Honeycutt cried out sharply at that.

"You know I wouldn't durst! With the world full of robbers that would

be after me like hounds runnin' down a rabbit. I won't go; you cain't

make me. No man cain't."

King's patience deserted him.

"I am not going to make you do anything. Further, I am not going to put

in any more time on you. I have offered to pay you three thousand

dollars for what you know--and there is the very strong likelihood that

you don't know a bit more than I do----"

"Don't know!" shrieked Honeycutt. "Wasn't I a boy grown when the dyin',

delerious man stumbled in on the camp? Didn't I hear him talk an' didn't

I see what he had in his fist? Wasn't I settin' right side by side with

Gus Ingle when that happened? Wouldn't I of been one to go, if it hadn't

of been that I had a big knife-cut in my side you could of shoved a cat

in--give to me by a slant-eyed cuss name of Baldy Winch. Didn't I watch

'em go, the whole seven of 'em, Baldy Winch, rot him, jeerin' at me an'

me swearin' I'd get him yet, him an' Gus Ingle an' Preacher Ellson an'

the first Brodie an' Jimmy Kelp an' Manny Howard an' the Italian? Wasn't

I there?" He was almost incoherent.

"Were you?" said King. "And Baldy Winch, the one who knifed you----?"

The sucking old mouth emitted a dry chuckle.

"An' didn't I keep my promise? That very winter after Baldy was the only

man to git back. With my side just healin' didn't I make my way through

the snow out to where he was----"

"His cabin on Lookout?"

"With an axe I got there! An' him havin' a gun an' pistol an' knife.

Phoo! What good did it do him? An' didn't I square with him by takin'

what I wanted?"

"Gold?"

The old dry cackle answered the question; the bleary eyes were bright

with cunning.

"If I don't know nothin'," jibed Honeycutt, "what're you askin' me for?"

King had learned little that he did not already know. He came back to

the table and began gathering up the money.

"Wait a minute, Mark," pleaded the old man, restless as he understood

that the glittering coins were to be taken away. "Let's talk a while.

You an' me ain't had a good chat like this for a year."

"I'm going," retorted King. "But I'll make you one last proposition." He

thrust into his pocket everything excepting five twenty-dollar gold

pieces. These he left standing in a little pile. "I'll give you just

exactly one hundred dollars for a look at what is in that box of yours."

In sudden alarm the old man shambled back to his bunk, his hands on the

bedding over the box.

"You'd grab it an' run," he clacked. "You'd rob me. You're worse than

Brodie----"

"You know better than that," King told him sternly. "If I wanted to rob

you I'd do it without all this monkey business."

In his suspicious old heart Honeycutt knew that. He battled with

himself, his toothless old mouth tight clamped.

"I'll go you!" he said abruptly. "Stand back. An' give me the money

first."

King gave him the money and drew back some three or four paces.

Honeycutt drew out the box, held it lingeringly, fought his battle all

over again, and again went down before the hundred dollars. He opened

the box upon a hinged lid; he made a smooth place in the covers; he

poured out the contents.

What King saw, three articles only, were these: an old leather pouch,

bulging, probably with coins; a parcel; and a burnished gold nugget. The

nugget, he estimated roughly, would be worth five hundred dollars were

it all that it looked from a dozen feet away. The parcel, since it was

enwrapped in a piece of cloth, might have been anything. It was shaped

like a flat box, the size of an octavo volume.

Honeycutt leered.

"If Swen Brodie had of knowed what he had right in his hands," he

gloated, "he'd never of let go! Not even for a shotgun at his head!"

"Brodie hasn't gone far. He'll come back. You have your last chance to

talk business with me, Honeycutt. Brodie will get it next time."

"Ho! Will he? Not where I'm goin' to hide it, Mark King. I got another

place; a better place; a place the old hell-sarpint himself couldn't

find."

* * * * *

King left him gloating and placing his treasures back in his box. In his

heart he knew that Brodie would come again. Soon. It began to look as

though Brodie had the bulge on the situation. For that which Mark King

could not come at by fair means Brodie meant to have by foul. For he had

little faith in the new "hidin'-place."

But on a near-by knoll, where she sat with her back to a tree, was

Gloria. He turned toward her; she waved. He saw that Brodie and two men

with him were looking out of a window of the old Honeycutt barn; he

heard one of them laughing. They were looking at Gloria----

King quickened his step to come to her, his blood ruffled by a new anger

which he did not stop to reason over. He could imagine the look in Swen

Brodie's evil little eyes.

_Chapter VII_

Gloria was genuinely glad to see King returning to her. She came to meet

him, smiling her glad welcome.

"It seemed that you were gone _hours_," she explained. "I never saw such

a dreary, lonesome place as this sleepy little town. It gives me the

fidgets," she concluded laughingly.

"These old mining camps have atmospheres all their own," he admitted

understandingly. "Once they were the busiest, most frantic spots of the

whole West; thousands of men hurrying up and down, all full of great,

big, golden hopes. They're gone, but I sometimes half believe their

ghosts hang on; the air is full of that sort of thing. A dead town

turned into a ghost town. It gets on your nerves."

She nodded soberly.

"That's what I felt, though I didn't reason it all out." Her quick smile

came back as she looked up into his face and confessed: "My, it's good

to have you back."

"Come," he said. "We'll go and have lunch. You've no idea how much gayer

things will look then."

"We're not going to eat _here_," she announced, already gay. "I stopped

in at a little funny store and ordered some things. Let's start back,

take them with us, and picnic in the first pretty spot out of sight of

old houses."

As side by side they went along through the sunshine King noted how

Brodie and a couple of men came out to look after them. He heard the

low, sullen bass of the unforgettable voice; saw that Brodie had left

his companions and was going straight to old Honeycutt's shanty. King

frowned and for an instant hung on his heel, drawing Gloria's curious

look.

"You don't like that big man with the big voice," said Gloria.

"No," he said tersely.

"It is Swen Brodie?"

"Yes. But how do you know?"

"Oh, I know lots of things people don't think I know! All girls do.

Girls are rather knowing creatures; I wonder if you realize that?"

"I don't know much about girls," he smiled at her.

She pondered the matter for a dozen steps, swinging her hat at her side

and looking away across the housetops to the mountains. She did not know

any other man who would have said that in just that way. The words were

frank; all sincerity; that is, nothing lay behind them. Archie and

Teddy, any of her boy friends in town--they knew all about girls! Or

thought that they did. Mr. Gratton with his smooth way; he led her to

suppose that he had been giving girls a great deal of studious thought

for many years, and that only after this thorough investigation did he

feel in a position to declare herself to be the most wonderful of her

sex.

"Don't you like girls?" she asked. For once she wasn't "fishing"; she

wanted to know.

"Of course I do," he told her heartily. "As well as a man can--under the

circumstances."

"You mean not knowing them better?" When he nodded she looked up at him

again, hesitated, and then demanded: "You like me, don't you?"

As the question popped out she understood even more clearly than before

that Mark King was utterly different from her various "men friends." She

had never asked a man that before; she was not accustomed to employing

either that direct method or matter-of-fact tone. Just now there was no

hint of the coquette in her; she was just a very grave-eyed girl, as

serious in her _tête-á-tête_ with an interesting male as she could have

been were she sixty years old. And she was concerned with his answer;

already she knew that he had a way of being very direct and straight

from the shoulder.

"Of course I do," he said heartily, a little surprised by the abruptness

of the question and yet without hesitation. "Very much."

She flushed prettily; she, Gloria Gaynor, flushed up because Mark King

said in blunt, unvarnished fashion: "I like you very much." The grave

sobriety went out of her eyes; they shone happily. When they reached the

"funny little store" she was humming a snatch of a bright little waltz

tune. And she was thinking, without putting the thought into words: "And

I like you very much. You are quite the most splendid man I ever saw."

King laughed over Gloria's order. Some bars of sweetened chocolate, a

bag of cookies with stale frosting in pink and white, a diminutive tin

of sardines, and two bottles of soda-water.

"Fine," he chuckled, "as far as it goes. Now we'll complete the larder.

A small coffee-pot, handful of coffee, a tin of condensed milk, a dime's

worth of sugar, can of corned beef, block of butter, loaf of bread, two

tin cups. Your marketing," he grinned at her, "we'll have for dessert."

"I didn't know," countered Gloria, making a face at him, "that I was

entertaining a starved wild man for lunch."

"You'll eat your half, I'll bet, and be ready for more a long time

before we get home."

Gloria, impatient to be on the homeward trail, assumed command in a way

which delighted King; he glimpsed the fact that she had always had her

way and was thoroughly accustomed to the issuance of orders which were

to be obeyed; further, he found her little way of Princess Gloria

entirely captivating: already she was bullying him as all of her life

she had bullied his old friend Ben.

"I'll get all of the parcels together," was what she said, "while you go

for the horses. And you'll hurry, won't you, Mark?"

"On the run, Your Majesty," he laughed.

When he had saddled and returned to her Gloria was waiting with the

various purchases in a barley-sack; she made a great pretence of being

weighted down by the great bulk of provisions demanded by man's

appetite. He took the bag from her, lifted her into her saddle, and they

rode away. Gloria flicked her horse lightly with her whip and galloped

ahead; as King followed he turned in the saddle and looked back toward

Honeycutt's cabin. He was pulled two ways: by the girlish figure ahead,

which he must follow, since it was his responsibility to bring her back

to his friend Ben; by what he fancied happening between Brodie and

Honeycutt. Brodie had been in ugly mood all along; he would be in uglier

mood now after King's interruption and the shotgun episode. Nor could

King forget what he had seen on Lookout Ridge. If Swen Brodie were sure

enough of what he was about to rid himself of Andy Parker, what would he

not do with old Honeycutt?

"I ought to go back," was what King said over and over to himself as he

rode steadily on after Gloria. The last roof lost to sight as they

turned into the mouth of a cañon, he shook off all thought of returning,

overtook Gloria, and determined to forget both Honeycutt and Brodie for

the rest of the day. To-morrow would be another day.

