When the broncho's hot anger had cooled, Mose gave him his head, and

fell to thinking upon the future. He had been more than eight years in

the range and on the trail and all he owned in the world was a saddle, a

gun, a rope, and a horse. The sight of Cora, the caressing of little

Pink, and Mary's letter had roused in him a longing for a wife and a

shanty of his own.

The grass was getting sere, there was new-fallen snow on Lizard Head,

and winter was coming. He had the animal's instinct to den up, to seek

winter quarters. Certain ties other than those of Mary's love combined

to draw him back to Marmion for the winter. If he could only shake off

his burdening notoriety and go back to see her--to ask her

advice--perhaps she could aid him. But to _sneak_ back again--to crawl

about in dark corners--that was impossible.

He was no longer the frank and boyish lover of adventure. Life troubled

him now, conduct was become less simple, actions each day less easily

determined. These women now made him ponder. Cora, who was accustomed to

the range and whose interests were his own in many ways, the princess,

whose money and influence could get him something to do in Wagon Wheel,

and Mary, whose very name made him shudder with remembered

adoration--each one now made him think. Mary, of all the group, was most

certainly unfitted to share his mode of life, and yet the thought of her

made the others impossible to him.

The marshal saw him ride up the street and throw himself from his horse

before the post office and hastened toward him with his hand extended.

"Hello! Mose, I've got a telegram for you from Sweetwater."

Mose took it without a word and opened it. It was from his father: "Wait

for me in Wagon Wheel. I am coming."

The marshal was grinning. "Did you see the write-up in yesterday's

Mother Lode?"

"Yes--I saw it, and cussed you for it."

"I knowd you would, but I couldn't help it. Billy, the editor, got hold

of me and pumped the whole story out of me before I knew it. I don't

think it does you any harm."

"It didn't do me any good," replied Mose shortly.

"Say, the princess wants to see you. She's on the street somewhere now,

looking for you."

"Where's the telegraph office?" he abruptly asked.

The telegram from his father had put the idea into his head to

communicate in that way with Mary and Jack.

The marshal led the way to a stage office wherein stood a counter and a

row of clicking machines.

"What is the cost of a telegram to Marmion, Iowa?" asked Mose.

"One dollar, ten words. Each ad----"

Mose thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out all his money, a

handful of small change. His face grew bitter, his last dollar was

broken into bits.

"Make it night rates for sixty," said the operator. "Be delivered

to-morrow morning."

"Go ahead," said Mose, and set to work to compose a message. The

marshal, with unexpected delicacy, sauntered out into the street.

Now that he was actually face to face with the problem of answering

Mary's letter in ten words the youth's hand refused to write, and he

stood looking at the yellow slip of paper with an intensity that was

comical to the clerk. Plainly this cowboy was not accustomed to

telegraphing.

Mose felt the waiting presence of the clerk and said:

"Can I set down here and think it over?"

"Why sure, take a seat at that table over there."

Under the pressure of his emotion Mose wrote "Dear Mary" and stopped.

The chap at the other end of the line would read that and comment on it.

He struck that out. Then it occurred to him that if he signed it "Harry"

_this_ operator would marvel, and if he signed "Mose" the other end of

the line would wonder. He rose, crushing the paper in his hand, and went

out into the street. There was only one way--to write.

This he did standing at the ink-bespattered shelf which served as

writing desk in the post office.

"DEAR MARY: I have just received your letter. It's a little

late but perhaps it ain't too late. Anyhow, I'm banking on

this finding you just the same as when you wrote. I wish I

could visit you again but I'm afraid I couldn't do it a

second time without being recognized, but write to me at

once, and, if you say come, I'll come. I am poorer than I was

four years ago, but I've been on the trail, I know the

mountains now. There's no other place for me, but I get

lonesome sometimes when I think of you. I'm no good at

writing letters--can't write as well as I could when I was

twenty, so don't mind my short letter, but if I could see

you! Write at once and I'll borrow or steal enough money to

pay my way to you--I don't expect to ever see you out here in

the West."

While still pondering over his letter he heard the rustle of a woman's

dress and turned to face the princess, in magnificent attire, her gloved

hand extended toward him, her face radiant with pleasure.

"Why, my dear boy, where have you been?"

Mose shook hands, his letter to Mary (still unsealed) in his left hand.

"Been down on the range," he mumbled in profound embarrassment.

She assumed a girlish part. "But you _promised_ to come and see me."

He turned away to seal his letter and she studied him with admiring

eyes. He was so interesting in his boyish confusion--graceful in spite

of his irrelevant movements, for he was as supple, as properly poised,

and as sinewy as a panther.

"You're a great boy," she said to him when he came back. "I like you, I

want to do something for you. Get into my carriage, and let me tell you

of some plans."

He looked down at his faded woolen shirt and lifted his hand to his

greasy sombrero. "Oh, no! I can't do that."

She laughed. "You ought to be able to stand it if I can. I'd be rather

proud of having 'Black Mose' in my carriage."

"I guess not," he said. There was a cadence in these three words to

which she bowed her head. She surrendered her notion quickly.

"Come down to the Palace with me."

"All right, I'll do that," he replied without interest.

"Meet me there in half an hour."

"All right."

"Good-by till then."

He did not reply but took her extended hand, while the young fellow in

the postal cage grinned with profound appreciation. After the princess

went out this clerk said, "Pard, you've struck it rich."

Mose turned and his eyebrows lowered dangerously. "Keep to your letter

punchin', young feller, and you'll enjoy better health."

Those who happened to be standing in the room held their breath, for in

that menacing, steady glare they recognized battle.

The clerk gasped and stammered, "I didn't mean anything."

"That's all right. You're lately from the East, or you wouldn't get gay

with strangers in this country. See if there is any mail for Mose

Harding--or Harry Excell."

"Sorry, sir--nothing for Mr. Harding, nothing for Mr. Excell."

Mose turned back to the desk and scrawled a short letter to Jack Burns

asking him to let him know at once where Mary was, and whether it would

be safe for him to visit her.

As he went out in the street to mount his horse the marshal met him

again, and Mose, irritated and hungry, said sharply:

"See here, pardner, you act most cussedly like a man keeping watch on

me."

The marshal hastened to say, "Nothing of the kind. I like you, that's

all. I want to talk with you--in fact I'm under orders from the princess

to help you get a job if you want one. I've got an offer now. The

Express Company want you to act as guard between here and Cañon City.

Pay is one hundred dollars a month, ammunition furnished."

Mose threw out his hand. "I'll do it--take it all back."

The marshal shook hands without resentment, considering the apology

ample, and together they sauntered down the street.

"Now, pardner, let me tell you how I size up the princess. She's a

good-hearted woman as ever lived, but she's a little off color with the

women who run the church socials here. She's a rippin' good business

woman, and her luck beats h--l. Why last week she bought a feller's

claim in fer ten thousand dollars and yesterday they tapped a vein of

eighty dollar ore, runnin' three feet wide. She don't haff to live

here--she's worth a half million dollars--but she likes mining and she

likes men. She knows how to handle 'em too--as you'll find out. She's

hail-fellow with us all--but I tell ye she's got to like a feller all

through before he sees the inside of her parlor. She's stuck on you.

We're good friends--she come to call on my wife yesterday, and she

talked about you pretty much the hull time. I never saw her worse bent

up over a man. I believe she'd marry you, Mose, I do."

"Takes two for a bargain of that kind," said Mose.

The marshal turned. "But, my boy, that means making you a half owner of

all she has--why that last mine may go to a million within six months."

"That's all right," Mose replied, feeling the intended good will of the

older man. "But I expect to find or earn my own money. I can't marry a

woman fifteen years older'n I am for her money. It ain't right and it

ain't decent, and you'll oblige me by shutting up all such talk."

The sheriff humbly sighed. "She is a good deal older, that's a fact--but

she's took care of herself. Still, as you say, it's none o' my business.

If she can't persuade you, I can't. Come in, and I'll introduce you to

the managers of the National----"

"Can't now, I will later."

"All right, so long! Come in any time."

Mose stepped into a barber shop to brush up a little, for he had

acquired a higher estimate of the princess, and when he entered the

dining room of the Palace he made a handsome figure. Whatever he wore

acquired distinction from his beauty. His hat, no matter how stained,

possessed charm. His dark shirt displayed the splendid shape of his

shoulders, and his cartridge belt slanted across his hip at just the

right angle.

The woman waiting for him smiled with an exultant glint in her

half-concealed eyes.

"Sit there," she commanded, pointing at a chair. "Two beers," she said

to the waiter.

Mose took the chair opposite and looked at her smilelessly. He waited

for her to move.

"Ever been East--Chicago, Washington?"

"No."

"Want to go?"

"No."

She smiled again. "Know anything about mining?"

"Not a thing."

She looked at him with a musing, admiring glance. "I've got a big cattle

ranch--will you superintend it for me?"

"Where is it?"

She laughed and stammered a little. "Well--I mean I've been thinking of

buying one. I'm kind o' tired of these mining towns; I believe I'd like

to live on a ranch, with you to superintend it."

His face darkened again, and she hastened to say, "The cattle business

is going to boom again soon. They're all dropping out of it fast, but

_now_ is the time to get in and buy."

The beer came and interrupted her. "Here's to good luck," she said. They

drank, and as she daintily touched her lips with her handkerchief she

lifted her eyes to him again--strange eyes with lovely green and yellow

and pink lights in them not unlike some semi-precious stones.

"You don't like me," she said. "Why won't you let me help you?"

"You want a square-toed answer?" he asked grimly, looking her steadily

in the eyes.

She paled a little. "Yes."

"There is a girl in Iowa--I make it my business to work for her."

Her eyes fell and her right hand slowly turned the mug around and

around. When she looked up she seemed older and her eyes were sadder.

"That need make no difference."

"But it does," he said slowly. "It makes all the difference there is."

She became suddenly very humble. "You misunderstand me--I mean, I'll

help you both. How do you expect to live?"

His eyes fell now. He flushed and shifted uneasily in his chair. "I

don't know." Then he unbent a little in saying, "That's what's bothering

me right now."

She pursued her advantage. "If you marry you've got to quit all this

trail business."

"Dead sure thing! And that scares me too. I don't know how I'd stand

being tied down to a stake."

She laid a hand on his arm. "Now see here, Mose, you let me help you.

You know all about cattle and the trail, you can shoot and throw a

rope, but you're a babe at lots of other things. You've got to get to

work at something, settle right down, and dig up some dust. Now isn't

that so?"

"I reckon that's the size of it."

It was singular how friendly she now seemed in his eyes. There was

something so frank and gentle in her voice (though her eyes remained

sinister) that he began almost to trust her.

"Well, now, I tell you what you can do. You take the job I got for you

with the Express Company and I'll look around and corral something else

for you."

He could not refuse to take her hand upon this compact. Then she said

with an attempt to be careless, "Have you a picture of this girl? I'd

like to see how she looks."

His face darkened again. "No," he said shortly, "I never had one of

her."

She recognized his unwillingness to say more.

"Well, good-by, come and see me."

He parted from her with a sense of having been unnecessarily harsh with

a woman who wished to be his good friend.

He was hungry and that made him think of his horse which he returned to

at once. After watering and feeding his tired beast he turned in at a

coffeehouse and bought a lunch--not being able to afford a meal.

Everywhere he went men pointed a timid or admiring thumb at him. They

were unobtrusive about it, but it annoyed him at the moment. His mind

was too entirely filled with perplexities to welcome strangers'

greetings. "I _must_ earn some money," was the thought which brought

with it each time the offer of the Express Company. He determined each

time to take it although it involved riding the same trail over and over

again, which made him shudder to think of. But it was three times the

pay of a cowboy and a single month of it would enable him to make his

trip to the East.

After his luncheon he turned in at the office and sullenly accepted the

job. "You're just the man we need," said the manager. "We've had two or

three hold-ups here, but with you on the seat I shall feel entirely at

ease. Marshal Haney has recommended you--and I know your record as a

daring man. Can you go out to-morrow morning?"

"Quicker the better."

"I'd like to have you sleep here in the office. I'll see that you have a

good bed."

"Anywhere."

After Mose went out the manager winked at the marshal and said:

"It's a good thing to have him retained on our side. He'd make a bad man

on the hold-up side."

"Sure thing!" replied Haney.

While loitering on a street corner still busy with his problems Mose saw

a tall man on a fine black horse coming down the street. The rider

slouched in his saddle like a tired man but with the grace of a true

horseman. On his bushy head sat a wide soft hat creased in the middle.

His suit was brown corduroy.

Mose thought, "If that bushy head was not so white I should say it was

father's. It _is_ father!"

He let him pass, staring in astonishment at the transformation in the

minister. "Well, well! the old man has woke up. He looks the real thing,

sure."

