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Lahoma

by John Breckinridge Ellis

January, 2000  [Etext #2029]


The Project Gutenberg Etext of Lahoma, by John Breckinridge Ellis
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LAHOMA

by John Breckenridge Ellis




CHAPTER I
THE TOUCH OF A CHILD


"I have given my word of honor--my sacred oath--not to betray what
I have discovered here."

At these words from the prisoner, a shout arose in which oaths and
mocking laughter mingled like the growling and snapping of hunger-
maddened wolves.

"Then if I must die," Gledware cried, his voice, in its shrill
excitement, dominating the ferocious insults of the ruffians, "don't
kill the child--you see she is asleep--and she's so young--only
five.  Even if she were awake, she wouldn't know how to tell about
this cabin.  For God's sake, don't kill the little girl!"

Since the seizure of Gledware, the child had been lying on the rude
table in the midst of a greasy pack of cards--cards that had been
thrown down at the sound of his galloping horse.  The table
supported, also, much of the booty captured from the wagon-train,
while on the dirt floor beside it were prizes of the freebooting
expedition, too large to find resting-place on the boards.  Nor was
this all.  Mingled with stolen garments, cans and boxes of
provisions, purses and bags of gold, were the Indian disguises in
which the highwaymen from No-Man's Land had descended on the
prairie-schooners on their tedious journey from Abilene, Kansas,
toward the Southwest.

In the midst of this confusion of disguises, booty and
playing-cards, surrounded by cruel and sensual faces, the child
slept soundly, her lips slightly parted, her cheeks delicately
flushed, her face eloquent in its appeal of helplessness, innocence
and beauty.  One of the band, a tall broad-shouldered man of
middle-age, with an immense quantity of whiskers perhaps worn as a
visible sign of inward wildness, was, despite his hardened nature,
moved to remonstrance.  Under cover of lurid oaths and outrageous
obscenity, he advanced his opinion that "the kid" needn't be shot
just because her father was a sneak-jug spy.

"Shut up!" roared a tremendous voice, not directly to the
intercessor, or to the prisoner, but to all present.  Evidently it
was a voice of authority, for comparative silence followed the
command.  The speaker stepped forward, thrust his fingers through
his intensely red shock of hair, and continued, with one leg thrust
forward:

"You know I am something of an orator, or I guess you wouldn't of
made me your leader.  Now, as long as I'm your leader, I'm going to
lead; but, I ain't never unreasonable, and when talk is needed, I'm
copious enough.  I am called 'Red Kimball,' and my brother yonder,
he is knowed as 'Kansas Kimball.'  What else is knowed of us is
this:  that we wasn't never wont to turn loose a spy when once
ketched.  Here is a man who says he is Henry Gledware--though God
knows if that's so; he comes galloping up to the door just as we are
in the midst of a game.  I stakes all my share of the spoils on the
game, and Brick Willock is in a fair way to win it, that I admit,
but in comes this here spy--"

The prisoner in a frenzied voice disclaimed any purpose of spying. 
That morning, he had driven the last wagon of the train, containing
his invalid wife and his stepdaughter--for the child lying on the
table was his wife's daughter.  At the alarm that the first wagon
had been attacked by Indians, he had turned about his horses and
driven furiously over the prairie, he knew not whither.  All that
day he had fled, seeing no one, hearing no pursuing horse-beat.  At
night his wife, unable, in her weak condition, to sustain the
terrible jolting, had expired.  Taking nothing from the wagon but
his saddle, he had mounted one of the horses with the child before
him, and had continued his flight, the terrific wind at his back. 
Unaware that the wind had changed, he had traversed horseback much
of the distance traveled during the day, and at about two in the
morning--that is to say, about all hour ago--seeing a light, he had
ridden straight toward it, to find shelter from the storm.

The prisoner narrated all this in nervous haste, though he had
already given every particular, time and again.  His form as well
as his voice trembled with undisguised terror, and indeed, the red
and cruel eyes fastened contemptuously on him might have caused a
much braver man than Gledware to shudder visibly.

"Well, pard," said the leader of the band, waiting until he had
finished, "you can't never claim that you ain't been given your say,
for I do admire free speech.  I want to address you reasonable, and
make this plain and simple, as only a man that has been alleged to
be something of an orator can accomplish.  My men and me has had our
conference, and it's decided that both of you has got to be shot,
and immediate.  The reasons is none but what a sensible man must
admit, and such I take you to be.  I am sorry this has happened, and
so is my men, and we wish you well.  It's a hard saying, pard, but
whatever your intentions, a spy you have proved.  For what do you
find on busting open our door?  Here we sit playing with our booty
for stakes, and our Indian togs lying all about.  You couldn't help
knowing that we was the 'Indians' that gutted them wagons and put
up the fight that left every man and woman dead on the field except
that there last wagon you are telling us about.  You might wish you
didn't know the same, but once knowed, we ain't going to let you
loose.  As to that wagon you claim to have stole away from under our
very noses--"

A skeptical laugh burst from the listeners.

Gledware eagerly declared that if he had the remotest idea in what
direction it had been left, he would be glad to lead them to the
spot.  He could describe it and its contents--

"You see, pard," Red Kimball interposed, "you are everlasting losing
sight of the point.  This here is 1880, which I may say is a recent
date.  Time was when a fellow could live in Cimarron, and come and
go free and no questions asked--and none answered.  But civilization
is a-pressing us hard, and these days is not our fathers' days.  We
are pretty independent even yet in old Cimarron, but busybodies has
got together trying to make it a regular United States territory,
and they ain't going to stand for a real out-and-out band of
highwaymen such as used to levy on stage-coaches and wagon-trains
without exciting no more remarks than the buffaloes.  You may be
sorry times is changed; so am I; but if times IS fresh, we might as
well look 'em in the face.  Us fellows has been operating for some
years, but whatever we do is blamed on the Indians.  That there is
a secret that would ruin our business, if it got out.  Tomorrow, a
gang of white men will be depredating in the Washita country to get
revenge for today's massacre, and me and my men couldn't join in the
fun with easy consciences if we knowed you was somewheres loose, to
tell your story."

Again Gledware protested that he would never betray the band.

"Oh, cut this short," interposed Kansas Kimball, with an oath. 
"Daylight will catch us and nothing done, if we listen to that
white-livered spy.  We don't believe in that wagon he talks about,
and as for this kid, he brought her along just to save his bacon."

"No, as God lives!" cried Gledware.  "Can't you see she is dead for
sleep?  She was terrified out of her wits all day, and I've ridden
with her all night.  Don't kill her, men--"  He turned impassioned
eyes on the leader.  "Look at her--so young--so unsuspecting-- you
can't have the heart to murder a child like that in cold blood."

"Right you are!" exclaimed the man with the ferocious whiskers--he
who had been spoken of as Brick Willock.  "You'll have to go, pard,
but I'm against killing infants."

The leader darted an angry glance at the man who, but for the
untoward arrival of Gledware, would have won from him his share of
the booty.  But his voice was smooth and pleasant as he resumed: 
"Yes, pard, the kid must die.  We couldn't do nothing with her, and
if we left her on some door-step, she's sure old enough, and she
looks full sharp enough, to tell sufficient to trammel us good and
plenty.  If we sets her loose in the prairie, she'd starve to death
if not found--and if found, it would settle our case.  And as Kansas
says, this debate must close, or daylight will catch us."

Brick Willock, with terrible oaths, again expressed himself as
strongly opposed to this decision.

"Well, Brick," said Red, with a sneer, "do YOU want to take the kid
and raise her, yourself?  We've either got to do away with her, or
keep her hid.  Do YOU want to be her nurse, and keep with her in
some cave or other while we go foraging?"

Willock muttered deep in his throat, while his companions laughed
disdainfully.

"We've had enough of this!" Red declared, his voice suddenly grown
hard and cold.  "Kansas, take the prisoner; Brick Willock, as you're
so fond of the kid, you can carry HER."  He opened the door and a
rush of wind extinguished the candle.  There was silence while it
was being relighted. The flickering light, reddening to a steady
glow, revealed no mercy on the scowling countenances about the
table, and no shadow of presentiment on that of the still
unconscious child.

Red went outside and waited till his brother had drawn forth the
quivering man, and Brick Willock had carried out the girl.  Then he
looked back into the room.  "You fellows can stay in here," he said
authoritatively.  "What we've got to do ain't any easier with a lot
of men standing about, looking on."

The man who had relighted the candle, and who crouched to shield it
with a hairy hand from the gust, nodded approval.  His friends were
already gathering together the cards to lose in the excitement of
gambling consciousness of what was about to be done.  Red closed
the door on the scene, and turned to face the light.

The wind came in furious gusts, with brief intervals of calm.  There
were no clouds, however, and the moon, which had risen not long
before, made the prairie almost as light as if morning had dawned. 
As far as the eye could reach in any direction, nothing was to be
seen but the level ground, the unflecked sky, the cabin and the
little group near the tethered ponies.

Gledware had already been stationed with his face toward the moon,
and Kansas Kimball was calmly examining his pistol.  Between them
and the horses, Brick Willock had come to a halt, the little girl
still sleeping in his powerful arms.  Red's eagle eye noted that
she had unconsciously slipped an arm about the highwayman's neck,
as if by some instinct she would cling the closer to the only one
in the band of ten who had spoken for her life.

Red scowled heavily.  He had not forgiven Willock for beating him
at cards, still less for his persistent opposition to his wishes;
and he now resolved that it should be Willock's hand to deal the
fatal blow.  He had been troubled before tonight by insubordination
on the part of this man of bristling whiskers, this knave whose
voice was ever for mercy, if mercy were possible.  Why should
Willock have joined men who were without scruple and without shame? 
As the leader stared at him sullenly, he reflected that it was just
such natures that fail at the last extremity of hardihood, that
desert comrades in crime, that turn state's evidence.  Yes--Willock
would deal the blow, even if Red found it necessary to call all his
men from the cabin to enforce the order.

The captain's fears were not groundless.  He would have been much
more alarmed, could he have known the wonderful thoughts that surged
through Willock's brain, and the wonderful emotions that thrilled
his heart, at the warm confiding pressure of the arm about his neck.



CHAPTER II
BRICK MAKES A MOVE


As Kansas Kimball raised his weapon to fire, the man before him
uttered a cry of terror and began to entreat for his life.  In the
full light of the dazzling moon, his face showed all the pallor,
all the contortions of a coward who, though believing himself lost,
has not the resolution to mask his fear.  He poured forth incoherent
promises of secrecy, ejaculations of despair and frenzied assurances
of innocence.

"Hold on, Kansas!" interposed Red.  "There's not a one of the bunch
believes that story about the last wagon getting away, and the dying
wife.  We know this Gledware is a spy, whatever he says, and that
he brought the kid along for protection.  He knew if we got back to
No-Man's Land we couldn't be touched, not being under no
jurisdiction, and he wanted to find us with our paint and feathers
off.  He's a sneaking dog, and a bullet's too good for him.  But
--"with an oath--"blessed if he don't hate to die worse than any man
ever I saw!  I don't mind to spare him a few minutes if he's
agreeable.  I put it to him--would he rather the kid be put out of
the way first, and him afterwards, or does he want the first call?"

"For God's sake, put it off as long as you will!" quavered the
prisoner.  "I swear I'm no spy.  I swear--"

"This is unpleasant," the captain of the highwaymen interposed. 
"Just you say another word, and I'll put daylight into you with my
own hand.  Stand there and keep mum, and I'll give you a little
breathing space."

Kansas, not without a sigh of relief, lowered his weapon and looked
questioningly at his brother.  The shadow of the log cabin was upon
him, making more sinister his uncouth attire, and his lean
vindictive face under the huge Mexican hat.  Gledware, not daring
to move, kept his eyes fixed on that deep gloom out of which at any
moment might spurt forth the red flash of death.  From within the
cabin came loud oaths inspired by cards or drink, as if the inmates
would drown any calls for mercy or sounds of execution that might
be abroad in the night.

"Now, Brick Willock," the leader spoke grimly, "take your turn
first.  That kid's got to die, and you are to do the trick, and do
it without any foolishness."

"I can't," Willock declared doggedly.

"Oh, yes; yes, you can, Brick.  You see, we can't 'tend to no infant
class, and I ain't hard-hearted enough to leave a five-year-old girl
to die of hunger on the prairie; nor do I mean to take her to no
town or stage-station as a card for to be tracked by.  Oh, yes, you
can, Brick, and now's the time."

"Red," exclaimed Willock desperately, "I tell you fair, and I tell
you foul, that this little one lives as long as I do."

"And what do you aim to do with her, eh, Brick?"

Willock made no reply.  He had formed no plans for his future, or
for that of the child; but his left arm closed more tightly about
her.

"Now, Brick," said Red slowly, "this ain't the first time you have
proved yourself no man for our business, and I call Kansas to
witness you've brought this on yourself--"

Without finishing his sentence, Red swiftly raised his arm and fired
pointblank at Willock's head as it was defined above the sleeping
form.  Though famed as an orator, Red understood very well that, at
times, action is everything, and there is death in long speaking. 
He was noted as a man who never missed his mark; and in the Cimarron
country, which belonged to no state and therefore to no court,
extensive and deadly had been his practise, without fear of
retribution.

Now, however, his bullet had gone astray.  The few words to which
he had treated himself as an introduction to the intended deed had
proved his undoing.  They had been enough to warn Willock of what
was coming; and just before Kansas had been called on "to witness,"
that is an instant before Red fired, Willock had sent a bullet
through the threatening wrist.  The two detonations were almost
simultaneous, and Red's roar of pain, as he dropped his weapon, rang
out as an accompaniment to the crash of firearms.

The next instant, Willock, with a second shot from his six-shooter,
stretched Kansas on the ground; then, rushing forward with reversed
weapon, he brought the butt down on Red's head with such force as
to deprive him of consciousness.  So swift and deadly were his
movements, so wild his appearance as, with long locks streaming in
the wind and huge black whiskers hiding all but glittering eyes,
aquiline nose and a brief space of tough red skin--so much more like
a demon than a man, it was no wonder that the child, awakened by the
firing, screamed with terror at finding her head pressed to his
bosom.

"Come!" Willock called breathlessly to the prisoner who still stood
with his back to the moon, as if horror at what he had just
witnessed rendered him as helpless as he had been from sheer terror. 
Still holding the screaming child, he darted to the ponies that were
tied to the projecting logs of the cabin and hastily unfastened two
of the fleetest.

Henry Gledware, awakened as from a trance, bounded to his side. 
Willock helped him to mount, then placed the child the saddle in
front of him.

"Ride!" he urged hoarsely, "ride for your life!  They ain't no other
chance for you and the kid and they ain't no other chance for me."

He leaped upon the second pony.

"Which way?" faltered Gledware, settling in the saddle and grasping
the bridle, but without the other's practised ease.

"Follow the moon--I'll ride against the wind--more chance for one
of us if we ain't together.  Start when I do, for when they hear
the horses they'll be out of that door like so many devils turned
loose on us.  Ride, pardner, ride, and save the kid for God's sake! 
Now--off we go!"

He gave Gledware's pony a vicious cut with his lariat, and drove
the spurs into his own broncho.  The thunder of hoofs as they
plunged in different directions, caused a sudden commotion within
the isolated cabin.  The door was flung open, and in the light that
streamed forth, Willock, looking back, saw dark forms rush out,
gather about the prostrate forms of the two brothers, move here and
there in indecision, then, by a common impulse, burst into a
swinging run for the horses.

As for Gledware, he never once turned his face.  Urging on his horse
at utmost speed, and clasping the child to his breast, he raced
toward the light.  The shadow of horse, man and child, at first long
and black, lessened to a mere speck, then vanished with the rider
beyond the circle of the level world.



CHAPTER III
FLIGHT

Brick Willock, galloping toward the Southeast, frequently looked
back.  He saw the desperadoes leap upon their horses, wheel about
in short circles that brought the animals upright, then spring
forward in pursuit.  He heard the shouting which, though far away,
sounded the unmistakable accent of ungovernable fury.  In the
glaring moonlight, he distinguished plainly the cloud of dust and
sand raised by the horses, which the wind lifted in white shapes
against the deep blue of the sky.  And looking beyond his pursuers
toward the rude cabin where the highwaymen had so long held their
rendezvous, he knew, because no animate forms appeared against the
horizon, that the Kimball brothers lay where he had stretched them-
-one, senseless from the crashing blow on his head, the other,
lifeless from the bullet in his breast.

The little girl and her stepfather had vanished from the smooth open
page of the Texas Panhandle--and Brick Willock rejoiced, with a joy
new to him, that these escaped prisoners had not been pursued.  It
was himself that the band meant to subject to their savage vengeance,
and himself alone.  The murder of the child was abhorrent to their
hearts which had not attained the hardened insensibility of their
leader's conscience, and they were willing for the supposed spy to
escape, since it spared them the embarrassment of disposing of the
little girl.

But Brick Willock had been one of them and he had killed their
leader, and their leader's brother, or at least had brought them to
the verge of death.  If Red Kimball revived, he would doubtless
right his own wrongs, should Willock live to be punished.  In the
meantime, it was for them to treat with the traitor--this giant of
a Texan, huge-whiskered, slow of speech, who had ever been first to
throw himself into the thick of danger but who had always hung back
from deeds of cruelty.  He had plundered coaches and wagon-trains
with them, he had fought with them against strong bodies of emigrants,
he had killed and burned--in the eyes of the world his deeds made him
one of them, and his aspect marked him as the most dangerous of the
band.  But they had always felt the difference--and now they meant to
kill him not only because he had overpowered their leader but because
of this difference.

As their bullets pursued him, Willock lay along the body of the
broncho, feeling his steed very small, and himself very large--and
yet, despite the rain of lead, his pleasure over the escape of the
child warmed his heart.  The sand was plowed up by his side from
the peppering of bullets--but he seemed to feel that innocent
unconscious arm about his great neck; the yells of rage were in his
ears, but he heard the soft breathing of the little one fast asleep
in the midst of her dangers.

He had selected for himself, and for Gledware, ponies that had often
been run against each other, and which no others of all Red
Kimball's corral could surpass in speed.  Gledware and the child
were on the pony that Kimball had once staked against the swiftest
animal the Indians could produce--and Willock rode the pride of the
Indian band, which had almost won the prize.  The ponies had been
staked on the issue of that encounter--and the highwaymen had
retained, by right of craft and force, what the government would
not permit its wards to barter or sell.

The race was long but always unequal.  The ruffians who had dashed
from the scene of the cabin almost in an even line, scattered and
straggled unevenly; now only two were able to send bullets whistling
about Willock's head; now only one found it possible to cover the
distance.  At last even he fell out of range.  The Indian pony,
apparently tireless, shot on like an arrow driven into the teeth of
the wind, sending up behind a cloud of dust that stretched backward
toward the baffled pursuers, a long wavering ribbon like a clew left
to guide the band into the mysterious depths of the Great American
Desert.

When the last of the pursuers found further effort useless, he
checked his horse.  Willock now sat erect on the broncho's bare
back, lightly clasping the halter.  Looking behind, he saw seven
horsemen in varying degrees of remoteness, motionless, doubtless
fixing their wolfish eyes on his fleeing form.  As long as he could
distinguish these specks against the sky, they remained stationary. 
To his excited imagination they represented a living wall drawn up
between him and the abode of men.  Should he ever venture back to
that world, he fancied those seven avengers would be waiting to
receive him with taunts and drawn weapons.

And his conscience told him that the taunts would be merited, for
he had turned traitor, he had failed in the only virtue on which his
fellow criminals prided themselves.  Yes, he was a traitor; and by
the only justice he acknowledged, he deserved to die.  But the child
who had lain so trustingly upon his wild bosom, who had clung to him
as to a father--she was safe!  An unwonted smile crept under the
bristling beard of the fugitive, as he urged the pony forward in
unrelaxing speed.  Should he seek refuge among civilized communities,
his crimes would hang over his head--if not discovered, the fear of
discovery would be his, day and night.  To venture into his old haunts
in No-Man's Land would be to expose his back to the assassin's knife,
or his breast to ambushed murderers.  He dared not seek asylum among
the Indians, for while bands of white men were safe enough in the
Territory, single white men were at the mercy of the moment's caprice--
and certainly, if found astride that Indian pony which the agent had
ordered restored to its owner, his life would not be worth a thought.

These were desperate reflections, and the future seemed framed in
solitude, yet Brick Willock rode on with that odd smile about the
grim lips.  The smile was unlike him--but, the whole affair was such
an experience as had never entered his most daring fancy.  Never
before in his life had he held a child in his arms, still less had
he felt the sweet embrace of peaceful slumber.  To another man it
might have meant nothing; but to this great rough fellow, the very
sight of whom had often struck terror to the heart, that experience
seemed worth all the privations he foresaw.

The sun had risen when the pony, after a few tottering steps,
suddenly sank to earth.  Willock unfastened the halter from its
neck, tied it with the lariat about his waist, and without pause,
set out afoot.  If the pony died from the terrible strain of that
unremitting flight, doubtless the roving Indians of the plains would
find it and try to follow his trail; if it survived he would be
safer if not found near it.  In either case, swift flight was still
imperative, and the shifting sand, beaten out of shape by the
constant wind, promised not to retain his footprints.

Though stiff from long riding, the change of motion soon brought
renewed vigor.  Willock had grown thirsty, and as the sun rose
higher and beat down on him from an unclouded sky, his eyes searched
the plains eagerly for some shelter that promised water.  He did not
look in vain.  Against the horizon rose the low blue shapes of the
Wichita Mountains, looking at first like flat sheets of cardboard,
cut out by a careless hand and set upright in the sand.

As he toiled toward this refuge, not a living form appeared to
dispute his sovereignty of the desert world.  His feet sank deep in
the sand, then trod lightly over vast stretches of short sun-burned
mesquit, then again traversed hot shifting reaches of naked sand. 
The mountains seemed to recede as he advanced, and at times stifling
dust and relentless heat threatened to overpower him.  With dogged
determination he told himself that he might be forced to drop from
utter exhaustion, but it would not be yet--not yet--one more mile,
or, at least, another half-mile.  So he advanced, growing weaker,
breathing with more difficulty, but still muttering, "Not yet--not
just yet!"

The mountains had begun to spread apart.  There were long ranges
and short.  Here and there, a form that had seemed an integral part
of some range, defined itself as distinct from all others, lying
like an island of rock in a sea of unbroken desert.  Willock was
approaching the Wichita Mountains from their southwestern extremity. 
As far as he could see in one direction, the grotesque forms
stretched in isolated chains or single groups; but in the other, the
end was reached, and beyond lay the unbroken waste of the Panhandle.

Swaying on his great legs as with the weakness of an infant, he was
now very near the end of the system.  A wall of granite, sparsely
dotted with green, rose above him to a height of about three hundred
and fifty feet.  The length of this range was perhaps six miles, its
thickness a mile.  Concealed among these ridges, he might be safe,
but it was no longer possible for him to stand erect; to climb the
difficult ledges would be impossible.

He sank to the ground, his eyes red and dimmed.  For some time he
remained there inert, staring, his brain refusing to work.  If
yonder stood a white object, between him and the mountain, a curious
white something with wheels, might it not be a covered wagon?  No,
it was a mirage.  But was it possible for a mirage to deceive him
into the fancy that a wagon stood only a few hundred feet away? 
Perhaps it was really a wagon.  He stared stupidly, not moving. 
There were no dream-horses to this ghost-wagon.  There was no sign
of life.  If captured by the Indians, it would not have been left
intact.  But how came a wagon into this barren world?

He stared up at the sun as if to assure himself that he was awake,
then laughed hoarsely, foolishly.  The wagon did not melt away.  He
could crawl that far, though in stretching forth his arm he might
grasp but empty air.  He began to crawl forward, but the wagon did
not move.  As it grew plainer in all its details, a new strength
came to him.  He strove to rise, and after several efforts,
succeeded.  He staggered forward till his hands grasped one of the
wheels.  The contact cleared his brain as by a magic touch.  It was
no dream.

Supporting himself by the sideboard, he drew himself around to the
front, the only opening of the canvas room.  He looked within.  A
first look told him that the wagon was fitted up for a long journey,
and that its contents had not been disturbed by bandits or Indians. 
The second look distinguished two objects that excluded from
attention all others.  Upon a mattress at the rear of the wagon lay
a woman, her face covered by a cloth; and near the front seat stood
a keg of water.  It was impossible to note the rigid form of the
woman and the position of the arms and hands without perceiving that
she was dead.

The man recognized this truth but it made only a dim impression;
that keg of water meant life--and life was a thousandfold more to
him than death.  He drew himself upon the seat, snatched at the tin
cup beside the keg, and drew out the cloth-covered corn-cob that
stopped the flow.  Having slaked his thirst, there was mingled with
his sense of ineffable content, an overwhelming desire for sleep. 
He dropped on the second mattress, on which bedclothes were
carelessly strewn; his head found the empty pillow that lay indented
as it had been left by some vanished sleeper.  As his eyelids
closed, he fell sound asleep.  But for the rising and falling of his
powerful breast, he was as motionless as the body of the woman.

Without, the afternoon sun slowly sank behind the mountains casting
long shadows over the plains; the wind swirled the sand in tireless
eddies, sometimes lifting it high in great sheets, forming sudden
dunes; coyotes prowled among the foot-hills and out on the open
levels, squatting with eyes fixed on the wagon, uttering sharp quick
barks of interrogation.  A herd of deer lifted their horns against
the horizon, then suddenly bounded away, racing like shadows toward
the lowlands of Red River.  On the domelike summit of Mount Welsh,
a mile away, a mountain-lion showed his sinuous form against the sky
seven hundred feet in air.  And from the mountainside near at hand
stared from among the thick greenery of a cedar, the face of an
Indian whose black hair was adorned by a single red feather.

Within the wagon, unconscious of all, in strange fellowship, lay
the living and the dead.



CHAPTER IV
AN UNWONTED PRAYER


When Willock started up from the mattress in the covered wagon, the
sun had set.  Every object, however, was clearly defined in the
first glow of the long August twilight, and it needed but a glance
to recall the events that had brought him to seek shelter and
slumber beside the dead woman.  He sat up suddenly, staring from
under his long black hair as it fell about his eyes. Accustomed as
he was to deeds of violence, even to the sight of men weltering in
their life's blood, he was strangely moved by that rigid form with
the thin arms folded over the breast, by that white cloth concealing
face and hair.  A long keen examination of the prairie assured him
that no human being was between him and the horizon.  He turned
again toward the woman.  He felt an overpowering desire to look on
her face.

For years there had been no women in his world but the abandoned
creatures who sought shelter in the resorts of Beer City in No-Man's
Land--these, and the squaws of the reservations, and occasionally
a white terrified face among the wagon-trains.  As a boy, before
running away from home in the Middle West, he had known a different
order of beings, and some instinct told him that this woman belonged
to the class of his childhood's association.  There was imperative
need of his hurrying to the mountain, lest, at any moment, a roving
band of Indians discover the abandoned wagon; besides this, he was
very hungry since his rest, and the wagon was stocked with
provisions; nevertheless, to look on the face of the dead was his
absorbing desire.

But it was not easy for him to yield to his curiosity, despite his
life of crime.  Something about the majestic repose of that form
seemed to add awe to the mystery of sex; and he crouched staring at
the cloth which no breath stirred save the breath of evening.

He believed, now, the story that Henry Gledware had reiterated in
accents of abject terror.  Surely this was the "last wagon" in that
train which Red Kimball had attacked the morning before.  Impossible
as it had seemed to the highwaymen, Gledware must have been warned
of the attack in time to turn about and lash his horses out of
danger of discovery. At this spot, Gledware had cut loose the
horses, mounted one with his stepdaughter, leaving the other to go
at will.  This, then, was the mother of that child whose arm had
lain in warm confidence about his neck. On hands and knees, Willock
crept to the other mattress and lifted the margin of the large white
cloth.

His hand moved stealthily, slowly.  Catching sight of something that
faintly gleamed at the collar of the dress, he hesitated; his
determination to examine the countenance was as firm as ever, but
his impulse to put it off as long as possible was even stronger. 
He bent down to look closer at the ornament; it was a round
breastpin of onyx and pearl set in a heavy rim of gold.  The warm
wind, tempered by approaching night to a grateful balminess, stirred
the cloth between his fingers.  He stared as if lost in profound
meditation.  That pin resembled one his mother used to wear; and,
somehow, the soothing touch of the wind reminded him of her hand on
his forehead.  He might have gone back home, if she had not died
long ago.  Now, in spite of the many years that had passed over her
grave, the memory of her came as strong, as sweet, as instinct with
the fullness of life, as, if he were suddenly wafted back into
boyhood.

He did not lift the cloth, after all, but having replaced it gently,
he searched the wagon for a spade. It was found in the box fastened
to the end of the wagon, and with the spade, in the gathering
darkness, he dug a grave near the mountainside. Between the strokes
of the blade he sent searching glances over the prairie and along
the sloping ridges of the overlooking range, but there were no
witnesses of his work save the coyotes that prowled like gray
shadows across the sands.  When the grave was ready he carried
thither in his giant's arms the body of the woman on the mattress,
and laid it thus to rest.  When the sand was smoothed over the
place, he carried thither quantities of heavy stones, and broken
blocks of granite, to preserve the body from wild beasts.

It was dark when the heap of stones had been arranged in the form
of a low pyramid, but though he had not tasted food for twenty-four
hours, he lingered beside the grave, his head bent as if still
struggling with those unwonted memories of the long ago. At last,
as if forced by a mysterious power against which he could no longer
resist, he sank upon his knees.

"O God," he prayed aloud, "take care of the little girl."

He waited, but no more words would come--no other thought.  He rose,
feeling strangely elated, as if some great good fortune had suddenly
come into his possession.  It had been like this when the sleeping
child lay in his arms; he could almost feel her little cheek against
his bosom, and hear the soft music of her breathing.

He went back to the wagon and sat on the tongue, still oblivious to
any possible danger of surprise.  He spoke aloud, for company:

"She wouldn't have wanted me to look at her--she couldn't have
looked natural.  Glad I didn't.  Great Scott! but that was a
first-rate prayer!  Wouldn't have thought after thirty years I could
have done so well.  And it was all there, everything was in them
words!  If she knew what I was doing, she couldn't have asked
nothing more, for I reckon she wouldn't expect a man like ME to ask
no favors for that white-livered cowardly second-husband of hers. 
I put in all my plea for the little girl.  Dinged if I understand
how I come to be so intelligent and handy at what's all new business
to me!  I just says, 'O God, take care of the little girl,'--just
them words."  He rose with an air of great content and went around
to the front in search of provisions.  Presently he spoke aloud:

"And as I ain't asked nothing for myself since I run off from home
I guess God won't mind putting the little girl on my expense-
account."



CHAPTER V
A NEW ROBINSON CRUSOE


It came over him with disconcerting suddenness that he had lost a
great deal of time, and that every moment spent in the covered wagon
was fraught with imminent danger.  It was not in his mind that the
hand of highwaymen might discover his hiding-place.  Knowing them
as he did, he was sure they would not come so far from their haunts
or from the Sante Fe train in pursuit of him.  But the Indians
roamed the Panhandle, as much at home there as in their
reservations--and here they were much more dangerous.  Had no savage
eye discerned that wagon during the brilliant August day?  Might it
be that even while he slept at the feet of the dead woman, a
feathered head had slipped under the canvas side, a red face had
bent over him?

It was a disquieting fancy.  Willock told himself that, had such
been the case, his scalp-lock would not still adorn his own person;
for all that, he was eager to be gone.  Instead of eating in the
wagon, he wrapped up some food in a bread-cloth, placed this with
a few other articles in a tarpaulin--among them, powder and shot--
and, having lifted the keg of water to one shoulder, and the
rope-bound tarpaulin to the other, he left the wagon with a loaded
gun in his hand.

Twilight had faded to starlight and the mountain range stood blackly
defined against the glittering stars.  It was easy to find his way,
for on the level sands there were no impediments, and when the
mountain was reached, a low divide offered him easy passage up the
ascent.  For the most part the slopes were gradual and in steeper
places, ledges of granite, somewhat like giant stairs, assisted him
to the highest ridge.  From this vantage-point he could see the
level plain stretching away on the farther side; he could count the
ridges running parallel to the one on which he had paused, and note
the troughs between, which never descended to the level ground to
deserve the name of valleys.  Looking down upon this tortured mass
of granite, he seemed gazing over a petrified sea that, in the fury
of a storm, had been caught at the highest dashing of its waves, and
fixed in threatening motion which throughout the ages would remain
as calm and secure as the level waste that stretched from the abrupt
walls in every direction.

On that first ridge he paused but a moment, lest his figure be
outlined against the night for the keen gaze of some hidden foe. 
Steadying the keg with one hand and holding his gun alert, he
descended into the first trough and climbed to the next ridge,
meaning to traverse the mile of broken surface, thus setting a
granite wall between him and the telltale wagon.  The second ridge
was not so high as the outer wall, and he paused here, feeling more
secure.  The ground was fairly level for perhaps fifty yards before
its descent to the next rolling depression where the shadows lay in
unrelieved gloom.  On the crest, about him, the dim light defined
broken boulders and great blocks of granite in grotesque forms, some
suggesting fantastic monsters, others, in sharp-cut or rounded forms
seemingly dressed by Cyclopean chisels.

The fugitive was not interested in the dimly defined shapes about
him; his attention had been attracted by a crevice in the smooth
rock ledge at his feet.  This ledge, barren of vegetation, and as
level as a slab of rough marble, showed a long black line like a
crack in a stone pavement.  At the man's feet the crevice was
perhaps two feet wide, but as it stretched toward the west it
narrowed gradually, and disappeared under a mass of disorganized
stones, as a mere slit in the surface.

Presently he set the keg and the tarpaulin-ball on the ground, not
to rest his shoulders, but in order to sink on his knees beside the
crevice.  He put his face down over it, listening, peering, but
making no discovery.  Then he unwound the lariat from about his
waist, tied it to the rope that had been a halter, and having
fastened a stone to one end, lowered it into the black space.  The
length of the lariat slipped through his fingers and the rope was
following when suddenly the rock found lodgment at the bottom.  On
making this discovery he drew up the lariat, opened the cloth
containing the food, and began to eat rapidly and with evident
excitement.  He did not fail to watch on all sides as he enjoyed
his long delayed meal, and while he ate and thus watched, he thought
rapidly.  When the first cravings of appetite were partly satisfied,
he left his baker's bread and bacon on a stone, tied up the rest of
the food in its cloth, rolled this in the tarpaulin, and lowered it
by means of the lariat into the crevice.  Then, having tied the end
of the rope to the gun-barrel, he placed the gun across the crevice
and swung himself down into the gloom.

The walls of the crevice were so close together that he was able to
steady his knees against them, but as he neared the bottom they
widened perceptibly.  His first act on setting foot to the stone
flooring was to open the tarpaulin, draw forth a candle and a box
of matches, and strike a light.  The chamber of granite in which he
stood was indeed narrow, but full of interest and romance.  The
floor was about the same width in all its length, wide enough for
Willock, tall as he was, to stretch across the passage.  It extended
perhaps a hundred feet into the heart of the rock, showing the same
smooth walls on either side.  The ceiling, however, was varied, as
the outward examination had promised.  Overhead the stars were seen
at ease through the two feet of space at the top; but as he carried
his candle forward, this opening decreased, to be succeeded
presently by a roof, at first of jumbled stones crushed together by
outward weight, then of a smooth red surface extending to the end.

The floor was the same everywhere save at its extremities.  At the
point of Willock's descent, it dipped away in a narrow line that
would not have admitted a man's body.  At the other end, where he
now stood, it suddenly gave way to empty space.  It came to an end
so abruptly that there was no means of discovering how deep was the
narrow abyss beyond.  Possibly it descended a sheer three hundred
feet, the depth of the ridge at that place.  On the smooth floor
which melted to nothingness with such sinister and startling
suddenness, the candlelight revealed the skeleton of a man lying at
the margin of the unknown depths.  Mingled with the bones that had
fallen apart with the passing of centuries, was a drawn sword of
blackened hilt and rusted blade--a sword of old Spanish make--and
in the dust of a rotted purse lay a small heap of gold coins of
strange design.

"Well, pard," said Brick Willock grimly, "you come here first and
much obliged to you.  You've told me two things:  that once in here,
no getting out--unless you bring along your ladder; and what's
better still, nobody has been here since you come, or that wouldn't
be my money!  And now having told me all you got to say, my
cavalier, I guess we'd better part."  He raked the bones into a
heap, and dashed them into the black gulf.  He did not hear them
when they struck bottom, and the sinister silence gave him an odd
thrill.  He shook his head.  "If I ever roll out of bed here," he
said, "me and you will spend the rest of the time together,
pardner."

He did not linger for idle speculation, hut drew himself up his
dangling rope, and in a short time was once more outside the place
of refuge.  Always on the lookout for possible watchers, he snatched
up his bread and meat, and ate as he hastened over the outer ridge
and down the rugged side toward the wagon.  Here he filled a box
with canned provisions and a side of bacon, and on top of this he
secured a sack of flour.  It made a heavy burden, but his long sleep
had restored him to his wonted strength, and he could not be sure
but this trip to the wagon would be his last.  With some difficulty
he hoisted the box to his herculean shoulder, and grasping a spade
and an ax in his disengaged hand, toiled upward to his asylum.

When the crevice in the mountain-top was reached, he threw the
contents of the box down into the tarpaulin which he had spread out
to receive it, and having broken up the box with the ax, cast the
boards down that they might fall to one side of the provisions. 
This done, he returned to the wagon, from above invisible, but
which, when he stood on the plain, loomed dim and shapeless against
the night.

There were great stores of comforts and even some luxuries in the
wagon, and it was hard for him to decide what to take next;
evidently Henry Gledware and his wife had expected to live in their
wagon after reaching their destination, for there was a stove under
the seat, and a stovepipe fastened to one side of the wagon.

"If the Indians don't catch me at this business," said Willock,
looking at the stove, "I'll get you too!"  He believed it could be
lowered between the stone lips of his cave-mouth, for it was the
smallest stove he had ever seen, surely less than two feet in width. 
"I'll get you in," said the plunderer decidedly, "or something will
be broke!"

For the present, however, he took objects more appropriate to
summer:  the mattress upon which he had passed the afternoon, a
bucket in which he packed boxes of matches, a quantity of candles,
soap, and the like.  This bucket he put in the middle of the
mattress and flanked it with towels and pillows, between which were
inserted plates, cups and saucers.  "I'll just take 'em all," he
muttered, groping for more dishes, "I might have company!"

The mattress once doubled over its ill-assorted contents, he was
obliged to rope both ends before he could carry it in safety.  This
load, heavier than the last, he succeeded in getting to the crevice,
and as he poised it over the brink a few yards from where the
tarpaulin lay, he apostrophized it with--"Break if you want to;
pieces is good enough for your Uncle Brick!"

When he left the wagon with his next burden, he was obliged to bend
low under buckets, tools, cans and larger objects.  As he moved
slowly to preserve equilibrium, he began to chuckle.  "Reckon if the
Injuns saw me now," he said aloud, "they'd take me for an elephant
with the circus-lady riding my back!"  At the crevice, he flung in
all that would pass the narrow opening intact, and smashed up what
was too large, that their fragments might also be hidden.

"Pshaw!" grunted Willock, as he started back toward the wagon,
mopping his brow on his shirt-sleeve, "Robinson Crusoe wasn't in
it!  Wonder why he done all that complaining when he had a nice easy
sea to wash him and his plunder ashore?"

He was beginning to feel the weariness of the morning return, and
the load that cleaned out the wagon-bed left him so exhausted that
he fell down on the ground beside the crevice, having thrown in his
booty.  Here, with his gull at his side and a pistol in his hand,
he fell fast asleep.

He lay there like a man of stone until some inner consciousness
began beating at the door of his senses, warning him that in no
great time the moon would rise.  He started up in a state of dazed
bewilderment, staring at the solemn stars, the vague outlines of
giant rocks about him and the limitless sea of darkness that flowed
away from the mountain-top indicating, but not defining, the
surrounding prairie.

"Get up from here!" Willock commanded himself.  He obeyed rather
stiffly, but when he was on his feet, ax in hand, he made the trip
to the wagon nimbly enough.  As he drew near, he saw gray shadows
slipping away--they were wolves.  He shouted at them disdainfully,
and without pause began removing the canvas from over the wagon. 
When that was done, his terrific blows resolved the wagon-bed to
separated boards, somewhat splintered hut practically intact.  By
means of the wrench he removed the wheels and separated the parts
of the wagon-frame.  Always, when he had obtained enough for a load,
he made that toilsome journey to his retreat.  He took the four
wheels at one time, rolling them one by one, lifting them singly
from ledge to ledge.

The last of his work was made easier because the darkness had begun
to lift.  Suddenly a glow appeared at the rim of the world, to he
followed, as it seemed, almost immediately by the dazzling edge of
an immense silver shield.  The moon rolled over the desert waste and
rested like a solid wheel of fire on the sand.  Instantly for miles
and miles there was not a shadow on the earth.  The level shafts of
light bathed with grotesque luminous distinction the countless
prairie-dogs which, squatting before the mouths of their retreats,
barked at the quick betrayal.  Coyotes, as if taken by surprise,
swung swiftly toward remote mountain fastnesses, their backs to the
light.

When Willock made his last and slowest trip to the ridge, his feet
dragging like lead, there was nothing to show that a covered wagon
had stood at the edge of the prairie; the splinters of the final
demolition had already mingled indistinguishably with the
wind-driven sand.  Arrived at the second ridge, which was still in
darkness, he took pains that no telltale sign should be left on the
smooth expanse of granite to indicate the near presence of a man. 
Swinging to the lariat that was now tied to a short plank, he
lowered himself into the midst of the debris with which that part
of his floor was strewn.  Poised on top of the heap of boards that
had formed the sides of the wagon, he pushed upward with a longer
plank and dislodged the one from which the rope dangled.  It fell
at his feet.

Provided with nails, a hammer and plenty of lumber, it would not be
difficult to construct a ladder for egress.  At present, he was too
tired to provide for the future.  He left the spoils just as they
had fallen, except for the old wagon-tongue and a board or two with
which he built a barricade against the unknown depths at the
farthest margin of the floor.  Then drawing the mattress to one
side, and clearing it of its contents, he fell upon it with a sigh
of comfort, and was again plunged into slumber--slumber prolonged
far into the following day.



CHAPTER VI
A MYSTERIOUS GUEST


When he awoke, a bar of sunshine which at first he mistook for an
outcropping of Spanish gold, glowed against the granite wall of his
mountain-top retreat.  He rose in leisurely fashion--henceforth
there would be plenty of time, years of it, running to waste with
useless days.  After eating and partaking sparingly of the brackish
water of the keg, he nailed together two long sideboards of the
dismembered wagon; and having secured these end to end, he fastened
in parallel strips to the surface short sticks as steps to his
ladder. This finished, he made a rope-ladder.  The ladder of boards
was for use in leaving the cave; the rope-ladder, which he meant to
hide under some boulder near the crevice, could be used in making
the descent.

The formless mass of inchoate debris, the result of his toilsome
journeys of the night before, was left as it had fallen--there would
be time enough to sort all that, a hundred times.  At present, he
would venture forth with the sole object of examining his
surroundings.  "This suits me exactly," he muttered, with a
good-humored chuckle; "just doing one thing at a time, and being
everlasting slow about doing that."

Fastening the rope-ladder about his waist, he scaled the boards,
and on reaching the top, cast them down.  First, he looked all
about, but no living creature was in sight.  "This is just to my
hand," he said aloud, seeking a suitable hiding-place for the
rope-ladder; "I always did despise company."

Stowing away the rope-ladder in a secure fissure between two giant
blocks of granite, each the size of a large two-story house, he
crossed to the first ridge, and looked out over the prairie, to
triumph over the vacant spot where the covered wagon had stood
fifteen hours before.  "No telling what a man can do," he exclaimed
admiringly, "that is to say, if his name is Brick Willock."

