whose efforts at gayety made up in

breadth what they lacked in subtlety.

Another sign announced: "Blew monge--Has Just Blew In!" Another:

"Egg-nog, without the egg or the Nog." "Plum (?) Pudin' (?)." "Mince

Pi Like Step-Father uster Make." Under the caption "Our Motter"

appeared this effort at scripture: "O Lord, Open Thou Our Lips And Our

Mouths Shal Sho Fourth Thi Prais a Whole Lot if We Git the Chanct."

The materials or the humor seemed to give out at this juncture.

Mike was in the act of tacking up the last extravagant effort to the

shelf over the fireplace when a voice behind said softly: "Gee, it's

good to be home."

The hammer and the placard both dropped out of the Irishman's hand.

"Ghosts, is it?" he whispered, fixed, with his eyes wide open; "or the

banshee?"

"Don't breathe a word," said the voice.

"Breathe a word? Sure I ain't breathin' at all."

Then the startled Mike turned slowly and saw Hal who had watched him for

some time in silence.

"Why, Hal, my son; why God bless you," said the astonished cowman as he

caught the boy's strong hand in his huge paw, and the men looked in each

other's eyes with the silent affection that men feel but cannot express.

"It's good to feel the grip of your hand once more, Mike," said the boy.

"How is Wah-na-gi?"

"Wah-na-gi is it?" The secret of Hal's wife had been confined to

McCloud and Wah-na-gi. Mike was in ignorance of all complications in

Hal's domestic affairs.

"Wah-na-gi? Sure you stayed away long enough for a dozen fellers to

have run off with her, and small blame to her, you scamp. It's awful

good you've got to be to me, boy. I ain't sure as I'll let you have

her."

"You?" said the boy, smiling.

"You got to show me, son, for I'm her----"

He stopped suddenly confronted with the realization that Hal did not,

could not know.

"Sure, the good man's gone, Hal."

"Dead?" whispered the boy. "John McCloud?"

He went to the stool by the fire and sat down for a moment, and Mike

followed him and put his hand on his shoulder. He knew as well as any

one the relations of the two men and understood them. It was a great

blow to Hal. He ought reasonably to have anticipated such an event, but

his thought had been busy with his own affairs and John McCloud as he

was related to them. He had thought that he would have to meet the

preacher and face his inquisition, and it had been some consolation to

him that he could do so. He could tell the truth and it would be

something to have earned the other's "Well done, my son; well done."

Briefly and gently Mike told the boy what there was to tell, and how

Wah-na-gi had never quite recovered from the shock of that awful night

with its double horror.

"Sure, you're a God-send to us," he added. "My, my, my, won't their

eyes pop out at the sight of you? You're pretty well liked around here,

son, and say, you're just in time. The boys are goin' to have a

Christmas-tree fer Wah-na-gi."

"A Christmas-tree, eh?" and the reaction came. The warmth of the room,

the cheer of the blaze, the relaxation following on the physical strain,

upon the cold and privation, the familiar objects about him with their

associations, the sudden sense of a great loss, and the eternal mystery

of death, the sound of a kindly voice, the homely joys conjured up by

the words "Christmas-tree," all coming together overpowered him, and he

bowed his head and turned away, speechless, and Mike looked away too,

that he might not see the other's tears. It was the first emotion Hal

had allowed himself to feel for a long time. He had bathed his soul in

a hardening solution of indifference; otherwise existence would have

been unendurable. Now when the assumption fell away, he felt uncommonly

weak. After a moment's struggle the boy cleared his throat and said:

"Mike, I'm pretty glad to get back. I didn't know it would hit me so

hard. I don't want to get foolish and play the baby. I'll tell you

what," and his eyes began to shine and the old smile to come back to his

face; "hide me some place, get 'em all together, then make a joke of it,

then bring me out, and there you are, eh?"

Mike chuckled in anticipation of the surprise and joy of Wah-na-gi and

the boys.

"Great!" hesaid. "I'll put you in this closet here; then I'll lead up

to it with a few simple words; then I'll bring you out, and take you off

the tree as a Christmas present for Wah-na-gi."

"No; don't do that, Mike. You don't understand. Don't single Wah-na-gi

out--just let it all come naturally, you know----"

"Say, young feller; who's doin'this? I ain't ever been accused of

lettin' anybody else write my speeches fer me."