A drum struck up suddenly and the broncho (never too tired to shy) gave

a frenzied leap. The rider went with him, reins in hand, heels set well

in, knees grasping the saddle.

Mose smiled with genuine pleasure. "I didn't know he could ride like

that," and he turned to follow with a genuine interest.

He came up to Mr. Excell just as the marshal stepped out of the crowd

and accosted him. For the first time in his life Mose was moved to joke

his father.

"Marshal, that man is a dangerous character. I know him; put him out."

The father turned and a smile lit his darkly tanned face. "Harry----"

Mose made a swift sign, "Old man, how are ye?" The minister's manner

pleased his son. He grasped his father's hand with a heartiness that

checked speech for the moment, then he said, "I was looking for you.

Where you from?"

"I've got a summer camp between here and the Springs. I saw the notice

of you in yesterday's paper. I've been watching the newspapers for a

long time, hoping to get some word of you. I seized the first chance and

came on."

Mose turned. "Marshal, I'll vouch for this man; he's an old neighbor of

mine."

Mr. Excell slipped to the ground and Mose took the rein on his arm.

"Come, let's put the horse with mine." They walked away, elbow to elbow.

A wonderful change had swept over Mr. Excell. He was brown, alert, and

vigorous--but more than all, his eyes were keen and cheerful and his

smile ready and manly.

"You're looking well," said the son.

"I _am well_. Since I struck the high altitudes I'm a new man. I don't

wonder you love this life."

"Are you preaching?"

"Yes, I speak once a week in the Springs. I ride down the trail from my

cabin and back again the same day. The fact is I stayed in Rock River

till I was nearly broken. I lost my health, and became morbid, trying to

preach to the needs of the old men and women of my congregation. Now I

am free. I am back to the wild country. Of course, so long as my wife

lived I couldn't break away, but now I have no one but myself and my

needs are small. I am happier than I have been for years."

As they walked and talked together the two men approached an

understanding. Mr. Excell felt sure of his son's interest, for the first

time in many years, and avoided all terms of affection. In his return to

the more primitive, bolder life he unconsciously left behind him all the

"soft phrases" which had disgusted his son. He struck the right note

almost without knowing it, and the son, precisely as he perceived in his

father a return to rugged manliness, opened his hand to him.

Together they took care of the horse, together they walked the streets.

They sat at supper together and the father's joy was very great when at

night they camped together and Mose so far unbent as to tell of his

adventures. He did not confide his feeling for Mary--his love was far

too deep for that. A strange woman had reached it by craft, a father's

affection failed of it.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE EAGLE GUARDS THE SHEEP

Mose did not enter upon his duties as guard with joy. It seemed like

small business and not exactly creditable employment for a trailer and

cow puncher. It was in his judgment a foolish expenditure of money; but

as there was nothing better to do and his need of funds was imperative,

he accepted it.

The papers made a great deal of it, complimenting the company upon its

shrewdness, and freely predicted that no more hold-ups would take place

along that route. Mose rode out of town on the seat with the driver, a

Winchester between his knees and a belt of cartridges for both rifle and

revolvers showing beneath his coat. He left the stable each morning at

four A. M. and rode to the halfway house, where he slept over night,

returning the following day. From the halfway house to the Springs there

were settlers and less danger.

He was conscious of being an object of curious inquiry. Meeting stage

coaches was equivalent to being fired at by fifty pistols. Low words

echoed from lip to lip: "Black Mose," "bad man," "graveyard of his own,"

"good fellow when sober," etc. Sometimes, irritated and reckless, he

lived up to his sinister reputation, and when some Eastern gentleman in

brown corduroy timidly approached to say, "Fine weather," Mose turned

upon him a baleful glare under which the questioner shriveled, to the

delight of the driver, who vastly admired the new guard.

At times he was unnecessarily savage. Well-meaning men who knew nothing

about him, except that he was a guard, were rebuffed in quite the same

way. He was indeed becoming self-conscious, as if on exhibition,

somehow--and this feeling deepened as the days passed, for nothing

happened. No lurking forms showed in the shadow of the pines. No voice

called "Halt!" It became more and more like a stage play.

He was much disturbed by Jack's letter which was waiting for him one

night when he returned to Wagon Wheel.

"DEAR HARRY: I went up to see Mary a few weeks ago and found

she had gone to Chicago. Her father died over a year ago and

she decided soon after to go to the city and go on with her

music. She's in some conservatory there. I don't know which

one. I tried hard to keep her on my own account but she

wouldn't listen to me. Well, yes, she listened but she shook

her head. She dropped King soon after your visit--whether you

had anything to do with that or not I don't know--I think you

did, but as you didn't write she gave you up as a bad

job. She always used to talk of you and wonder where you

were, and every time I called she used to sing If I Were a

Voice. She never _said_ she was singing it for you, but there

were tears in her eyes--and in mine, too, old man. You

oughtn't to be throwing yourself away in that wild,

God-forsaken country. We discussed you most of the time. Once

in a while she'd see a little note in the paper about you,

and cut it out and send it to me. I did the same. We heard of

you at Flagstaff, Arizona. Then that row you had with the

Mormons was the next we knew, but we couldn't write. She said

it was pretty tough to hear of you only in some scrape, but I

told her your side hadn't been heard from and that gave her a

lot of comfort. The set-to you had about the Indians' right

to hunt pleased us both. That was a straight case. She said

it was like a knight of the olden time.

"She was uneasy about you, and once she said, 'I wish I could

reach him. That rough life terrifies me. He's in constant

danger.' I think she was afraid you'd take to drinking, and I

own up, old man, that worries _me_. If you only had somebody

to look after you--somebody to work for--like I have. I'm

going to be married in September. You know her--only she was

a little girl when you lived here. Her name is Lily

Blanchard.

"I wish I could help you about Mary. I'm going to write to

one or two parties who may know her address. If she's in

Chicago you could visit her without any trouble. They

wouldn't get on to you there at all. If you go, be sure and

come this way. Your father went to Denver from here--have you

heard from him?"

There was deep commotion in the trailer's brain that night. The hope he

had was too sacredly sweet to put into words--the hope that she still

thought of him and longed for him. If Jack were right, then she had

waited and watched for him through all those years of wandering, while

he, bitter and unrelenting, and believing that she was King's wife, had

refused to listen for her voice on Sunday evenings. If she had kept her

promise, then on the trail, in cañons dark and deathly still, on the

moonlit sand of the Painted Desert, on the high divides of the Needle

Range, her thought had been winged toward him in song--and he had not

listened.

His thought turned now, for the first time, toward the great city, which

was to him a savage jungle of unknown things, a web of wire, a maze of

streets, a swirling flood of human beings, of interest now merely and

solely because Mary had gone to live therein. "I'm due to make another

trip East," he said to himself with a grim straightening of the lips.

It was mighty serious business. To take Kintuck and hit the trail for

the Kalispels over a thousand miles of mountain and plain, was simple,

but to thrust himself amid the mad rush of a great city made his bold

heart quail. Money was a minor consideration in the hills, but in the

city it was a matter of life and death. Money he must now have, and as

he could not borrow or steal it, it must be earned. In a month his wages

would amount to one hundred dollars, but that was too slow. He saw no

other way, however, so set his teeth and prepared to go on with the

"fool business" of guarding the treasure wagon of the Express Company.

His mind reverted often to the cowboy tournament which was about to come

off, after hanging fire for a month, during which Grassi wrestled with

the problem of how to hold a bullfight in opposition to the laws of the

State. "If I could whirl in and catch one of those purses," thought

Mose, "I could leave at the end of August. If I don't I must hang on

till the first of October."

He determined to enter for the roping contest and for the cowboy race

and the revolver practice. Marshal Haney was delighted. "I'll attend to

the business, but the entrance fees will be about twenty dollars."

This staggered Mose. It meant an expenditure of nearly one fourth his

month's pay in entrance fees, not to speak of the expense of keeping

Kintuck, for the old horse had to go into training and be grain-fed as

well. However, he was too confident of winning to hesitate. He drew on

his wages, and took a day off to fetch Kintuck, whom he found fat and

hearty and very dirty.

The boys at the Reynolds ranch were willing to bet on Mose, and every

soul determined to be there. Cora said quietly: "I know you'll win."

"Well, I don't expect to sweep the board, but I'll get a lunch while the

rest are getting a full meal," he replied, and returned to his duties.

The weather did not change for the tournament. Each morning the sun

arose flashing with white, undimmed fire. At ten o'clock great dazzling

white clouds developed from hidden places behind huge peaks, and as they

expanded each let fall a veil of shimmering white storms that were hail

on the heights and sleet on the paths in the valleys. These clouds

passed swiftly, the sun came out, the dandelions shone vividly through

their coverlet of snow, the eaves dripped, the air was like March, and

the sunsets like November.

Naturally, Sunday was the day fixed upon for the tournament, and early

on that day miners in clean check shirts and bright new blue overalls

began to stream away up the road which led to the race track, some two

miles away, on the only level ground for a hundred miles. Swift horses

hitched to light open buggies whirled along, loaded down with men.

Horsemen galloped down the slopes in squadrons--and such

horsemen!--cowboys from "Lost Park" and "the Animas." Prospectors like

Casey and Kelly who were quite as much at home on a horse as with a pick

in a ditch, and men like Marshal Haney and Grassi, who were all-round

plainsmen, and by that same token born horsemen. Haney and Kelly rode

with Reynolds and Mose, while Cora and Mrs. Reynolds followed in a rusty

buggy drawn by a fleabitten gray cow pony, sedate with age.

Kintuck was as alert as a four-year-old. His rest had filled him to

bursting with ambition to do and to serve. His muscles played under his

shining skin like those of a trained athlete. Obedient to the lightest

touch or word of his master, with ears in restless motion, he curvetted

like a racer under the wire.

"Wouldn't know that horse was twelve years old, would you, gentlemen?"

said Reynolds. "Well, so he is, and he has covered fifteen thousand

miles o' trail."

Mose was at his best. With vivid tie flowing from the collar of his blue

shirt, with a new hat properly crushed in on the crown in four places,

with shining revolver at his hip, and his rope coiled at his right knee,

he sat his splendid horse, haughty and impassive of countenance,

responding to the greetings of the crowd only with a slight nod or a

wave of the hand.

It seemed to him that the population of the whole State--at least its

men--was assembled within the big stockade. There were a few women--just

enough to add decorum to the crowd. They were for the most part the

wives or sisters or sweethearts of those who were to contest for prizes,

but as Mose rode around the course he passed "the princess" sitting in

her shining barouche and waving a handkerchief. He pretended not to see

her, though it gave him pleasure to think that the most

brilliantly-dressed woman on the grounds took such interest in him.

Another man would have ridden up to her carriage, but Mose kept on

steadily to the judge's stand, where he found a group of cowboys

discussing the programme with Haney, the marshal of the day.

Mose already knew his dangerous rival--a powerful and handsome fellow

called Denver Dan, whose face was not unlike his own. His nose was

straight and strong, his chin finely modeled, and his head graceful, but

he was heavier, and a persistent flush on his nose and in his eyelids

betrayed the effects of liquor. His hands were small and graceful and he

wore his hat with a certain attractive insolence, but his mouth was

cruel and his eyes menacing. When in liquor he was known to be

ferocious. He was mounted on a superbly pointed grade broncho, and all

his hangings were of costly Mexican workmanship and betrayed use.

"The first thing is a 'packing contest,'" read Haney.

"Oh, to h----l with that, I'm no packer," growled Dan.

"I try that," said Mose; "I let nothing get away to-day."

"Entrance fee one dollar."

"Here you are." Mose tossed a dollar.

"Then 'roping and holding contest.'"

"Now you're talking my business," exclaimed Dan.

"There are others," said Mose.

Dan turned a contemptuous look on the speaker--but changed his

expression as he met Mose's eyes.

"Howdy, Mose?"

"So's to sit a horse," Mose replied in a tone which cut. He was not used

to being patronized by men of Dan's set.

The crowd perceived the growing rivalry between the two men and winked

joyously at each other.

At last all was arranged. The spectators were assembled on the rude

seats. The wind, sweet, clear, and cool, came over the smooth grassy

slopes to the west, while to the east, gorgeous as sunlit marble, rose

the great snowy peaks with huge cumulus clouds--apparently standing on

edge--peeping over their shoulders from behind. Mose observed them and

mentally calculated that it would not shower till three in the

afternoon.

In the track before the judge's stand six piles of "truck," each pile

precisely like the others, lay in a row. Each consisted of a sack of

flour, a bundle of bacon, a bag of beans, a box, a camp stove, a pick, a

shovel, and a tent. These were to be packed, covered with a mantle, and

caught by "the diamond hitch."