"There are hundreds of pretty places to picnic," said Gloria. "But it is

so much jollier by running water."

"If you can fight down that hunger of yours for a few miles," he told

her, "I'll show you the prettiest picnic spot you ever saw. And one, by

the way, that precious few folks know about. It's tucked away as if the

mountains had the notion to hide it from all invaders."

She was immediately all eagerness to come to it. But she was quick to

see that, though King laughed with her, he retained certain serious

thoughts of his own. Thoughts which, of course, had to do with his

errand to-day. She wondered what had happened at Honeycutt's; if King

had had any words with Swen Brodie. She had been wondering that ever

since he rejoined her under the tree. But now, as then, she held back

her question, since she was also wondering something else--if he would

tell her without being asked.

When they came to a spring freshet which they had crossed this morning

King turned off to the right, riding up-stream, his horse's hoofs

splashing mightily in the water. Gloria, looking on ahead, saw only

rock-bound cañon walls on either hand and a tangle of alder-bushes

across the creek.

"Come on," called King. "Keep your horse right in the water and in two

shakes I'll show you my Hidden Place. You are going to like it."

Though she was little impressed by what she could see, she followed. Now

and then an alder brushed against her; once King waited, holding back a

green barrier which he had thrust to one side. The shrubbery thickened;

in five minutes she could catch but broken glimpses of the slopes rising

to right and left. Their horses splashed through a deep pool, and King

told Gloria to let her animal have his head so that he could pick his

way among submerged boulders. There came a spot where the banks sloped

gently again, and here he rode out upon a bit of springy sward, ringed

with alder and willow. As he dismounted Gloria looked uncertainly about

her. Damp underfoot and a paradise for mosquitoes, was her thought. He

caught her look and laughed.

"We get down here and leave the horses," he informed her. "They can top

off their grain and hay with grass while we dine. We go only about fifty

steps further but we go on foot."

She came down lightly, again all eager curiosity. King carrying their

provision-bag went ahead breaking aside the shrubbery for Gloria close

at his heels. They ploughed through what looked to her like an

impenetrable thicket; they forded the stream where it widened out

placidly, stepping on boulders. Always King went ahead, holding out his

hand to her. Once she slipped, but before her boot had broken the

surface of the water his arm was about her. He caught her up, holding

her an instant. Gloria began to laugh. Then, as she regarded it, a

thoroughly astonishing thing happened; she felt her face flushing,

hotter and hotter, until it burned. She laughed again, a trifle

uncertainly, and jumped unaided to the next boulder and across to the

pebbly shallows, wading out through six inches of water.

"Little fool!" she chided herself, hot with vexation. "What in the world

did you want to blush like that for? He will think you are about ten

years old."

For his part King stood stock-still a moment, regarding the water

rushing about him. He had caught her to save her from falling, he had

held her for something less than a round second. And yet something of

her pervaded his senses, it had been a second fraught with intimacy, her

hair had blown across his face, she had thrilled through him like a

sudden burst of music ... When he jerked his head up and looked at her

he could not see her face; she was very busy with a white pebble she

had picked up. He jumped across to land and went on, and the incident

sank away into silence.

He was glad to come to what he called the door to the Hidden Place. He

opened it for her; that is, he shoved aside a mass of leaves, holding

the branches back with his body. Gloria went through the opening thus

afforded, climbed a long, slanting whitish granite slab, and cried out

ecstatically at the beauty of the spot. Before her was a tiny meadow, as

green and smooth as velvet, thick with white and yellow violets. About

it, rimming it in clean lines which did not invade the sward, were

pines, and beyond the pines, to be seen in broken glimpses among their

sturdy straight trunks, were the cliffs shutting all in. Through one of

these vistas she saw a white waterfall, its wide-flung drops of spray

all the colours of the rainbow as the sun caught them. The water fell

into a green pool, spilled over, flowed through a rock channel of its

own ancient carving, and curved away through the meadow. On the edge of

this granite basin, with showers of spray breaking over it, a little

bird bobbed and dipped and, lifting its head with its own inimitably

bright gesture, broke into a sweet singing as liquidly musical as the

falling water.

"The Water-Ouzel!" cried Gloria. "See, I remembered his name. And he is

here to welcome us."

Under the pines, where the ground was dry, King made their camp-fire, a

small blaze of dry twigs between two flat stones. Gloria was every bit

as exultantly delighted with the moment as she could have been were she

really "about ten years old."

"I want to help. What can I do? Tell me, Mark, what can I do? Oh, the

coffee; you can't make coffee without water, can you?" She caught up the

new tin coffee-pot and ran across the meadow to the creek. The little

bird had given over singing and watched her; when she was mindful of his

previous rights and did not come too near his waterfall, he gave over

any foolish notion he may have had of flight and cocked his eye again at

the pool. Perhaps the coffee-pot put him in mind of his own dinner.

Gloria, kneeling at her task, watched him. He seemed to reflect a

moment; then with a sudden flirt and flutter he had broken the surface

of the water and was gone out of sight. She gasped; he had gone right

under the waterfall, a little bundle of feathers no bigger than her

clenched hand. She knelt with one knee getting wet and never knowing it;

she began to feel positive that the hardy, headlong little fellow surely

must be battered to death and drowned. Then with the abruptness of a

flash of light there he was again, on the surface now, driving himself

forward toward the bank. And there he sat again on his rock, the water

flung from him to flash and mingle with the falling spray, his head

back, his throbbing little throat pouring out his fluent melody. Gloria

laughed happily and went back to King and the fire with her pot of

water.

* * * * *

"I love this!" said Gloria softly.

She was drinking a tin cup of strong cheap coffee cooled with condensed

milk; in her other hand was a thick man-made sandwich of bread, butter,

and corned beef. King laughed.

"What?" he demanded. "What particular article of my daintily served

luncheon has made the great hit with you? Is it, perhaps, the rancid

butter that you adore?"

"You know. I love this." Her look embraced the universe--began with the

dying fire, swept on beyond the tree-tops against the deep blue of sky.

"I don't know why people live in cities, with all of this shut out."

"The call of the wild!" He spoke lightly and yet he glimpsed a soul

really stirred; saw that for the moment, if for no longer, the great

solitudes held her enthralled. More seriously he added: "It's the blood

of your ancestors. It is just getting a chance to make itself heard. The

racket of Market Street drowns it out."

She nodded thoughtfully. They did full justice to their lunch, finished

with her purchases for dessert, quite as he had prophesied, and lazed

through the nooning hour. Gloria lay on a yielding mat of pine-needles,

her eyes grave as her spirit within her was grave, moved by influences

at once vague, restless, and tremendous. This was not her first day in

the woods, and yet she felt strangely that it was. He had spoken of her

"ancestors." She knew little of her mother's and her father's forbears;

she had never been greatly concerned with individuals whom she had never

known. In a way she had been led to think, by her own mother, however so

innocently, that she was "living them down." They had been of a ruder

race that had lived in a ruder day. In San Francisco, to Miss Gloria

Gaynor in a pretty new gown, one of a cluster of dainty girls, those

grandparents had seemed further away than the one step of removal

between them and her nearer blood. To-day they came near her, very near,

indeed, for the hour that she lay looking up at the sky. Not many words

passed between her and King; he sat, back to tree, and smoked his pipe

and was quite content with the silence.

She started out of a reverie to find King standing up, his body rigid as

he stood in the attitude of one who listens, his head a little to one

side, his eyes narrowed.

"Wait for me," he said. "I'll be back in just a minute."

She sat up and watched him. He went back to the sloping granite slab,

over it, down among the alders, and out of sight. For a moment she heard

him among the bushes; then as all sound made by him died away there was

only the purl of the creek and the eternal murmur of the pines. Now it

seemed to her more silent than before, even when King had sat wordlessly

near her. And yet, incongruously, whereas the silence was deepened by

utter solitude, the voices of running water and stirring trees rose

clearer, louder, more insistent. A falling pine-needle, striking all but

noiselessly at her side, made her turn swiftly.

Only now did she hear that other sound, which King had detected. It was

the thud of horses' hoofs; with it came men's voices faintly. King had

gone that way, Gloria stood up, smothered under a sense of aloneness

She resented his going; she was on the verge of calling to him; her

heart began to beat faster. She wasn't afraid ... she didn't think she

was afraid....

When he came up over the rock again, gone but a few moments, true to his

word, she ran to meet him. She had not been afraid, but engulfed by an

emotion which had seemed not born within her but a mighty emanation of

the woods themselves, and which in its effect was not unlike fear. An

emotion which, now that King was here, was lifted out of her and blown

away like a whiff of smoke before the mountain winds. She looked at him

with new curiosity, wondering at herself, wondering at him that his

presence or absence could make all this world of difference. She saw him

in a new, bright light, as one may see for the first time a stranger on

whom much depends. He was strong, she thought; strong of body, of mind,

of heart. He was like the mountains, which were not complete without

him. His eyes were frank and clear and honest; and yet they were, for

her, filled with mystery. For he was man, and his physical manhood was

splendidly, vigorously vital. She had danced with men and boys, flirted

with them, made friends of a sort with them. Yet none of them had set

her wondering as King did. The repressed curl of his short, crisp hair,

the warm tan of his face and hands and exposed throat, the very gleam of

his perfect teeth, and the flow of the muscles under his shirt--these

things by the sheer trick of opposites sent her fancies scurrying. To

Gratton. How unlike the two men were. And how glad she was that now it

was King coming up over the rock to her.... It had been to Gratton that

she had said: "He is every inch a man!" She stopped abruptly and waited

for him to come to her side.

"We must be going," he said. "You have rested?"

She nodded, and he began gathering up coffee-pot, cups, scraps of paper;

bits of food he left for bird and chipmunk, but the tin cans were

dropped behind an old log and covered over with leaves. She would not

have thought of that; she understood the reason and was glad that their

own arrival here had not been spoiled for them by finding a litter of

other campers' leavings. He stamped out the few embers of their fire,

and, not entirely satisfied, though there was but little danger of

forest fires here in green young June, nevertheless went to the creek

for water and doused the one or two black charred sticks which still

emitted thin wisps of smoke.