His eyes wandered to the mound of stones built over the woman's
grave.  His prayer recurred to his mind.  "Well, God," he said,
looking up at the cloudless sky, "I guess you're doing it!"  After
this expression of faith, he turned about and set forth to traverse
the mountain range.  Passing the ridge which he already looked upon
as home, he crossed other ridges of varying height, and at the end
of a mile reached the southern limit of the mountain.  Like the
northern side the southern elevation was nearly four hundred feet,
as if the granite sea had dashed upward in fiercest waves, in a last
futile attempt to inundate the plain.  The southern wall was
precipitous, and Willock, looking down the cedar-studded declivity,
could gaze directly on the verdant levels that came to the very
foot.

He stood at the center of an enormous horseshoe formed on the
southwest by the range curving farther toward the south, and on his
left hand, by the same range sweeping in a quarter-circle toward the
southeast.  The mouth of this granite half-circle was opened to the
south, at least a quarter-mile in width; but on his left, a jutting
spur almost at right angles to the main range, and some hundreds of
yards closer to his position, shot across the space within the
horseshoe bend, in such fashion that an observer, standing on the
plain, would have half his view of the inner concave expanse shut
off, except that part of the high north wall that towered above the
spur.

Nor was this all.  Behind the perpendicular arm, or spur, that ran
out into the sea of mesquit, rose a low hill that was itself in the
nature of an inner spur although, since it failed to reach the
mountain, it might he regarded as a long flat island, surrounded by
the calm green tide.  This innermost arm, or island, was so near the
mountain, that the entrance to it opened into a curved inner world
of green, was narrow and strongly protected.  The cove thus formed
presented a level floor of ten or twelve acres, and it was directly
down into this cove that Willock gazed.  It looked so peaceful and
secure, and its openness to the sunshine was so alluring, that
Willock resolved to descend the steep wall.  To do so at that point
was impractical, but the ridge was unequal and not far to the right,
sank to a low divide, while to the left, a deep gully thickly set
with cedars, elms, scrub-oaks and thorn trees invited him with its
steep but not difficult channel, to the ground.

"Here's a choice," observed Willock, as he turned toward the divide;
"guess I'll go by the front, and save the back stairs for an
emergency."  The gully was his back stairs.  He was beginning to
feel himself rich in architectural possibilities.  When he reached
the plain he was outside of a line of hummocks that effectually hid
the cove from sight, more effectually because of a dense grove of
pecans that stood on either side of the grass-grown dunes.  Instead
of crossing the barrier, he started due south for the outer prairie,
and when at last he stood midway between the wide jaws of the
mountain horseshoe, he turned and looked intently toward the cove.

It was invisible, and his highest hopes were realized.  From this
extended mouth he could clearly see where the first spur shot out
into the sand, and beyond that, he could see how, at a distance,
the sheer wall of granite rose to the sky; but there was nothing to
suggest that behind that scarred arm another projection parallel to
it might be discovered.  He walked toward the spur, always watching
for a possible glimpse of the cove.  When he stood on the inner
side, his spirits rose higher.  The long flat island that he had
discerned from the mountain-top was here not to be defined because,
on account of its lowness and of the abrupt wall beyond, it was
mingled indistinguishably with the perspective of the range. 
Concealment was made easier from the fact that the ground of the
cove was lower than all the surrounding land.

Willock now advanced on the cove and found himself presently in a
snug retreat that would have filled with delight the heart of the
most desperate highwayman, or the most timid settler.  On the north
was, of course, the towering mountain-wall, broken by the gully in
the protection of whose trees one might creep up or down without
detection.  On the east, the same mountain-wall curved in high
protection.  In front was the wide irregular island, low, indeed,
but happily high enough to shut out a view of the outside world. 
At the end of this barricade there was a gap, no wider than a
wagon-road, along the side of which ran the dry channel of a
mountain stream--the continuation of the gully that cut the
mountain-wall from top to base--but even this gap was high enough
to prevent observation from the plain.

No horsemen could enter the cove save by means of that low trench,
cut as by the hand of man in the granite hill, and as Indian
horsemen were the only enemies to be dreaded, his watchfulness need
be concentrated only on that one point.  "Nothing like variety,"
observed Willock cheerfully.

"This will do capital for my summer home!  I'm going to live like
a lord--while I'm living."

He examined the ground and found that it was rich and could be
penetrated easily, even to the very foot of the mountain.  "I'll
just get my spade," he remarked, "as I ain't got nothing else to
do."  In deliberate slowness he returned up the divide, and got the
spade from his retreat, then brought it to the cove.  Selecting a
spot near the channel of the dried-up torrent, he began to dig,
relieved to find that he did not strike rock.

"I guess," he said, stopping to lean on his spade as he stared at
the mountain, "the earth just got too full of granite and biled
over, but was keerful to spew it upwards, so's to save as much
ground as it could, while relieving its feelings."

Presently the earth on his blade began to cling from dampness. 
"When I digs a well," he remarked boastingly, "what I want is water,
and that's what I gets.  As soon as it's deep enough I'll wall her
up with rocks and take the longest drink that man ever pulled off,
that is to say, when it was nothing but common water.  They ain't
nothing about water to incite you to keep swallowing when you have
enough.  Of a sudden you just naturally leggo and could drown in it
without wanting another drop.  That's because it's nature.  Art is
different.  I reckon a nice clean drinking-joint and a full-stocked
bar is about the highest art that can stimulate a man.  But in
nature, you know when you've got enough."

After further digging he added, "And I got about enough of THIS! 
I mean the mountains and the plains and the sand and the wind and
the cave and the cove--" he wiped away the dripping sweat and looked
at the sun.  "Yes, and of you, too!"  He dropped the spade, and sat
down on the heap of dirt.  "Oh, Lord, but I'm lonesome!  I got
plenty to say, but nobody to listen at me."

He clasped his great hands about his knee, and stared sullenly at
the surrounding ramparts of red and brown granite, dully noting the
fantastic layers, the huge round stones that for ages had been about
to roll down into the valley but had never started, and others cut
in odd shapes placed one upon another in columns along the
perpendicular wall.  The sun beat on the long matted hair of his
bared head, but the ceaseless wind brought relief from its pelting
rays.  He, however, was conscious neither of the heat nor of the
refreshing touch.

At last he rose slowly to his towering legs and picked up the spade. 
"You're a fool, Brick Willock," he said harshly.  "Ain't you got
that well to dig?  And then can't you go for your kaig and bring it
here, and carry it back full of fresh water?  Dinged if there ain't
enough doings in your world to furnish out a daily newspaper!"  He
began to dig, adding in an altered tone:  "And Brick, HE says--
'Nothing ain't come to the worst, as long as you're living,' says
Brick!"

He was proud of the well when it was completed; the water was cold
and soft as it oozed up through clean sand, and the walls of
mud-mortised rocks promised permanency.  One did not have to
penetrate far into the bottom-lands of that cove to find water which
for unnumbered years had rushed down the mountainside in time of
rain-storms to lie, a vast underground reservoir, for the coming of
man.  Willock could reach the surface of the well by lying on his
stomach and scooping with his long arm. He duly carried out his
program, and when the keg was filled with fresh water, it was time
for dinner.

After a cold luncheon of sliced boiled ham and baker's bread, he
returned to the cove, where he idled away the afternoon under the
shade of tall cedar trees whose branches came down to the ground,
forming impenetrable pyramids of green.

Stretched out on the short buffalo-grass he watched the white flecks
follow one another across the sky; he observed the shadows
lengthening from the base of the western arm of the horseshoe till
they threatened to swallow up him and his bright speck of world; he
looked languidly after the flights of birds, and grinned as he saw
the hawks dart into round holes in the granite wall not much larger
than their bodies--those mysterious holes perforating the precipice,
seemingly bored there by a giant auger.

"Go to bed, pards," he called to the hawks.  "I reckon it's time
for me, too!"  He got up--the sun had disappeared behind the
mountain.  He stretched himself, lifting his arms high above his
head and slowly drawing his fists to his shoulder, his elbows
luxuriously crooked.  "One thing I got," he observed, "is room,
plenty!  Well--" he started toward the divide for his upward climb,
"I've lived a reasonable long life; I am forty-five; but I do think
that since I laid down under that tree, I have thought of everything
I ever done or said since I was a kid.  Guess I'll save the future
for another afternoon--and after that, the Lord knows what I'm going
to do with my brain, it's that busy."

The next day he began assorting the contents of his granite home,
moving to the task with conscientious slowness, stopping a dozen
times to make excursions into the outside world.  By diligent
economy of his working moments, he succeeded in covering almost two
weeks in the labor of putting his house into order.  His bedroom was
next to the barricade that separated the long stone excavation from
the bottomless abyss.  Divided from the bedroom by an imaginary
line, was the store-room of provisions.  The cans and boxes were
arranged along the floor with methodical exactitude.  Different
varieties of fruit and preserves were interspersed in such fashion
that none was repeated until every variety had been passed.

"I begins with this can of peaches," said Willock, laying his finger
upon the beginning of the row--"then comes apples, pears, plums;
then peaches, apples, pears, plums; then peaches, apples, pears,
plums; then peaches--blest if I don't feel myself getting sick of
'em already....  And now my meats:  bacon, ham.  My breadstuffs: 
loaves, crackers.  My fillers:  sardines, more sardines, more
sardines, likewise canned tomatoes.  Let me see--is it too much to
say that I eats a can of preserves in two days?  Maybe three.  That
is, till I sickens.  I begins with peach-day.  This is Monday.  Say
Thursday begins my apple-days.  I judge I can worm myself down
through the list by this time next month.  One thing I am sot on: 
not to save nothing if I can bring my stomach to carry the burden
with a willing hand.  I'll eat mild and calm, but steadfast.  Brick
Willock he says, 'Better starve all at once, when there's nothing
left, than starve a little every day,' says Brick.  'When it's a
matter of agony,' says he, 'take the short cut.'"

In arranging his retreat, he had left undisturbed the wagon-tongue,
since removing it from the end of the floor for a more secure
barricade; it had stood with several of the sideboards against the
wall, as if Brick meditated using them for a special purpose.  Such
was indeed his plan, and it added some zest to his present
employment to think of what he meant to do next; this was nothing
less than to make a dugout in the cove.

To this enterprise he was prompted not only by a desire to vary his
monotonous days, but to insure safety from possible foes.  Should
a skulking savage, or, what would be worse, a stray member of the
robber band catch sight of him among the hills, the spy would spread
the news among his fellows.  A relentless search would be
instituted, and even if Willock succeeded in escaping, the band
would not rest till it had discovered his hiding-place.  If they
came on the dugout, their search would terminate, and his home in
the crevice would escape investigation; but if there was no dugout
to satisfy curiosity, the crevice would most probably be explored.

"Two homes ain't too many for a character like me, nohow," remarked
Brick, as he set the wagon-tongue and long boards on end to be drawn
up through the crevice.  "Cold weather will be coming on in due
time--say three or four months--and what's that to me? a mere
handful of time!  Well, I don't never expect to make a fire in my
cave, I'll set my smoke out in the open where it can be traced
without danger to my pantry shelves."

He was even slower about building the dugout than he had been in
arranging the miscellaneous objects in the cavern on top of the
mountain.  Transporting the timbers across a mile of ridges and
granite troughs was no light work; and when his tools and material
were in the cove, the digging of the dugout was protracted because
of the closeness of water to the surface.  At last he succeeded in
excavating the cellar at a spot within a few yards of the mountain,
without penetrating moistened sand.  He leveled down the walls till
he had a chamber about twelve feet square.  Over this he placed the
wagon-tongue, converting it into the ridge-pole, which he set upon
forks cut from the near-by cedars.  Having trimmed branches of the
trees in the grove, he laid them as close together as possible,
slanting from the ridge-pole to the ground, and over these laid the
bushy cedar branches.  This substantial roof he next covered with
dirt, heaping it up till no glimpse of wood was visible tinder the
hard-packed dome.  The end of the dugout was closed up in the same
way except for a hole near the top fitted closely to the stovepipe
and packed with mud.

Of the sideboards he fashioned a rude frame, then a door to stand
in it, fitted into grooves that it might be pushed and held into
place without hinges.  "Of course I got to take down my door every
time I comes in or out," remarked Willock, regarding his structure
with much complacency, "but they's nothing else to do, and I got to
be occupied."

When he had transported the stove to the cove, he set it up with a
tingle of expectant pleasure.  It was to be his day of housewarming,
not because the weather had grown cold, but that he might celebrate.

"This here," he said, "is to be a red-letter day, a day plumb up in
X, Y and Z.  I got to take my gun and forage for some game; then
I'll dress my fresh meat and have a cooking.  I'll bring over some
grub to keep it company.  Let's see--this is plum-day, ain't it?" 
He stood meditating, stroking his wild whiskers with a grimy hand. 
"Oh, Lord, yes, I believe it IS plum-day!  'Well, they ain't nothing
the way you would have made it yourself,' says Brick, 'not even
though it's you as made it.'  This here is plum-day, and that there
can of plums will shore be opened.  And having my first fire gives
me a chance to open up my sack of flour; won't I hold carnival! 
What I feels sorry about myself is knowing how I'm going to feel
after I've et all them victuals.  I believe I'll take a bath, too,
in that pool over yonder in the grove.  Ain't I ever going to use
that there soap?...  But I don't say as I will.  Don't seem wuth
while.  They ain't nobody to see me, and I feels clean insides.  As
I takes it, you do your washing for them as neighbors with you.  If
I had a neighbor!--just a dog, a little yaller dog--or some chickens
to crow and cackle--"

He broke off, to lean despondently on his gun.  He remained thus
motionless for a long time, his earth-stained garments, unkempt
hair, hard dark hands and gloomy eye marking him as the only object
in the bright sunshine standing forth unresponsive to nature's
smile.

He started into life with a shrug of his powerful shoulders.  "It's
just like you, Brick, to spoil a festibul-day with your low idees! 
Why don't you keep them idees for a rainy day?  Just lay up them
regrets and hankerings for the first rainy day, and then be of a
piece with the heavens and earth.  'If you can't stay cheerful while
the sun's shining,' says Brick, 'God's wasting a mighty nice big sun
on YOU!'"

Thus admonishing himself, and striving desperately for contentment,
he strode forth from the only exit of the cove, and skirted the
southern wall of the range, looking for game.  It was late in the
afternoon when he returned with the best portions of a deer swung
over his shoulder.  By this time he was desperately hungry, and the
prospect of the first venison since his exile stirred his pulses,
and gave to the bright scene a cheerful beauty it had not before
worn to his homesick heart.  He trudged up to the narrow door of the
dugout which was closed, just as he had left it, and having carried
a noble haunch of venison to the pool to be washed, he descended the
dirt steps and set the door to one side.  Without at first
understanding why, he became instantly aware that some one had been
there during his absence.

Of course, as soon as his eyes could penetrate the semi-gloom
sufficiently to distinguish small objects, he saw the proof; but
even before that, the air seemed tingling with some strange
personality.  He stood like a statue, gazing fixedly.  His alert
eyes, always on guard, had assured him that the cove was deserted-
-there was no use to look behind him.  Whoever had been there must
have scaled the mountain, and had either crossed to the plain on the
north, or was hiding behind the rocks.  What held his eyes to the
stove was a heap of tobacco, and a clay pipe beside it.  Among the
stores removed from the wagon, tobacco had been found in generous
quantity, but during the month now elapsed, bad been sadly reduced. 
Willock, however, was not pleased to find the new supply; on the
contrary his emotions were confused and alarmed.  Had the tobacco
been ten times as much, it could not have solaced him for the
knowledge that the dugout had been visited.

After a few minutes of immobility, he entered, placed the meat on
a box, and departed softly, closing the door behind him.  Casting
apprehensive glances along the mountainside, he stole toward it,
and made his way up the gully, completely hidden by the straggling
line of trees and underbrush, till he stood on the summit.  He
approached each ridge with extreme caution, as if about to storm the
barricade of an enemy; thus he traveled over the range without
coming on the traces of his mysterious visitor.  Not pausing at the
crevice, he went on to the outer northern ridge of the range, and
lying flat among some high rocks, looked down.

He counted seventeen men near the spot from which he had removed
the wagon.  Fifteen were on horseback and two riderless horses
explained the presence of the two on foot.  All of them had drawn
up in a circle about the heap of stones that covered the woman's
burial-place.  Of the seventeen, sixteen were Indians, painted and
adorned for the war-path.  The remaining man, he who stood at the
heap of stones beside the chief, was a white man, and at the first
glance, Willock recognized him; he was the dead woman's husband,
Henry Gledware.

Brick's mind was perplexed with vain questionings:  Was it Gledware
who had visited his dugout, or the Indians?  Did the pipe and
tobacco indicate a peace-offering?  What was the relationship
between Gledware and these Indians?  Was he their prisoner, and were
they about to burn him upon the heap of stones?  He did not seem
alarmed.  Had he made friends with the chief by promising to conduct
him to the deserted wagon?  If so, what would they think in regard
to the wagon's disappearance?  Had the dugout persuaded them that
there was no other retreat in the mountains?

While Brick watched in agitated suspense, several Indians leaped to
the ground at a signal from the chief and advanced toward the white
man.  The chief turned his back upon the company, and started toward
the mountain, his face turned toward Brick's place of observation. 
He began climbing upward, the red feather in his hair gleaming
against the green of the cedars.  Brick had but to remain where he
was, to reach forth his hand presently and seize the warrior--but
in that case, those on the plain would come swarming up the ascent
for vengeance.

Brick darted from his post, swept like a dipping swallow across the
ravine, and snatching up the rope-ladder from its nook under the
boulder, scurried down into the granite chamber.  Having removed the
ladder, he crept to the extremity of the excavation, and with his
back against the wall and his gun held in readiness, awaited the
coming of the chief.  After the lapse of many minutes he grew
reassured; the Indian, thinking the dugout his only home, had passed
the crevice without the slightest suspicion.

However, lest in thrusting forth his head, he call attention to his
home in the rock, he kept in retreat the rest of that day, nor did
he venture forth that night.  After all, the housewarming did not
take place.  The stove remained cold, the tobacco and pipe upon it
were undisturbed, and the evening meal consisted notably of plums.



CHAPTER VII
RED FEATHER


One bright warm afternoon in October two years later, Brick Willock
sat smoking his pipe before the open door of his dugout, taking
advantage of the mountain-shadow that had just reached that spot. 
In repose, he always sat, when in the cove, with his face toward the
natural roadway leading over the flat hill-island into the farther
reach of the horseshoe.  It was thus he hoped to prevent surprise
from inimical horsemen, and it was thus that, on this particular
afternoon, he detected a shadow creeping over the reddish-brown
stone passage before its producing cause rode suddenly against the
background of the blue sky.

At first glimpse of that shadow of a feathered head, Willock flung
himself down the dirt steps leading to the open door; now, lying
flat, he directed the barrel of his gun over the edge of the level
ground, covering an approaching horseman.  As only one Indian came
into view, and as this Indian was armed in a manner as astounding
as it was irresistible, Willock rose to his height of
six-foot-three, lowered his weapon, and advanced to meet him.

When he was near, the Indian--the same chief from whom Willock had
fled on the day of his intended housewarming--this Indian sprang
lightly to the ground, and lifted from the horse that defense which
he had borne in front of him on penetrating the cove; it was the
child for whose sake Willock had separated himself from his kind.

At first, Willock thought he was dreaming one of those dreams that
had solaced his half-waking hours, for he had often imagined how it
would be if that child were in the mountains to bear him company. 
But however doubtful he might he regarding her, he took no chances
about the Indian, but kept his alert gaze fixed on him to forestall
any design of treachery.

The Indian made a sign to the little girl to remain with the horse;
then he glided forward, holding somewhat ostentatiously, a filled
pipe in his extended hand.  He had evidently come to knit his soul
to that of his white brother while the smoke from their pipes
mingled on the quiet air, forming a frail and uncertain monument to
the spirit of peace.

"Was it you that left a pipe and tobacco on my stove two years ago?"
Willock asked abruptly.

"Yes.  You got it?  We will smoke."  He seated himself gravely on
the ground.

Willock went into the cabin, and brought out the clay pipe.  They
smoked.  Willock cast covert glances toward the girl.  She stood
slim and straight, her face rigid, her eyes fixed on the horse whose
halter she held.  Her limbs were bare and a blanket that descended
to her knees seemed her only garment.  The face of the sleeping
child of five was the same, however, as this of the seven-year-old
maid, except that it had grown more beautiful; the wealth of glowing
brown hair made amends for all poverty of attire.

Willock was wonderfully moved; so much so that his manner was harsh,
his voice gruff in the extreme.  "What are you going to do with that
girl?" he demanded.

"You take her?" inquired the chief passively.

"Yes--I take her."

"Good!"  The Indian smoked serenely.

"Where'd you find her?"

"Not been lost.  Her safe all time.  Sometime in one village--here,
then there, two, three--move her about.  Safe all time.  I never
forget.  There she is.  You take her?"

"I said so, didn't I?  Where's her daddy?"

The Indian said nothing, only smoked, his eyes fixed on space.

Willock raised his voice.  "Must I ask HER where he is?"

"Her not know.  Her not seen him one, two year.  She say him dead."

"Oh, he's dead, is he?"

"Him safe, too."  He looked at the sun.  "Long trail before me. 
Then I leave her.  I go, now."

"Not much you don't go!  Not THIS minute.  Where is that girl's daddy?"

No answer.

"If he's safe, why hasn't she been with him all this time?"

"Me big chief."

"Oh, yes, I judge you are.  But that's nothing to me.  I'm big
chief, too.  I own this corner of the universe--and I want to know
about that girl's daddy."

"Him great man."

"Well--go ahead; tell the rest of it."

"Him settle among my tribe; him never leave our country.  'Big
country, fat country, very rich.  Him change name--everything; him
one of us.  Marry my daughter.  THAT girl not his daughter--daughter
of dead woman.  Keep her away from him all time, so him never see
white man, white woman, white child, forget white people, be good
Indian.  The girl make him think of dead woman.  When a man marry
again, not good to remember dead woman.  Him think girl dead, but
no care, no worry, no sad.  SHE never his daughter--dead woman's
daughter.  All his path is white, no more blue.  Him very glad,
every day--my daughter his wife.  She keep scalp-knife from his
head.  My braves capture--they dance about fire, she say 'No.'  She
marry him.  Their path is white; the sky over them is white."

He rose, straight as an arrow, and turned his grim face toward the
horse.

"I see.  And you don't want to tell me where he is, because you want
him to forget he is a white man?"

"Him always live with my people; him marry my daughter."

"Tell me this; is he far away?"

"Very far.  Many days.  You never find him.  You stay here, keep
girl, and me and my people your friends.  You come after him--not
your friends!"

"Why, bless your heart, I never want to see that man again; your
daughter is welcome to him, but I'm afraid she's got a bad bargain. 
This girl's just as I'd have her--unencumbered.  I'm AWFUL glad you
come, pardner!  Whenever you happen to be down in this part of
Texas, drop in and make us a visit!"

With every passing moment, Willock was realizing more keenly what
this amazing sequel to the past meant to him.  He would not only
have company in his dreary solitude, but, of all company, the very
one he yearned for to comfort his heart.  "Give us your paw, old
man--shake.  You bet I'll take her!"

He strode forward and addressed the girl:  "Are you willing to stay
with me, little one?"

She shrank back from the wild figure.  During his two years of
hiding in the mountains, Willock had cared nothing for his personal
appearance.  His garments, on disintegrating had been replaced by
skins, thus giving an aspect of assorted colors and materials rather
remarkable.  Only when driven by necessity had he ventured on long
journeys to the nearest food-station, carrying the skins obtained
by trapping, and bringing back fresh stores of provisions and
tobacco on the pony purchased by the Spanish gold.

Willock was greatly disconcerted by her attitude.  He said
regretfully, "I guess I've been so much with myself that I ain't
noticed my outside as a man ought.  Won't you make your home with
me, child?"  He held out his rough hand appealingly.

She retreated farther, saying with disapproval, "Much hair!"

Willock laid his hand on his breast, returning, "Much heart!"

"Him white," said the Indian, swinging himself upon his horse.  "Him
save your life.  Sometime me come visit, come eat, come stay with
you."

As he wheeled about, she held out her arms toward him, crying
wildly, "Don't go!  Don't leave me!  Him much hair!"

The Indian dashed away without turning his head.

"Good lord, honey," exclaimed Willock, at his wits' ends, "don't
cry!  I can't do nothing if you CRY.  Won't you come look at your
new home?"  He waved eagerly toward the dugout.

"Hole in the ground!" cried the girl desperately.  "I want my tepee. 
Am I a prairie-dog?"

"No, honey, you ain't.  You and me is both white, and we ought to
live together; it ain't right for you to live with red people that
kills and burns your own kith and kin."

She looked at him repellently through her streaming tears.  "Big
hair!" she cried.  "Big hair!"

"And must I cut it off?  I'll make my head as smooth as yonder
bald-headed mountain-peak if it'll keep you from crying.  Course
you ain't seen nobody with whiskers amongst them Indians, but THEY
ain't your people.  Your people is white, they are like me, they
grows hair.  But I'll shave and paint myself red, and hunt for
feathers, if that's what you want."

Her sobbing grew less violent.  Despite his ferocious aspect, no
fear could remain in her heart at sight of that distressed
countenance, at sound of those conciliatory tones.  Willock,
observing that the tempest was abating, continued in his most
appealing manner:

"I'm going to do whatever you say, honey, and you're going to be
the queen of the cove.  Ain't you never been lonesome amongst all
them red devils? Ain't you missed your poor mammy as died crossing
the plains? It was me that buried her.  Ain't you never knowed how
it felt to want to lay your head on somebody's shoulder and slip
your little arms about his neck, and go to sleep like an angel
whatever was happening around?  I guess SO!  Well, that's me, too. 
Here I've been for two long year, never seeing nothing but wild
animals or prowling savages till the last few months when a settler
comes to them mountains seven mile to the southwest.  Looked like
I'd die, sometimes, just having myself to entertain."

"You lonesome, too?" said the girl, looking up incredulously.  She
drew a step nearer, a wistful light in her dark eyes.

The man stretched out his arms and dropped them to his side,
heavily.  "Like that," he cried--"just emptiness!"

"I stay," she said simply.  "All time, want my own people; all time,
Red Feather say some day take me to white people--want to go, all
time.  But Red Feather never tell me 'BIG HAIR.'  Didn't know what
it was I was looking for--never thought it would be something like
you."

"But you ain't afraid now, are you, little one?"

She shook her head, and drawing nearer, seated herself on the ground
before the dugout.  "You LOOK Big Hair," she explained sedately,
"but your speech is talk of weak squaw."

Somewhat disconcerted by these words, Willock sat down opposite her,
and resumed his pipe as if to assert his sex.  "I seem weak to you,"
he explained, "because I love you, child, and want to make friends
with you.  But let me meet a big man--well, you'd see, then!"  He
looked so ferocious as he uttered these words, that she started up
like a frightened quail, grasping her blanket about her.

"No, no, honey," he cooed abjectly, "I wouldn't hurt a fly.  Me, I
was always a byword amongst my pards.  They'd say, 'There goes Brick
Willock, what never harmed nobody.'  When they kept me in at school
I never clumb out the window, and it was me got all the prize cards
at Sunday-school.  How comes it, honey, that you ain't forgot to
talk like civilized beings?"

"Red Feather, him always put me with squaw that know English--that
been to school on the reservation.  Never let me learn talk like
the Indians.  Him always say some day take me to my own people. 
But never said 'BIG HAIR.'"

"Did he tell you your mother died two years ago?"

"Yes--father, him dead, too.  Both died in the plains.  Father was
shot by robbers.  Mother was left in big wagon--you bury her near
this mountain."

"Oh, ho! So your father was killed at the same time your mother was,
eh?"

"Yes."

"Well--all right.  And now you got nobody but me to look after you--
but you don't need no more; as long as I'm able to be up and about,
nothing is going to hurt you.  Just you tell me what you want, and
it'll be did."

"Want to be ALL like white people; want to be just like mother."

"Well, I'll teach you as fur up as I've been myself.  Your style of
talk ain't correct, but it was the best Red Feather could do by you. 
Him and you lay down your words like stepping-stones for your
thoughts to step over; but just listen at me, how smooth and fine-
textured my language is, with no breaks or crevices from the
beginning of my periods to where my voice steps down to start on a
lower ledge.  That's the way white people talks, not that they got
more to say than Injuns, but they fills in, and embodies everything,
like filling up cabin-walls with mud.  I'll take you by the hand
right from where Red Feather left you, and carry you up the heights."

She examined him dubiously:  "You know how?"

"I ain't no bell-wether in the paths of learning, honey, but Red
Feather is some miles behind me.  What's your name?"

"Lahoma."

"Born that way, or Injunized?"

"Father before he died, him all time want to go settle in the
Oklahoma country--settle on a claim with mother.  They go there two
times--three--but soldiers all time make them go back to Kansas. 
So me, I was born and they named me Oklahoma--but all time they call
me Lahoma.  That I must be called, Lahoma because that father and
mother all time call me.  Lahoma, that my name."  She inquired
anxiously, "You call me Lahoma?"  She leaned forward, hands upon
knees, in breathless anxiety.

"You bet your life I will, Lahoma!"

"Then me stay all time with you--all time.  And you teach me talk
right, and dress right, and be like mother and my white people? 
You teach me all that?"

"That's the program.  I'm going to civilize you--that means to make
you like white folks.  It's going to take time, but the mountains
is full of time."

"You 'civilize' me right now?--  You begin today?"  She started up
and stood erect with arms folded, evidently waiting for treatment.

"The process will be going on all the while you're associating with
me, honey.  That chief, Red Feather--he has a daughter, hasn't he?"

"No; him say no girl, no boy."  She spoke with confidence.

"I see.  And your father's dead too, eh?"  Evidently Red Feather
had thoroughly convinced her of the truth of these pretenses.

"Both--mother, father.  Nobody but me."  She knelt down at his side,
her face troubled.  "If I had just one!"

"Can you remember either of them?"

"Oh, yes, yes--and Red Feather, him talk about them, talk, talk,
always say me be white with the white people some day.  This is the
day.  You make me like mother was.  You civilize me--begin!"  She
regarded him with dignified attention, her little hands locked about
her blanket where it lay folded below her knees.  The cloud had
vanished from her face and her eyes sparkled with expectancy.

"I ain't got the tools yet, honey.  They's no breaking up and
enriching land that ain't never bore nothing but buffalo-grass,
without I have picks and spades and plows and harrers.  I got to get
my tools, to begin."

She stiffened herself.  "You needn't be afraid I'll cry.  I WANT
you to hurt me, if that the way."

"It ain't like a pain in the stomach, Lahoma.  All I gets for you
will be some books.  Them is the tools I'm going to operate with."

"Books?  What are books?"

"Books?"  Willock rubbed his bushy head in desperation.  "Books? 
Why, they is just thoughts that somebody has ketched and put in a
cage where they can't get away.  You go and look at them thoughts
somebody capable has give rise to, and when you finds them as has
never ranged in your own brain, you captures 'em, puts your brand
on 'em, and serves 'em out in your own herd.  You see, Lahoma, what
you think in your own brain ain't of no service, for YOU don't know
nothing.  If you want to be civilized, you got to lasso other
people's thoughts--people as has went to and fro and has learned
life--and you got to dehorn them ideas, and tame 'em."

Lahoma examined him with new interest.  "Are YOU civilized?"  Her
countenance fell.

"Not to no wide extent, but I can ford toler'ble deep streams that
would drown you, honey.  Just put confidence in me, and when I get
over my head, I'll holler for help.  I judge I can put five good
years' work on you without exhausting my stores.  I can read amongst
the small words pretty peart--the young calves, so to say--and lots
of them big steers in three or four syllables,--I can sort o' guess
at their road-brands from the company I've saw 'em traveling with,
in times past.  And I can write my own name, and yours too, I
reckon.--Lahoma Gledware--yes, I'm toler'ble well versed on a
capital 'G'--you just make a gap with a flying tail to it."

"My name NOT Lahoma Gledware," she interposed in some severity. 
"My name, Lahoma Willock.  Beautiful name--lovely, like flower
--Willock; call me Lahoma Willock--like song of little stream. 
Gledware, hard--rough."

Brick Willock stared at her in amazement.  "Where'd you get that
from?"

"My name Lahoma Willock--Red Feather tell me."

He smoked in silence, puffing rapidly.  Then--"My name is Brick
Willock.  How came you to be named Lahoma Willock?"

Lahoma suggested thoughtfully--"All white people named Willock?"

"There's a few," Willock shook his head, "with less agreeable names. 
But after all, I'm glad you have my name.  Yes--the more I think on
it, the more pleased I get.  I reckon we're sort of kinfolks, anyhow.
Well, honey, this is enough talk about being civilized; now let's
make the first move on the way.  You want to see your mother's grave,
and lay some of these wild flowers on it.  That's a part of being
civilized, caring for graves is.  It's just savages as forgets the
past and consequently never learns nothing.  Come along.  Them
moccasins will do famous until I can get you shoes from the
settlements.  It's seventy mile to Vernon, Texas, and none too easy
miles.  But I got a pony the first time I ventured to Doan's store,
and it'll carry you, if I have to walk at your side.  We'll make a
festibul march of that journey, and lay in clothes as a girl should
wear, and books to last through the winter."

Willock rose and explained that they must cross the mountain.  As
they traversed it, he reminded her that she had not gathered any of
the flowers that were scattered under sheltering boulders.

"Why?" asked Lahoma, showing that her neglect to do so was
intentional.

"Well, honey, don't you love and honor that mother that bore so much
pain and trouble for you, traveling with you in her arms to the
Oklahoma country, trying to make a home for you up there in the
wilderness, and at last dying from the hardships of the plains. 
Ain't she worth a few flowers."

"She dead.  She not see flowers, not smell flowers, not know."

Willock said nothing, but the next time they came to a clump of
blossoms he made a nosegay.  Lahoma watched him with a face as calm
and unemotional as that of Red Feather, himself.  She held her back
with the erect grace and moved her limbs with the swift ease of
those among whom she had passed the last two years.  In delightful
harmony with this air of wildness was the rich and delicate beauty
of her sun-browned face, and the golden glow of her silken brown
hair.  Willock's heart yearned toward her as only the heart of one
destined to profound loneliness can yearn toward the exquisite grace
and unconscious charm of a child; but to the degree that he felt
this attraction, he held himself firmly aloof, knowing that wild
animals are frightened when kindness beams without its veil.

"What you do with that?"  She pointed at the flowers in his rough
hand.

"I'm going to put 'em on your mother's grave."

"She not know.  Not see, not smell.  She dead, mother dead."

"Lahoma, do you know anything about God?"

"Yes--Great Spirit.  God make my path white."

"Well, I want God to know that somebody remembers your mother.  It's
God that smells the flowers on the graves of the dead."

They walked on.  Pretty soon Lahoma began looking about for flowers,
but they had reached the last barren ledge, and no more came in
sight.

"Take these, Lahoma."

"No.  Couldn't fool God."  They began the last descent.  Willock
suddenly discovered that tears were slipping down the girl's face. 
He said nothing; he did not fear, now, for he thought the tears
promised a brighter dawning.

Suddenly Lahoma cried joyfully, "Oh, look, Brick, look!"  And she
darted toward the spot at the foot of a tall cedar, where purple
and white blossoms showed in profusion.  She gathered an armful,
and they went down to the plain.

"Her head's toward the west," he said, as they stood beside the pile
of stones.  Lahoma placed the flowers at the Western margin of the
pyramid.  Willock laid his at the foot of the grave.  The sun had
set and the warmth of the heated sand was tempered by a fragrant
breeze.  Though late in October, he felt as if spring were just
dawning.  He took Lahoma's hand, and his heart throbbed to find that
she showed no disposition to draw away.

He looked up with a great sigh of thanksgiving.  "Well, God," he
said softly, "here she is--You sure done it!"



CHAPTER VIII
GETTING CIVILIZED


During the two years passed by Brick Willock in dreary solitude,
conditions about him had changed.  The hardships of pioneer life
which, fifty years ago, had obtained in the Middle States yet
prevailed, in 1882, in the tract of land claimed by Texas under the
name of Greer County; but the dangers of pioneer life were greatly
lessened.  As Lahoma made the acquaintance of the mountain-range,
and explored the plain extending beyond the natural horseshoe,
Willock believed she ran little danger from Indians.  He, himself,
had ceased to preserve his unrelaxing watchfulness; after all, it
had been the highwaymen rather than the red men whom he had most
feared--and after two years it did not seem likely that such
volatile men would pre serve the feeling of vengeance.

With the wisdom derived from his experience with wild natures, he
carefully abstained from any attempt to force Lahoma's friendship,
hence it was not long before he obtained it without reserve.  As she
walked beside him, grave and alert, she no longer thought of his
bushy beard and prodigious mop of harsh hair; and the daily
exhibition of his strength caused him to grow handsome in her eyes
because most of those feats were performed for her comfort or
pleasure.  In the meantime he talked incessantly, and to his
admiration, he presently found her manner of speech wonderfully like
his own, both fluent and ungrammatical.

He knew nothing of grammar, to be sure, but there were times when
his mistakes, echoed from her lips, struck upon his ear, and though
he might not always know how to correct them, he was prompt to
suggest changes, testing each, as a natural musician judges music,
by ear.  Dissatisfied with his own standards, he was all the more
impatient to depart on the expedition after mental tools, despite
the dangers that might beset the journey.

His first task prompted by the coming of Lahoma, had been to
partition off the half of the dugout containing the stove for the
child's private chamber.  Cedar posts set in the ground and
plastered with mud higher than his head, left a space between the
top and the apex of the ceiling that the temperature might be
equalized in both rooms.  Thus far, however, they did not stay in
the dugout except long enough to eat and sleep, for the autumn had
continued delightful, and the cove seemed to the child her home, of
which the dugout was a sort of cellar.  Concerning the stone retreat
in the crevice she knew nothing.  Willock did not know why he kept
the secret, since he trusted Lahoma with all his treasures, but the
unreasoning reticence of the man of great loneliness still rested
on him.  Some day, he would tell--but not just yet.

"Lahoma," he said one day, "there's a settler over yonder in the
mountains across the south plain.  How'd you like to pay him a
visit?"

"I don't want anybody but you," said Lahoma promptly.

Willock stood on one leg, rubbing the other meditatively with his
delighted foot.  Not the quiver of a muscle, however, revealed the
fact that her words had flooded his heart with sunshine.  "Well,
honey, that's in reason.  But I've got to take you with me after
books and winter supplies, and I don't like the idea of traveling
alone.  It come to me that I might get Mr. Settler to go, too.  Time
was not so long ago when Injun bands was coming and going, and
although old Greer is beginning to be sprinkled up with settlers,
here and there, I can't get over the feel of the old times.  They
ain't no sensation as sticks by a man when he's come to be wedged
in between forty-five and fifty, as the feel of the old times."

"Well," said Lahoma earnestly, "I wish you'd leave me here when you
go after them books.  I don't want to be with no strangers, I want
to just squat right here and bear myself company."

"That's in reason.  But, honey, while you might be safe enough
whilst bearing the same, I would be plumb crazy worrying about you. 
I might not have good cause for worrying, but worrying--it ain't no
bird that spreads its wings and goes north when cold weather comes;
worrying--it's independent of causes and seasons."

"If you have got to be stayed with to keep you from worrying, they
ain't nothing more to be said."

"Just so.  That there old settler, I have crossed a few words with
him, and I believe he would do noble to travel with.  He's as gruff
and growly as a grizzly bear if you say a word to him, and if he'll
just turn all that temper he's vented on me on to any strangers we
may run up against on the trail, he'll do invaluable."

"I'll go catch up the pony," said Lahoma briefly, "for I see the
thing is to be did.  This will be the first visit I ever made in my
life when I wasn't drug by the Injuns."

"You mustn't say 'drug,' honey, unless specifying medicines and
herbs.  I ain't saying you didn't get it from me, and knowing you
do get from me all I got, is what makes me hone for them books. 
You must say 'dragged.'  The Injuns DRAGGED you from one village to
another."  He paused meditatively, muttering the word to himself,
while Lahoma ran away to catch the pony.  When she came back,
leading it by the mane, he said, "I've been a-weighing that word,
Lahoma, and it don't seem to me that 'dragged' sounds proper.  It
don't seem no sort of word to use in a parlor.  What do you think? 
DRAGGED!  How does that strike you?"

"I don't like the sound of it, neither," said Lahoma, shaking her
head.  "I think DRUG is softer.  It kinder melts in the ear, and
DRAGGED sticks."

"Well, don't use neither one till I can find out."  Presently he
was swinging along across the plain toward the southwestern range
while the girl kept close beside him on the pony.  Their talk was
incessant, voicing the soul of good comradeship, and but for the
difference between heavy bass and fluty soprano, a listener might
have supposed himself overhearing a conversation between two Brick
Willocks.

There was nothing about the second range of the Wichita Mountains
to distinguish it from the one farthest toward the northeast except
a precipice at its extremity, rising a sheer three or four hundred
feet above the level plain.  Beyond this lofty termination, the
mountain curved inward, leaving a wide grassy cove open toward the
south; and within this half-circle was the settler's dugout.

The unprotected aspect of that little home was in itself an eloquent
commentary on the wonderful changes that had come about during the
last seventeen years.  The oval tract of one million five hundred
thousand acres lying between Red River and its fork, named Greer
County, and claimed by Texas, was in miniature a reproduction of the
early history of America.  Until 1860 it had not even borne a name,
and since then it had possessed no settled abodes.  Here bands of
Indians of various tribes had come and gone at will, and here the
Indians of the Plains, after horrible deeds of depredation, massacre
and reprisal, had found shelter among its mountains.  The country
lay at the southwest corner of Indian Territory for which the
Indians had exchanged their lands in other parts of the United
States on the guarantee that the government would "forever secure
to them and their heirs the country so exchanged with them."

At the close of the Civil War the unhappy Indians long continued in
a state of smoldering animosity, or warlike activity, tribe against
tribe, band against band; they had inherited the rancor and
bitterness of the White Man's war with neither the fruits of victory
nor the dignity that attends honorable defeat.  The reservations
that belonged originally to the Cherokee, Choctaw, Chickasaw,
Seminole and Creek tribes, were reduced in area to make room for new
tribes from Kansas, Colorado and other states, and the Indian wars
resulted.  For a time the scalp-knife was crimsoned, the stake was
charred, bands stole in single file over mountains and among
half-dried streams; troups of the regular army were assaulted by
invisible foes, and forts were threatened.  Youths who read romances
of a hundred years ago dealing with the sudden war-cry, the flaming
cabin, the stealthy approach of swarming savages, need have traveled
only a few hundred miles to witness on the open page of life what
seemed to them, in their long-settled states, fables of a dead past.

But though the Indian wars in the Territory had been bloody and
vindictive, they had not been protracted as in the old days.  Around
the country of the red man was drawn closer and more securely, day
by day, the girdle of civilization.  Within its constricting grasp
the spirit of savagery, if not crushed, was at least subdued. 
Tribes naked but for their blankets, unadorned save by the tattoo,
found themselves pressed close to other tribes which, already
civilized, had relinquished the chase for agricultural pursuits. 
Primeval men, breathing this quickened atmosphere of modernity,
either grew more sophisticated, or perished like wild flowers
brought too near the heat.  It is true the plains were still
unoccupied, but they had been captured--for the railroad had come,
and the buffalo had vanished.

Brick Willock and the man he had come to see were very good types
of the first settlers of the new country--one a highwayman, hiding
from his kind, the other a trapper by occupation, trying to keep
ahead of the pursuing waves of immigration.  It was the first time
Lahoma had seen Bill Atkins, and as she caught sight of him before
his dugout, her eyes brightened with interest.  He was a tall lank
man of about sixty-five, with a huge gray mustache and bushy hair
of iron-gray, but without a beard.  The mustache gave him an effect
of exceeding fierceness, and the deeply wrinkled forehead and square
chin added their testimony to his ungracious disposition.