Mose laid aside hat and coat, and as the six pack horses approached,

seized the one intended for him. Catching the saddle blanket up by the

corners, he shook it straight, folded it once, twice--and threw it to

the horse. The sawbuck followed it, the cinch flying high so that it

should go clear. A tug, a grunt from the horse, and the saddle was on.

Unwinding the sling ropes, he made his loops, and end-packed the box.

Against it he put both flour and beans. Folding the tent square he laid

it between. On this he set the stove, and packing the smaller bags

around it, threw on the mantle. As he laid the hitch and began to go

around the pack, the crowd began to cheer:

"Go it, Mose!"

"He's been there before."

"Well, I guess," said another.

Mose set his foot to the pack and "pinched" the hitch in front. Nothing

remained now but the pick, shovel, and coffee can. The tools he crowded

under the ropes on either side, tied the cans under the pack at the back

and called Kintuck, "Come on, boy." The old horse with shining eyes drew

near. Catching his mane, Mose swung to the saddle, Kintuck nipped the

laden cayuse, and they were off while the next best man was still

worrying over the hitch.

"Nine dollars to the good on that transaction," muttered Mose, as the

marshal handed him a ten dollar gold piece.

"The next exercise on the programme," announced Haney, "will be the

roping contest. The crowd will please be as quiet as possible while this

is going on. Bring on your cows."

Down the track in a cloud of dust came a bunch of cattle of all shapes

and sizes. They came snuffing and bawling, urged on by a band of

cowboys, while a cordon of older men down the track stopped and held

them before the judge's stand.

"First exercise--'rope and hold,'" called the marshal. "Denver Dan comes

first."

Dan spurred into the arena, his rope swinging gracefully in his supple

up-raised wrist.

"Which one you want?" he asked.

"The line-back yearling," called Haney.

With careless cast Dan picked up both hind feet of the calf--his horse

set his hoofs and held the bawling brute.

"All right," called the judge. The rope was slackened and the calf

leaped up. Dan then successively picked up any foot designated by the

marshal. "Left hind foot! Right fore foot!" and so on with almost

unerring accuracy. His horse, calm and swift, obeyed every word and

every shift of his rider's body. The crowd cheered, and those who came

after added nothing to the contest.

Mose rode into the inclosure with impassive face. He could only

duplicate the deeds of those who had gone before so long as his work was

governed by the marshal--but when, as in the case of others, he was free

to "put on frills," he did so. Tackling the heaviest and wildest steer,

he dropped his rope over one horn and caught up one foot, then taking a

loose turn about his pommel he spoke to Kintuck. The steer reached the

end of the rope with terrible force. It seemed as if the saddle must

give way--but the strain was cunningly met, and the brute tumbled and

laid flat with a wild bawl. While Kintuck held him Mose took a cigar

from his pocket, bit the end off, struck a match and puffed carelessly

and lazily. It was an old trick, but well done, and the spectators

cheered heartily.

After a few casts of almost equal brilliancy, Mose leaped to the ground

with the rope in his hand, and while Kintuck looked on curiously, he

began a series of movements which one of Delmar's Mexicans had taught

him. With the noose spread wide he kept it whirling in the air as if it

were a hoop. He threw it into the air and sprang through it, he lowered

it to the ground, and leaping into it, flung it far above his head. In

his hand this inert thing developed snakelike action. It took on loops

and scallops and retained them, apparently in defiance of all known laws

of physics--controlled and governed by the easy, almost imperceptible

motions of his steel-like wrist.

"Forty-five dollars more to the good," said Mose grimly as the decision

came in his favor.

"See here--going to take all the prizes?" asked one of the judges.

"So long as you keep to my line of business," replied he.

The races came next. Kintuck took first money on the straightaway dash,

but lost on the long race around the pole. It nearly broke his heart,

but he came in second to Denver Dan's sorrel twice in succession.

Mose patted the old horse and said: "Never mind, old boy, you pulled in

forty dollars more for me."

Reynolds had tears in his eyes as he came up.

"The old hoss cain't compete on the long stretches. He's like a

middle-aged man--all right for a short dash--but the youngsters have the

best wind--they get him on the mile course."

In the trained pony contest the old horse redeemed himself. He knelt at

command, laid out flat while Mose crouched behind, and at the word "Up!"

sprang to his feet and waited--then with his master clinging to his

mane he ran in a circle or turned to right or left at signal. All the

tricks which the cavalry had taught their horses, Mose, in years on the

trail, had taught Kintuck. He galloped on three legs and waltzed like a

circus horse. He seemed to know exactly what his master said to him.

A man with a big red beard came up to Mose as he rode off the track and

said:

"What'll you take for that horse?"

Mose gave him a savage glance. "He ain't for sale."

The broncho-busting contest Mose declined.

"How's that?" inquired Haney, who hated to see his favorite "gig back"

at a point where his courage could be tested.

"I've busted all the bronchos for fun I'm going to," Mose replied.

Dan called in a sneering tone: "Bring on your varmints. I'm not dodgin'

mean cayuses to-day."

Mose could not explain that for Mary's sake he was avoiding all danger.

There was risk in the contest and he knew it, and he couldn't afford to

take it.

"That's all right!" he sullenly replied. "I'll be with you later in the

game."

A wall-eyed roan pony, looking dull and stupid, was led before the

stand. Saddled and bridled he stood dozing while the crowd hooted with

derision.

"Don't make no mistake!" shouted Haney; "he's the meanest critter on the

upper fork."

A young lad named Jimmy Kincaid first tackled the job, and as he ran

alongside and tried the cinch, the roan dropped an ear back--the ear

toward Jimmy, and the knowing ones giggled with glee. "He's wakin'up!

Look out, Jim!"

The lad gathered the reins in his left hand, seized the pommel with his

right, and then the roan disclosed his true nature. He was an old rebel.

He did not waste his energies on common means. He plunged at once into

the most complicated, furious, and effective bucking he could devise,

almost without moving out of his tracks--and when the boy, stunned and

bleeding at the nose, sprawled in the dust, the roan moved away a few

steps and dozed, panting and tense, apparently neither angry nor

frightened.

One of the Reynolds gang tried him next and "stayed with him" till he

threw himself. When he arose the rider failed to secure his stirrups and

was thrown after having sat the beast superbly. The miners were warming

to the old roan. Many of them had never seen a pitching broncho before,

and their delight led to loud whoops and jovial outcries.

"Bully boy, roan! Shake 'em off!"

Denver Dan tried him next and sat him, haughtily contemptuous, till he

stopped, quivering with fatigue and reeking with sweat.

"Oh, well!" yelled a big miner, "that ain't a fair shake for the pony;

you should have took him when he was fresh." And the crowd sustained him

in it.

"Here comes one that is fresh," called the marshal, and into the arena

came a wicked-eyed, superbly-fashioned black roan horse, plainly wild

and unbroken, led by two cowboys, one on either side.

Joe Grassi shook a handfull of bills down at the crowd. "Here's a

hundred dollars to the man who'll set that pony three minutes by the

watch."

"This is no place to tackle such a brute as that," said Reynolds.

Mose was looking straight ahead with a musing look in his eyes.

Denver Dan walked out. "I need that hundred dollars; nail it to a post

for a few minutes, will ye?"

This was no tricky old cow pony, but a natively vicious, powerful, and

cunning young horse. While the cowboys held him Dan threw off his coat

and hat and bound a bandanna over the bronchos's head and pulled it down

over his eyes. Laying the saddle on swiftly, but gently, he cinched it

strongly. With determined and vigorous movement, he thrust the bit into

his mouth.

"Slack away!" he called to the ropers. The horse, nearly dead for lack

of breath, drew a deep sigh.

Haney called out: "Stand clear, everybody, clear the road!"

And casting one rope to the ground, Dan swung into the saddle.

For just an instant the horse crouched low and waited--then shot into

the air with a tigerish bound and fell stiff-legged. Again and again he

flung his head down, humped his back, and sprang into the air grunting

and squealing with rage and fear. Dan sat him, but the punishment made

him swear. Suddenly the horse dropped and rolled, hoping to catch his

rider unawares. Dan escaped by stepping to the ground, but he was white,

and the blood was oozing slowly from his nose. As the brute arose, Dan

was in the saddle. With two or three tremendous bounds, the horse flung

himself into the air like a high-vaulting acrobat, landing so near the

fence that Dan, swerving far to the left, was unseated, and sprawled low

in the dust while the squealing broncho went down the track bucking and

lashing out with undiminished vigor.

Dan staggered to his feet, stunned and bleeding. He swore most terrible

oaths that he would ride that wall-eyed brute if it took a year.

"You've had your turn. It was a fair fight," called Kelly.

"Who's the next ambitious man?" shouted Haney.

"I don't want no truck with that," said the cowboys among themselves.

"Not in a place like this," said Jimmy. "A feller's liable to get mashed

agin a fence."

Mose stood with hands gripping a post, his eyes thoughtful. Suddenly he

threw off his coat.

"I'll try him," he said.

"Oh, I don't think you'd better; it'll bung you all up," cautioned

Reynolds.

Mose said in a low voice: "I'm good for him, and I need that money."

"Let him breathe awhile," called the crowd as the broncho was brought

back, lariated as before. "Give him a show for his life."

Mose muttered to Reynolds: "He's due to bolt, and I'm going to quirt him

a-plenty."

The spectators, tense with joy, filled the air with advice and warning.

"Don't let him get started. Keep him away from the fence."

Mose wore a set and serious look as he approached the frenzied beast.

There was danger in this trick--a broken leg or collar bone might make

his foolhardiness costly. In his mind's eye he could foresee the

broncho's action. He had escaped down the track once, and would do the

same again after a few desperate bounds--nevertheless Mose dreaded the

terrible concussion of those stiff-legged leapings.

Standing beside the animal's shoulder he slipped off the ropes and swung

to the saddle. The beast went off as before, with three or four terrible

buck jumps, but Mose plied the quirt with wild shouting, and suddenly,

abandoning his pitching, the horse set off at a tearing pace around the

track. For nearly half way he ran steadily--then began once more to hump

his back and leap into the air.

"He's down!" yelled some one.

"No, he's up again--and Mose is there," said Haney.

The crowd, not to be cheated of their fun, raced across the oval where

the battle was still going on.

The princess was white with anxiety and ordered her coachman to "Get

there quick as God'll let ye." When she came in sight the horse was

tearing at Mose's foot with his teeth.

"Time's up!" called Haney.

"Make it ten," said Mose, whose blood was hot.

The beast dropped and rolled, but arose again under the sting of the

quirt and renewed his frenzied attack. As Mose roweled him he kicked

with both hind feet as if to tear the cinch from his belly. He reared on

his toes and fell backward. He rushed with ferocious cunning against the

corral, forcing his rider to stand in the opposite stirrup, then bucked,

keeping so close to the fence that Mose was forced to hang to his mane

and fight him from tearing his flesh with his savage teeth. Twice he

went down and rolled over, but when he arose Mose was on his back. Twice

he flung himself to the earth, and the second time he broke the bridle

rein, but Mose, catching one piece, kept his head up while he roweled

him till the blood dripped in the dust.

At last, after fifteen minutes of struggle, the broncho again made off

around the track at a rapid run. As he came opposite the judge's stand

Mose swung him around in a circle and leaped to the ground, leaving the

horse to gallop down the track. Dusty, and quivering with fatigue, Mose

walked across the track and took up his coat.

"You earned your money, Mose," said Grassi, as he handed out the roll of

bills.

"I'll think so to-morrow morning, I reckon," replied Mose, and his walk

showed dizziness and weakness.

"You've had the easy end of it," said Dan. "You should have took him

when I did, when he was fresh."

"You didn't stay on him long enough to weaken him any," said Mose in

offensive reply, and Dan did not care to push the controversy any

further.

"That spoils my shooting now," Mose said to Haney. "I couldn't hit the

side of a mule."

"Oh, you'll stiddy up after dinner."

"Good boy!" called the crisp voice of Mrs. Raimon. "Come here, I want to

talk with you."

He could not decently refuse to go to the side of her carriage. She had

with her a plain woman, slightly younger than herself, who passed for

her niece. The two men who came with them were in the judge's stand.

Leaning over, she spoke with sudden intensity. "My God! you mustn't take

such risks--I'm all of a quiver. You're too good a man to be killed by a

miserable bucking broncho. Don't do it again, for my sake--if that don't

count, for _her_ sake."

And he in sudden joy and confidence replied: "That's just why I did it;

for her sake."

Her eyes set in sudden alarm. "What do you mean?"

"You'll know in a day or two. I'm going to quit my job."

"I know," she said with a quick indrawn breath, "you're going away.

Who's that girl I saw you talking with to-day? Is that the one?"

He laughed at her for the first time. "Not by a thousand miles."

"What do you mean by that? Does she live in Chicago?"

He ceased to laugh and grew a little darker of brow, and she quietly

added: "That's none o' my business, you'd like to say. All right--say it

isn't. But won't you get in and go down to dinner with me? I want to

honor the champion--the Ivanhoe of the tournament."

