Front matter (continued 3)

He paused and as Hall stared moodily into the fire Meshackatee reached over and picked up a coffee-pot.

"I'll cook you a little grub," he volunteered briskly, and Hall came back from his dreams.

"Of course," went on Meshackatee, having won his attention, "this business don't mean much to you. All you want is your girl and——"

"Yes, but how am I to get her?" demanded McIvor fiercely.

"Well——" began Meshackatee, and then he stopped. "Of course there's always a way."

"How do you mean?" inquired Hall, as he failed to elucidate, but Meshackatee only mumbled in his beard.

"Drink some coffee," he said; "git some grub under your belt. A man is a mouse when he's starved."

He heated up some bread and a kettle of beans and cut a can of fruit, and when Hall had eaten Meshackatee took up the discussion exactly where he had let it drop.

"There's always a way," he nodded impressively, "provided you've got the nerve. Them Texans are ranicky, I'll admit that from the start, and Isham has turned plumb bad. Always thought he was a blow-hard, a big bag of wind, but the scoundrel has turned out a killer. I'm nothing but a gunman, or that's what they call me, and I can't say I'm squeamish a bit. When them sheepmen come in I was in the fore-front of the battle—might have killed one or two of 'em myself. And furthermore, when they hired Paine and them Slash-knife boys to ride in and clean up on the Bassetts—I could stand for that stuff, too. It was rough, but they had a fighting chance. But this downright murdering, like shooting Old Henry and leaving Sharps out for the hogs—well, right there was where I quit. But I didn't quit quick enough—that Isham had gone bad, and he damned nigh got my skelp."

He rumpled his hair thoughtfully and shook his head at the fire. "You never can tell," he said.

"Did he attempt to kill you?" asked McIvor, but Meshackatee shrugged it away.

"Never mind," he grumbled, "that's between him and me. But lemme give you a tip—if you meet up with Isham you go for your gun right now. But you won't meet nobody—that ain't the way they fight; the first thing you meet will be a forty-five explosive bullet—they're fighting from cover entirely. I've been down to Tonto talking with the sheriff of the county and a few other old compadres of mine, and it's the consensus of opinion that Maverick Basin is going to be damned on-healthy. Especially for officers and such. At the same time, as I said, there's always a way——"

"Well, what is that way?" broke in McIvor impatiently. "Are you thinking of going back?"

"I might be," admitted Meshackatee, "but I heard a gun down here yesterday, and I thought mebbe it might be Isham. He's the hombre I'm gunning for, to tell you the truth, and so I've been watching the trail. And in the meantime, while my time was idle on my hands, I've been fixing up some more of these."

He picked up one of the cartridges upon which he had been working and McIvor examined it critically. A hole had been bored into the heart of the lead bullet and a smaller cartridge neatly imbedded.

"One of them explosive bullets," boasted Meshackatee shamelessly; "I claim to have invented 'em, myself. A twenty-two blank, set exactly in the middle of it, and the minute she hits something—zingo! she blows up like a bomb. Maybe you saw how they worked when we were chowsing them sheep? Well, the Scarboroughs are shooting them at men."

"I know that," nodded McIvor, "but you spoke of some plan."

"Oh, sure," replied Meshackatee, "well, what I had in mind was to go back and try these on them."

"And then?"

"Well, take to the brush; out-Injun 'em if we can—I'll admit it's kinder resky."

"I see," murmured Hall, and fell silent again while Meshackatee watched him narrowly.

"Of course," went on Meshackatee, "there's a hell-scad of them Texans——"

"That don't worry me a bit," put in McIvor abruptly. "I've been doing this kind of fighting all my life. But I promised Miss Randolph I'd keep out of this trouble and I aim to make my word good. At the same time, if the Scarboroughs have sent for her brothers——"

"They sure have!" affirmed Meshackatee, "and I'll tell you how I know it. One of them neutrals came out to buy 'em some cartridges and he showed me the letter himself. It was addressed to Cal Randolph, somewhere back in Kentucky——"

"That's all right," interrupted McIvor, "I believe you. It's only a question of whether I can get her away before her brothers arrive. Because of course you must see that I'm sure to lose her if I shoot Cal or Ewing now. I've simply got to disappear the moment they arrive and stay hid until they go home."

"Well, we can fix it to git her," spoke up Meshackatee at length, "or at least we can make a try. But the first thing to do is to bushwack old Isham and put the fear of God in their hearts. They're riding the hills in bands, or so they tell me, out gunning for Winchester and young Bill; and there's a bunch of them Bassett neutrals that'll soon have to move if some one don't tap off Isham. But here's one hombre, I'm telling you, that ain't skeered of them all—if I can jest git one man for a pardner. A man has got to sleep, and that's where they ketch you, unless you happen to have a pardner to keep watch."

"That is true," agreed Hall, "and I'd be more than pleased to join you if it were not for my promise to Allifair. But under the circumstances, Meshackatee——"

"What, do you mean to say," burst out Meshackatee provocatively, "that you're going to let Isham git away with it? Didn't he try to shoot you down the same time he killed Sharps, and leave you lay for the hogs? Didn't he shoot at your girl when she run out to save you and all but kill her too? I was under the impression——"

"Just a moment," broke in Hall, looking him straight in the eye, "I believe in telling the truth. Back in Kentucky, where I come from, a man who would attack a woman would be run out of the country over night—and his own family would do their part—but I have promised my intended not to join in on this feud, unless by so doing I can save her. But before we go any further—why is it, my friend, that you are so keen for this desperate adventure? As I said before, I believe in telling the truth——"

"Well—there then!" exclaimed Meshackatee, throwing back his shirt and revealing a small star underneath, "I'm a deputy sheriff, that's why. The sheriff and all his deputies was afraid to come in here—leastwise they wouldn't none of 'em come—and I told 'em, gimme a badge and ten dollars a day and I'd go in and git him myself. Yes, Isham—he's the man—and I figger on shooting him on sight. When I quit and called for my pay he told me to go to hell or he'd fill me full of lead; and then, by grab, he made his brag before them Texans that he'd helped do this job on my ears. Well, if he did he's the very, identical rascal I'm looking for; and it's him or me, that's all. Now, the cards are on the table and you can join in or pull out—if you stick you're a deputy sheriff."

"I'll stick," flashed back McIvor, and Meshackatee grabbed his hand. "I knowed it!" he said, and laughed.

CHAPTER XVII

INDIAN TACTICS

It was a failing of McIvor's, this instant response to the call of any friend for aid; and yet when Meshackatee laid his plans before him he was glad he had agreed to join him. For Meshackatee above all things was a man of action; and action, with Hall, was a necessity. All the days he had spent prowling in the hills like an animal had been wasted, as he looked back at them now; for Allifair's brothers would come, and come soon, if only to kill a McIvor. They were hard men to deal with, or had proved so to him, and there was many an old score that might be settled even yet if they could pick up his trail again. He had been lost before, given up for dead by his parents and the men of both clans; but this call from their aunt, and their sister's love affair, would bring them from wherever they lurked. And now, unless he was willing to see her snatched away, he must strike a last blow to win Allifair.

"No, I'll tell you," expounded Meshackatee, "they's no use doing anything until we've throwed the hooks into Isham. He's the leader of the gang and as long as he's there you can't git away with that girl. He's got men on the trails, and Injun spies out everywhere, to say nothing of them organized horse-thieves; and whichever way you ride he's going to reach out and git you—unless, of course, you git him. Now here's the proposition, and I'll put it to you straight, jest exactly as it was put up to me. We're deputy sheriffs, see, drawing ten dollars per diem to serve these here warrants on the Scarboroughs; but I've been told unofficially that the county'll be jest as well pleased if they're killed while resisting arrest. The idee is to git 'em to resist. Tonto County, as I understand it, has got jest enough money to pay for deputies, but none for expensive court proceedings. When it comes to a showdown, the Scarborough outfit has got more money than the county—and you know what these lawyers are like. But that ain't our business, we're here to serve these warrants, and I'm going to start in on Isham.

"Now there's a man, Mr. Hall, that I thought I knowed well and I always claimed he was a coward. It jest shows how you sometimes git fooled. When it comes to a showdown that jasper always weakened, but it was jest because he was foxy. He knowed if he drawed the other feller would git him, and so he never drawed. He hired gunmen to do his fighting because gunmen was cheap and he wanted to keep out of jail; but when them Slash-knife boys fell down he seen right there he'd have to do his dirty work himself. That was the time when the dog-hair cropped out on him and I seen, by grab, he was a killer. Not a gun-fighter, mind ye—and they're dangerous enough—but one of these sneaking, calculating kind. He fights like the A-paches, never showing a head and always shooting from ambush; and the only way we'll git him is to go him one better—we've got to out-Injun him, that's all!"

"I'm ready," replied Hall. "Why not start right now?" And Meshackatee took him at his word.

They headed off east up the dim, Indian trail that Meshackatee had followed down to water; and as the stars wheeled in their courses Hall saw their direction change until at last they were going northwest. They had scrambled up a wash and then on up grassy slopes which led to the big ridge behind; and from there they had turned north, following a trail that dipped and twisted as it skirted the east slope of Turkey Creek. They rode and walked by turns, driving the pack-animal before them; and as the east began to flush they took to high ground and camped through the long, sultry day.

