To the Last Man

A chill, gray, somber dawn was breaking when Ellen dragged herself into the cabin and crept under her blankets, there to sleep the sleep of exhaustion.

When she awoke the hour appeared to be late afternoon. Sun and sky shone through the sunken and decayed roof of the old cabin. Her uncle, Tad Jorth, lay upon a blanket bed upheld by a crude couch of boughs. The light fell upon his face, pale, lined, cast in a still mold of suffering. He was not dead, for she heard his respiration.

The floor underneath Ellen’s blankets was bare clay. She and Jorth were alone in this cabin. It contained nothing besides their beds and a rank growth of weeds along the decayed lower logs. Half of the cabin had a rude ceiling of rough-hewn boards which formed a kind of loft. This attic extended through to the adjoining cabin, forming the ceiling of the porch-like space between the two structures. There was no partition. A ladder of two aspen saplings, pegged to the logs, and with braces between for steps, led up to the attic.

Ellen smelled wood smoke and the odor of frying meat, and she heard the voices of men. She looked out to see that Slater and Somers had joined their party—an addition that might have strengthened it for defense, but did not lend her own situation anything favorable. Somers had always appeared the one best to avoid.

Colter espied her and called her to “Come an’ feed your pale face.” His comrades laughed, not loudly, but guardedly, as if noise was something to avoid. Nevertheless, they awoke Tad Jorth, who began to toss and moan on the bed.

Ellen hurried to his side and at once ascertained that he had a high fever and was in a critical condition. Every time he tossed he opened a wound in his right breast, rather high up. For all she could see, nothing had been done for him except the binding of a scarf round his neck and under his arm. This scant bandage had worked loose. Going to the door, she called out:

“Fetch me some water.” When Colter brought it, Ellen was rummaging in her pack for some clothing or towel that she could use for bandages.

“Weren’t any of y’u decent enough to look after my uncle?” she queried.

“Huh! Wal, what the hell!” rejoined Colter. “We shore did all we could. I reckon y’u think it wasn’t a tough job to pack him up the Rim. He was done for then an’ I said so.”

“I’ll do all I can for him,” said Ellen.

“Shore. Go ahaid. When I get plugged or knifed by that half-breed I shore hope y’u’ll be round to nurse me.”

“Y’u seem to be pretty shore of your fate, Colter.”

“Shore as hell!” he bit out, darkly. “Somers saw Isbel an’ his gang trailin’ us to the Jorth ranch.”

“Are y’u goin’ to stay heah—an’ wait for them?”

“Shore I’ve been quarrelin’ with the fellars out there over that very question. I’m for leavin’ the country. But Queen, the damn gun fighter, is daid set to kill that cowman, Blue, who swore he was King Fisher, the old Texas outlaw. None but Queen are spoilin’ for another fight. All the same they won’t leave Tad Jorth heah alone.”

Then Colter leaned in at the door and whispered: “Ellen, I cain’t boss this outfit. So let’s y’u an’ me shake ’em. I’ve got your dad’s gold. Let’s ride off to-night an’ shake this country.”

Colter, muttering under his breath, left the door and returned to his comrades. Ellen had received her first intimation of his cowardice; and his mention of her father’s gold started a train of thought that persisted in spite of her efforts to put all her mind to attending her uncle. He grew conscious enough to recognize her working over him, and thanked her with a look that touched Ellen deeply. It changed the direction of her mind. His suffering and imminent death, which she was able to alleviate and retard somewhat, worked upon her pity and compassion so that she forgot her own plight. Half the night she was tending him, cooling his fever, holding him quiet. Well she realized that but for her ministrations he would have died. At length he went to sleep.

And Ellen, sitting beside him in the lonely, silent darkness of that late hour, received again the intimation of nature, those vague and nameless stirrings of her innermost being, those whisperings out of the night and the forest and the sky. Something great would not let go of her soul. She pondered.

Attention to the wounded man occupied Ellen; and soon she redoubled her activities in this regard, finding in them something of protection against Colter.

He had waylaid her as she went to a spring for water, and with a lunge like that of a bear he had tried to embrace her. But Ellen had been too quick.

“Wal, are y’u goin’ away with me?” he demanded.

“No. I’ll stick by my uncle,” she replied.