He shook his head. "No, I've promised to picnic with some old friends of

mine."

"That girl over there?"

"Yes."

"Well, just as you say, but you must eat with me to-night, will you?

Come now, what do you say?"

With a half promise Mose walked away toward the Reynolds' carriage--not

without regret, for there was charm in the princess, both in her own

handsome person and because she suggested a singular world of which he

knew nothing. She allured and repelled at the same time.

Beside the buggy Cora and Mrs. Reynolds had spread a substantial lunch,

and in such humble company the victor of the tournament ate his dinner,

while Dan and the rest galloped off to a saloon.

"I don't know what I can do with the gun," he said in reply to a

question from Cora. "My nerves are still on the jump; I guess I'll keep

out of the contest--it would hurt my reputation to miss." He turned to

Reynolds: "Capt'n, I want you to get me a chance to punch cattle on a

car down to Chicago."

Reynolds looked surprised. "What fur do you want to go to Chicago, Mose?

I never have knew you to mention hit befo'."

Mose felt his skin growing red. "Well, I just thought I'd like to take a

turn in the States and see the elephant."

"You'll see the hull circus if you go to Chicago," said Mrs. Reynolds.

"They say it's a terrible wicked place."

"I don't suppose it's any worse than Wagon Wheel, ma," said Cora.

"Yes, but it's so much bigger."

"Well, mother," said Reynolds, "a bear is bigger than a ho'net, but the

ho'net can give him points and beat him, suah thing."

Mose was rather glad of this diversion, for when Reynolds spoke again it

was to say: "I reckon I can fix it for you. When do you want it?"

"Right off, this week."

"Be gone long?"

Cora waited anxiously for his answer, and his hesitation and uncertainty

of tone made her heart grow heavy.

"Oh, no--only a short trip, I reckon. Got to get back before my money

gives out."

He did not intend to enter the revolver contest, but it offered so easy

to his hand that he went in and won hands down. His arm was lame, but

his nerves, not fevered by whisky, swiftly recovered tone. He was

careful, however, not to go beyond the limits of the contest as he

should have done had his arm possessed all of its proper cunning. He had

no real competitor but Dan, who had been drinking steadily all day and

was unfitted for his work. Mose lost nothing in the trial.

That night he put into his pocket one hundred and twenty dollars as the

result of his day's work, and immediately asked to be released of his

duties as guard.

The manager of the Express Company said: "I'm sorry you're leaving us,

and I hope you'll return to us soon. I'll hold the place open for you,

if you say so."

This Mose refused. "I don't like it," he said. "I don't think I earn the

money. Hire a good driver and he'll have no trouble. You don't need

me."

Mindful of his promise to eat dinner with the princess, he said to

Reynolds: "Don't wait for me. Go on--I'll overtake you at Twelve Mile

Creek."

The princess had not lost sight of him for a single moment, and the

instant he departed from his friends she drove up. "You are to come to

my house to-night, remember."

"I must overtake my folks; I can't stay long," he said lamely.

Her power was augmented by her home. He had expected pictures and fine

carpets and a piano and they were there, but there was a great deal

more. He perceived a richness of effect which he could not have

formulated better than to say, "It was all _fine_." He had expected

things to be costly and gay of color, but this mysterious fitness of

everything was a marvel to one like himself, used only to the meager

ornaments of the homes in Rock River, or the threadbare poverty of the

ranches and the squalid hotels of the cow country. The house was a large

new frame building, not so much different from other houses with respect

to exterior, but as he entered the door he took off his hat to it as he

used to do as a lad in the home of Banker Brooks, deacon in his father's

church.

His was a sensitive soul, eye and ear were both acute. He perceived,

without accounting for it, that the walls and hangings were

complementary in color, that the furniture matched the carpet, and that

the pictures on the wall were unusually good. They were not all

highly-colored, naked subjects, as he had been led to expect. His

respect for Mrs. Raimon rose, for he remembered that Mary's home, while

just as different from this as Mary was different from Mrs. Raimon, had,

after all, something in common--both were beautiful to him, though

Mary's home was sweeter, daintier, and homelier. He was in the midst of

an analysis of these subtleties when Mrs. Raimon (as he now determined

to call her) returned from changing her dress.

He was amazed at the change in her. She wore a dark gray gown with

almost no ornament, and looked smaller, older, and paler, but

incomparably more winning and womanly than she had ever seemed before.

She appeared to be serious and her voice was gentle and winning.

"Well, boy, here you are--under my roof. Not such an awful den after

all, is it?" she said with a smile.

"Beats a holler log in a snowstorm," he replied, looking about the room.

"Must have shipped all this truck from the States, it never was built

out here--it would take me a couple of months to earn a whole outfit

like this, wouldn't it?"

She remained serious. "Mose, I want to tell you----"

"Wait a minute," he interrupted; "let's start fair. My name is Harold

Excell, and I'm going to call you Mrs. Raimon."

She thrust out her hand. "Good boy!" He could see she was profoundly

pleased. Indeed she could not at once resume. At last she said: "I was

going to say, Harold, that you can't earn a home trailin' around over

these mountains year after year with a band of Indians."

He became thoughtful. "I reckon you're right about that. I'm wasting

time; I've got to picket old Kintuck somewhere and go to work if I----"

He stopped abruptly and she smiled mournfully. "You needn't hesitate;

tell me all about it."

He sat in silence--a silence that at last became a rebuke. She arose.

"Well, suppose we go out to supper; we can talk all the better there."

He felt out of place and self-conscious, but he gave little outward sign

of it as he took his seat at the table opposite her. For reasons of her

own she emphasized the domestic side of her life and fairly awed the

stern youth by her womanly dignity and grace. The little table was set

for two, with pretty dishes. Liquor had no place on the cover, but a

shining tea-pot, brought in by a smiling negress, was placed at her

right hand. Her talk for a time was of the tea, the food, his taste as

to sugar and other things pertaining to her duties as hostess. All his

lurid imaginings of her faded into the wind, and a thousand new and old

conceptions of wife and home and peaceful middle age came thronging like

sober-colored birds. If she were playing a game it was well done and

successful. Mose fell often into silence and deep thought.

She respected his introspection, and busying herself with the service

and with low-voiced orders to the waitress, left him free for a time.

Suddenly she turned. "You mustn't judge me by what people say outside.

Judge me by what I am to you. I don't claim to be a Sunday-school

teacher, but I average up pretty well, after all. I appear to a

disadvantage. When Raimon died I took hold of his business out here and

I've made it pay. I have a talent for business, and I like it. I've got

enough to be silly with if I want to, but I intend to take care of

myself--and I may even marry again. I can see you're deeply involved in

a love affair, Mose, and I honestly want to help you--but I shan't say

another word about it--only remember, when you need help you come to

Martha Jane Williams Raimon. How is that for a name? It's mine; my

father was Lawrence Todd Williams, Professor of Paleontology at Blank

College. Raimon was an actor of the tenth rate--the kind that play

leading business in the candlestick circuit. Naturally Doctor Todd

objected to an actor as a son-in-law. I eloped. Launt was a good fellow,

and we had a happy honeymoon, but he lost his health and came out here

and invested in a mine. That brought me. I was always lucky, and we

struck it--but the poor fellow didn't live long enough to enjoy it. You

know all," she ended with a curious forced lightness of utterance.

After another characteristic silence, Mose said slowly: "Anyhow, I want

you to understand that I'm much obliged for your good will; I'm not

worth a cuss at putting things in a smooth way; I think I'm getting

worse every day, but you've been my friend, and--and there's no discount

on my words when I tell you you've made me feel ashamed of myself

to-day. From this time on, I take no other man's judgment of a woman.

You know my life--all there is that would interest you. I don't know how

to talk to a woman--any kind of a woman--but no matter what I say, I

don't mean to do anybody any harm. I'm getting a good deal like an

Indian--I talk to make known what's on my mind. Since I was seventeen

years of age I've let girls pretty well alone. The kind I meet alongside

the trail don't interest me. When I was a boy I was glib enough, but I

know a whole lot less now than I did then--that is about some things.

What I started to say is this: I'm mighty much obliged for what you've

done for me here--but I'm going to pull out to-night----"

"Not for good?" she said.

"Well--that's beyond me. All I know is I hit the longest and wildest

trail I ever entered. Where it comes out at I don't know. But I shan't

forget you; you've been a good friend to me."

Her voice faltered a little as she said: "I wish you'd write to me and

let me know how you are?"

"Oh, don't expect that of me. I chew my tongue like a ten-year-old kid

when I write. I never was any good at it, and I'm clear out of it now.

The chances are I'll round up in the mountains again; I can't see how

I'd make a living anywhere else. If I come back this way I'll let you

know."

Neither of them was eating now, and the tension was great. She knew that

no artifice could keep him, and he was aware of her emotion and was

eager to escape.

He pushed back his chair at last, and she arose and came toward him and

took his hand, standing so close to him that her bosom almost touched

his shoulder.

"I hate to see you go!" she said, and the passionate tremor in her voice

moved him very deeply. "You've brought back my interest in simple

things--and life seems worth while when I'm with you."

He shook her hand and then dropped it. "Well, so long."

"So long!" she said, and added, with another attempt at brightness, "and

don't stay away too long, and don't fail to let me know when you make

the circuit."

As he mounted his horse he remembered that there was another good-by to

speak, and that was to Cora.

"I wish these women would let a man go without saying good-by at all,"

he thought in irritation, but the patter of Kintuck's feet set his

thought in other directions. As he topped the divide, he drew rein and

looked at the great range to the southeast, lit by the dull red light of

the sun, which had long since set to the settlers in the valley. His

heart was for a moment divided. The joys of the trail--the care-free

life--perhaps after all the family life was not for him. Perhaps he was

chasing a mirage. He was on the divide of his life. On one side were the

mountains, the camps, the cattle, the wild animals--on the other the

plains, the cities, and Mary.

The thought of Mary went deep. It took hold of the foundations of his

thinking and decided him. Shuddering with the pain and despair of his

love he lifted rein and rode down into the deep shadow of the long cañon

through which roared the swift waters of the North Fork on their long

journey to the east and south. Thereafter he had no uncertainties. Like

the water of the cañon he had but to go downward to the plain.

CHAPTER XIX

THE EAGLE ADVENTURES INTO STRANGE LANDS

It can not be said that the Black Eagle of the Rocky Mountains

approached civilization in any heroic disguise. At its best,

accompanying a cattle train is not epic in its largeness. To prod cattle

by means of a long pole, to pull out smothered sheep, are not in

themselves degrading deeds, but they are not picturesque in quality.

They smell of the shambles, not of the hills.

Day by day the train slid down the shining threads of track like a long

string of rectangular green and brown and yellow beads. The caboose was

filled with cattlemen and their assistants, who smoked, talked politics,

told stories, and slept at all hours of the day, whenever a spare

segment of bench offered. Those who were awake saw everything and

commented on everything in sight. To some the main questions were when

and where they were to get dinner or secure a drink. The train, being a

"through freight," ran almost as steadily as a passenger train, and the

thirsty souls became quite depressed or savage at times by lack of

opportunities to "wet their whistles."

Mose was singularly silent, for he was reliving his boyish life on the

plains and noting the changes which had taken place. The towns had grown

gray with the bleach of the weather. Farms had multiplied and fences cut

the range into pasture lands. As the mountains sank beneath the level

horizon line his heart sank with them. Every hour of travel to the East

was to him dangerous, disheartening. On the second day he was ready to

leap from the caboose and wave it good-by; but he did not--he merely sat

on the back platform and watched the track. He felt as if he were in one

of those aerial buckets which descend like eagles from the mines in the

Marshall Basin; the engine appeared to proceed eastward of its own

weight, impossible to check or turn back.

The uncertainty of finding Mary in the millions of the city weakened his

resolution, but as he was aboard, and as the train slid while he

pondered, descending, remorselessly, he determined to "stay with it" as

he would with a bucking broncho.

Kansas City with its big depot sheds filled with clangor and swarming

with emigrants gave him a foretaste of Chicago. Two of his companions

proceeded to get drunk and became so offensive that he was forced to

cuff them into quiet. This depressed him also--he had no other defense

but his hands. His revolvers were put away in his valise where they

could not be reached in a hurry. Reynolds had said to him, "Now, Mose,

you're going into a country where they settle things with fists, so

leave your guns at home. Keep cool and don't mix in where there's no

call to mix in. If a man gives you lip--walk off and leave him--don't

hunt your guns."

Mose had also purchased a "hard" hat and shaved off his mustache in

Cañon City, and Reynolds himself would not have known him as he

sauntered about the station room. Every time he lifted his fingers to

his mustache he experienced a shock, and coming before a big mirror over

the fireplace he stared with amazement--so boyish and so sorrowful did

he appear to himself. It seemed as though he were playing a part.