The summer heat was at its height, the close, oppressive heat that presages torrential rains to come; and from the top of their butte they could see the white thunderheads, riding majestically up above the Rim. Below them lay the canyon with Turkey Creek at its bottom and, still further northwest, the broad swales of Maverick Basin showed dimly through a pass in the hills. Hall looked it all over through Meshackatee's big glasses, when it came his turn to stand guard; and then he looked back along the trail which they had followed, trying to fix every landmark in his mind. For if all went well the time would soon come when he would be fleeing through the night with Allifair; and every butte and ridge, every turn in that dim trail, must be stamped indelibly on his memory. He traced it out again, noting each landmark through his glasses, and then suddenly he picked up an Indian. He had stepped out from some scrub-oaks and was examining their tracks, where they had passed through a sandy swale, and as he disappeared into the brush Hall ran and wakened Meshackatee, but the Apache did not show himself again.

"He's down in some gulch," observed Meshackatee sagely, "probably legging it to take the news to Isham. Two white men, one on foot; and two horses, one drove ahead; and a dog—well, that will be Meshackatee. And the man on foot—the chances are good that Isham will guess it's you. Well, watch along Turkey Creek and if you see any one crossing, wake me up and we'll make a quick move."

Hall watched and as the day wore on towards evening he saw what Meshackatee had feared. Six horsemen in single file came trotting down the creek, half-hidden behind the tall brush; but when Meshackatee came the enemy had vanished again and the trails were bare—too bare.

"We'll move," stated Meshackatee, "as soon as it's dark; and if you're game, I am—we'll ride across country and try to come out at the Rock House. Might as well head for the place we're going to, even if I don't know the way none too well."

"All right," agreed Hall, "and if we find cover in time I'll slip down and spy on the house."

"Bad business," grumbled Meshackatee, "don't like this a little bit. Them cowboys are out for our hair."

They remained at the lookout until it was dark and then, packing swiftly, struck out to the west, following cow-trails clear to the creek. There they watered their horses and started up the other side; but the canyon which they ascended boxed up near the summit and they had to return to the creek. Meshackatee's plans had gone awry, putting him in a very bad humor; but after thinking it over he moved up a side canyon and took shelter on a bench above the stream.

Here they tied out their horses in a narrow cove which was surrounded on three sides by wooded slopes; and then, with his dog sleeping against his back, Meshackatee sprawled out and went to sleep. But the failure of their plans had left McIvor uneasy—he did not approve of this camp above the trail; and as morning approached he rose up silently and felt his way down to the stream. This was the hour that he dreaded, just before the break of day, and he crept along the ground regardless of the dew which weighed down the heavy grass.

There had been noises in the night and 'Pache had growled repeatedly, some wild cattle had jumped suddenly and fled; and as he drew near the water he noticed that the grass had been trampled on the opposite side of the stream. He slipped down closer, hardly stirring a twig as he moved, and the first flush of dawn showed men's tracks in the sand—and the dew had been knocked from the grass! He lay silent, his heart thumping; there was a stir across the creek, a stir and the hunch of a head. That was enough—he glided away like a rattlesnake, and Meshackatee woke up with a jump. They were surrounded—he knew that from the look in Hall's eyes—and, catching up his gun from the fold of his blanket, he rolled over behind a big rock.

"Where are they at?" he whispered, and when Hall told him he grunted and began to pile up rocks. Hall dug in also, making a loop-hole through which to shoot and laying out his cartridges in rows; and 'Pache, sensing the enemy, crouched down anxiously between them, growling low and sniffing the wind. A deathlike silence fell upon the narrow canyon as they settled back to wait for the attack; but not a bush stirred—the Scarboroughs were still hoping they would saddle up and ride down the hill. Ride up to their very guns and then with one volley they could snuff out their lives together. But their ambush had been detected and now Meshackatee and Hall were searching the brushy hillside for a target.

"No use," complained Meshackatee, "they must've heard us digging. Let's start something, before they scatter out."

He took off his old hat and stuck it on a stick and as it bobbed above the boulder an explosive bullet struck it, spattering the ground about them with lead. 'Pache yelped as it struck him and cringed down beside Meshackatee who was cursing at the hole in his hat; and then Hall saw a movement below the smoke puff and answered with a shot that drew a volley. The whole hillside seemed to belch forth smoke, but the bullets for the most part went high; the Scarboroughs were below them, hidden away among the boulders which had fallen from the rimrock above.

"They can't reach us," chuckled Meshackatee, snuggling up to his loop-hole and shooting back at the smoke; but a crash from behind brought them both to a right-about and raised a cheer from below. The explosive bullets had stampeded their pack-horse and they were just in time to see him go smashing through the brush and fall into the creek-bed below.

"Makes no difference," grumbled Meshackatee, "don't need him now, nohow—be lucky to git out of here afoot."

Hall made no comment but down in his heart he agreed with Meshackatee fully—they would be lucky to get out alive. Behind them the steep slopes were sparsely covered with timber, but not enough to protect them in their flight; and the sound of the firing would bring the whole Scarborough clan to make their position worse. It was a dangerous place to be, and yet not more dangerous than others where he had been compelled to make a stand. And he had often observed that, where both sides were shooting from cover, it was seldom that any one was hurt. Only one thing was necessary—they must maintain their position until darkness should cover up their flight. He peeped out through his loop-hole, shooting warily at stray smoke-puffs, and they settled themselves for the siege.

But the men that they were fighting were not satisfied to wait, they had other strings to their bow; and as Hall and Meshackatee lay behind their rock shelter a bullet struck between them.

"Judas Priest!" exclaimed Meshackatee, as his dog ran off yelping; and then, seeing the smoke from a point across the creek he hastily changed his front. Hall piled up rocks before them, but Meshackatee lay watching, and when the next bullet came he shot.

"Behind that big boulder," he said. "You watch me smoke him out of that."

"Haven't got time," answered Hall, but Meshackatee did not smile—he was slipping an explosive cartridge into his gun. He thrust out his rifle and lay sighting along the barrel and at a puff from the boulder he fired. Another bullet struck their rock-pile, and dangerously near; but the man behind the boulder leapt up as if he were shot and Hall saw that it was an Indian. He darted off along the hillside with Meshackatee still shooting at him, and at the second shot he fell. But even when he was down Meshackatee shot him again and the Indian lay a huddle in the sun.

"I'll show you!" muttered Meshackatee, "you doggoned rat-eater. You're the hombre that's been raising all this hell. Well, see how you like that, and mebbe the rest of them A-paches will learn to lay off of Meshackatee."

He turned to Hall and nodded triumphantly.

"What'd I tell ye?" he said. "Did you see me smoke him out? Busted a big explosive bullet on that rock jest behind him and burned him up with hot lead. But I knowed, by grab, no Teehanno could bushwack me—they've gone and hired A-paches."

"There's another one!" exclaimed Hall, as another plunging shot came over the top of their fort; and Meshackatee grabbed for his cartridges.

"Better git out of here," he said, and was turning to scuttle away when a rifle opened up down the creek. It was shooting fast and almost rhythmically, and another lighter gun joined in; then there was a tattoo of answering shots, trailing off into silence as the fighters emptied their magazines.

"What's that?" asked Hall, and Meshackatee shook his head—he was watching the rocky hill. Something moved among the boulders, his rifle roared out again; and as a tall Texan broke to run they both opened fire. He dropped his gun and ran on.

"They're all going!" exclaimed Hall, turning to shoot into the creek-bed; and now there was no answer as with harrying shots they followed the flight of the bush-whackers. Whoever they were they were fleeing in a panic—the battle had been won, but by whom?

CHAPTER XVIII

"I CLAIM RED"

They waited, these two men who had dared invade the Scarborough stronghold and, daring, had almost paid the price, and Meshackatee raised a hail.

"Wa-a—hooo!" he called, and as his big voice woke the echoes there was an answering yell from below. A man, invisible as a spotted fawn when it walks in the shadow of leaves, came rustling up the canyon, and at last he spoke from the hill.

"Wahoo yourself!" he challenged, "who the hell are you fellers, anyway?"

"I'm Meshackatee," returned that gentleman, "and here's Mr. Hall——"

"Oh, Hall, eh?" spoke up the voice. "This is Winchester Bassett. Come down, boys, and I'll stake you to a horse."

They crept down through the shadows and met him at the creek, still smiling but without his jaunty air. A thick growth of black beard made his face look deathly pale, his clothes were hanging in shreds, and as he wrung Hall's hand he had a wild look in his eyes though he tried to conceal it with a smile.

"Well, well, Hall," he said, "I'm sure glad to see you. And you, too, Meshackatee—how are you? But say, we'd better go, because the Scarboroughs will be back and we don't want to git caught in this brush. Heard you shooting down here, and Bill and me took a chance—we winged two of 'em and captured all their horses."

"I knowed it!" exclaimed Meshackatee, "I almost knowed that that was you. They ain't many men, I'll say, that can work a Winchester that fast——"

"I was named after it," grinned Winchester. "How're you fixed for ammunition?"

"Whole pack-load!" answered Meshackatee. "Thought you boys might be short. Come on, let's go bring it down."

They caught their frightened horses and threw on the packs while Winchester turned back to join Bill; but when they arrived they found the Bassetts in a rock-pile, for much bush-whacking had got on their nerves.