Both men were fairly aquiver with the excitement of anticipation. Hal

had risen, and had removed his belt and gun, thrown off his storm-coat,

and stood now in his flannel shirt, hunting boots, and woolen trousers,

a trim, vital figure of a man, his eyes dancing, his face aglow.

"Say, that'll be fine," he said. "I can see the whole show from there,

can see all their faces."

"Sure; you can see _her_ face, if you try hard," said the irrepressible

Mike. Hal had tossed his things on the couch in the upper left-hand

corner and drawn a bear robe over them, so that his presence might not

be prematurely disclosed. Then he entered the rough pine clothes closet

on the opposite side of the room.

"Say, it's goin' to be a bit close in here." Then he turned and shook

the big cowman joyously. "Work it up, Mike. Work it up."

"You leave it to me, son. If I can't git eloquent to-night, I ain't got

no divine fire."

And he pushed the door of the clothes-press to, turned to see that the

room was in readiness, and had put on his own cap when Big Bill entered

with a suspicious bulge to a portion of his great-coat.

"Bill," said Mike with a nervous tremor in his voice and taking the

foreman by the shoulder, "whatever you do, don't go near that closet,

and don't let any one else go near it. There's a Christmas present in

there fer Wah-na-gi, and it's a horrible, awful secret."

"Gee, you don't say!" said Bill, laughing but mystified.

"Are the boys all ready?" inquired Mike, going to the door.

"Say, Mike," said Bill. "It's all right. It'll make a cat laf. It's

the bummest thing in Christmas-trees you ever see. You better look it

over and memorize your impromptu speech."

And Mike went out bubbling over, saying to himself with a chuckle: "My,

my, my, won't this be a night!"

When he was gone Bill dug out of his inner recesses a bottle and he held

it up to the light and rolled it, examining it critically.

"There's all the liquor there is on the place," he said mournfully. "It

wouldn't be Christmas to the boys without a drop of something." Then he

scratched his head as if trying to think of some way to make it more.

"They can at least smell of it and look at the label." And Bill put it

on a small table near the closet.

As he turned away two men pushed open the door and entered quietly.

They stood for a second to get over the glare and then one said quietly:

"Hello, Bill."

Bill turned.

"Why, hello, Mr. Agent. Hello, Cadger."

The two men shook the snow from their clothes and came down to the fire.

"Heard you people were hard up for grub. Came over to see what we could

do for you," said the agent genially.

"Well, say, that's kind," said the simple-minded Bill. "We need it all

right."

"Didn't Calthorpe bring any supplies with him?" asked Cadger, and he and

Ladd watched Bill's face narrowly.

"The boss? Hal? Say, what are you a-talkin' about?" said Bill with a

glimmer of suspicion.

"We heard he was back or on his way back," suggested Ladd.

"Back your grandmother!" said Bill contemptuously. "The boss's in

Europe. Ain't ever comin' back here I reckon; but what's that to you?

Are you still lookin' fer trouble? 'Cause if you are, you kin git it."

"Not me," laughed Ladd good-humoredly. "I'm for letting by-gones be

by-gones. If he isn't here, you'll do just as well, Bill. It's a small

matter. Doctor McCloud's sister has telegraphed me to take charge of his

effects."

"Oh," said Bill, puzzled. "Is that so? 'Tain't much," he added. "He

carried his valuables with him I reckon."

Ladd showed the foreman the telegram.

"Oh, that'll be all right, I guess," said Bill with reference to Ladd's

implied request. "Wah-na-gi's put everything he left in his valise--he

never had a trunk--and she says his instructions was to have his things

sent to his sister in Washington. There it stands under the table,

there, ready to go by express soon as ever kummunications are

established once more. You don't want to take it with you this kind o'

weather, do you?"

"I don't know," said Ladd, taking the bag from under the table below the

window on the right-hand side of the entrance. "Is it heavy?" and he

lifted it. "We got a pack mule through with us, but no, I don't think we

care to take it this time. When we come again will do. There's no

hurry that I can see," and he put the bag back where he got it.