But Lahoma was not afraid of coyotes, catamounts or mountain-lions,
and she was not afraid of Bill Atkins.  Her eyes brightened at the
discovery that he held in his hand that which Willock had described
to her as a book.

"Does he read?", she asked Willock, breathlessly.  "Does he read,
Brick?"

Willock surveyed the seated figure gravely.  "He reads!" he
responded.

The man looked up, saw Willock and bent over his book--discovered
Lahoma on the pony, and looked up again, unwillingly but definitely. 
"You never told me you had a little girl," he remarked gruffly.

"You never asked me," said Willock.  "Get down, Lahoma, and make
yourself at home."

The man shut his book.  "What are you going to do?"

"Going to visit you.  Turn the pony loose, Lahoma; he won't go far."

"Haven't you got all that north range to yourself?" Bill Atkins
asked begrudgingly.

"Yap.  How're you making it, Atkins?"

"Why, as long as I'm let alone, I'm making it all right.  It's being
let alone that I can't ever accomplish.  When I was a boy I began
my travels to keep out where I could breathe, and I've been crowded
out of Missouri and Kansas and Colorado and Wyoming and California,
and now I've come to the American Desert thinking I could die in
peace, but oh, no, not ME!  I no sooner get settled and made my turf
dugout, than here comes a stranger--"

"Name of Brick Willock, if you've forgot," interpolated Willock
genially.  "I'll just light my pipe, as I reckon there's no
objections.  Lahoma don't care, and you can breathe all right if
you keep with the wind from you."

The man turned his back upon Willock, opened his book and read.

Lahoma approached the block of wood that supported him, while
Willock calmly stretched himself out on the grass.  "Is that a
book?" she asked, by way of opening up the conversation.

The man gripped it tighter and moved his lips busily.  As she
remained at his knee, he presently said, "Oh, no, it's a
hand-organ!"

Lahoma smiled pityingly.  "Are you afraid of me, Atkins?"

The man looked up with open mouth.  "Not exactly, kid!"  There was
something in her face that made him lose interest in his book.  He
kept looking at her.

"Then why don't you tell the truth?  WE won't hurt you."

The man opened his mouth and closed it.  Then he said, "It's a
book."

"Did you ever read it before?"

"This is the third time I've read it."

"Seems as it hasn't accomplished no good on you, as you still tell
lies."

The man rose abruptly, and laid the book on the seat.  His manner
was quite as discouraging as it had been from the start.

"Honey," interposed Willock, "that ain't to say a lie, not a real
lie."

"IS it a hand-organ?" Lahoma demanded sternly.

"In a manner of speaking, honey, it is a hand-organ in the sense of
shutting you off from asking questions.  You learn to distinguish
the sauces of speech as you gets older.  Out in the big world,
people don't say this or that according as it is, they steeps their
words in a sauce as suits the digestion.  Don't be so quick to call
'LIES!' till you learns the flavor of a fellow's meaning, not by his
words but by the sauce he steeps 'em in."

"Don't get mad at me," said Lahoma to the trapper.  "I don't know
nothing, never having captured and branded the thoughts that is
caged up in books.  But I want to be civilized and I am
investigating according."

The trapper, somewhat conciliated, reseated himself.  He regarded
the girl with greater interest, not without a certain approval. 
"How comes it that you aren't civilized, living with such a knowing
specimen as your own father?"

"My father's dead.  Brick is my cousin, but I not knowing nothing
of him till he saved my life two years ago and after that, me with
the Indians and him all alone.  Would you like to hear about it?"

"I wouldn't bother him, honey, with all that long story," interposed
Willock, suddenly grown restive.

"Yes, tell me," said the trapper, moving over that she might find
room on the block of wood beside him.

Lahoma seated herself eagerly and looking up into the other's face,
which softened more and more under her fearless gaze, she said:

"We was crossing the plains--father, mother and me, in a big wagon. 
And men dressed up like Indians, they come whooping and shooting,
and father turns around and drives with all his might--drives clear
to yonder mountain.  And mother dies, being that sick before, and
the jolting too much for her.  So father takes me on his horse and
rides all night, and I all asleep.  Well, those same men dressed
like Indians, they was in a cabin 'way up north, and had put their
wigs and feathers off and was gambling over what they stole from the
other wagons.  So father, he sees the light from the window and
rides up with me.  And they takes him for a spy and says they, in
a voice awful fierce, just this way--'KILL 'EM BOTH!'"

The trapper gave a start at the explosiveness of her tone.

Lahoma shouted again, as harshly as she could, "'Kill 'em both,'
says they."  Then she turned to Willock.  "Did I put them words in
the correct sauce, Brick?"

"You done noble, honey."

Lahoma resumed:  "Now it was in a manner of happening that Brick,
he was riding around to have a look at the country, and when he
rides up to the cabin, why, right outside there was me and father,
and two of the robbers about to kill us.  'What are you devils up
to?' says Brick.  'You go to hell,' says the leading man, 'that's
where we're going to send this spy and his little girl,' says he;
'you go to hell and maybe you'll meet 'em there,' he says.  And with
that he ups and shoots at Brick, the bullet lifting his hat right
off his head and scaring the horse out from under him, so he falls
right there at the feet of them two robber-men, on his back.  Brick,
he never harmed nobody before in his life, but what was he to do? 
He might of let them kill him, but that would of left father and me
in their grip, so he just grabs the gun out of the leading man's
hand, as he hadn't ever carried a gun in his life his own self, and
he shot both them robbers, him still laying there on his back--"

"No, honey, I got up about that time."

"Brick, you told me you was still laying there on your back just as
you fell."

"Did I, honey, well, I reckon I was, then, for when I told you about
it, it was more recent."

"It's awful interesting," the trapper remarked dryly.

"Yes, ain't it!"  Lahoma glowed.  "Then father jumped on one horse
with me, and Brick put out on another, and when I woke up, the
Indians were all everywhere, but Brick come here and lived all alone
and nearly died because he didn't have me to comfort him.  So the
Indians took me and they killed father, and for two years I was
moved from village to village till Red Feather brought me to Brick. 
And then we found out we are cousins and he is going to civilize me. 
Brick, he remembers about a cousin of his, Cousin Martha Willock,
her sister went driving out to the Oklahoma country with her husband
and little girl and wasn't never heard of.  I am the little girl,
all right, and Brick he's my second cousin.  And wasn't it lucky
Brick was riding around that night, looking at the country, when
they was about to put daylight into me?"

"I'd think," remarked the trapper, "that he'd take you back to your
Cousin Martha, for men-folks like him and me aren't placed to take
care of women-folks."

"Yes, but he got a letter saying my Cousin Martha and all her family
is done been swept away by a flood of the Mississippi River, and him
and me is all they is left of the Willockses, so we got to stick
together.  Besides, you see, he killed them two robbers, and the
rest of the gang is laying for him; Brick, he feels so dreadful, he
never having so much as put a scratch to a man's face before, for
he wouldn't never fight as a boy, his conscience wouldn't rest if
he was in civilization.  He'd go right up to the first policeman he
met and say, 'I done the deed.  Carry me to the pen!' he'd say, and
then what would become of me?"

"He might get another letter from your Cousin Martha to help him
out of the scrape."

Lahoma stared at him, unable to grasp the significance of these
foolish words, and Brick, seeking a diversion, explained his purpose
of taking Lahoma to the settlements after supplies, and proffered
his petition that Bill Atkins accompany them.

Lahoma has never forgotten that expedition to the settlements. 
Along the Chisholm Trail marched Brick Willock and Bill Atkins, one
full of genial philosophy, responsive to every sight and sound along
the way, the other taciturn and uncompanionable, a being present in
the flesh, but seemingly absent in the spirit.  Behind them rode the
girl, with unceasing interest in the broad hard-beaten trail--the
only mark in that wilderness to tell them that others had passed
that way.  The men walked with deliberate but well-measured step,
preserving a pace that carried them mile after mile seemingly with
little weariness.  Three times on the journey great herds of cattle
were encountered on their way toward Kansas, and many were the looks
of curiosity cast on the little girl sitting as straight as an
Indian on her pony.

She was glad when a swinging cloud of dust announced the coming of
thousands of steers, attended by cowboys, for it meant a glimpse
into an unknown world, and the bellowing of cattle, the shouting of
men and the cracking of whips stirred her blood.  But she was glad,
too, when the stream of life had flowed past, and she was left alone
with Brick and Bill, for then the never-ending conversation with the
former was resumed, picked up at the point where it had been
dropped, or drawn forward from raveled bits of unfinished discourse
of the day before, and though Bill Atkins said almost nothing and
always looked straight ahead, he was, in a way, spice in the feast
of her enjoyment.

When they stopped for their meals, they drew aside from the trail,
if possible near some spring or river-bed in which pools of water
lingered, but such stopping-places were far apart in the desert
country.  At night there was a cheerful bonfire, followed by zestful
talk as they lay on the ground, before falling asleep in their
tarpaulins--talk eagerly monopolized by Brick and Lahoma, and to
which Atkins seemed in a manner to listen, perhaps warming his heart
at the light of their comradeship even as they warmed their hands
in the early morning at the breakfast fire.  Atkins had brought with
him one of his books, and at the noon hour's rest, and at evening
beside the bonfire, he kept his nose buried in its pages.

Lahoma did not think life would have been too long to devote to such
pilgrimages.  In the settlements, she was bewildered, but never
satiated, with novelties, and on the way back, everything she had
seen was discussed, expounded and classified between her and her
"cousin."  Sometimes her questions drove Brick up against a stone
wall and then Bill Atkins would raise his voice and in three or four
words put the matter in its true light.

"Bill, he's saw more of life than me," Brick conceded admiringly. 
"He has come and went amongst all sorts of people, but my specialty
has in the main been low."

"Yes, I've seen more of life," Atkins agreed; "that's why I try so
hard to keep away from it."

"The more I see, the more I want to see!" cried Lahoma eagerly.

"Yes, honey," Brick explained, "that's because you're a WOMAN."

Once more back in the cove, Lahoma dreamed new dreams, peopling the
grassy solitude with the figures she had encountered on her travels,
likening the rocks to various houses that had caught her fancy.  She
turned with absorbed interest to the primer and elementary
arithmetic with which Brick had supplied himself as the first tools
for his mental kit.

The journey hack home had been far easier than the descent into
Texas because both Willock and Atkins had supplied themselves with
ponies,--animals that sold ridiculously cheap at the outlying posts
of the settlements.  Brick Willock brought back with him something
else to add cheerfulness and usefulness to approaching winter.  This
was a square window-sash, set with four small panes of good glass. 
It was hard work to place this window in Lahoma's side of the
dugout, but it was work thoroughly enjoyed.  Lahoma's room was on
the west, and from noon to sundown, the advantage of the window was
a source of never-ending delight.

"Good thing we've got our window," Brick would say as they sat on
the low rude bench before the little stove, and the furious wind of
January howled overhead.  Or, when the wintry sky was leaden and all
Brick's side of the partition was as dark as the hole of a
prairie-dog, he would visit Lahoma, and gloat over the dim gray
light stealing through the small panes.  "That window's no bad
idea!" he would chuckle, stooping his great bulk cautiously as he
seated himself, as if to lighten his weight by doubling in upon
himself.

"Good thing I've got my window," Lahoma would say as the snow lay
thick on the plains and in broken lines all over the mountain, and
the cutting blast made the fire jump with sudden fright.  She would
hold her book close to the dirt square in which the frame was
planted, and spell out words she had never heard used, such as
"lad," "lass," "sport," and the like mysteries.  "This window is
going to civilize me, Brick."

It did not lessen their relish in the subject that they had
discussed it already a hundred times.  It was the same way with the
hand-made bench, with the trench that carried water from their door
during sudden downpours, and with the self-congratulation over
owning two ponies to keep each other company.

"They's one thing about us, Lahoma, which it ain't according to the
big outside world, and yet I hope it won't never be changed.  We are
mighty glad we've got what we've got.  And to be glad of what you've
got is a sure way to multiply your property.  Every time you brag
on that window, it shines like two windows to me."

Spring came late that year, and in the early days of March, Brick
rode over to the cove behind the precipice after Bill Atkins.  "I
want you to come over to my place," he begged, "and answer some of
Lahoma's questions.  Being closeted with her in that there dugout
all winter, she has pumped me as dry as a bone."

Perhaps Bill Atkins had had his fill of solitude during that cold
winter--or perhaps he was hungry for another hour of the little
girl's company.  Nothing, however, showed his satisfaction as he
entered her chamber.  "Here I am," he announced, seating himself on
the bench.  This was his only greeting.

"Is it drug or dragged?" demanded Lahoma.

"Dragged."

"Why don't God send me a little girl to play with, after me asking
for one every night, all winter?"

"Don't understand God's business," replied Atkins briefly.

"I puts it this way," Brick spoke up; "God's done sent one little
girl, and it ain't right to crowd Him too far."

"Will I be all they is of me, as long as I live?"

"Nobody won't never come to live in these plains," Brick declared,
"unless its trappers and characters like us.  But we'll stay by you,
won't we, Bill Atkins?"

Atkins looked exceedingly gruff and shook his head as if he had his
doubts about it.  "You'll have to be taken to the States," he
declared.

"But what would become of Brick?"

"Well, honey," said Brick, "you want to take your place with people
in the big world, don't you?"

"Oh, YES!," cried Lahoma, starting up and stretching her arm toward
the window.  "In the big world--yes!  That's the place for me--
that's where I want to live.  But what will become of you?"

"Well," Brick answered slowly, "the rock pile, t'other side the
mountain is good enough for me.  Your mother sleeps under it."

"Oh, Brick!"  She caught his arm.  "You wouldn't die if I went away,
would you?"

"Why, you see, honey, they wouldn't be nothing left to go on.  I'd
just sort of stop, you know--but it wouldn't matter--out there in
the big world, people don't remember very long, and when you're
grown you wouldn't know there'd ever been a cove with a dugout in
it, and a window in the wall, and a Brick Willock to carry in the
wood for the fire."

"I'll always remember--and I won't go without you.  He COULD go with
me, couldn't he, Bill?"

"I suspicion he has his reasons for not," Atkins observed gravely.

"I has, and I shall never go back to the States."

"Then what's the use civilizing me?" demanded Lahoma mournfully.

"I want you to enjoy yourself.  And when I'm old and no-'count,
you'd need somebody to take care of you--and you'd go full-equipped
and ready to stand up to any civilized person that tried to run a
bluff on you."

"But, oh, I want to GO--I want to go out THERE--where there ain't
no plains and alkali and buffalo-grass--where they's pavements and
policemen and people in beautiful clothes.  I don't mean NOW, I mean
when I have got civilized."  She drew herself up proudly.  "I
wouldn't go till I was civilized, till I was like them."  She turned
impulsively to Brick:  "But you've got to go with me when I go!  I'm
going to stay with you till I'm fit to go, and then you're going to
stay with me the rest of my life."

"Am I fit to go with her?" Brick appealed to Bill Atkins.

"You ain't," Bill replied.

"I ain't fit," Brick declared firmly.  "I'm a-going to fitten you;
but it's too late to work on me; and besides, if they WAS time
enough, it ain't to the grain of my nature.  I knows all I wants to
know, which if little or much is enough for me.  And I wouldn't be
fit to go with you out into the big world and cut a figger in it,
which couldn't be no figger but a figger naught.  And Atkins who
knows more than me, he says the same."

The tears were in Lahoma's eyes.  She looked from one to the other,
her little face deeply troubled.  Suddenly she grabbed up her books
and started toward the stove.  "Then this here civilizing is going
to stop," she declared.

"Lahoma!" Brick cried in dismay.

"Yes, it is--unless you promise to stay with me when I go to live
in the big world."

"Honey, I'll promise you this:  When you are ready to live out
there, I'll sure go with you and stay with you--if you want me, when
the time comes."

Lahoma seized his hand, and jumped up and down in delight.

"It's a safe promise," remarked Bill Atkins dryly.



CHAPTER IX
A YOUNG MAN'S FANCY


One evening in May, a tall lithe figure crept the southern base of
the mountain range, following its curves with cautious feet as if
fearful of discovery.  It was a young man of twenty-one or two,
bronzed, free of movement, agile of step.  His face was firm,
handsome and open, although at present a wish to escape observation
caused the hazel eyes to dart here and there restlessly, while the
mouth tightened in an aspect of sternness.  This air of wild
resolution was heightened by the cowboy's ordinary gannents, and the
cowboy's indispensable belt well-stocked with weapons.

On reaching the spur that formed the western jaw of the horseshoe,
he crept on hands and knees, but satisfied by searching glances that
the inner expanse was deserted, he half rose and stole shadow-like
along the granite wall, until he had reached the hill-island that
concealed the cove.  Again falling on hands and knees, he drew
himself slowly up among the huge flat rocks that covered the hill
in all directions.  In a brief time he had traversed it, and a view
of the cove was suddenly unrolled below.  A few yards from Brick
Willock's dugout, now stood a neat log cabin, and not far from the
door of this cabin was a girl of about fifteen, seated on the grass.

She had been reading, but her book had slipped to her feet.  With
hands clasped about her knee, and head tilted back, she was watching
the lazy white clouds that stretched like wisps of scattered cotton
across the blue field of the sky.  At first the young man was
startled by the impression that she had discovered his presence and
was scrutinizing his position, but a second glance reassured him,
and he stretched himself where a block of granite and, below it, a
cedar tree, effectually protected him from discovery.  Thus hidden,
he stared at the girl unblinkingly.

He was like a thirsty traveler drinking at a cool well unexpectedly
discovered in a desert country.  For two years he had led the life
of the cowboy, exiled from his kind, going with the boys from lower
Texas to Kansas along the Chisholm Trail, overseeing great herds of
cattle, caring for them day and night, scarcely ever under a roof,
even that of a dugout.  Through rain and storm, the ground had been
his bed, and many a blistering summer day a pony captured wild from
the plains, and broken to stand like a dog, had been his only shade. 
During these two years of hard life, reckless companions and
exacting duties, he had easily slipped into the grooves of speech
and thought common to his fellows.  Only his face, his unconscious
movements and accents, distinguished him from the other boys of "Old
Man Walker"--the boss of the "G-Bar Outfit."  On no other condition
but that of apparent assimilation could he have retained his place
with Walker's ranchmen; and in his efforts to remove as quickly as
possible the reproach of tender-foot it was not his fault that he
had retained the features of a different world, or that a certain
air, not of the desert, was always breaking through the crust under
which he would have kept his real self out of sight.  He himself was
the least conscious that this was so.

For two years he had seen no one like the girl of the cove,
none--though he had seen women and girls of the settlements, often
enough--who even suggested her kind.  Her dress, indeed, was plain
enough, and obviously chosen in cheerful ignorance of forms and
conventions, though the color, a delicate pink, was all he could
have wished.  After all, the clothes revealed nothing except absence
from city shops and city standards.

That was wonderful hair, its brown tresses gleaming though untouched
by the sun, as if in it were enmeshed innumerable particles of
light.  It seemed to glow from its very fineness, its silkiness--the
kind of hair one is prompted to touch, to feel if it is really that
way!  The face was more wonderful, because it told many things that
can not be expressed in mere hair-language.  There was the seal of
innocence on the lips, the proof of fearlessness in the eyes, the
touch of thought on the brow, the sign of purpose about the resolute
little chin.  The slender brown hands spoke of life in the open air,
and the glow of the cheeks told of burning suns.  Her form, her
attitude, spoke not only of instinctive grace, but of a certain
wildness in admirable harmony with the surrounding scene.  Somehow,
the ruggedness of the mountains and the desolate solitudes of the
plains were reflected from her face.

The young man gazed as if his thirst would never be appeased.  The
flavor of nights about the camp-fire and other nights spent in
driving sleet, also days when the first flowers come and the wide
beds of the desert rivers are swollen with overbrimming floods; the
cruel exposure of winter, the thrilling balminess of early
spring--all spoke to him again from that motionless figure.  He
recalled companions of his boyhood and youth, but they were not akin
to this child of the desert mountains.  Still more alien were those
of the saloon stations, the haunts at the outskirts of civilization. 
It seemed to him that in this young girl, who bad the look and poise
of a woman, he had found what hitherto he had vainly sought in the
wilderness--the beauty and the charm of it, refined and separated
from its sordidness and its uncouthness--in a word, from all that
was base and ugly.  It was for this that he had left his home in the
East.  Here was typified that loveliness of the unbroken wilderness
without its profanity, its drunkenness, its obscenity, its terrible
hardships.

At last he tore himself away, retraced his steps as cautiously as
he had conic, and flung himself upon the pony left waiting at a
sheltered nook far from the cove.  As he sped over the plains toward
the distant herd, it came to him suddenly in a way not before
experienced, that it was May, that the air was balmy and fragrant,
and that the land, softly lighted in the clear twilight, was
singularly beautiful.  He seemed breathing the roses back home--
which recalled another face, but not for long.  The last time he
had seen that eastern face, the dew had lain on the early morning
roses--how could a face so different make him think of them?  But
imagination is sometimes a bold robber, and now it did not hesitate
to steal those memories of sweet scents to encloud the picture of
the mountain-girl.

The G-Bar headquarters was on the western bank of what was then
known as Red River, but was really the North Fork of Red River. 
"Old Man Walker," who was scarcely past middle age, had built his
corral on the margin of the plain which extended to that point in
an unbroken level from a great distance, and which, having reached
that point, dropped without warning, a sheer precipice, to an
extensive lake.  The lake was fed by springs issuing from the
bluffs; not far beyond it and not much lower, was the bed of the
river, wide, very red and almost dry.  Beyond the river rose the
bold hills of the Kiowa country, a white line chiseled across the
face of each, as if Time had entertained some thought of their
destruction, but finding each a huge block of living rock, had
passed on to torture and shift and alter the bed of the river.

The young man reached the corral after a ride of twelve or thirteen
miles, most of the distance through a country of difficult sand. 
He galloped up to the rude enclosure, surrounded by a cloud of dust
through which his keen gray eyes discovered Mizzoo on the eve of
leaving camp.  Mizzoo was one of the men whose duty it was to ride
the line all night--the line that the young man had guarded all
day--to keep Walker's cattle from drifting.

"Come on, Mizz," called the young man, as the other swung upon his
broncho, "I'm going back with you."

The lean, leather-skinned, sandy-mustached cattleman uttered words
not meet for print, but expressive of hearty pleasure.  "Ain't you
had enough of it, Bill?" he added.  "I'd think you'd want to lay up
for tomorrow's work."

"Oh, I ain't sleepy," the young man declared, as they rode away side
by side.  "I couldn't close an eye tonight--and I want to talk."

The cattleman chuckled enjoyingly.  It was lonely and monotonous
work, riding back and forth through the darkness, keeping a sharp
lookout for wolves or Indians, driving straggling cattle back to
the herd, in brief, doing the picket duty of the plains.

Mizzoo was so called from his habit of attributing his most emphatic
aphorisms to "his aunt, Miss Sue of Missouri"--a lady held by his
companions to be a purely fictitious character, a convenient "Mrs.
Harris" to give weight to sayings worn smooth from centuries of use.

Of all the boys of the ranch, Mizzoo found Wilfred Compton most
companionable.  When off duty, they were usually to be found near
each other, whether awake or asleep; and when Mizzoo, on entering
some village at the edge of the desert, sought relaxation from a
life of routine by shooting through the windows and spurring his
pony into the saloons, it was the young man, commonly known as Bill,
who lingered behind to advance money for damages to the windows, or
who kept close to the drunken ranger in order to repair the damages
Mizzoo had done to his own soul and body.

"I'll talk my head off," Mizzoo declared, "if that'll keep you on
the move with me, for it's one thing meeting a ghost in the desert
all alone, and quite another when there's a pair of us.  Yes, I know
you don't believe nothing I say about that spirit, and I only hope
we'll come on it tonight!  It ain't been a week since I see
something creeping along behind me whilst I was riding the line, a
little thing as swift as a jack-rabbit and as sly as a coyote--
something with long arms and short legs and the face of an Injun--"

"Of course it WAS an Indian," returned the young man carelessly. 
"He is hanging about here to steal some of our horses.  I don't want
you to talk about your ghost, I've heard of him a thousand times."

"Bill, the more you talk about a ghost, the more impressive he gets. 
I tell you that wasn't no live Injun!  Didn't I blaze away at him
with my six-shooter and empty all my barrels for nothing?  No, sir,
it's the same spirit that haunts the trail from Vernon, Texas, to
Coffeyville.  I've shot at that red devil this side of Fort Sill,
and at Skeleton Spring, and at Bull Foot Spring, and a mile from
Doan's store--always at night, for it never rises except at night,
as befits a good ghost.  I reckon I'll waste cartridges on that
spook as long as I hit the trail, but I don't never expect to draw
blood.  Others has saw him, too, but me more especial.  I reckon I'm
the biggest sinner of the G-Bar and has to be plagued most frequent
with visitations to make me a better man when I get to be old."

"He's a knowing old ghost if he's found you out, Mizzoo, but if you
want my company, tonight, you'll drop the Indian.  What I want you
to talk about is that little girl you met on the trail down in
Texas, seven years ago."

Mizzoo burst out in a hearty laugh.  "I reckon it suits you better
to take her as a little kid," he cried, his tall form shaking
convulsively.  "I'll never forget how you looked, Bill, when we
tried to run a bluff on her daddy last month!"

The other did not answer with a smile.  Apparently the reminiscence
pleased him less than it did the older man.  He spurred his horse
impatiently, and it plunged forward through the drifted banks of
white sand.

Mizzoo hastened to overtake him, still chuckling.  "Old Man Walker
never knowed what a proposition he was handing us when he ordered
us to drive the old mountain-lion out of his lair!  Looks like the
six of us ought to have done the trick.  Them other fellows looked
as wild as bears, and you was just like a United States soldier
marching on a Mexican strongholt, not stopping at nothing, and it
ain't for me to say how brave _I_ done.  Pity you and me was at the
tail-end of the attacking party.  Fust thing we knowed, them other
four galoots was falling backwards a-getting out of that trap of a
cove, and the bullets was whizzing about our ears--"

He broke off to shout with laughter.  "And it was all done by one
old settler and his gal, them standing out open and free with their
breech-loaders, and us hiking out for camp like whipped curs!"

The young man was impatient, but he compelled himself to speak
calmly.  "As I never got around the spur of the mountain before you
fellows were in full retreat, I object to being classed with the
whipped curs, and you'll bear that in mind, Mizzoo.  You saw the
girl all right, didn't you?"

"You bet I did, and as soon as I see her, I knowed it was the same
I'd came across on the trail, seven year ago.  I'd have knowed it
from her daddy, of course, but there wasn't no mistaking HER.  Her
daddy give it to us plain that if he ever catched one of us inside
his cove he'd kill us like so many coyotes, and I reckon he would. 
Well, he's got as much right to his claim as anybody else--this land
don't belong to nobody, and there he's been a-squatting considerable
longer than we've laid out this ranch.  He was in the right of it,
but what I admire was his being able to hold his rights.  Lots of
folks has rights but they ain't man enough to hold 'em.  And if von
could have seen that gal, her eyes like two big burning suns, and
her mouth closed like a steel-trap, and her hand as steady on that
trigger as the mountain rock behind her! Lord, Bill! what a trembly,
knock-kneed, meaching sort of a husband she's a-going to fashion to
her hand, one of these days!  But PRETTY?  None more so.  And
a-going all to waste out here in the desert!"

They rode on for some time in silence, save for the intermittent
chuckling of the cattleman as visions of his companions' pale faces
and scurrying forms rose before his mind.

"And now about that child, seven years ago," the young man said,
when the last hoarse sound of mirth had died away.

"Why, yes, me and the boys was bringing about two thousand head up
to Abiline when we come on to this same pardner and another man
walking the trail, with a little gal coming behind 'em on her pony. 
And it was this same gal.  I reckon she was seven or eight year old,
then.  Well, sir, I just thought as I looked at her, that I never
seen a prettier sight in this world and I reckon I ain't, for when
I looked at the same gal the other day, the gun she was holding up
to her eye sort of dazzled me so I couldn't take stock of all her
good points.  But seeing that little gal out there in the plains 
it was like hearing an old-fashioned hymn at the country
meeting-house and knowing a big basket dinner was to follow.  I
can't express it more deep than that.  We went into camp that
evening, and all of us got pretty soft and mellow, what from the
unusualness of the meeting, and we asked the old codger if we could
all come over to his camp and shake hands with the gal--he'd drawed
back from us about a mile, he was that skeered to be sociable.  So
after considerable haggling and jawing, he said we could, and here
we come, just about sundown, all of us looking sheepish enough to
be carved for mutton, but everlasting determined to take that gal
by the paw."

"Well?" said the young man who had often heard this story, but had
never been treated to the sequel, "what happened then, Mizzoo? You
always stop at the same place.  Didn't you shake hands with her?"

The other ruminated in deep silence for some time, then rejoined,
"I don't know how it is--a fellow can talk about the worst devilment
in creation with a free rein, and no words hot enough to blister his
tongue, but let him run up against something simple like that, and
the bottom of his lungs seems to fall out.  I guess they ain't no
more to be told.  That was all there was to it, though I might add
that the next day we come along by old Whisky Simeon's joint that
sets out on the sand-hills, you know, and we put spurs to our bronks
and went whooping by, with old Whisky Sim a-staring and a-hollering
after us like he thought we was crazy.  I don't know as I had missed
a drunk before for five year, when the materials was ready-found for
its making.  And I ain't never forgot the little kid with the brown
hair and the eyes that seen to your bottom layer, like a water-witch
a-penetrating the ground with a glance, seeing through dirt and clay
and rocks to what water they is."

Mizzoo relapsed into meditative silence, and the young man, in
sympathy with his mood, kept at his side, no longer asking
questions.  Darkness came on and the hour grew late but few words
were exchanged as they rode the weary miles that marked the limit
of the range.  There were the usual incidents of such work, each
bringing its customary comments.  The midnight luncheon beside a
small fire, over which the coffee steamed, roused something like
cheerful conversation which, however, flickered and flared
uncertainly like the bonfire.  On the whole the young man was
unwontedly reserved, and the other, perceiving it, fell back
contentedly on his own resources--pleasant memories and rank
tobacco.

"Guess I'll leave you now," remarked the young man, when the fire
had died away.

"Yes, better turn in, for you're most uncommon dull you know,"
Mizzoo replied frankly.  "'Twould be just about as much company for
me if you'd hike out and leave me your picture to carry along."

Instead of taking the direction toward the river, the young man set
out at a gallop for the distant mountain range which, in the gloom,
seemed not far away.  After an hour's hard riding, he reached it. 
His impatience bad made that hour seem almost interminable, yet it
had not been long enough to furnish him with any clear reason for
having come.  If, as Mizzoo had declared, he needed sleep, he would
surely not think of finding it near the cove from which his
companions had been warned under penalty of death.  If drawn by
longing for another glimpse of the girl of the cove he could not
expect to see her an hour or two after midnight.  Yet here he was,
attracted, and still urged on, by impulses he did not attempt to
resist.



CHAPTER X
THE FLAG OF TRUCE


Earliest dawn found the young man seated composedly upon one of the
flattened outcroppings of the bill of stone that lay like an island
between the outer plain and the sheltered cove.  As yet, there was
no sign of life within the cove--both the dugout and the cabin of
cedar logs were as silent and as void of movement as the rocks
behind them.  The young man watched first one, then the other, as
tireless and vigilant as if he had not been awake for twenty-four
hours.

It was the dugout that first started from its night's repose. 
Before the sun showed itself over the rim of the prairie, long
before its rays darted over the distant mountain-crest, the door
was thrown away from the casing, and a great uncouth man, strong as
a giant, and wild of aspect as a savage, strode forth, gun in hand,
his eyes sweeping the landscape in quick flashing glances.  Almost
instantly he discovered the figure perched on the granite block
overlooking his retreat.  He raised his gun to his shoulder.

The young man fell sidewise behind the rocks and a bullet clipped
the edge of his barricade.  Remaining supine, he fastened his
handkerchief to the end of his whip and waved it above the rampart. 
Having thus manifested his peaceful intent, he rose, still holding
the flag of truce above his head, and remained motionless.  Brick
Willock stared at him for a moment in hostile indecision, then
strode forward.  At the same time, an old man, thin, tall and
white-haired, issued from the dugout evidently attracted by the
gunshot; and soon after, the cabin door opened, and the girl of the
cove looked out inquiringly.

In the meantime the young man slowly descended the hill to the oval
valley, while Willock hurried forward to meet him.

"Don't you come no futher!" Willock commanded, threatening with his
gun.  "Keep your hands above your head until I can ship your cargo."

Obediently he stood while the great whiskered fellow took the
weapons from his belt, and dived into his hip pockets.

"That'll do.  Now--what do you want?"

"It's hard to put it into a few words," the other complained.  "I'd
like to have a little talk with you."

"You are one of them fellows that come here to run us out of the
country, ain't you?  I don't remember seeing you, but I guess you
belong to the bunch over on Red River.  Well, you see we're still
here, meaning to stay.  Are your pards outside there, waiting for
a message?"

"Nobody knows I'm here, or thought of coming.  Let me put that
affair in its true light.  The boys are all under our boss, and when
he lays down the law it isn't for us to argue with him--we carry out
orders--"

"Unless there's a Brick Willock involved in them orders," returned
the man, with a grim smile.

"But it's our duty to TRY to carry out the orders, whether we like
'em or not.  So you won't hold that against me--that little
scrimmage of last month, especially as you came out best man."

"I used to have a boss, myself," Willock spoke uncompromisingly. 
"But when he give me certain orders, one particular night that I
recollect, I knocked him on the head and put out for other parts. 
You must of thought yourself in PRETTY business coming over here to
take away the land and all on it, that's belonged to me for nine
years, and nobody never having tried to prize me out of it except
some trifling Injuns and horse-thieves.  Ain't they NO honesty in
the world?  Hasn't no man his property rights?  I guess your boss
knowed this wasn't HIS land, didn't he?  What's going to become of
this country when man isn't satisfied with what is his'n?  Well, now
you've had a little talk with me, and hoping you've enjoyed it, you
can just mosey along.  I'll send your weapons after you by a
messenger."

The young man cast a despairing glance toward the girl who stood
like a statue in her doorway, gravely listening.  The man with the
bushy white hair had drawn near, hut evidently with no thought of
interfering.

"Willock," the voice came so eager, so impetuous, that the words
were somewhat incoherent, "I've GOT to talk to your daughter--hold
on, don't shoot, LISTEN!--that's what I've come for, to see her
and--and meet her and hear her voice.  I can't help it, can I? It's
been two long years since I left home, back East, and in all these
two years I've never seen anything like your little girl and--and
what harm can it do? I say!  Have pity on a fellow, and do him the
biggest favor he could enjoy on this earth when it won't cost you
a penny, or a turn of your hand.  Look here--hold on, don't turn
away!  I'm just so lonesome, so homesick, so dead KILLED by all
these sand-hills and alkali beds and nothing to talk to from one
year's end to the next but men and cattle...."

Willock glared at him in silence, fingering the trigger
thoughtfully.

"There I've sat, on that hill," he continued, "since two o'clock
last night, waiting for daylight so I could ask you to help a
miserable wretch that's just starving to death for the sound of a
girl's voice, and the sight of a girl's smile.  Isn't this square,
waiting for you, and telling you the whole truth?  I never saw her
but once, and that was from this same hill.  She didn't know I was
watching; it was yesterday.  Maybe all I'm saying sounds just crazy
to you, and I reckon I am out of my senses, but until I saw her I
didn't know how heart-sick I was of the whole business."

"It IS kinder lonesome," remarked the other gruffly.  He lowered
his gun and leaned on it, irresolutely.  "You've sure touched me in
the right spot, son, for I knows all you mean and more that you
ain't even ever dreampt of.  But you see, we don't know nothing
about your name, your character, if you've got one, nor what you
really intends.  I like your looks and the way you talk, fine, just
fine, but I've saw bobcats that was mighty sleek and handsome when
they didn't know I was nigh."

"My name in Wilfred Compton.  I--I have a letter or two in my pocket
that I got a long time ago; they'd tell something about me but I'd
rather not show 'em, as they're private--"

"From your gal, I reckon?" asked Willock more mildly.

"Yes," he answered gloomily.

"Carried 'em as long as a year?"

"Nearly two years."

"Mean to still lug 'em around?"

"Of course I'm going to keep 'em."

"Well, I don't deny THAT'S pretty favorable.  Now look here, son,
I've been half-crazy from lonesomeness, and I don't believe I've
got the heart to send you away.  That gal of ours--she's just a kid,
you understand....  Now you wouldn't be taking up no idea that she
was what you'd classify as a young lady, or anything like that, eh?"

"Of course not--she's fifteen or sixteen, I should think.  Upon my
honor, Willock, any thought of sentiment or romance is a thousand
miles from my mind."

"Yes, just so.  But such thoughts travels powerful fast; don't take
'em long to lap over a thousand mile."

"But it's because she IS a young girl, fresh and unartificial as
the mountain breezes, that I want to be with her for a little
while--yes, get to know her, if I may."

Willock turned to the taciturn old man standing a little behind him. 
"Bill Atkins, what do you say?"

"I say, fire him and do it quick!" was the instant rejoinder,
accompanied by threatening twitchings of the huge white mustache.

Willock was not convinced.  "Son, if you sets here till we have had
our breakfast, and has held a caucus over you, I'll bring you the
verdict in about an hour.  If you don't like that, they's nothing
to do but put out for your ranch."

"I go on duty at seven," replied the young man composedly, "but I
have a friend riding the line that'll stay with it till I come.  So
I'll wait for your caucus."

"That friend--one of them devils I shot at the other day?"

Wilfred Compton smiled with sudden sunniness.  "Yes."

Somewhere beneath the immense whiskers, an answering smile slipped
like a breeze, stirring the iron-gray hair.  "I kinder believe in
you, son!  Nobody can't gainsay that you've played the man in this
matter.  Now, just one thing more.  You must swear here before me,
with Bill Atkins for an unwilling witness, that should we let you
make the acquaintance of our little gal, and should you get to be
friends, you two, that the very fust minute it comes to you that she
ain't no little gal, but is in the way of being food for love--Bill
Atkins, air I making myself plain?"

"You ain't," returned the old man sourly.  "You're too complicated
for ordinary use."

"Then YOU tell him what I mean."

The old man glared at Wilfred fiercely.  "If we decide to grant your
request, young man, swear on your honor that the second you find
yourself thinking of our little girl as a WOMAN, to be wooed and
won, you'll put out, and never stop till you're so far away, you'll
be clear out of her world.  And not one word to her, not so much as
one hint, mind you, as to the reason of your going; it'll just be
good-by and farewell!"

"You see," Willock interpolated, "she is nothing a little gal, and
we don't want no foolish ideas to the contrary.  You takes her for
what she is, nothing took from nor added to.  In course, she'll be
growed up some day, I reckon, though may the good Lord take a good
long time finishing up the work He's begun so noble.  When she's
growed up, when she's a woman, it ain't for us to say how you come
and how you go, take from or add to.  But while she's a kid, it is
different, according."

"You have my word of honor to all these conditions," Wilfred cried
lightly.  "As a child of the mountains I ask for her acquaintance. 
If I should ever feel differently about her, I'll go away and stay
away until she's a woman.  Surely that's enough to promise!"

"There ain't too much to promise, when it comes to the peace and
happiness of our little girl," retorted the old man, "but I can't
think of any more for you to take oath to."

"Me nuther, Bill," agreed Willock.  "Seems to me the young man is
bound as firm as humans can do the binding.  Now you sit right here,
son, don't come a step nigher the house, and we'll go to breakfast;
and later you'll know whether or not all this promising has been
idle waste of time."

"But I can see how it'll turn out," growled Atkins, "for she is
always a-looking for something new, something out of the big world
that she don't know nothing about."

"Never mind, Bill, don't give up so quick," Willock reproached him,
as they turned away.  "She's been having a good look at him all this
time, and it may be she have took a distaste to him already."



CHAPTER XI
THE HALF-OPENED BUD


The two men went into the cabin.  An hour later they reappeared,
accompanied by the girl.  Wilfred was still seated obediently on
the rock, but at sight of them he rose with a gay laugh and
advanced.

"Come over here in the shade," Willock called, as he strode toward
a grassy bank that sloped up to a line of three cedar trees of
interlocked branches.  "Come over here and know her.  This is our
gal."

Lahoma looked at the young man with grave interest, taking note of
his garments and movements as she might have examined the skin and
actions of some unknown animal.  Bill Atkins also watched him, but
with suspicious eye, as if anticipating a sudden spring on his ward.

"Set down," said Willock, sinking on the grass.  "The last man up
is the biggest fool in Texas!"

Lahoma and Wilfred instantly dropped as if shot, at the same time
breaking into unexpected laughter that caused Willock's beard to
quiver sympathetically.  Bill Atkins, sour and unresponsive, stood
as stiffly erect as possible, aided no little in this obstinate
attitude by the natural unelasticity of age.

The young man exclaimed boyishly, still smiling at the girl, "We're
friends already, because we've laughed together."

"Yes," cried Lahoma, "and Brick is in it, too.  That's best of all."

"_I_ ain't in it," cried Bill Atkins so fiercely that the young man
was somewhat discomposed.

"Now, Bill," exclaimed the girl reprovingly, "you sit right down by
my side and do this thing right."  She explained to the young man,
"Bill Atkins has been higher up than Brick, and he knows forms and
ceremonies, but he despises to act up to what he knows.  Sit right
down, Bill, and make the move."  There was something so unusual in
the attitude of the blooming young girl toward the weather-beaten,
forbidding-looking man, something so authoritative and at the same
time so protecting, at once the air of a superior who commands and
who shelters from the tyranny of others--that Wilfred was both
amused and touched.

"Yes, Bill," said Willock, "make the move.  Make 'em know each
other."

"This is Miss Lahoma Willock," growled Bill; "and this"--waving at
the young man disparagingly--"SAYS he is Wilfred Compton.  Know each
other!"

"I'm glad to know you," Lahoma declared frankly.  "It's mighty lucky
you came this way, for, you see, I just live here in the cove and
never touch the big world.  I believe you know a thousand things
about the world that we ain't never dreamed of--"

"That we have never dreamed of," corrected Bill Atkins.

"--That we have never dreamed of," resumed Lahoma meekly; "and
that's what I would like to hear about.  I expect to go out in the
big world and be a part of it, when I am older, when I know how to
protect myself, Brick says.  I'm just a little girl now, if I do
look so big; I'm only fifteen, but when I am of age I'm going out
into the big world; so that's why I'm glad to know you, to use you
like a kind of dictionary.  Are you coming back here again?"

"I hope so!" he exclaimed fervently.

"And so do I.  In my cabin I have a long list of things written down
in my tablet that I'd like to know about; questions that come to me
as I sit looking over the hill into the sky, things Brick doesn't
know, and not even Bill Atkins.  You going to tell me them there
things?"

Bill interposed:  "Will you kindly tell me those things?"

"Will you kindly tell me those things?"  Lahoma put the revised
question as calmly as if she had not suffered correction.

"You see how it is, son," Willock remarked regretfully; "Lahoma
keeps pretty close to me, and I'm always a-leading her along the
wrong trails, not having laid out an extensive education when I was
planning the grounds I calculated to live in.  When I got anything
to say, I just follows the easiest way, knowing I'll get to the end
of it if I talk constant.  People in the big world ain't no more
natural in talking than in anything else.  They builds up fences and
arbitrary walls, and is careful to stay right in the middle of the
beaten path, and I'm all time keeping Bill busy at putting up the
bars after me, so Lahoma will go straight."

"So that's why I'm glad to know you," Lahoma said gravely.  "But
why did you want to know ME?"  She fastened on him her luminous
brown eyes, with red lips parted, awaiting the clearing up of this
mystery.