"Help yourselves, boys," invited Winchester, waving his hand at the Scarborough horses which were tied among the willows by the creek, "and for cripes' sake, make it brief."

They mounted helter-skelter, driving the spare horses before them as they dashed across the creek and away; but when they had put a mile between themselves and the treacherous hillside Winchester held up his hand for a halt.

"No rush now, fellers," he said, "we'll jest see what happens. And by the way, what's the chances for a smoke?"

"Good!" beamed Meshackatee, "got lots of to-baccy—I knowed you boys would be short."

"Oh, you did, eh?" observed Winchester, after rolling a quick smoke, and he cocked his head at Bill.

"Yep, brought lo-ots of tobaccy," repeated Meshackatee hospitably, as he began to unlash his pack. "I'll git you them cartridges now."

"Damned good of you," murmured Winchester, "but what's the big idee? I ain't curious, I jest want to know."

"Oh, didn't I tell ye?" grinned Meshackatee, "me and Hall are deputy sheriffs!"

"The—hell!" scoffed Winchester, and Bill stopped smoking long enough to feel for his gun.

"That's the fact," returned Meshackatee, "got warrants for the Scarboroughs. Want you and Bill to help serve 'em."

There was a silence then as Winchester tugged at his mustache and considered the possibilities of the case.

"Well, I'll tell you, Meshackatee," he said at last, "of course it's all right but, after what's happened, Bill and I don't want 'em arrested. We want to see 'em killed."

"No more'n natural," conceded Meshackatee, "but you understand there's such a thing as the law. I can't shut my eyes to no such violations, but—well, my orders, boys, is dead or alive. I reckon you understand."

"Uhr, that's different," replied 'Winchester, as Meshackatee winked at him; but Bill was still in the dark.

"Yes—law!" he burst out, "a man get lots of protection from you deputy sheriffs and such. Here them Scarboroughs have been chasing us like a couple of wild animals for well-nigh onto a month——"

"Never mind, Bill," smiled Winchester, "don't you git the idee? We serve these here warrants with a six-shooter."

"The Scarboroughs," put in Meshackatee, "is charged with first degree murder, for killing your father and Sharps."

"Oh," nodded Bill, and sat in gloomy silence. "Well, gimme a star, then," he said.

They rode on along the ridge, keeping well up above Turkey Creek and watching for the Scarboroughs below; and, as no horsemen appeared, they finally skirted the whole valley and came out in the hills above the Basin. The ground here was open, with waving slopes of grass and timber along the summits; and they made a camp among the oak trees, while they staked out their horses and swept the plain with their field-glasses. They had a pair apiece now, for the men who had ambushed them had left all their glasses on their saddles; and as Meshackatee surveyed the spoils he chuckled in his beard, for the day had not promised so well.

"Pretty slick, boys," he said, "two horses apiece now, and these field-glasses are sure good for weak eyes. I feel it in my bones I'll soon have a big posse—say, ain't that one of the Scarboroughs by the house?"

"It's Red," responded Hall, "he's riding my horse. I'd know that little roan anywhere."

"Remember that time when he tried to trade you out of him? Well, that's Red—he's crazy about horses."

"Yes, and I'm crazy, too," said Hall, still watching him through his glasses. "I'll bet you I get that horse back."

"How?" demanded Meshackatee, but Hall shrugged his shoulders.

"How does anybody get back a horse?" he asked.

"By cracky!" burst out Meshackatee, "that gives me an idee! Do you mean you're going to steal 'im? Well, we'll pull a little Injun stuff, jest to pay 'em for this morning, and I bet you we come pretty nigh gitting Red!"

"Well, count me in on that," put in Winchester quietly. "It was Red that shot the old man."

"I know this is good," said Meshackatee, "because I saw it pulled off once myself. The A-paches danged near worked it on me. Instead of stealing that horse, jest slip up and pull his picket-pin; and like any horse he'll make for the hills. It ain't nature for a horse to stay out on them flats—they always like to git up on high ground. Well, let 'im ramble till daylight and then see where he's gone to—and be there when Red comes up."

"Let me do it!" clamored Bill, but Winchester brushed him aside.

"I'm the oldest," he said. "I claim Red."

"I'll release that horse myself," stated Hall. "If Red follows it, that's nothing to me."

"Winchester's surest," decided Meshackatee. "But whoever takes this job has got to do it my way."

"All right," agreed Winchester, his eyes suddenly a-gleam. "Go ahead—what you want me to do?"

"I want you to rise up," said Meshackatee solemnly, "and say: 'Surrender, in the name of the law!'"

"He'll take that to hell with 'im," predicted Winchester grimly. "I wish I could say it for Isham."

"That's my job," replied Meshackatee. "I claim Isham."

"You can have him," conceded Winchester, "if I don't git him first. But what's your grievance against Isham?"

"Never mind," returned Meshackatee, "but I'm telling you right now—I claim Isham Scarborough myself. That's what brought me back to these parts."

"Well, we won't quarrel," smiled Winchester, and, going off by himself, he began to pace up and down. "Come on," he said at last, "they're watching us through their glasses. Let's saddle up and start off north. We can come back after it's dark."

"Good idee," agreed Meshackatee, "but ain't they a cowardly bunch of gun-toters—afraid to come out and fight the four of us!"

"That ain't the way they work it," said Winchester. "We'll give 'em a dose of their own medicine. But honest, boys, I can't hardly wait to git my gun on Red Scarborough."

They rode off slowly, keeping a scout before and behind to protect them from possible surprise; and when it was dark they made their way across Turkey Creek, taking shelter in the hills behind the store. From their hiding place on the heights they could see the lights down at the Rock House, and lanterns bobbing to and fro; and shortly after midnight, armed only with his pistols, Hall McIvor set off on his quest. He walked warily from the first, for the ambush of that morning had taught him to fear the Apaches; but if they were skulking near he passed by them unobserved and crept close to the silent Rock House.

For an hour he lay watching it, half-tempted to climb the Indian mound and steal a secret interview with Allifair; but the hounds were restless and noisy and the time had not come for him to jeopardize her safety again. The Scarboroughs ruled the Basin with the power of feudal barons, their retainers were on every trail; and until their pride was broken, until they, too, had learned to fear, it was useless to oppose their will. He crept closer through the damp grass to where his high-headed roan, Blue, was nervously circling his stake, and when it recognized him he worked its picket-pin loose and watched it as it walked away. At first it started south, heading back towards its home; but as the hounds rushed out barking it turned and circled west, still dragging the rope and pin.

At the first peep of dawn they located Blue with their glasses, standing stiffly at the foot of a hill; but as the sun rose and touched him Blue woke from his trance-like sleep and moved up towards a point. There following his horse nature he intended to stand, basking in the sun until the chill was out of his limbs; after which he would fall to feeding, enjoying his freedom to the full before his new master should trail him from the plain. But already there was a man not a hundred yards away waiting patiently with his rifle in his hands; and as Blue raised his head and looked back towards the Rock House, Winchester saw a lone man riding out. It was Red, riding bareback on a horse he had picked up, following rapidly along the broad trail; and as he spied his missing mount he cut straight across the valley, coming up the grassy swale on the lope. Winchester crouched behind a bush and breathed on his hands—his hour of vengeance had come.

Red rode up towards his horse, unconscious of any danger until a man rose just below him, a man with a rifle in his hands.

"Surrender," he said, "in the name of the law!" But Red sat staring, open-mouthed. Then he whirled his horse and Winchester shot him twice, leaving him dead where he pitched to the ground.

"Here's your horse," he said, as he rode back to camp, and Hall took the trembling Blue in silence.

"Good enough!" pronounced Meshackatee, and they started off north, for the Scarboroughs were beginning to swarm.

CHAPTER XIX

APACHES

There cannot be a war without violence and bloodshed, nor can all the losses be on one side. No matter which side is right, or which has the strongest battalions, Death holds a level hand. The Scarboroughs had killed Sharps and old Henry Bassett; but now the scales had turned and Red, their finest rifle-shot, had been shot down by Winchester Bassett. A posse of four men had ridden into their stronghold and offered to give them battle; and then, when they had refused and held fast to Indian tactics, Death had risen up and snatched away Red. Yet even with the body of their brother before them the Scarboroughs declined to fight.

No swarm of vengeful Texans came spurring on their trail as Meshackatee led the way north, riding boldly up the trail which led like a highway towards the Rim; and at the divide above Canyon Creek they stopped. Here, though they were hidden in the pines, they could watch the trail both ways; and it was time to cook coffee and rest. And if, as might happen, any Scarborough men passed by, they could give them tit for tat. For a month and more the Scarboroughs in their arrogance had held up every wayfarer on this trail, and if a man did not belong to their secret organization he was destined to proceed on foot. All this the Bassetts knew, for the men who had given them shelter were the ones who had suffered the most; and when, late in the afternoon, they spied a horse-herd coming south they fairly romped to cover.

The horses, which were jaded from their long drive over the rocks, came toiling up the zig-zag trail, and the posse let them pass; but as the two Texans who were driving them came up with the drag they sensed mischief and dashed back down the hill. Lead slugs and explosive bullets struck the ground up all about them, and as they forded the creek the Bassetts took after them while the others rounded up the horses.

"Them's Mormon horses," declared Meshackatee, after they had stopped them on a flat, "I know about half of them brands. We'll jest hold 'em a while and see who shows up—may git some of these Texicans yet."