"Well," said Bill, recollecting the impending festivities, "you'll have

to excuse me. I've got to help with the fixin's and come in with the

peeracle. Say, you're just in time fer the doin's. We're goin' to have

a Christmas celebration fer Wah-na-gi and the boys."

"Go right along. Don't mind us."

"Well, make yourselves comfortable," said Bill and went out into the

night. As soon as Bill was out of the room Ladd turned with a look of

triumph to the trader.

"Did you watch Bill's face? He ain't seen him, and if Bill hasn't seen

him, he isn't here. We've beat him to it. Why, it's a cinch."

Ladd examined his weapons carefully, then put a chair carelessly against

the door leading to the kitchen, so that any one entering there would be

stopped for a perceptible moment. Cadger stood just within the

storm-door as a sentinel, to warn him of any one approaching from

without. Then Ladd opened the valise which was unlocked. John McCloud

had never been afraid of any one robbing him of his unpretentious

belongings and the key had been lost early in the bag's history. With

his face directly to the closet and his back to the fire, Ladd quickly

examined the contents and had no difficulty in immediately locating the

papers, which he slipped into the inside pocket of his short storm-coat.

He rearranged the contents of the bag as nearly as possible as they had

been, closed it, and put it back under the table. All was well. It

couldn't be better. He called in Cadger.

"It's all right, Cadger; I've got 'em. Now you go to the stable

ostensibly to look after the mule, but never take your eyes off that

entrance door. Anybody that enters gets the light of this room. If he

comes while we're here, well, we'll have to take care of ourselves,

that's all. From the stable opposite it's a certainty."

We'll get away just as soon as we can without arousing suspicion. So

far it couldn't be better."

Cadger pulled his cap down over his eyes and slouched out into the

night. Ladd looked carefully about, removed the chair to its former

position, then walked over to the fireplace, and stretched out his hands

to its genial glow. Hal had been an interested listener and observer.

In the strain of it he was wet with perspiration. His weapons were with

his coat on the couch, in the farthest corner of the room. Ladd was

armed to the teeth. To wait until the room was full of people would

complicate matters; some one might get hurt! She might get hurt. He

pushed the door of the closet open just enough for him to slide out. He

dropped to the position of a runner on the starting line, on his toes,

the tips of his fingers to the floor. He looked altogether Indian as he

crept stealthily across. Just as he was in the act of springing upon

Ladd's back, the latter looked up into the mirror over the fireplace and

saw him. Quick as a snake Ladd drew his knife, turned, and struck. Hal

caught his descending arm on the slant and with the force of the blow

Hal's hand slid to the other's wrist, where it clung. They clinched

immediately. The agent was a powerful man, quite as muscular, perhaps a

shade more so, than the boy. Hal therefore exerted only so much strength

as was absolutely necessary to keep the quivering knife from his body.

He had forced it well down on the clinch and held it down. The agent,

having tried in vain to get it up, strained every nerve and muscle to

put it in the artery of his antagonist's leg--a favorite blow with

Chinese assassins. Hal managed to stop it always just short of

penetration. In the struggle they had worked over to the centre of the

room and up against the stout wooden table. Over-balanced with the

impact, they fell over it and the knife, descending, stuck quivering in

the top, where Hal held it, the other trying to wrench it and himself

free. The room was silent as the grave except for the ticking of the

clock and the breathing of the two men. The agent was putting forth

every pound of energy of which he was capable. Hal was trying to save a

little out. He knew that if he could wind the agent he had him beaten.

Suddenly Ladd got a purchase against the table and lifted himself and

the other clear of it. It was a stupendous effort, but it was his best.

He began to tire. The younger man kept him going, let him struggle,

just held his own until once more they came close to the table from

above, when he caught Ladd over his hip and lifted him clean off the

floor, throwing him heavily on his back on the top of the table. It was

the boy's best and all he could do for the time being. The agent

squirmed and fought and struggled like a madman, but the other held,

held and held, with the older man tiring all the time. Soon the

youngster got his second wind, when he edged and worked his body over

the prostrate man, pulled the other's left arm across his throat,

brought his own arm with it, and threw his weight on the two. They

rested across Ladd's windpipe and shut off his air, the position

meanwhile resting the other. Ladd saw he was beaten unless he could

throw off his antagonist, and he put forth a mighty effort. He lifted

the boy with all his weight and all but slipped from under, but Hal held

him for the crucial second and he dropped back--beaten. Hal now

disengaged his left hand, holding the other with his arm across the

throat, and with both hands pulled the agent's knife hand up and over

his exposed neck. Then he pressed down and threw his weight upon the

knife. Quivering, quivering, slowly it descended until its point rested

on the flesh of the prostrate man.