Wilfred preserved a solemn countenance, "I've been awfully lonesome,
Lahoma, the last two years because, up to that time, I'd lived in
a city with friends all about town and no end of gay times
--and these last two years, I've been in the terrible desert.  You
are the first girl I've seen that reminded me of home; when I saw
you and knew you were my kind, the way you held yourself and the
smile in your eyes--"

Bill interposed:  "Don't you forget that binding, young man!"

"Of course not.  But I don't know how to tell just what it means to
me to be with her--with all of you, I mean--but her especially,
because--well, I had so many friends among the girls, back home
and--and--  It's no use trying to explain; if you've known the
horrible lonesomeness of the plains you already  understand, and if
you don't..."

"I know what you mean," Willock remarked, with a reminiscent sigh.

"Let it not be put in words," Bill persisted.  "If a thing can't be
expressed, words only mislead.  I never knew any good to come of
talking about smiles in eyes.  There's nothing to it but misleading
words."

"Go on, Lahoma," said Willock encouragingly, "we're both staying
with you, to see that you come out of this with flying colors.  Just
go ahead."

"I want to ask you all about yourself," remarked Lahoma
thoughtfully, "because I can see from your face, and the way you
talk, that you're a real sample of the big world.  If I tell you
all about myself, will you do the same?"

Wilfred promised, and Lahoma entered on the history of her
childhood.  Wilfred looked and listened joyously, conscious of the
unusual scene, alive to the subtle charm of her fearless eyes, her
unreserved confidences, the melting harmony of her musical tones. 
To be sure, she was only a child, but he saw already the promise of
the woman.  The petals as yet were closed, but the faint sweet
fragrance was already astir.  He found, too, that in her nature was
already developed something not akin to youth, something impersonal,
having nothing to do with one's number of years--like the breath of
experience, or the ancient freshness of a new day.  It was born of
the mountains and nourished in the solitude of the plains.

How different the girls of fifteen or sixteen such as he had known
in the city or in sophisticated villages in the East!  Lahoma had
not been so engrossed by trivial activities of exacting days that
she had lacked time for thought.  Her housekeeping cares were few
and devoid of routine, leaving most of the hours of each day for
reading, for day-dreaming, for absorbed meditation.  Somehow the
dreams seemed to linger in, her voice, to hover upon her brow, to
form a part of her; and the longings of those dreams were
half-veiled in her eyes, looking out shyly as if afraid of wounding
her guardians by full revelation.  She wanted to meet life, to take
a place in the world--but what would then become of Willock and
Bill?

"Bill used to live seven miles away at the mountain with the
precipice," she went on, after she had told about the wonderful
window.  "But it was too far off.  When he got to know me, it tired
him, walking this far twice a day, morning and night,--didn't it,
Bill!  So at last Brick and Bill decided to cut some cedars from the
mountain and make me a cabin,--they took the dugout to sleep in. 
There are two rooms in the cabin, one, the kitchen where we eat--and
the other, my parlor where I sleep.  Some time you shall visit me
in the cabin, if Brick and Bill are willing.  They made it for me,
so I couldn't ask anybody in, unless they said so."

"We aren't far enough along," observed Bill, "to be shut up together
under a roof."

"I'd like to have you visit my parlor," Lahoma said somewhat
wistfully.  "I'd like to show you all my books--they were Bill's
when we first met him, but since then he's given me everything he's
got, haven't you, old Bill!"  Lahoma leaned over and patted the
unyielding shoulder.

Bill stared moodily at the top of the mountain as if in a gloomy
trance, hut Wilfred fancied he moved that honored shoulder a trifle
nearer the girl.

She resumed, her face glowing with sudden rapture:  "There are six
books--half a dozen!  Maybe you've heard of some of them.  Bill's
read 'em over lots of times.  He begins with the first on the shelf
and when he's through the row, he just takes 'em up, all over again. 
I like to read parts of them--the interesting parts.  This is the
way they stand on the shelf:  The Children of the Abbey--that's
Bill's favorite; The Scottish Chiefs, David Copperfield, The
Talisman, The Prairie, The Last of the Mohicans."

"I like The Children of the Abbey best, too," observed Brick Willock
thoughtfully.  "Lahoma, she's read 'em all to me; that's the way we
get through the winter months.  They's something softening and
enriching about that there Children of the Abbey; and Scottish
Chiefs has got some mighty high work in it, too.  I tells Lahoma
that I guess them two books is just about as near the real thing out
in the big world as you can get.  David Copperfield is sort of slow;
I've went with people that knowed a powerful sight more than them
characters in David.  I used to drift about with a bunch of fellows
that Uriah Heep couldn't have stood up against for five minutes. 
The Talisman is noble doings, too, but not up-to-date.  As for The
Prairie and The Last of the Mohicans, them is dissatisfying books,--
they make you think, being as you lives in just such quarters,
interesting things might happen most any minute--and they never
does."

"Why, Brick!" Lahoma reproached him.  "THIS has happened--" she
nodded at Wilfred Compton.  "Don't you call that interesting?"

"That's the way _I_ discusses them books," returned Willock with
manifest satisfaction.  "I wasn't never no man to be overawed by no
book, which, however high and by whoever wrote, ain't no more like
life than a shadow in a pool.  Try to grab that shadow, and where
is it?  Just to go out after game and climb the mountains all day
and come home of an evening to sit down to a plate of bacon and
eggs, and another of the same, with coffee smoking on the little
stove, and Lahoma urging on the feast--that's more of real living
than you'd get out of a big library.  Ain't it, Bill?"

"Now WE want to talk, Brick," interposed Lahoma--"don't we,
Wilfred?"

"So your cabin was built," Wilfred prompted her, "and the men took
the dugout."

"Yes--and then, oh! the most wonderful thing happened:  a family
settled in the arm of the mountain at the west end--a family that
had a woman and a baby in it--a sure-enough woman with a sweet face
and of a high grade though worked down pretty level what from
hardships--and a baby that laughed, just laughed whenever he saw me
coming in the dugout--and I was over there every day.  And that's
how I got to be like a woman, and know how to dress, and how to meet
strangers without being scared, and preside at table, and use
language like this.  Other settlers began coming into Greer, but
they were far away, and Brick and Bill don't like folks, so they
stayed shut up pretty close.  But for three years I had the mother
and her baby to show me how to be a woman.  Then came the soldiers. 
Brick thinks a big cattle-king stood in with Congress, and he got
the soldiers sent here to drive out all the settlers because they
were beginning to farm the land instead of letting it grow wild for
the cattle.  Anyway, all the settlers were driven out of the
country--and it's been four years since I lost my only friends in
the world--except Brick and Bill.  What makes me and Brick and Bill
mad is, that the soldiers didn't have any right to drive out the
settlers, because Texas claims this country, and so does the United
States, but it's never been settled."

"But they didn't drive YOU out," Wilfred remarked inquiringly.

"You see," Brick explained simply, "we didn't want to go."

"It nearly broke Mrs. Featherby's heart to have to leave," Lahoma
added, "for they'd got a good stand of wheat and I think she liked
me 'most as well as I liked her.  But Mr. Featherby came from Ohio,
and he had respect to the government, so when the soldiers said
'Go,' he pulled up stakes."

"We ain't got no respect to nothing," Brick explained, "that stands
in the way of doing what we're a mind to.  The soldiers come to
force us out, but they changed their minds.  I reckon they knew they
hadn't no morality on their side.  Sure thing, they knowed they had
but very little safety, whilst occupying their position.  None was
left but us in this country till you cattlemen come monopolizing
Heaven and earth.  Knowing we got just as much right to this cove
as Uncle Sam himself, we expect to stay here at anchor till Lahoma
steams out into the big world with sails spread.  She expects to tug
us along behind her--but I don't know, I'm afraid we'd draw heavy. 
Until that time comes, however, we 'lows to lay to, in this harbor. 
We feels sheltered.  Nothing ain't more sheltering than knowing you
have a moral right and a dependable gun."

"So that's about all," Lahoma went on.  "These past four years,
we've just been to ourselves, with a long journey once a year to
the settlements; and all the time I had those sweet thoughts to
dream over, about the little family that used to live in the west
mountain.  And I've tried to do like Mrs. Featherby used to do, and
be like she was, and if I can make as fine a woman I needn't ask any
more.  She'd been to Europe, too, and she'd taught school in New
England.  Bill Atkins is higher up than Brick--Bill used to know Kit
Carson and all those famous pioneers, and he's been most everywhere--
except in settled places.  When a boy he saw Sam Houston and ate
with him, and he has heard David Crockett with his own ears--has
heard him say 'Be sure you're right, then go ahead,' that's how far
BILL has been.  But it sort of hurt Brick's neck, and even Bill's,
to look up high enough to see where Mrs. Featherby had risen.  She
was like you--right out of the big world.  She came out here because
the family was awful poor.  Is that why you left the big world?"

Wilfred shook his head.  "I'm poor enough," he said, "but it wasn't
that.  It was a girl."

Brick Willock explained, "He's got a sweetheart; he's been carrying
her letters for about two years.  He's done spoke for, Lahoma,
staked out, as a fellow might say, and squatted on."

Lahoma looked at him in breathless interest.  "A girl out in the
big world?  Completely civilized, I reckon!  Was she as old as I
am?"

"Why, honey!" Brick exclaimed uneasily, "YOU ain't got no age at
all, to speak of!  What are you but a mere child?  This young man
is talking about them as has got up to be old enough to think of
sweethearting--something respectable in YEARS."

"And how old does a sweetheart have to be?" demanded Lahoma with
some displeasure.  "I feel old enough for anything, and Wilfred
doesn't look any older than the knight standing guard in THE
TALISMAN.  Besides, look at David Copperfield and Little Em'ly."

"That was child's work," retorted Brick.

"I was afraid of this," growled Bill Atkins restlessly.

Wilfred laughed out.  "Don't worry.  My eastern girl is at least
nineteen years old, and so thoroughly civilized that she thinks this
part of the world is still overrun with Indians and buffaloes.  She
wouldn't live out here for a fortune, and she wouldn't marry a man
back East without one--that's why I'm here.  I didn't have the
fortune."

"Does she LOVE you, Wilfred?"  Her voice was so soft, her eyes were
so big, that Bill uttered a smothered groan, and even Brick sat up.

"She did the last time I saw her--can't say how she feels now;
that's been about two years ago."  He spoke lightly; but gazing into
the wonderful depths of Lahoma's eyes, he felt a queer sensation
like a lost heart-beat.

"Did she send you here as a kind of test?"

"Oh, no, she told me good-by and we parted forever.  Both of us were
poor,--you can't live in the city if you're poor; you can BE poor
there, but not LIVE.  By this time she's found some one with
property, I dare say--she's tremendously handsome and accomplished,
and has a very distinguished-looking mother and they have friends
in society--she'll make it all right, no doubt."  His voice was
matter-of-fact even to indifference; but for all that, he seemed to
be deeply inhaling Lahoma's freshness of morning-rose sparkling with
dew.

"Does it pierce your heart to think of her marrying somebody else?" 
Her voice was sweet with the dream-passion of a young girl.

"When I left home, I flung myself into the life of a cow-puncher
and did all I could to keep from thinking.  So my heart's rather
callous by this time.  I don't seem to mind like I thought I would
if I should sit down to think about it.  That's what I've avoided
like the plague--sitting down to think about it.  But I believe I
could sit down and think about it now, pretty calmly."

"Then that's what I'd do," Lahoma cried.  "I'd just face it.  She
isn't worthy of you if she'd rather have a fortune than the man she
loves.  I'd just sit down and face it."

"I will!"  He had never before thought it could be easy.  It seemed
very easy, now.

"Maybe I could help you," Lahoma suggested earnestly.  "When Mrs.
Featherby lived near, I asked her all about such cases and got her
advice and experience.  Change of scene and time are the greatest
remedies.  You've had both.  Then you must tell yourself that she
isn't worthy.  And then you'll remind yourself that there are OTHER
girls in the world.  Then you keep your mind occupied,--that is a
great thing.  If you come to the cove to visit us, we will try to
occupy your mind--won't we Brick?--and Bill?"

Bill looked at Wilfred glumly.  "It's too occupied now, I'm afraid."

"Bill, this is a-growing on you," Brick expostulated.  "I like the
young chap first rate.  He's open and free.  Bill, you are
hampering, at times.  I would go to my dugout if I was you, and cool
my head."

"Your head'll be hot enough," growled Bill, "when this has gone too
far."

Lahoma opened her eyes wide.  "What do you mean?" she demanded,
sincerely perplexed.

"Bill," cried Brick warningly, "you're a-going to start up a fire
where they ain't even been no kindling laid."

Wilfred rose hastily.  "I should like dearly to come, and come
often," he exclaimed, "but I couldn't force myself where I'm not
wanted."

"In that case," remarked Bill inflexibly, "you're seeing me for the
last time, and may look your fill!"

Wilfred smiled at him tolerantly and turned to Willock.  "I ought
to go to my work, Brick.  I won't try to explain what this hour has
meant to me for I believe you understand.  I'm like a man crossing
the desert who finds a spring and gets enough water to last him till
the next oasis."

He held out his hand to Lahoma who had risen swiftly at these signs
of departure.  "God bless you, little girl!" he said cheerily.  "A
man's fortunate who finds such oases along his desert-trail!"

It was not Bill's gruffness, but Lahoma's charm that warned him to
flee lest he break his promise to her guardians.

"But you can't go, yet," cried Lahoma, not taking his hand, "there
are a thousand things I want to do with you that I've never had a
chance to do with anybody else--strolling, for instance.  Come and
stroll--I'll show you about the cove.  Brick and Bill don't know
anything about strolling as they do in pictures.  Hold out your arm
with a crook in it and I'll slip my hand just inside where you'll
hold it soft and warm like a bird in its nest....  Isn't his noble? 
And I holds back--excuse me--I HOLD back my skirts with my other
hand, and this is the way we stroll, like an engraving out of the
history of Louis the Fourteenth's court.  Do, oh, do!"  Her bright
eyes glowed into his like beckoning stars.

"We stroll," he gravely announced, responding to the pressure of
her fingers, but at the same time feeling somewhat guilty as Bill
rolled his eyes fearfully at Brick.

When they were a few yards from the trees Lahoma whispered, "Make
for the other side of Turtle Hill.  I want to feel grown up when I
do my strolling, but I'm nothing but a little barefooted kid when
Brick and Bill are looking at me!"

Hidden by the shoulder of the granite hill island she stopped,
withdrew her hand, and stood very straight as she said, with
breathless eagerness, "Answer me quick! Wilfred:  ain't I old enough
to be a sweetheart?"

"Oh, Lahoma," he protested warmly, "please don't think of it.  Don't
be anybody's until--until I say the word.  You couldn't understand
such matters, dear, you wouldn't know the--the proper time.  I'll
tell you when the time comes."

She looked at him keenly.  "Am I to wait for a time, or for a
person?  I wish you'd never met that girl back East I think you'd
have filled the bill for me, because, having always lived here in
the mountains, I've not learned to be particular.  Not but what I've
seen lots of trappers and squatters in my day, but I never wanted
to stroll with them.  I don't see why that eastern girl ever turned
you loose from her trap.  I think a man's a very wonderful thing;
especially a young man--don't you, Wilfred?"

"Not half so wonderful as you, Lahoma."  His voice vibrated with
sudden intensity.  "There's your wonderful hair, like light shining
through a brown veil ... and your eyes where your soul keeps her
lights flashing when all the rest of you is in twilight ... and your
hands and feet, four faithful little guides to the wonderful
treasures that belong only to maidenhood ... and your mouth,
changing with your thoughts--an adorable little thermometer, showing
how high the smiles have risen in your heart; a mouth so pure and
sweet--"

"Hey!" shouted Bill Atkins, as he and Brick came around the angle
of the hill.  "Hi, there!  You may call that strolling, but if so,
it's because you don't know its true name, if you ask ME!"

Wilfred came to himself with a sharp indrawing of his breath. 
"Yes," he stammered, somewhat dizzily, "Yes, I--I must be going,
now."

She held his hand beseechingly.  "But you'll come again, won't you? 
When I hold your hand, it's like grabbing at a bit of the big
world."

"No, Lahoma, I'm not coming again."  His look was long and steady,
showing sudden purpose which concealed regret beneath a frank smile
of liking.

She still held his hand, her brown eyes large with entreaty.  "You
WILL come again, Wilfred!  You must come again!  Don't mind Bill. 
I'll have a talk with him after you're gone.  I'll send him over to
the ranch after you.  Just say you'll come again if I send for you."

"Of course he'll come, honey," said Brick, melted by the tears that
sounded in her voice.  "He won't get huffy over a foolish old codger
like Bill Atkins.  Of course he'll come again and tell you about
street-cars and lamp-posts.  Let him go to his work now, he's been
up all night, just to get a word with you.  Let him go--he'll come
back tomorrow, I know."

Wilfred turned to Brick and looked into his eyes as he slowly
released Lahoma's hand.

"Oh!" said Brick, considerably disconcerted.  "No, I reckon he won't
come back, honey--yes, I guess he'll be busy the rest of the summer. 
Well, son, put 'er there--shake!  I like you fine, just fine, and
as you can't come here to see us no more, being so busy and--and
otherwise elsewhere bound--I'm kinder sorry to see you go."

"Partings," said Bill, somewhat mollified, "are painful but
necessary, else there wouldn't be any occasion for dentists'
chairs."

"That's so," Brick agreed.  "You called Lahoma an oasis.  And what
is an oasis?  Something you come up to, and go away from, and that's
the end of the story.  You don't settle down and live at a spring
just because it give you a drink when you was thirsty.  A man goes
on his way rejoicing, and Wilfred according."

Lahoma walked up to Wilfred with steady eyes.  "Are you coming back
to see me?" she asked gravely.

"No, Lahoma.  At least not for a long, long time.  I don't believe
it's good for me to forget the life I've chosen, even for a happy
hour.  When I left the city, it was to drop out of the world--nobody
knows what became of me, not even my brother.  You've brought
everything back, and that isn't good for my peace of mind and so--
good-bye!"

Tall and straight he stood, like a soldier whose duty it is to face
defeat; and standing thus, he fastened his eyes upon her face as if
to stamp those features in a last long look upon his heart.

"Good-by," said Lahoma; this time she did not hold out her hand. 
Her face was composed, her voice quiet.  If in her eyes there was
the look of one who has been rebuffed; her pride was too great to
permit a show of pain.

Wilfred hesitated.  But what was to be done?  Solitude and
homesickness had perhaps distorted his vision; at any rate he had
succumbed to the folly against which he had been warned.  He could
not accept Lahoma as a mere child; and though, during the scene, he
had repeatedly reminded himself that she was only fifteen, her face,
her voice, her form, her manner of thought, refused the limits of
childhood.  Therefore he went away, outwardly well-content with his
morning, but inwardly full of wrath that his heart had refused the
guidance of his mind.

And she had been so simple, so eager to meet him on an equal plane,
even clinging to him as to the only hope in her narrow world that
might draw her out into deeper currents of knowledge.

"I've always been a fool," he muttered savagely, as he sought his
horse.  "I was a fool about Annabel--and now I'm too big a fool to
enjoy what fortune has fairly flung in my path."  Presently he began
to laugh--it was all so ridiculous, beating a retreat because he
could not regard a fifteen-year-old girl as a little child!  He drew
several time-worn letters from his pocket and tore them into small
bits that fluttered away like snowflakes on the wind.  He had no
longer a sentimental interest in them, at all events.



CHAPTER XII
THE BIG WORLD


He did not come again.  Lahoma used to go to the hill-island, which
she called Turtle Hill because the big flattened rocks looked like
turtles that had crawled up out of the cove to sun themselves; among
these turtles she would lie, watching the open mouth of the mountain
horseshoe in the vain hope that Wilfred would appear from around the
granite wall.  Occasionally she descended to the plain and scanned
the level world, but it was pleasanter to watch from the cove
because one never knew, while in that retreat, who might be coming
along the range.  On the plain, there were no illusions.

Lahoma courted illusions.  And when she knew that Wilfred Compton
had severed connections with Old Man Walker she merely exchanged
one hope, one dream, for another.  The opportunity to learn about
the big world was withdrawn; but the anticipation of one day meeting
Wilfred again was as strong as ever.  She made no secret of this
expectation.

Bill Atkins sought to dismiss it effectually.  "You don't know about
the big world, Lahoma," he declared, "if you think people meet up
with each other after they've once lost touch.  If all this part of
America was blotted out of existence, people in the East wouldn't
miss any ink out of the ink-bottle."

Lahoma tossed her head.  "Maybe the world IS big," she conceded. 
"But if Wilfred isn't big enough to make himself seen in it when I
go a-looking, I don't care whether I meet him again or not.  When
I'm in the big world, I expect to deal only with big people."

"I saw no bigness about HIM," Bill cried slightingly.

"If he isn't big enough to make himself seen," Lahoma serenely
returned, "I won't never--"

"You won't ever--" Bill corrected.

"I won't ever have to wear specs for strained eyes," Lahoma
concluded, smiling at Bill as if she knew why he was as he was, and
willingly took him so because he couldn't help himself.

It was Brick who heard about Wilfred's adventures on leaving the
Red River ranch, and as all three sat outside the cabin in the dusk
of evening, he retailed them as gathered from a recent trip to the
corral.  That was a strange story unfolded to Lahoma's ears, a story
rich with the romance of the great West, wild in its primitive
strivings and thrilling in its realizations of countless hopes.  The
narrative lost nothing in the telling, for Brick Willock understood
the people and the instincts that moved them, and though Wilfred
Compton might differ from all in his motives and plans, he shared
with all the same hardships, the same spur to ambition.

It was now ten years since the discovery had been made that in the
western part of Indian Territory were fourteen million acres that
had never been assigned to the red man and which, therefore, were
public land, subject to homestead settlement.  As long as the
western immigrants could choose among the rich prairie-lands of
Iowa, Nebraska, Minnesota, Dakota and Kansas--and the choice was
open to all, following the agreement of the plains tribes to retire
to reservations,--it was not strange that the unassigned lands of
Indian Territory should have escaped notice, surrounded as they were
by the Cherokee Strip, the Osage and Creek countries, the Chickasaw
Nation, the Wichita, Cado, Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes.

But other public lands were now scarce, or less inviting, and as
far back as 1879, when Lahoma was five years old, colonies had
formed in Kansas City, in Topeka and in Texas, to move upon the
Oklahoma country.  The United States troops had dispersed the
"boomers," but in the following year the indefatigable Payne
succeeded in leading a colony into the very heart of the coveted
land.  It was in order to escape arrest--for again the United States
cavalry had descended on settlers--that several wagons, among them
that of Gledware's, had driven hastily toward the Panhandle, to come
to grief at the hands of ruffians from No-Man's Land.

As Brick Willock told of Payne's other attempts to colonize the
Oklahoma country, of his arrests, of his attempts to bring his
various cases to the trial, she felt that Willock was, in a way,
dealing with her personal history, for had she not been named Lahoma
in honor of that country which her step-father had seen only to
loose?  Time and again the colonists swarmed over the border,
finding their way through Indian villages and along desolate trails
to the land that belonged to the public, but was enjoyed only by the
great cattlemen; as many times, they were driven from their
newly-claimed homes by federal troops, not without severity, and
their leaders were imprisoned.

But, at last, April the twenty-second, 1889, had been appointed as
the day on which the Oklahoma country was to be opened up to
settlement, and it was to meet this event that Wilfred Compton had
left Greer County.  He was a unit in that immense throng that waited
impatiently for the hour of noon--a countless host, stretching along
the north on the boundary of the Cherokee Strip, on the south, at
the edge of the Cherokee Nation; on the east, along the Kickapoo and
Pottawatomie reservations; and on the west, blackening the extremity
of the Cheyenne and Arapaho countries.  He was one of those who, at
the discharge of the carbines of the patrolling cavalrymen, joined
in the deafening shout raised by men of all conditions and from
almost every state in the Union--a shout as of triumph over the
fulfillment of a ten-years' dream.  And, leaning forward on his
pony, he was one of the army of conquest that burst upon the desert,
on foot, on horseback, and in vehicles of every description, in the
mad rush for homes in a land that had never known the incense of the
hearth or the civilizing touch of the plow.

At noon, a wilderness, at night, a land of tents, and on the morrow,
a settled country of furrowed fields.  "Pioneer work is awful quick,
nowadays!" grumbled Bill Atkins, as Brick concluded.  "It wasn't so
in my time.  Up there in the Oklahoma country, fifty years have been
squeezed into a week's time--it's like a magician making a seed grow
and sprout and blossom right before the audience.  Lucky I came to
Greer County, Texas--I don't guess IT'LL ever be anything but sand
and a blow."

"It's a great story," Brick declared with enthusiasm.  "I reckon
it's the greatest story that America can put out, in the pioneering
line.  There they had everything in twenty-four hours that used to
wear out our ancestors:  Injuns, unbroken land, no sign of life for
hundreds of miles--and just a turn of the hand and cities is
a-coming up out of the ground, and saloons and churches is rubbing
shoulders, and there's talk of getting out newspapers.  What do you
think of it, honey?"

Lahoma was sitting in grave silence, her hands clasped in her lap. 
She turned slowly and looked at Willock.  "Brick, I'm disappointed."

"Which?" asked Willock, somewhat taken aback.  "Where?"

"In him--in Wilfred."

"As how so?"

"Going into that wilderness-life, instead of taking his place in
the world!"

"Well, honey if he hadn't come to THIS wilderness, you'd never of
saw him."

"Yes--but he wasn't settled, and now he's settled in it.  Is that
the way to be a man?  There's all those other people to do the thing
he's doing. Then what's the use of him?"

"Ain't we in the same box?"

"Yes, and that's why I mean to get out of it, some day.  But it's
different with him.  He's chosen his box, and gone in, and shut the
lid on himself!  I'm disappointed in him.  I've been thinking him
a real man.  I guess I'm still to see what I'm looking for," added
Lahoma, shaking her head.

"We'll let it go at that," muttered Bill who was anxious to turn
Lahoma's mind from thoughts of Wilfred.  "We'll just go ahead and
look for new prospects."

"Not till I make a remark," said Willock, laying aside his pipe. 
"Honey, do yon know what I mean by a vision?  It calls for a big
vision to take in a big person, and you ain't got it.  Maybe it
wasn't meant for women, or at least a girl of fifteen to see further
than her own foot-tracks, so no blame laid and nobody judged,
according.  If you don't see nothing in that army of settlers going
into a raw land and falling to work to make it bloom like the rose,
a-setting out to live in solitude for years that in due time the
world may be richer by a great territory, why, you ain't got a big
vision.  I've got it, for I was born in the West, and I've lived all
my life, peaceable and calm, right out here or hereabouts.  You've
got to breathe western air to get the big vision.  You've got to see
towns rise out of the turf over night and bust into cities before
the harvest-fields is ripe, to know what can be did when men is
free, not hampered by set-and-bound rules as holds 'em down to the
ways of their fathers.  Back East, folks is straining themselves to
make over, and improve, and polish up what they found ready-to-hand--
but here out West, we creates.  It takes a big vision to see the
bigness of the West, and you can't get no true idee by squinting at
the subject."

Lahoma did not reply, and Bill feared that under the conviction of
her friend's eloquence, she had begun to idealize the efforts of
Wilfred Compton.  He need not have been afraid.  To her imagination,
"big people" were not living in dugouts, or tents, far from
civilization; "big people" were going to the opera every night, and
riding in splendid carriages along imposing boulevards every day. 
Brick and Bill had contrived to live as well as they desired from
profits on skins obtained in the mountains and the small tract of
ground they had cultivated in a desultory manner had done little
beyond supplying themselves with vegetables and the horses with some
extra feed.  She had no great opinion of agriculture; and though she
had taken part in planting and hoeing with a pleasurable zest, she
had never entertained herself with the thought that she was engaged
in a great work.  As to dugouts, they had no place in her dreams of
the future.  Since Wilfred had chosen to handicap himself with the
same limitations that bound her, even the thought of him was to be
banished from her world, banished absolutely.

Her day-dreams did not cease, but became more dreamy, more unreal,
since the hero of her fancies, for whom she now had no
flesh-and-blood prototype, was suggested only by her moods and her
books.  As the sun-clear days of maidenhood melted imperceptibly
into summer glow and winter spaces, the memory of Wilfred's face
and voice sometimes surprised her at unexpected turns of solitary
musings.  But the face grew less defined, the voice lost its
distinctive tone, as the years passed uninterruptedly by.

"I reckon it ain't right," said Brick Willock to Bill Atkins as they
went one morning to examine their traps before Lahoma was astir, "to
keep our little gal to ourselves as we're doing.  You're getting
old, Bill, awful old--"

"Well, damn it," growled Bill, "I guess I don't have to be told!"

"You ain't very long for this world, Bill, not in the ordinary
course of nature.  And when I've laid you to rest under the
rock-pile, Lahoma ain't going to find the variety in me that she
now has in the two of us.  Besides which, I'm in the fifties myself,
and them is halves of hundreds."

"Yes," Bill growled, "and give Lahoma time, she'll die, too. 
Nothing but the mountain'll be left to look out on the plains. 
Lord, Brick, who do you reckon'll be living in that cove, when we
three are dead and gone?"

"Guess I'll be worrying about something else, then."

"Do you reckon," pursued Bill, in an unwonted tone of mellowness,
"that those who come to live in our dugout will ever imagine what
happy hours we've passed there, just sitting around quiet and
enjoying ourselves and one another?"

"They wouldn't imagine YOU was enjoying of yourself, not if they
was feeding their eyes on you every day.  But I'm awful bothered
about Lahoma.  I tell you, it ain't right to keep her shut up as in
a cage.  Can't you see she's pining for high society such as I ain't
got it in me to supply, and you are too cussed obstinate to
display?"

"I guess that's so."  Bill drew himself stiffly up by the tree
above--they were ascending the wooded gully that extended from base
to mountain-top.

"Well, what's the hurry?  She's only seventeen years old."

"Yes, she was only seventeen years old, two years ago; but she's
nineteen, now."

Bill Atkins sank upon a rock at the foot of a bristling cedar.
"Nineteen!  Who, LAHOMA?  Then where've I been all the time?"

"You've been a-traveling along at a pretty fast clip toward your
last days, that's where you've been.  Just look at yourself!  Ain't
you always careful in making your steps as if scared of breaking
something?  And now, you're out of breath!"

"It was knocked out by the thought of her being so old--but I guess
you're right.  Well, I wouldn't call her life caged-up.  The
settlers have been moving in pretty steadily, and she has friends
amongst all the families where there's women-folks.  She has her
own pony, and is gone more than suits me; and although there's no
young man disposable, we ain't fretting about that, nor her
neither."

"I used to think she might be foolish about Wilfred Compton--but
Lahoma, she ain't foolish about nothing.  Nevertheless, Bill, it
ain't right.  Settlers is settlers, and what she yearns for is the
big world.  I would long since of took her out to see it, but
dassn't from a liability to be catched up for divers deeds that was
unlawfully charged to me in times past.  You could have guided her
along the city trails, but was too cussed obstinate."

"She's your cousin," retorted Bill, "and it wasn't for me to act
her guardian.  Besides, did you want to lose her?  You couldn't take
Lahoma where she'd be seen and known, and expect to get her back
again.  Maybe it isn't exactly fair to keep her boarded up--but the
times are changing all that, and sorry am I to see it.  Do you know,
Brick, I once thought you and me and Lahoma could just live here in
the cove till time was no more, reading our books, and smoking our
pipes, and taking peaceful morning trips like this--to see whether
we'd caught a coyote in our traps, or a bobcat, or a skunk."

"Yes, that's all right for us; but Lahoma ain't smoking no pipe,
nor is her interest in skunks such as ours."

"Just so--but see how Greer County is getting settled up--that's
what's going to save us, Brick--civilization is coming to Lahoma,
she won't have to go out gunning after it."

"Of course I've thought of that.  I ain't got your grammar, but my
mind don't have to wait to let in an idea after it's put its clothes
on.  Maybe they comes in nothing but a nightshirt, but I ain't ever
knowed YOU to think of nothing yet, that I hadn't entertained in
some fashion.  Of course, civilization is a-creeping up to the
mountain, and I reckon by the time Lahoma is my age it'll be playing
an organ in church.  But she's at the age that calls for quick
work--she's got the rest of her life to settle down in.  Most all
of a person's life is spent in settling and it's befitting to lay
in the foundation aforetime.  Look at that dear girl in The Children
of the Abbey, all them love-passages and the tears she sheds--she
was being a young woman!  What would that noble book of been had
that lovely creature been shut up in a cove till nineteen year of
age?  Is Lahoma going to have a chance like that amongst these
settlers?  Will she ever hear that high talk, that makes your flesh
sort of creep with pride in your race when you read it aloud?"

"Do you want Lahoma to have a lover, Brick Willock?"

"Bill, if he is fit, I say she ought to have a chance."

"And where are you going to find the man?"

"I'm going to help Lahoma find him.  I'm like you, Bill, I hates
that lover like a snake this minute, though I ain't no idea who,
where, or what he is, or may be.  I hates him--but I ain't going to
stand in Lahoma's way.  No, sir, I 'low to meet civilization
half-way.  There it is--look!"

Willock stood erect and pointed toward the plain, where perhaps
twenty tents had been pitched within the last two weeks.  Bill gave
an unwilling glance, shrugged his shoulders disdainfully, and
resumed progress up the difficult defile.

Willock continued:  "Two weeks ago, there wasn't nothing there but
naked sand.  Now there's three saloons, a hardware store, a grocery,
a bank--all of 'em under canvas--and the makings of a regular town. 
Right out there in the broiling sun!  Carloads of lumber and
machinery is on its way, and the stage-coach will be putting off
mail there before long.  That's how civilization is a-seeking out
our little gal.  But I means to meet it halfway."

"Oh, come on, don't say anything more about it--when I look at those
tents I can't breathe freely.  What do you gamble on--a skunk. or
a coyote, in the traps?"

"'Tain't them tents that's seeping your breath, it's pure unalloyed
age.  Yes, sir, I means to meet civilization half-way.  I've already
been prospecting.  There's a party over there in Tent City that's
come on from Chicago just from the lust of seeing pioneer-life at
first hand, people that haven't no idee of buying or settling--it's
a picnic to them.  They're camping out, watching life develop--and
what's life-and-death earnestness to others is just amusement to
them.  That there's a test of people high-up.  Real folks in the big
world don't do nothing, it takes all their time just being folks. 
You and me could bag a dozen polecats whilst a fine lady was making
her finger-nails ready for the day.  And these Chicago people is
that kind."

"Do you think they'll make friends with Lahoma just to suit you? 
The kind of people you're talking about are more afraid of getting
to know strangers than they are of being set on by wildcats."

"They'll make friends with Lahoma, all right, and invite her home
with 'em.  That's the way I 'low to set her out in the big world. 
Lahoma don't know my plans and neither do they, but I was never a
man to make my plans knowed when I was going to hold up people.  Of
course I'M speaking in a figger, but in a figger I may say I've held
up several, in my day."

"THEY won't invite Lahoma to Chicago, not if they are the right
sort."

"They will invite Lahoma to Chicago," retorted Willock firmly, "and
they are the right sort.  Wait and see; and when you have saw,
render due honor to your Uncle Brick."



CHAPTER XIII
A SURE-ENOUGH MAN


"Pardner, I sure am glad to see you--put 'er there again!  How are
you feeling, anyhow?  Look mighty tough and wiry, I do say; Here,
Bill!"  Willock raised his voice to a powerful shout, "Bill! come
and see what's blowed in with the tumbleweed and tickle-grass.  A
sure-enough man, that's what I call him, and me to fight if any
dispute's made to the title, according."

The tall bronzed man who was leading his horse along the road
entering the mountain horseshoe, smiled with a touch of gravity in
the light of his gray eyes.  Willock found his chin more resolute,
his glance more assured and penetrating, while his step, firm and
alert, told of dauntless purpose.  He was no longer the wandering
cowboy content with a bed on the ground wherever chance might find
him at night, but a mature man who had taken root in the soil of
his own acres.  Only twenty-five or six, his features were still
touched  with  the last lingering mobility of youth; but the set of
his mouth and the gleam of his eyes hinted at years of battle
against storms, droughts and loneliness.  He was already a veteran
of the prairie, despite his youth.

"Everything looks very natural!" murmured Wilfred Compton, gazing
about on the seamed walls of granite in whose crevices the bright
cedars mocked at winter's threatening hand.

"Yes, mountains is lots more natural than humans.  They just sets
there serene and indifferent not caring whether you likes their
looks or not, and they let 'er blow and let 'er snow, it's all one
to them.  I reckon when we've been dead so long that nobody could
raise a dispute as to whether we'd ever lived or not, that there
same boulder what they calls Rocking Stone will still be a-making
up its mind whether to roll down into the valley or stay where it
was born.  Wilfred, if you knowed how glad I am to see you again,
you'd be sort of scared, I reckon, thinking you'd fell amongst
cannibals.  Wonder where that aged trapper is?"  He shouted more
lustily, and a bristling white head suddenly appeared on the summit
of Turtle Hill.

"Great Scott!" yelled Bill Atkins, glaring down upon the approaching
figure, "if it ain't Wilfred Compton again!  Come on, come on, I was
never as glad to see anybody in all my life!"

The young man looked at Willock somewhat dubiously.  "He's very much
altered, then, since I met him last.  I'm afraid he has a gun hidden
up there among the rocks."

"Oh, nux, nux," retorted  Willock.  "He's a-speaking fair.  Come
along!"

As they ascended the winding road, Wilfred vividly recalled the day
when, from the same elevation, he had watched Lahoma buried in her
day-dreams.  A sudden turn brought the cove into view.  Lahoma was
not to be seen, but there was the cabin, the dugout and the three
cedar trees in whose shade he had made the discovery that he could
not regard Lahoma as a little girl.  It seemed that the cabin door
trembled--was Lahoma's hand upon the latch?  And when she opened the
door, what expression would flash upon that face he remembered so
well?  Would she be as glad as Willock and Bill Atkins, when she
recognized him?  Even one half as glad?

He sighed deeply--it was not to be expected.  She had known him only
an hour; since then, many settlers had invaded the country about the
Granite Mountains, a city had sprung up, not far away--other towns
were peeping through the sand, and blooming from canvas to wood and
brick.  The air tingled with the electric currents of new life and
intense competition.

"Did Lahoma marry?" he asked abruptly as all three descended to the
lower level of the cove.

"She never did, yet," replied Bill dryly.  "Young man, I'm powerful
glad to see you.  It's rather chilly out here.  I'll take your horse
and we'll gather in the dugout and talk over what's happened since
we last met.  Brick, don't you begin on anything interesting till
I come."

"You give me that horse," retorted Brick.  "You're too aged a man
to be messing with horses.  You'll get a fall one of these days
that'll lay you flat.  You'll never knit them bones together, if
you do; you ain't vital enough."

Bill clung grimly to the bridle, muttering something that showed no
lack of vitality in his vocabulary.

"He won't let me take no care of him," complained Brick, as he
conducted Wilfred to the dugout.

Wilfred cast a longing glance toward the cabin, and again he thought
Lahoma's parlor door quivered.  He even stopped in the path; but
Willock went on, unconscious, and he was obliged to follow.

"It's a strange thing," remarked Brick, as he descended the hard
dirt steps, "how Lahoma has acted on me.  I mean, living with her
these past twelve years, and all the rest of the world shut out,
except Bill.  Could I of been told before I saved little Lahoma from
the highwaymen that I'd ever worry over an old coon like Bill
Atkins, as to whether he broke his neck or not, I'd 'a' laughed, for
I'd 'a' had to.  But it sure does gall me to have him exposing
himself as he does.  I never wanted Bill to come here, but he just
come, like a stray cat.  First thing I knowed, he was a-purring at
the fireside--well, not exactly a-purring, nuther, but sort of
mewing, and looking ready to scratch.  He just took up with us and
now it's like always being scared to close a door for fear of
catching his tail in the jamb--I'm talking in a figger.  Come in,
pard--this used to be Lahoma's boudoir before we built that cabin
for her.  See the carpet?  Don't tell ME you're a-walking on it, and
not noticing!  See that little stove?  I brung it clear across the
mountains from a deserted wagon, when I was young.  Two legs is gone
and it's squat-bellied, and smokes if the wind gives it a chance;
but I wouldn't trade it for a new one.  Set on this bench.  I
recollect as well as if it 'us yesterday, Lahoma a-setting there
with her legs untouching of the floor, learning 'A' and 'B' and
asking thousands of questions and getting herself civilized.  I
couldn't do a finished job, but Bill took her by the hand later,
then a Mrs. Featherby, what moved over in the west mountain, added
stores from New England and travels in Europe.  When the settlers
come, she gleaned all they knowed, always a-rising and a-looking out
for new country.  That's a wonderful girl!" he added with
conviction.

When Bill came, they sat about the stove, the light from the famous
window bringing out with clear distinctness Brick's huge form and
bristling beard, Bill's thin figure surmounted by its shock of white
hair, and Wilfred's handsome grave face and splendidly developed
physique.  It was so warm below the ground that the fire in the
stove was maintained at the lowest state possible; but when the
western light quickly vanished from the window, the glowing coals
gave homely cheer to the crude room.

In answer to their questioner, Wilfred told of his experiences on
his quarter-section:  how he had broken the prairie land, put in
his crops, watched them wither away in the terrible dry months,
roughed it through the winters, tried again, fought through another
drought, staked all on the next spring's planting, raised a
half-crop, paid off his chattel mortgage, tried again,--succeeded.

"I've stayed right with it," he said gravely, looking from one to
the other as they smoked in silence, their eyes on his animated
face.  "Of course, they required me to stay on the land only during
certain months, every year.  But I stayed with it all the time; and
I studied it; and when I failed, as I did year after year, I failed
each time in a different way, because I learned my lesson.  And when
I'd walled off the cause of each failure, one by one, seemed like
there opened before me a broad clear way that led right into the
goal I'd been seeking from the first day.  Then I closed out all my
deals, and looked and saw that everything was trim and ready for
winter--and got my horse and started for Greer County."

"And glad we are!" cried Bill Atkins.  "I hope you can stay a long
time."

"That depends ... Lahoma is well, I suppose?"

"The picture of health--when she left," Brick declared admiringly,
"and the prettiest little gal this side of the angels.  When the
early sunlight peeps over the mountain and laughs at the cove that's
sulking from thinking it's about to be left out in the day's
doings--that's like Lahoma's smile.  And when you get down sick as
I done once from causes incidental to being made of flesh and blood,
and she come and laid her hand on my burning forehead, her touch
always made me think of an angel's wing, somehow, although I ain't
never set up to be religious, and I think of such things as little
as may be--except when Bill draws me to the subject from seeing him
so puny, at times."

"Lahoma's not here?" Wilfred asked anxiously.

"Not now, nor for some time," answered Brick.

"I wish," interposed Bill glumly, "that when you're going to talk
about me, Brick, you'd begin with Bill and not be dragging me in at
the tail-end of what concerns other people.  I reckon, Wilfred, you
just traveled here to take a look at the country where you used to
herd cattle?"

"That wasn't my reason.  Principally, I wanted to see Lahoma; and
incidentally, my brother."

"Your brother?  HE ain't in these parts, is he?"

"No," ruefully, "but I expected him to be.  When I left home to turn
cow-puncher, I didn't tell anybody where I'd gone; but just before
I left for Oklahoma to turn farmer, I wrote to my brother.  And
about a month ago, seeing things clearing up before me, I asked him
to meet me here at Tent City--he's interested in new towns; he's
employed by a rich man to plant hardware-stores, and I thought he
might find an opening here.  He came on, and was here several weeks
with a party of sightseers from Chicago; but he left with them about
a week ago."

Willock sat suddenly erect.  "Couldn't have been that Sellimer
crowd, I reckon, from Chicago?"

"Yes--Mrs. Sellimer and her daughter, and some of their friends."