They went back to their lookout, leaving the horses to graze; and almost immediately Bill and Winchester appeared, riding low and spurring like mad.

"Injuns!" they yelled, as they scrambled up the point and dropped down behind their rocks. "Apaches, as sure as hell!"

"Where at?" demanded Meshackatee. "Them A-paches ain't on the war-path, and hain't been since the 'Pache Kid."

"Well, all right," panted Bill, "but I'll bet ye we seen twenty. And when we run across 'em they chased us."

"There they are!" said Winchester, pointing to a string of half-naked horsemen, "and if them ain't Apaches, I'm a liar."

"Leave 'em to me!" swaggered Meshackatee, "because that's where I shine. We'll try 'em with a little sign-talk."

He stepped out on the point where he could be seen plainly from below and raised his right hand in the peace sign.

"Wahoo!" he bellowed, "Wahoo Meshackatee!" But the Indians only circled and stared at him. They were savage looking creatures, with their long black hair bound back out of their eyes with red handkerchiefs; but after a second look Meshackatee ripped out an oath and came striding back to the posse.

"Aw, hell!" he exclaimed, "them ain't no Injuns. It's nothing but a passel of white men."

"How do you know?" demanded Bill. "Jest because they don't savvy your sign-language——"

"Aw, cripes; I know an Injun!" burst out Meshackatee indignantly. "I can tell 'em by the way they set a horse. We'll try 'em with a little U.S.A."

He stepped out on the point and hailed them again, and a man rode out from the rest. He was mounted on a mule and the minute he saw him McIvor knew it was Grimes. It was not the mule alone, it was the thrust of his head and the handy way he carried his rifle.

"Hello there!" shouted Hall, stepping out on a rock, and Grimes stopped his mule and looked up.

"Don't know you!" he announced, "but dam' your black hearts, we've come to git back our horses!"

"That's Grimes—the sheepman," explained Hall over his shoulder, and Meshackatee stepped down behind a rock.

"You talk to him," he grumbled. "I got no use for a sheepman." And Winchester and Bill nodded assent.

"Yes, sure it's Grimes!" yelled the pseudo Indian, "but who in damnation are you?"

"My name is Hall," answered McIvor shortly. "I met you down at the Bassetts'!"

"Oh, that preacher guy!" observed the sheepman sarcastically. "Well, what are you doing up here?"

"I'm a deputy sheriff," retorted McIvor. "What does your business happen to be?"

"A de-puty sheriff!" whooped Grimes. "Hey, boys; here's a deputy sheriff!"

He laughed and the gang of make-believe Apaches came riding up to join him.

"Seems to amuse them," remarked Hall, and Meshackatee muttered an oath while the Bassetts looked on in grim silence.

"Bunch of Mormons," growled Winchester, "rigged out with horsetails and handkerchiefs—kinder reminds me of the Mountain Meadow massacre."

"All the same," spoke up Meshackatee, "we might use the danged jaspers. Git 'em to go down and clean up on the Scarboroughs!"

"Why not?" chimed in Hall. "This is no time for petty differences. Shall I tell them we'll give back their horses?"

"Sure," replied Meshackatee, "but they've got to prove ownership. Otherwise they'll claim the whole band. Go down and see what you can do."

Hall swung up on his horse and rode down the trail, and as he came up to the Mormons they reined to one side, leaving Grimes to do the talking.

"How'd do, Mr. Hall," he began, "do you know anything about our horses? So you're a deputy sheriff, hey?"

"Yes, I'm a deputy sheriff," answered McIvor evenly, "and I can't see that it's in any way a joke. There are three more officers up there in the rocks, and I'd advise you to show a little more respect."

"Oh, certainly!" mocked Grimes, "you're jest the hombres we're looking for. A big gang of horse-thieves has been raiding our ranches and driving off our stock for a month. Not gitting any protection we have organized to run 'em down and hang every scoundrel we can ketch; but now, of course, all we have to do is to report our losses to you!"

"Yes, that's right," said Hall, "just give me a list of the animals, so there won't be any mistake."

"Any mistake!" repeated Grimes. "Well, by grab, it seems to me you look more like a horse-thief than we do. How's the Scarborough boys gitting along these days? But I believe you was staying with the Bassetts?"

"Yes, I was staying with the Bassetts," replied Hall. "Anything more you'd like to know?"

"I asked you," sneered Grimes, who seemed determined to pick a quarrel, "how your friends, the Scarboroughs, are gitting along."

"Why, not so well," returned McIvor. "Red was killed only this morning. It was a case of resisting arrest."

"Killed!" cried Grimes, and then he spurred forward and held out a hairy hand. "By hooky," he exclaimed, "I sure apologize, Mr. Hall, for any little thing I may have said. I'm sure glad to meet you, and my friends and neighbors here will be proud to shake your hand."

He introduced the Mormon ranchmen, most of whom had laid off their disguise, and then returned to the matter at hand.

"Are you in charge of this posse?" he asked. "Because we'd like to find out about them horses." "No, I'm not," replied Hall, "Meshackatee is in command, and the other two deputies are the Bassetts. You remember them—Winchester and Bill."

"You don't say!" exclaimed Grimes, leaning over in his saddle. "Is that the way the ground lays? Because if that's the case I can git you a bunch of deputies that will serve without money and without price. All we ask is a whack at the Scarboroughs."

"We can talk that over later." responded Hall, "but I'm sure we'd be glad to have you. Now about those horses—we just held up a big band that a couple of young Texans were driving——"

"Good!" chorused the Mormons, suddenly starting up the trail, but McIvor motioned them back.

"And my orders," he went on, "were that each man should describe his animals in order to avoid mistakes."

"Give 'im his way, boys; give 'im his way!" spoke up Grimes with assumed heartiness. "He's an officer of the law after all. And right now, Mr. Hall, I want to offer my services to arrest the last Scarborough for horse-stealing."

Hall nodded obliviously, for all the Mormons in unison were calling off a list of their horses, and after they had written the brands and colors on chance papers he led the way to the herd. Meshackatee and the Bassetts rode along to deliver the animals but when the lists had been filled there was a general clamor for other horses, which the ranchers claimed as their own. At first Meshackatee resisted them, demanding receipts for the animals; but as they became more insistent he threw up his hands and told them to take the whole herd.

"And git to hell out of here," he added under his breath—which the Mormons proceeded to do.

It was late in the evening but, rushing the herd before them, they started back up the trail at a gallop. Only Grimes, the sheepman, stayed, and he stemmed every rebuff until Meshackatee made him a deputy.

CHAPTER XX

UP HORSE-THIEF CANYON

A common cause will bring strange people together, but a common hatred will make them like brothers. The Bassetts suspected Grimes of fishing for sheep-rights, and he knew they had run out on him in his fight; and a month before Meshackatee had been a gunman, engaged in fighting all three of them; but a common desire to get revenge on the Scarboroughs made them partners, if not exactly friends. And McIvor, who would have quit all four of them in a minute if there was any other way of winning Allifair, plunged heart and soul into the council of war which was to plan the downfall of Isham. For it was Isham after all who was the head and front of the Scarboroughs, and he had a genius for making men hate him.

"I'm for riding up to his house," declared Grimes, swaying truculently, "and shooting it out, right there. We could slip up on 'em after dark."

"Nope, that house is a fort," vetoed Meshackatee instantly; "he could pot the whole bunch of us through them loop-holes. And that passel of hounds would raise such a hooraw you couldn't git nigh the place."

"And besides," interposed McIvor, "there are the women folks to think of——"

"They didn't think of ours!" broke in Bill resentfully. "And for all we know, Maw's dead. They went up to the store and told Johnson they'd kill him if he sold the old lady anything."

"Well, let's begin right there," suggested McIvor pacifically. "Let's go down to that store and hold up the store-keeper and take Mrs. Bassett some supplies. I'm ready to start right now."

"Nope, not to-night," objected Meshackatee cannily, "they're liable to be out somewhere looking for us."

"Well, I'll tell you," suggested Winchester, "let's go after them two horse-thieves that Bill and I were chasing. They headed right up that side canyon."

"That's the talk!" agreed Grimes, springing eagerly to his feet. "Them's the boys we want to git. D'ye think you can follow their trail?"

"They's a cabin up there," explained Winchester, "kind of a hold-out for horse-thieves, I reckon. The chances are good they'll come back to it."

"Well, let's wait till before daylight," suggested the practical Meshackatee, "and ketch 'em jest at dawn."

"It's a dirty damned way of fighting," grumbled Winchester morosely, "but I'm game—they pulled it on me."

So they slept until the morning star, glowing round like a ball, gave warning that daylight was near; and then, with Winchester ahead, they forded the roaring creek and followed a beaten trail up the canyon. No one or two horses had trampled that broad path—a band had been over it, and more than one band, and they could see the Texans' tracks leading on. At dawn they sighted a house, a small, chunky cabin built from the biggest logs that could be moved; and chock against it was a corral where two jaded ponies stood drooping inside the bars. It stood in a little opening, tucked up under the north hill, and they withdrew to lay their plans.

"We'll surround it," directed Meshackatee, "two men on each side and one here to guard the horses; and the first man that comes out you can all pull down on him—and if he don't halt when I order you can shoot. But if he gits inside that cabin it'll be a long siege at best, because she's mighty nigh bullet-proof."