"Those men?" queried Gloria when it was clear that he would require

prompting. "Who were they?"

"Some chaps from Coloma, packing off into the woods."

"Swen Brodie?" she demanded.

"Yes. Swen Brodie and half a dozen of his ilk."

"We will overtake them? Is that why you are in a hurry now?"

"No. We won't see anything of them. That's what I went to find out. We

are within a few hundred yards of the fork in the trail; they turned off

to the right, as I thought they would."

"You would like to follow after them?" She gathered that from a vague

something in his voice and from a look, not so vague, in his eyes. "If I

were not along you would go the way they have gone?"

"Yes," he admitted. "But you are along, you know! What is more,"--as he

realized that she might fear he resented her being with him,--"I am glad

that you are. And now shall we start? We've a long ride ahead of us

yet."

She followed him down through the alders; at the pool where she had

slipped before, and he had held her in his arms, she was very careful

not to slip now. Nor did they look at each other while she lightly

touched his hand and they crossed over. For an hour, until the

wilderness worked its green magic upon them again, they were a very

silent man and girl, he pondering on Brodie and his men pushing on into

the solitudes, she wondering many things about her companion--and about

herself.

_Chapter VIII_

Through the long shadows of evening they rode back to the log house.

While King unsaddled, Gloria stood watching him; her eyes shone softly

through the dusk.

"It has been a truly wonderful day," she said simply.

"It is you who have been wonderful," he answered stoutly. "I know you

are not used to long rides like ours to-day; I know you are tired out.

And you never gave a sign."

"The blood of my ancestors," she laughed happily.

In the house Gratton looked at them sharply and suspiciously; Archie and

Teddy saw only Gloria through sorrowful eyes. King, with a nod to the

various guests and a few words with Mrs. Gaynor, entirely given to warm

praise of her daughter, drew Ben aside for a discussion of conditions as

he had found them and left them to-day. He was dead sure that Brodie had

gone back to Honeycutt, had gotten what he wanted, and was off in a

bee-line to put to the proof the old man's tale.

Gloria was off to bed early, saying "good-night everybody" rather

absently. She climbed up the stairs wearily. When her mother slipped

away from the others, having started the victrola and urged them to

dancing, she found Gloria ready for bed but standing before her window,

looking out at the first stars. Mrs. Gaynor discovered in her little

daughter a new, grave-eyed uncommunicativeness. Gloria usually had so

many bright, gushing things to say after a day of pleasure, but to-night

she appeared oddly preoccupied.

"Oh, I'm dead tired, mamma," she said impatiently. "Nothing happened.

I'll tell you to-morrow--anything I can think of. And now, good-night;

I'm so sleepy." She kissed her mother and added: "I didn't tell Mark

good-night--"

"_Mark_? Already, my dear?"

"He was outside with papa," said Gloria, slipping into bed. "Will you

tell him good-night for me?"

"He's gone," retorted her mother, with a certain relish.

"Gone!" Gloria sat up, a very pretty picture of consternation. "Where?"

"Back into the woods. Where he came from, of course. I actually think,"

and she laughed deprecatingly though with a shrewd watchful look to mark

her daughter's quick play of expression, "that that man couldn't sleep

two consecutive nights under a roof. His clothes smell like a pine-tree.

He wouldn't understand us any more than we could understand him, I

suppose."

Gloria was silent and thoughtful. Then, "Good-night, mamma," she offered

again, her cheek snuggled against her pillow. "And put out the light as

you go, please."

Mrs. Gaynor, accepting her dismissal though reluctantly, sighed and went

out. As the door closed Gloria tossed back the covers and sprang out of

bed, going again to her window. She watched the mountain ridges turn

blacker and blacker; saw a second star and another and suddenly the

heavens filled with a softly glimmering spray of twinkling lights; she

heard the night wind rustling, tender with vague voices. A tiny shiver

shook the white shoulders, a shiver not from cold, since not yet had the

air chilled. Through her mind swept a dozen vivid pictures, all of King,

most of them of him out there, alone with the night and the mountains.

But she saw him also as she had seen him to-day; riding before her,

breaking the alders aside, catching her as she fell. All day she had

thrilled to him. Now, more than ever, she thrilled. She imagined she saw

him striding along through the big boles of the pines; passing swiftly,

silent and stern, through a faint patch of light; standing in the

shadows, listening, his keen eyes drilling the obscurity; passing on

again, vigorous, forceful, determined, and "splendid." She wondered if

he would come up with Swen Brodie; most of all she wondered when she

would see him again.

In all likelihood Miss Gloria, healthy, tired young animal, would have

slept until noon next day had she been left to her own devices. But at

nine o'clock her mother came up with a breakfast-tray. Gloria regarded

it sleepily.

"I would have let you sleep, my dear," said Mrs. Gaynor, "but there are

your guests, you know----"

"Hang my guests," was Gloria's morning greeting. "Just because I invited

them up here do I have to give up every shred of my independence?" She

was lying in identically the same position in which she had dropped off

to sleep the night before; now she turned and emitted a sudden "Ouch!"

Not only was she stiff from head to foot; her whole body ached as though

it were nothing but bruises.

So began Gloria's day after her picnicking with Mark King. And in very

much the same way her day continued. Long before the sun set she had

quarrelled with Georgia, turned up her nose at Teddy, laughed derisively

at poor Archie's dog-like devotion, and considerably perplexed and

worried Mr. Gratton, who was astute enough to keep tactfully in the

background, hurt her mother's feelings, and alarmed her father by a wild

and for the instant perfectly heartfelt determination to go and be a

"movie" actress. There was no dancing that night. Gloria, when they

thought her upstairs, sat alone out in the gloaming, a wistful, drooping

little girl surrendering sweepingly to youthful melancholia. She didn't

know just what the matter was; she didn't seek for reasons and

explanations; she merely stared at the far-off stars which swam in a

blue blur, and felt miserable.

But morning came again, as bright as that first day in Eden; the birds

sang and the air was crisp, and young blood ran pleasantly. She came

down early, all radiant smiles; she kissed her mother on both cheeks and

the lips, rumpled her father's hair affectionately, went for a stroll

with Mr. Gratton before breakfast, craved Georgia's pardon abjectly, and

made the world an abiding-place of joy for the college boys.

Gloria was mildly surprised that Gratton did not appear in the least to

resent her day of adventuring with King. He was interested; he did shake

his head with one of his suave smiles and murmur "Lucky dog!" when King

was referred to. But his interest seemed to be chiefly in "that quaint

little relic of past, turbulent days, Coloma." He had her tell him all

about it; of the deserted houses, the store, everything. Hence his

curiosity in Honeycutt and Brodie, and just what happened between King

and them, did not stand out alone and made no impression on Gloria. Long

ago Gratton had had from her lips what rumours had been repeated by her

father to her mother and then relayed on to her own ears. Down in San

Francisco, busied with her own youthful joys, this quest of Ben Gaynor

and Mark King had had no serious import to the girl; she had merely

chatted of it because of its colourful phases. Naturally, had she

thought a great deal of it, she would have supposed that Gratton, in

nowise concerned, was even more superficially interested than herself.

By the end of the week her guests began taking their leaves. Georgia and

Connie Grayson were off to foregather with a crowd of friends at the

Lake Tahoe "Tavern"; Evelyn returned to her mother in Oakland; Archie

departed importantly to aid his father "in the business"; Teddy went

away regretfully. Even Mr. Gratton, having lingered longest of all, went

back to his city affairs, promising to run up again when he could,

prophesying smilingly that he would see both Gloria and her mother in

town within ten days. Ben, leaving his oldest and most dependable

timber-jack to look out for the womenfolk, hastened back to the

lumber-camp, where he returned like a fish to water to his old pipe and

old clothes and roomy boots. And Gloria was plunged deep into

loneliness.

She would walk up the creek back of the house, sit by the hour near the

pool where the water came slithering down over a green and grey boulder,

watching for the water-ouzel, entertained in an absent sort of way by

his bobbings and flirtings and snatches of song. She dreamed day-dreams;

she started expectantly every time a chipmunk made a scurrying racket

in dead leaves. She made a hundred romantic conclusions to the story,

just begun, by Mark King going in the night into the mountains where

Brodie was. Her mind was rife with speculation, having ample food for

thought in all the information she had extracted from her father. Thus,

she knew of Andy Parker's death; of old Honeycutt's box; of Honeycutt's

boastings of a wild youth; of Brodie's threats and King's interference

and the old man's shotgun. If she could only _know_ what was happening

now out there beyond those silent blue barriers! Night after night she

stood at her window, swayed through many swift moods by her live

fancies.

She grew wildly homesick for town. A theatre, dance, a ride through the

park. Activity. And people. It was for her mother that she consented to

remain here another week. Mrs. Gaynor declared that she must have a few

more days of rest; she was worn out from a year of going eternally,

entertaining or being entertained. Gloria, yielding, plunged into an

orgy of letter-writing. She answered letters weeks old; she scribbled

countless bright and unnecessary notes. Also she succeeded in getting

her mother to drive with her frequently to Tahoe, to call on those of

their friends there who had come to the mountains so early in the

season. Several times they remained overnight at the Tavern.

It was after one of these absences that Jim Spalding, the old

timber-jack, told Mrs. Gaynor in his abashed stammer that Mark King had

showed up while they were gone. Gloria, on her way to her room, whirled

and came back, and extracted the tale in its entirety, pumping it out of

the brief, few-worded old Spalding in jerky details. King had appeared

late yesterday afternoon, coming out of the woods. Looked like he'd been

roughin' it an' goin' it hard, at that. Had told Jim he wanted to

telephone. Had stuck around for a while gettin' his call through; had

eaten supper with Jim; had gone back into the woods just about dark.

That was all Jim knowed about it.