As the train drew out of the town, night was falling and the East grew

mysterious as the thitherward side of the river of death. Familiar

things were being left behind. Uncertainties thickened like the

darkness. All night long the engine hooted and howled and jarred along

through the deep darkness, and every time the train stopped the cattle

and sheep were inspected. Lanterns held aloft disclosed cattle being

trampled to death and sheep smothering. Wild shouting, oaths, broke

forth accompanied by thumpings, and the rumbling and creaking of cars as

the cattle surged to and fro, and at the end, circles of fire--lanterns

signaling "Go ahead"--caused a wild rush for the caboose.

Morning brought to light a land of small farms, with cattle in minute

pastures, surrounded by stacks of hay and grain, plowed fields,

threshing crews, and teams plodding to and fro on dusty roads. The

plainsman was gone, the prairie farmer filled the landscape. Towns

thickened and grew larger. At noon the freight lay at a siding to let

the express trains come in at a populous city, and in the wait Mose

found time to pace the platform. The people were better dressed, the

cowboy hat was absent, and nearly everybody wore not merely a coat but a

vest and linen collar. Some lovely girls looking crisp as columbines or

plains' poppies looked at him from the doors of the parlor cars. They

suggested Mary to him, of course, and made him realize how far he was

getting from the range.

These dainty girls looked and acted like some of those he had seen in

Cañon City and the Springs. They walked with the same step and held

their dresses the same way. That must be the fashion, he thought. The

men of the town were less solemn than plainsmen, they smiled oftener

and they joked more easily. Mose wondered how so many of them made a

living in one place. He heard one girl say to another, "Yes--but he's

awful sad looking, don't you think so?" and it was some minutes before

he began to understand that they were talking about him. Then he wished

he knew what else they had said.

There was little chance to see the towns for the train whirled through

them with furious jangle of bell and whiz of steam--or else drew up in

the freight yard a long way out from the station. When night fell on

this, the third day, they were nearing the Great River and all the

cattlemen were lamenting the fact. Those who had been over the line

before said:

"Too bad, fellers! You'd ought to see the Mississippi, she's a loo-loo.

The bridge, too, is worth seein'."

During the evening there was a serious talk about hotels and the

amusements to be had. One faction, led by McCleary, of Currant Creek,

stood for the "Drovers' Home." "It's right out near the stockyards an'

it's a good place. Dollar a day covers everything, unless you want a big

room, which is a quarter extra. Grub is all right--and some darn nice

girls waitin' on the table, too."

But Thompson who owned the sheep was contemptuous. "I want to be in

town; I don't go to Chicago to live out in the stockyards; I want to be

where things go by. I ante my valise at the Grand Palace or the New

Merchants'; the best is good enough for me."

McCleary looked a little put down. "Well, that's all right for a man who

can afford it. I've got a big family and I wouldn't feel right to be

blowing in two or three dollars a day just for style."

"Wherever the girls are thickest, there's where you'll find me," said

one of the young fellows.

"That's me," said another.

Thompson smiled with a superior air. "You fellers'll bring up down on

South Clark Street before you end. Some choice dive on the levee is

gappin' for you. Now, mind you, I won't bail you out. You go into the

game with your eyes open," he said, and his banter was highly pleasing

to the accused ones.

McCleary turned to Harold, whom he knew only as "Hank," and said:

"Hank, you ain't sayin' a word; what're your plans?"

"I'll stay with you as long as you need me."

"All right; I'll take care o' you then."

Night fell before they came in sight of the city. They were woefully

behindhand and everything delayed them. After a hundred hesitations

succeeded by fierce forward dashes, after switching this way and that,

they came to a final halt in a jungle of freight cars, a chaos of

mysterious activities, and a dense, hot, steaming atmosphere that

oppressed and sickened the men from the mountains. Lanterns sparkled and

looped and circled, and fierce cries arose. Engines snorted in sullen

labor, charging to and fro, aimlessly it appeared. And all around cattle

were bawling, sheep were pleading for release, and swine lifted their

piercing protests against imprisonment.

"Here we are, in Chicago!" said McCleary, who always entered the city on

that side. "Now, fellers, watch out for yourselves. Keep your hands on

your wallets and don't blow out the electric light."

"Oh, you go to hell," was their jocular reply.

"We're no spring chickens."

"You go up against this town, my boys, and you'll think you're just out

o' the shell."

Mose said nothing. He had the indifferent air of a man who had been

often to the great metropolis and knew exactly what he wished to do.

It was after twelve o'clock when the crowd of noisy cattlemen tramped

into the Drovers' Home, glad of a safe ending of their trip. They were

all boisterous and all of them were liquorous except Harold, who drank

little and remained silent and uncommunicative. He had been most

efficient in all ways and McCleary was grateful and filled with

admiration of him. He had taken him without knowing who he was, merely

because Reynolds requested it, but he now said:

"Hank, you're a jim-dandy; I want you. When you've had your spree here,

you come back with me and I'll do the right thing by ye."

Harold thanked him in offhand phrase and went early to bed.

He had not slept in a hotel bed since the night in Marmion when Jack was

with him, and the wonderful charm and mystery and passion of those two

days, so intimately wrought in with passionate memories of Mary, came

back upon him now, keeping him awake till nearly dawn. He arose late and

yet found only McCleary at breakfast; the other men had remained so long

in the barroom that sleep and drunkenness came together.

After breakfast Harold wandered out into the street. To his left a

hundred towers of dull gray smoke rose, and prodigious buildings set in

empty spaces were like the cliffs of red stone in the Quirino. Beyond,

great roofs thickened in the haze, farther on in that way lay Chicago,

and somewhere in that welter, that tumult, that terror of the unknown,

lived Mary.

With McCleary he took a car that galloped like a broncho, and started

for the very heart of the mystery. As the crowds thickened, as the cars

they met grew more heavily laden, McCleary said:

"My God! Where are they all goin'? How do they all make a livin'?"

"That beats me," said Harold. "Seems as if they eat up all the grub in

the world."

The older man sighed. "Well, I reckon they know what they're doin', but

I'd hate to take my chances among 'em."

If any man had told Harold before he started that he would grow

irresolute and weak in the presence of the city he would have bitterly

resented it, but now the mass and weight of things hitherto unimagined

appalled and bewildered him.

A profound melancholy settled over his heart as the smoke and gray light

of the metropolis closed in over his head. For half a day he did little

more than wander up and down Clark Street. His ears, acute as a hound's,

took hold of every sound and attempted to identify it, just as his eyes

seized and tried to understand the forms and faces of the swarming

pavements. He felt his weakness as never before and it made him sullen

and irritable. He acknowledged also the folly of thrusting himself into

such a world, and had it not been for a certain tenacity of purpose

which was beyond his will, he would have returned with his companions at

the end of their riotous week.

Up till the day of their going he had made no effort to find Mary but

had merely loitered in the streets in the daytime, and at night had

visited the cheap theaters, not knowing the good from the bad. The city

grew each day more vast and more hateful to him. The mere thought of

being forced to earn a living in such a mad tumult made him shudder. The

day that McCleary started West Harold went to see him off, and after

they had shaken hands for the last time, Harold went to the ticket

window and handed in his return coupon to the agent, saying, "I'd like

to have you put that aside for me; I don't want to run any chances of

losing it."

The agent smiled knowingly. "All right, what name?"

"Excell, 'XL,' that's my brand."

"All right, she's right here any time you want her--inside of the thirty

days--time runs out on the fifteenth."

"I savvy," said Harold as he turned away.

He disposed his money about his person in four or five small wads, and

so fortified, faced the city. To lose his little fund would be like

having his pack mule give out in the desert, and he took every

precaution against such a calamity.

Nothing of this uncertainty and inner weakness appeared in his outward

actions, however. No one accused him of looking like an "easy mark" or

"a soft thing." The line of his lips and the lower of his strongly

marked eyebrows made strangers slow of approach. He was never awkward,

he could not be so any more than could a fox or a puma, but he was

restless, irresolute, brooding, and gloomy.

He moved down to the Occidental Grand, where he was able to secure a

room on the top floor for fifty cents per day. His meals he picked up

wherever he chanced to be when feeling hungry. When weary with his

wanderings he often returned to his seat on the sidewalk before the

hotel and watched the people pass, finding in this a melancholy

pleasure.

One evening the night clerk, a brisk young fellow, took a seat beside

him. "This is a great corner for the girls all right. A feller can just

about take his pick here along about eight. They're after a ticket to

the theater and a supper. If a feller only has a few seemolleons to

spare he can have a life worth livin'."

Mose turned a curious glance upon him. "If you wanted to find a party

in this town how would you go at it?"

"Well, I'd try the directory first go-off. If I didn't find him there

I'd write to some of his folks, if I knew any of 'em, and get a clew. If

I didn't succeed then I'd try the police. What's his name?"

Harold ignored this query.

"Where could I try this directory?"

"There's one right in there on the desk."

"That big book?"

"Yes."

"I didn't know what that was. I thought it was a dictionary."

The clerk shrieked with merriment. "The dictionary! Well, say, where

have you been raised?"

"On the range."

"You mean cowboy?"

"Yes; we don't need directories out there. Does that book tell where

everybody lives?"

"Well no, but most everybody shows up in it somewhere," replied the

clerk quite soberly. It had not occurred to him that anybody could live

outside a directory.

Harold got up and went to the book which he turned over slowly, looking

at the names. "I don't see that this helps a man much," he said to the

clerk who came in to help him. "Here is Henry Coleman lives at 2201

Exeter Street. Now how is a man going to find that street?"

"Ask a policeman," replied the clerk, much interested. "You're not used

to towns?"

"Not much. I can cross a mountain range easier than I can find one of

these streets."

Under the clerk's supervision Harold found the Yardwells, Thomas and

James, but Mary's name did not appear. He turned to conservatories and

located three or four, and having made out a slip of information set

forth. The first one he found to be situated up several flights of

stairs and was closed; so was the second. The third was in a brilliantly

lighted building which towered high above the street. On the eighth

floor in a small office a young girl with severe cast of countenance

(and hair parted on one side) looked up from her writing and coldly

inquired:

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Is there a girl named Mary Yardwell in your school?" he asked with some

effort, feeling a hot flush in his cheek--a sensation new to him.

"I don't think so, I'll look," replied the girl with business civility.

She thumbed a book to see and at length replied, "No, sir, there is

not."

"Much obliged."

"Not at all," replied the girl calmly, resuming her work.

Harold went down the steps to avoid the elevator. The next place was

oppressive with its grandeur. A tremendous wall, cold and dark (except

for a single row of lighted windows), loomed high overhead. In the

center of an arched opening in this wall a white hot globe flamed,

lighting into still more dazzling cleanliness a broad flight of marble

steps which led by a half turn to unknown regions above. Young people

were crowding into the elevator, girls in dainty costumes predominating.

They seemed wondrously flowerlike and birdlike to the plainsman, and

brought back his school days at the seminary, and the time when he was

at ease with young people like this. He had gone far from them

now--their happy faces made him sad.

He walked up the stairway, four flights, and came to a long hall, which

rustled and rippled and sparkled with flights of young girls--eager,

vivid, excited, and care-free. A few men moved about like dull-coated

robins surrounded by orioles and canary birds.

A bland old man with clean-shaven mouth seemed to be the proper source

of information, and to him Harold stepped with his question.

The old man smiled. "Miss Yardwell? Yes--she is one of our most valued

pupils. Certainly--Willy!" he called to a small boy who carried a

livery of startling newness, "go tell Miss Yardwell a gentleman would

like to see her."

"I suppose you are from her country home?" said the old gentleman, who

imagined a romance in this relation of a powerful and handsome young man

to Miss Yardwell.

"I am," Harold replied briefly.

"Take a seat--she will be here presently."

Harold took the offered seat with a sick, faint feeling at the pit of

his stomach. The long-hoped-for event was at hand. It seemed impossible

that Mary could be there--that she was about to stand before him. His

mind was filled with the things he had arranged to say to her, but they

were now in confused mass, circling and circling like the wrack of a

boat in a river's whirlpool.

He knew her far down the hall--he recognized the poise of her head and

her walk, which had always been very fine and dignified. As she

approached, the radiance of her dress, her beauty, scared him. She

looked at him once and then at the clerk as if to say, "Is this the

man?"

Then Harold arose and said, "Well, Mary, here I am."

For an instant she looked at him, and then a light leaped into her eyes.

"Why, Harold Excell!----" she stopped abruptly as he caught her

outstretched hands, and she remembered the sinister association of the

name. "Why, why, I didn't know you. Where do you come from?" Her face

was flushed, her eyes eager, searching, restless. "Come in here," she

said abruptly, and before he had time to reply, she led him to a little

anteroom with a cushioned wall seat, and they took seats side by side.