Willock whistled loudly.  "And that up-and-down looking chap in the
gold nose-glasses was your brother?"

"Never thought of that," Bill exclaimed, "although he had your
name--he looked so different!  But now that you've laid aside your
cowboy rigging, I guess you could sit in his class, down at the
bottom of it."

Willock was uneasy.  "I was told," he observed, "and I took the
trouble to get datty on the subject, that them Sellimers--the mother
and daughter, and the herd they drift with--is of the highest
pedigree Chicago can produce.  It sort of jolts me to find out that
anybody we know is kin to the bunch!"

Wilfred laughed without bitterness.  "Don't let my kinship to
brother Edgerton disturb your ideal.  We're so different that we
parted without saying good-by, and although I had the weakness to
imagine we might patch up old differences if we could meet here in
the desert, I suppose we'd have fallen out in a day or two--we're
so unlike.  And as to Miss Sellimer--Annabel Sellimer--she is the
girl whose letters I was carrying about with me when I first saw
you.  She refused me because I was as poor as herself; so you see,
the whole bunch is out of my class."

"That's good," Willock's face cleared up.  "Mind you, I ain't saying
that as for me and Bill, we'd wouldn't rather sit with you in a
dugout than with them in a palace on Lake Michigan.  But it's all
a matter of getting Lahoma out into the big world, and you gave me
a terrible jolt, scaring me that after all we'd made a mistake, and
they was just of your plain every-day cloth."

Wilfred moved uneasily.  "Has Lahoma made their acquaintance, then?"

"It looks like it, don't it?"

"What looks like it?" Wilfred asked with sudden sharpness.

"Why, her going off, with 'em to spend the winter in high life."

"That's why I was so glad to see you," Bill explained, "her being
gone, and us so lonesome.  That's why I'd like to have you stay with
us a long time--until she comes back, if it suits you."

"But I thought....  But I came here to see Lahoma," cried Wilfred,
unable to conceal his disappointment.  "I thought as I came up the
road that I saw her half-opening the cabin-door."

"That was Red Feather taking a peep at you.  He's the Indian that
brought Lahoma to Willock, as a child.  He comes, about once a year,
to see us, but this time he was a little too late for Lahoma.  Yes,
she's gone East--they're all putting up in Kansas City just now; on
their way to Chicago."

"Son," said Willock, puffing steadily at his pipe, "why did you want
to see Lahoma?"

"Well--you know she was just a child when I was here before, but
she's hovered before my mind a good deal--I've been too busy to seek
the acquaintance of strangers--just want to keep the few I know." 
He blew a rueful breath.  "You can't think how all my air-castles
have fallen about my ears!  I wanted to see Lahoma!  Yes, I wanted
to see how she'd turned out.  I have a good farm, now, not very far
from Oklahoma City and--  Well, being alone there, year after year,
a fellow gets to imagining a great many things--"  He stopped
abruptly.

"That's so," Willock agreed sympathetically.  "I ain't a-saying that
if Lahoma'd been like me and Bill, she mightn't of liked farming
with you first-class.  But she was born as an associate of high men
and women, not cows and chickens.  It's the big world for her, and
that's where she's gone.  She's with real folks.  Be Mr. Edgerton
Compton your brother, or be he not, you can't imagine him setting
down with us sociable in this dugout.  You're right about his being
different.  And the fact that Miss Sellimer turned you down is
encouraging, too.  It shows you couldn't run in her course; you
didn't have the speed.  I guess we ain't made no mistake after ail."

There was silence, broken presently, by Bill--"I'm glad you've come,
sure!"

Presently the door opened, and the Indian chief glided into the
apartment with a grunt of salutation.  He spread his blanket in a
corner, and sat down, turning a stolid face to the fire.

"Don't pay no attention to him," remarked Willock, as if speaking
of some wild animal.  "He comes and goes, and isn't troublesome if
you feeds and sleeps him, and don't try to lay your hand on him."

Bill Atkins rose.  "But _I_ always light up when he comes," he
remarked, reaching stiffly for a lantern which in due time glimmered
from the partition wall.  "Are you hungry, Wilfred?  We never feed
till late; it gives us something to sleep on.  I lie awake pretty
constantly all night, anyhow, and when I eat late, my stomach sorter
keeps me company."

Wilfred declared that he was not in the least hungry.

"I'm afraid you're disappointed, son," observed Willock, filling
his pipe anew.

Wilfred turned to him with a frank smile.  "Brick--it's just awful! 
It's what comes from depending on something you've no right to
consider a sure thing.  I never thought of this cove without Lahoma
in it; didn't seem like it could be so empty....  How did she get
acquainted with Annabel?--and with my brother?"

"It come about, son.  I see at once that the bunch of 'em was from
the big world.  I come home and told Bill, 'Them's the people to
tow Lahoma out into life,' says I.  So they invited her to spend the
winter with them, the Sellimers did, and show her city doings."

"Yes--but how did it come about?"

"Nothing more natural.  I goes over to their tent and I tells them
of the curiosities and good points of these mountains, and gets 'em
to come on a sort of picnic to explore.  So here they comes, and
they gets scattered, what with Bill and Lahoma and me taking
different ways--they liked Lahoma first time they see her, as a
matter of course.  And so, that Miss Sellimer, she gets separated
from all the rest, and I shows her a dandy hiding-place where nobody
couldn't find her, and I shows her what a good joke it would be to
pretend to be lost.  So I leaves her there to go to tell her crowd
she dares 'em to find her.  Are you listening?"

"Of course."

"Well, while she was setting there waiting to be searched for, of
a sudden a great big Injun in a blanket and feathers and red paint
jumps down beside her and grabs her and picks her up, and about as
quick as she knew anything, she was gagged and bound and being bore
along through the air.  I reckon it was a terrible moment for her. 
Now there is a crevice in the top of the mountain that nobody don't
never explore, because it's just a crack in the rock that ain't to
be climbed out of without a ladder.  So the Injun carries her there,
and lets her down with a rope that it seems he must of had handy
somewheres, and he puts out; and there she is, in a holler in the
mountain, not able to move or cry out no more than if she'd been
captured by a regular highwayman."

Wilfred stared at Willock in complete bewilderment.  Willock
chuckled.

"There was a terrible time!" remarked Bill.

"Dark was a-coming on before the party got plumb scared," Willock
continued, "but they brushed and combed that mountain looking for
the poor lost lady, and as I tells 'em she's a-hiding a-purpose,
they think it a pore sort of joke till midnight catches 'em mighty
serious.  Torches is carried here and there and everywhere, but no
use.  You would think that the next day the crowd would naturally
look down in that crevice, but that's because I've posted you up on
where she is.  There's lots of other crevices, and no reason as they
can see why Miss Sellimer should take the trouble to worm herself
down into any of 'em--and as nobody saw that Injun, how could they
suspicion foul play?  It must of been AWFUL for pore Miss Sellimer,
all bound and gagged in that horrible way, but it takes heroic
treatment to get some cures--and so Lahoma went with 'em to spend
the winter."

"But the Indian-?"

"Needn't think about HIM no more, son, we got no more use for THAT
Injun.  Well, on the next day, Lahoma is looking everywhere, being
urged on by me, and lo, and behold! when she comes to that crevice
--looked like she couldn't be induced to go there of her own will,
but it was brung about finally--what does she see but a tomahawk
lying right at the edge what must have been dropped there recent,
or the crowd would have saw it the day before.  It come to her that
Miss Sellimer is a prisoner down below.  She looks, but it's too
dark to see nothing.  Not telling nobody for fear of starting up
false hopes, she gets a light and lowers it--and there is that
miserable young woman, bound and gagged and her pretty dress all
tore.  Lahoma jumps to her feet to raise the cry, when she discovers
a ladder under a boulder which the Injun must have put there meaning
to descend to his victim when the coast was clear.  Down she skins,
and frees Miss Sellimer, who's half dead, poor young lady!  Lahoma
comes up the ladder and meets me and I carries her out just like a
feather--Well, can't you imagine the rest?  I reckon if Miss
Sellimer lives a thousand years she'll never forget the awfulness
of that big Injun and the angel sweetness of the little gal that
saved her.  Why, if Lahoma had asked for the rings off her fingers,
she could have had 'em, diamonds and all."

Wilfred rose and went to stare at the darkness from the small square
window.  Not a word was spoken for some time.  At last the silence
was broken by the Indian--  "UGH!" grunted Red Feather.

"Just so!" remarked Wilfred, with exceeding dryness.

"What are you thinking, Wilfred?" demanded Brick Willock.

"I'd have thought Lahoma would recognize the ladder."

"So she done; but couldn't the Injun have stole my ladder and
carried it to that boulder?  Just as soon as Miss Sellimer was well
enough to travel, NOTHING couldn't hold her in these parts, and
that's why your brother had to leave before seeing you--he's setting
to Miss Sellimer, and if Lahoma don't git him away from her, I
reckon he's a goner!"

Bill Atkins spoke vaguely.  "It wasn't none of my doings."

Wilfred looked steadily at Willock.  "What about your whiskers?"

"Oh, as to them, it was like old times; you takes a cloth and cuts
it out--painted red--Psha!  What are we talking of?  Bill, let's
show him her letter--what do you say?"

"I reckon it wouldn't hurt," Bill conceded.

"How'd you like it, Wilfred?  We can't produce our little gal to
keep you company, but her letter would sort of be like hearing her
talk, wouldn't it?  And if you stay with us a spell, we'll let you
read 'em as they come."

Wilfred perceived that Willock was anxious to get his mind off the
harrowing adventure of the crevice, and as he was eager to hear the
letter, and as Brick and Bill were anxious to hear it again, nothing
more was said about the "big Injun."

"Who'll read it?" asked Bill, as he drew the precious letter from
the strong box behind the stove.

"Let Wilfred do the deed," Willock suggested.  "It travels slow in
my company, and though Bill reads 'er correct, he does considerable
droning.  I expect if Wilfred reads it with unction, it'll sound
like a new document."

Wilfred drew the only stool in the room up beside the lantern, and
Bill and Brick disposed themselves on the bench, each holding his
pipe on his knee as if fearful of losing a word.  Red Feather, his
beady eyes fastened on the young man's face, sat gracefully erect,
apparently alert to all that was going on.  The lantern reddened the
strong clean-cut face of the young man, and touched the upturned
pages to the whiteness of snow.  A sudden wind had sprung up, and
the flaring blaze from the open stove-door touched to vivid
distinctness the giant, the old man and the Indian.  Brick closed
the stove-door, and the sudden gloom brought out in mellow effect
Wilfred's animated face, the dull yellow wall against which his
sturdy shoulder rested, and the letter in his hand.



CHAPTER XIV
WRITING HOME


"Dear Brick and Bill:

"I don't know what to tell first.  It's all so strange and
grand--the people are just people, but the things are wonderful. 
The people want it to be so; they act, and think according to the
things around them.  They pride themselves on these things and on
being amongst them, and I am trying to learn to do that, too.  When
I lived in the cove--it seems a long, long time ago--my thoughts
were always away from dirt-floors and cook-stoves and cedar logs and
wash-pans.  But the people in the big world keep their minds tied
right up to such things--only the things are finer--they are marble
floors and magnificent restaurants and houses on what they call the
'best streets.'  At meals, there are all kinds of little spoons and
forks, and they think to use a wrong one is something dreadful; that
is why I say the forks and spoons seem more important than THEY are,
but they want it to be so.

"They have certain ways of doing everything, and just certain times
for doing them, and if you do a wrong thing at a right time, or a
right thing at a wrong time, it shows you are from the West.  At
first, I couldn't say a word, or turn around, without showing that
I was from the West.  But although I've been from home only a few
days, I'm getting so that nobody can tell that I'm more important
than the furniture around me.  I'm trying to be just like the one
I'm with, and I don't believe an outsider can tell that I have any
more sense than the rest of them.

"Miss Sellimer is so nice to me.  I told her right at the start that
I didn't know anything about the big world, and she teaches me
everything.  I'd be more comfortable if she could forget about my
saving her life, but she never can, and is so grateful it makes me
feel that I'm enjoying all this on false pretenses for you know my
finding her was only an accident.  Her mother is very pleasant to
me--much more so than to her.  Bill, you know how you speak to your
horse, sometimes, when it acts contrary?  That's the way Miss
Sellimer speaks to her mother, at times.  However, they don't seem
very well acquainted with each other.  Of course if they'd lived
together in a cove for years, they'd have learned to tell each other
their thoughts and plans, but out in the big world there isn't time
for anything except to dress and go.

"I'm learning to dress.  I used to think a girl could do that to
please herself, but no, the dresses are a thousand times more
important than the people inside them.  It wouldn't matter how wise
you are if your dress is wrong, nor would it matter how foolish, if
your dress is like everybody else's.  A person could be independent
and do as she pleased, but she wouldn't be in society.  And nobody
would believe she was independent, they would just think she didn't
know any better, or was poor.  Because, they don't know anything
about being independent; they want to be governed by their things. 
A poor person isn't cut off from society because he hasn't money,
but because he doesn't know how to deal with high things, not having
practised amongst them.  It isn't because society people have lots
of money that they stick together, but because all of them know what
to do with the little forks and spoons.

"It is like the dearest, jolliest kind of game to me, to be with
these people, and say just what they say, and like what they like,
and act as they act--and that's the difference between me and them;
it's not a game to them, it's deadly earnest.  They think they're
LIVING!

"Do you think I could play at this so long that one day I'd imagine
I was doing what God had expected of me when he sent me to you,
Brick?  Could I stay out in the big world until I'd think of the
cove as a cramped little pocket in the wilderness with two pennies
jingling at the bottom of it named Brick and Bill?  If I thought
there was any danger of that, I'd start home in the morning!

"We are in a Kansas City hotel where all the feathers are in ladies'
hats and bonnets instead of in the gentlemen's hair.  To get to our
rooms you go to a dark little door and push something that makes a
bell ring, and then you step into a dugout on pulleys, that shoots
up in the air so quick it makes you feel a part of you has fallen
out and got lost.  The dugout doesn't slow up for the third story,
it just stops THAT QUICK--they call it an 'elevator' and it
certainly does elevate!  You step out in a dim trail where there are
dusky kinds of lights, although it may be the middle of the day, and
you follow the trail over a narrow yellow desert, turn to your right
and keep going till you reach a door with your number on it.  When
you are in your room, you see the things that are considered more
important than the people.

"There's an entire room set apart for the sole purpose of
bathing!--and the room with the bed in it is separate from the
sitting-room.  You can go in one and stay a while, and go in another
and stay a while, and then go in the third--and you have a different
feeling for each room that you're in.  I'd rather see everything at
once, as I can in my cabin.  And that bed!  If my little bed at home
could be brought here and set up beside this hotel wonder, the very
walls would cry out....  I wish I could sleep in my little bed
tonight, and hear the wind howling over the mountain.

"The dining-room is the finest thing I ever saw; I doubt if the
kings and queens of old times ever ate in richer surroundings. 
There are rows of immense mirrors along the wall and gold borders
--and then the tables!  I wonder what would happen if anybody should
spread newspapers on one of these wonderful tables and use them for
a tablecloth?  At home, we can just reach out and take what we want
off the stove, and help our plates without rising.  It's so
different here!  After you've worried over crooked lists of things
to eat that you've never heard of, and have hurried to select so the
waiter won't have to lose any time, the waiter goes away.  And when
he puts something before you, you don't know what to call it,
because it's been so long, you've forgotten its name on that awful
pasteboard.  But there's something pleasant when you've finished,
in just getting up and walking away, not caring who cleans up the
dishes!

"I've been to the opera-house, but it wasn't an opera, it was a
play.  That house--I wish you could see it!--the inside, I mean,
for outside it looks like it needs washing.  The chairs--well, if
you sent that stool of ours to a university you couldn't train it
up to look anything like those opera-chairs.  And the dresses--the
diamonds....  Everything was perfectly lovely except what we had
come to see, and my party thought it was too funny for anything;
but it wasn't funny to me.  The story they acted was all about a
young couple fooling their parents and getting married without
father and mother knowing, and a baby brought in at the last that
nobody would claim though it was said to be somebody's that
shouldn't have had one--the audience just screamed with laughter
over that; I thought they never would quiet down.  Out in The big
world, babies and old fathers and mothers seem to be jokes.  The
star of the evening was a married actress with 'Miss' before her
name.  You could hear every word she spoke, but the others didn't
seem to try to make themselves plain--I guess that's why they aren't
stars, too.

"I've lived more during the last week than I had the previous
fifty-one.  We must have been to everything there is, except a
church.  Yesterday was Sunday, and I asked Mrs. Sellimer about it,
but she said people didn't go to church any more.

"Maybe you wonder why I don't tell you about our crowd, but I guess
it's because I feel as if they didn't matter.  I wouldn't say that
to anybody in the world but to you, Brick and Bill, and if I hadn't
promised to write you every single thing, I wouldn't even tell you,
because they are so good to me.  It sounds untrue to them, doesn't
it?  But you won't tell anybody, because you've nobody to tell!  And
besides, they could be different in a minute if they wanted to be;
it isn't as if they were helpless.

"Miss Sellimer is witty and talented, and from the way she treats
me, I know she has a tender heart.  And her mother is a perfect
wonder of a manager, and never makes mistakes except such as happen
to be the fad of the hour.  And Mr. Edgerton Compton could be
splendid, for he seems to know everything, and when we travel with
him, or go to the parks and all that, people do just as he says, as
if he were a prince; he has a magnificent way of showering money on
porters and waiters and cabmen that is dazzling; and he holds
himself perfectly WITHOUT TRYING, and dresses so that you are glad
you're with him in a crowd; he knows what to do ALL the time about
EVERYTHING.  But there he stops.  I mean, he isn't trying to do
anything that matters.  Neither are any of the rest.

"What they are working at now, is all they expect to work at as long
as they live--and it takes awfully hard work to keep up with their
set.  They call it 'keeping in the swim,' and let me tell you what
it reminds me of--a strong young steer out in a 'tank,' using all
the strength he has just to keep on top of the water, instead of
swimming to shore and going somewhere.  Society people don't go
anywhere; they use all their energy staying right where they are;
and if one of them loses grip and goes under--GOODNESS!

"I know what Mrs. Sellimer has set her heart on, because she has
already begun instructing me in her ideals.  She wants her daughter
to marry a rich man, and Mr. Edgerton Compton isn't rich, he only
looks like he is.  Mrs. Sellimer feels that she's terribly poor,
herself; it's the kind of poverty that has all it wants to eat and
wear, but hasn't as many horses and servants as it wants.  It's just
as hard on her as it would be on you if the bacon gave out and you
couldn't go for more.  Annabel--that's Miss Sellimer--likes Mr.
Compton very, very much, but she feels like her mother about
marrying a rich man, and I don't think he has much chance.  One
trouble is that he thinks he must marry a rich girl, so they just
go on, loving each other, and looking about for 'chances.'

"I feel like I oughtn't to be wasting my time telling about my
friends when there are all these wonderful lights and carpets and
decorations and conveniences, so much more interesting.  Whenever
you want hot water, instead of bringing a bucketful from the spring
and building a fire and sitting down to watch it simmer, you just
turn a handle and out it comes, smoking; and whenever you want
ice-water, you touch a button and give a boy ten cents.

"The funny thing to me is that Annabel and Mr. Compton both think
they HAVE to marry somebody rich, or not marry at all.  They really
don't know they COULD marry each other, because imagining they would
be unable to keep the wolf from the door.  That's because they can't
imagine themselves living behind anything but a door on one of the
'best streets.'  We know, don't we, Brick and Bill, that it takes
mighty little to keep the coyote from the dugout!  And there's
something else we know that these people haven't dreampt of--that
there's happiness and love in many and many a dugout.  I don't know
what's behind the doors on the 'best streets.'

"We are not going straight on to Chicago.  A gentleman has invited
the Sellimers, which of course includes me, to a house-party in the
country not far from Kansas City.  He is a very rich man of middle
age, so they tell me, a widower, who is interested in our sex and
particularly in Annabel Sellimer.  Mr. Edgerton Compton isn't
invited.  You see, he's a sort of rival--a poor rival.  This
middle-aged man has known the Sellimers a long time, and he has been
trying to win Annabel for a year or two.  If it hadn't been for Mr.
Compton she'd have married HIS HOUSE before now, I gather.  The
house is said to be immense, in a splendid estate near the river. 
I am all excitement when I think of going there for ten days.  There
are to be fifty guests and the other forty-nine are invited as a
means of getting Annabel under his roof.  Won't I feel like a little
girl in an old English novel!  The best of it is that nobody will
bother ME--I'm too poor to be looked at a second time, I mean, what
THEY call poor.  Sometimes I laugh when I'm alone, for I feel like
I'm a gold mine filled with rich ore that nobody has discovered. 
Remember the 'fool's gold' we used to see among the granite
mountains?  I think the gold that lies on the surface must always
be fool's gold.  The name of the country-house we are to visit is
the same as that of the man who owns it--"

Wilfred Compton held the letter closer to the light.

Brick Willock spoke impatiently:  "No use to stare at that there
word--we couldn't make it out.  I guess she got it wrong, first,
then wrote it over.  Just go ahead."

Bill suggested, "I think the first letter is an 'S.'"

Wilfred scrutinized the name closely.

"Besides," said Willock, "we knows none of them high people, the
name wouldn't be nothing to us--and her next letter will likely have
it more'n once."

Wilfred resumed the letter:  "I must tell you good-by, now, for
Annabel's maid has come to help me dress for dinner, and it takes
longer than it did to do up the washing, at the cove; and is more
tiresome.  But I like it.  I like these fine, soft, beautiful
things.  I like the big world, and I would like to live in it
forever and ever, if you could bring the dugout and be near enough
for me to run in, any time of the day.  I wish I could run in this
minute and tell you the thousands and thousands of things I'll never
have time to write.

"Your loving, adoring, half-homesick, half-bewildered, somewhat
dizzy little girl,

"Lahoma.

"P. S.  Nobody has been able to tell from word or look of mine that
I have ever been surprised at a single thing I have heard or seen. 
You may be quite sure of that."


"I bet you!" cried Willock admiringly.  "NOW, what do you think of
it?"

"She won't be there long," remarked Bill, waving his arm, "till she
finds out what I learned long ago--that there's nothing to it.  If
you want to cultivate a liking for a dugout, just live a while in
the open."

"I don't know as to that," Willock said.  "I sorter doubts if Lahoma
will ever care for dugouts again, except as she stays on the outside
of 'em, and gets to romancing.  A mouthful of real ice-cream spoils
your taste everlasting for frozen starch and raw eggs."

"Lahoma is a real person," declared Bill, "and a dugout is grounded
and bedded in a real thing--this very solid and very real old earth,
if you ask to know what I mean."

"Lord, _I_ knows what you mean," retorted Willock.  "You've lived
in a hole in the ground most of your life, and are pretty near ripe
to be laid away in another one, smaller I grant you, but dark and
deep, according.  We'll never get Lahoma back the same as when we
let her flutter forth hunting a green twig over the face of the
waters.  She may bring back the first few leaves she finds, but a
time's going to come...."  He broke off abruptly, his eyes wide and
troubled, as if already viewing the dismal prospect.

"Maybe I AM old," Bill grudgingly conceded, "but I don't set up to
be no Noah's ark."

"Oh," cried Willock, his sudden sense of future loss causing him to
speak with unwonted irony, "maybe you're just a Shem, or Ham or that
other kind of Fat--  What's the matter, Wilfred?  Can't you let go
of that letter?"

"I've made out the name of that widower who's paying court to my
old sweetheart," he said, "but it's one I never heard of before;
that's why it looked so strange--it's Gledware."

Willock uttered a sharp exclamation.  "Let me see it."  He started
up abruptly, and bent over the page.

"What of it?" asked Bill in surprise.  Willock had uttered words to
which the dugout was unaccustomed.

"That's what it is," Willock growled; "it's Gledware!"  His face
had grown strangely dark and forbidding, and Wilfred, who had never
imagined it could be altered by such an expression, handed him the
letter with a sense of uneasiness.

"What of it?" reiterated Bill.  "Suppose it IS Gledware; who is HE?"

"Do you know such a man?" Wilfred demanded.

"Out with it!" cried Bill, growing wrathful as the other glowered
at the fire.  "What's come over you?  Look here, Brick Willock,
Lahoma is your cousin, but I claim my share in that little girl and
I ask you sharp and flat--"

"Oh you go to--!" cried Willock fiercely.  "All of you."

Wilfred said lightly, "Red Feather has already gone there, perhaps."

"Eh?"  Willock wheeled about as if roused to fresh uneasiness.  The
Indian chief had glided from the room, as silent and as unobtrusive
as a shadow.

Willock sank on the bench beside Bill Atkins and said harshly,
"Where's my pipe?"

"Don't you ask ME where your pipe is," snapped Bill.  "Yonder it is
in the comer where you dropped it."

Willock picked it up, and slowly recovered himself.  "You see," he
observed apologetically, "I need Lahoma about, to keep me tame.  I
was wondering the other day if I could swear if I wanted to.  I
guess I could.  And if put to it, I guess I could take up my old
life and not be very awkward about it, either--I used to be a
tax-collector, and of course got rubbed up against many people that
didn't want to pay.  That there Gledware--well! maybe it isn't this
one Lahoma writes about, but the one I knew is just about middle
age, and he's a widower, all right, or the next thing to it--I
didn't like Gledware.  That was all.  I hate for Lahoma to be
throwed with anybody of the name--but I guess it's all right. 
Lahoma ain't going to let nobody get on her off-side, when the
wind's blowing."

Bill inquired anxiously, "Did that Gledware you knew, live near
Kansas City?"

"He lived over in Indian Territory, last time I heard of him.  But
he was a roving devil--he might be anywhere.  Only--he wasn't rich;
why, he didn't have nothing on earth except a little--yes, except
a little."

"Then he can't be the owner of a big estate," remarked Wilfred, with
relief.

"I don't know that.  Folks goes into the Territory, and somehow they
contrives to come out loaded down.  But I hope to the Almighty it's
a different Gledware!"

"Lahoma can hold her own," Bill remarked confidently.  "You just
wait till her next letter comes, and see if she ain't flying her
colors as gallant as when she sailed out of the cove."

Wilfred reflected that his invitation to remain had been sincere;
there was nothing to hurry him back to the Oklahoma country--he
would, at least, stay until the next letter came.  His interest in
Lahoma was of course vague and dreamy, founded rather on the fancies
of a thousand-and-one-nights than upon the actual interview of a
brief hour.  But the remarkable change that had taken possession of
Willock at the mention of Gledware's name, had impressed the young
man profoundly.  In that moment, all the geniality and kindliness
of the huge fellow had vanished, and the great whiskered face had
looked so wild and dangerous, the giant fists had doubled so
threateningly, that long after the brow smoothed and the muscles
relaxed, it was impossible to forget the ferocious picture.

"That's what I'll do," Wilfred declared, settling back in his seat,
"I'll wait until that next letter comes."



CHAPTER XV
THE DAY OF FENCES


While waiting for Lahoma's letter, Wilfred Compton spent his days
in ceaseless activity, his evenings in dreamy musings.  Over on the
North Fork of Red River--which was still regarded as Red River
proper, and therefore the dividing line between Texas and Indian
Territory--he renewed his acquaintance with the boys of Old Man
Walker's ranch.  Henry Woodson, the cow-puncher, still known as
Mizzoo was one of the old gang who greeted Wilfred with extravagant
joy which shaded away to easy and picturesque melancholy in
lamenting the passing of the good old days.

"These is the days of fences," complained Mizzoo, as Wilfred, in
answer to his invitation, rode forth with him to view the changes. 
"Time was, our cattle was bounded on the south by nothing but the
south wind, and on the north by nothing but the north wind; hut
these unmitigated settlers has spiled the cattle business.  I'm
looking for the old man to sell out and quit.  Why, look at all the
little towns that has sprung up so confusing and handy that you
don't know which to choose to liquor up.  They comes like a thief
in the night, and in the morning they're equipped to rob you.  I
can't keep no change by me--I've asked the old man to hold back my
wages till the end of the year.  But I'm calculating to make
something out of these very misfortunes.  You know I always was sort
of thrifty--yes, as they GOT to be a settled county round us, it'll
needs call for a sheriff, and if all signs don't fail, I'll get the
job this week.  Then there'll be no more riding of the line for old
Mizzoo."

Wilfred rode with him to Mangum, and other villages, with names and
without, and he tingled to the spirit of the bounding West.  There
might be only a few dugouts, some dingy tents and a building or so
of undressed pine, but each hamlet felt in itself the possibilities
of a city, and had its spaces in the glaring sands or the dead
sagebrush which it called "the Square" and "Main Street" and
possibly "the park."  The air quivered with expectations of a
railroad, maybe two or three, and each cluster of hovels expected
to find itself in a short time constituted the county-seat, with a
gleaming steel road at its back door.

This spirit of optimism was but a reflection of the miraculous
growth of the new country of which Greer County, though owned by
Texas, felt itself, in a sense, an integral part.  Eight years
before, Indian Territory was the hunting-ground of the Indian, and
whosoever attempted to settle within its limits was driven forth by
the soldiers.  It was then a land of dim twilight, full of mystery
and wildness, with vast stretches of thirsty plains and bleak
mountains around which the storms, unbroken by forests, shrieked in
the "straight winds" of many days, or whined the threat of the
deadly tornado.  And suddenly it became a land of high noon, garish
and crude, but wide-awake and striving with all the tireless energy
of young blood.

Scarcely had the Oklahoma country been taken possession of before
the settlers began agitating the question of an organized territory,
and too impatient to wait for Congress to act, held their own
convention at Guthrie and divided the land into counties.  Congress
made them wait five months--an age in the new country--before
approving the Organic Act.  The district, which a short time before
had been the Unassigned Lands, became the counties of Logan,
Oklahoma, Cleveland, Canadian, Kingfisher and Payne.  To these was
added Beaver County which in Brick Willock's day had been called
"No-Man's Land," and which the law-abiding citizens, uniting against
bandits and highwaymen, had sought to organize as Cimmaron
Territory.

Then came the rivalry between Guthrie and Oklahoma City for the
capital, adding picturesqueness to territorial history, and offering
incitement to many a small village to make itself the county-seat
of its county.  The growth of the new country advanced by leaps and
bounds.  In 1891, the 868,414 acres of the surplus lands of the
Iowa, Sac, Fox and the Pottawatomie-Shawnee reservations formed the
new counties of Lincoln and Pottawatomie and increased the extent
of some of the old ones.  The next year, 3,500,562 acres belonging
to the Cheyenne and Arapaho Indians were taken to increase several
of the older counties, and to from the new ones of honest old
American names--Blame, Custer, Washita, Dewey, Roger Mills, Beckham
and Ellis.  In the year following, the Cherokee strip was opened for
a settlement together with the surplus lands of the Pawnee and
Tonhawa--5,698,140 acres; besides increasing other counties, this
land furnished forth the new counties of Alfalfa, Garfield, Grant,
Harper, Major, Woods, Woodward, Pawnee, Kay and Noble.  At the time
of Wilfred's visit to Brick Willock, the winter of 1894-5, the
opening of the Kickapoo reservation was already a near certainty;
while the vast extent of Greer County itself, so long in dispute
between Texas and the United States, would in all likelihood be
added to the swelling territory of Oklahoma.

The territory, so young but so dauntless, was already agitating the
question of statehood--not only so, but of single statehood, meaning
thereby the prospective engulfment and assimilation of Indian
Territory, that all the land from Texas to Kansas, Missouri and
Arkansas might be called by the one name--Oklahoma; a name to stand
forever as a symbol of the marvelously swift and permanent growth
of a white people, in spite of its Choctaw significance--"Red
People."

Although Wilfred had stayed close to his farm, near Oklahoma City,
he had kept alive to the rush and swing of the western life; and
now that he had leisure to ride with Mizzoo among the bustling
camps, and view the giant strides made from day to day by the
smallest towns, he was more than ever filled with the exultation of
one who takes part in world-movements.  He began to view the
hurrying crowds that overran the sidewalks, with a sense of close
kinship--these people came from all points of the Union, but they
were his people.  A year ago, six months ago, they might have been
New Yorkers, Californians, Oregonians, but now all were westerners
like himself, and though they believed themselves Texans the name
made as little difference as that between "Red River" and "Prairie
Dog Fork"--in spirit, they were Oklahomans.

If Wilfred had not been a simple visitor, he would have had no time
for thought; but now he could look on the life of which he had for
a few years been a part, and study it as related to the future.  It
was as if his boyhood and youth had not been passed in Chicago--the
West had blotted out the past as it ever does with relentless hand,--
and every thought-channel led toward the light of the future.
Lahoma's letter had revived the picture of other days, of another
existence, without rousing one wish to return.

The only desire it had stirred in his breast was that of seeing
Lahoma again, of taking her by the hand to lead her, not back to
the old civilization, but to the new.  As he lay awake at night in
the log cabin that had been Lahoma's, his brain for a long time
every night was busy with thoughts of that new civilization, and he
was stirred with ambition to take part, so that when single
statehood or double statehood was achieved, he would be a recognized
factor in its transformation from a loosely-bound territory.

He began to think, too, of moving his residence to Oklahoma City,
where he would be closer to men of affairs--great men of great
enterprises.  His farm, of course, would be managed under his
superintendence--unless Oklahoma City should be generous enough to
spread out and surround it, and lap it up, town-lot after town-lot,
till not a red clod was left....  And if a girl like Lahoma--for
surely she had not changed!--if she, little Lahoma....  And the
longing grew on him to see Annabel Sellimer and Lahoma together,
that he might study the girl he had once loved with the girl he
might love tomorrow.  He almost made up his mind to take a brief
trip to Chicago, on quitting the cove; perhaps there would be
something in Lahoma's next letter to force a decision.

Two weeks passed, but Wilfred did not consider the time lost; there
were letters almost daily, by coach, from Lahoma, telling of her
adventures in the great world--the house-party had been delayed on
account of Mrs. Sellimer's illness, but was to take place
immediately--so said the last letter before the arrival of the news
that changed the course of events at the cove.  As yet, Lahoma had
not met Mr. Gledware, but the fame of his riches and his luxurious
home had both increased her curiosity to see him, and her conviction
that Mr. Edgerton Compton stood no chance with Annabel.  She had
discovered, too, that Edgerton Compton was a brother of the Wilfred
Compton who had visited them one day in the cove--Wilfred read the
letter with great attention, but there was no further reference to
himself.

Brick Willock rode over to Mangum nearly every afternoon to hear
from Lahoma, but it happened that on the day of the great news,
neither he nor Bill had returned from a certain hunting expedition
in time for the stage, so Wilfred went for the mail.  There was only
one letter, addressed to "Mr. B. Willock," and it seemed strangely
thin.  The young man wondered during all his ten-mile return-trip
if Lahoma had fallen ill; and after reaching the log cabin, he kept
looking at the slim missive, and turning it over, with vague
uneasiness.

Brick and Bill had ridden far, and it was dusk before they reached
home with a deer slung over one of the horses.

"They're getting scarcer every year," complained Bill, as he climbed
stiffly to the ground; "I guess they'll finally go the way of the
buffalo."

"Get a letter?" asked Brick, hurrying forward.  "Huh!  THAT it? 
She is sure getting fashionable!  I reckon when she's plumb
civilized, she won't write nothing!"

He took the long white envelope and squinted at it inquisitively.

"Well, why don't you open 'er?" snapped Bill.  "Afraid you'll spring
a trap and get caught?"

"Ain't much here," replied Brick slowly, "and I'm making it last."

"Huh!  Nothing is a-lasting when it hasn't been begun," retorted
Bill crossly.  "See what the little girl says."

"I'm afraid she's sick," observed Wilfred, eying the envelope with
something like Bill's irritable impatience.

Brick tore it open, and found within another envelope, the inner
one of yellow.  "It's a telegraph," he said uneasily.  "Lahoma had
telegraphed to the end of the wire, and at Chickasha they puts it
in the white wrapper and sends it on.  Do you see?"

"I don't see anything yet," snapped Bill.  "Rip 'er open!"

Brick looked at Bill Atkins.  "Better set down, Bill," he remarked. 
"If they's any kind of shock in this, YOU ain't got no nerve to
stand it."  He broke open the yellow envelope and stared at the
message.  As he did so, the hand clutching the telegram hardened to
a giant fist, while his brow wrinkled, and his eyes grew dark and
menacing.  Wilfred was reminded of the sinister expression displayed
at the first mention by Lahoma of Gledware's name, and he
experienced once more that surprised feeling of not being nearly so
well acquainted with him as he had supposed.

After a dead silence, Willock handed the telegram to Bill, who
wrinkled his brow over it a minute or two before handing it to
Wilfred.  The young man read it hastily, then turned to Bill.  His
face wore a decidedly puzzled look.

"I don't understand," he said.

"Neither do I," returned Bill rather blankly.  "I guess if there is
to be any setting down, it's Brick that needs a chair."

The telegram was as follows:


"The second you get this, hide for your life.  Red Kimball says he
can prove everything.  Will explain in letter.

"Lahoma."


"Don't say nothing to me for a spell," growled Brick, thrusting his
hands deep into his pockets.  "I've got to think mighty quick."  He
strode toward the dugout, leaving Wilfred and Bill staring at each
other, speechless.

In a short time, Willock reappeared, bringing from the dugout his
favorite gun.  "Come along," he bade them briefly.  When he had
ascended the rounded swell of Turtle Hill, he stretched himself
between two wide flat rocks and lay with his face and gun directed
toward the opening of the cove.

"Now, Bill," he said sharply, "if you will just set facing me with
your eye on the north wall, so you can tell if anybody tries to
sneak over the mountain-top, I'll make matters clear.  Wilfred, you
can go or stay, free as air, only IF you stay, I can't promise but
you may see a man killed--me, or Red Kimball, I don't know which,
though naturally I has my preference," he added, his harsh voice
suddenly changing to the accent of comradeship.  "As to Bill, he
ain't got no choice.  He come and put up with me and Lahoma when
nobody didn't want him, and now, in time of danger, I 'low to get
all the help out of him that's there in spite of a begrudging
disposition and the ravages of time."

"What I want to know is this," Bill interrupted:  "Who and what is
this Red Kimball?  And if you have to hide from him, why ain't you
doing it?"

"I puts it this way, Bill:  that the telegram traveled faster than
old Red could, so no need to hide till tonight, though when you
deals with Red, it behooves you to have your gun ready against
chances.  You want to know about Red Kimball?  But I think I'd best
wait till Lahoma's letter comes, so my story can tally with hers. 
I got my reasons for not wanting to tell all about Red Kimball which
I reckon he wouldn't be grateful for, but that's for him to say. 
So I 'lows to tell only as much as I has to tell, that depending on
what Lahoma has picked up, according."

"I suppose you've met him face to face?" growled Bill.

"They don't seem to be no harm in that question, Bill, but you never
knows where a first question is leading you.  If I refuses to answer
what seems fair and square, no suspicions is roused when I refuses
to answer what might sound dark and shady.  So I banks myself
against my general resolution to say nothing beyond Lahoma's word."

"Her word says he can prove everything.  What is 'everything'?"

"That's what we'll learn from her letter.  We'll just watch him do
his proving!"

"And her word says to hide this minute."

"I don't do my hiding in daylight, but when it's good and dark, I'm
going to put out.  I would tell you the hiding-place, for I trusts
you both--but if you knowed where it was, and if officers of the law
come to you for information, you'd be in a box; I know you wouldn't
give me up, but neither would you swear to a lie.  Not knowing where
I hides, your consciences are as free as mine that hasn't never been
bridled."

Wilfred asked, "But when Lahoma writes, how will you get her
letter?"

"You or Bill will go for the mail.  If a letter comes, you'll take
it to that crevice into which Miss Sellimer was drug by that big
Injun, and you'll wait in there till I comes, not opening that
letter till I am with you.  We'll read it together, down in the
hollow where poor Miss Sellimer's life was saved by Lahoma; then
you two will go back to the cove, and leave me to sneak away to my
hiding-place which may be near and may be far.  When you get a
letter, bring your ladder and the lantern, and be sure nobody is
watching you--because if you let Red Kimball or any of his gang
follow you to that hiding-place, you'd have to see a man killed--and
such as that ain't no sight for eyes as civilized as Wilfred's, or
as old as Bill's."



CHAPTER XVI
THE ONYX PIN


When the next letter came from Lahoma, Wilfred Compton and Bill
Atkins hurried to the crevice in the mountain-top according to
agreement.  It was a cloudless afternoon, but at the farther end of
the retreat the light of the lantern was necessary for its perusal. 
Brick Willock, who was there before them, read the letter in silence
before handing it to the young man to read aloud.

"It's just addressed to me, this time," he remarked grimly, in
explanation of his proprietary act; "they ain't no foolishness of
'Dear Brick and Bill.'  But I treats you as friends should be
treated, and lays before you everything Lahoma has found out.  For
Brick Willock, he says 'Friends is better friends when they don't
know all about each other,' says he; and I tells you only what
Lahoma has been told, according."

Wilfred took the letter, tingling with excitement.  The strained
watching and waiting for the sudden appearance of an unknown Red
Kimball had made his bed in the cabin as sleepless as had been
Bill's pallet in the dugout.  They squatted about the lantern that
rested on the stone floor, Willock always with eyes directed toward
the narrow slit in the ceiling that they might not be taken by
surprise.

The long natural corridor was bare, except for the old Spanish sword
hanging upon the wall.  A stout cedar post, firmly fixed in the
extremity of the walls, formed a rude barricade against the abyss
of unknown depth that yawned a few yards away from where they sat. 
This railing and the sword were the only evidences of man's
possession, save for the ladder that would presently be carried back
to the cove.  No inquiries were made as to how Brick came and went,
where he found food and a bed, or how he happened to be present at
the precise moment of the arrival of the bearers of news.

"Dear Brick," Lahoma began:  "By this time you have hidden where
nobody can find you, for you've got my telegram and you know I
wouldn't have sent it if it hadn't been necessary.  You believe in
me, and, as you would say,--how I'd love to hear you--you act
'according.'  Well, and I believe in you, Brick, and you needn't
imagine as long as you live that anybody could make me think you
anything but what I know you to be, the kindest, most
tender-hearted, most thoughtful man that ever lived.  Get that fixed
in your mind so when I tell what they say about you, you won't care,
knowing I'm with you and will believe in you till death.

"I'm going to skip everything except the part about you, for this
letter goes by next mail.  There's ever and ever so many other
things I'd love to tell you, and I don't see how I can wait, but
I'm going to find out, for wait I must.  Maybe I ought to begin with
Mr. Gledware so you'll know more about him when I begin on the main
news.

"We are at his house now and the house-party is in full swing.  Mr.
Gledware is pressing his suit to Annabel with all his might, and
her mother is helping him.  Nothing stands in the way--for she wants
to marry him--except her love for Mr. Edgerton Compton.  She told
me all about her old romance with Wilfred--you remember him, I
guess?  She got to liking Edgerton after Wilfred went away because
he looked so much like Wilfred.  Maybe he does, but he isn't the
same kind of man.  Mr. Edgerton has spent all his money on fixing
up the outside of the house, but Wilfred has spent his on the
furnishings.  Well!  If Annabel could change her heart from one
brother to the other just because Edgerton reminded her of Wilfred,
I guess she won't have a very hard time making another transfer,
especially as Mr. Gledware is traveling her way.  When I love
anybody, my love is the part of me that comes alive whenever that
person is present, or is mentioned.  So how could I slide it from
one man to another, any more than the man himself could change to
another man? And that's the way I love you, Brick, and not all the
wealth or fame or good looks in the world (and you have neither)
could get my heart away from YOU!

"Or from Bill.

"The first time I met Mr. Gledware, he acted in a curious way.  Of
course I was introduced as 'Miss Willock' and he started at the
name, and at sight of me--two separate little movements just as
plain as anything.  Then he said he had heard the name 'Willock' in
unusual surroundings, and that my face reminded him of somebody who
was dead.  That was all there was to it, then.  But afterward he
heard Annabel call me 'Lahoma,' and his face turned perfectly white.