That motive of hers seemed to obstruct his will. Ellen was keen to see that Colter and his comrades were at a last stand and disintegrating under a severe strain. Nerve and courage of the open and the wild they possessed, but only in a limited degree. Colter seemed obsessed by his passion for her, and though Ellen in her stubborn pride did not yet fear him, she realized she ought to. After that incident she watched closely, never leaving her uncle’s bedside except when Colter was absent. One or more of the men kept constant lookout somewhere down the canyon.

Day after day passed on the wings of suspense, of watching, of ministering to her uncle, of waiting for some hour that seemed fixed.

Colter was like a hound upon her trail. At every turn he was there to importune her to run off with him, to frighten her with the menace of the Isbels, to beg her to give herself to him. It came to pass that the only relief she had was when she ate with the men or barred the cabin door at night. Not much relief, however, was there in the shut and barred door. With one thrust of his powerful arm Colter could have caved it in. He knew this as well as Ellen. Still she did not have the fear she should have had. There was her rifle beside her, and though she did not allow her mind to run darkly on its possible use, still the fact of its being there at hand somehow strengthened her. Colter was a cat playing with a mouse, but not yet sure of his quarry.

Ellen came to know hours when she was weak—weak physically, mentally, spiritually, morally—when under the sheer weight of this frightful and growing burden of suspense she was not capable of fighting her misery, her abasement, her low ebb of vitality, and at the same time wholly withstanding Colter’s advances.

He would come into the cabin and, utterly indifferent to Tad Jorth, he would try to make bold and unrestrained love to Ellen. When he caught her in one of her unresisting moments and was able to hold her in his arms and kiss her he seemed to be beside himself with the wonder of her. At such moments, if he had any softness or gentleness in him, they expressed themselves in his sooner or later letting her go, when apparently she was about to faint. So it must have become fascinatingly fixed in Colter’s mind that at times Ellen repulsed him with scorn and at others could not resist him.

Ellen had escaped two crises in her relation with this man, and as a morbid doubt, like a poisonous fungus, began to strangle her mind, she instinctively divined that there was an approaching and final crisis. No uplift of her spirit came this time—no intimations—no whisperings. How horrible it all was! To long to be good and noble—to realize that she was neither—to sink lower day by day! Must she decay there like one of these rotting logs? Worst of all, then, was the insinuating and ever-growing hopelessness. What was the use? What did it matter? Who would ever think of Ellen Jorth? “O God!” she whispered in her distraction, “is there nothing left—nothing at all?”

A period of several days of less torment to Ellen followed. Her uncle apparently took a turn for the better and Colter let her alone. This last circumstance nonplused Ellen. She was at a loss to understand it unless the Isbel menace now encroached upon Colter so formidably that he had forgotten her for the present.

Then one bright August morning, when she had just begun to relax her eternal vigilance and breathe without oppression, Colter encountered her and, darkly silent and fierce, he grasped her and drew her off her feet. Ellen struggled violently, but the total surprise had deprived her of strength. And that paralyzing weakness assailed her as never before. Without apparent effort Colter carried her, striding rapidly away from the cabins into the border of spruce trees at the foot of the canyon wall.

“Colter—where—oh, where are Y’u takin’ me?” she found voice to cry out.

“By God! I don’t know,” he replied, with strong, vibrant passion. “I was a fool not to carry y’u off long ago. But I waited. I was hopin’ y’u’d love me! ... An’ now that Isbel gang has corralled us. Somers seen the half-breed up on the rocks. An’ Springer seen the rest of them sneakin’ around. I run back after my horse an’ y’u.”

“But Uncle Tad! ... We mustn’t leave him alone,” cried Ellen.

“We’ve got to,” replied Colter, grimly. “Tad shore won’t worry y’u no more—soon as Jean Isbel gets to him.”

“Oh, let me stay,” implored Ellen. “I will save him.”

Colter laughed at the utter absurdity of her appeal and claim. Suddenly he set her down upon her feet. “Stand still,” he ordered. Ellen saw his big bay horse, saddled, with pack and blanket, tied there in the shade of a spruce. With swift hands Colter untied him and mounted him, scarcely moving his piercing gaze from Ellen. He reached to grasp her. “Up with y’u! ... Put your foot in the stirrup!” His will, like his powerful arm, was irresistible for Ellen at that moment. She found herself swung up behind him. Then the horse plunged away. What with the hard motion and Colter’s iron grasp on her Ellen was in a painful position. Her knees and feet came into violent contact with branches and snags. He galloped the horse, tearing through the dense thicket of willows that served to hide the entrance to the side canyon, and when out in the larger and more open canyon he urged him to a run. Presently when Colter put the horse to a slow rise of ground, thereby bringing him to a walk, it was just in time to save Ellen a serious bruising. Again the sunlight appeared to shade over. They were in the pines. Suddenly with backward lunge Colter halted the horse. Ellen heard a yell. She recognized Queen’s voice.