Rather, that was all that he supposed he knew until Miss Gloria was

done with him. She dragged other bits of information to the surface.

King had phoned her father; they had talked ten minutes; Mr. Gaynor was

to telephone to the log house again to-morrow or next day. There would

be a message for King; mos' likely from Coloma. King wanted to know

something; Ben was to find out; King would turn up within a few days for

the message.

Mrs. Gaynor that same day said to her daughter in a way so casual that

Gloria immediately was on the alert:

"You've been very sweet to stay up here in this lonely place with me,

dear. I am ready to go at any time now. Shall we go to-morrow?"

"Mother thinks she is so deep!" was Gloria's unspoken comment.

"We've such a lot of packing to do," said Gloria, with an assumption of

carelessness far more artistic than her mother's. "And I'm as sleepy and

lazy as an owl after being up so late last night." Her yawn, softly

patted by four pink-and-white fingers, was as ingenuous as a kitten's.

"I'm really in no hurry, mamma. To-morrow, if we're ready. Or next day."

They were still in the log house when, twenty-four hours later, the

telephone rang, and Gloria, quick to forestall her mother, heard the

operator saying: "Coloma calling Ben Gaynor's residence."

"Coloma!" thought Gloria with a quickened heartbeat. Then it wouldn't be

her father, after all; it would be Mark King----

But her father it was, and she was disappointed. The message, however,

was for King.

"Mark will show up in a day or so," he said. "Tell him that I did as he

asked; that Brodie is in and out from here, the Lord knows what about;

that old Honeycutt boasts that what he has hidden nobody is going to

find. I think if he ever talks to anybody it will be to me, and I'll run

in and see him whenever I get a chance to get over here. And tell King

that--that----Oh, I guess that's all; better let me have a word with

your mother."

Ben Gaynor was never the man for successful subterfuge, especially with

his daughter; she could read every look in his eye, every twitch of his

mouth, and now, over many miles of country telephone lines, she knew

that her beloved old humbug of a male parent was "holding out on her."

Her first impulse was to face him down and demand to be told the rest.

But realizing that a father at the end of a long-distance line was

possessed of a certain strategic advantage presenting more difficulties

than a mother at hand, she said lightly:

"All right, papa. I'll call her. Be sure you take good care of yourself.

Bydie." She relinquished the telephone instrument to her mother and

stood waiting.

She could hear the buzzing of her father's voice but no distinct word.

Her mother said "Yes?" and "Yes," and "Yes, Ben." And then: "Oh, _Ben_!

I don't understand." And then her mother's voice sharpened, and she cut

into something Gaynor was saying: "I can't say anything like _that_! It

is as though we suspected him of being underhanded. And----"

Such scraps of talk were baffling, and Gloria, with scant patience for

the baffling, moved up and down restlessly. When her mother had clicked

up the receiver, Gloria followed her and demanded to be told. Mrs.

Gaynor looked worried; said it was nothing, and refused to talk. But in

five minutes her daughter knew everything Gaynor had said. King was to

be told that Gratton, instead of going straight to San Francisco, had

gone down to Placerville, and next had turned up at Coloma; that he had

spent three days there; that he had gone several times to Honeycutt's

shanty, and had been seen, more than once, with Swen Brodie.

"It's an outrage," cried Mrs. Gaynor, "to retail all that to Mark King.

What business of his is it if Mr. Gratton does go to Coloma, or anywhere

else?"

"That's for you and papa to argue out," said Gloria serenely.

"We are going back to San Francisco to-morrow!"

"I'm not. You know I'm not ready to go yet."

"That is very undutiful, Gloria," said her mother anxiously. "When your

own mother----"

"Oh, let's not get tragic! And, anyway, papa wanted us to stay until Mr.

King came, so that we could tell him."

"Jim Spalding will be here; he can tell----"

"Why, mamma! After papa has trusted to _us_ to see that his message is

delivered!" Gloria looked shocked, incredulous. "Surely----"

So they waited for Mark King to come again out of the forest. All the

next day Gloria, dressed very daintily and looking so lovely in her

expectancy that even old Jim Spalding's eyes followed her everywhere,

watched from the porch or a window or her place by the creek. She was

sure that he would step out of the shadows into the sun with that

familiar appearance of having just materialized from among the tree

trunks; over and over she was prepared, with prettily simulated

surprise, to greet his coming. But the day passed, night drove them

indoors to a cosy fireplace and lights and fragments of music which

Gloria played wistfully or crashingly in bursts of impatience, and still

he did not come. Mrs. Gaynor went off to bed at nine o'clock; Gloria,

suddenly absorbed in a book, elected to sit up and finish her chapter.

She outwatched the log fire; at eleven o'clock the air was chill, and

Gloria as she went upstairs shivered a little and felt tired and vaguely

sad.

The next day she put on another pretty dress, did her hair in her

favourite way, and went about the house as gay as a lark. The day

dragged by; King did not come. By nightfall the look in Gloria's eyes

had altered, and a stubborn expression played havoc with the tenderer

curves of her mouth. She resented at this late date King's way of going;

not only had he not told her good-bye, he had left no word with her

father for her. She sat smiling over a letter received some days ago

from Gratton--after she had retrieved the letter from a heap of crumpled

papers in her bedroom waste-paper basket. She read to her mother

fragments, bright, gossipy remarks in Gratton's clever way of saying

them; she wrote a long, dashingly composed answer.

Two days later she said to her mother, out of a long silence over the

coffee cups:

"Let's go back to San Francisco. This stupid place gets on my nerves."

"Why, of course, dear," agreed Mrs. Gaynor. "I can have everything

packed this afternoon, and to-morrow----"

"Nonsense," said Gloria. "You know we can get packed in half an hour."

That day they left Jim Spalding in charge and departed for Truckee to

catch a train for San Francisco. Mrs. Gaynor dutifully entrusted to

Spalding her husband's message for Mark King. That is to say, that

portion of the message which she considered important. Gloria herself

left no message with old Jim; not in so many words. But she did impress

him with her abundant gaiety, with her eagerness for San Francisco,

where all of her best and dearest friends were. If any one should ask

old Jim concerning Miss Gloria, Jim would be sure to make it clear that

she had no minutest regret in going but a very lively anticipation of

the fullest happiness elsewhere.

_Chapter IX_

Three or four weeks passed before Mark King and Gloria met again. Weeks

of busy gaiety on her part, of steady, persistent seeking on his. Now

again Gloria and her mother and Ben were at the log house in the

mountains, this time with a fresh set of guests. Only one of the former

flock had been invited: Mr. Gratton. And this despite Ben Gaynor's

uneasy "This chap Gratton, Nellie. He's cutting in pretty strong here of

late, and I don't know that I like him. He's too confounded smooth

somehow."

King came the day after the guests arrived for a talk with Ben. Gloria

knew that he was coming and was coolly prepared to meet him. She gave

him a bright little nod, friendly enough but casual, and resumed her

lively chatter with her friends. King went off with Gaynor. That night

there was no moon, but the stars, those great glittering stars of the

Sierra, made the hour softly palpitant. King betook himself to smoke

upon that particular, remembered corner of the porch; Gloria, slipping

out from a dance, felt the little thrill that would not down when she

found him there. In their two chairs, necessarily close together since

the nook was so cosily narrow, her shoulder now and then brushing his as

she moved, the faint fragrances from her gown and hair blown across his

face by the night breeze--for them his pipe hastily laid aside--they sat

talking softly or in a pleasant silence. The next morning--the matter

seemed to arrange itself with very little help from either--they were to

have a ride together This time they would take their lunch. When they

said good-night Gloria impulsively gave him her two hands; he remembered

how she had done that the first time he had seen her. Her face was

lifted up to his; in the starlight he saw her eyes shining softly,

gloriously; he saw her mouth, the lips barely apart. For an instant his

hands shut down hard on hers; he felt the faint pressure of her own in

return. When they heard her mother in the doorway calling, "Gloria,

where are you?" they started apart. A strange and unanalysed sense of

secrecy had fallen upon them; Gloria whispered, "Good-night, Mark," and

then calling, "Here I am, mamma; just cooling off," she went skipping

down the porch, slipped her arm about her mother, and carried her back

into the house.

* * * * *

Before the new day was fairly come they met in the fringe of pines.

Again they shook hands; again for an instant they stood as they had

stood last night. They were tremblingly close to the first kiss.

Suddenly Gloria, with her colour high and her eyes hidden under lashes

which King marvelled at, lashes laid tenderly against her cheeks, pulled

her hands out of his and began drawing on her gauntlets. Gravely, as

though here were a rite to be approached solemnly, he lifted her into

the saddle. They turned their horses and rode up the ridge among the

trees.

They heard together the first sleepy twitterings of hidden birds; they

saw the black shadows thinning; they watched the light come upon the

peaks. Ridges shook off the shadow cloaks, seemed to quiver as they

awoke to the new day, grew flushed and rosy. The chill of the early

morning air was like wine, sparkling, tingling in the blood. The smell

of resinous woods was insistent, the fine bouquet to the rare vintage.

The day, the world, themselves--all were young together--all awakening

to the full, true, and triumphant meaning of life. They rode a mile with

never a spoken word but in a never-broken communion; then it was Gloria

who spoke first, saying, as she had said once before: "I love it!"

They followed narrow trails through the ceanothus-bushes, riding one

behind the other; they climbed steep trails among the pines; then went

down steep trails among granite boulders; they rode side by side through

little upland valleys and grassy meadows. They broke off sprays of

resinous needles as they rode, inhaling the sharp odours; they stooped

for handfuls of fragrant sage; they splashed through swampy places where

the grass and stalks of lush flowers swept their stirrups, through

rock-bound noisy streams where they must pick their way cautiously, and

where the horses snorted and shook their heads and Gloria laughed

gleefully. To-day was like the completion of that other day when they

had ridden to Coloma--to both it seemed that it was only yesterday. The

weeks in between did not matter; they were wiped out of life by the

green magic. Unfinished topics, left over from the first ride, presented

themselves now to be completed. Once Gloria, speaking of their first

woodland luncheon, said "Yesterday." Once King, as they crossed a wild

mountain brook, said, "There's one's nest now. On that rock down by the

waterfall. Looks like a bit of the rock itself, with moss all about it,"

and Gloria understood that it was her water-ouzel he was talking about.