"The first chance he had, after that, he sat down to talk to me in
a corner where we wouldn't be overhead, and he asked me questions. 
So, of course, I told about father and mother taking me across the
prairie to the Oklahoma country, and how mother died and father was
killed, and I was with the Indians a while and then was taken to
live with my cousin, Brick.  He listened with his head down, never
meeting my eye, and when I had finished all he said was, 'Did you
ever bear my name before?'

"And I said I never had.  Then he asked if I thought I had ever seen
him, for he thought he could remember having seem ME somewhere.  And
I said I wasn't sure, I had met so many people, and there was
something familiar about him.  Then he said he guessed we hadn't
ever met unless accidentally on the trail somewhere, as he had once
been down in Texas,--and that was all.

"I don't like Mr. Gledware's eye because it always looks away from
you.  He would be considered a handsome man by anybody not
particular about eyes.  Afterward, I heard about his trip to Texas. 
Annabel and her mother were talking about Mr. Gledware's past.  It
seems that once Mr. Gledware and his first wife (I say his FIRST
because I look upon Annabel as certain to be the second) joined the
Oklahoma boomers and they were attacked by Indians, just as MY
father and mother were, and they had with them his wife's little
girl, for he had married a widow, just as MY father had (my
stepfather) and there was a terrible battle.  And Mr. Gledware, oh,
he was SO brave!  He killed ten Indians after the rest of his party,
including his wife and daughter, had been slain, and he broke
through the attacking party and escaped on a horse--the only one
that got away.

"He doesn't look THAT brave.  Later, I asked him if it could be
possible that he was with the wagon-train we were in, but he said
there wasn't any Mr. or Mrs. Willock in his party, and no little
girl named Lahoma Willock.  But he's been through what my father
went through, and it made me feel kinder to him, somehow.

"But his eye is bad.  Maybe it got in the habit of shifting about
looking for Indians in the sagebrush.  Sometimes he seems still to
be looking for Indians.  Well, I see where's he's right there, and
I'm going to tell you why, which brings me to the biggest news yet.

"Now I've come to the day when I sent you the telegram, and why I
sent it, so be prepared!  There was to be a big picnic, today, near
a town called Independence, and, as it happened, I didn't feel like
going, so begged off--let me tell you why:  I began a novel, last
night, full of bright conversation, the pages all broken up in
little scraps of print that hurry you along as if building steps for
you to run down--it was ever and ever more interesting than real
people can be.  It was a story about a house-party and the writer
just made them talk to suit himself and not to suit their dulness
as a real house-party must, you know.  So I stayed to finish that
book.  Oh, of course if I had had a lover to be with!  But that's
something I'll never have, I suppose; but I don't complain, Brick,
for you've given me everything else I ever wanted.

"The reason I would like to have a lover is as follows:  So I would
understand the experience of being regarded that way.  It would be
like plowing up the sage-brush to plant kafir-corn and millo-maize,
because until such time, there is bound to be a part of my nature
unworked.

"Now, there is a nook in Mr. Gledware's library, a sort of alcove
where you have a window all to yourself but are shut off from the
rest of the room, and that is where I was when two men came in
softly and closed and locked the door behind them.  I couldn't see
them but just as I was starting up to find out what it meant, one
of them--it was Mr. Gledware, which surprised me greatly as he had
gone with the rest to the picnic--spoke your name, Brick.  As soon
as I beard that name, and particularly on account of the way he
spoke it, I determined to 'lay low' and scout out the trouble.  So
I just drew up as small as possible in my chair, as you would slip
along through the high grass if Indians were near, and I listened. 
Maybe if I had finished my civilization I would have been obliged
to let them know I was there; but fortunately, I haven't reached the
limit, yet.

"The other man, I soon found, was Red Kimball; they had about
finished their conversation before coming into the room, so the
first part was lost.  Mr. Gledware had come for his check-book, and
the check was for Red Kimball.  Red Kimball used to be the leader
of a band of highwaymen up in Cimarron, when it was No-Man's Land;
it was his hand that attacked the wagon-train when Mr. Gledware
acted the hero--only, as they were disguised as Indians, Mr.
Gledware didn't know they were such till later.  He came on them,
afterward, without their disguises, and they would have killed him
if YOU, Brick, hadn't knocked down Red, and shot his brother!  So,
as I listened, I found out that Mr. Gledware wasn't the hero he
claimed to be, but was THE MAN YOU SAVED; and he is MY STEPFATHER;
and I was carried away BY HIM, and taken FROM HIM by the Indians;
but he wasn't killed at all.  And my name, I suppose is Lahoma
GLEDWARE, at least not as Red Feather had taught me, "Lahoma
WILLOCK."  And I am NO kin to you, at all, Brick, you just took me
in and cared for me because you ARE Brick Willock, the dearest
tenderest friend a little girl ever had--and these lines are crooked
because there are tears--because you are not my cousin.

"I'd rather be kin to you than married to a prince.

"Red Kimball says you were one of his gang of highwaymen but I know
it ISN'T TRUE, so you don't have to say A WORD.  But he is
determined to be revenged on you for killing his brother.  And the
reason he's waited this long is because he didn't know where you
were--good reason, isn't it?  Tell you how he found out--it all
comes from my getting civilized!  He's a porter at our Kansas City
hotel.  So when he heard the men talking about how I had once been
kidnaped by the Indians, and wrote nearly every day to my cousin
Brick Willock, which they thought an odd name--he guessed the rest.

"It makes my blood turn cold to think that all the time we were
living quietly and happily in the cove, that awful Red Kimball was
hunting for you, meaning to have your life--and in a way that I'm
ashamed to write, but must, so you'll know everything.  He means to
have you arrested and tried for his brother's murder--and he says
HE CAN HANG YOU!

"And Mr. Gledware is his witness.  That's why Red has come after
him.  You'll think it strange that after his gang were about to kill
Mr. Gledware in the prairie, that he should come to ask him to act
as witness against another man.  That's what Mr. Gledware told him. 
But Red Kimball answered that it was all a bluff--they had never
dreamed of shooting him or his little girl.

"When No-Man's Land was added to Oklahoma, a pardon was offered to
Red Kimball and all his gang if they would come in and lay down
their arms and swear to keep the peace--you see, most of their
crimes had been committed where no courts could touch them.  Well,
all the gang came in--  But what do you think?  That terrible Red
Kimball swears that YOU WERE ONE OF HIS GANG, and that as you didn't
come in and surrender yourself, THE PARDON DOESN'T APPLY TO YOU! 
It was all I could do to keep from stepping right out and telling
him you were one of the most peaceable and harmless of men and that
you just HAPPENED to be riding about when you saw Mr. Gledware's
danger, and just HAD to shoot Kansas Kimball to save me and my
stepfather.  You, a highwayman, indeed!  I could laugh at that, if
it didn't make me too mad when I think about it.

"Then Mr. Gledware talked.  He said maybe it was a bluff against
him, that standing him up against the moon to be shot at, but it
wasn't one he was apt to forget, and he could never be on any kind
of terms with Red; besides, he said, if Brick Willock hadn't saved
his life, he'd always thought so, so wouldn't witness against him
though he had no doubt he belonged to Red's gang.  But that was
nothing to HIM.  And he couldn't understand how Red could have the
face to come to him about ANYTHING, but was willing to pay a sum to
keep all the past hushed up, as he didn't want any 'complications'
from being claimed as a stepfather by Lahoma!  The past was over,
he said, and Lahoma had a home of her own, and he was satisfied to
be free of her--and he would pay Red something to keep the past
buried.

"Then Red spoke pretty ugly, saying it wasn't the past he was
anxious to have buried, but Brick Willock.  And he said that Mr.
Gledware was a witness to the murder, whether he wanted to be or
not, and Red was willing to confess to everything, in order to have
Brick hanged.

"Then Mr. Gledware, in a cold unmoved voice, said he must go back
to the picnic and 'Mr. Kimball' could do as he pleased.

"But that wasn't the end.  'Do you know,' says 'Mr. Kimball,' 'that
Red Feather is in town, laying for you?' he says.  Mr. Gledware gave
a dreadful kind of low scream, such as turned me sick to hear.  It
reminded me of the cry of a coyote I heard once, caught in the trap,
that saw Bill coming with his knife.  The room was as still as death
for a little while.  I guess they were looking at each other.

"At last Red says, pretty slow and calm, 'Would you like to have
that Indian out of the way?'  Mr. Gledware didn't answer, at least
not anything I could hear, but his eyes must have spoken for him,
for Red went on after a while--  'It's a go, then, is it?  Well,
that'll take time--but in a few days--maybe in a few hours--I'll
deal with the chief.  And I want your word that after that's
accomplished, you'll go with me to Greer County and stay on the job
till Brick Willock swings.'"

"There was a longer silence than before.  It lasted so long, and
the room was so still, that after a while I almost imagined that
they were gone, or that I had just waked up from a dreadful dream. 
My nerves all clashed in the strangest way--like the shivering of
morning ice on a pool--when Mr. Gledware's voice jarred on my ears. 
He said, 'How will I know?'

"'Well,' says Red Kimball roughly, 'how WOULD you know?'

"There was another of those awful silences.  Then Mr. Gledware said,
'When you bring me a pin that he always carries about him, I'll know
that Red Feather will never trouble me again.'

"Kimball spoke rougher than before:  'You mean it'll show you that
he's a dead 'un, huh?"

"'I mean what I said,' Mr. Gledware snapped, as if just rousing
himself from a kind of stupor.

"'Well, what kind of pin?'  That was Kimball's question.

"Then Mr. Gledware described the pin.  He said it was a smooth-faced
gold-rimmed pin of onyx set with pearls.  And Kimball said
boastingly that he would produce that pin, as he was a living man. 
And Mr. Gledware told him if he did, he'd go to witness against
Brick Willock.  So both left the room, and pretty soon, from the
window, I saw them going away on horseback, in opposite directions.

"I mustn't hold back this letter to add any more, it must get off
by the mail that's nearly due.  The moment I learn anything new I'll
write again.  Of course I know you're no more a highwayman than
myself, but since it's true that you did shoot Red's brother, and
since he evidently died of the wound, I suppose Red could cause you
a great deal of trouble.  You could swear that if you hadn't killed
Kansas Kimball, he would have killed my stepfather; and that they
had ordered you to kill me, in my sleep.  The trouble is that Mr.
Gledware seems to be in terror about Red Feather, and if Kimball
gets him rid of the Indian, I'm not sure that Mr. Gledware would
tell the whole truth.  It might be the word of those two against
yours.  It's certain that if they tried you and failed to convict,
Kimball would try a knife or a gun as the next best way of getting
even.

"My poor dear Brick, it seems that there's long trouble before you,
hut the consciousness of innocence will uphold you, and just as soon
as I do all I can at this end of the trail, by acting as your
faithful scout, I'll come out in the open in my war clothes with my
belt well-lined with weapons, and we'll defy the world.  In the
meantime--better keep hid!  Good-by.  Think of me when the wild
winds blow.

"Your little girl,

"Lahoma.

"P.S.  Tell Bill he can still claim his share.

"P.P.S.  Got Bill's note of a few lines, read it with the greatest
joy in the world, and guessed at the news.  He says Wilfred Compton
is there.  What for?

"L."



CHAPTER XVII
BRICK MAKES A STAND


As soon as Wilfred had finished the letter, not without a wry smile
over the query concerning himself, Bill Atkins exclaimed:

"THEN!  Ho!  And so she's no more kin to you, Brick, than to me;
and her name's no more Willock than Atkins--and being but a
stepdaughter to old Sneak, neither is it Gledware.  Yet you have
everlastingly had your own say about Lahoma, from claiming to be a
cousin!  I want you to know from this on that I claim as big a share
in Lahoma as anybody else on this green and living earth."

Wilfred looked up, expecting Brick to consent to this on the ground
that in all likelihood Bill's claim would last but a few years,
anyway.  It seemed too good an opening for Brick to lose; but
instead of refreshing himself with his customary gibe, the huge
fellow sat dark and glowering, his eyes staring upward at the
crevice in the rock roof, the lantern-light showing his forehead
deeply rutted in a threatening scowl.

"Another point needs clearing up," Bill said sharply.  "What about
Red Kimball's charge?  DID you belong to his gang?  ARE you a
highwayman?"

Brick waved impatiently toward the letter that still gleamed in the
young man's hand.  "We goes on document'ry evidence," he said.  "I
takes a bold and open stand on the general plea of 'Not guilty' to
nothing.  That's technical, and it's arbitrary.  Should you be asked
had I ever expressed an opinion as to being a highwayman, or a
lowwayman, you can report me as saying 'Not guilty,' according."

"Brick," interposed Wilfred, returning him the letter, "you're
making a mistake not to trust us with the whole truth.  If you wait
for Lahoma's letters and only admit what she discovers, Bill and I
can't form any plan of protecting you.  While her information is
coming, bit by bit, the man who wants you hanged is liable to show
up--"

"Let 'im come!" growled Brick.  "He can't get no closer to me than
I'll be to him.  I'm not going to air my past history.  What Lahoma
finds out, I admits frank and open; otherwise I stands firm as not
guilty, being on safe ground, technical and arbitrary."

"But if Red Kimball brings the sheriff--it's only a matter of
time--your plea of not guilty won't save you from arrest.  And he'll
have any number of rascals to prove what he pleases, whether it's
the truth or not.  If Gledware comes as a witness, his position will
give him great influence against you--and the fact that he'd testify
after you'd saved his life, would make a pretty hard hit with the
jury."

"Jury nothing!" retorted Brick.  "This case ain't never going to a
jury.  Such things is settled man to man, in these parts."

"But as surely as the sheriff serves his writ, you'll be landed in
jail.  And I happen to know the sheriff; he's a man that couldn't
be turned from his duty--good friend of mine, too."

"Is, eh?  Then you'd better advise with him for his good."

"Think of Lahoma.  If you killed a man--whether the sheriff, or this
Red Kimball--Lahoma could never feel toward you as she does today."

"And how would she feel toward me if I was hanged, uh?  I guess
she'd druther I laid my man low than that I swung high."  Willock
started up impatiently.  "We're wasting words," he said, roughly. 
"There is but the two alternatives:  I'm one of 'em, and Red Kimball
is the other.  It's simply a question of which gets which.  I tries
to make it plain, for there's no going back.  Now are you with me,
or not?  If not, I'll fight it out along as I always done in times
past and gone--and bedinged to 'em!  I'm sorry my young days was as
they was, and for Lahoma's sake I'd cut off this right arm--" he
held it out, rigidly--"if that'd change the past.  But the past--and
bedinged TO it--can't be changed.  It's there, right over your shoulder,
out of reach.  This mountain might as well say, 'I don't like being a
big chunk of granite where all the rest of the country is a smooth
prairie; I'm sorry I erupted; and I guess I'll go back into the
heart of the earth where I come from.'  A mountain that's erupted
is erupted till kingdom come, and a man that's did a deed, has did
it till the stars fall.  But you CAN imagine this mountain saying,
with some sense, too, 'Now, since I HAS erupted, I'll do my best to
cover my nakedness with pretty cedars for to stay green in season
and out of season, and I'll embroider myself with flowers and
grasses, and send little mountain-streams down to make soft water
in people's wells so they won't all-time be fretting because I takes
up so much of good plowing-land,' says the mountain.  I may not be
a mountain, but I've got a good top to me which reasons against the
future and forgets the past.  I know Red Kimball--and now that he's
learned where I live, one of us is too many, considering the hard
times.  I mean to keep hiding, not to be took by surprise; but I
'lows to come forth one of these days and walk about free and
disposed, all danger having been removed."

"What about the law?" demanded Bill.  "Do you think IT'S going to
let you walk about free and disposed, after you've removed Red
Kimball?"

"I hopes the law and me can get on peaceable together," returned
the other grimly.  "I've never had nothing to do with it, and I
hopes to be let alone."

Wilfred spoke with sudden decision:  "Brick, I'm with you to the
end, and so is Bill.  I have nothing to do with your purposes or
plans except to offer the best advice I know--you've rejected it,
but I'm with you just the same.  It strikes me I can help you by
going to Kansas City--for you need only Bill in the cove,--he can
bring you Lahoma's letters.  I'll hurry to Lahoma; and if she
decides to come back, as I'm sure she will very soon--well, she'll
need a protector.  I'll bring her home.  She asks in her letter what
I'm here for.  Wouldn't that be a good answer?"

Brick Willock laid his hand on the other's shoulder and stared into
his face with troubled eyes.  Gradually his countenance cleared and
something of his old geniality returned.  "A first-class answer,
son!  I believe you'll do it."  He grasped Wilfred's hand.  "These
are troublous times, and it's good to feel a hand like this that's
steady and true.  Now I ain't going to drag you into nothing that
could hurt you nor Bill, or make you feel sore over past days.  I
don't need nobody to lean on--but Lahoma does; and if Red Kimball
pops it to me before I get a chance to keel him over, you two must
look out for her."

"I'll look out for her myself, single-handed," said Bill gruffly.

"I know you would, old tap, as long as you lasts," said Willock with
an unwonted note of gentleness.  Bill was so embarrassed by the tone
that he cringed awkwardly.  After a pause, Willock suggested that
Wilfred wait for one more letter from Lahoma, provided it come
within the next twenty-four hours, then start up the trail for
Chickasha and board the train for Kansas.  "She might write
something that needed instant work," he explained.  "If so, I'd like
to have you here.  I'm looking for developments in her next letter."

"Strange to me," muttered Bill, "about Red Feather and that sneaking
Gledware.  Wonder how came the Indian with a pin on him that
Gledware knew of?"

Willock's face was twisted into a sardonic grin.  "Guess I could
explain that, all right--but I says nothing beyond Lahoma's word. 
I banks on document'ry proofs, and otherwise stands technical and
arbitrary."

Hitherto Wilfred, as guest of honor, had been offered the cabin as
his sleeping-quarters, and he had accepted it because of the
countless reminders of Lahoma's fresh and innocent life; but this
night, he shared the dugout with Bill, from a sense of impending
danger.  Until a late hour they sat over the glowing coals,
discussing their present situation and offering conjectures about
Willock's younger days.  There could hardly have been a stronger
contrast between the emaciated old man of the huge white mustache,
thin reddish cheeks and shock of white hair, and the
broad-shouldered, handsome and erect young man--or the stern and
gloomy countenance of the former, and the expressive eyes and
flexible lips of Wilfred.  Yet they seemed unconscious of any chasm
of age or disposition as they spoke in low tones, not without
frequent glances toward the barricaded door and the heavily
curtained window.

The wind made strange noises overhead and at times one could be
almost certain there was the stamping of a man's foot upon the
earthen roof.  The distant cry of a wild beast, and the nearer
yelping of hungry wolves mingled with the whistling of the wind. 
Sometimes Wilfred rose and, passing noiselessly to the window,
raised the curtain with a quick gesture to stare out on a dark and
stormy night; and once, in doing so, he surprised a pair of red eyes
under bristling gray hair which seemed to glow hot as molten lead,
as the fire from the open stove caught them unaware.

"If my arms were tied," remarked Bill, "I'd rather trust myself to
that coyote than to Red Kimball.  I hate to think of Brick out
yonder on the mountain, all alone, and no fire to warm him, afraid
to smoke his pipe, I reckon.  Well, this kind of thing can't last
long, that's plain."

It was Wilfred's conviction that "this kind of thing" could not,
indeed, last long, which kept him awake half through the night; and
yet, when the morning sunlight flooded the cove, it seemed
impossible that deeds of violence could be committed in so peaceful
a world.  In that delusion, however, he could not long remain;
Lahoma's next letter came confirmatory of his worst fears.

"Just read it aloud, Wilfred," said Brick, as all gathered about
the lantern in the retreat at the mountain-top.  "We're all one,
now, and I've got no secrets from you--at least none that's knowed
to Lahoma.  And if the case seems immediate, I reckon you'll prove
game, son."

Wilfred nodded briefly.  "My horse is ready saddled," he said, as
he opened the letter addressed to Willock.  "As soon as I've read
'Yours truly,' I'll be ready to jump into the saddle, so I say
'good-by' now!"



CHAPTER XVIII
LIFE ON ONE CONDITION


"Dear Brick and Bill:

"I put Bill in, because I am sure that by this time he has been told
what was in my last letter, and I know he's true blue.  I have been
so excited since finding out that Red Kimball is determined on
revenge, and that Mr. Gledware may be a witness for him, that I
can't think about anything but the danger at the cove.  I feel that
I ought to be there, to lend a hand; what will you do without me,
if that horrible highwayman comes slipping around Turtle Hill, or
creeps down the north mountain in the dead of night?  And I would
be on my way there, now, if I didn't hope to find out more about
their plans.

"They have come back from the picnic, and I am on the watch, feeling
sure Red Kimball will come again to have another talk with Mr.
Gledware.  But he hasn't come yet, and everything is quiet and
peaceable, as if things were going along as things always do and
always will--it makes me dreadfully nervous!  So, as it seemed that
nothing was going to happen, I decided to stir up something myself.
When there's no news, why not make some of your own? I made some.

"This is the same day I overheard that plot in the library, but it
is night.  When it was good and dark, Annabel came up to my room
where I was watching the road from my window, and she sat down and
began talking about the picnic and what a fine time she had had,
with a good deal about going to Europe.  She was all flushed and
running over with talk, and after a while it came clear that she's
just been engaged to Mr. Gledware.

"It seemed to me it would be like fighting behind bushes to tell
her what I thought of Mr Gledware, while under his roof and at his
expense, so I opened up matters by talking about Wilfred Compton. 
I told her how faithful and true Wilfred has been to her all these
years, carrying her letters next to his heart, and dreaming of her
night and day, and how he came to see me, once, because it had been
two years since he'd seen a sure-enough girl, and how I tried to
interest him as hard as I could, but he never wanted to come back
because his heart belonged to Annabel.

"After a while she began to cry, but it wasn't over Wilfred, it was
over Edgerton.  When Wilfred went away to be a cowboy she lost
interest and sympathy in him because she doesn't understand cowboys;
they are not in her imagination.  But his brother Edgerton has
always been a city man in nice clothes with pleasing manners, and
if he had money--  But what's the use talking?  Seems like that's
the worst waste of time there can be, and the most aggravating, to
say if so-and-so had money I Because if he hasn't got it, somebody
else has, and if you think money's more than the man, there you are. 
And Mr. Gledware has it. He's not the man but he has the money.

"Then I expressed myself.  You know what I think.  So does Annabel,
now. That's how I made me some news, when there wasn't any.  The
news is, that Annabel will never forgive me, and as I'm here solely
as her guest, my guesting-time will be brief--just long enough to
find out what Mr. Gledware decides to do. I oughtn't to have told
Annabel that she was mercenary, or that Mr. Gledware was as hard as
a stone and as old as M--  (I'm not sure how to spell him, but you
remember:  the oldest man).  Yes, I know I oughtn't.  If a woman can
marry a man when she doesn't love him, it won't change her purpose
to know what YOU think about it, because her own feelings are the
biggest things that could stand in the way.

"But I told her, anyway.  Seemed like everything in me turned to
words and poured out without my having to keep it going. I just
stood there and watched myself say things.  You see, Annabel is so
dainty and pretty, and naturally so sweet--and Mr. Gledware--well,
he ISN'T.  The more I thought of that, and the better I remembered
poor Wilfred pining away for her in the desert, and not coming back
to see me because he couldn't get HER out of his brain, and how she
changed from him to his brother, and from Mr. Edgerton to Mr.
Gledware, I was ashamed of her, and sorry for her, and angry with
her.

"I wish I hadn't said anything.  But I felt glorious at the time,
just like a storm sweeping across the prairie, purifying the air
and not caring whether the earth wants to be purified or not.  I
did wrong, because I came to the big world to study people of
culture and refinement, not to quarrel with them.  You must have
money, you MUST have money, you MUST have money, if you're
civilized.  I don't care if I AM a little storm.  Yes, of course,
I know a storm isn't a civilized thing.  Well, I know what I'm going
to do,--I'm going to come back and blow the rest of my life right
there in the cove, with my Brick and my Bill.

"So that's my news, that I'm dissatisfied with the big world. It
isn't like I'd have made it, that's the truth!  Now I'll lay this
letter aside to cool (I mean IT, and ME, too) and I'll not send it
until something about Red Kimball happens, so you'll be posted on
what really matters.  After all, people that marry for money aren't
important, they don't belong to big affairs--but there's something
worth discussing in a plot to commit murder.  That MEANS something;
as Brick would say, it's 'vital.'  These people about me, kind,
gentle, correct,--all their waking thoughts are devoted to little
things--fashionable trifles that last no longer than the hour in
which they're born--just time-killers.  I enjoy these pleasing
trifles, but my eyes are opened and I know they ARE trifles.  These
people's eyes are not opened.  Why?  Because they haven't lived in
the West, neighboring with real things like alkali plains and
sand-storms and granite mountains.

"My! but it would open their eyes if one of their dearest friends
was in danger of getting himself hanged!  Something permanent in
THAT!

"LATER:  This is midnight.  I expect to leave as soon as I possibly
can, but probably this letter will get away first, so here's
something new to put your mind on; it's rather dreadful, when you
give it a calm thought.  But my thoughts are not calm.  Far from it. 
Oh, how excited I was! But I guess THEY didn't know it.  It all
happened about an hour ago, and you can see that my hand is still
a little shaky.

"There was a bright moonlight, but you needn't be afraid I'm going
to talk about THAT; this isn't any tale about moons.  I was sitting
at my window because I couldn't sleep, not that I expected to see
anything unusual.  There's a big summer-house at the far end of the
lawn, all covered with vines, and there's a walk between dense
shrubbery, leading to it from the house.  I guess that's why I
didn't see anybody go to that summer-house.  The first thing I DID
see was Red Kimball come out and slip through a little side-gate,
and hurry along the country road.  As soon as I saw him, I guessed
that he and Mr. Gledware had been conspiring in the summer-house.
What a chance I had missed to act the good scout!

"But it seemed no use to go down, after Red Kimball had left.  If
Mr. Gledware was still in the summer-house, I knew he was alone;
and if he'd returned to the house, all was over for the night.  I
was wondering what new plot they had formed, and how I was to find
out about it, when my eye was caught by a movement in the hedge that
runs down to the side-gate.  The movement was as slight as possible,
but as there wasn't ANY breeze, it made me shiver a little, for I
knew somebody was skulking there.  I watched, and pretty soon
something passed through the gate, light and quick and stealthy,
like the shadow of a cloud.  Only, there wasn't any cloud; and in
the flash of moonlight I saw it was our old friend--Red Feather.

"Almost as soon as I recognized him, he had disappeared behind a
large lilac-bush; but I had seen what he held in the hand behind
his back--it was a long unsheathed knife.  The lilac-bush stood
close to the summer-house. He fell flat to the ground, and though
I couldn't see him, after that I knew he was wriggling his way
around the bush.  You would have been ashamed of me for a minute or
two, for I kept sitting beside the window as if I had been turned
to a statue of ice.  I felt just that cold, too!

"But maybe I didn't stay there as long as it seemed.  First thing
I knew, I was running downstairs as lightly and swiftly as I could,
and out through the door at the end of the side hall that had been
left wide open--and I was at the summer-house door like a flash. 
There was a wide path of moonlight across the concrete floor and
right in that glare was a sight never to be forgotten--Red Feather,
about to stab Mr. Gledware to the heart!  He held Mr. Gledware by
the throat with one hand, and his other hand held the knife up for
the blow.  Mr. Gledware lay on his back, and Red Feather had one
knee pressed upon his breast.  In the light, Mr. Gledware's face was
purple and dreadfully distorted, but the Indian looked about as
usual--just serious and unchangeable.

"When I reached the doorway, I blotted out most of the moonlight,
and I drew back so Red Feather could see who I was.  He looked up
and let go of Mr. Gledware's throat, but didn't move, otherwise. 
'RED FEATHER!' I said. 'GIVE ME THAT KNIFE.'

"Mr. Gledware, recognizing my voice, tried to entreat me to save
him, but he was half-strangled, and only made sounds that turned me
faint, to know that the man my mother had married was such a coward.

"Red Feather told me that if I came any nearer, or if I cried for
help, he would murder that man and escape; but that if I would step
into the shadow and listen, he'd give his reason for doing it before
it was done.  So I went across the room from him to save time,
hoping I could persuade him to change his mind. I stood in the
shadow, and in a low voice, I reminded him of his kindness to me,
and of our kindness to him, and I begged for Mr. Gledware's life.

"Red Feather asked me if I knew Mr. Gledware was my stepfather, yet
hadn't acknowledged it to me.  I said yes.  He asked me if I didn't
know Mr. Gledware had kept still about it because he didn't want the
trouble and expense of taking care of me.  I said, of course I had
thought of that.  He asked if I knew he had deserted my mother's
dead body in the desert to save his miserable life.  I said I knew
that, but he had taken me with him, and he had tried to save me, and
I was going to save him.

"Red Feather shook his head.  No, he said, I could not save him,
for he would be dead in two or three minutes--and then he bent over
Mr. Gledware, who all this time was afraid to move or to make a
sound.  I hurried to remind him that he hadn't told me his reason
for wanting to kill the man.

"Then Red Feather said that when that man rode with me among the
Indians, Red Feather's daughter had taken a fancy to him, and Mr.
Gledware had married her; and I had been kept away from him so he'd
forget me and not turn his thoughts toward his own people; and they
had taught me that my name was Willock because they were going to
take me to you, Brick.  Isn't it wonderful?  That day you found the
deserted wagon, and buried my mother, Red Feather was watching you
from the mountain and he wouldn't kill you because you made that
grave and knelt down to talk to the Great Spirit.  Afterward, when
he rode home and found that his daughter and Mr. Gledware were to
be married, he made up his mind that if you succeeded in keeping
hidden from Red Kimball and his band, you would be the one to take
care of me.  And when two years had passed and you were still safe,
he brought me to you!  What a glad day that was!

"When Red Feather's daughter wanted Mr. Gledware's life saved, it
was so.  And Red Feather gave them a great stretch of land, and Mr.
Gledware got to be important in the tribe; he made himself one of
them, and they thought him greater than their own chief.  At the end
of a few years, there was the great agitation over the boomers
coming to the Oklahoma country, and much talk of the land being
thrown open.  The Indians didn't want it done, and they joined
together to send some one to Washington to address congress on the
subject.  Mr. Gledware was such an orator that they thought him
irresistible, so they selected him, and, for his fee, they collected
over fifty thousand dollars.  Think of it!

"Of course he didn't go near Washington.  It was the time of Kansas
City's great boom.  He went there and bought up city lots, and sold
out at the right time, and that's why he's rich today.  In the
meantime, the Indians didn't know what had become of him, and Red
Feather's daughter died from shame over her desertion--just pined
away and hid herself from her people till she was starved to death.
That's why Red Feather meant to kill Mr. Gledware.

"When he had finished, Red Feather bent over Mr. Gledware and said
to him, 'Me speak all true?  Tell Lahoma--me speak all true?'

"And the man whispered feebly, 'It is all true--don't kill me, for
God's sake, don't kill me--save me, Lahoma, MY CHILD!'

"I begged him not to kill the man.  Red Feather said to me, 'You
hear how he treat my daughter!  You my friend, Lahoma.  You know
all that, and yet you tell me not kill him?'

"'I say not kill him.'

"'Then you hate my daughter?'

"'My mother could marry him, Red Feather, and I can beg for his
life.'

"He shook his head.  'No, Lahoma, he die; he leave my daughter to
die and this hand do to him what he do to her.'

"I never felt so helpless, so horribly weak and useless!  There I
was, only a few yards away, and the man was my stepfather; and his
enemy was our friend.  And not far away stood the man's big house
filled with guests--among them strong men who could have overpowered
dozens of Indians.  But what could I do?

"Then I had a thought.  'Let him live, Red Feather,' I said, 'but
strip him of all his ill-gotten property.  Turn him loose in the
world without a penny; it'll be punishment enough.  You can't bring
back your daughter by killing him; but you can make him give up all
he has in return for stealing the money from your tribe.'

"I don't know why I thought of that, and I don't know why it made
instant appeal to Red Feather's mind.  I saw at once that he was
going to consent.  All he said was, 'Talk to him--'  But I knew what
he meant.

"So I crossed the room and looked down at the man.  'Mr. Gledware,'
I said, 'are you willing to give up all your possessions in order
to save your life?'

"'Oh, yes,' he gasped.  'A thousand times, yes!  God bless you,
Lahoma!'

"'You will deed all your property away from you?  And surrender all
that you own, money, bonds, stocks and so forth?'

"'My God, yes, yes!' he wailed.  'Save me--only save me, Lahoma!'

"I looked at Red Feather.  'Shall he make it all over to you?'

Red Feather shook his head.  'Me not want his money.  Let him give
all to Red Flower, the daughter him not see since he stole our money
and desert his wife.'

"'Yes, yes, yes,' moaned Mr. Gledware, 'I'll give everything to
her--I'll make over everything to her in the morning, so help me
God--if you spare my life, she shall have everything.'

"All this time Red Feather had never moved his knee from the man's
breast.  Now he rose and pointed toward the East.  'The morning will
come,' he said solemnly.  'If you keep your word--well!  If you try
fool Red Feather--if you keep back one piece of money, one clod of
earth--'  He wheeled about so suddenly with his drawn knife that I
thought he was plunging it into the man's heart. It shot down like
lightning, but stopped short just before the edge of the blade
touched the miserable coward.

"Mr. Gledware sobbed and gasped and choked, swearing that he would
keep his word, and assuring us that, if he broke it, death would be
too good for him. But what he will do when he thinks him-self
safe--that's another thing!  I know his life is as secure as mine,
if he is true to his promise.  But if he breaks it--well, we know
Red Feather!  Do you think Mr. Gledware will keep his word?  Or will
he wait to see whether or not Red Kimball rids him of the Indian? 
I believe he'll be afraid to wait.  But as soon as he's calm, it
will be like death for him to give up all he owns.  That will mean
giving up Annabel, too.

"It hasn't been an hour since I came back to my room.  When Red
Feather slipped away, the only thing I asked Mr. Gledware was my
mother's maiden name, and the place where her people lived.  I'm
going to leave here in the morning.  I'm coming back where there's
room enough to turn around in, and air enough to breathe, where men
speak the truth because they don't care who's who, and shoot quick
and straight when they have to.  I'm coming back where money's
mighty scarce and love's as free and boundless as Heaven, where good
books are few and true hearts are many.  Yes, I'm coming back to the
West, and if the winds don't blow all the sand away, under the sand
I expect to be buried.  But I want to live until I'm buried.  People
have made the big world as it is,--well they are welcome to it; but
God has made the cove as it is, and it's for Me and Brick and Bill.

"Good night.

"Lahoma.

"Just the three of us:  just Me and Brick and Bill:  ONE-TWO-THREE! 
There's oceans of room out in the big world for everything and
everybody.  But in the cove, there's room just for

"Me

"And Brick

"And Bill."



CHAPTER XIX
LIKE LOVERS


On reaching Chickasha, Wilfred Compton telegraphed to Kansas City
asking his brother if Lahoma was still at Mr. Gledware's house in
the country.  In the course of a few hours the reply came that she
had already started home to Greer County, Texas.  After reading the
message, Wilfred haunted the station, not willing to let even the
most unpromising freight train escape observation.

Everything that came down the track on this last reach of the
railroad into Southwest Oklahoma, was crowded with people, cattle,
household furniture, stores of hardware, groceries, dry-goods--all
that man requires for his physical well-being.  The town itself was
swarming with eager jostling throngs bound for many diverse points,
and friends of a day shouted hearty good-bys, or exchanged
good-natured badinage, as they separated to meet no more.

Men on horseback leading heavily laden pack-horses, covered wagons
from which peeped women and children half-reclining upon bedding,
their eyes filled with grave wonder at a world so unlike their homes
in the East or North--pyramids of undressed lumber fastened somehow
upon four wheels and surmounted in precarious fashion by sprawling
men whose faces and garments suggested Broadway, New York and
Leadville, Colorado--Wilfred gazed upon the unending panorama.  In
those corded tents he saw the pioneer family already in possession
of the new land; in the stacks of pine boards he beheld houses
already sending up the smoke of peace and prosperity from their
chimneys; and in the men and women who streamed by, their faces
alight with hope, their bodies ready for the grapple with drought,
flood, cyclone, famine, he saw the guaranty of a young and dominant
state.

Strangers greeted one another with easy comrade-ship.  Sometimes it
was just, "Hello, neighbor!"--and if a warning were shouted across
the street to one endangered by the current of swelling life, it
might be--  "Look out there, brother!"  The sense of kinship tingled
in the air, opening men's hearts and supplying aid to weaker
brethren. Those who gathered along the track awaiting the arrival
of the trains had already the air of old-timers, eager to extend the
hospitality of a well-loved land.

In such a crowd Wilfred was standing when he first caught sight of
Lahoma among those descending to the jostling platform.  He had not
known how she would look, and certainly she was much changed from
the girl of fifteen, but he made his way to her side without the
slightest hesitation.

"Lahoma!"

She turned sharply with a certain ease of movement suggesting
fearless freedom.  Her eyes looked straight into the young man's
with penetrating keenness which instantly softened to pleasure. 
"Why I how glad I am to see you!" she cried, giving him her hand as
they withdrew from the rush.  "But how did you know me?"

"How did YOU know?" he returned, pleased and thrilled by her glowing
brown hair, her eloquent eyes, her warm-tinted cheeks, her form, as
erect as of yore, but not so thin--as pleased and thrilled as if all
these belonged to him.  "How did you know ME?" he repeated, looking
and looking, as if he would never be able to believe that she had
turned out so much better than he had ever dreamed she would.

"Oh," said Lahoma, "when I looked into your face, I saw myself as
a girl sitting under the cedar trees in the cove, with Brick and
Bill."

"Just you three?" demanded Wilfred wistfully--also smilingly.

"Oho!" exclaimed Lahoma, showing her perfect little teeth as if
about to bite, in a way that filled him with fearful joy, "and so
they showed you that letter!"

"JUST you three?" repeated Wilfred. "Just room enough in the cove
for you--and Brick--and Bill?"

"Listen to me, Wilfred, and I will do the talking."

"Well?"

She lowered her voice to a whisper--  "Lean your head closer."

Wilfred put down his head.  "Is this close enough?" he whispered,
feeling exalted.  Men, women and children circled about them; the
air vibrated with the shock of trunks and mail bags hurled upon the
platform.

"No," said Lahoma, rising on tiptoe.

Wilfred took off his hat and got under hers.

She whispered in his ear, "Red Kimball came on this train--there he
is--he hasn't seen me, yet--was in another coach."

"Well?  Go on talking.  Lahoma--I'd get closer if I could."

"S-H-H!  He knows me, for he was a porter in our hotel.  When he
sees us he'll know I've come home to warn Brick.  S-H-H!  Then he'll
try to keep me from doing it.  Look--some of his gang are speaking
to him--they've been waiting here to meet him--they'll go with him,
I expect. We'll all be in the stage-coach together!"

"What do you want me to do to 'em, Lahoma?"

"I want you to pretend that you don't know me--and they mustn't find
out your name is Compton, or they'll think Mr. Edgerton got word to
you to join me here.  Be a stranger till we're safe in the cove."

"All right.  Good-by--but suppose I hadn't come?"

"Oh, I could have done without you," said Lahoma.  "Or I think I
could."

"You could never have done without me!" Wilfred declared decidedly.

"I can right NOW--"  She drew away.  "I'll get into the stage; don't
follow too soon."

There were three stage-coaches drawn up at a short distance from
the platform, and Lahoma went swiftly to the one bound for her part
of the country.  She was the first to enter; she was seated quietly
in a corner when the two long seats that faced each other began
filling up.  The last to come were four men:  one, tall, slender,
red-faced and red-haired, two others of dark and lowering faces, who
looked upon the former as their leader, and the last, Wilfred
Compton, who had unobtrusively joined himself to this remnant of Red
Kimball's gang.

The stage, which was built after the manner of the old-fashioned
omnibus, afforded no opportunity of moving to and fro in the
selection of seats, hence, when Red Kimball discovered Lahoma's
identity--the exact moment of the discovery was marked by his
violent start--she was safeguarded from his approach by her
proximity to a very large woman flanked by a thin spinster.  These
were two sisters, going to the evening's station where the coach
would stop for supper, and Lahoma discussed with them their plans
and hopes with bright cheerfulness and ready friendship.

Wilfred watched Red Kimball as he glared in that direction, and
guessed his thoughts.  Although Kimball knew Lahoma, he was not sure
that she knew him; and though he was convinced at once that she was
on a mission of warning, that might be true without her knowing that
he had left Kansas City.  Red Kimball was burning to find out if he
were a stranger to her, but at the same time fearful of disclosing
himself.  He muttered to his companions hoarsely, careful that
Wilfred, whom he regarded askance, should overhear nothing that he
said.

The situation was such as could not very well continue during the
days it would take the coach to reach Mangum but although Wilfred
was conscious of the strain, he felt excitedly happy.  Very little
of his attention was given to Kimball, and a great deal to Lahoma. 
She was talking to the sisters about the baby of the one and the
chickens of the other, offering advice on both subjects from the
experience of a certain Mrs. Featherby whom she had known as a
child.

"Mrs. Featherby was a very wonderful woman," Lahoma announced with
conviction, "and the first woman I ever knew. And when her baby was
teething..."  The very large lady listened with great attention.

"She told me this when I was a small girl," Wilfred presently heard
Lahoma saying.  "And I treasured it in my mind.  I stored myself
with her experience about everything there is.  It came to me, then,
that if she moved away from Headquarters Mountain--that's my
mountain--maybe no other woman would ever come there to live; so I
stored myself, because I was determined to learn the business of
being a woman."

The large woman gazed upon her admiringly.  "I guess you learned,
all right."

They had not gone five miles before the large woman and her younger
sister were in love with Lahoma--but it hadn't taken Wilfred five
miles.  As he listened to her bright suggestions, and noted her
living eyes, her impulsive gestures--for she could not talk without
making little movements with her hands--and her flexible sympathetic
voice, he saw her moving about a well-ordered household....  It was
on his farm, of course; and the house was his,--and she was his
Lahoma....

Red Kimball watched her with the same sidewise attention, but his
face was brooding, his half-veiled eyes were red and threatening. 
What would happen in the nighttime as the stage pursued its lonely
way across the bleak prairie?  Since Red Kimball meant to appeal to
the law in his revenge against Brick, there was no danger of his
transgressing it openly.  But in the darkness with two unscrupulous
companions under his command, he would most probably execute some
scheme to prevent Lahoma from reaching her destination.

The evening shadows were stretching far toward the east from the few
trees that marked the dried bed of a stream, when the coach stopped
among a collection of hovels and tents. As the horses were led away,
the passengers dismounted, and both Wilfred and Red Kimball
hurriedly drew close to Lahoma.

Lahoma, however, appeared unaware of their presence.  The sisters
had been met by the husband of the older, and as they gathered about
the big wagon, Lahoma was urged to go home with them to supper.

"We're only a little ways out," she was told, "and we'll sure get
you back before the stage leaves--the victuals at the station ain't
fit to eat."

A very little insistence induced Lahoma to comply, and both the
young man and the former highwayman saw her go with disappointment. 
Kimball and his friends went into the "Dining Hall" to gulp down a
hasty meal, and Wilfred entered with them.  He remained only a
moment, however, just long enough to purchase a number of sandwiches
which he stored away, as if meaning to eat them in the coach.

As soon as he was in the single street with the door closed behind
him, he darted toward the stage barn, and by means of a handsome
deposit obtained two horses.  Springing upon one, he rode rapidly
from the settlement, leading the other, and in a short time, came
in sight of a cabin, which, with its outhouses, was the only
building in all the wide expanse.  From its appearance he knew it
to be the one described to Lahoma, and he galloped up to the door
with the certainty of finding her within.  The big wagon had been
unhitched, and the horses were fastened to its wheels, eating from
the bed.