“Turn back, Colter! Turn back!”

With an oath Colter wheeled his mount. “If I didn’t run plump into them,” he ejaculated, harshly. And scarcely had the goaded horse gotten a start when a shot rang out. Ellen felt a violent shock, as if her momentum had suddenly met with a check, and then she felt herself wrenched from Colter, from the saddle, and propelled into the air. She alighted on soft ground and thick grass, and was unhurt save for the violent wrench and shaking that had rendered her breathless. Before she could rise Colter was pulling at her, lifting her to her feet. She saw the horse lying with bloody head. Tall pines loomed all around. Another rifle cracked. “Run!” hissed Colter, and he bounded off, dragging her by the hand. Another yell pealed out. “Here we are, Colter!”. Again it was Queen’s shrill voice. Ellen ran with all her might, her heart in her throat, her sight failing to record more than a blur of passing pines and a blank green wall of spruce. Then she lost her balance, was falling, yet could not fall because of that steel grip on her hand, and was dragged, and finally carried, into a dense shade. She was blinded. The trees whirled and faded. Voices and shots sounded far away. Then something black seemed to be wiped across her feeling.

It turned to gray, to moving blankness, to dim, hazy objects, spectral and tall, like blanketed trees, and when Ellen fully recovered consciousness she was being carried through the forest.

“Wal, little one, that was a close shave for y’u,” said Colter’s hard voice, growing clearer. “Reckon your keelin’ over was natural enough.”

He held her lightly in both arms, her head resting above his left elbow. Ellen saw his face as a gray blur, then taking sharper outline, until it stood out distinctly, pale and clammy, with eyes cold and wonderful in their intense flare. As she gazed upward Colter turned his head to look back through the woods, and his motion betrayed a keen, wild vigilance. The veins of his lean, brown neck stood out like whipcords. Two comrades were stalking beside him. Ellen heard their stealthy steps, and she felt Colter sheer from one side or the other. They were proceeding cautiously, fearful of the rear, but not wholly trusting to the fore.

“Reckon we’d better go slow an’ look before we leap,” said one whose voice Ellen recognized as Springer’s.

“Shore. That open slope ain’t to my likin’, with our Nez Perce friend prowlin’ round,” drawled Colter, as he set Ellen down on her feet.

Another of the rustlers laughed. “Say, can’t he twinkle through the forest? I had four shots at him. Harder to hit than a turkey runnin’ crossways.”

This facetious speaker was the evil-visaged, sardonic Somers. He carried two rifles and wore two belts of cartridges.

“Ellen, shore y’u ain’t so daid white as y’u was,” observed Colter, and he chucked her under the chin with familiar hand. “Set down heah. I don’t want y’u stoppin’ any bullets. An’ there’s no tellin’.”

Ellen was glad to comply with his wish. She had begun to recover wits and strength, yet she still felt shaky. She observed that their position then was on the edge of a well-wooded slope from which she could see the grassy canyon floor below. They were on a level bench, projecting out from the main canyon wall that loomed gray and rugged and pine fringed. Somers and Cotter and Springer gave careful attention to all points of the compass, especially in the direction from which they had come. They evidently anticipated being trailed or circled or headed off, but did not manifest much concern. Somers lit a cigarette; Springer wiped his face with a grimy hand and counted the shells in his belt, which appeared to be half empty. Colter stretched his long neck like a vulture and peered down the slope and through the aisles of the forest up toward the canyon rim.

“Listen!” he said, tersely, and bent his head a little to one side, ear to the slight breeze.

They all listened. Ellen heard the beating of her heart, the rustle of leaves, the tapping of a woodpecker, and faint, remote sounds that she could not name.

“Deer, I reckon,” spoke up Somers.

“Ahuh! Wal, I reckon they ain’t trailin’ us yet,” replied Colter. “We gave them a shade better ’n they sent us.”

“Short an’ sweet!” ejaculated Springer, and he removed his black sombrero to poke a dirty forefinger through a buffet hole in the crown. “Thet’s how close I come to cashin’. I was lyin’ behind a log, listenin’ an’ watchin’, an’ when I stuck my head up a little—zam! Somebody made my bonnet leak.”

“Where’s Queen?” asked Colter.