"It is impossible!" she said, still staring at him, her bosom pulsating

with her quickened breath. "It is not you--it can't be you," she

whispered, "Black Mose sitting here--with me--in Chicago. You're in

danger."

"I don't feel that way."

He smiled for the first time, and his fine teeth shining from his

handsome mouth led her to say:

"Your big mustaches are gone--that's the reason I didn't know you at

once--I don't believe I like you so well----"

"They'll grow again," he said; "I'm in disguise." He smiled again as if

in a joke.

Again the thought of who he really was flamed through her mind. "What a

life you lead! How do you happen to be here? I never expected to see you

in a city--you don't fit into a city."

"I'm here because you are," he replied, and the simplicity of his reply

moved her deeply. "I came as soon as I got your letter," he went on.

"My letter! I've written only one letter, that was soon after your visit

to Marmion."

"That's the one I mean. I got it nearly four years after you wrote it. I

hope you haven't changed since that letter."

"I'm older," she said evasively. "My father died a little over a year

ago."

"I know, Jack wrote me."

"Why didn't you get my letter sooner?"

"I was on the trail."

"On the trail! You are always on the trail. Oh, the wild life you lead!

I saw notices of you once or twice--always in some trouble." She looked

at him smilingly but there was sadness in her smile.

"It's no fault of mine," he exclaimed. "I can't stand by and see some

poor Indian or Chinaman bullied--and besides the papers always

exaggerate everything I do. You mustn't condemn me till you hear my side

of these scrapes."

"I don't condemn you at all but it makes me sad," she slowly replied.

"You are wasting your life out there in the wild country--oh, isn't it

strange that we should sit here? My mind is so busy with the wonder of

it I can't talk straight. I had given up ever seeing you again----"

"You're not married?" he asked with startling bluntness.

She colored hotly. "No."

"Are you engaged?"

"No," she replied faintly.

"Then you're mine!" he said with a clutch upon her wrist, a masterful

intensity of passion in his eyes.

"Don't--please don't!" she said, "they will see you."

"I don't care if they do!" he exultingly said; then his face darkened.

"But perhaps you are ashamed of me?"

"Oh, no, no--only----"

"I couldn't blame you if you were," he said bitterly. "I'm only a poor

devil of a mountaineer, not fit to sit here beside you."

"Tell me about yourself," she hastened to say. "What have you been doing

all these years?" She was determined to turn him from his savage

arraignment of himself.

"It won't amount to much in your eyes. It isn't worth as much to me as I

thought it was going to be. When I found King had your promise--I hit

the trail and I didn't care where it led, so it didn't double on itself.

I didn't want to see or hear anything of you again. What became of

King? Why did you turn him loose?"

Her eyelids fell to shut out his gaze. "Well--after your visit I

couldn't find courage to fulfill my promise--and so I asked him to

release me--and he did--he was very kind."

"He couldn't do anything else."

"Go on with your story," she said hurriedly.

As they sat thus in the corner of the little sitting room, the pupils

and guests of the institution came and went from the cloak rooms, eyeing

the intent couple with smiling and curious glances. Who could that dark,

handsome young man be who held Miss Yardwell with his glittering eyes?

The girls found something very interesting in his bronzed skin and in

the big black hat which he held in his hands.

On his part Harold did not care--he scarcely noticed these figures.

Their whispers were as unimportant as the sound of aspen leaves, their

footfalls as little to be heeded as those of rabbits on the pine needles

of his camp. Before him sat the one human being in the world who could

command him and she was absorbed in interest of his story. He grew to a

tense, swift, eager narration as he went on. It pleased him to see her

glow with interest and enthusiasm over the sights and sounds of the wild

country. At last he ended.

"And so--I feel as though I could settle down--if I only had you. The

trail got lonesome that last year--I didn't suppose it would--but it

did. After three years of it I was glad to get back to my old friends,

the Reynolds. I thought of you every day--but I didn't listen to hear

you sing, because I thought you were King's wife--I didn't want to hear

about you ever--but that's all past now--I am here and you are here.

Will you go back to the mountains with me this time?"

She looked away. "Come and see me to-morrow, I must think of this. It is

so hard to decide--our lives are so different----" She arose abruptly.

"I must go now. Come into the concert, I'm going to sing." She glanced

at him in a sad, half-smiling way. "I can't sing If I Were a Voice for

you, but perhaps you'll like my aria better."

As they walked along the corridor together they formed a singularly

handsome couple. He was clad in a well-worn but neat black suit, which

he wore with grace. His big-rimmed black hat was crushed in his left

hand. Mary was in pale blue which became her well, and on her softly

rounded face a thoughtful smile rested. She always walked with uncommon

dignity, and the eyes of many young men followed her. There was

something about her companion not quite analyzable to her city

friends--something alien and savage and admirable.

Entering the hall they found it well filled, but Mary secured a seat

near the side door for Harold, and with a smile said, "I may not see you

till to-morrow. Here is my address. Come up early. At three. I want a

long talk with you."

Left to himself the plainsman looked around the hall which seemed a

splendid and spacious one to him. It was filled with ladies in beautiful

costumes, and with men in clawhammer coats. He had seen pictures of

evening suits in the newspapers but never before had he been privileged

to behold live men in them. The men seemed pale and puny for the most

part. He had never before seen ladies in low-necked dresses and one just

before him seemed shamelessly naked, and he gazed at her in

astonishment. He was glad Mary had more modesty.

The concert interested him but did not move him. The songs were

brilliant but without meaning. He waited with fierce impatience for Mary

to come on, and during this wait he did an inordinate amount of

thinking. A hundred new conceptions came into his besieged

brain--engaging but by no means confusing him. He perceived that Mary

was already as much a part of this high-colored life as she had been of

the life of Marmion, quite at ease, certain of herself, and the cañon

between them widened swiftly. She was infinitely further away from him

than before. His cause now entirely hopeless, he had no right to ask any

such sacrifice of her--even if she were ready to make it.

As she stepped out upon the stage in the glare of the light, she seemed

as far from him as the roseate crown of snow on Sierra Blanca, and he

shivered with a sort of awe. Her singing moved him less than her

delicate beauty--but her voice and the pretty way she had of lifting her

chin thrilled him just as when he sat in the little church at Marmion.

The flowerlike texture of her skin and the exquisite grace of her hands

plunged him into gloom.

He did not join in the generous applause which followed--he wondered if

she would sing If I Were a Voice for him. He felt a numbness creeping

over his limbs and he drew his breath like one in pain. Mary looked pale

as a lily as she returned and stood waiting for the applause to die

away. Then out over the tense audience, straight toward him, soared her

voice quivering with emotion--she dared to sing the old song for him.

Suddenly all sense of material things passed from the wild heart of the

plainsman. He saw only the singer who stood in the center of a white

flame. A soft humming roar was in his ears like the falling of rain

drops on the leaves of maple trees. He remembered the pale little girl

in the prison--this was not Mary--but she had the voice and the spirit

of Mary----

Then the song stopped! The singer went away--the white light went with

her and the yellow glare of lamps came back. He heard the passionate

applause--he saw Mary reappear and bow, a sad smile on her face--a smile

which he alone could understand--her heart was full of pity for him.

Then once more she withdrew, and staggering like one suffering from

vertigo--the eagle-hearted youth went out of the hall and down the

polished stairway like an outcast soul, descending from paradise into

hell.

That radiant singer was not for such as Black Mose.

CHAPTER XX

A DARK DAY WITH A GLOWING SUNSET

The clerk at the station window was not the kindly young man who had

received Harold's ticket for safe keeping. He knew nothing of it and

poked around for several minutes before finding it. After glancing

keenly at its date he threw it down and brusquely said:

"Time's out on this, my friend."

Harold looked at him sharply. "Oh, no, that can't be; it's a thirty-day

trip."

The agent grew irritable. "I know it is; it was good to the fifteenth;

this is the seventeenth; the ticket is worthless."

Harold took up the slip of paper and stared at it in bewilderment. The

agent was right; he had overstayed the limit and was without five

dollars in his pocket. He turned weak with a sudden sense of his

helplessness and the desolation of his surroundings. He was like a man

whose horse fails him on a desert. Taking a seat on a bench in a dark

corner of the waiting room he gave himself up to a study of the

situation. To be alone in the Needle Range was nothing to worry about,

but to be alone and without money in a city scared him.

For two hours he sat there, his thoughts milling like a herd of restless

cattle, turning aimlessly around and around in their tracks. He had

foolishly neglected his opportunity to escape, and the mountains became

each moment more beautiful as they swiftly receded into unattainable

distance. He had expected to be riding back into the safe and splendid

plains country, back to friends and familiar things, and had trusted to

the joy of his return to soften the despair of his second failure to

take Mary back with him.

It was a sorrowful thing to see the young eagle in somber dream, the man

of unhesitating action becoming introspective. Floods of intent business

men, gay young girls, and grizzled old farmers in groups of twos and

threes, streamed by, dimly shadowed in his reflective eyes. All these

people had purpose and reward in their lives; he alone was a stray, a

tramp, with no one but old Kintuck to draw him to any particular spot or

keep him there.

"I am outside of everything," he bitterly thought. "There is nothing for

me."

Yes, there was Cora and there was little Pink--and then he thought of

Mrs. Raimon, whose wealth and serenity of temper had a greater appeal

than ever before. He knew perfectly well that a single word from him

would bring her and her money to his rescue at once. But something arose

in him which made the utterance of such a word impossible. As for Cora

and the little one, they brought up a different emotion, and the thought

of them at last aroused him to action.

"I'll get something to do and earn money enough to go back on," he

finally said to himself; "that's all I'm fit for, just to work by the

day for some other man; that's my size. I've failed in everything else

I've ever undertaken. I've no business to interfere with a girl like

Mary. She's too high class for a hobo like me; even if I had a ranch it

would be playing it low down on a singer like her to ask her to go out

there. It's no use; I'm worse than a failure--I'm in a hole, and the

first thing I've got to do is to earn money enough to get out of it."

He was ashamed to go back to the little hotel to which he had said

good-by with so much relief. It was too expensive for him, anyhow, and

so he set to work to find one near by which came within his changed

condition. He secured lodging at last in an old wooden shack on a side

street not far from the station, where rooms could be had for twenty

cents a night--in advance. It was a wretched place, filled with

cockroaches and other insects, but it was at least a hole in which he

could den up for a few nights when sleep overcame him. Thus fortified,

he wandered forth into the city, which was becoming each moment more

remorseless and more menacing in his eyes.

Almost without knowing it, he found himself walking the broad pavement

before the musical college wherein he found Mary. He had no definite

hope of seeing her again, but that doorway was the one spot of light in

all the weltering black chaos of the city, which now threatened him with

hunger and cold. The awe and terror he felt were such as a city dweller

would feel if left alone in a wild swamp filled with strange beasts and

reptiles.

After an hour's aimless walking to and fro, he returned to his bed each

night, still revolving every conceivable plan for earning money. His

thought turned naturally to the handling of cattle at the stockyards,

and one morning he set forth on his quest, only to meet with a great

surprise. He found all the world changed to him when it became known

that he was looking for a job. When he said to the office boys, "I want

to see the man who has charge of hiring the hands," they told him to

wait a while in a tone of voice which he had never before encountered.

His blood flamed hot in an instant over their calm insolence. Eventually

he found his way into a room where a surly fat man sat writing. He

looked up over his shoulder and snarled out:

"Well, what is it? What do you want?"

Harold controlled himself and replied: "I want to get a job; I'm a

cattleman from Colorado, and I'd like----"

"I don't care where you're from; we've got all the men we want. See Mr.

White, don't come bothering me."

Harold put his hand on the man's shoulder with the gesture of an angry

leopard, and a yellow glare filled his eyes, from which the brutal boss

shrank as if from a flame.

With a powerful effort he pulled himself up short and said: "Treat the

next cattleman that comes your way a little more decent or you'll get a

part of your lung carried away. Good day."

He walked out with the old familiar numbness in his body and the red

flashes wavering before his eyes. His brain was in tumult. The free man

of the mountain had come in contact with "the tyrant of labor," and it

was well for the big beast that Harold was for the moment without his

gun.

Going back to his room he took out his revolver and loaded every

chamber. In the set of his lips was menace to the next employer who

dared to insult and degrade him.

In the days that followed he wandered over the city, with eyes that took

note of every group of workmen. He could not bring himself to go back to

the stockyards, there was danger of his becoming a murderer if he did;

and as he approached the various bosses of the gangs of men in the

street, he found himself again and again without the resolution to touch

his hat and ask for a job. Once or twice he saw others quite as brutally

rebuffed as he had been, and it was only by turning away that he kept

himself from taking a hand in an encounter. Once or twice, when the

overseer happened to be a decent and sociable fellow, Harold, edging

near, caught his eye and was able to address him on terms of equality;

but in each case the talk which followed brought out the fact that men

were swarming for every place; indeed Harold could see this for himself.