They separated then, Grimes and Winchester going up one ridge and Meshackatee and Hall up the other; and as the sun began to shine on the bald slopes to the west they settled down to watch the house. It had been built all too evidently for purposes of defense, though no loop-holes appeared in the walls; but no windows appeared either and the door was of heavy oak slabs. The Texans were safe as long as they remained inside of it, and they seemed in no hurry to come out. A shrewd suspicion was beginning to form in Hall's mind that in some way their presence had been discovered, but they waited patiently until the sun was an hour high and then a tall cowboy stumbled out. He was a typical Texan, all boots and high hat, and he headed for the woodpile without so much as a glance at the sinister hillsides above him.

"Put 'em up!" bellowed Meshackatee as the Texan reached for the ax, but instead the man started to run. He did not even look up, simply bolted for the doorway like a rabbit caught away from his hole. But the posse had been watching, and as he started for the door their rifles all spoke at once. The pile of chips at his feet seemed to leap into the air as the bullets struck all around him, but he escaped by some miracle and slammed the door behind him, at which Meshackatee ripped out a great oath.

"Come out of that cabin!" he roared from his hiding-place, "come out, or we'll blow you to hell!"

But the men inside the cabin were punching loop-holes through the chinks and Meshackatee opened fire. The work on the loop-holes was given over precipitately, for the heavy bullets bored their way through the chinks, and when a couple of explosive bullets almost blew down the door the Texans were ready for a parley.

"Who air you fellers, anyway?" they shouted through the doorway. "We're all right—we ain't done nothin'!"

"We're a posse of deputy sheriffs and you're wanted for horse-stealing. Come out!" thundered Meshackatee, "or we'll kill ye!"

"You'll kill us anyway!" answered one of the men, and they went to work on their loop-holes.

"I'll fix 'em," announced Meshackatee, and, slipping in another explosive bullet, he fired it through the hole in the door. There was a smash inside and a loud yell of protest and then, very reluctantly, the shattered door was thrown open and the Texans stepped out with hands up.

"Come up here!" ordered Meshackatee, over the top of a rock. "Is there anybody else in there?"

"Nope, the other boys are gone," answered the trembling prisoners, who were both barely out of their teens, and Hall quickly searched them for concealed guns.

"All right," he said, "you can put down your hands. Come on, we'll go back to camp."

They returned to the horses, where Bill had a fire going and a pot of coffee on the coals, and Grimes and Winchester joined them.

"You sure ruined that cabin," observed Winchester to Meshackatee, but Grimes strode over to the prisoners.

"Oho!" he said, "so you're the young bucks that have been raising all this deviltry. Well, we'll just make you an example for the rest of 'em to look at when they come over to steal our stock."

He made the grewsome motions of tightening a loop about his neck and the Texans turned deathly pale.

"I thought you were deputies," said one of them at length, but no one responded directly. With two prisoners on their hands they would be handicapped at every turn, and the question before them was whether to let Grimes hang them or allow them to go scot free.

"Well, what you got to say for yourselves?" asked Meshackatee at length, after they had eaten a scanty breakfast. "Where'd you git that band of horses you had yesterday?"

The younger of the boys was by now too scared to talk, but the older one spoke up boldly.

"We were coming in from Holbrook," he said, "and some men that we met said they'd give us ten dollars to drive these broncs down into the Basin."

"Come from Texas?" inquired Meshackatee. "Well, couldn't you see by them brands that half those horses was stolen? I know you could now, son; so don't make us hang you for a liar."

"You're a liar yourself!" flashed back the boy indignantly. "Didn't you claim you was a deputy sheriff!"

"Take the witness," shrugged Meshackatee, rolling his eyes at Winchester. "He's too danged smart for me."

"Lookee here, kid," began Winchester with a placating smile, "you'd better come through with the truth. Who're you working for—Isham Scarborough?"

"Don't know him," denied the boy. "We were jest rambling through the country when we met up with them fellers with the horses. Say, are you deputy sheriffs? Well then, you don't dare to hang me! Don't I git a trial, or nothing?"

"You're gitting a trial, right now," returned Winchester. "And if you git too gay we'll jest take off these tin stars and show you whether or not we can hang you. You're a tough little devil, I can see that with one eye; but—oh, hell, let the little whelp go!"

He laughed shortly and turned away, pretending to adjust his pistol, and McIvor nodded at Meshackatee.

"We're not fighting boys," he said, but Grimes took the opposite view.

"Now, gentlemen," he objected, rising up from where he sat, "I think you're wrong—dead wrong. These boys may be young but they knew what they were doing; and this stealing has got to stop, that's all! I'll jest take off this star, so they won't be no complications, and—you can turn them over to me."

"No, don't you do it, Mister!" cried the boy in a panic, running to cling to Meshackatee's knees, "I—I'll never steal another horse again. And this other boy, he's only a kid—we ran away from home together."

"Oh, I see," mumbled Meshackatee, and glanced questioningly at Grimes who stood with his lips grimly pursed.

"Well?" he demanded, but Meshackatee shook his head.

"Nope," he said, "they's too small, Mr. Grimes. And I ran away from home myself."

"Then I resign," snarled Grimes, beginning to unpin his star and Meshackatee held out his hand.

"Gimme the star, then," he replied, "you're too rough-shod for us. We didn't come out here to hang any kids—we came to git Isham Scarborough."

Grimes paused and rolled his evil eyes on the boys, then snapped his badge back in place.

"I'll stick," he said. "You're chicken-hearted, but I'll stick. But if these kids turn up later with a gang of their confederates, don't say I didn't warn ye!"

"Very well, Mr. Grimes," returned Meshackatee politely, "and being as you're so brave we'll jest head back for the Basin and put you up against some grown men."

CHAPTER XXI

THE RANDOLPHS

If it was madness for Meshackatee and his posse of four to ride back into the stronghold of the Scarboroughs, there was a method in their madness. The Scarboroughs would be swarming like a nest of red ants on account of the killing of Red, they would be scouring the country and watching every trail; but, even so, a man must eat. Maverick Basin was the hold-out of a gang of men so desperate that they set all law at defiance, shooting down whoever opposed them; but it had a store, full of flour and bacon, and Meshackatee's packs were flat. First he had shared his food with Hall, and then with the Bassetts, and finally with Grimes and the boy horse-thieves; and when they turned back there was nothing in the kyacks but coffee and cartridges and tobacco.

They took to the high ground, led by Winchester Bassett who had ranged the whole country with his hounds, and at evening they emerged on a wooded hill-top and looked out the Basin with their glasses. The sun had hardly set when they rode out from cover and headed straight for the darkened store. The storekeeper was a careful, not to say a stingy, man; and he had his reasons also for preferring to sit in the dark, since bright windows have often drawn bullets. He was hiding when they rode up but, finding his store surrounded, he lit up and opened the door.

"Oh, good evening," he cringed as Meshackatee loomed up before him. "Well, well, howdy do, Meshackatee!"

"I want some grub," returned Meshackatee, "and I want it quick, without any high signs to the Scarboroughs. So jest git out your pencil and keep tally on what we take—you'll be paid by Tonto County."

"But the county is practically bankrupt," protested Johnson in an ague.

"So'm I," replied Meshackatee, "and I'm hungry to boot. So use your own judgment, Mr. Johnson."

He stepped into the store-room and began to hand out the sacks of flour, and after a glaring silence Mr. Johnson saw the point and began sullenly to check up the requisition. For a requisition it was, such as armies are wont to make, and deputy sheriffs in pursuit of criminals; and soon bacon and coffee and beans came out to fill the sacks which they were slinging on the saddles of their spare mounts.

"Now, what's the news, Mr. Johnson?" spoke up Meshackatee abruptly. "Who's over at the Scarborough place now?"

"Why—er—Elmo," began the store-keeper, "and Miz Zoolah, of course——"

"Where's Isham?" demanded Meshackatee, and the others stopped to listen, but Johnson only shook his head.

"He's gone," he said, and Meshackatee drew his big six-shooter and laid it down impressively in the lamp-light.

"Gone where?" he asked, but not even the gun could make the frightened store-keeper tell.

"I don't know, boy, I swear it," he answered as they faced him, "but they say he's over in New Mexico. Been gone for a week, and now that Red is dead, young Elmo has taken things in charge."

"How many men has he got?" inquired Grimes, moving closer, and the store-keeper backed away instinctively.

"Oh, a great many!" he exclaimed. "Sometimes as much as forty. They're coming in all the time. This evening there were two all the way from Kentucky——"

"What were their names?" broke in Hall, and the store-keeper winced.

"Why—er—Randolph," he said, "and, now that you speak of it, I believe they were inquiring for you."

"Very likely," replied Hall, and slipped quietly outside, where he could think what this meant to him. And so Allifair's brothers had come! The feud of Tug Fork had been transplanted to Maverick Basin—the Randolphs had come to kill him. He stood in the shadows, looking out across the plain to where the lights of the Rock House still glowed. It was too late now; he had lost. Cal and Ewing were there, and as soon as they learned the country they would take up his trail like bloodhounds. They would follow him like a deer and like a deer he must flee, for Allifair loved her brothers. Bloody-handed as they were, and rough and brutal, she loved Cal and Ewing for what they might have been if the feud had not warped their whole lives. They were man-killers now, thin-lipped and cruel-eyed, and yet he dared not oppose them. Once more he must play the coward.