The family was about to sit down to supper; the first to discover
Wilfred as he flitted past the single window in the side of the
cabin, was Lahoma.  Before he could knock on the door, she had
opened it.

"Oh, Wilfred!" she reproached him, "they'll miss you and know you've
come to consult with me about warning Brick."

"Quick, Lahoma!" said Wilfred, as if she had not spoken, "you can
ride a horse, I suppose?"  He smiled, but his eyes were sparkling
with impatience.

In a flash, Lahoma's face was glowing with enthusiasm. She looked
back into the room and cried, "Good-by!"  Then Wilfred swung her to
the back of the led horse.  "We'll beat 'em!" cried Lahoma, as he
sprang upon his horse. "Fast as you please--I've never been left
behind, yet!"

The young man noted with sudden relief that she was dressed for the
hardships of the prairie.  It came to him with a sense of wonder
that he had not noticed that before, perhaps from never having seen
her in fashionable attire.  As they galloped from the cabin, from
whose door looked astonished faces, Lahoma answered his thought--

"Up there," she said, nodding her head toward the East, "I dressed
for people--but out here, for wind and sand."

Looking back, she saw the family running out of the cottage, waving
handkerchiefs and bonnets as in the mad joy of congratulation.

"They think we're running away together!" shouted Wilfred with
exultation.  The hurry of their flight, the certainty of pursuit,
the prospect of dangers from man and nature, thrilled his blood,
fixed his jaw, illumined his eye.  All life seemed suddenly a flight
across a level world whose cloud of yellow dust enveloped only
himself and Lahoma.  "They think we're running away together.  Look
at them, Lahoma.  How happy they are at the idea!"

"They don't know there's nobody to object, if we don't," returned
Lahoma gaily, as she urged on her steed.  "Come along, Wilfred,"
she taunted, as his horse fell a neck behind hers, "what are you
staying back THERE for?  Tired?  If we get into the trail before
that coach starts, we'll have to put on all speed."

"Doing my best," he called, "but I made a bad bargain when I got
this beast.  This is his best lick, and it doesn't promise to last
long.  However, it was the only one left at the barn."

Lahoma slightly checked her animal.  "That's a good thing,
anyway--if there's none left, those horrible men can't follow."

Wilfred did not answer.  He was sure the stage would be driven in
pursuit at breakneck speed, and from the breathing of his horse he
feared it could not long endure the contest.  To be sure, Red
Kimball and his men had no lawful excuse to offer the stage-driver
for an attempt to stop them; but three men who had once been
desperate highwaymen might not look for lawful excuses on a dark
night in a dreary desert.  Besides, Kimball might, with some show
of reason, argue that since he was bent on the legitimate object of
having a writ served on Brick Willock, he would be justified in
preventing Brick from being warned out of the country.

They galloped on in silence, Lahoma slightly holding back.  Night
rapidly drew on.



CHAPTER XX
TOGETHER


Before them, the trail, beaten and rutted, stretched interminably,
losing itself in the darkness before it slipped over the rounded
margin of the world.  As darkness increased, the trail seemed to
waver before their eyes like a gray scarf that the wind stirs on
the ground.  On either side of it, the nature of the country varied
with strange abruptness, now an unbroken stretch of dead sage-brush
showing like isolated tufts in a gigantic clothes-brush--suddenly,
a wilderness of white sand shifting as the wind rose--again, broken
rocks sown broadcast.  Before final darkness came, the trail itself
was varicolored, sometimes white with alkali, sometimes skirting low
hills whose sides showed a deep blue, streaked with crimson.

But now all was black, sand, alkali, gypsum-beds, for the night had
fallen.

In their wide detour they had endeavored to escape detection from
the stage-station, but sheltered by no appreciable inequalities of
land, and denied the refuge that even a small grove might have
furnished, they had, as it were, been held up to view on the
prairie; and though so far away, their horses had been as distinctly
outlined as two ants scurrying across a white page.

Wilfred reflected.  "If Kimball, when he came out of that
restaurant, happened to look in this direction, he must have seen
us; and the first inquiry at the barn would inform him who're on
the horses.'  But he said nothing until, from the rear, came the
sound long-dreaded, telling, though far away, of bounding horses
and groaning wheels.

"Lahoma!"

"Yes--I hear them."

"My horse is about used up.  We'll have to side-trail, or they'll
ride us down."

"I could go on," Lahoma answered, as she drew bard on the bit, "but
I wouldn't like to leave you here by yourself."

"You couldn't travel that distance by yourself.  And good as your
horse is, it wouldn't last. But thank you for thinking of me," he
added, smiling in the darkness, as he dismounted.  "Let me lead your
horse as well as my own."

"No," said Lahoma, "if leading is to be done, I'll do my part." 
She leaped lightly to the ground and seized her bridle.  Side by
side they slowly ventured from the trail into the invisible country
on the left.  They found themselves treading short dead mesquit that
did not greatly obstruct their progress.

"Keep going," Wilfred said, when she paused for breath.  "It
wouldn't do for our horses to whinny, for those fellows would hear
them if it was thundering.  Give me your hand."

"Here it is," Lahoma felt about in the darkness.  "My! but I'm glad
I've got you, Wilfred!  Oh, how they are dashing along!  Listen how
the man is lashing his whip over those four horses.  Wish we could
see 'em--must be grand, tearing along at that rate!"

The stage was rapidly coming up abreast of them, and Wilfred felt
her grasp tighten.  There was a flash of lights, a glimpse of the
driver's face as of creased leather as he raised his whip above his
head--then noise and cloud of dust passed on and the lights became
trailing sparks that in a minute or two the wind seemed to blow out.

"My poor Brick!" Lahoma wailed.  "Do you think he'll take good
enough care of himself from what I wrote in my letters?  But no, he
doesn't think Red Kimball is coming yet, for I didn't know it till
after I'd written.  He's with Bill now, waiting for another letter.
Or for a telegram."

"No, no, Lahoma," Wilfred tried to sooth her.  "He has been hiding
for days.  Why should he come out just at the wrong time?  You wrote
that you'd not send any more messages.  Brick will be on the lookout
for Kimball.  He is sure to be watching out for him."

"I know Brick," Lahoma protested, seemingly all at once overcome by
the fatigues of her journey and the hopelessness of the situation. 
"I was afraid he wouldn't agree to hide at all; and just as soon as
you came away, and there wasn't any more prospects of letters, he'd
get lonesome, and tire of staying away from home.  He's in that cove
this minute, and he'll be there when Red Kimball takes the sheriff
after him."  Her voice quivered with distress.

"Don't be afraid, Lahoma," urged Wilfred, slipping his arm protectingly
about her.  "Don't grieve--I'm sure Brick is in a safe place."

"Well, I'M not in danger," said Lahoma, with-drawing from his
involuntary embrace.  "Don't take ME for Brick!  Maybe you're
right--but no, I'm sure he wouldn't be willing to stay out in the
mountains week after week--and during these cold nights!  For it is
cold, right now.  We must hurry on, Wilfred."

"There's one comfort," said Wilfred, as they retraced their way
toward the trail.  "Mr. Gledware won't appear as a witness against
Brick.  We'll get him cleared, easy enough."

"But Mr. Gledware WILL appear against him, and he'll swear anything
that Red Kimball wants."

"I thought he agreed to do that only on condition that a certain
pin--"

"YES!  But Red Kimball brought him that pin just before I left!"

"Brought him the pin that the Indian had?"

"Yes, the pearl and onyx pin.  And Mr. Gledware seemed to consider
it so important that I know Red Feather would never have given it
up while he had life."

"Then...?"

Lahoma shuddered. "YES!  You see, NOW, what a fiend Red Kimball is. 
And you know, NOW, what a hold he has over Mr. Gledware,--can make
him testify in such a way as to ruin my poor Brick.  If Brick knew
this, he'd understand how important it is to flee for his life and
never, never let himself be taken.  But he thinks nobody could get
the better of Red Feather.  You see, if he just dreamed what has
happened, he'd KNOW Mr. Gledware can convict him."

"We must reach Brick Willock before Red Kimball gets his warrant!"
exclaimed Wilfred desperately.

"Yes, we must, we must!"  Lahoma was growing slightly hysterical. 
"I won't mind any hardship, any danger--but what are we to do?  You
won't let me ride on alone--and you wouldn't be willing to leave me
here and take the good horse yourself."

"You're quite right about that!" returned the young man promptly. 
"We can only mount again, and go as fast as my miserable beast can
travel, hoping for some chance to come our way.  We have the
advantage of not being in the stage where Kimball could keep an eye
on us."

"I ought to be more thankful for that than I am," Lahoma sighed. 
They mounted, but as they rode forward, Wilfred's horse lagged more
and more.

"It's slow sailing," Wilfred remarked, "but it will give us a chance
to talk.  By the way, do you feel ready for supper?"  From his
overcoat pocket he drew forth the sandwiches.

It seemed to Lahoma to show an unfeeling heart to experience hunger
at such a time, and to find the ham sandwiches good; but it was none
the less true that they were good, and the mustard with which the
ham was plastered added a tang of hope and returned a defiant answer
to the cold inquiry of the north wind.

After they had eaten and the remaining sandwiches had been carefully
stowed away in Wilfred's capacious pocket, they pressed forward with
renewed energy on the part of all save Wilfred's horse.  By dint of
constant urging it was kept going faster than a walk though it was
obsessed by a consuming desire to lie down.  In order to keep
Lahoma's mind from dwelling on their difficulties and on Brick's
peril, the young man maintained conversation at high pressure, ably
seconded by his companion who was anxious to show herself undaunted.

Wilfred chose as the topic to engage Lahoma's mind, the future of
Oklahoma Territory.  The theme filled him with enthusiasm such as
no long-settled commonwealth is able to inspire, and though Lahoma
considered herself a Texan, she was able to enter into his spirit
from having always lived at the margin of the new country.  Wilfred
dwelt on the day when Oklahoma would no longer be represented in
congress by a delegate without the right to vote, but would take its
place as a state whose constitution should be something new and
inspiring in the history of civil documents.

Wilfred meant to have a part in the framing of that constitution
and as he outlined some of his theories of government, Lahoma
listened with quick sympathy and appreciation.  A new feeling for
him, something like admiration, something like pride, stirred within
her.  Here was a man who meant to do things, things eminently worth
a man's time and strength; and yet, for all his high purposes, there
was no look, no tone, to indicate that he held himself at a higher
valuation than those for whom he meant to labor.  As in time of
stress the strongest man is given the heaviest burden, so he seemed
to take to himself a leading part in the future of his country that
all who dwelt within its borders might find it a freer, a richer,
a better country because of him.

"You'll call me ambitious," said Wilfred, glowing.  "Well, I am. 
You'll accuse me of wanting power.  So I do!"

Her eyes flashed.  "And I'm ambitious for you!" she cried.  "Go
ahead and get power.  Take the earth!  Don't stop till you reach
the sea--that's the spirit of the West.  But how did you ever think
of these things?"

"During my long winters on my quarter-section, nobody in sight--just
the prairie and me.  Nothing else to think about except the country
that's new-born.  So I studied out a good many things, just thinking
about Oklahoma and--and--"

Lahoma said softly, "I KNEW there was SOMETHING ELSE you thought
about."

"Yes," exclaimed Wilfred, thrilled.  "Yes--there WAS something
else!"

"A little girl, I guess," murmured Lahoma gently, with a touch of
compassion in her tone.

"You've guessed it, Lahoma--yes, the dearest little girl in the
world."

"I wish she could have cared for you--THAT way--like your voice
sounds," murmured Lahoma.

"Maybe she can," Wilfred's voice grew firmer.  "Yes--she MUST!"

"Have you found a gold-mine?"

"What are you talking about, Lahoma?  What has a gold-mine to do
with it?"

"Because nothing else goes," returned Lahoma decisively.  "You might
get single statehood for Oklahoma, and write the constitution
yourself, and be elected governor--but you'd look just the same to
Annabel, unless you had a gold-mine."

Wilfred gave a jerk at his bridle.  "Who's talking about Annabel?"
he cried rather sharply.  He had forgotten that there was an
Annabel.

"Everybody is," returned Lahoma, somewhat sharply on her own
account, "everybody is, or ought to be!"

"_I_ am not," retorted Wilfred, springing to the ground just in
time--for his horse, on being checked, had promptly lain down.

"Then that's what you get!" remarked Lahoma severely, staring down
at the dark blur on the trail which her imagination correctly
interpreted as the horse stretched out on its side.



CHAPTER XXI
THE NORTHER


The wind increased in fury.  Fortunately it was at their back. 
Wilfred pressed forward on foot, leading Lahoma's horse; and, partly
on account of their unequal position, partly because of awkward
reserve, no more was said for a long time.  She bent forward to
shelter her face from the stinging blast while he trod firmly and
methodically on and on, braced slightly backward against the wind,
which was like a hand pushing him forward.

The voice of the wind filled the night.  It whistled and shrieked
in minor keys, dying away at brief intervals to come again with a
rush and roar.  It penetrated him to the bone, for he had compelled
her to wrap herself in his overcoat, and when the first stinging
grains of fiercely driven sleet pelted his cheek, he smothered a cry
of dismay over her exposed situation.

It could not be far past midnight.  The prospect of a snow-storm in
the bleak lands of the Kiowa appalled him, but even while facing
that possibility his mind was busy with Lahoma's attitude toward
himself.  Evidently it had never occurred to her that Annabel had
vanished from his fancy years ago; now that she knew, she was
displeased--most unreasonably so, he thought.  Lahoma did not
approve of Annabel--why should she want him to remain passively
under her yoke?  Unconsciously his form stiffened in protest as he
trudged forward.  The wind, so far from showing signs of abatement,
slightly increased, no longer with intervals of pause.  The sleet
changed rapidly first to snow, then to rain--then hail, snow and
rain alternated, or descended simultaneously, always driven with
cruel force by the relentless wind.

At last Lahoma shouted, "It's a regular norther!  How're you getting
along, Wilfred?"

Despite their discomfort, his heart leaped at this unexpected note
of comradeship.  Had she already forgiven him for not loving
Annabel?  "Oh, Lahoma!" he cried with sudden tenderness, "what will
become of you?"

She returned gravely, "What will become of Brick?  Northers are bad,
but not so bad as some men--Red Kimball, for instance."  A terrific
blast shook the half-frozen overcoat about her shoulders as if to
snatch it away.  "Don't you wish the Indians built their villages
closer to the trail?  Ugh!  Hadn't we better burrow a storm-cellar
in the sand?  I feel awfully high up in the air."

"Poor Lahoma!"

"Believe I'll walk with you, Wilfred; I'm turning to a lady-icicle."

"Do!  I know it would warm you up--a little."  His teeth showed an
inclination to chatter.  "Come--I'll help you down.  Can you find
my arm?"

At that moment the horse gave a violent lunge, then came to a
standstill, quivering and snorting with fright.  Wilfred's groping
arm found the saddle empty.

"I didn't have to climb down," announced her uncertain voice from
a distance.  It came seemingly from the level of the plain.

"You've fallen--you are hurt!" he exclaimed, but he could not go to
her because the horse refused to budge from the spot and he dared
not loosen his hold.

"Well, I'm a little warmer, anyway!"  Her voice approached slowly. 
"That was quick exercise; I didn't know I was going to do it till
I was down.  Lit on my feet, anyhow.  Why don't you come to meet
me?"

"This miserable beast won't move a foot.  Come and hold him, Lahoma,
while I examine in front, to find out what's scared him."

"All right.  Where are you?  Can you find my hand?"

"Can't I!" retorted Wilfred, clasping it in a tight grasp.

"Gracious, how wet we are!" she panted, "and blown about.  And
frozen."

"And scolded," he added plaintively.

"But, Wilfred, it never entered my mind that l was the little girl. 
Would I have brought up the subject if I'd known the truth?  I never
would.  That's why I felt you took advantage ... a man ought to
bring up that subject himself even if I AM a girl out West and--"

"But Lahoma--"

"And not another word do I want you to say about it.  EVER.  At
least, tonight.  PLEASE, Wilfred!  So I can think about it.  I'll
hold the horse--you go on and find out what's the matter.

"Besides, you said--you KNOW you said, when we were
strolling--that--that I didn't understand such matters.  And that
you'd tell me when it was TIME...."

"It's time now, Lahoma, time for you to be somebody's
sweetheart--and you said--you KNOW you said, when we were
strolling--that I'd fill the bill for you."

"But I brought up the subject myself, and I mean to close it, right
short off, for it's a man's subject.  Oh, how trembly this horse
is!"

"But, Lahoma!"

"Well, what is it?"

"I just wanted to say your name."  He started away.  "It sounds good
to me."

"Yes, it stands for Oklahoma."

"It stands for much more than that!" he called.

"Yes," she persisted in misunderstanding him, "something big and
grand."

"Not so big," he cried, now at some distance, but what there's room
for more than Brick and Bill in the cove!"

If she answered, the wind drowned her words.  With extended arms he
groped along the trail with exceeding caution.  Suddenly his foot
touched an object which on examination proved to be a human body,
a gaping wound in its breast.

"Found anything?" called Lahoma, her voice shivering.

He rose quickly and almost stumbled over another object.  It was a
second body, stiffened in death.

"I'll be there in a minute," he called, his voice grave and steady. 
After a brief pause he added--"I've found one of the horses--it's
dead."

"Oh, oh!" she exclaimed.  "They've driven it to death."

Wilfred had found a bullet hole behind its ear, but he said nothing.

Suddenly the horse held by Lahoma gave a plunge, broke away and went
galloping back over the trail they had traversed, pursued by
Lahoma's cry of dismay.  "I couldn't hold him," she gasped.  "He
lifted me clear off the ground...."

Wilfred was also dismayed, but he preserved an accent of calm as he
felt his way toward her, uttering encouragement for which their
condition offered no foundation.  But his forced cheerfulness
suddenly changed to real congratulation when his extended hand
struck against an upright wheel.

"Lahoma, here's the stage-coach.  It's standing just as we saw it
last, except for the horses."

"The stage-coach!" she marveled, coming toward him.  "Oh, Wilfred,
I see now what's happened.  One of the horses dropped dead, and Red
Kimball and his men jumped on the other three....  But I wonder what
became of the driver?"

"Get inside!" he ordered.  "Thank God, we've found SOMETHING that
we can get inside of.  That'll shelter us till morning, anyway, and
then we can determine what's to be done."

Once in the coach, they were safe from the wind which howled above
and around them, rattling the small windows and making the springs
creak.  There was no help for the discomfort of soaking garments,
but Wilfred lighted a reserve lantern and placed it in a corner,
while thick leather cushions and stage-blankets offered some
prospect of rest.

As no plans could be formed until morning revealed their real
plight, they agreed that all conversation should be foregone in
order to recuperate from the hardships of the day for the trials of
tomorrow.  Lahoma soon fell asleep after her exhausting journey of
a day and half a night since leaving the train at Chickasha.

For hours Wilfred sat opposite, staring at her worn face, pathetic
in its youthful roundness from which the bloom had vanished,
wondering at her grace, beauty, helplessness and perfect faith in
him.  That faith revealed in every line of the form lying along the
seat, and spoke from the unconscious face from which the brown hair
was outspread to dry.

How oddly her voice had sounded, how strange had been its accent
when she said, "It never entered my mind that _I_ was the little
girl!"  Had she been sorry for the thought to come?  Did she think
less of him because he had not remained true to Annabel?  Would it
not have been far better to wait until reaching their destination
before hinting of love?  Even while perplexed over these problems,
and while charmed by that appealing face with the softly parted
lips, by the figure that stirred in the rhythm of slumber, other
thoughts, other objects weighed upon him--the two dead men, the dead
horse just outside.  One of those men might be Red Kimball; other
bodies might lie there which he had failed to discover.  Had the
stage been attacked by Indians, or by white desperadoes who found
shelter in the Kiowa country?  In either case, might not the enemy
be hovering about the trail, possibly waiting to descend on the
coach?

Armed and watchful, Wilfred waited through the hours.  When no
longer able to bear the uncertainty, he crept from the stage with
the lantern, and examined the recent scene of a furious struggle. 
There were only two slain--the driver and one of Red Kimball's
companions.  Either Kimball and his other comrade had escaped, or
had been captured.  If any of the attacking party had fallen, the
bodies had been borne away.  Blood-stains indicated that more than
two had been shot.  From that ghastly sight it was a relief to find
himself once more enclosed by the coach walls with Lahoma so
peacefully sleeping.

Once he fell into a doze from which he was startled by the
impression that soft noises, not of wind or rain, were creeping over
the earth.  He sat erect with the confused fancy that wolves were
slinking among the wheels, were glaring up at the windows, were
dragging away the corpses.  The sudden movement of his hand as it
grasped his pistol awoke Lahoma.

She opened her eyes wide, but did not lift her cheek from the arm
that lay along the cushion.  "There you are," she said, "just as I
was dreaming."

He pretended not to be uneasy, but his ears strained to catch the
meaning of those mysterious movements of the night.  Her voice cut
across the vague murmur of the open plain:

"You only came once!"

Although her eyes were wide, she was apparently but half-awake; not
a muscle moved as she looked into his face.  "I thought," she
murmured, "it was on account of Annabel."

"I went away because I loved you," he answered softly.  "I promised
Brick I'd go if I felt myself caring--and nobody could help caring
for you.  That's why I left the country.  Just as soon as we laughed
together--it happened.  That's why I didn't come again."

"Yes," sighed Lahoma, as if it was not so hard to understand, now.

"And that's why I've come back," he added.  "Because I've kept on
loving you."

"Yes," she sighed again.  She closed her eyes and seemed to fall
asleep.  Perhaps it was a sort of knowing sleep that lost most of
the world but clung tenaciously to a few ideas.  The noises of the
night died away.  Presently he heard her murmur as a little smile
crept about the parted lips, "The cove's pretty big ... there's more
room than I thought."

When she was wide awake, daylight had slipped through the windows. 
"Oh, Wilfred!" she exclaimed, sitting suddenly erect, and putting
her hands to her head mechanically.  "Is--are we all right?"

"All right," said the young man cheerily.  "There's a good deal of
snow on the ground but it was blown off the trail for the most part. 
Some friends have provided us with the means of going forward."

"But I don't understand.'

"We'll finish the sandwiches, and melt some snow for water, and then
mount.  Look--see those two Indian ponies fastened to the tongue of
the stage?  They'll carry us to the next station like the wind."

She stared from the window, bewildered.

"I don't know any more about them than you," he answered her
thoughts.  "But there they are and here we are."  He said nothing
about the bodies evidently carried away by those who had brought
the ponies.  "It's all a mystery--a mystery of the plains.  I
haven't unraveled the very first thread of--it.  What's the use? 
The western way is to take what comes, isn't it, whether northers
or ponies?  There's a much bigger mystery than all that filling my
mind."

"What is that?"

"You."

She bent over the sandwich with heightened color.  "Poor Brick!"
she murmured as if to divert his thoughts.  But his sympathy just
then was not for Brick.

"Lahoma, you said that this is a subject a man should bring up."

She looked at him brightly, still flushing.  "Well?"

"I'm bringing it up, Lahoma."

"But we must be planning to save Brick from arrest."

"I'm hoping we'll get home in time--note that I say HOME, Lahoma. 
I refer to the cove.  I'm hoping we'll reach home in time to
forestall Red Kimball.  We've lost a great deal of time, but Brick
doubtless is safely hiding.  And when we get to the journey's
end--Lahoma, do you know what naturally comes at the journey's end?"

"A marriage."

"I thought that was what you meant."

"Will you marry me at the journey's end?"

Lahoma turned very red and laid down the sandwich.  Then she
laughed.  Then she started up.  "Let's get on the ponies!" she
cried.



CHAPTER XXII
JOURNEY'S END


The snow, that morning, lay in drifts from five to eight inches
across the trail, and to the height of several feet up against those
rock walls raising, as on vast artificial tables, the higher
stretches of the Kiowa country.  But by noon the plain was scarcely
streaked with white and when the sun set there was nothing to
suggest that a snowflake had ever fallen in that sand-strewn world. 
The interminable reaches, broken only by the level uplands marked
from the plain by their perpendicular walls, and the Wichita
Mountains, as faint and unsubstantial to the eye as curved images
of smoke against the sky--these dreary monotonies and remotenesses
naturally oppress the traveler with a sense of his insignificance. 
The vast silences, too, of brooding, treeless wastes, sun-baked
river-beds, shadowless brown squares standing for miles at a brief
height above the shadowless brown floor of the plain--silences
amidst which only the wind finds a voice--these, too, insist
drearily on the nothingness of man.

But Wilfred and Lahoma were not thus affected.  The somethingness
of man had never to them been so thrillingly evident.  They saw and
heard that which was not, except for those having eyes and ears to
apprehend--roses in the sand, bird-song in the desert.  And when the
rude cabins and hasty tents of the last stage-station in Greer
County showed dark and white against the horizon of a spring-like
morning, Wilfred cried exultantly:

"The end of the journey!"

And Lahoma, suddenly showing in her cheeks all the roses that had
opened in her dreams, repeated gaily, yet a little brokenly:

"The end of the journey!"

The end of the journey meant a wedding.  The plains blossom with
endless flower-gardens and the mountains sing together when the end
of the journey means a wedding.

Leaving Lahoma at the small new hotel from whose boards the sun
began boiling out resin as soon as it was well aloft, Wilfred
hurried after a fresh horse to carry him at once to the cove, ten
miles away.  Warning must be given to Brick Willock first of all. 
Lahoma even had a wild hope that Brick might devise some means
whereby he could attend the wedding without danger of arrest, but
to Wilfred this seemed impossible.

He had gone but a few steps from the hotel when he came face to face
with the sheriff of Greer County.  Cutting short his old friend's
outburst of pleasure:

"Look here, Mizzoo," said Wilfred, drawing him aside from the
curious throng on the sidewalk, "have you got a warrant against
Brick Willock?"

Mizzoo tapped his breast.  "Here!", he said; "know where he is?"

Wilfred sighed with relief:  "At any rate, YOU don't!" he cried.

"No--'rat him!  Where're you going, Bill?"

"I want a horse..."

"No use riding over to the cove," remarked his friend, with a grin. 
"That is, unless you want to call on some friends of mine--deputies;
they're living in the dugout, just laying for Brick to show himself."

"But, MIZZOO!" expostulated Wilfred, "why are you taking so much
trouble against my best friend?  The warrant ought to be enough;
and if you can't get a chance to serve it on him, that's not your
fault.  Your deputies haven't any right in that cove, and I'm going
to smoke 'em out."

Mizzoo chewed, with a deprecatory shake of his head.  "See here,
old tap," he murmured, "don't you say nothing about being Brick
Willock's friend.  The whole country is roused against him.  Heard
of them three bodies?"

Wilfred explained that he had just come to town.

"Well, good lord, then, the pleasure I'm going to have in telling
you something you don't know, and something that's full of meat! 
Let's go wheres we can sit down--this ain't no standing news."  The
lank red-faced sheriff started across the street without looking to
see if he were followed.

He did not stop till he was in his room at the hotel.  "Now," he
said, locking the door, "sit down.  Yes, you BET.  I got a warrant
against Brick Willock!  It was sworn out by a fellow named Jeremiah
Kimball--you know him as 'Red.'  The form's regular, charges
weighty.  Brick Willock was once a member of Red Kimball's gang;
he's the only one that didn't come in to get his amnesty.  See? 
Well, he killed Red's brother--shot 'im.  Gledware's coming on to
witness to it.  Willock will claim he done the deed to save
Gledware's life--his and his little gal's.  But Gledware will show
it was otherwise.  Red told me all about it.  Brick's a murderer,
and worst of all, he's a murderer without an amnesty--that's the
only difference between him and Red.  Well, old tap, I took my oath
to do my duty.  You know what that signifies."

"But there's no truth in all this rot.  Brick HAD to shoot Kansas
Kimball--"

"Well, let him show that in court.  My business is to take him
alive.  That ain't all, that's just the preface.  Listen!  If you'll
believe me, the stage that Red and his pards was in--coming here to
swear out the warrant, they was--that there stage was set on by this
friend of yours--yes, Brick has gathered together some of his old
pards and is a highwayman--why, he shot one of Red's witnesses, and
he shot the driver!"

"I know something about that holdup," cried Wilfred scornfully. 
"It must have been done by Indians."

"Red SAW Brick amongst the gang.  He RECOGNIZED him.  Well, Red and
his other pard gets on horses they cuts loose, and comes like
lightning, and gets here, and tells the story--and maybe you think
this community ain't a-rearing and a-charging and a-sniffing for
blood!  There'd he more excitement against Brick Willock if there
was more community, but such as they is, is concentrated."

"Mizzoo, listen to reason.  Don't you understand that Red wants
revenge, and has misrepresented this Indian attack to tally with
his other lies?"

"I wouldn't say nothing against Red, old tap.  It ain't gentlemanly
to call dead folk liars."

"Dead folk!" echoed Wilfred, starting up.

"I KNOWED you didn't understand that Red's off the trail forever,"
Mizzoo rejoined gently.  "I knowed you wouldn't be accusing him so
rancid, had you been posted on his funeral."

Wilfred felt a great relief, then a great wonder.

"He's dead.  I don't say he's better off, I don't know; but I guess
the world is.  I don't like to censure them that's departed.  Brick
Willock is still with us, and him the county can't say enough
against.  His life wouldn't be worth two bits if anybody laid eyes
on 'im.  Consider his high-handed doings.  Wasn't it enough in the
past to kill Red's brother, but what he must needs collect his pals,
stop the stage-coach, shoot two men trying to get Red, and one of
'em the innocent driver?  You say, yes.  But hold on, that ain't all
he done.  No, sir.  The very next day after Red swore out that
warrant--and it was yesterday, if you ask ME--what is saw, when we
men of Mangum comes out of our doors?  Three corpses lying on the
sidewalk, side by side.  You say, what corpses?  Wait.  I'm coming
to that.  One was that driver; one was the pard that got shot with
the driver.  The other was Red Kimball his own self."

"I knew the bodies had been carried away from the trail," exclaimed
Wilfred in perplexity.  He related his discoveries of the stormy
night.

"But you didn't know they had been brung to town all this distance
to be laid beside Red.  You didn't know Red had been stabbed so he
could be added, too.  You didn't know the three of them had been
left on the street to rile up every man with blood in his veins. 
Why, Wilfred, it's an insult to the whole state of Texas,  Such
high-handed doings ain't to be bore.  If Brick Willock don't want
to be tried in court, is that an excuse for killing off all that
might witness against him?  It might of been ONCE.  But we're
determined to have a county of law-abiding citizens.  Such free
living has got to be nipped in the bud, or we'll have another No-
Man's Land.  We're determined to live under the laws.  This is
civilization.  The cattle business is dead, land is getting tied up
by title-deeds, the deer's gone, and there's nothing left but
civilization.  And I am the--er--as sheriff of Greer County I am
a--I am the angel of civilization, you may say."

Mizzoo started up, too excited to notice Wilfred's suddenly
distorted face.  It was no time to display a sense of the ludicrous;
the young man hotly burst into passionate argument and reasonable
hypothesis."

"We've got civilization," Mizzoo declared doggedly, "and we aim to
hold on to her, you bet!  There's going to be no such doings as
three corpses stretched out on the sidewalk for breakfast, not while
I'm at the helm.  How'd that look, if wrote up for the New York
papers?  That ain't all--remember that ghost I used to worry my life
out over, trying to meet up with on the trail?  Him, or her or it,
that haunted every step of the way from Abilene to the Gulf of
Mexico?  It's a flitting, that ghost is!  Well, I don't claim that
no ghost is in my jurisdiction.  Brick's flesh and blood, there's
bone to him.  As my aunt (Miss Sue of Missouri) used to say, 'he's
some MAN.'"

Waving aside Mizzoo's ghost, Wilfred elaborated his theory of an
Indian attack, described Brick's peaceable disposition, his
gentleness to Lahoma--then dwelt on the friendship between himself
and Brick, and the relations between himself and Brick's ward.

"It all comes to this," Mizzoo declared:  "if you could make me
think Willock a harmless lamb and as innocent, it wouldn't change
conditions.  This neighborhood calls for his life and'd take it if
in reach; and my warrant calls for his arrest.  All I can promise
is to get him, if possible, behind the bars before the mob gets him
in a rope.  As my aunt, whom I have oft-times quoted  my aunt (Miss
Sue of Missouri, a woman of elegant sense)--'that's the word,' she
used to say, 'with the bark on it!'"

Wilfred permitted himself the pleasure of taunting Mizzoo with the
very evident truth that before Willock was hanged or imprisoned, he
must first be caught.

Mizzoo grinned good-naturedly.  "Yap.  Well, we've got a clew locked
up in jail right now that could tell us something, I judge, and will
tell us something before set free; its name is Bill Atkins.  He's
a wise old coon, but as sour as a boiled owl,--nothing as yet to be
negotiated with him than if he was a bobcat catched in a trap. 
We're hoping time'll mellow him--time and the prospect of being took
out and swung from the nearest limb--speaking literary, not by
nature, as you know trees is as scarce about here as Brick Willock
himself."

Wilfred insisted on an immediate visit to Bill.  "Brick declared he
wouldn't tell Bill his hiding-place," he said, "for he didn't want
to get him into trouble.  He'll tell me if he knows anything--and
if he doesn't, it's an outrage to shut him up, old as he is, and as
rheumatic as he's old."

On the way to the rudely improvised prison, Mizzoo defended himself. 
"He wasn't too old and rheumatic to fight like a wildcat--why, he
had to be lifted up bodily and carried into his cell.  Not a word
can we get out of him, or a bite of grub into him.  I believe that
old codger's just too obstinate to die!"

When they reached the prison door, the crowd gathered about them,
eager for news, watching Mizzoo unfasten the door as if he were
unlocking the secret to Willock's whereabouts.  There were loud
imprecations on the head of the murderer, and fierce prophecies as
to what would happen to Bill if he preserved his incriminating
silence.  It seemed but a moment before hurrying forms from many
directions packed themselves into a mass before the jail.

The cells were in the basement.  The only entrance to the building
was by means of a flight of six steps leading to an unroofed
platform before the door of the story proper.  Mizzoo and Wilfred,
standing on this platform, were lifted above the heads of perhaps
a hundred men who watched eagerly the dangling bunch of keys. 
Mizzoo had stationed three deputies at the foot of the steps to keep
back the mob, for if the excited men once rushed into the jail
nothing could check their course.  The deputies, tall broad-shouldered
fellows, pushed back the threatening tide, always with good-natured
protests,--words half bantering, half appealing, repulsive thrusts
of the arms, rough but inflicting no hurt.  So peaceful a minute
before had been the Square, it was difficult to comprehend the sudden
spirit of danger.

Mizzoo whispered to Wilfred, "We'd better get in as quick as
possible."

The words were lost in the increasing roar of voices.  He spoke
again:

"When I swing open the door, that bunch will try to make a run for
it.  You jump inside and I'll be after you like a shot....  We'll
lock ourselves in--"

"Hey, Mizzoo!" shouted a voice from the crowd, "bring out that old
cuss.  Drag him to the platform, we want to hear what he's got to
say.

"Say, Mr. Sheriff!  Tell him if he won't come to us, we'll go to
him.  We've got to know where Brick Willock's hiding, and that's
all about it."

"Sure!" growled a third.  "What kind of a town is this, anyway?  A
refuge for highwaymen and murderers?"

A struggle took place at the foot of the stairs, not so good-naturedly
as heretofore.  A reasoning voice was heard:  "Just let me say a word
to the boys."

"Yes!" called others, "let's hear HIM!"

There was a surging forward, and a man was lifted literally over
the heads of the three deputies; he reached the platform breathless,
disheveled, but triumphant.  It was the survivor of Red Kimball's
band.

Mizzoo, mistaking his coming for a general rush, had hastily
relocked the door, and he and Wilfred defended themselves with drawn
revolvers.

"I ain't up here to do no harm," called the ex-highwayman.  "I ain't
got the spirit for warfare.  My chief is killed, my pards is dead. 
Even that innocent stage-driver what knew nothing of us, is killed
in the attack that Brick Willock made on us in the dark and behind
our backs.  How're you going to grow when the whole world knows you
ain't nothing but a den of snakes?  You may claim it's all Brick
Willock.  I say if he's bigger than the town, if he murders and
stabs and you can't help it, then the town ain't as good as him. 
My life's in danger.  I don't know if I'll draw another breath. 
What kind of a reputation is that for you to send abroad?  There's
a man in this jail can tell you where Willock's hiding.  Good day!"

The speaker was down the steps in two leaps, and the deputies drew
aside to let him pass out.  Civic pride, above all, civic ambition,
had been touched to the quick.  A hoarse roar followed the speech,
and cries for Bill grew frantic.  Mizzoo, afraid to unlock the door,
stared at Wilfred in perplexity.

"I told you they had civilization on the brain," he muttered.  "The
old times are past.  I daresn't make a move toward that lock."

"Drop the keys behind you--I'll get 'em," Wilfred murmured.  "Step
a little forward.  Say something to 'em."

"Ain't got nothing to say," growled Mizzoo, glaring at the mob. 
"These boys are in the right of it, that's how I feel--cuss that
obstinate old bobcat! it's his own fault if they string him up."

"Here they come!" Wilfred exclaimed.

"Steady now, old Mizzoo--we've whipped packs of wolves before
today--coyotes crazy with hunger--big gray loafers in the rocks--eh,
Mizzoo?"  He shouted to the deputies who had been pushed against the
railing:  "Give it to 'em, boys!"

But the deputies did not fire, and the mob, though chafing with mad
impatience, did not advance.  It was a single figure that swept up
the steps, unobstructed, aided, indeed, by the mass of packed men
in the street--a figure slight and erect, tingling with the
necessity of action to which every vein and muscle responded,
tingling so vitally, so electrically, that the crowd also tingled,
not understanding, but none the less thrilled.

"Lahoma!"  Wilfred was at her side.  "You here!"

"Yes, I'm here," she returned breathlessly, her face flaming with
excitement.  "I'm going to talk to these people--let me have that--"
She took the revolver from his unresisting hand, uncocked it, and
slipped it into her bosom.  Then she faced the mob and held up her
empty hand.



CHAPTER XXIII
FACING THE MOB


It was the first time Lahoma had ever faced an audience larger than
that composed of Brick and Bill and Willock, for in the city she had
been content to play an unobtrusive part, listening to others,
commenting inwardly.  Speech was now but a mode of action, and in
her effort to turn the sentiment of the mob, she sought not for
words but emotions.  Bill's life was at stake.  What could she say
to make them Bill's friends?  After her uplifted hand had brought
tense silence, she stood at a loss, her eyes big with the appeal her
tongue refused to utter.

The mob was awed by that light in her eyes, by the crimson in her
cheeks, by her beauty, freshness and grace.  They would not proceed
to violence while she stood there facing them.  Her power she
recognized, but she understood it was that of physical presence. 
When she was gone, her influence would depart.  They knew Brick and
Bill had sheltered her from her tenderest years, they admired her
fidelity.  Whatever she might say to try to move their hearts would
come from a sense of gratitude and would be received in tolerant
silence.  The more guilty the highwayman, the more commendable her
loyalty.  But it would not change their purpose; as if waiting for
a storm to pass, they stood stolid and close-mouthed, slightly bent
forward, unresisting, but unmoved.

"I'm a western girl," Lahoma said at last, "and ever since Brick
Willock gave me a home when I had none, I've lived right over yonder
at the foot of the mountains.  I was there when the cattlemen came,
before the Indians had given up this country; and I was here when
the first settlers moved in, and when the soldiers drove them out. 
I was living in the cove with Brick Willock when people came up from
Texas and planted miles and miles of wheat; and I used to play with
the rusty plows and machinery they left scattered about--after the
three years' drought had starved them back to their homes.  Then Old
Man Walker came to Red River, sent his cowboys to drive us out of
the cove, and your sheriff led the bunch.  And it was Brick and
myself that stood them off with our guns, our backs to the wall and
our powder dry, and we never saw Mizzoo in our cove again.  So you
see, I ought to be able to talk to western men in a way they can
appreciate, and if there's anybody here that's not a western man--he
couldn't understand our style, anyhow--he'd better go where he's
needed, for out West you need only western men--like Brick Willock,
for instance."

At reference to the well-known incident of Mizzoo's attempt to drive
Willock from the cove, there was a sudden wave of laughter, none the
less hearty because Mizzoo's face had flushed and his mouth had
opened sheepishly.  But at the recurrence of Willock's name, the
crowd grew serious.  They felt the justice of her claim that out
West only western men were needed; they excused her for thinking
Brick a model type; but let any one else hold him up before them as
a model!...

Lahoma's manner changed; it grew deeper and more forceful:

"Men, I want to talk to you about this case--will you be the jury? 
Consider what kind of man swore out that warrant against Brick--the
leader of a band of highwaymen!  And who's his chief witness?  You
don't know Mr. Gledware.  I do.  You've heard he's a rich and
influential citizen in the East.  That's true.  But I'm going to
tell you something to show what he IS--and what Brick Willock is;
just one thing; that's all I'll say about the character of either. 
As to Red Kimball, you don't have to be told.  I'm not going to talk
about the general features of the case--as to whether Brick was ever
a highwayman or not; as to whether he killed Red's brother to save
me and my stepfather, or did it in cold blood; as to whether he held
up the stage or not.  These things you've discussed; you've formed
opinions about them.  I want to tell you something you haven't
heard.  Will you listen?"

At first no one spoke.  Then from the crowd came a measured
impartial voice:  "We got lots of time."

She was not discouraged by the intimation in the tone that all her
speaking was in vain.  Several in the crowd looked reproachfully at
him who had responded, feeling that Lahoma deserved more consideration;
but in the main, the men nodded grim approval.  They had plenty of
time--but at the end of it, Bill would either tell all he knew, or....

Lahoma plunged into the midst of her narrative:

"One evening Brick came on a deserted mover's wagon; he'd traveled
all day with nothing to eat or drink, and he got into the wagon to
escape the blistering sun.  In there, he found a dead woman,
stretched on her pallet.  He had a great curiosity to see her face,
so he began lifting the cloth that covered her.  He saw a pearl and
onyx pin at her throat.  It looked like one his mother used to wear. 
So he dropped the cloth and never looked at her face.  She had died
the evening before, and he knew she wouldn't have wanted any one to
see her THEN.  And he dug a grave in the sand, though she was
nothing to him, and buried her--never seeing her face--and covered
the spot with a great pyramid of stones, and prayed for her little
girl--I was her little girl--the Indians had carried me away. 
You'll say that was a little thing; that anybody would have buried
the poor helpless body.  Maybe so.  But about not looking at her
face--well, I don't know; it WAS a little thing, of course, but
somehow it just seems to show that Brick Willock wasn't little--had
something great in his soul, you know.  Seems to show that he
couldn't have been a common murderer.  It's something you'll have
to feel for yourselves, nobody could explain it so you'd see, if you
don't understand already."

The men stared at her, somewhat bewildered, saying nothing.  In some
breasts, a sense of something delicate, not to be defined, was
stirred.

"One day," Lahoma resumed, "Brick saw a white man with some Indians
standing near that grave.  He couldn't imagine what they meant to
do, so he hid, thinking them after him.  Years afterward Red Feather
explained why they came that evening to the pile of stones.  The
white man was Mr. Gledware.  After Red Kimball's gang captured the
wagon-train, Mr. Gledware escaped, married Red Feather's daughter
and lived with the Indians; he'd married immediately, to save his
life, and the tribe suspected he meant to leave Indian Territory at
the first chance.  Mr. Gledware, great coward, was terrified night
and day lest the suspicions of the Indians might finally cost him
his life.