Ultimately he fell into the ranks of poor, shivering, hollow-cheeked

fellows who stood around wistfully watching the excavation of cellars or

hanging with pathetic intentness above the handling of great iron beams

or pile drivers.

Work came to be a wonderful thing to possess. To put hand to a beam or a

shovel seemed now a most desirable favor, for it meant not only warm

food and security and shelter, but in his case it promised a return to

the mountains which came each hour to seem the one desirable and

splendid country in the world--so secure, so joyous, so shining, his

heart ached with wistful love of it.

Each night he walked over to the Lake shore, past the college and up the

viaduct, till he could look out over the mysterious, dim expanse of

water. It reminded him of the plains, and helped him with its lonely

sweep and its serene majesty of reflected stars. At night he dreamed of

the cattle and of his old companions on the trail; once he was riding

with Talfeather and his band in the West Elk Mountains; once he was

riding up the looping, splendid incline of the Trout Lake Trail, seeing

the clouds gather around old Lizard Head. At other times he was back at

the Reynolds ranch taking supper while the cattle bawled, and through

the open door the light of the setting sun fell.

He had written to Reynolds, asking him to buy his saddle and bridle (he

couldn't bring himself to sell Kintuck) and each day he hoped for a

reply. He had not stated his urgent need of money, but Reynolds would

know. One by one every little trinket which he possessed went to pay his

landlord for his room. He had a small nugget, which he had carried as a

good-luck pocket-piece for many months; this he sold, and at last his

revolvers went, and then he seemed helpless.

No word from Reynolds came, and the worst of it was, if the money did

come it would not now be enough to carry him back. If he had been able

to put it with the money from his nugget and revolvers it would at least

have taken him to Denver. But now it was too late.

At last there came a day when he was at his last resource. He could find

no work to do in the streets, and so, setting his teeth on his pride, he

once more sought the stockyards and "Mr. White." It was a cold, rainy

day, and he walked the entire distance. Weak as he was from insufficient

food, bad air, and his depression, he could not afford to spend one cent

for car fare.

White turned out to be a very decent fellow, who knew nothing whatever

of Harold's encounter with the other man. He had no work for him,

however. He seemed genuinely regretful, and said:

"As a matter of fact, I'm laying off men just now; you see the rush is

pretty well over with."

Harold went over to the Great Western Hotel and hung about the barroom,

hoping to meet some one he knew, even though there was a certain risk of

being recognized as Black Mose. Swarms of cattlemen filled the hotel,

but they were mainly from Texas and Oklahoma, and no familiar face met

his searching eyes. He was now so desperately homesick that he meditated

striking one of these prosperous-looking fellows for a pass back to the

cattle country. But each time his pride stood in the way. It would be

necessary to tell his story and yet conceal his name--which was a very

difficult thing to do even if he had had nothing to cover up.

Late in the evening, faint with hunger, he started for his wretched bunk

as a starving wolf returns, after an unsuccessful hunt, to his cold and

cheerless den. His money was again reduced to a few coppers, and for a

week he had allowed himself only a small roll three times a day. "My

God! if I was only among the In-jins," he said savagely; "_they_

wouldn't see a man starve, not while they had a sliver of meat to share

with him; but these Easterners don't care; I'm no more to them than a

snake or a horned toad."

The knowledge that Mary's heart would bleed with sorrow if she knew of

his condition nerved him to make another desperate trial. "I'll try

again to-morrow," he said through his set teeth.

On the way home his curious fatalism took a sudden turn, and a feeling

that Reynolds' letter surely awaited him made his heart glow. It was

impossible that he should actually be without a cent of money, and the

thought filled his brain with an irrational exaltation which made him

forget the slime in which his feet slipped. He planned to start on the

limited train. "I'll go as far from this cursed hole of a city as I

can," he said; "I'll get out where men don't eat each other to keep

alive. He'll certainly send me twenty dollars. The silver on the bridle

is worth that alone. Mebbe he'll understand I'm broke, and send me

fifty."

He became so sure of this at last that he stepped into a saloon and

bought a big glass of brandy to ward off a chill which he felt coming

upon him, and helped himself to a lunch at the counter. When he arose

his limbs felt weak and a singular numbness had spread over his whole

body. He had never been drunk in his life--but he knew the brandy had

produced this effect.

"I shouldn't have taken it on an empty stomach," he muttered to himself

as he dragged his heavy limbs out of the door.

When he came fairly to his senses again he was lying in his little room

and the slatternly chambermaid was looking in at him.

"You aind seek alretty?" she asked.

"Go away," he said with a scowl; "you've bothered me too much."

"You peen trinken--aind it. Chim help you up de stairs last nide."

"What time is it?" he asked, with an effort to recall where he had been.

"Tweluf o'clock," she replied, still looking at him keenly, genuinely

concerned about him.

"Go away. I must get up." As she went toward the door he sat up for a

moment, but a terrible throbbing pain just back of his eyes threw him

back upon his pillow as if he had met the blow of a fist. "Oh, I'm used

up--I can't do it," he groaned, pressing his palms to his temples. "I'm

burning up with fever."

The girl came back. "Dat's vat I tought. You dond look ride. Your mudder

vouldn't known you since you gome here. Pedder you send for your folks

alretty."

"Oh, go out--let me alone. Yes, I'll do it. I'll get up soon."

When the girl returned with the proprietor of the hotel Harold was far

past rational speech. He was pounding furiously on the door, shouting,

"Let me out!" When they tried to open the door they found it locked. The

proprietor, a burly German, set his weight against it and tore the lock

off.

Harold was dangerously quiet as he said: "You'd better let me out o'

here. Them greasers are stampeding the cattle. It's a little trick of

theirs."

"Dot's all right; you go back to bed; I'll look out for dot greaser

pisness," said the landlord, who thought him drunk.

"You let me out or I'll break you in two," the determined man replied,

and a tremendous struggle took place.

Ultimately Harold was vanquished, and Schmidt, piling his huge bulk on

the worn-out body of the young man, held him until his notion changed.

"Did you ever have a tree burn up in your head?" he asked.

"Pring a policeman," whispered Schmidt to the girl, "and a doctor. De

man is grazy mit fevers; he aindt trunk."

When the officer came in Harold looked at him with sternly steady eyes.

"See here, cap, don't you try any funny business with me. I won't stand

it; I'll shoot with you for dollars or doughnuts."

"What's the matter--jim-jams?" asked the officer indifferently.

"No," replied Schmidt, "I tondt pelief it--he's got some fever onto

him."

The policeman felt his pulse. "He's certainly hot enough. Who is he?"

"Hank Jones."

"That's a lie--I'm 'Black Mose,'" said Harold.

The policeman smiled. "'Black Mose' was killed in San Juan last summer."

Harold received this news gravely. "Sorry for him, but I'm the man.

You'll find my name on my revolver, the big one--not the little one. I'm

all the 'Black Mose' there is. If you'll give me a chance I'll rope a

steer with you for blood or whisky; I'm thirsty."

"Well now," said the policeman, "you be quiet till the doctor comes, and

I'll go through your valise." After a hasty examination he said: "Damned

little here, and no revolvers of any kind. Does he eat here?"

"No, he only hires this room."

"Mebbe he don't eat anywhere; he looks to me like a hungry man."

"Dot's what I think," said the maid. "I'll go pring him some soup."

The prisoner calmly said: "Too late now; my stomach is all dried up."

"Haven't you any folks?" the policeman asked.

Harold seemed to pause for thought. "I believe I have, but I can't

think. Mary could tell you."

"Who's Mary?"

"What's that to you. Bring me some water--I'm burning dry."

"Now keep quiet," said the policeman; "you're sick as a horse."

When the doctor came the policeman turned Harold over to him. "This is a

case for St. Luke's Hospital, I guess," he said as he went out.

The doctor briskly administered a narcotic as being the easiest and

simplest way to handle a patient who seemed friendless and penniless.

"The man is simply delirious with fever. He looks like a man emaciated

from lack of food. What do you know about him?"

The landlord confessed he knew but little.

The doctor resumed: "Of course you can't attend to him here. I'll inform

the hospital authorities at once. Meanwhile, communicate with his

friends if you can. He'll be all right for the present."

This valuable man was hardly gone before a lively young fellow with a

smoothly shaven, smiling face slipped in. He went through every pocket

of Harold's clothing, and found a torn envelope with the name "Excell"

written on it, and a small photo of a little girl with the words, "To

Mose from Cora." The young man's smile became a chuckle as he saw these

things, and he said to himself: "Nothing here to identify him, eh?"

Then to the landlord he said; "I'm from The Star office. If anything new

turns up I wish you'd call up Harriman, that's me, and let me in on it."

The hospital authorities were not informed, or paid no attention to the

summons, and Harold was left to the care of the chambermaid, who did her

poor best to serve him.

The Star next morning contained two columns of closely printed matter

under the caption, "Black Mose, the Famous Dead Shot, Dying in a West

Side Hotel. After Years of Adventure on the Trail, the Famous Desperado

Succumbs to Old John Barley Corn." The article recounted all the deeds

which had been ascribed to Harold and added a few entirely new ones. His

marvelous skill with the revolver was referred to, and his defense of

the red men and others in distress was touched upon so eloquently that

the dying man was lifted to a romantic height of hardihood and

gallantry. A fancy picture of him took nearly a quarter of a page and

was surrounded by a corona of revolvers each spouting flame.

Mrs. Raimon seated at breakfast in the lofty dining room of her hotel,

languidly unfolded The Star, gave one glance, and opened the paper so

quickly and nervously her cup and saucer fell to the floor.

"My God! Can that be true? I must see him." As she read the article she

carried on a rapid thinking. "How can I find him? I must see that

reporter; he will know." She was a woman of decision. She arose quickly

and returned to her room. "Call a carriage for me, quick!" she said to

the bell boy who answered to her call. "No name is given to the hotel,

but The Star will know. Good Heavens! if he should die!" Her florid face

was set and white as she took her seat in the cab. "To The Star

office--quick!" she said to the driver, and there was command in the

slam of the door.

To the city editor she abruptly said: "I want to find the man who wrote

this article on 'Black Mose.' I want to find the hotel where he is."

The editor was enormously interested at once. "Harriman is on the night

force and at home how, but I'll see what I can do." By punching various

bells and speaking into mysteriously ramifying tubes he was finally able

to say: "The man is at a little hotel just across the river. I think it

is called the St. Nicholas. It isn't a nice place; you'd better take

some one with you. Mind you, I don't vouch for the truth of that

article; the boy may be mistaken about it."

Mrs. Raimon turned on her heel and vanished. She had her information and

acted upon it. She was never finer than when she knelt at Harold's

bedside and laid her hand gently on his forehead. She could not speak

for a moment, and when her eyes cleared of their tears and she felt the

wide, dry eyes of the man searching her, a spasm of pain contracted her

heart.

"He don't know me!" she cried to the slatternly maid, who stood watching

the scene with deep sympathy.

Harold spoke petulantly: "Go away and tell Mary I want her. It costs too

much for her to sing, or else she'd come. These people won't let me get

up, but Reynolds will be here soon and then something will rip wide

open. They took my guns and my saddle. If I had old Kintuck here I could

ride to Mary. She said she'd sing for me every Sunday. Look here, I want

ice on my head. This pillow has been heated. I don't want a hot

pillow--and I don't want my arms covered. Say, I wish you'd send word to

old Jack. I don't know where he is, but he'd come--so will Reynolds.

These policemen will have a hot time keeping me here after they come.

It's too low here, I must take Mary away--it's healthier in the

mountains. It ain't so hot----"

Out of this stream of loosely uttered words the princess caught and held

little more than the names "Jack" and "Mary."

"Who is Jack?" she softly asked.

Harold laughed. "Don't you know old freckle-faced Jack? Why, I'd know

Jack in the dark of a cave. He's my friend--my old chum. He didn't

forget me when they sent me to jail. Neither did Mary. She sung for me."

"Can't you tell me Mary's name?"

"Why, it's just Mary, Mary Yardwell."

"Where does she live?"

"Oh, don't bother me," he replied irritably. "What do you want to know

for?"

The princess softly persisted, and he said: "She lives in the East. In

Chicago. It's too far off to find her. It takes five days to get down

there on a cattle train, and then you have to look her up in a

directory, and then trail her down. I couldn't find her."

The princess took down Mary's name and sent a messenger to try to find

the address of this woman who was more to the delirious man than all the

rest of the world.

As he tossed and muttered she took possession of the house. "Is this the

worst room you have? Get the best bed in the house ready. I want this

man to have the cleanest room you have. Hurry! Telephone to the Western

Palace and ask Doctor Sanborn to come at once--tell him Mrs. Raimon

wants him."