While the others lingered on, indulging in a few drinks and cross-questioning the reluctant Mr. Johnson, he sorted out a pack-load of the most substantial food and lashed it on his spare horse. He was mounting to go when Winchester Bassett stepped out, followed by Bill, carrying a big sack of food.

"W'y hello," exclaimed Winchester, "are you going to leave us? We're going up north and lay for Isham."

"Yes, I've got to go," said Hall, "but don't tell the store-keeper. The Randolphs have come out here to kill me."

"I had an idee they had," admitted Winchester. "Well, sorry to see you go. But say, wait a minute and you can start off with me and Bill—that storekeeper is a Scarborough spy."

Hall waited, still in the shadows, for the light from the store door might reveal his presence to his enemies; and as he watched the Rock House he saw a lantern leave the house and go bobbing out to the barn. There was a hair-trigger atmosphere about the whole raid which set his jangled nerves on edge; for he knew that the Scarboroughs kept close watch over the store, even dictating who should come there for supplies. They would be riding over soon to see who had been there, if they were not already skulking near; and the news of his presence would be the signal for the Randolphs to take up the trail again. For years, back in Kentucky, they had dogged his tracks, trying to catch him for a moment off his guard; and he, throwing great circles, had often swung in behind them, so that they in turn were pursued. More than once he had ambushed them, and once he had shot Cal; but they had always crept away leaving the battle undecided, for the feud had taught the value of stealth. The men who fought in the open had long before been killed—it was Indian warfare now.

Bill and Winchester came out, after taking a last drink, and rode off in silence down the road. The night was still, so that the sounds traveled far, and the circumstances of their home-coming were depressing. Except for a few times when, at the risk of their lives, they had crept in to leave their mother some fresh beef, they had never been near the house since that fatal day when Sharps and Old Henry had been killed. Old Susie had detected movements on the top of the hill where the Scarboroughs had once laid in wait, and Winchester and Bill had evidence of their own to show that the house was watched. It was the old system of the Scarboroughs, always to lie in wait and shoot down their enemies from the brush.

The hounds came rushing out at them, changing their baying to joyous yelps as they recognized their long-lost masters; and old Susie, for once, forgot her Indian stoicism and wept as she clung to Bill. He was her favorite boy, the baby she had carried when she had traveled overland in search of her husband; and when they had put down her supplies and were preparing to go she still clung desperately to Bill.

"You go on," he said to Winchester, "I'll stay with Maw a while. But I'll ketch you—get the boys and start ahead."

"Well, all right," grumbled Winchester, "but you be careful, kid; them Scarboroughs are on the prod."

They parted company at the gate, Winchester riding for the store and Hall turning off to the east; but as he rode through the darkness Hall halted on the trail, and at last he wheeled and turned back. The vague uneasiness which had held him all the evening suddenly took form and clutched at his heart. What if the Randolphs had come, not to run him down and kill him, but to carry their sister away? He circled the Basin and finally headed south, cutting across the open plain and taking shelter in the wooded hills beyond; and when the day dawned he crept out on a point where he could look down and see her from afar. She must know he was near, for the store-keeper had told him that he was believed to be the slayer of Red; and if that was the case how anxiously she must be waiting for the time when he would appear on the mound. How many times already she must have glanced out through the loop-hole, hoping to see his waiting form beneath the tree; and now he was slinking away, without even making trial of the Providence which he claimed as his guide. He focussed his glasses and gazed down at the Rock House, and at daylight Allifair appeared.

She stepped to the doorway, dressed in white like a bride though she was only a kitchen drudge, and her eyes seemed to be turned to the hills. Almost she seemed to see him, or to sense his distant presence, for she raised her hand in a sign; and then she waved him away, just as plainly as if she spoke to him, and turned sorrowfully back into the house. Soon the smoke from the huge chimney told the story of her industry—she was cooking while the rest of them slept. Hall watched them as they came out, Miz Zoolah and Elmo; and at last the men whom he never had feared—Cal Randolph and the tall, lanky Ewing. They were typical mountaineers in their high boots and slouched hats, and yet after all not so different from the Texans who came striding across from the bunk-house. But he feared them now, for they had come to take his life and his hands were tied by love. They were the brothers of Allifair and she had beckoned him away; yet he lingered, waiting to see their next move.

A dozen rash plans leapt up in his brain—to steal her and bear her away, to hide her from their fury and then return to Tug Fork, to make an end to the feud. But each time the vision of Cal and Ewing Randolph rose up to brand them as worse than dreams; the fate which had pursued him was still on his trail, nothing could be done while her brothers were there. He put down his glasses and gazed out across the Basin, seeking some end to the phantasma of his life. Even here, as in Kentucky, it had been a nightmare of death and violence, while his heart was sick for peace. All he wanted was peace, the same surcease we give the dead—a forgetting, oblivion, a new life. Yet even after one death his incognito had been discovered and the chase was on again. Nothing would stay the dark passions of the men he had warred against, they were ruthless as death itself.

He closed his eyes wearily to shut out the sight of this valley which had once seemed so fair, and sleep swooped to seize him in an instant. But while his senses swooned something came to his ears that roused him as nothing else could—a rifle-shot, far away. He listened, half convinced, and a volley ripped the air like the tearing of a strip of rough cloth. It came from the hill, where the Scarboroughs had hid before, the hill that looked down on the Bassetts'. But why did they shoot when Sharps and Henry were both dead, and Winchester and Bill—— His heart stopped and leapt again, and he knew the answer. Bill Bassett had stayed too long.

CHAPTER XXII

THE FLIGHT

There never was a feud, nor yet a war, which did not revert to barbarism; for reprisal invites reprisal, and hot blood breeds new excesses until it ends in a mad swirl of killing. And always the human reason, ever the servant to our passions, finds a way to justify the slaughter. For the object of warfare, of course, is to kill; and why stop short of the absolute? Why leave boys to grow to manhood, or women to breed more boys, or old men to nurse the spark of future wars; why not kill them all, as speedily as possible, and with the least possible danger to ourselves? There we have the justification not only of war, but of feuds and murder from ambush; but the murders come first and reason follows tardily to lull the protests of conscience.

Hall McIvor had killed from ambush, and had been shot down in turn; but the thought of Bill's death, conjured up by the rifle shots, left him sick at the savagery of it all. By a process of reasoning he had brought himself to join this war, in order to end yet another war; but until the last Scarborough, or the last Bassett, was dead he knew there would be no end. And was it farfetched to kill off the Scarboroughs in order to save the McIvors and Randolphs? He lay hid on his high point like a lion that hears the dogs, undecided whether to stand fast or flee. If he fled they would pursue him—but did he not have a covert? And if he stayed they would send him after Bill. It was a fight to the finish, and yet no fight of his if only he could take Allifair and escape.

But this was not the time to put their fortunes to the touch, he must wait till her brothers were gone. The war was on in Kentucky and they could not be spared long—but when they went they would take Allifair with them! Back to the battle-ground along the Big Sandy, ten times as blood-soaked as here; and there they would guard her like a criminal. For that was the worst crime they knew, to wish to marry a McIvor. No, the time to rescue Allifair was now. But first he must return to his castle in the cliff and prepare it for her coming.

He rode cautiously for two nights, hiding on flat mountain tops by day, and found a way at last to lead his horse up the chasm, which was roaring now with water. The summer rains had come, turning the ravines into torrents and Turkey Creek into a river; and whatever tracks he made were soon washed away, leaving him lost to all the world. He hobbled his horses on the flat below him, where he could guard them from his cave above; and, working feverishly, he bore his provisions up the trail and made camp that night by his castle. The court was broad enough, and the smoke from his fire sucked back through the high, gloomy passageway; he made a couch of his lion-skin, flung down in the open, leaving the mud-sealed door unbroken.

Perhaps the imprint in the mud of a hand like a woman's held him back from violating the sanctuary; but in the morning he breached the door, for he, too, had a woman and the dead must give way to the living. The mate of his mountain-lion was still prowling about, and must Allifair lack shelter and retreat from wild animals in order that the dead should sleep undisturbed? He smashed his way in ruthlessly and entered the burial chamber, which was low and dark as a tomb. It had been a dwelling once—there was soot on the rafters and a fireplace over in the corner—but now it was smothered beneath the dust of countless centuries, as fine and impalpable as flour. It rose up at every step, almost choking him with its saltiness and its odor of things long dead; and the sarcophagus against the wall was blanketed over as if with a fall of snow.

At one end of the burial mound he found an olla full of corn left to nourish the departing spirit on its journey; and at the other a second olla with only a watermark to show where the spirits had drunk; but the thing which impressed him most was a huge bulk against the cliff, an olla nearly as high as a man. It too was blanketed in dust and its broad top was sealed, as if to protect some great treasure; but the treasures of the cliffdwellers could wait, what he wanted was their room, to shelter his lady from the mountain lions. He tied together a bundle of switches and began to sweep out the dust, dashing out from time to time to get air; and as he was brushing down the walls he discovered a blackened hole in the corner above the fire. This, too, was sealed with mud, but when he punched it clear the clouds of stinging dust went swirling up and out, leaving the chamber of the cliff-dwellers clear.