“He was with me fust off,” replied Somers. “An’ then when the shootin’ slacked—after I’d plugged thet big, red-faced, white-haired pal of Isbel’s—”

“Reckon thet was Blaisdell,” interrupted Springer.

“Queen—he got tired layin’ low,” went on Somers. “He wanted action. I heerd him chewin’ to himself, an’ when I asked him what was eatin’ him he up an’ growled he was goin’ to quit this Injun fightin’. An’ he slipped off in the woods.”

“Wal, that’s the gun fighter of it,” declared Colter, wagging his head, “Ever since that cowman, Blue, braced us an’ said he was King Fisher, why Queen has been sulkier an’ sulkier. He cain’t help it. He’ll do the same trick as Blue tried. An’ shore he’ll get his everlastin’. But he’s the Texas breed all right.”

“Say, do you reckon Blue really is King Fisher?” queried Somers.

“Naw!” ejaculated Colter, with downward sweep of his hand. “Many a would-be gun slinger has borrowed Fisher’s name. But Fisher is daid these many years.”

“Ahuh! Wal, mebbe, but don’t you fergit it—thet Blue was no would-be,” declared Somers. “He was the genuine article.”

“I should smile!” affirmed Springer.

The subject irritated Colter, and he dismissed it with another forcible gesture and a counter question.

“How many left in that Isbel outfit?”

“No tellin’. There shore was enough of them,” replied Somers. “Anyhow, the woods was full of flyin’ bullets.... Springer, did you account for any of them?”

“Nope—not thet I noticed,” responded Springer, dryly. “I had my chance at the half-breed.... Reckon I was nervous.”

“Was Slater near you when he yelled out?”

“No. He was lyin’ beside Somers.”

“Wasn’t thet a queer way fer a man to act?” broke in Somers. “A bullet hit Slater, cut him down the back as he was lyin’ flat. Reckon it wasn’t bad. But it hurt him so thet he jumped right up an’ staggered around. He made a target big as a tree. An’ mebbe them Isbels didn’t riddle him!”

“That was when I got my crack at Bill Isbel,” declared Colter, with grim satisfaction. “When they shot my horse out from under me I had Ellen to think of an’ couldn’t get my rifle. Shore had to run, as yu seen. Wal, as I only had my six-shooter, there was nothin’ for me to do but lay low an’ listen to the sping of lead. Wells was standin’ up behind a tree about thirty yards off. He got plugged, an’ fallin’ over he began to crawl my way, still holdin’ to his rifle. I crawled along the log to meet him. But he dropped aboot half-way. I went on an’ took his rifle an’ belt. When I peeped out from behind a spruce bush then I seen Bill Isbel. He was shootin’ fast, an’ all of them was shootin’ fast. That war, when they had the open shot at Slater.... Wal, I bored Bill Isbel right through his middle. He dropped his rifle an’, all bent double, he fooled around in a circle till he flopped over the Rim. I reckon he’s layin’ right up there somewhere below that daid spruce. I’d shore like to see him.”

“I Wal, you’d be as crazy as Queen if you tried thet,” declared Somers. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

“I reckon not,” replied Colter. “An’ I’ve lost my horse. Where’d y’u leave yours?”

“They’re down the canyon, below thet willow brake. An’ saddled an’ none of them tied. Reckon we’ll have to look them up before dark.”

“Colter, what ’re we goin’ to do?” demanded Springer.

“Wait heah a while—then cross the canyon an’ work round up under the bluff, back to the cabin.”

“An’ then what?” queried Somers, doubtfully eying Colter.

“We’ve got to eat—we’ve got to have blankets,” rejoined Colter, testily. “An’ I reckon we can hide there an’ stand a better show in a fight than runnin’ for it in the woods.”

“Wal, I’m givin’ you a hunch thet it looked like you was runnin’ fer it,” retorted Somers.

“Yes, an’ packin’ the girl,” added Springer. “Looks funny to me.”

Both rustlers eyed Colter with dark and distrustful glances. What he might have replied never transpired, for the reason that his gaze, always shifting around, had suddenly fixed on something.

“Is that a wolf?” he asked, pointing to the Rim.

Both his comrades moved to get in line with his finger. Ellen could not see from her position.

“Shore thet’s a big lofer,” declared Somers. “Reckon he scented us.”

“There he goes along the Rim,” observed Colter. “He doesn’t act leary. Looks like a good sign to me. Mebbe the Isbels have gone the other way.”