Under her vigorous action one of the larger rooms was cleared out and

made ready, and when the doctor came Harold was moved, under his

personal supervision. "I shall stay here till he is out of danger," she

said to the doctor as he was leaving, "and please ask my maid to go out

and get some clean bed linen and bring it down here at once--and tell

her to send Mr. Doris here, won't you?"

The doctor promised to attend to these matters at once.

She sat by the bedside of the sufferer bathing his hands and face as if

he were a child, talking to him gently with a mother's grave cadences.

He was now too weak to resist any command, and took his medicine at a

gulp like a young robin.

* * * * *

Late in the afternoon as Mrs. Raimon returned from an errand to the

street she was amazed to find a tall and handsome girl sitting beside

the sick man's bed holding his two cold white hands in both of hers.

There was a singular and thrilling serenity in the stranger's face--a

composure that was exaltation, while Harold, with half-closed eyelids,

lay as if in awe, gazing up into the woman's face.

Mrs. Raimon waited until Harold's eyes closed like a sleepy child's and

the watcher arose--then she drew near and timidly asked:

"Are you Mary?"

"Yes," was the simple reply.

The elder woman's voice trembled. "I am glad you've come. He has called

for you incessantly. You must let me help you--I am Mrs. Raimon, of

Wagon Wheel--I knew him there."

Mary understood the woman's humble attitude, but she did not encourage a

caress. She coldly replied: "I shall be very grateful. He is very ill,

and I shall not leave him till his friends come."

She thought immediately of Jack, and sent a telegram saying: "Harold is

here ill--come at once." She did not know where to reach Mr. Excell, so

could only wait to consult Jack.

Mrs. Raimon remained with her and was so unobtrusively ready to do good

that Mary's heart softened toward her--though she did not like her

florid beauty and her display of jewels.

A telegram from Jack came during the evening: "Do all you can for

Harold. Will reach him to-night."

He came in at eleven o'clock, his face knotted into anxious lines. They

smoothed out as his eyes fell upon Mary, who met him in the hall.

"Oh, I'm glad to see you here," he said brokenly. "How is he--is there

any hope?"

In his presence Mary's composure gave way. "O Jack! If he should die

now----" She laid her head against his sturdy shoulder and for a moment

shook with nervous weakness. Almost before he could speak she recovered

herself. "He only knew me for a few moments. He's delirious again. The

doctor is with him--oh, I can't bear to hear him rave! It is awful! He

calls for me, and yet does not know me. O Jack, it makes my heart ache

so, he is so weak! He came to see me--and then went away--I didn't know

where he had gone. And all the time he was starving here. O God! It

would be too dreadful--if he should die!"

"We won't let him die!" he stoutly replied. "I'm going in to see him."

Together they went in. The doctor, intently studying his patient, sat

motionless and silent. He was a young man with a serious face, but his

movements were quick, silent, and full of decision. He looked up and

made a motion, stopping them where they were.

Out of a low mutter at last Harold's words grew distinct: "I don't

care--but the water is cold as ice--I wouldn't put a cayuse into it--let

alone Kintuck. Should be a bridge here somewhere."

"Oh, he's on the trail again!" said Mary. "Harold, don't you know me?"

She bent over to him again and put forth the utmost intensity of her

will to recall him. "I am here, Harold, don't you see me?"

His head ceased to roll and he looked at her with eyes that made her

heart grow sick--then a slow, faint smile came to his lips. "Yes--I know

you, Mary--but the river is between us, and it's swift and cold, and

Kintuck is thin and hungry--I can't cross now!"

"Doctor," said Jack, as the physician was leaving, "what are the

chances?"

The doctor's voice carried conviction: "Oh, he'll pull through--he has

one of the finest bodies I ever saw." He smiled. "He'll cross the river

all right--and land on our side."

Two days later Mr. Excell, big and brown, his brow also knotted with

anxiety, entered the room, and fell on his knees and threw his long arm

over the helpless figure beneath the coverlet. "Harry! My boy, do you

know me?"

Harold looked up at him with big staring eyes and slowly put out his

hand. "Sure thing! And I'm not dead yet, father. I'll soon be all right.

I've got Mary with me. She can cure me--if the doctor can't."

He spoke slowly, but there was will behind the voice. His wasted face

had a gentleness that was most moving to the father. He could not look

at the pitiful wreck of his once proud and fearless boy without weeping,

and being mindful of Harold's prejudice against sentiment, he left the

room to regain his composure. To Mary Mr. Excell said: "I don't know

you--but you are a noble woman. I give you a father's gratitude. Won't

you tell me who you are?"

"I am Mary Yardwell," she replied in her peculiarly succinct speech. "My

home was in Marmion, but I attended school in your village. I sang in

your church for a little while."

His face lighted up. "I remember you--a pale, serious little girl. Did

you know my son there?"

She looked away for a moment. "I sang for him--when he was in jail," she

replied. "I belonged to the Rescue Band."

A shadow fell again upon the father's face.

"I did not know it," he said, feeling something mysterious

here--something which lay outside his grasp. "Have you seen him

meanwhile? I suppose you must have done so."

"Once, in Marmion, some four years ago."

"Ah! Now I understand his visit to Marmion," said Mr. Excell, with a

sudden smile. "I thought he came to see Jack and me. He really came to

see you. Am I right?"

"Yes," she replied. "He wanted me to go back with him, but

I--I--couldn't do so."

"I know--I know," he replied hastily. "He had no right to ask it of

you--poor boy."

"It seems now as though I had no right to refuse. I might have helped

him. If he should die now there would be an incurable ache here"--she

lifted her hand to her throat; "so long as I lived I should not forgive

myself."

CHAPTER XXI

CONCLUSION

As he crawled slowly back to life and clear thinking, Harold's wild

heart was filled with a peace and serenity of emotion such as it had not

known since childhood. He was like a boy in a careless dream,

forecasting nothing, remembering nothing, content to see Mary come and

go about the room, glad of the sound of her skirts, thrilling under the

gentle pressure of her hand.

She, on her part, could not realize any part of his dark fame as she

smiled down into his big yellow-brown eyes which were as pathetic and

wistful as those of a gentle animal.

Mrs. Raimon spoke of this. "I saw 'Black Mose' as he stood in the

streets of Wagon Wheel, the most famous dead-shot in the State. I can't

realize that this is the same man. He's gentle as a babe now; he was as

terrible and as beautiful as a tiger then."

Reynolds sent fifty dollars with an apology for the delay and Mr. Excell

offered his slender purse, but Mrs. Raimon said: "I'll attend to this

matter of expense. Let me do that little for him--please!" And he gave

way, knowing her great wealth.

But all these things began at last to trouble the proud heart of the

sick man, and as he grew stronger his hours of quiet joy began to be

broken by disquieting calculations of his indebtedness to Mrs. Raimon as

well as to Mary and Jack. He wished to be free of all obligations, even

gratitude. He insisted on his father's return to his pastorate--which he

did at the end of the week.

Meanwhile Mary and Jack conspired for the Eagle's good. Together they

planned to remove him to some fairer quarter of the city. Together they

read and discussed the letters which poured in upon them from theatrical

managers, Wild West shows, music halls, and other similar enterprises,

and from romantic girls and shrewd photographers, and every other

conceivable kind of crank. The offers of the music halls Jack was

inclined to consider worth while. "He'd be a great success there, or as

a dead-shot in a Wild West show. They pay pretty well, too."

"I don't believe he'd care to do anything like that," Mary quietly

replied.

They both found that he cared to do nothing which involved his remaining

in the East. As his eyes grew brighter, his longing for the West came

back. He lifted his arms above his quilts with the action of the eaglet

who meditates leaping from the home ledge. It was a sorrowful thing to

see this powerful young animal made thin and white and weak by fever,

but his spirit was indomitable.

"He must be moved to the West before he will fully recover," said the

doctor, and to this Mrs. Raimon replied:

"Very well, doctor. You name the day when it is safe and we'll go. I'll

have a special car, if necessary, but first of all he must go to a good

hotel. Can't he be moved now?"

Outwardly Mary acknowledged all the kindness of this rich and powerful

woman, but inwardly she resented her intimacy. Drawing all her little

store of ready money she quietly began paying off the bills. When all

was settled she took a seat beside Harold one day when they were alone

and laying one strong, warm hand on his thin, white arm, she said:

"Harold, the doctor says you can be moved from here, and so--you must

give me the right to take you home with me."

There was a piercing pathos in his wan smile as he replied, "All right,

you're the boss. It's a pretty hard come down, though. I thought once

I'd come back after you in a private car. If you stand by me I may be a

cattle king yet. There's a whole lot of fight in me still--you watch me

and see."

The next day he was moved to a private hotel on the north side, and Mary

breathed a sigh of deep relief as she saw him sink back into his soft

bed in a clean and sunny room. He, with a touch of his old fire, said:

"This sure beats a holler log, but all the same I'll be glad to see the

time when I can camp on my saddle again."

Mary only smiled and patted him like a mother caressing a babe. "I'll

hate to have you go and leave me--now."

"No danger of that, Mary. We camp down on the same blanket from this

on."

Mr. Excell came on to marry them, but Jack sent his best wishes by mail;

he could not quite bring himself to see Mary give herself away--even to

his hero.

Mrs. Raimon took her defeat with most touching grace. "You're right,"

she said. "He's yours--I know that perfectly well, but you must let me

help him to make a start. It won't hurt him, and it'll please me. I have

a ranch, I have mines, I could give him something to do till he got on

his feet again, if you'd let me, and I hope you won't deny me a pleasure

that will carry no obligation with it."

She was powerfully moved as she went in to say good-by to him. He was

sitting in a chair, but looked very pale and weak. She said: "Mose,

you're in luck; you've got a woman who'll do you good. She's loyal and

she's strong, and there's nothing further for me to do--unless you let

me help you. See here, why not let me help you get a start; what do you

say?"

Harold felt the deep sincerity of the woman's regard and he said simply:

"All right; let me know what you find, and I'll talk it over with Mary."

She seized his thin hand in both hers and pressed it hard, the tears

creeping down her cheeks. "You're a good boy, Mose; you're the kind that

are good to women in ways they don't like, sometimes. I hope you'll

forget the worst of me and remember only the best. I don't think she

knows anything about me; if she hears anything, tell her the truth, but

say I was better than women think."

One day about ten days later a bulky letter came, addressed to "Mose

Excell." It was from Mrs. Raimon, but contained a letter from Reynolds,

who wrote:

"Yesterday a young Cheyenne came ridin' in here inquirin' for

you. I told him you was in Chicago, sick. He brought a

message from old Talfeather who is gettin' scared about the

cattlemen. He says they're crowdin' onto his reservation, and

he wants you to come and help him. He wants you to talk with

them and to go to Washington and see the Great Father. He

sent this medicine and said it was to draw you to him. He

said he was blind and his heart was heavy because he feared

trouble. I went up to Wagon Wheel and saw the princess, who

has a big pull. She said she'd write you. Kintuck is well but

getting lazy."

Mrs. Raimon wrote excitedly:

"DEAR FRIEND: Here is work for you to do. The agent at Sand

Lake has asked to be relieved and I have written Senator

Miller to have you appointed. He thought the idea

excellent. We both believe your presence will quiet the

cattlemen as well as Talfeather and his band. Will you

accept?"

As Harold read, his body uplifted and his eyes grew stern. "See here,

Mary, what do you think of this?" and he read the letter and explained

the situation. She, too, became tense with interest, but, being a woman

who thought before she spoke, she remained silent.

Harold, after a moment, arose from his chair, gaunt and unsteady as he

was. "That's what I'm fitted for, Mary. That solves my problem. I know

these cattlemen, they know me. I am the white chief of Talfeather's

people. If you can stand it to live there with me, Mary, I will go. We

can do good; the women need some one like you to teach 'em to do

things."

Mary's altruistic nature began to glow. "Do you think so, Harold? Could

I be of use?"

"Of use? Why, Mary, those poor squaws and their children need you worse

than they need a God. I know, for I've lived among 'em."

"Then I will go," she said, and out of the gray cloud the sun broke and

shone from the west across the great lonely plains.

Again "Black Mose" rode up the almost invisible ascent toward the Rocky

Mountains. Again he saw the mighty snow peaks loom over the faintly

green swells of the plain, but this time he left nothing behind. The

aching hunger was gone out of his heart for beside him Mary sat, eager

as he to see the wondrous mountain land whose trails to her were script

of epic tales, and whose peaks were monuments to great dead beasts and

mysterious peoples long since swept away by the ruthless march of the

white men.

If she had doubts or hesitations she concealed them, for hers was a

nature fitted for such sacrifice as this--and besides, each day

increased her love for the singular and daring soul of Harold Excell.