So it had been long centuries before, when these dead had still lived and cooked their corn on the flat stones below; for the draft through the low doorway sucked up past the fireplace and went out at the smoke-vent above. Hall set to work again, clearing away the mound with its crumbling skeleton, its prayer-sticks and arrows and clubs; but when he came to the great olla he found it sunk into the floor and as immovable as the cliff itself. He tried to pierce the seal, but it was another olla, set down over the greater one below; and finally, seizing a club, he smashed in the top, only to start back at the sound of a splash. So this was the treasure which the cliff-dwellers had concealed, and yet what treasure was greater? He leaned over the broad rim and tasted the water doubtfully—it was sweet as if it flowed from a spring! But certainly, if it had been stored for centuries and centuries, it would be flat and tainted by the pottery; he splashed it over the rim, wetting down the parched dirt floor, but the water in the basin did not lower. It was a spring walled up and cupped in the ollas, a dimpling fount for Allifair.

Hall wet down the floor and swept it out again, letting it air until the room was sweet and clean; and then in mad haste he set to work to bring in wood and make down a bed of dry grass. He stored his provisions against the wall, and threw down the lion skin by the fire; and, closing the doorway, ran down to catch his horses, for the time for action had come. Here was their dwelling place at last, all set and waiting, lacking only the smile of Allifair to give it the glow of home; and as he spurred back over the trail, dragging the led-horse behind him, he envisioned her sitting by the fireplace. Though the night was dark and the trails sluiced out by rain, when the day dawned he was hidden in the hills where he could look down and watch for Allifair.

She appeared with the dawn, still clad in white, and stood poised against the blackness of the doorway; but this time she did not wave, just stood gazing at the hills until abruptly she turned and went in. Hall was hidden in a thicket of bristling manzanita on the brow of a pineclad ridge; and his horses, staked and hobbled, were concealed in a hollow, where he could keep them under his eye. He slept, for no man could creep up to his hiding place without snapping a thousand rough twigs; and when he awoke it was raining again and the thunder was rolling along the hills. Taking shelter beneath a tree he threw his slicker over his shoulders and watched the swift rush of the clouds; the lightning that flashed and stabbed, making the earth tremble at its shock, until at last the great pageant rolled past. The sun came out warm, gleaming like silver from the thunder-heads, and down at the Rock House men mounted dancing ponies and went scampering away up the trail.

Hall counted them as they went, eleven cowboys in all, and as he spied a great horse-herd trotting in from the north he guessed the cause of their haste. This was another of those bands of Mormon horses, taken by force from the ranchers above the Rim; and unless he was mistaken the Avenging Angels from Mountain Meadow would not be far behind. They would come riding as before, disguised as raiding Apaches with horse-tails and handkerchiefs on their heads; and every man at the Rock House would be needed that night to hold the herd against them. There might even be a fight, for the Mormons were determined—and while they were drawn away he could ride to the Rock House and steal Allifair in spite of them!

The sun went down behind a bank of angry clouds, every stream-bed in the Basin was awash; and the rumble of the distant waters told of greater floods to be crossed if they endeavored to escape across Turkey Creek. But no sooner was it night than he rode boldly down the ridge, leaving his horses just behind the Indian mound. Men were dashing to and fro but something bade him be venturesome and he stood out boldly against the sky; then he crouched back and waited, for the dogs had begun to bark, and at last she came running up the path. They did not stop, even for a lover's kiss, but hurried away down the hill; and hardly had they left the Rock House behind them than they heard the hue and cry. It started at the house with a succession of six pistol shots and Hall swung from the trail to let the chase go by, for he heard them coming after him.

They had started down the main trail to Jump-off hill, but now he turned east and circled back to the north, with Allifair close behind him. She, too, had brought a slicker, to protect her from the rain, and beneath her man's hat she looked no different from the cowboys who were scouring the trails in search of them. They rode at a trot as if going to the horse-herd and a galloping Texan, riding back to the house, held up his hand as he went splashing by. But that way was too dangerous and Hall turned to the east, taking the trail that led to the Bassetts'.

A black cloud that blotted the east twinkled with flares of heat lightning, the stars seemed to swim through a mist, and as the Bassett dogs rushed out they veered sharply away, taking the trail that led down to Turkey Creek. But there they stopped short for the water, in the pale starlight, seemed to be rushing with resistless force. It rose up in huge waves, smooth and slick as a ground swell but with logs and writhing branches in its grip; and where it crossed the riffles it roared with shuddering thunder and threw up a white comb of foam.

"Can we cross it?" she asked at last, and he shrugged his shoulders.

"Do you dare to try?" he countered.

"I'll follow you anywhere!" she answered, and took off her slicker; but he sat on his horse, irresolute.

The very rocks at the bottom of the stream seemed to be grinding and rumbling beneath the flood; and yet in his time he had crossed worse torrents than this, though once he had nearly been drowned.

"Can you swim?" he asked, and when she shook her head he turned and looked back across the plain. With the creek roaring in front of them not a hoof-beat could be heard, but he pictured it swarming with horsemen. They would be spurring to the south, knowing that that was where he would flee, but others would be coming to the east; and sooner or later he would have to make a fight, for Miz Zoolah would never give up. She would send out every man, if they had to abandon the horse-herd, to scour the country for Allifair; and, compared to what would follow if he had to give them battle, the creek did not seem so terrible. Its roar was no more than the rush of water past rough snags, the passing of sand-waves through the crests; and if worst came to worst he might reach her and save her if their horses went down among the rocks.

"Keep your horse's head upstream," he said at last, "and rein him in if he falls; but if he goes down in spite of you try to catch him by the tail, and in that way he may drag you ashore."

He leaned over and kissed her; then, with a last touch of the hand, he edged his horse into the stream. The water was deep, for it was just above a riffle where the flood went pouring over a bar, and as his horse stepped into a hole it plunged and half fell, then rose up and tried to turn back. But Hall only reined him lower, just above the roaring thunder and the splash and spume of the bar; and close behind Allifair's mount followed after him, feeling its way along the treacherous bottom. Hall's horse went down again and came up swimming, only to find himself across the main channel; and, seeing Hall land on the other side, Allifair plunged in after him, coming out in a shower of flying mud. A huge, branching tree bobbed solemnly down the current, swinging about as if to brush them from their foothold; but now the horses were struggling, as eager to get across as before they had been loth to go in. They progressed in great leaps, in swift scramblings and terrifying lunges; and finally, all atremble, they waded out through the shallows and stood limp on the opposite side. The tree swept on past, logs and driftwood bobbed and curtsied, the sand-waves roared terribly through the crests; but now it all seemed good for it raised a barrier behind them that the hardiest would hesitate to cross. Hall reined his horse into the washed-out, rocky trail and they began the long ride to Cold Spring.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE EAGLES' NEST

In ancient days, before taking any action, men stopped to consult the oracle or looked for omens in the flight of birds; but now, with equal results, we make our own augeries and follow what we call a psychic hunch. If we feel lucky we play, and if we feel unlucky we quit; and no system has been devised that will bring better results, for all that the fortune-tellers say. Hall had felt a strong hunch the moment he smashed in the sealed olla and found it a fountain of water; it had seemed an intervention, an interposition of that Providence which he believed had raised him from the dead. The hand which he could not see seemed to be leading him again, where before all had been darkness and doubt; to be smoothing out his way and solving the difficulties which before had seemed insuperable. And if it could give him water and a shelter for his beloved, then surely it could guide his footsteps and so order his goings and comings that he would succeed at last in his quest.

All that night as he rode on, with Allifair close behind, he was conscious of a hand that led him on; and at daylight, when he rode down to the crossing at Cold Spring, he did not hesitate to plunge into the flood. Their horses were weak and the creek was still high, but they fought their way through anyhow and led their mounts up the chasm without a slip or a fall. It was a miracle of good luck and as they took shelter in the cave the rain-clouds lowered as if to cover them. The lightning began to play a weird devil's dance along the summit of the eastern ridge, the thunder smote their crags and called for rain; and as they stood in the court of their castle-in-the-air, they saw their pursuers ride into the canyon below.

They were weary and bedraggled but still leaning beside their saddle-horns to trace the line of horse-tracks through the mud; a band of four horsemen, shrouded to the chin in sluicing slickers but following grimly on their trail. Who they were they could not tell in the blinding rain, but as they gazed over their rampart they saw one essay the crossing and go down as if he had stepped into a well. The others shook out their ropes and rode to his rescue, dragging horse and man to the shore; and then in disgust they rode up to the low cliff-dwellings and took shelter from the fury of the storm. Hall glanced down at Allifair who stood clutching his hand and they turned back and entered their new home.

She had held out bravely but now she sank down, bereft of the last of her strength; and after he had made a fire Hall spread her bed beside it, for she was drenched and chilled to the bone. He boiled coffee over the fireplace and held a cupful to her lips, and after she had drunk she opened her eyes and lay gazing at the strange, tomblike dwelling. No light came in except through the low doorway, the fire cast strange shadows among the rafters; and yet somehow she felt a sweet contentment steal over her as she watched her lover by the fire. He was there, he would provide for her, and no one would ever find them—they were hidden away like twin eagles.

She fell into a deep sleep and when she awoke he was standing above her, smiling. Food was simmering on the fire but there was rain on his hat and he had brought in the breath of outdoors.

"They are looking for us," he said, and smiled again. "But they'll never find us—here."

"No, not here," she answered, and sat up quickly for he had laid a young turkey by the fire.