"Surrender," Hal gasped; "or I'll give you your own knife."

"I surrender," gurgled the agent with what breath was left in him.

"Let go the knife," said Hal when he could speak. The other did so.

When Ladd had released his hold on the weapon, Hal transferred its

handle to his right hand and with the left took the agent's gun from its

holster, then he passed the gun before Ladd's eyes to let him know that

he was disarmed. Keeping his enemy's revolver in one hand, he

transferred the knife to his teeth. Only then did he stand up and away

from the other as he lay.

"Wait a minute," he warned through his set teeth as Ladd made as if to

rise. Coming back to him, he removed from the agent's inside pocket the

papers he had taken from Doctor McCloud's bag. These papers Hal

transferred to the back pocket of his trousers. Then he took the knife

from his teeth and, covering Ladd with his own revolver, said:

"Now, get up, if you can."

The beaten man was game. He half got up, rolled from the table,

staggered to his feet, and fell against the clothes-press, breathing

hard. Hal could stand and control his weapons but he wasn't much better

for the moment, though his strength was returning fast. Just then a

long peculiar whistle was heard outside.

"What was that?" demanded Calthorpe. "Cadger's signal?"

"Yes."

"What's it mean?"

"That everything's all right."

"I don't trust you. I'll see for myself. Get into that closet. I damn

near suffocated in there and I hope you will."

Ladd backed into the closet under the muzzle of Hal's weapon. The

latter turned the key on the imprisoned agent. Then the boy took a long

deep breath, put on his storm-coat and hat, and, coming to the

clothes-press, said:

"I'd advise you to be quiet in there, for if my boys find out what

you've been up to, they'll come pretty near lynching you. And now I'm

going out to get your pal, your hired assassin, and then I'll present

the pair of you to the Government as a Christmas present."

Hal started out of the door, then recollected what he had heard, glanced

back at the fire and the swinging lamp, closed the door, pulled back the

table from under the window, to the right of the storm-door, threw up

the sash, and, lifting himself through, closed the window from without

and disappeared.

Wah-na-gi had responded gamely to Mike's call. She had understood from

her new foster-father's anxiety that the boys were worried about her,

that she must have been so abstracted and depressed as to give them

concern, that this tomfoolery, whatever it was, was intended to divert

her, give her pleasure or, at least, make her think of other things

beside her loss. Determined to make amends, she had gone to her room,

put on her best dress, tied a bright ribbon in her hair, all the while

infected with a growing curiosity. Having finished her simple toilet,

and not having been summoned, she sat down and tried to wait. She found

this rather difficult. The air was electrical. She found she was under

the influence of intense excitement, conflicting emotions. Finally she

could bear it no longer and she went to the door of the living-room and

knocked on it impatiently. Mike had just entered by the outer door and

thrown down his cap.

"Aren't you ready for me yet, boys?" she called through the door.

"One moment, lady," called out Mike as he went down to the door, threw

it open with a great flourish and, offering her his arm, led her into

the room.

"Lady," he said to her with his most impressive manner, "the Young Men's

Aid Society and Band of Hope has arranged these here festivities

particular fer you. Let her go!" he called out toward the entrance.

The "peerade" was headed by Orson carrying a miniature, moth-eaten

Christmas-tree, decorated mostly with corks, the sole relics of by-gone

festivities. The others carried such "presents" as could not be

harnessed to the tree, and all were singing at the tops of their lusty

voices, "There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town To-night."

They got a laugh from Wah-na-gi on their first appearance, which put the

stamp of success on the show right at the start. They circled the room

until the song was done, then the tree was placed on the table in the

centre, and the solitary half-hearted candle at its apex was lighted

ceremoniously. Wah-na-gi, as the guest of honor, was left on one side of

the room and the boys all gathered on the other. McShay advanced to the

tree and began a speech in a mixture of his best Fourth-of-July

camp-meeting manner.