"It wasn't ten days after the massacre of the emigrants till he
decided to give a proof of good faith.  Too great a coward to try
to get away and.  caring too much for his wife's rich lands to want
to leave, he told about the pearl and onyx pin--he said he wanted
to give it to Red Flower.  A pretty good Indian, Red Feather
was--true friend of mine; HE wouldn't rob graves!  But he said he'd
take Mr. Gledware to the place, and if he got that pin, they'd all
know he meant to live amongst them forever.  THAT'S why the band was
standing there when Brick Willock looked from the mountain-top.  Mr.
Gledware dug up the body, after the Indians had rolled away the
stones--the body of his wife--my mother--the body whose face Brick
Willock wouldn't look at, in its helplessness of death.  Mr.
Gledware is the principal witness against Brick.  If you don't feel
what kind of man he is from what I've said, nobody could explain it
to you."

From several of the intent listeners burst involuntary denunciations
of Gledware, while on the faces of others showed a momentary gleam
of horror.

Red Kimball's confederate spoke loudly, harshly:  "But who killed
Red Kimball and his pard and the stage-driver, if it wasn't Brick
Willock?"

"I think it was Red Feather's band.  I'm witness to the fact that
Kimball agreed to bring Mr. Gledware the pearl and onyx pin on
condition that Mr. Gledware appear against Brick.  After Mr.
Gledware deserted Red Flower, or rather after her death, Red Feather
carried that pin about him; Mr. Gledware knew he'd never give it up
alive.  He was always afraid the Indian would find him--and at last
he did find him.  But Red Kimball got the pin--could that mean
anything except that Kimball discovered the Indian's hiding-place
and killed him?  But for that, I'd think it Red Feather who attacked
the stage and killed Red Kimball.  As it is, I believe it must have
been his friends."

"Now you've said something!" cried Mizzoo.  "Boys, don't you think
it's a reasonable explanation?"

Some of them did, evidently, for the grim resolution on their faces
softened; others, however, were unconvinced.

A stern voice was raised:  "Let Brick Willock come do his own
explaining.  Bill Atkins knows where he's hiding out--and we got to
know.  We've started in to be a law-abiding county, and that there
warrant against Willock has got the right of way."

"You've no warrant against Bill," cried Wilfred, stepping to the
edge of the platform, "therefore you've violated the law in locking
him up."

"That's so," exclaimed Red Kimball's former comrade.  "Well, turn
'im loose, that's what we ask--LET him go--open the jail door!"

"He's locked up for his own safety," shouted Mizzoo.  "You fellows
agree to leave him alone, and I'll turn him out quick enough.  You
talk about the law--what you want to do to Bill ain't overly lawful,
I take it."

"If he gives up his secret we ain't going to handle him rough," was
the quick retort.

Lahoma found that the softening influence she had exerted was
already fast dissipating.  They bore with her merely because of her
youth and sex.  She cried out desperately.

"Is there nothing I can say to move your hearts?  Has my story of
that pearl and onyx pin been lost on you?  Couldn't you understand,
after all?  Are you western men, and yet unable to feel the worth
of a western man like Brick?...  How he clothed me and sheltered me
when the man who should have supported the child left in his care
neglected her....  How he taught me and was always tender and
gentle--never a cross word--a man like THAT....  And you think he
could kill!  I don't know whether Bill was told his hiding-place or
not.  But if _I_ knew it, do you think I'd tell?  And if Bill
betrayed him,--but Bill wouldn't do it.  Thank God, I've been raised
with real MEN, men that know how to stand by each other and be true
to the death.  You want Bill to turn traitor.  I say, what kind of
men are YOU?"

She turned to Wilfred, blinded by hot tears.  "Oh, say something to
them!" she gasped, clinging to his arm.

"Go on," murmured Wilfred.  "I couldn't reach em, and you made a
point, that time.  Go on--don't give 'em a chance to think."

"But I can't--I've said all I had to say--"

"Don't stop, dear, for God's sake--the case is desperate!  You'll
have to do it--for Bill."

"And that isn't all," Lahoma called in a broken pathetic voice, as
she turned her pale face upon the curious crowd.  "That isn't all. 
You know Brick and Bill have been all I had--all in this world... 
You know they couldn't have been sweeter to me if they'd been the
nearest of kin--they were more like women than men, somehow, when
they spoke to me and sat with me in the dugout--and I guess I know
a little about a mother's love because I've always had Brick and
Bill.  But one day somebody else came to the cove and--and this
somebody else, well--he--this somebody else wants to marry me--
today.  This was the end of our journey," she went on blindly,
"and--and it is our wedding-day.  I thought there must be SOME way
to get Brick to the wedding, but you see how it is.  And--and we'll
have to marry without him.  But Bill's here--in that jail--because
he wouldn't betray his friend.  And I couldn't marry without either
Brick or Bill, could I?"

She took her quivering hand from Wilfred's sturdy arm, and moving
to the top of the steps, held out her trembling arms appealingly:

"MEN!--  Give me Bill!"

The crowd was with her, now.  No doubt of that.  All fierceness
gone, tears here and there, broad grins to hide deep emotion, open
admiration, touched with tenderness, in the eyes that took in her
shy flower-like beauty.

"You shall have Bill!" shouted the spokesman of the crowd.  And
other voices cried, "Give her Bill!  Give her Bill!"

"Bring him out!" continued the spokesman in stentorian tones. 
"We'll not ask him a question.  Fellows, clear a path for 'em."

A broad lane was formed through the throng of smiling men whom the
sudden, unexpected light of love had softened magically.

While Mizzoo hastened to Bill's cell, some one exclaimed, "Invite
us, too.  Make it a town wedding!"

And another started the shout, "Hurrah for Lahoma!"

Lahoma, who had taken refuge behind Wilfred's protection, wept and
laughed in a rosy glow of triumphant joy.

Mizzoo presently reappeared, leaving the door wide open.  He walked
to the stairs, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deep-cut with
appreciation of the situation.  "Fellows," he called, "he says you
carried him in there, and dinged if you won't have to carry him out,
for not a step will he take!"

At this unexpected development, a burst of laughter swelled into a
roar.  After that mighty merriment, Bill was as safe as a babe. 
Twenty volunteers pressed forward to carry the wedding-guest from
his cell.  And when the old man slowly but proudly followed Wilfred
and Lahoma to the hotel where certain preparations were to be made
--particularly as touching Bill's personal appearance--the town of
Mangum began gathering at the newly-erected church whither they had
been invited.

When the four friends--for Mizzoo joined them--drove up to the
church door in the only carriage available, Bill descended stiffly,
his eyes gleaming fiercely from under snowy locks, as if daring any
one to ask him a question about Brick.  But nobody did.



CHAPTER XXIV
MINE ENEMY


The general suspicion that Bill Atkins knew more about Brick Willock
than he had revealed, was not without foundation; though the extent
of his knowledge was more limited than the town supposed.  Bill had
carried to his friend--hidden in the crevice in the
mountain-top--the news of Red Kimball's death; since then, they had
not seen each other.

Skulking along wooded gullies by day, creeping down into the cove
at night, Willock had unconsciously reverted to the habits of
thought and action belonging to the time of his outlawry.  He was
again, in spirit, a highwayman, though his hostility was directed
only against those seeking to bring him to justice.  The softening
influence of the years spent with Lahoma was no longer apparent in
his shifting bloodshot eyes, his crouching shoulders, his furtive
hand ever ready to snatch the weapon from concealment.  This
sinister aspect of wildness, intensified by straggling whiskers and
uncombed locks, gave to his giant form a kinship to the huge
grotesquely shaped rocks among which he had made his den.

He heard of Red Kimball's death with bitter disappointment.  He had
hoped to encounter his former chief, to grapple with him, to hurl
him, perhaps, from the precipice overlooking Bill's former home. 
If in his fall, Kimball, with arms wound about his waist, had
dragged him down to the same death, what matter?  Though his enemy
was now no more, the sheriff held the warrant for his arrest--as if
the dead man could still strike a mortal blow.  The sheriff might
be overcome--he was but a man.  That piece of paper calling for his
arrest--an arrest that would mean, at best, years in.  the
penitentiary--had behind it the whole state of Texas.

To Willock's feverish imagination, the warrant became personified;
a mysterious force, not to be destroyed by material means; it was
not only paper, but spirit.  And it had come between him and Lahoma,
it had shut him off from the possibility of a peaceful old age.  The
cove was no longer home but a hiding-place.

He did not question the justice of this sequel to his earlier life. 
No doubt deeds of long ago, never punished, demanded a sacrifice. 
He hated the agents of this justice not so much because they
threatened his liberty, his life, as because they stepped in between
himself and Lahoma.  Always a man of expedients, he now sought some
way of frustrating justice, and naturally his plans took the color
of violence.  Denied the savage joy of killing Red Kimball--and he
would have killed him with as little compunction as if he had been
a wolf--his thoughts turned toward Gledware.

Gledware was the only witness of the deed for which the warrant
demanded his arrest.  Willock wished many of his other deeds had
been prompted by impulses as generous as those which had led to
Kansas Kimball's death.  Perhaps it was the irony of justice that
he should be threatened by the one act of bloodshed which had saved
Lahoma's life.  If he must be hanged or imprisoned because he had
not, like the rest of the band, given himself up for official
pardon, it was as well to suffer from one deed as from another.  But
it would be better still, as in the past, to escape all
consequences.  Without Gledware, they could prove nothing.

Would Gledware testify, now that Red Kimball, who had bought his
testimony with the death of the Indian, no longer lived to exact
payment?  Willock felt sure he would.  In the first place, Gledware
had placed himself on record as a witness, hence could hardly
retreat; in the second place, he would doubtless be anxious to rid
himself of the danger of ever meeting Willock, whom his conscience
must have caused him to hate with the hatred of the man who wrongs
his benefactor.

Willock transferred all his rage against the dead enemy to the
living.  He reminded himself how Gledware had caused the death of
Red Feather, not in the heat of fury or in blind terror, but in
coldblooded bargaining.  He meditated on Gledware's attitude toward
Lahoma; he thought nothing good of him, he magnified the evil.  That
scene at the grave of his wife--and Red Feather's account of how he
had dug up the body for a mere pin of pearl and onyx....  Ought such
a creature to live to condemn him, to bring sorrow on the
stepdaughter he had basely refused to acknowledge?

To wait for the coming of the witness would be to lose an
opportunity that might never recur.  Willock would go to him.  In
doing so, he would not only take Gledware by surprise, but would
leave the only neighborhood in which search would be made for
himself.  Thus it came about that while the environs of the cove
were being minutely examined, Brick, riding his fastest pony, was
on the way to Kansas City.

He reached Kansas City without unusual incident, where he was
accepted naturally, as a product of the West.  Had his appearance
been twice as uncouth, twice as wild, it would have accorded all
the better with western superstitions that prevailed in this city,
fast forgetting that it had been a western outpost.  At the hotel,
whose situation he knew from Lahoma's letters, he learned that
Gledware was neither there, nor at his home in the country.  The
country-house was closed up and, in fact, there was a rumor that it
was sold, or was about to be sold.  One of the porters happened to
know that Gledware had gone for a week's diversion down in the
Ozarks.  There were a lake, a club-house, a dancing-hall, as yet
unopened.  The season was too early for the usual crowd at Ozark
Lodge, but the warm wave that nearly always came at this time of
year, had prompted a sudden outing party which might last no longer
than the warm wave.

Willock took the first train south and rode with the car window
up--the outside breath was the breath of balmy summer though the
trees stood bleak and leafless against the sky.  Two days ago, snow
had fallen--but the birds did not remember it.  Seven hours brought
him to a lonely wagon-trail called Ozark Lodge because after winding
among hills several miles it at last reached the clubhouse of that
name overlooking the lake.  He left the train in the dusk of
evening, and walked briskly away, the only moving figure in the
wilderness.

His pace did not slacken till a gleam as of fallen sky cupped in
night-fringe warned him that the club-house must be near.  A turn
of a hill brought it into view, the windows not yet aglow.  Nearer
at hand was the boat-house, seemingly deserted.  But as Willock,
now grown wary, crept forward among the post-oaks and blackjacks,
well screened from observation by chinkapin masses of gray
interlocked network, he discovered two figures near the platform
edging the lake.  Neither was the one he sought; but from their
being there--they were Edgerton Compton and Annabel,--he knew
Gledware could not be far away.

"No," Annabel was saying decisively, and yet with an accent of
regret, "No, Edgerton, I can't."

"But our last boat-ride," he urged.  "Don't refuse me the last
ride--a ride to think about all my life.  I'm going away tomorrow
at noon, as I promised.  But early in the morning--"

"I have promised HIM," she said with lingering sadness in her voice. 
"So I must go with him.  He has already engaged the boatman.  He'll
be here at seven, waiting for me.  So you see--"

"Annabel, I shall be here at seven, also!" he exclaimed impetuously.

"But why?  I must go with him, Edgerton.  You see that."

"Then I shall row alone."

"Why would you add to my unhappiness?" she pleaded.

"I shall be here at seven," he returned grimly; "while you and he
take your morning boat-ride, I shall row alone."

She turned from him with a sigh, and he followed her dejectedly up
the path toward the club-house.

She had lost some of the fresh beauty which she had brought to the
cove, and her step was no longer elastic; but this Willock did not
notice.  He gave little heed to their tones, their gestures, their
looks in which love sought a thin disguise wherein it might show
itself unnamed.  He had seized on the vital fact that in the
morning, Annabel and Gledware would push off from the boat-house
steps, presumably alone; and it would be early morning.  Perhaps
Gledware would come first to the boat-house, there to wait for
Annabel.  In that case, he would not ride with Annabel.  The lake
was deep--deep as Willock's hate.

Willock passed the night in the woods, sometimes walking against
time among the hills, sometimes seated on the ground, brooding. 
The night was without breath, without coolness.  Occasionally he
climbed a rounded elevation from which the clubhouse was
discernible.  No lights twinkled among the barren trees.  All in
that wilderness seemed asleep save himself.  The myriad insects that
sing through the spring and summer months had not yet found their
voices; there was no trill of frogs, not even the hooting of an
owl,--no sound but his own breathing.

At break of dawn he crept into the boat-house like a shadow,
barefooted, bareheaded--the club-house was not yet awake.  He looked
about the barnlike room for a hiding-place.  Walls, floor, ceiling
were bare.  Near the door opening on the lake was a rustic bench,
impossible as a refuge.  Only in one corner, where empty boxes and
a disused skiff formed a barricade, could he hope for concealment. 
He glided thither, and on the floor between the dusty wall of broad
boards and the jumbled partition, he found a man stretched on his
back.

At first, he thought he had surprised a sleeper, but as the figure
did not move, he decided it must be a corpse.  He would have fled
but for his need of this corner.  He bent down--the man was bound
hand and foot.  In the mouth, a gag was fastened.  Neck and ankles
were tied to spikes in the wall.

Willock swiftly surveyed the lake and the sloping hill leading down
from the club-house.  Nobody was near.  As he stared at the
landscape, the front door of the club-house opened.  He darted hack
to the corner.  "Pardner," he said, "I got to ask your hospitality
for a spell, and if you move so as to attract attention, I got to
fix you better.  I didn't do this here, pardner, but you shore look
like some of my handiwork in days past and gone.  I'll share this
corner with you for a while, and if you don't give me away to them
that's coming, I promise to set you free.  That's fair, I guess. 
'A man ain't all bad,' says Brick, 'as unties the knots that other
men has tied,' says he.  Just lay still and comfortable, and we'll
see what's coming."

Presently there were footsteps in the path, and to Willock's intense
disappointment, Gledware and Annabel came in together.  They were
in the midst of a conversation and at the first few words, he found
it related to Lahoma.  The boatman who had promised to bring the
skiff for them at seven--it developed that Gledware had no intention
of doing the rowing--had not yet come.  They sat down on the rustic
bench, their voices distinctly audible in all parts of the small
building.

"Her closest living relative," Gledware said, "is a great-aunt,
living in Boston.  As soon as I found out who she was--I'd always
supposed her living among Indians, and that it would be impossible
to find her--but as soon as I learned the truth, without saying
anything to HER, I wrote to her great-aunt.  I've never been in a
position to take care of Lahoma--I felt that I ought to place her
with her own family.  I got an answer--about what you would expect. 
They'd give her a home--I told them what a respectable girl she
is--fairly creditable appearance--intelligent enough...  But  they
couldn't stand those people she lives with--criminals, you know,
Annabel, highwaymen--murderers!  Imagine Brick Willock in a Boston
drawing-room...  But you couldn't."

"No," Annabel agreed.  "Poor Lahoma!  And I know she'd never give
him up."

"That's it--she's immovable.  She'd insist on taking him along. 
But he belongs to another age--a different country.  He couldn't
understand.  He thinks when you've anything against a man, the
proper move is to kill 'im.  He's just like an Indian--a wild beast. 
Wouldn't know what we meant if we talked about civilization.  His
religion is the knife.  Well--you see; if he were out of the way,
Lahoma would have her chance."

"But couldn't he be arrested?"

"That's my only hope.  If he were hanged, or locked up for a certain
number of years, Lahoma'd go East.  But as long as he's at large,
she'll wait for him to turn up.  She'll stay right there in the cove
till she dies of old age, if he's free to visit her at odd moments. 
It's her idea of fidelity, and it's true that he did take her in
when she needed somebody.  There's a move on foot now, to arrest him
for an old crime--a murder.  I witnessed the deed--I'll testify, if
called on.  Lahoma will hate me for that--but it'll be the greatest
favor I could possibly do her.  She knows I mean to appear against
him, and she thinks me a brute.  But if I can convict Willock, it'll
place Lahoma in a family of wealth and refinement--"

He broke off with, "Wonder why that old deaf boatman doesn't come?" 
He walked impatiently to the head of the steps and stared out over
the lake.  "Somebody out there now," he exclaimed.  "Oh,--it's
Edgerton, rowing about!"

He returned to the bench, but did not sit down.  "Annabel," he said
abruptly, "you promised me to name the day, this morning."

"Yes," she responded very faintly.

"And I am sure, dear," he added in a deep resonant voice, "that in
time you will come to care for me as I care for you now--you, the
only woman I have ever loved.  I understand about Edgerton, but you
see, you couldn't marry him--in fact, he couldn't marry anybody for
years; he has nothing....  And these earlier attachments that we
think the biggest things in our lives--well, they just dwindle,
Annabel, they dwindle as we get the true perspective.  I know your
happiness depends upon me, and it rejoices me to know it.  I can
give you all you want--all you can dream of--and I'm
man-of-the-world enough to understand that happiness depends just
on that--getting what you want."

Annabel started up abruptly.  "I think I heard the boat scraping
outside."

"Yes, he's there.  Come, dear, and before the ride is ended you must
name the day--"

"DON'T!" she exclaimed sharply.  "He--"

"He's as deaf as a post, my dear," Gledware murmured gently.  "That's
why I selected him.  I knew we'd want to talk--I knew you'd name the day."

He helped her down the rattling boards.

Brick Willock rose softly and stole toward the opening, his eyes
filled with a strange light.  They no longer glared with the
blood-lust of a wild beast, but showed gloomy and perplexed; the
words spoken concerning himself had sunk deep.

The boatman sat with his back to Gledware and Annabel.  He wore a
long dingy coat of light gray and a huge battered straw hat, whose
wide brim hid his hair and almost eclipsed his face.  Willock,
careful not to show himself, stared at the skiff as it shot out from
the landing, his brow wrinkled in anxious thought.  He felt strange
and dizzy, and at first fancied it was because of the resolution
that had taken possession of him--the resolution to return to Greer
County and give himself up.  This purpose, as unreasoning as his
plan to kill Gledware, grew as fixed in his mind as half an hour
before his other plan had been.

To go voluntarily to the sheriff, unresistingly to hold out his
wrists for the handcuffs--that would indeed mark a new era in his
life.  "A wild Indian wouldn't do that," he mused, "nor a wild
beast.  I guess I understand, after all.  And if that's the way to
make Lahoma happy...."

No wonder he felt queer; but his light-headedness did not rise, as
a matter of fact, entirely from subjective storm-threatenings. 
There was something about that boatman--now, when he tilted up his
head slightly, and the hat failed to conceal--was it possible?...

"My God!" whispered Willock; "it's Red Feather!"

And Gledware, with eyes only for Annabel, finding nothing beyond
her but a long gray coat, a big straw hat and two rowing arms--did
not suspect the truth!

In a flash, Willock comprehended all.  The Indian had dropped the
pin in Kimball's path, and Kimball, finding it, had carried it to
Gledware as if Red Feather were dead.  The Indian had led his braves
against the stage-coach--Kimball had fallen under his knife.  Yonder
man in the corner, bound and gagged, was doubtless the old deaf
boatman engaged by Gledware.  Red Feather had taken his place that
he might row Gledware far out on the lake....

But Annabel was in the boat.  If the Indian...

Far away toward the east, Edgerton Compton was rowing, not near
enough to intervene in case the Indian attempted violence, but
better able than himself to lend assistance if the boat were
overturned.  Willock could, in truth, do nothing, except shout a
warning, and this he forebore lest it hasten the impending
catastrophe.  He remained, therefore, half-hidden, crouching at the
doorway, his eyes glued to the rapidly gliding boat, with its three
figures clear-cut against the first faint sun-glow.



CHAPTER XXV
GLEDWARE'S POSSESSIONS


Red Feather's mind was not constituted to entertain more than one
leading thought at a time.  Ever since the desertion and death of
his daughter, revenge had been his dominant passion.  It was in
order to find Gledware that he had haunted the trail during the
years of lahoma's youth, always hoping to discover him in the new
country--gliding behind herds of cattle, listening to scraps of
talks among the cattlemen, earning from Mizzoo the uneasy
designation, "the ghost."

Thanks to the reading aloud of Lahoma's letter, he had learned of
Gledware's presence in the city which he had known years before as
Westport Landing.  He went thither unbewildered by its marvelous
changes, undistracted by its tumultuous flood of life--for his mind
was full of his mission; he could see only the blood following the
blade of his knife, heard nothing but a groan, a death-rattle.

Gledware's presence in the boat this morning had been made possible
only by the interposition of Lahoma; but for the Indian's
deep-seated affection for her whom he regarded as a child, the man
now smiling into Annabel's pale face would long ago have found his
final resting-place.  It was due to the Indian's singleness of
thought that Lahoma's plan had struck him as good.  Gledware,
stripped of all his possessions, slinking as a beggar from door to
door, no roof, no bed, but sky and earth
--that is what Red Feather had meant.

He had believed Gledware glad of the respite.  That he should accept
the alternative seemed reasonable.  There was a choice only between
death and poverty--and Gledware wished to live so desperately--so
basely!  The chief cared little for life; still, he would
unhesitatingly have preferred the most meager existence to a knife
in his heart; how much more, then, this craven white man.  But the
plan had failed because Gledware did not believe death was the other
alternative.  Never in the remotest way had it occurred to the
avenger that Gledware could be spared should he prove false to his
oath.  Red Feather was less a man with passions than a cold
relentless fate.  This fate would surely overcome the helpless
wretch, should he cling to his riches.

As Red Feather skimmed the water with long sweeps of his oars, never
looking back, the voices of his passengers came to his ears without
meaning.  He was thinking of the last few days and how this
morning's ride was their fitting sequel.  The early sunbeams were
full on him as he tilted back his head, but they showed no emotion
on his face, hard-set and dully red in the clear radiance.

Crouching near the summer-house at Gledware's place, he had
overheard Red Kimball boast to bring Gledware the pearl and onyx
pin.  Then had shot through his darkened mind the suspicion that
Gledware meant to escape the one condition on which his life was to
be spared.  With simple cunning he had left the pin where the outlaw
must find it; his own death would be taken for granted--what then?

What then?  This ride in the boat.  Gledware had made his choice;
he had clung to his possessions--and now Death held the oars.  He
was scarcely past middle age.  He might have lived so long, he who
so loved to live!  But no, he had chosen to be rich--and to die.

When Red Feather brought his mind back to the present, Gledware was
describing to Annabel a ranch in California for which he had traded
the house near Independence.  He would take her far away; he would
build a house thus and thus--room so; terraces here; marble
pillars....

Annabel listened gravely, silently, her face all the paler for the
sunlight flashing over it, for the mimic sun on the waves glancing
up into her pensive eyes.  Somehow, the sunshine, the ripple of the
water, seemed to form no part of her life, belonged rather, to
Edgerton Compton rowing in solitude against the sky.  Those naked
trees, bare brown hills and ledges of huge stones seemed her world-
boundaries, kin to her, claiming her--  But there was California ...
and the splendid house to be built....

The Indian was listening now, but as he heard projected details
glowingly presented, no change came in his grim deep-lined face. 
He simply knew it was not to be--let the fool plan!  He found
himself wondering dully why he no longer hated Gledware with that
vindictive fury that gloats over the death-grip, lingers in fiendish
leisure over the lifted scalp.  He scarcely remembered the wrong
done his daughter; it was almost as if he had banished the cause of
his revenge; as if vengeance itself had become a simple stroke of
destiny.  Gledware had chosen his possession, and the Indian was
Fate's answer.

"Beautiful one," he heard Gledware say, speaking in an altered tone,
"all that is in the future--but see what I have brought you; this
is for today.  It's yours, dear--let me see it around your neck with
the sun full upon it--"

Red Feather turned his head, curiously.

Gledware held outstretched a magnificent diamond necklace which shot
forth dazzling rays as it swung from his eager fingers.

Annabel uttered a smothered cry of delight as the iridescence filled
her eyes.  She looked across the water toward the pagoda-shaped
club-house where her mother stood, faintly defined as a speck of
white against the green wall-shingles of the piazza.  It seemed that
it needed this glance to steady her nerves.  Edgerton was forgotten. 
She reached out her hand.  And then, perplexed at the necklace being
suddenly withdrawn, she looked up.  She caught a glimpse of
Gledware's face, and her blood turned cold.

That face was frozen in horror.  At the turning of the boatman's
head, he had instantly recognized under the huge-brimmed hat, the
face of his enemy as if brought back from the grave.

There was a moment's tense silence, filled with mystery for her,
with indescribable agony for him, with simple waiting for the
Indian.  Annabel turned to discover the cause of Gledware's terror,
but she saw no malice, no threat, in the boatman's eyes.

Gledware ceased breathing, then his form quivered with a sudden
inrush of breath as of a man emerging from diving.  His eyes rolled
in his head as he turned about scanning the shore, glaring at
Edgerton's distant boat.  Why had he come unarmed?  How could he
have put faith in Red Kimball's assurances?  He tortured his brain
for some gleam of hope.

"This is all I have," he shrieked, as if the Indian's foot was
already upon his neck.  "This is all I have."  He flung the necklace
into the water.  "It was a lie about the California ranch--it's a
lie about all my property--I've got nothing, Annabel!  I sold the
last bit to get you the necklace, but I shouldn't have done that. 
Now it's gone.  I have nothing!"

The Indian rose slowly.  The oars slipped down and floated away in
the flashing stream of the sun's rays.

Annabel, realizing that the Indian, despite his impassive
countenance, threatened some horrible catastrophe, started up with
a scream.  Edgerton had already turned toward them; alarmed at sound
of Gledware's terror.  He bent to the oars, comprehending only that
Annabel was in danger.

"Edgerton!" she shrieked blindly.  "Edgerton!  Edgerton!  Edgerton!"

Gledware crouched at her feet, crying beseechingly, "I swear I have
nothing--nothing!  I sold everything--gave it away--left it--nothing
in all the world!  I'm willing to beg, to starve--I don't want to
own anything--I only want to live--to live....  My God! TO LIVE..."

Red Feather did not utter a word.  But with the stealthy lightness
and litheness of a panther, he stepped over the seat and moved
toward Gledware.

Then Gledware, pushed to the last extremity, despairing of the
interposition of some miraculous chance, was forced back upon
himself.  With the vision of an inherent coward he saw all chances
against him; but with the desperation of a maddened soul, he threw
himself upon the defensive.

Red Feather had not expected to see him offer resistance.  This show
of clenched teeth and doubled fists suddenly enraged him, and the
old lust of vengeance flamed from his eyes.  Hat and disguising coat
were cast aside.  For a moment his form, rigid and erect, gleamed
like a statue of copper cut in stern relentless lines, and the
single crimson feather in his raven locks matched, in gold, the
silver brightness of his upraised blade.

The next moment his form shot forward, his arm gripped Gledware
about the neck, despite furious resistance, and both men fell into
the water.

The violent shock given to the boat sent Annabel to her knees. 
Clutching the side she gazed with horrified eyes at the water in
her wake.  The men had disappeared, but in the glowing white path
cut across the lake by the sun, appeared a dull red streak that
thinned away to faint purple and dim pink.  She watched the sinister
discoloration with fascinated eyes.  What was taking place beneath
the smooth tide?  Or was it all over?  Had Red Feather found a rock
to which he could cling while he drowned himself with his victim? 
Or had their bodies been caught in the tangled branches of a
submerged forest tree?  It was one of the mysteries of the Ozarks
never to be solved.

She was still kneeling, still staring with frightened eyes, still
wondering, when Edgerton Compton rowed up beside her.

"He said he had nothing," she stammered, as he helped her to rise. 
"He said he had nothing....  How true it is!"  Edgerton gently
lifted her to his skiff, then stepped in beside her.  He, too, was
watching the water for the possible emergence of a ghastly face.

Annabel began trembling as with the ague.  "Edgerton!...   He said
it was all a lie--about his property--and so it was.  Everything is
a lie except--this..."

She clung to him.



CHAPTER XXVI
JUST A HABIT


When Bill Atkins with an air of impenetrable mystery invited Wilfred
Compton to a ride that might keep him from his bride several days,
the young man guessed that Willock had been found.  Lahoma, divining
as much, urged Wilfred to hasten, assured him that she enjoyed the
publicity and stirring life of the Mangum hotel and expressed
confidence that should she need a friend, Mizzoo would help her
through any difficulty.  So Wilfred rode away with Bill, and Willock
was not mentioned.

Bill was evidently in deep trouble, and when Wilfred and he had let
themselves down into the stone corridor whose only entrance was a
crevice in the mountain-top, he understood the old trapper's deep
despondency--Brick Willock was there; and Brick declared his
intention of giving himself up.  He announced his purpose before
greetings had subsided.  Bill called him an old fool, used unpruned
language, scolded, rather than argued.  Wilfred, on the other hand,
delayed events by requesting full particulars of the last few weeks.

"He's told me all he's been up to," Bill objected; "there's no call
to travel over that ground again.  What I brought you here for,
Wilfred, is to show him how foolish he'd be to let himself be taken
when he's free as the wind."

"I tells my tale," declared Brick, "and them as has heard it once
can take it or leave it."  He was discursive, circumstantial, and
it was a long time before he led them in fancy to the door of the
boat-house and showed them Red Feather and Gledware disappearing
forever beneath the surface of the lake.

"There I waited," he said, "expecting first one head, then the other
to come to light, but nothing happened.  Seemed like I couldn't
move.  But Edgerton, he began rowing towards me with Annabel, she
happy despite herself, and when I see it wouldn't do to tarry no
longer, I cuts loose the old deaf boatman and unstops his mouth. 
Well, sir, he lets out a yell that would a-done credit to a bobcat
fighting in the traps.  I had to run for it  fellows from the
club-house took after me thinking I'd been murdering somebody--I
skinned them Ozark hills and I skinned myself.  But Brick, he says,
'When you turns loose a bobcat, expect scratches,' says he."

"Don't tell about how you hid in the hills waiting for a night
train," Bill pleaded.

"I tells it all;" Brick was inflexible.  "You are here, I'm here,
and it's a safe place.  We may never be so put again."

"A safe place!" Bill snarled.  "Yes, it IS a safe place.  But you've
lost your nerve.  WAS a time, when you'd have stood out creation in
a hole like this.  But you've turned to salt, you have a regular
Bible character--giving up to the law, letting them clap you in
jail, getting yourself hanged, very likely!  And all because you've
lost your nerve.  See here, Brick, stand 'em out!  I'll steady you
through thick and thin.  I'll bring you grub and water."

"YOU couldn't do nothing," Brick returned contemptuously, "you're
too old.  As for that, I ain't come to the pass of needing being
waited on, I guess.  It ain't dangers that subdues me, it's
principles.  Look here!"

He walked to the cross-bar that was set in the walls to guard the
floor from the unknown abyss.  "I found out they was a hole in the
rock just about five feet under the floor.  I can take this rope
and tie one end to the post and let myself down to that little room
where there's grub enough to last a long siege, where there's
bedding and common luxuries, as tobacco and the like.  I ain't been
smoked out, into the open, I goes free and disposed and my hands
held up according."

When he had finished the last morsel of his story and had warmed
some of it over for another taste, there came an ominous silence,
broken at last by the querulous voice of Bill, arguing against
surrender.

Willock waited in patience till his friend had exhausted himself. 
"I ain't saying nothing," he explained to Wilfred, "because he ain't
pervious to reason, and it does him good to get that out of his
system."

"Let me make a suggestion," exclaimed Wilfred suddenly.

Willock looked at him suspiciously.  "If it ain't counter to my
plans--"

"It isn't.  It's this:  Suppose we drop the subject till
tomorrow--it won't hurt any of us to sleep on it, and I know I'D
enjoy another night with you, as in the old days."

"I'm willing to sleep on it, out of friendship," Willock conceded
unwillingly, "though I'd rest easier on a bed in the jail.  There
never was no bird more crazy to get into a cage than I am to be shut
up.  But as to the old days, they ain't none left.  Them deputies
is in the dugout, they're in the cabin I built for Lahoma, they
think they owns our cove.  Well, they's no place left for me; life
wouldn't be nothing, crouching and slinking up here in the rocks. 
Life wouldn't be nothing to me without Lahoma.  I'd have a pretty
chance for happiness, now wouldn't I, sitting up somewheres with
Bill Atkins!  I ain't saying I mightn't get out of this country and
find a safe spot where I could live free and disposed with an old
renegade like HIM that nobody ain't after and ain't a-caring whether
he's above ground or in kingdom come.  But I couldn't be with
Lahoma; I'm under ban."

"If you were on my farm near Oklahoma City," Wilfred suggested, "and
Lahoma and I lived in the city, you could often see her.  Up there,
nobody'd molest you, nobody'd know you.  That's what I've been
planning.  You could look after the farm and Bill could go back and
forth.  As soon as the news comes that Red Feather killed Gledware,
it'll be taken for granted that he killed Red Kimball and attacked
the stage.  You'll be cleared of all that and nobody will want you
arrested."

Willock rose.  "Are we going to sleep on this, or shall I answer
you now?" he demanded fixedly.

Wilfred hastily asked for time.

They passed the night in the mountain-top, but Willock had spoken
truly; there were no old days.  The one subject forbidden was the
only subject in their minds.  All attempts at reminiscence, at
irrelevant anecdotes, were mere pretense.  The fact that Wilfred and
Lahoma were now married seemed to banish events of a month ago as
if they were years and years in the past.

They partook of breakfast in the gray dawn of the new day, eating
by lantern-light.  And when the light had been extinguished,
Willock, like a wild animal brought to bay, squared his shoulders
against the wall, and said:  "We've slept on it.  Say all you got
to say.  Don't leave out nothing because you might be sorry,
afterwards.  Speak together, or one at a time, it's all the same to
me.  And when you're done, and say you're done, I'll do my talking,
according."

And when they were done, and said they were done, he straightened
himself and said:

"When Red Kimball's band give themselves to the law that done
nothing to them, there might of been a man, one of 'em, that never
come in out of the rain.  I ain't saying I am that man, for I stands
by the records and the proofs and the showings of man and man,
technical and arbitrary.  But in due time, the governor of Texas he
says that that man--whoever he may be--was no longer to be excused
on the grounds that he done his operating in No-Man's Land and his
residing in the state of Texas.  And he said that there man would
be held responsible for all the deeds done by Red Kimball's band. 
That word has been handed down.  Now whether I'm that man, or just
thought to be that man, makes little difference.  I'm a fugitive on
the face of the earth without an ark of safety--referring to my
cove.  That's ME.

"Now look at LAHOMA.  She has folks, not meaning you, Wilfred, but
Boston kin that stands high.  A woman ain't nothing without family,
out in the world.  You're going to be a great man some day, if I
don't miss my guess, a great man in Oklahoma government and laws. 
Lahoma's going to be proud of you.  You'll take a hand in politics,
you'll be elected to something high.  If I lived near at hand, I'd
all-time be hiding, and having her a-conniving at something that
would hurt your reputation if found out, and that would kill me
because I couldn't breathe under such a load.  And if away from her,
well--I'm too old, now, to live without Lahoma.  She's--she's just
a habit of mine.

"So you puts me in jail.  They does what they likes with me, hangs
me or gives me time, but the point as I see it is this:  I'll be
disposed of, I'll be given a rank, you may say, and classified. 
Lahoma won't be hampered.  She's young; young people takes things
hard but they don't take 'em long.  In due time, them Boston
kinfolks will be inviting her and will be visiting her, and you'll
be in congress, like enough--if you wasn't a western man, I'd say
you might be president.  And everybody will honor you and feast
you--and as to Brick Willock, he'll simply be forgot.

"Which is eminent and proper, Wilfred.  I belongs to the past--I'M
a kind of wild creature such as has to die out when civilization
rolls high; and she's rolling high in these parts, and it's for me
and Bill to join the Indians and buffaloes, and fade away.  Trappers
is out of date; so is highwaymen, I judge.

"I don't know as I makes myself clear or well put, but if you'll
catch up the ponies I guess your sheriff can handle my meaning."

Without much difficulty, Wilfred effected another compromise.  They
waited till night before leaving the retreat.  The reason accepted
for this delay was that in the daytime the deputies would stop them
and Willock wanted to give himself up to the chief in command.  When
it was dark they slipped down the gully whose matted trees, though
stripped of leaves, offered additional shelter.  In the cove, they
saw the light streaming from the window of the dugout--that famous
window that had given Lahoma her first outlook upon learning.  As
the beams caught his eye, a sigh heaved the great bulk of the former
master of the cove, but he said nothing.

In oppressive silence they skirted Turtle Hill and emerged from the
horseshoe bend, finding in a sheltered nook the three ponies that
Wilfred had provided at nightfall.  He had hoped to the last that
Willock could be prevailed on to alter his decision, and even while
riding away toward Mangum, he argued and coaxed.  But it was in
vain, and as they clattered up to the hotel veranda, Willock was
searching the crowd for a glimpse of the sheriff.

The street was unusually full for that time of night; some topic of
engrossing interest seemed to engage all minds until Willock's
figure was recognized; then, indeed, he held the center of
attention.  Men gathered eagerly, curiously, but without the
hostility they would have displayed had not a message regarding Red
Feather reached the town.  Brick was still an outlaw, to be sure,
but whatever crimes he had committed were unknown, hence unable to
react on the imagination.  The surviving friend of Red Kimball,
giving up his efforts against Willock on the liberation of Bill, had
left the country, harmless without his leader.

Conversation which had been loud and excited, eager calls from
street corners that had punctuated the many-tongued argument and
exposition, dimmed to silence.  There was a forward movement of the
men, not a rush but a vibratory swell of the human tide, pushing
toward the steps of the hotel.  The two riderless horses danced
sidewise--Brick Willock had jumped upon the unpainted floor of the
veranda, and Wilfred had sprung lightly to his side.

"I'll just keep on my horse," muttered Bill, resting one leg stiffly
over the pommel.  "I can't get up as I used to, and I expect to stay
with ye, Brick, to the jail door."

Willock did not turn his shaggy head to answer.  He had seen the
sheriff at the other end of the piazza, and he made straight for
him, not even condescending to a grin when the other, mistaking his
intentions, whipped out his revolver.

"Put it up, pard," Brick said gruffly.  "When you come to me in the
cove, a few years ago, I give you a warm welcome, but now I ain't
a-coming to you, I'm a-coming to the Law.  Where's that there
warrant?"

The crowd that had been listening to the sheriff's discourse before
the arrival of the highwayman, scattered at sight of the drawn
weapon--all except Lahoma.

"Brick!" she cried, "oh, Brick, Brick!"

There was something in her voice he could not understand, but he
dared not turn to examine her face; he could not trust himself if
he once looked at her.

"Get out your warrant," he cried savagely, "and get it out quick if
you want ME!"  His great breast heaved with the conflict of powerful
emotions.

"I'm sure sorry to see you, old man," Mizzoo declared.  "We know
Red Feather done what we was charging up against you.  But I guess
there's no other course open to me.  As my aunt used to say (Miss
Sue of Missouri) 'I got a duty--do it, I must.'"  He thrust his
hairy hand into his bosom and drew forth the fateful paper.

Lahoma laughed.  "Read it, Mizzoo, read it aloud--read all of it!"
she cried gleefully.

Wilfred looked at her, bewildered.  The crowd stared also, knowing
her love for Brick, therefore dazed at the sound of mirthful music. 
Brick turned his head at last; he looked, also, not reproachfully
but with a question in his hard stern eyes.

Mizzoo turned red.  "Well, yes, I'll read it," he said, defiantly. 
"Sure!  I guess as sheriff of Greer County I'll make shift to get
through with it alive."

He began to read, slowly, doggedly; Brick, without movement save
for that heaving of his bosom, facing him with a mingling on his
face of supreme defiance for the reader and superstitious awe for
the legal instrument.

"That's all," Mizzoo at last announced.  "You'll have to come with
me, Willock."

"Hold on!" came voices from the crowd.  During the reading, they
had been watching Lahoma, and her expression promised more than
fruitless laughter.  "Hold on, Mizzoo, Lahoma's got something up
her sleeve!"

Lahoma spoke clearly, that her voice might carry to the confines of
the crowd:  "Mizzoo, I think you read in that warrant, 'county of
Greer, state of Texas'?  Didn't you?"

"That's what I done.  Here's the words."

"But, you see," returned Lahoma, "that warrant's no good!"

Mizzoo stared at her a moment, then exclaimed violently, "By--" 
Propriety forbade the completion of his phrase.

The crowd instantly caught her meaning; a shout rose, shrill,
tumultuous, broken with laughter.  She had reminded them of the
subject which a short time ago had engaged all minds.

"It's no good," cried Lahoma triumphantly.  She took it from
Mizzoo's lax fingers and deliberately tore it from top to bottom.

"I guess I'm a-getting old, sure enough," said Bill.  "This is
beyond me."

Wilfred looked at Lahoma questioningly.  Brick, stupefied by
violence done that sacred instrument of civilization, stood rooted
to the spot.

Mizzoo was grinning now.  "You see," he explained, "word come today
that the Supreme Court has at last turned in its decision.  Prairie
Dog Fork is now Red River, and 'Red River' is only the North Fork
of Red River--and that means that Greer County don't belong to
Texas, and never did belong to her, but is a part of Oklahoma."

"And you'll never have an Oklahoma writ served on you," cried
Lahoma, "not while I'm living!  And you'll go with us to our farm
and live with us, you and Bill and..."

Lahoma had expected to be very calm and logical, for she knew she
had all the advantage on her side.  But when she saw the change in
Brick's eyes, she forgot her rights; she forgot all that watching
crowd; she forgot even Wilfred--and with a spring she was in Brick's
arms, sobbing for joy.

He tried to say something about her Boston kin, but he could not
express the thought coherently, for giant as he was, he was sobbing,
too.

"If there's ever a meeting," she said, between tears and laughter,
"the East will have to come to the West!"

"Those Boston folks," cried Bill, with a sudden upheaval of unwonted
humor, "can simply go to--beans!  I'm a-getting down," he added,
cautiously lowering himself from his pony; "I guess I'm in this,
too."

"You're in it," growled Brick, "but you're on the outskirts.  Don't
come no nearer."  He stroked the head that rested on his breast, his
great hand moving with exceeding gentleness.  He gazed over her
brown glory, at the sympathetic crowd.

"Fellows," he cried, "just look what I've raised!"

"Boys," exclaimed Mizzoo, "what do you say?  Let's give three cheers
for Lahoma."

Wilfred's voice cut across the last word, proud and happy:  "Make
it Lahoma of Oklahoma!"





End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Lahoma, by John Breckinridge Ellis