"Oh, did you shoot it?" she cried, and he stooped down and kissed her, then lifted her quickly to her feet.

"No, sweetheart," he laughed, "I didn't dare to shoot, but I drove it into my trap. And while you were asleep I took our horses up the chasm and hid them in a little lost valley. Now all we have to do is to keep out of sight and let the chase go by."

He drew her closer to him and she leaned against his breast, smiling softly as he told her of his love; and then they sat down to their first meal together while the storm swept by outside. Nothing mattered to them now, they were sheltered and warmed and fed and their dream had at last come true; and far into the night, though sleep made them nod, they sat up and talked of the past. Hall spoke of the time when he had seen her first, when he had crept to the Randolph's very door; and how she had saved him from Ewing and Cal when a word would have meant his death. And from there they drifted on through the maze of their wanderings; since she, like a culprit, had been sent to Arizona and he had followed on her trail. It was a tale of true love, in which neither had ever wavered; until now in the chamber of some ancient cliff-dweller they sat nodding by their fire.

They slept then at last and in the morning the bright sunshine shot a shaft of golden light through the door. All the great world without was awake and on the move but nature had demanded its toll—and when Hall roused up their broad cave was in the shadow and the sun had passed over the crags. He stepped softly to the rampart and looked down into the canyon, where the creek was still roaring in flood; and up and down its course, for he could view it for miles, he saw trailers, out cutting for sign. There was a fire in the fireplace when he came back from his watch, but after they had eaten he covered it with ashes lest the odor of the smoke betray them. They settled down in the broad court, watching their pursuers from the protecting darkness and talking tranquilly as the search went on; and when evening came on they leaned over the low wall and gazed down at the camp by Cold Spring.

More men had come in, until now there were ten of them, and the flame of their camp-fire illuminated the windows of the lower cliff-dwelling until they glowed like the port-holes of a fort. Even their voices could be heard above the rush of the flood, which had subsided to a tumbling stream. But seeing their pursuers below only added to their contentment and they found time to look up at the stars. It was a soft and balmy night and no lions were abroad to waken the echoes with their yells; all their world seemed at peace and yet now there fell a silence in which each followed out his own thoughts. The past was not enough, nor yet the tranquil present; but each must quest on into the future.

"When these men have all gone," spoke up Allifair at last, "and my brothers have given up the search; shall we—I mean—well, what do you plan to do then?"

"What is there to do?" answered Hall, "except to work out our destiny? But how we can be married is more than I know—are you brave enough to stay here alone?"

"Alone!" she repeated with a catch in her voice; and then she reached for his hand. "No, Hall," she said, "we are too happy, you must not leave me. But I am brave enough to go with you—anywhere!"

"Ours is always the hardest way," he said at last. "Have you thought what is going to become of us? Every day that I stay here I shall eat up by so much the food that should be kept to feed you; and when that is gone can you live on turkeys and acorns, as I was compelled to do for days?"

"I can do what you can do," she answered resolutely. "But why do you have to go? Why can't we stay here together until the search for us is over——"

"Because," he broke in gently, "we are living in the world—and you know what people will say."

"Yes, I know," she sighed, "but why can't we be married? Why can't we ride into Tonto as soon as they leave and be married and start back home?"

"Because the trails will be watched—and your brothers will kill me if they ever find us together."

"Not if we're married!" she protested, but he took her in his arms and his silence questioned even that.

"They are hard men," he said, "and they came out here to kill me—but behind it all is your aunt. She told you in my presence that she would rather shoot you down than see you married to a McIvor; and I believe, Allifair, she would do it. But here you will be safe, and when I have finished with Isham——"

"Oh, Hall!" she reproached, "can't you learn to forgive? Does all that I have suffered count for nothing? I read killing in your eyes, that day that Sharps was shot—but I'll never forgive you if you do! You are determined to kill Isham, I know by your silence; but think what it means to me. He is my uncle after all, because he married Aunt Zoolah, and the McIvors have killed enough of my kin. But it isn't that alone—I want you to stop killing, and the only time to stop is now!"

"God knows," began Hall, and then he paused and sighed. "I am weary of this killing," he said. "God only knows how sick of it I am, but a man must keep his self-respect. I would give my right hand if the circumstances could be different, but it's either him or me. I can forgive him for myself, but for what he has done to others—well, we won't talk about it, dear, any more."

"Yes we will!" she answered back, "because I won't marry a murderer—and that's what you are at heart. Not that I blame you for it, Hall, for I know how you were brought up—all I ask is that now you should stop. Is that too much to ask?"

"No! not too much at all," he replied at length, "provided your uncle will stop. I fled like a coward when I heard your brothers had come, because I would rather be killed than kill them; but I ask you, is it right that I should promise to spare Isham when he is hunting me everywhere like an animal? Who is paying those men who are camped down below us? I tell you they have chased me far enough."

His voice was tense with passion and he drew his hand away, but she reached out and caught it back.

"Hall, dear," she pleaded, "don't you know what I mean? I'm afraid that Isham will kill you."

He laughed softly as she kissed him and crept back into his arms, where she shuddered and laid her head on his breast.

"No," he said, "he will never kill me. I've got too much to live for now."

CHAPTER XXIV

NO TRAIL

The chase, which had been flung far, swung back towards Deadman Canyon, where the trail of the fugitives had disappeared; and with the others came the Randolphs and Isham Scarborough, riding up the creek from Tonto. Apache trailers came drifting in, drawn like vultures by the crowd; and soon, under their guidance, the search party crossed the creek and came out on the bench below the castle. Hall and Allifair could hear their shouts as they found the marks of his first turkey-trap, in the underbrush above the little spring; and then the chase led on to the cliff-dwellings below them, where Hall had made camp the first time. But the signs were all old and they came back to the spring, where they could look up and see the lost castle. Every word that they said could be heard now perfectly and Allifair trembled as she listened.

"Well, the house is there, ain't it?" argued Isham, trying to bully the Apache trailers. "How'd they git up to it? Well, busca the trail!"

"No! No tlail!" responded the Apaches, and that was the last heard of them, for the cowboys had taken sides on the matter. Some swore that the trail came down from the top, and that they could see a kind of bear-track down the cleft; and the others were just as positive that it had ascended the cliff but had been lost by a cave-off of the rock.

"No! No tlail!" repeated the Apaches when the uproar had subsided, and Isham Scarborough came back at them angrily.

"You're scairt, you black rascals!" he shouted. "Hey, Charley—you take me up that mountain? Well, there now—you see? These danged Injuns are buffaloed—they're afraid Old Man Baker will kill 'em!"

"No! No 'flaid!" grunted the Indians, but they would not go up the chasm, for no Apache ever set foot on Baker Mountain.

"Hey, I'll tell you!" hollered Isham, his voice rising above the babel like the roar of a mountain bull, "I'll tell you where they've gone! Up Devil's Chasm and plumb over the summit—they couldn't get nowhere's else! Didn't we trail 'em to the crick, and ain't we rode clean to Tonto, cutting circles to pick up their tracks? Well, they crossed then I'm telling ye, even if you fellers couldn't, and by this time they're clean to Geronimo!"

"Well, let's go to Geronimo, then," spoke up Cal Randolph's even voice, "what's the use of trying to climb this mountain?"

"They may be hid up there," cried Isham. "But cripes, boys, we know one thing—they never went down that crick. And if they didn't go there where else could they go, except——"

He paused as a voice began shouting his name, and Hall peeped over the rampart. A man had ridden down to their camp across the creek and was waving his hat and hallooing.

"What d'ye want?" demanded Isham, walking to the edge of the bench and looking across at the runner, "what's the matter with you, anyhow?"

"Your wife says to come home!" shouted the messenger. "They's been a big raid—all your horses are run off! And three of the boys was found hung!"

"Hung!" echoed Isham, and every man in the party jumped up and ran to the rim.

"What's that?" they clamored, and Hall and Allifair rose up to catch the startling news.

"W'y, they was night-riders," explained the runner. "They wore masks and dressed like Injuns! Yes, come in at night and caught three boys standing guard! We found them hung to a tree! And they run off all your horses!"

"Hell's fire!" exclaimed Isham, and stood staring across the canyon while his men gathered together in groups.

"That was that sheepman, Grimes," whispered Hall to Allifair. "He's organized all those Mormons above the Rim."

"Oh, will he come down here?" asked Allifair aghast. "Because Ewing and Cal——"

"Maybe they'll leave, now," suggested Hall, and they listened again, for Isham was beginning to shout.

"Which way'd they go?" he inquired, and when the man answered north he burst into a fit of cursing.

"It's them dadburned Mormon ranchers!" he exclaimed, and started back for his horse.

"Well, let's go, boys," he said, when they had gathered by the spring, "we can tend to McIvor afterward. But if any one wants to stay here I'll give one thousand dollars to the man that brings me his hair. He's the dirty, doggoned rascal that stirred up all this ruckus, but I can't stop to monkey with him now. Come on, Cal; ain't you coming with me?"

"No!" answered Cal's voice and then, after a silence, "we didn't come out here to help you steal horses."

"Oh, you didn't, eh?" railed Isham, his voice tense with excitement, "well, since when have you got to be so good? Jest the minute they's any trouble——"

"We come out here to get our sister!" broke in Ewing's high voice. "And we're going to hunt till we find her."