"It was springtime yesterday and to-day it's summer!" said Gloria.

"It's always springtime somewhere in the world," answered King. "To-day

we'll ride from one season up into the other."

"More magic!" laughed Gloria.

It is always springtime somewhere in the world! As youth knows and

remembers, as age forgets. Always a place somewhere for laughter and

love and light hands caressing, for bird song and bird mating and

colourful flowers. And to-day they were seeking this place among the

mountains, riding on expectantly through dark passes, climbing winding

trails, looking across deep cañons and blue ridges. Gloria thought

dreamily that she would like always to be riding thus, leaving summer

behind and below, questing the joyous, full-sapped springtime.

He had promised to show her his latest temporary camp. They came to it

before noon at an altitude of well above seven thousand feet. In a

grassy open space they left their horses; King carried their lunch

bundle and they went on on foot. Along the frothing creek, along the

mountain-side through a wild country of dwarfed vegetation. She began to

understand a thing he had told her; that the Sierra is the land of dwarf

and giant. Pine and cedar and, in one spot he knew, mighty sequoia

piercing at the sky; and here pine, dwarfed, pygmied until it was but a

mat of twisted, broken twigs carpeting the heights. "And I have walked

among the pine tops!" cried Gloria. For up here there was scant soil;

here the winds raged and the snow heaped itself high in the late fall

and remained, icy-crusted, into late summer; and here, now, the

springtime had just come. Never had Gloria seen more beautiful flowers,

flowers half so delicate-looking. And yet how hardy they must be, to

live here at all!

"You are like these flowers," King said quite gravely and with

sincerity. Gloria told him, also gravely and sincerely, that that was

the finest compliment she had ever received--she hoped that he meant it.

At least she understood and she would like to be like them.

His camp was in a little nearly level spot, sheltered by crags and so

hidden by them that one must come fairly upon it before guessing its

proximity. Back of it rose cliffs so sheer that Gloria craned her neck

to look up at them. Below were the headwaters of the creek; across it

the steep slope of the other cañon wall. On all hands bleak, naked rock

with tiny blossoms here and there between in the shallow soil and the

carpeting of pygmy pine and flattened cedar. Only infrequently did a

tree, with roots gripping like claws, lift its ragged top above the big

boulders. A wild place, savagely silent save for the hissing of the wind

around the cliffs above.

King brought water from the creek. He showed her where he had hidden his

few camp utensils; the one small pot, one frying-pan, one cup, one

spoon. To these he added his big-bladed pocket-knife. He made a fire

where already there was a little heap of charred coals against a

blackened rock, and they made coffee and cooked bacon. Gloria used a

stick which he had pointed for her to turn the bacon. They took turns

with the one cup.

"What was it like up on the cliff tops?" King did not know; he had not

yet been up there. And would it take long to climb them? Not over an

hour, he estimated; if she wasn't tired? It was decided that King would

have his postprandial smoke up there; where they could sit and look out

"across the top of the world."

As they climbed they came into a current of rushing air. Higher up the

wind strengthened. They stood poised on boulders, their shoulders thrown

back, heads up, lungs filling. Gloria's hair was whipped out from under

her turban; it blew across her face; a strand of it fluttered across

King's eyes, brushed his lips. He gave her his hand up a steep place

down which they sent a cascade of disintegrating stone. They stood side

by side, shoulders brushing, resting, breathing deeply. Perceptibly the

air thinned; one's lungs were taxed to capacity here; the blood

clamoured for deeper drafts, for more oxygen. When they came to the top

Gloria dropped down, panting, though they had stopped many times on the

way. She closed her eyes and her senses swam through a vast blur. King

gave her a drink from his canteen; she merely thanked him with her eyes.

But in ten minutes she had rested and was on her feet, her slim body

leaning against the wind. He stood by her and they looked out across the

mountains. For what seemed to Gloria a thousand miles there was the

broken wilderness of mountains gashed with gorges, crowned with peaks,

painted with sunlight and distance, glinting white here, veiled in

purple there. She gasped at the bigness of it; it spoke of the vastness

of the world and of the world's primitive savagery. And yet it did not

repel; it fascinated and its message had the seeming of an old,

oft-told, and half-forgotten tale. It threatened with its spires as

cruel as bared fangs, and yet it beckoned and invited with its blue

distances. Always, since the first man fashioned the first club and made

him a knife of a jagged flint, has mankind battled with the great

mother, the earth who bore him. He has striven with her for his food,

warred with her for his raiment, entrenched himself against the

merciless attack of the seasons, winter to stab him with icy spear,

summer to consume him. And always has he loved her and honoured her,

since she is his great mother. Gloria, her thoughts confused by

conflicting instincts, inspired and awed, drew closer to King.

"--But to be out here alone!" The utter, utter loneliness of it. She

looked at him with new, curious eyes. "Doesn't it bear down on you;

don't you feel at times that the loneliness----"

He understood.

"I am used to it, you know. I have never known what it was out here to

feel lonely until----"

She waited for him to finish, her eyes on his. Until----?

"Until after our first ride together," he said.

Again she understood. And now she looked away hastily and her cheeks

reddened. He was about to tell her that he loved her; his eyes had told

her; his lips were shaping to the words "I love you!" And she was

suddenly conscious of a wild nutter in her heart; she was trembling as

though terrified. Other men had told her "I love you." Many times and in

many ways--smiling, with a laugh, with a sigh--whispering the words or

saying them half sternly. And she had always been gay and ready; a

little thrilled, perhaps, as by a chance strain of music. But now--she

could hardly breathe. Now she was frightened. She did not know why; she

could not understand the sense of it; she only knew that she was afraid.

Of what? Nor did she know that. She only knew that here were Gloria

Gaynor and Mark King, man and girl--man and woman--set apart from the

world, lifted above it, clear-cut figures upon a pinnacle piercing the

infinite blue of the heavens, and that a mystery was unfolding before

them. She had a wild wish to stop the flight of time, to thrust it back

upon itself, to have the present not the present but to avoid the Now by

racing back into the serenity of Just A Little While Ago. Ten minutes

ago--anything but this electric, terrifying moment when Mark King, a

surge of emotion upon him, was about to say: "I love you."

"Look!" Gloria started and, forgetful of the strange conflict of

emotions within her, clutched at his sleeve. "A man--here;----"

"Swen Brodie!" muttered King angrily.

Brodie had just clambered up the ridge and came into view only when his

head and bulky shoulders were upthrust beyond a boulder. He came on

until he topped the boulder, standing fully revealed upon its flattish

top, the butt of his rifle resting on his boot. Gloria was suddenly

afraid with a new sort of fear. Though this man was not near enough for

her to see the dancing evil of his little eyes, she saw the brutish face

in full relief against the sky, and marked the jeer on the ugly mouth.

Her one wild thought was that Brodie would murder them both, shoot them

both down in cold blood. She shuddered. King was unarmed; Brodie hated

King as only a man of Brodie's kind, bestial and cruel, could hate. She

remembered what her father had told her; of the death of Andy Parker.

She began tugging at King.

"Take me away!" she gasped. And then, with a terrified look over her

shoulder: "Oh, he is terrible!"

Perhaps Brodie heard. The stiff wind blew her words away from her lips,

tossing them toward him.

"Steady, Gloria," said King in a low voice. "I'll take you away. But we

needn't hurry. He won't hurt you." And, to further soothe her, he added:

"He'd be afraid to shoot, were he minded to. The noise of the gun, you

know. And he doesn't know how many there are with us, or how close they

are. Come, we'll go this way."

He turned his back square on Brodie and with his hand firm on Gloria's

arm led her along the ridge. They passed about a wind-worn rock, and

Gloria looked back, hoping that it had hidden them already from Brodie;

she saw his head over the top of it, felt upon her the eyes which she

could not see, lost as they were under his hat-brim and hurried on. She

ran ahead now with King hastening his step to overtake her.

_Chapter X_

That night when King and Gloria said "good-night" an odd constraint lay

over them. To Gloria, King seemed stiff and preoccupied; she herself had

red spots in her cheeks and was nervously tense. The abrupt approach of

Brodie with his repulsive face--at a moment when the world swirled away

from her underfoot and a divine madness was in her blood--the reaction

and revulsion--all this and the resultant conflict of emotions had worn

her out. She was sure of nothing in all the world--for once was not in

the least certain of herself--when she drew her hand out of King's and

hastened to her guests in the house. It was with a sense of relief that

she heard the door close, shutting her in with familiar, homey objects

and faces, opposing its barrier against the wilderness and a man who was

a part of the wilderness. She knew that King was going back to the

mountains; she knew when he left, going swiftly and silently, like a

shadow among shadows; she knew that this time he went armed, carrying

her father's rifle.

For Mark King knew that it was inevitable that his path and Swen

Brodie's should run closer and closer; that trails made by two men like

King and Brodie could never converge harmoniously; that there was too

much at stake; that it was well to be ready for Brodie in an ugly mood

in an encounter so far removed from the habitations of men that a deed

done would pass without human commentary.

A week passed and Gloria went back to San Francisco. These had been

seven days and nights of uncertainty for her, and had brought hours of

confusion that mounted into bewilderment. She had sung and danced and

flirted as even Gloria Gaynor had never done before; she had made

Gratton sure of her and his eyes had smouldered and his chalky pale face

had flushed; she had sent him off, gnawing at his nails; she had made

other young laughter rise like echoes of her own; she had sighed and sat

long hours at her window, wondering, wondering, wondering. In the end

she had gone, leaving her little note for Mark King.