“Looks bad to me,” rejoined Springer, gloomily.

“An’ why?” demanded Colter.

“I seen thet animal. Fust time I reckoned it was a lofer. Second time it was right near them Isbels. An’ I’m damned now if I don’t believe it’s thet half-lofer sheep dog of Gass Isbel’s.”

“Wal, what if it is?”

“Ha! ... Shore we needn’t worry about hidin’ out,” replied Springer, sententiously. “With thet dog Jean Isbel could trail a grasshopper.”

“The hell y’u say!” muttered Colter. Manifestly such a possibility put a different light upon the present situation. The men grew silent and watchful, occupied by brooding thoughts and vigilant surveillance of all points. Somers slipped off into the brush, soon to return, with intent look of importance.

“I heerd somethin’,” he whispered, jerking his thumb backward. “Rollin’ gravel—crackin’ of twigs. No deer! ... Reckon it’d be a good idee for us to slip round acrost this bench.”

“Wal, y’u fellars go, an’ I’ll watch heah,” returned Colter.

“Not much,” said Somers, while Springer leered knowingly.

Colter became incensed, but he did not give way to it. Pondering a moment, he finally turned to Ellen. “Y’u wait heah till I come back. An’ if I don’t come in reasonable time y’u slip across the canyon an’ through the willows to the cabins. Wait till aboot dark.” With that he possessed himself of one of the extra rifles and belts and silently joined his comrades. Together they noiselessly stole into the brush.

Ellen had no other thought than to comply with Colter’s wishes. There was her wounded uncle who had been left unattended, and she was anxious to get back to him. Besides, if she had wanted to run off from Colter, where could she go? Alone in the woods, she would get lost and die of starvation. Her lot must be cast with the Jorth faction until the end. That did not seem far away.

Her strained attention and suspense made the moments fly. By and by several shots pealed out far across the side canyon on her right, and they were answered by reports sounding closer to her. The fight was on again. But these shots were not repeated. The flies buzzed, the hot sun beat down and sloped to the west, the soft, warm breeze stirred the aspens, the ravens croaked, the red squirrels and blue jays chattered.

Suddenly a quick, short, yelp electrified Ellen, brought her upright with sharp, listening rigidity. Surely it was not a wolf and hardly could it be a coyote. Again she heard it. The yelp of a sheep dog! She had heard that’ often enough to know. And she rose to change her position so she could command a view of the rocky bluff above. Presently she espied what really appeared to be a big timber wolf. But another yelp satisfied her that it really was a dog. She watched him. Soon it became evident that he wanted to get down over the bluff. He ran to and fro, and then out of sight. In a few moments his yelp sounded from lower down, at the base of the bluff, and it was now the cry of an intelligent dog that was trying to call some one to his aid. Ellen grew convinced that the dog was near where Colter had said Bill Isbel had plunged over the declivity. Would the dog yelp that way if the man was dead? Ellen thought not.

No one came, and the continuous yelping of the dog got on Ellen’s nerves. It was a call for help. And finally she surrendered to it. Since her natural terror when Colter’s horse was shot from under her and she had been dragged away, she had not recovered from fear of the Isbels. But calm consideration now convinced her that she could hardly be in a worse plight in their hands than if she remained in Colter’s. So she started out to find the dog.

The wooded bench was level for a few hundred yards, and then it began to heave in rugged, rocky bulges up toward the Rim. It did not appear far to where the dog was barking, but the latter part of the distance proved to be a hard climb over jumbled rocks and through thick brush. Panting and hot, she at length reached the base of the bluff, to find that it was not very high.

The dog espied her before she saw him, for he was coming toward her when she discovered him. Big, shaggy, grayish white and black, with wild, keen face and eyes he assuredly looked the reputation Springer had accorded him. But sagacious, guarded as was his approach, he appeared friendly.

“Hello—doggie!” panted Ellen. “What’s—wrong—up heah?”

He yelped, his ears lost their stiffness, his body sank a little, and his bushy tail wagged to and fro. What a gray, clear, intelligent look he gave her! Then he trotted back.

Ellen followed him around a corner of bluff to see the body of a man lying on his back. Fresh earth and gravel lay about him, attesting to his fall from above. He had on neither coat nor hat, and the position of his body and limbs suggested broken bones. As Ellen hurried to his side she saw that the front of his shirt, low down, was a bloody blotch. But he could lift his head; his eyes were open; he was perfectly conscious. Ellen did not recognize the dusty, skinned face, yet the mold of features, the look of the eyes, seemed strangely familiar.