King did not return to the log house. He knew that long ago Gloria would

have gone; there was nothing to draw him in her absence. He kept in

touch, none too close, with Ben Gaynor; telephoned him once from Coloma,

and once sent a note to him by a hunter he encountered on Five Lakes

Creek, above Hell Hole, the note to be mailed in Truckee some time

later, and to reach Gaynor the following day at his lumber-camp. These

were strenuous days during which King penetrated the most out-of-the-way

corners of the mountains. He constructed his theories and strove

doggedly to set them to the proof. He held that when Baldy Winch had

made him a cabin in so inaccessible and distant a spot as the crest of

Lookout Ridge, it had been because Winch, the sole survivor of those

hardy spirits who had been of Gus Ingle's party, was of a mind to make

sure, day after day, that no other men went where he had been. Perhaps

he knew that he alone remained alive; that the secret was his; that he

had but to wait the winter out, to sit through the spring thaw, and then

go back to claim his own. A man like Baldy Winch, as King envisioned

him, would do that. Hence, from Lookout Ridge one should be able to see

the very point, or a peak standing over the very point, where Gus

Ingle's men had gone. But always the one difficulty: that point might be

a mile away, or ten, twenty, thirty miles away. There was nothing to do

but seek--and he knew that always Swen Brodie, too, was seeking, Brodie

and the men of his own kind whom likeness drew to likeness. So King

spent day after day in the cañons and on the ridges, and yet, through

Ben Gaynor, thought to keep an eye on old Loony Honeycutt.

But there were many hours, alone in the forests resting, sitting over a

bubbling coffee-pot, lying in his blankets under the stars, that King

thought very little of Brodie, Gus Ingle, or Honeycutt. There were times

when the solitudes were empty; when a new, strange feeling of loneliness

swept overpoweringly over him. At such moments he fancied that a girl

came stealing through the trees to him; that she slipped her hand into

his own; that she lifted to his her soft eyes; that something within the

soul of him spoke to her and that she answered. His pulses quickened; a

great yearning as of infinite hunger possessed him. He remembered how

they had stood together upon the ridge the last time; how his arms had

been opening for her; the look in her eyes. That had been a moment when

the world had lain at their feet; when they had been lifted up and up,

close to the gates of paradise.

He saw virtually nothing of Brodie. Now and then smoke from a camp-fire;

once or twice the charred coals where Brodie's men had been before him.

Upon these camp sites he looked contemptuously; carelessness and

wastefulness were two things he hated in a woodsman, and always he found

them in Brodie's wake. Also he found bottles. Further, he was of the

opinion that he could go in the dark to the particular cañon in which

the illicit still made its output of bad moonshine whiskey. But, though

that canon lay in the heart of the country he was combing over, it was

one which he had explored from top to bottom two years ago, and now was

content to leave aside.

One day he came upon signs of a killing made the day before; by one of

Brodie's outfit, he assumed. Some one had baited for a bear and had

killed. The mother bear, he discovered the following morning. For he

came upon a little brown cub whimpering dismally. King made the

rebellious little fellow an unwilling captive--and smiled as he thought

of Gloria. Gloria had talked of bear cubs. If she but had one for a pet!

Well, here was Gloria's pet. King that day turned toward the log house.

And thus he received at last Gloria's note at Jim Spalding's hands:

"DEAR MARK,

"Mamma and I have to go back to town to-morrow. I am so sorry

that I can't stay up here always and always. Do you realize

that I have never seen you in the city? It's lots of fun, too,

in its own way, don't you think? Another kind of a wilderness.

I wonder if you would come down--if I asked you to? I'll say it

very nicely and properly, like this: 'Miss Gloria Gaynor

requests the pleasure of Mr. Mark King's presence at her little

birthday-party, on the evening of August twelfth, at eight

o'clock.' Just the four of us, Mark; mamma and papa, you and

"GLORIA."

"August twelfth," said King. "I'll go."

He didn't write, as the necessity of an answer did not suggest itself to

him. He took it for granted that she would know that he would come. He

chuckled as he thought of the birthday gift he would bring her. There

was still a week; he remained with Spalding at the Gaynor mountain home

and devoted hour after hour to taming the cub. On the eleventh he was in

San Francisco. Before he had taken a taxi at the Ferry Building it had

dawned on him that his best suit of clothes was somewhat outworn. It

would never do to go to the Gaynors' in that. Nor was there time for a

tailor. Therefore he went direct to a clothing-store in Market Street

and in something less than half an hour had bought suit, hat, shoes,

socks, shirt, collar, and tie.

"I can have the alterations made by to-morrow afternoon," said the

salesman.

"What alterations?" demanded King, turning before the long glass and

staring at his new finery.

"The coat is a trifle tight just here--the trousers----"

King laughed.

"As long as I'm satisfied, you are, aren't you?" he said.

The clerk watched him with admiring eyes as he went out. For the clerk,

an odd thing in a man who sold clothing and therefore was prone to judge

by clothes, caught a glimpse of the real man.

"Big mining man, most likely," muttered the clerk. "Don't care for

clothes and is rich enough to get by with whatever he wears." He looked

vaguely envious.

King was busied for an hour or so, finding quarters for his cub,

registering at the St. Francis, getting a shave and hair-cut. A

manicurist saw his hands and, smothering a giggle, pointed them out to

the young fellow she was working on.

"Go after them," he grinned. "There's a fortune for you in them."

"Nothing doing," she returned from her higher wisdom. "He ain't the kind

that knows he's got any hands unless he's got a job for them to do."

Later King telephoned to the Gaynor home. A maid answered and informed

him that Mr. Gaynor had not arrived yet, though he was expected this

afternoon or in the morning; that both Mrs. and Miss Gaynor were out.

King hung up without leaving his name.

King sat in the lobby, musing on San Francisco. As Gloria had said, it

was a wilderness of its own sort. Time was when it had appealed to him;

that was in the younger collegiate days. He wondered what had happened

to his one-time proud evening regalia; how he had strutted in it, dances

and dinners and theatre-parties! But briefly and long, long ago. It was

like a half-forgotten former incarnation; or, rather, like the

unfamiliar existence of some other man. He grew restless over his paper

and strolled into the bar. There he was fortunate enough to stumble on a

man he knew, an old mining engineer. The two got off into a corner and

talked. Later they dined and went to the theatre together.

The next evening King got a taxi, called for his bear cub, stopped at a

florist's for an armful of early violets, and growing more eager and

impatient at every block was off to the Gaynor home.

"Here you are, sir," said the chauffeur, opening the door.

King fancied the man had made a mistake in the number. The house was

blazing with lights, upstairs and down; there was an unmistakable air of

revelry about it; faintly the music of a new dance tune, violin and

piccolo and piano, crept out into the night. Above the music he could

hear gay voices, muffled by door and window and wall.

King was of a mind to go back to the hotel. He had counted on the

Gaynors alone, not on this sort of thing. But also, most of all, he had

counted on Gloria, and his hesitation was brief. He jumped down and,

leading his bear cub by its new chain, went up the steps.

A housemaid came to the door, opened it wide for him, saw the cub

against his leg, and screamed.

"Why, what on earth is the matter, Frieda?" said some one.

It was Gloria passing through the front hallway with a worshipful youth.

Gloria came to the door, the youth at her heels, looking over her

shoulder.

"Oh!" cried Gloria. King knew then in a flash that she had not expected

him, that probably because he had never answered her letter she had

forgotten all about it. Unconsciously he stiffened--his old gesture

before a woman.

But now Gloria came running out to him, her two hands offered, her eyes

alight with pleasure.

"You did come," she said gladly.

Gloria's escort, obviously holding himself to be privileged through

virtue of his briefly temporary office, thrust himself along in her

wake. Him King did not notice; King saw only Gloria. As of old she set

his pulse stirring restlessly with her sparkling, vivid loveliness.

To-night was Gloria's night; she was eighteen and queen of the world.

"And----Oh, look!" She let her hands remain in his but her eyes were

all for the little brown bundle of fur at King's feet, that began now to

whine and pull back at its chain. "My birthday present!"

Just now Mark King would have given anything he could think of to have

that bear cub back in the woods where it belonged. He hadn't had time to

analyse impulses; he didn't know why all of a sudden his gift seemed out

of place. As he let Gloria's fingers slip through his he looked at the

young fellow, a boy of Gloria's own age, in the doorway. Perhaps the

full evening dress had something to do with King's new attitude toward

his pet. But now as Gloria, a little timid and holding her skirts back

and yet clearly delighted, flashed him her look of understanding and

gratitude, he was content.

Gloria remembered to make Mr. King known to Mr. Trimble. Then King

suggested that they take the cub around back and lodge him for the night

in the garage. But Gloria, discovering that she could pat and fondle the

little creature, and that he was of friendly disposition, insisted on

having him brought into the house for all to see.

"It's the most delightful present of all!" she whispered to King.

In the hallway they were surrounded by a crowd of the curious. Girls in

pretty dresses, young fellows in black suits, all very exact as to the

proper evening appointments. At first they were disposed to look on King

as "the man who brought the cub," and it was only when Gloria began a

string of introductions that they understood. One and all, they

regarded Mark King curiously.

The cub was made much of, and finally led off to the kitchen for sugar

and a bed in a box under the table. Mrs. Gaynor appeared and was "very

glad indeed to see Mr. King again." Gratton, whom King remembered with

small liking, came up and shook hands, and looked at King in a way which

did nothing to increase the liking. Ben, it appeared, had been unable to

come this year. King was sorry for that as he looked about him. Only now

did he remember the violets he had brought for Gloria.

The evening was anything but that to which he had looked forward. From

the beginning he regretted coming; before the end it was slow torture

for him. He was out of place and felt more out of place than he was.

Glances at his carelessly purchased clothes were veiled, and never

utterly impolite, but he was conscious of them. He was conspicuous

because he was different; outwardly in garb, inwardly in much else.

There was no one here whom he knew; he had never felt that he knew

Gloria's mother, and to-night Gloria's self, puzzling him, baffling him,

was an Unknown. Not that she was not delightful to him; she was just as

delightful to every other man there, and in the same way. His days with

her in the forest blurred and faded.