“You’re—Jorth’s—girl,” he said, in faint voice of surprise.

“Yes, I’m Ellen Jorth,” she replied. “An’ are y’u Bill Isbel?”

“All thet’s left of me. But I’m thankin’ God somebody come—even a Jorth.”

Ellen knelt beside him and examined the wound in his abdomen. A heavy bullet had indeed, as Colter had avowed, torn clear through his middle. Even if he had not sustained other serious injury from the fall over the cliff, that terrible bullet wound meant death very shortly. Ellen shuddered. How inexplicable were men! How cruel, bloody, mindless!

“Isbel, I’m sorry—there’s no hope,” she said, low voiced. “Y’u’ve not long to live. I cain’t help y’u. God knows I’d do so if I could.”

“All over!” he sighed, with his eyes looking beyond her. “I reckon—I’m glad.... But y’u can—do somethin’ for or me. Will y’u?”

“Indeed, Yes. Tell me,” she replied, lifting his dusty head on her knee. Her hands trembled as she brushed his wet hair back from his clammy brow.

“I’ve somethin’—on my conscience,” he whispered.

The woman, the sensitive in Ellen, understood and pitied him then.

“Yes,” she encouraged him.

“I stole cattle—my dad’s an’ Blaisdell’s—an’ made deals—with Daggs.... All the crookedness—wasn’t on—Jorth’s side.... I want—my brother Jean—to know.”

“I’ll try—to tell him,” whispered Ellen, out of her great amaze.

“We were all—a bad lot—except Jean,” went on Isbel. “Dad wasn’t fair.... God! how he hated Jorth! Jorth, yes, who was—your father.... Wal, they’re even now.”

“How—so?” faltered Ellen.

“Your father killed dad.... At the last—dad wanted to—save us. He sent word—he’d meet him—face to face—an’ let thet end the feud. They met out in the road.... But some one shot dad down—with a rifle—an’ then your father finished him.”

“An’ then, Isbel,” added Ellen, with unconscious mocking bitterness, “Your brother murdered my dad!”

“What!” whispered Bill Isbel. “Shore y’u’ve got—it wrong. I reckon Jean—could have killed—your father.... But he didn’t. Queer, we all thought.”

“Ah! ... Who did kill my father?” burst out Ellen, and her voice rang like great hammers at her ears.

“It was Blue. He went in the store—alone—faced the whole gang alone. Bluffed them—taunted them—told them he was King Fisher.... Then he killed—your dad—an’ Jackson Jorth.... Jean was out—back of the store. We were out—front. There was shootin’. Colmor was hit. Then Blue ran out—bad hurt.... Both of them—died in Meeker’s yard.”

“An’ so Jean Isbel has not killed a Jorth!” said Ellen, in strange, deep voice.

“No,” replied Isbel, earnestly. “I reckon this feud—was hardest on Jean. He never lived heah.... An’ my sister Ann said—he got sweet on y’u.... Now did he?”

Slow, stinging tears filled Ellen’s eyes, and her head sank low and lower.

“Yes—he did,” she murmured, tremulously.

“Ahuh! Wal, thet accounts,” replied Isbel, wonderingly. “Too bad! ... It might have been.... A man always sees—different when—he’s dyin’.... If I had—my life—to live over again! ... My poor kids—deserted in their babyhood—ruined for life! All for nothin’.... May God forgive—”

Then he choked and whispered for water.

Ellen laid his head back and, rising, she took his sombrero and started hurriedly down the slope, making dust fly and rocks roll. Her mind was a seething ferment. Leaping, bounding, sliding down the weathered slope, she gained the bench, to run across that, and so on down into the open canyon to the willow-bordered brook. Here she filled the sombrero with water and started back, forced now to walk slowly and carefully. It was then, with the violence and fury of intense muscular activity denied her, that the tremendous import of Bill Isbel’s revelation burst upon her very flesh and blood and transfiguring the very world of golden light and azure sky and speaking forestland that encompassed her.

Not a drop of the precious water did she spill. Not a misstep did she make. Yet so great was the spell upon her that she was not aware she had climbed the steep slope until the dog yelped his welcome. Then with all the flood of her emotion surging and resurging she knelt to allay the parching thirst of this dying enemy whose words had changed frailty to strength, hate to love, and, the gloomy hell of despair to something unutterable. But she had returned too late. Bill Isbel was dead.