Gloria gave him the first dance after his arrival, highhandedly

commanding a fair-haired and despondent youth to surrender to King one

of his numbers. King caught her into his arms hungrily--only to feel

that she was very far away from him. He knew that he was dancing

awkwardly; he had not danced for a dozen years. Gloria suggested sitting

out the rest of the dance; she said it prettily but he understood. He

understood, too, by that sixth sense of man which is so keen at certain

moments of mental distress that all of Gloria's friends were wondering

about him, where he came from, "what his business was." He was tanned,

rugged. He was not of them. He fancied, sensitively, that among

themselves they laughed at him. As he sat with Gloria and found little

to say, he was conscious of her eyes probing at him when she thought

that he did not see. He looked away, a shadow in his eyes, and chanced

to see Gratton. Gratton, who had struck him as contemptible in the

woods, a misfit and a poor sort of man at best, was here on his own

heath. He carried himself well, he talked well; he bore himself with a

certain distinction. Clearly he was much in favour among the girls and

women, much envied by the younger men. Yes; Gloria was right: this was

another sort of wilderness where Mark King was the misfit, where Gratton

was as much in tone with his environment as was King among the forest

and crags of the ridges.

Another dance. Gloria excused herself lightly and escaped into the arms

of Gratton himself. Escaped! King understood; that was the word for it.

He watched them; saw Gratton whisper something into her ear, saw Gloria

toss her head, saw her cheeks flush. Then Gratton laughed and she

laughed with him. They danced wonderfully together, swaying together

like two reeds in the same gentle wind. Others than King noticed; there

were knowing smiles. At the end of the dance King saw the look which

Gloria, flushed and happy, flashed up at Gratton, and his heart

contracted in a sudden spasm of pain.

When again couples were seeking each other to the jazzy invitation of

the musicians, King slipped away and went outside. He stood in the

shadows of the porch seeking to get a grip on himself. In a moment he

would go in and say good-night to Mrs. Gaynor; he'd say good-night to

Gloria; he would go and put an end to a hideous nightmare. He held

himself very much of a fool, and he knew that he was fanciful. But he

was of no mind to stay.

Two or three couples came out; he remained unnoticed in the darkness. He

heard a girl's voice:

"But _who_ is he? I think he's terribly handsome. And

distinguished-looking. Superior to our kind of nonsense."

"Who are you talking about, Betty?" Her dancing partner pretended to be

in doubt. "Me?"

A whirlwind of girls' laughter. Then one of them saying:

"_You_ distinguished-looking! Or handsome! She means the

sixty-nine-dollar serge suit."

Good God! Was there a price tag on him?

"Oh, the animal trainer!" They laughed again. Then Gloria came and they

called to her, demanding:

"_Who_ is he?"

"Oh," said Gloria carelessly, "he is an old friend of papa's and his

name is King."

They went in, two of the girls lingering a little behind the others.

Gloria and another. The other, bantering and yet curious, said:

"Georgia told me all about a Mr. King up in the mountains this spring.

And that it looked like love at first sight to her. 'Fess up, Glory, my

dear."

Gloria's laughter, unfettered, spontaneous, was of high amusement.

"Georgia said, just the same, that she'd bet on an elopement--"

King reddened and stirred uneasily. Gloria gasped.

"Georgia's crazy!" she said emphatically. "Why, the man is impossible!"

* * * * *

Five minutes later King went in, found his hat, and told Mrs. Gaynor

good-night. She was glad that he was going, and he knew it though she

made the obvious perfunctory remark. Gloria saw and came tripping across

the room.

"Not going so soon?"

"Yes," he said briefly. "Good-bye, Gloria."

"Good-night, you mean, don't you?"

"I mean good-bye," he said quietly.

Gratton thrust forward. King left abruptly, leaving them together,

conscious of the quick look of pleasure on the face of Gloria's mother.

_Chapter XI_

Always Gloria, yielding to the heady impulses of youth, was ready for

High Adventure. Therein lay the explanation of many things which Gloria

did.

Time went scurrying on. Mark King had returned to the Sierra; no word

came from him, and Gloria told herself with an exaggerated air of

indifference that she had just about forgotten him. Autumn came, that

finest of all seasons about San Francisco Bay, the ocean fogs were

thrust back, unveiling the clear sunny skies by day, the crystalline

glitter of stars by night. The city grew gayer as the season advanced;

dinners and dances and theatre-parties made life a gloriously joyful

affair for Gloria. She had hardly the time to ask herself: "Just where

am I going?" It was so much easier to laugh and cry lightly, in the

phrase of the day, "I am on my way!" She had drifted, drifted like one

in a canoe trailing her fingers idly in the clear water and never noting

when the little craft was caught by a steady, purposeful current. It was

speeding now; but she only laughed breathlessly and drank her fill of

the hour, and left to others the thoughts which carve fine lines about

brow and eyes. She knew that her father was beset by some sort of

financial troubles; for the first time in her life he had not come to

her birthday-party, and her mother had explained, rather soberly, that

it was because of a business crisis. Gloria did not know that crises

lasted so long. Weeks and weeks had gone and still she knew from a look

which her mother could not hide that the money troubles were still

stalking her father, and coming so close that for the first time in

history they cast a shadow from the top of the Sierra down into her

mother's heart in San Francisco.

Now Gratton became the man of the hour. He had studied Gloria with

infinite patience and he never displeased her. "He understood her," as

she comfortingly assured herself. That meant, of course, that he gave in

to her always; that tirelessly he exerted himself to please her. At a

time when there was much financial depression, Gratton's obvious

affluence was very agreeable to the pleasure-seeker. He dressed well; he

entertained with due respect for the most charming accessories; he took

her to dance or theatre, or for a drive in the park or down the

peninsula in a new, elegantly appointed limousine. And about the same

time fate had it that by two entirely unassociated trends of

circumstance he should draw to the dregs of Gloria's lively and romantic

interest. In the first place, he began to become a prominent figure in

San Francisco. His name was in the papers with names of "men who

counted." And, of far greater import to Gloria, he became what she liked

to consider a "Man of Mystery!"

For, weeks ago, Gloria had noted that regularly once a week Mr. Gratton

dropped out of sight, to be gone for one or two days. He was never to be

seen Saturday; seldom Sunday; always any day from Monday to Friday

night. During week-ends he was "out of town." And, though there were

countless opportunities for an off-hand explanation, Gratton never gave

it. Others than Gloria remarked the fact; a girl friend insinuatingly

remarked: "Better watch out for him, Glory, dear. _Cherchez la femme_,

you know."

Gloria never suspected any such condition of affairs; she was too sure

of Gratton's attentions. But, being Gloria, she wondered.

One night she and Gratton were having a late supper together at the

Palace. They had been to the theatre and now, yielding to the demands of

her young appetite, they sat before sandwiches and coffee. Gloria saw

the page as he came to the doorway; he stood, an envelope in his hand,

looking up and down the room. When at last his eyes rested on her and

her companion, the boy came to the table.

"Telegram, Mr. Gratton."

Gratton, more interested in what she was saying than in the yellow

envelope, opened it carelessly. But in a flash his attention was whipped

away from her; she stopped in the middle of a sentence and knew that he

had not noticed. A quick spurt of blood flushed his dead-white skin;

his eyes grew bright with excitement. He read in a sweeping glance, and

before his eyes came back to her they went hurriedly to his watch.

"I've got to go, Gloria," he said nervously. "Immediately. This is

important."

"Why, of course," she agreed. "I can get a bite when I get home."

He thrust the telegram into his pocket and came around to the back of

her chair. He was all impatience; it seemed he could not wait until hat

and coats were gotten. On the way to the street he looked again at his

watch.

"I've got to go out of town," he explained. "I'll be gone a couple of

days."

"But this is only Wednesday!"

"And usually I don't go before Saturday?" He was tapping at his

cigarette-case as they came to their taxi. "Yes. But something has

happened."

He helped her in and lifted his foot to follow.

"Gloria," he muttered, "I can't make it. If I see you home I will miss

the last boat across the bay."

She was more and more interested. She had never known Gratton to show

emotion as he showed it to-night; she was more and more curious about

that "business" which carried him out of town. Why hadn't he tossed the

telegram across the table for her to read? Here was a shut door, and

from being barred a door always invites the more temptingly. Especially

to a girl like Gloria.

"Why, I can go home alone--"

"I don't like it. I--" He ended abruptly and thrust his head into the

car, his eyes questing hers in the half-light; the chauffeur with his

engine going looked over his shoulder.

"Come with me, Gloria!"

Gloria wondered what he meant: whether the man was suggesting an

elopement or just a wild bit of downright unconventionality.

"I mean it," said Gratton. "Listen. The new day has already started. By

the time the ferry lands us in Oakland it will be nearly three o'clock.

I've got to drive up into the country; we'll phone your mother and will

start right away. We'll get there long before noon; we'll be back before

night. It would mean only a day's outing and no harm done. Won't you

come, Gloria? Please come!" He pulled out his watch again. "We've just

got time to catch the boat comfortably." He called to the taxi-driver,

"To the ferry," and jumped in.

"But----"

"You can come as far as the ferry, anyway. Even if you won't give me a

day of motoring. It's wonderful out in the country this time of year.

And----"

When they came to the ferry there was no time for debating the matter;

the crowd was pouring toward the last boat, and Gloria, her eyes bright

with the joy of her escapade, went with him through the little gate

where the tickets were presented for the last boat across the bay. It

was unconventional, as she saw quite clearly. But to Gloria

unconventionality was a condition fairly divided into two widely

separated browsing-grounds; there was the thing which was just "daring";

there was that other which was ugly because it was "compromising." This

adventure promised to fall into the safer category; to be off motoring

with Mr. Gratton from three o'clock in the morning until late afternoon

was what she considered a "lark."

They laughed together in anticipation as they crossed the bay. They sat

where they could watch the red and green lights, reflected like topazes

and rubies in the shimmering water, fall away and dwindle as the

silhouette of the embarcadero receded. On the electric train they were

whizzed among many sleepy folk into a sleeping town, Oakland, drowsing

and silent. Gratton summoned a somnolent taxi-driver and they were

whisked through the cool air to a garage. He left her a moment, sitting

in the taxi, while he ran in and arranged for a roadster.

Gloria, left to her own thoughts, began to regret having come. The

thing, reviewed in solitude, was "crazy." She grew vaguely distressed.

She wanted to go back to San Francisco--but there would be no boat now

until full morning, three or four hours; she could not get home before

seven or half-past seven o'clock. She tried to recall a friend on this

side of the bay to whom she could go at this time of night--day, rather!

Her lips shaped to a half smile.

"I've got the car." Gratton was back offering to help her down. "And I

phoned your mother."

"Was she----?"

"She trusts you with me, Gloria," he said quickly.

She let him help her into the car he had hired. Gratton took the wheel

and turned into San Pablo Avenue. The street was deserted and he gently

pressed down the throttle; he had hired a dependable, high-priced car,

and the motor sang softly. The wind blew in Gloria's face and her zest

came back to her.

Gratton would not tell her where they were going; he made a great lark

of their escapade, assuring her gaily that their destination was

reserved as the final surprise for her. He evaded laughingly when she

asked. "Maybe we'll keep right on going, always and always," he jested

with her. She thought that under the jest there was a queer note; when

his eyes flashed briefly toward her she tried to read their message. But

the hour, mystery-filled, filled them with mystery.

Gloria began laughing.

"What will we look like to-morrow--I mean when it's full day! Me dressed

like this--you in evening suit!"

"By Jove!" said Gratton. Then he laughed with her. "It's the lark of my

life."

The ocean breeze smarted in their eyes, the motor thrummed merrily,

trees and houses flew by, the racing car leaped to fresh speed. On the

cement highway the spinning tyres whined musically.

They were far up-country when the sun rose. Gloria, very sleepy now,

watched it climb above the hills. She had watched the sunrise last

June--with Mark King. Later, again with Mark King, she had seen it

thrust its great burning disk above the pine ridges.

She was asleep and started wide awake when the car stopped suddenly.

They were in the one street of a little town; it must be eight o'clock.

She was cold.

"What do you say to a cup of coffee? And toast and eggs?"

"I am hungry," she confessed.

Over their breakfast in the little wayside restaurant, with its untidy

tables and greasy lunch-counter, it was Gratton who did all of the

talking. Gloria by now realized that she was downright sorry she had

come. He seemed eager, his eyes very bright, his voice quick and vibrant

with an electrical urge dominating. She wondered vaguely what made him

seem "different."

"The waiter," she said as they finished, "is staring his head off at our

clothes."

"We're going to remedy that matter. Come on; the stores are open."

"Fancy shopping here!" The thought made her laugh.

"Just the place for what we want. Khaki trousers and flannel shirt and

boots for me; an outing-suit for you."

He took her arm and they walked the half-dozen doors to the dry-goods

store.

"I haven't a cent with me----"

"Let me be your banker," he said lightly.

Gloria hesitated. But very briefly. Hot coffee had done much for her

drooping courage; the escapade, even this going at eight o'clock in the

morning into a country store with a man, and on money borrowed from the

man, was an experience to put the gay note of adventure back into the

affair.

Gloria made her purchases in fifteen minutes and the change from theatre

gown into an olive outing-suit in another fifteen. Her discarded

garments were gathered up, put into a cardboard box by the clerk, and

wrapped in heavy paper to be stowed away in the car. She confronted

Gratton smilingly in her new garb, her hands in her pockets, her face

saucy, her slim body boyish in its swagger and richly feminine in its

unhidden curves. Gratton's eyes shone, quick with admiration. She

laughed and a flush came into her cheeks as he gravely paid for her

clothing and his own. When they went to their car both were strangely

silent.

"I owe you a lot of money," she said with assumed carelessness.

"Which I hope you never repay," he returned meaningly.

At nine o'clock they were threading the streets of Sacramento. At a

little after ten they were in Auburn. They drove through "Old Town,"

passed the courthouse and through the newer portion of the village; by

the Freeman Hotel and the railroad-yards, through the "subway" under the

tracks, and turned off to the right, leaving the highway for the first

time and skirting the olive-orchards on the hill. Then, sweeping around

a wide curve they caught the first glimpse of the American River deep

down in its historic canon. On, over a narrow, red-dirt road, closer

down to the gorge, across the long bridge, up and up the steep, writhing

grade. They came to the top of the ridge; raced through Cool, through

Lotus----

"Coloma!" gasped Gloria. "You are going to Coloma!"

He slowed the car down that he might look at her keenly.

"Well?" he said lightly.

"It is to Coloma that you have been coming every week!"

"Well?" he said a second time.

"Then you--you, too----"

He glanced at the road, cut down the speed still more, and looked back

into her thoughtful eyes.

"Would you rather that it was Mark King or I who succeeded?"

She was clearly perplexed.

"Mark King is papa's partner," she said musingly.

"And I? I hope one day to be more than his partner!"

She understood but gave no sign of understanding. He did not press the

point.

"Here we are," he said presently as the first of the picturesque old

rock-and-mortar houses of Coloma stood forth out of the wilderness. "And

you're dead tired and nearly dead for sleep. I am sorry we can't have a

city hotel up here; but I'll get you a room where you can lie down. You

can sleep and rest for two or three hours; then we'll start back."

Gloria had been tired and sleepy half an hour ago; not now. Gratton was

playing his own hand in his own way--against her father and against Mark

King. And Gratton had a way of winning. Something had happened; some one

had telegraphed for him to come. Gloria was aquiver with excitement. She

watched Gratton while he was watching the road; he, too, was tense and

eager.

When he stopped the car she got down, not knowing just what to do or

say. He led the way to the little "hotel," and she followed. Since she

could not insist on following him about his "business," it was, perhaps,

just as well if she lay down. And, alone, thought things out. He placed

a chair for her and arranged for her room. He paid for it in advance,

saying that they would be leaving in a hurry; he registered for her.

Then Gloria was shown down a long hall and to her room. Here Gratton

left her, impatient to be away. She went to her window and stood looking

out. She heard a man call; a deep, rumbling bass voice. She saw Gratton

come about the corner of the house and start across the street. A man, a

very big man, came to meet him. They stood together talking in the

middle of the road, their voices low, their looks earnest. They went

away together. She shivered and went to her bed and sat down, her hands

tight clasped, a look of trouble in her eyes. Gratton and Swen Brodie

together----

"I don't understand." She said it to herself over and over. "I can't

understand!"

She sprang up and left the room, going in feverish haste back to the

front part of the building. The man who had given Gratton the register

followed her with his speculative eyes. She went to the door and looked

out, seeing neither the dusty road, the deserted house across the way,

nor the mountains beyond. She was groping blindly in a mental fog; she

was tired, very tired. And uncertain. Something was happening--had

happened, or was about to happen, and she did not know which way to

turn. Her father, poor old papa, was fighting hard against some kind of

money troubles. Mark King, Gratton, Brodie--figures to race through her

brain, to confuse her with their own contentions, to baffle and

bewilder. Suddenly she felt utterly alone, hopelessly, helplessly alone.

She wanted her mother, and with the impulse wheeled back toward the man

watching her.

"I want to use the long-distance telephone," she said. "Where is it?"

"This way, miss," said the man, eager to be of service. Then, with a

bashful grin, he amended: "I _beg_ pardon. Mrs. Gratton, I mean!"

Gloria stared at him. Her mouth was open to correct him; she saw how

naturally his mistake was made. But before she could speak a wild

flutter in her heart stopped the words; she went swiftly to the

register. In Gratton's own hand, set opposite the clerk's number seven

indicating her room, were the words: "Gratton & Wife, S.F." She turned

crimson; went white.

"I'll telephone later," she said faintly, and went again to the door and

this time out into the autumn sunshine. All of the high adventure was

dead ashes; the "lark" was lost in a sinister enterprise.

Gratton's wife--Mrs. Gratton----He had done that! She walked on

blindly; tears gathered, tears of mortification, of blazing anger. But

they did not fall; she dabbed viciously at her eyes. Why had he done

that? _Why?_ Never a "why" so insistent in all of the girl's lifetime.

Never a moment of such blind wonder.

"Howdy, miss?" a voice was saying.

It brought her back to earth from a region of swirling vapours, back to

to-day and Coloma. She stopped and looked at the man, startled. He was a

stranger, yet dimly familiar. The little store, his own round face, his

shirt-sleeves and boots----

"I wanted to ask," he said solicitously, "how your father was this

morning."

"My father?" she repeated dully. "Oh, he's quite well, thank you."

Plainly her words puzzled him. He squinted his eyes as though to make

sure of her.

"You're the young lady that stopped in here one day last spring with

Mark King? June it was, wasn't it? You bought some stuff for lunch."

"Yes," she admitted. She would never have remembered him. But he, who

had not seen others like her, remembered.

"Then you're Ben Gaynor's girl?"

"Yes," she said again, and was about to go on, resenting his persistent

meddlesomeness.

"And you say he's _well_?"

"Quite well, I believe," she said coolly.

"But wait a minute," he called after her. "Wasn't he bad hurt last

night?"

"Papa hurt?"

"I supposed that was why you was here----"

"How hurt?" she cried sharply. "When? Where? Tell me; why don't you tell

me?"

He looked at her in wonder.

"All I know is just what I heard. And you know how news gets itself all

twisted up travelling half a mile. I _heard_ he got hurt at old Loony

Honeycutt's last night. Right bad hurt, they said. But I was just asking

you----"

"Where is he?" she cut in excitedly. "Now?"

"Didn't you just come out of the hotel?" He looked more puzzled than

ever. "Wasn't he there?"

"How do I know? Was he taken there?"